Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types, Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Troy Barrett, Svetlana Vetrova, Kip Grady, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Rose Landry, Sasha | Ilya Rozanov's Coach's Son, Original Male Character(s), Brandon Wiebe

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Past Ilya Rozanov/Sasha | Ilya Rozanov's Coach's Son, POV Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Has a Crush on Shane Hollander, Eventual Smut, Happily Ever After, Ilya Rozanov Was Never a Professional Hockey Player, Shane Hollander Was Never a Professional Hockey Player, Ilya Rozanov is Trying His Best, Record Store Owner Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Is An Indie Sadboy, High Fidelity AU, Montreal, One Night Stands, Minor Ilya Rozanov/Original Character(s), Light Angst, Implied/Referenced Cheating, But not Shane/Ilya cheating on each other, Ilya Rozanov Makes A Lot of Morally Gray Decisions in This, Car Sex, Bathroom Sex, Basically they're hooking up wherever they can, Pining While Fucking, Top/Bottom Versatile | Switch Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-08-18 Updated: 2026-09-14 Words: 49,553 Chapters: 10/12

Championship Vinyl

Summary

“You are braver than me, dude. You could not pay me to call some of my exes.”

Ilya shrugged. Truthfully, it was a stretch to call anybody on the list an ex. The only person he had been an official, labelled boyfriend to was Rob, and he wasn’t about to call Rob to ask where things went wrong.

“Wait, how are you going to talk to that one guy if you don't even know his name?” Cliff asked.

Fuck. Ilya should have taken his time to think of someone easier to put on the heartbreak list.

“Not sure. I will work on it,” Ilya scowled.  

━━━━━━━━

When Ilya’s boyfriend Rob dumps him, he decides to reach out to his top five heartbreaks to figure out why he is so easy to leave.

Some people on the top five list are friends, some he hasn't spoken to in years. One man on the list proves hard to find, a one-night stand with beautiful freckles whose name Ilya never learned.

High Fidelity-ish AU. Ilya owns a record shop and figures his shit out post-breakup as he finds the person he's meant to fall in love with.

Chapter 1: What Came First, The Music or The Misery?

Chapter Notes

General heads up/disclaimer: If you have read my other fics, you won't be surprised to hear that the only explicit scenes in this fic are going to be Shane/Ilya. There is going to be mention of Ilya having sex with other people, but nothing detailed (I am aware this is going to sound funny juxtaposed with the first lines of the fic).

The breakup came out of nowhere. One morning, Ilya was waking Rob up with coffee and a blowjob. The next day, Rob was throwing clothes in a suitcase and telling him it just wasn't working anymore.

“What the fuck do you mean, this is working fine!” Ilya snapped.

Rob paused for a moment. “If you think that, it only proves more that we need to break up.”

Ilya was bewildered and tried to catch Rob's gaze as he resumed the frantic packing, but Rob was steadfast.

Rob was a few years older than Ilya, a successful lawyer who had been made partner at his firm shortly after they had moved in together. He was always the reasonable one, affectionately rolling his eyes at Ilya when Ilya made rash and impulsive decisions. It made Ilya’s blood boil that Rob didn’t see the hypocrisy in him abruptly packing up and leaving one morning.

When they first started dating, Ilya had to pretend for months that he wasn't intimidated, that Rob wasn't everything he thought he would run away from.

Even with Rob demystified, wearing ratty sweatpants around the house, kissing Ilya with rank morning breath, forgetting his keys constantly, Ilya had grown attached. He had stopped worrying about when Rob might wake up and leave him, and he was kicking himself right now for that. He had stopped looking over his shoulder, and the inevitable had crept in.

Rob's packing was haphazard, and his dark hair was sticking up where he had run his hand through it. Ilya crossed his arms and sullenly decided not to fix it.

“That is my shirt,” he pointed out when Rob began to put a well-worn Boston Raiders t-shirt into his suitcase.

Rob sighed and threw it in his direction without glancing up.

Ilya sat and watched, and he hoped it made Rob feel guilty. His strategy didn't seem to work, and before he knew it Rob was busily zipping his suitcase shut.

“I'm gonna go to Liz's for a while,” Rob said. His voice was softer now, and Ilya hated it. He wanted to fight and yell, to hear any passion from Rob, not this quiet tone like Ilya was a puppy he had just kicked.

“For a while?” Ilya asked. Liz was Rob's friend first, he shouldn't have been surprised that she would take him in. But Ilya still felt betrayed, because this meant that Liz had known this was coming, that Rob made a plan with her.

Ilya had spent countless nights hearing Liz vent about her breakups, pouring her wine and agreeing that men weren't shit, and now she couldn't even return the favor because Rob claimed her.

“Yeah, I'll stay there until I find my own place.” Rob dashed any hope that this was temporary.

Ilya started to feel panic rise in his throat. He couldn't afford their luxurious apartment by himself. Hell, he couldn't afford half of the rent. Rob had always paid a larger share, and Ilya began to mentally scramble as he assessed his options.

“I can pay my share through the end of the lease,” Rob interrupted. Ilya’s heart sank. It felt like a clinical gesture done out of pity, not love. He wanted to immediately reject it out of pride, but he was too blindsided to get the words out.

“I'll pay through the end of the lease, so you have time to figure out another place. And uh…I guess I'll leave some stuff here, until I'm settled in my new apartment.”

Ilya briefly entertained the idea of gathering everything and throwing it down the garbage chute. Better yet, throwing it in their stupid gas fireplace he’d always hated. But the messy work of untangling what was his and what his Rob’s began to overwhelm him, and he abandoned that thought.

“Fine. Thanks," Ilya finally mustered.

Rob stood for a moment, suitcase in hand. Ilya searched his face for any regret, any hesitation. He wanted to see Rob process the magnitude of three years together slamming to a halt. But there was only grim determination, and Rob eventually nodded and left without saying a word.

Ilya waited until he heard the lock click to throw himself back on the bed. If the stages of grief applied to breakups, Ilya was somewhere between denial and anger.

How could he have let this happen? Why did Rob want to abandon their relationship, abandon Ilya, like it was nothing? None of it made sense, yet everything curdling inside Ilya felt familiar. Insecurities that Rob had worn away were breaking through the surface again, immediate and sharp.

Ilya wasn’t going to cry over a man, Rob didn’t deserve it. He resolved instead to lie in bed all day, eat junk food in the high-thread count sheets just because it always pissed Rob off, and listen to shitty Russian rap that he had stopped playing in the house because Rob hated it.

Because he was a responsible business owner, Ilya fumbled for his phone and pulled up the first thread in his messages, the one that was cluttered with links to songs, eBay listings for rare records, and inane prompts for top five lists.

Ilya: Woke up sick. Can't make it to the shop today.

Cliff: No problem, boss. I'm already on my way.

Troy: Need us to bring you anything, or is Rob staying home with you?

Ilya flinched and his eyes suddenly felt very dry. He could delay the inevitable for now, but eventually he'd have to share the news and see the bewildered expression on his friend's faces.

Ilya: I am fine. Just make sure the place doesn't burn down.

Cliff: No promises.

***

“Sveta, come over,” Ilya made it five hours into his wallow in bed before he caved. He was miserable. Unfortunately, thanks to Rob, he had gone to enough therapy to come around to the knowledge that 24 hours of lying in pizza crumbs drinking vodka alone was going to make him feel worse.

“Can't, I'm going on a date tonight,” Her voice sounded businesslike, clipped and dismissive. She didn't sound very excited about her date, so Ilya didn't feel bad pulling a punch.

“Rob left,” Ilya said. Svetlana was eerily silent for a moment.

“What do you mean? He went to visit his parents? Or you got in a fight and he went to stay with Liz?”

“I mean that this morning he packed his suitcase and told me I have eight months to find a new apartment. We broke up.”

“Oh, Ilya,” Svetlana rarely dipped into the soft register she was using now, and it was the first time Ilya allowed a lump to form in his throat.

“Hang on, I'll cancel my date. I'll be there in an hour.”

When he hung up, Ilya finally felt tears in his eyes. He hadn't cried all morning, he had felt too angry to muster tears. As they rolled down his cheeks, he wasn't even sure that they were about Rob, they felt more like tears of gratitude for his oldest friend.

Svetlana arrived in forty minutes, only casting a quick judgemental glance at Ilya’s bedside clutter of vodka, pizza crusts, and kleenex from the first time all day he had allowed himself to cry.

She tucked herself into the bed next to him, tugging his head to her chest, and he closed his eyes at the familiarity and the ache it caused.

Rob hadn't been very comfortable with the physicality of their friendship. He'd said it was weird behavior for friends who used to fuck, even when Ilya tried to explain that there wasn't anything remotely sexual about resting his head on her shoulder when they watched reality TV.

Eventually, he had stopped because he wanted to make Rob happy, because he was a good boyfriend who could respect Rob’s boundaries.

Svetlana immediately reverting to the way they were before Rob felt both comforting and devastating. She knew it was real, she had no illusions that Rob might turn around and march back in with his suitcase, demanding that Ilya and Svetlana keep several feet between them.

“Tonight we will watch something awful. A terrible movie, something mindless. We will eat ice cream in bed, I will scratch your back until you fall asleep, and tomorrow morning I will take your sharpest knife and go over to Liz's to stab him,” Svetlana announced.

“He bought very nice knives from Japan. You could cut him easily.” Ilya slouched down in the bed. He didn't actually fantasize about his ex getting maimed, but he did entertain the dream of his best friend going to find Rob and chewing him out with her sharp, clever words that could slice just as badly as a knife.

For a while, Svetlana didn't ask him anything about the breakup. They did exactly what she had described, and it worked a bit. Like slapping a band-aid on a gaping wound.

As the credits rolled on the third Fast and Furious movie, Svetlana finally broached the topic.

“Did he say why…?”

Ilya shook his head. “Just said it wasn't working.”

Svetlana frowned. She'd always gotten along with Rob, and it was clearly disconcerting her that he had betrayed her best friend.

“You never told me you had problems,” she said. Svetlana said it without judgment, but Ilya felt himself shrink a bit anyway.

He didn't tell her when they had a stupid argument, partly because they were always Ilya’s fault, and he didn't want to go and get a lecture from her after Rob had huffed at him for an hour.

“I never thought they were big enough to break up over. I thought we were working,” Ilya was beginning to descend again, his worst thoughts consuming him.

Svetlana was the only person he could fall apart in front of, but he worried that once he let it tumble out of him, he’d never stop. The thought he couldn't let out was the one that ached worst. He thought, until that morning, that Rob loved him. Now it felt like the rug had been pulled out from under him.

Svetlana shushed him, running her hand through his curls while she frantically grabbed for the remote with her left hand and pressed play on the next installment, as if Ilya would forget his heartache once Vin Diesel appeared on the screen.

It didn't work, but the weight of the day caught up with Ilya as they watched cars explode. He found himself nodding off. In the haze of booze, heartache, and sleep, he asked the question lodged in his mind all day.

“Why am I so easy to leave?”

Svetlana made a tiny, wounded sound as she brushed the hair off his forehead.

“You aren't at all. I'm still here, aren't I?”

It was comforting, but it didn't help the thought from burrowing even deeper into Ilya’s psyche as sleep took him.

***

“You look like shit. You sure you don't need to stay home another day?” Cliff asked the second he walked in the door the next day.

Ilya had begun working at Championship Vinyl his senior year of university, when reality hit that his Comparative Literature degree wasn't going to launch him into a lucrative career out of college. It was supposed to be a stopgap on the way to figuring out his next step, but the owner, Brandon Wiebe, had taken him under his wing.

Wiebe was the warm fatherly presence Ilya never had, and he took Ilya’s musical education seriously. They spent mornings arguing about The Supremes, afternoons humming along to Liz Phair, and evenings hitting up cramped clubs or drafty warehouses to explore the live music scene in Montreal.

The years flew by in a blink, and Wiebe announced his retirement and impending move to Mexico a month before Ilya's dad died.

When Ilya’s father had passed away, Ilya inherited a sum of money that was frankly irresponsible to bequeath to a man in his twenties struggling with complicated grief.

Ilya needed to cling to a sense of purpose, and he decided to take on ownership of Championship Vinyl. When Svetlana told him it was stupid investment, he told her it was Championship Vinyl or a luxury car. As much as she adored cars, she had to concede he was making the less reckless of two terrible financial choices.

Ilya knew Cliff from college and had recruited him as part-time help a few years after Ilya started working at the shop. Troy had been a frequent customer who mentioned off-handedly one day that he had been laid off from his stuffy corporate job. It seemed like an easy fit to have him work a few weekdays, shifts that would be hard to fill. Somewhere along the way, the two men had just started showing up every day.

Their favorite pastime was creating top five lists. Top five debut albums, top five shows they had been to, top five embarrassing moments in their life.

Ilya saw the two of them more than anybody. Some weeks he saw them more than he had even seen Rob, between Ilya's long days at the store and Rob's punishing billable hours as a lawyer.

The three of them knew nearly everything about each other, although it was not always by choice. In recent weeks Ilya had to listen to Cliff describe, in vivid detail, his forays into getting pegged. Troy could ramble for hours about the proposal he was planning to spring on his boyfriend in a few months.

Ilya knew he couldn’t hide from them, but he had hoped it wouldn’t be so transparent that he was hungover and heartbroken.

“I am fine. Do not want to stay home another day,” Ilya waved Cliff off. Troy pushed through the door only a moment after Cliff, the bell above the door tinkling merrily. It felt like a personal offense to Ilya.

“Woah, dude. You look rough, should you be here?” Troy looked concerned.

Ilya groaned, resting his head on the countertop. He had wanted to put off this conversation, maybe because he was still hoping it was all a mistake. He wasn’t going to text Rob first, but he had grabbed his phone first thing that morning to see if Rob was worried about him, or maybe even offering to come back and undo his wretched mistake.

“Roz, should I call Rob? You really don’t look good,” Cliff’s words yanked Ilya upright.

“No. Do not call him. He dumped me.”

Troy and Cliff looked as shocked as Ilya felt, and somehow that helped.

“Holy shit,” Troy muttered. “What happened?”

Ilya shrugged. “No idea. He just said it wasn’t working, and he left.”

“That’s it?” Cliff looked livid. “You’ve been together for years, and he just drops a bomb on you and leaves?”

Ilya was feeling better already. Svetlana’s sympathy and relative softness had helped yesterday, but today he needed to be angry and pretend to be somewhat fine.

“I know, fuck him,” Ilya straightened up.

Cliff was nodding vigorously, but Troy was frowning a concerned little frown that Ilya decided was bad news.

“I mean, yeah. Fuck him for just walking out. But dude, you can go home if you want. I wouldn’t blame you if you need some time,” Troy said quietly.

Ilya shook his head. “No, I do not need that. I’m fine. Fuck him.”

Cliff exchanged a knowing glance with Troy, and Ilya desperately tried to take the reins, to remind them that their response was supposed to be angry and pissed off, not sympathetic and sad.

“It’s ok to be a little heartbroken over a guy you loved for years,” Cliff said.

“I am fine,” Ilya stressed. The words weren’t convincing, not even to him, but he needed to go through the motions.

“And besides, Rob doesn't even make it on the list of my top five heartbreaks,” Ilya scoffed.

Cliff leaned against the counter, eyes gleaming with interest at the bait. This was a category they'd never made a list for.

“OK, let's hear it.”

Fuck. Ilya hadn't actually thought it out. Troy and Cliff knew everyone he'd dated for the past six years. They knew that Ilya's relationships, hookups, and situationships were often fleeting, that Rob was the most serious he'd ever been about someone.

“OK. Svetlana,” Ilya started. Cliff and Troy nodded, that was easy. “First girl I slept with. Told me after that I was terrible in bed and had a lot to learn.”

“Yeah, that sounds like her,” Cliff said fondly.

“Sasha,” Ilya continued. “First boy I slept with. Our whole…thing messed me up.”

Troy stuck two fingers up to keep track, as if Ilya couldn't count.

“Uh…Rose,” Ilya was scrambling now.

“Who the fuck is Rose?” Troy was calling bullshit.

“Old neighbor. Very messy, so sad,” Ilya pretended to be wounded. Troy didn't look convinced.

“Hmm. Kip?” Ilya tried hopefully.

Cliff shook his head. “No way. You barely even dated, you were not heartbroken.”

“You do not know that. Now I see him and his ancient boyfriend all the time, he has moved on and is in love,” Ilya knew he wasn't convincing them at all, but he clung to the charade.

“Sure, whatever. That's four,” Troy narrowed his eyes. It was Rob, the answer for number five was so clearly Rob.

Ilya tried to dig deep, to remember anybody else who had filled him with that same excited pulse of possibility he had when he first started dating Rob. He had experienced it once before, however brief it had been.

“One man. Right before Rob,” Ilya said, hoping that would be a sufficient description.

Cliff wasn't going to let him off that easy, he tilted his head in confusion.

“Who? I don't remember you seeing any guy then. You jumped from that barista, Sonja to Rob, right?”

Troy nodded. “Yeah, she started charging us for coffee again when you dumped her.”

Ilya waved the offense away with his hand. “Was in between. I stopped seeing her, met a beautiful man, it ended in heartbreak. Then met Rob.”

“Heartbreak?” Troy was too skeptical. “Fine, I'll say it. I think you're just making this guy up because you don't want Rob on the list. And Ilya, it's fine. You guys were together for three years, it would make sense if-”

“He is real!” Ilya protested. “Beautiful man. Gorgeous freckles, maybe the best sex of my life.”

This was all true, and Ilya allowed himself to linger on those memories for a moment, memories that he had locked away when he started seeing Rob.

Ilya had been almost starstruck by how stunning the man looked. Ilya remembered staring at him breathlessly as he lay splayed out beneath Ilya in his bed. His shy smile had dissolved into a burning heat that Ilya was thrilled to be engulfed in.

Ilya had thought at the time that he must have done something miraculous in a past life to deserve that moment. He had made sure to commit every detail to memory. How enthusiastic and pliant the man had been in bed, how delicious he sounded when he came, the way his fingers felt when they tugged at Ilya’s curls.

Unfortunately, talking about him opened Ilya up to the question he dreaded.

“Why did you stop seeing this perfect man who was the best sex of your life?” Cliff asked.

“Uh. I never got his name. We met at a bar. Hooked up at my place that night and he left before I woke up.”

“Bastard,” Cliff shook his head. Even when he was frustrated with Ilya he was immediately on his side.

“Yes, very. So heartbreaking,” Ilya summarized. Troy shrugged, unconvinced, but conceding, before he turned to Cliff.

“OK, you next. Top five heartbreaks.”

Cliff cracked his knuckles in anticipation. “How much time do we have?”

***

After they closed up Ilya went home to mope. Cliff and Troy had offered to take him out for a round at their regular haunt, but Ilya wasn't ready.

Going back to the apartment was depressing. Liz had texted that morning that she was going to come over and grab some more of Rob's things. There were disconcerting voids now, dusty spots where potted plants or yoga mats had been.The items that remained taunted him.

They kept a seed of hope in Ilya, and an equal measure of dread. Rob returning, excising himself completely from their apartment would feel hideously final.

Ilya ran his fingers over the spines of his record collection, shuddering for a moment as he thought of the gaps that would appear when Rob retrieved what was his.

Rob had bought the shelves too, they were expensive and hand crafted, leagues better than the Ikea shit Ilya had sheepishly moved in with. Rob would have every claim to take the shelves with him, the gift that he had bestowed benevolently. At the time it had made Ilya feel both grateful and slightly inadequate, and now he understood why. Rob could yank himself out of Ilya’s life and highlight every way in which Ilya was lacking.

He didn't have to go far down the stacks before he got to Bon Iver, tugging out For Emma, Forever Ago.

Ilya set it on the turntable and let the arm of the record player catch on the grooves of the vinyl. The soft pop when it made contact was the most soothing sound in the world, but tonight he found no comfort in it. He laid down on the floor, dramatic and dour, and let the breakup album wash over him.

As Ilya sprawled there, wounded heart strumming with the melancholy songs, he eyed the collection to his left.

Sure, alphabetizing had allowed him to find Bon Iver immediately. But it didn't encompass the time and place, the feeling of hearing the album shortly after he moved to Canada, when he had latched onto a cool older girl at university who had a late night show on the college radio station.

They would make out amongst the stacks of albums between songs, and Ilya would have to muffle his laugh when she'd race back to the microphone to cue up the next song.

Their time together had ended spectacularly, like most of Ilya's romantic forays. She and Ilya went to a TOPS show in Mile End, and she was enraged when she found Ilya in the bathroom hooking up with another girl. Ilya had listened to her show for a few weeks after that, attempting to subsume himself in guilt, and she had played some truly incredible breakup albums. It was the immature and messy beginning of his love affair with vinyl.

Ilya stared and stared at the wall of albums and saw a project materialize. Something that would be the perfect distraction.

He was going to reorganize his collection autobiographically. His top five heartbreaks would be scattered throughout, punctuating his life's story in music. Ilya could already visualize where Svetlana, Sasha, even the unnamed man who was the best sex of his life would place on the shelves.

The prospect of cataloging the past three years was painful, but Ilya shook that thought loose as he reminded himself that Rob didn't even make his list of top five heartbreaks.

Chapter End Notes

I started writing this and realized there are a lot of elements that I personally don't love to read. Ilya only POV, one of the boys being heartbroken for a while over an OC, (spoiler) Shane is off-screen for the first couple chapters, etc.

But it's also been so fun to write, so I hope you stick it out at least until Ilya finds Shane.

I know that canon Ilya's music taste was more “Fly Like A G6,” and not really Bon Iver, but for the purposes of this au he's expanded his horizons.

I'm not going to be very strict about the period piece element, but I'm imagining this is occurring in a mashup of the late aughts-mid 2010s. I followed some of the artists in the Montreal indie scene at that time, and it was just easier for me to build a mental playlist around 2008-2016 ish.

New chapters every Tuesday and Friday (unless my imuplse control wanes, and then it'll be more frequent)

Chapter 2: An Ant In Alaska

Chapter Notes

“Alright, top five conspiracy theories,” Cliff announced.

Ilya had been sitting at the counter, staring vacantly into space for an untold amount of time. It took him a moment to slip out of the haze as he processed the prompt.

They hadn't had a customer all morning. Weekdays were always slow, ripe time to shoot the shit, but Ilya was not in the mood. It had been a week since Rob packed his shit up, and Ilya was barely functioning.

“Ok. Uh…Denver airport,” Troy started.

“What about the Denver airport?” Cliff asked.

“All of it. It doesn't make any sense, it's so far from the city. They have these creepy murals, the horse statue there fell and killed the guy who made it.”

“OK, but what's the conspiracy?”

Troy shrugged. “It’s just suspicious.”

Defending your pick was half the challenge and fun of the game, and Troy was never very adept at it.

“Roz, please give us something better than ‘The Denver airport is weird,” Cliff said with a withering glare at Troy. Troy shrugged and went back to needlessly checking that the jazz section was alphabetized correctly.

“Pass,” Ilya said.

He watched Cliff and Troy peek at each other, and he steeled himself for the hit.

“You can't pass, boss. Come on, give us something. You've barely spoken all week, and I can't really listen to 'Nothing Compares 2 U' another time,” Cliff complained.

Ilya was suddenly very self-conscious of the song he'd thrown on. In retrospect, it had been heavily featured in the rotation this week. Cliff didn't need to know that Ilya had listened to Sinead O'Connor belting a top-five breakup song on repeat last night while he laid on the floor. He had been doing a lot of laying on the floor the past week, and his back was aching today.

He needed to buy time to collect himself, to seem like he was totally fine and not at all devastated about his breakup. He stood up, stretching and walked over to change the song.

The Flaming Lips felt like a cheerier switch, but as the lyrics floated through the speakers, Ilya winced. Over the poppy tune, the song asked existential questions about death, and Ilya remembered too late that the whole thing was written while one of the band members went through heroin withdrawls.

“Top five conspiracy theory…” Ilya hoped he could convince his friends that he was fine, get them off the mental health intervention that he could see Cliff planning in his head.

“Moon landing was fake. United States did not want us Russians getting there first, so they filmed it in Hollywood,” Ilya said.

Cliff nodded appreciatively. “OK, now we're talking! Well, I think vitamins are a scam and they're all the same thing. The whole aisle, it's all the same powder, doesn't matter what bottle you get.”

Troy and Ilya groaned in unison, and the debate devolved from there.

As the day began to wind to a close, Ilya realized he felt lighter than he had in a week. Going through the motions with his friends had helped, so he decided to lean into it and accept their offer to go to the bar after work.

They trudged the two blocks to Monk's bickering through a well-worn argument about West Coast vs East Coast hip hop. Ilya should have realized that the thin bubble of happiness was bound to pop, and the illusion was shattered when they walked into the dimly lit bar and saw Kip and Scott.

“Let’s leave,” Ilya grumbled. Troy and Cliff either didn't hear him, or didn't care to, and they returned the cheerful wave Kip sent their way.

Ilya squared his shoulders and followed them to take a seat with a member of his top five heartbreak roster.

***
Five Years Ago

“He's back,” Svetlana murmured.

Ilya’s head shot up embarrassingly fast, and he locked eyes with the cute customer who had become a regular.

Kip had been coming by for a few months. His music taste wasn't completely aligned with Ilya’s, but he had defined opinions about what he liked and disliked, and that was enough for Ilya to form a loose crush.

It didn't hurt that he had a nice dimple when he smiled and he was built like one of the marble statues in the museum he worked for.

Svetlana waved at Kip, and Ilya wanted to slap her hand down. He hassled Cliff and Troy for dating customers, it always ended poorly and Ilya told them it was bad for business to drive clientele away because they couldn't keep it in their pants. He had been making an effort to follow his own advice for once.

“Hey, I was hoping you'd be here,” Kip smiled.

Ilya didn't know how to say ‘I'm always here’ without sounding like a loser, so he just made a noncommittal noise.

“There's a La Luz show in the Plateau this weekend, I wondered if you'd want to go together.”

“Yes, of course,” Ilya could hear how lame and earnest he sounded, and he watched Svetlana try to conceal a smirk.

Kip was not his usual type, and that rattled him. Ilya had always been secure picking someone up, he knew he was hot and charming. The problem was that Kip was a serial monogamist, by his own admission. He dated men he wanted to be in a relationship with, which was part of the reason why he threw Ilya off-kilter.

Long-term dating evaded Ilya, he never managed to make that next step into something serious. Dating a smart man who was a curator for an art museum felt particularly challenging.

Ilya needed a challenge. He thought the revolving door of hookups would never grow old, but the more days that he lost to the haze of depressed naps on his couch, the more he wondered if he should be searching for more in life.

Ilya couldn't completely blame his identity crisis on his dead mother, but he had just turned the same age his mother had been when Ilya was born. Something about that perspective was fucking with him, and making him wonder if she would be proud of the man he'd become. He knew his mother certainly didn't dream of him burning through every available person in Montreal, practically turning his bedroom into a rite of passage for the attractive citizens of the city.

So Ilya accepted a date with the nice man who had flirted with him for weeks, and he appeared at the club Friday night fidgety and nervous.

It went downhill from there.

“What are you drinking?” Ilya asked once they got inside. Paying for a drink was the least he could do to prove that he was an acceptable date.

“Oh, I'm not drinking tonight. I'm actually training for a marathon, so I'm on this whole conditioning regimen,” Kip explained.

Ilya fought to keep the dismayed expression off his face. He had zero interest in running or talking about marathons. It was another thing he didn't have in common with Kip, another facet to Kip that made Ilya feel slightly self-conscious and unmotivated. He ordered a soda and lime for Kip, and a Coke for himself.

They tried numerous topics. Kip's job, Kip's friends, Kip's wonderful father.

“What are your parents like?” Kip asked. Ilya winced. He had walked right into it, and he felt scrubbed raw from trying to float conversation that wasn't clicking and only served to highlight his inadequacies.

“Ah. Mother is dead. Father is dead.”

Kip's mouth dropped open in horror at the blunt summary, but Ilya was saved by the band taking the stage.

The show was good, the music a bit upbeat and dreamy for Ilya’s turmoil. When Kip asked if Ilya wanted to come to his apartment, Ilya perked up.

Things did not improve when they got back to Kip's and fumbled through a clumsy hookup. Ilya could get over awkwardness easily, but that night he was in his head too much. He found himself distracted by Kip's nice sheets, by his matching furniture and massive art books. It all felt too incongruous with his own life, and when they laid there afterwards Ilya knew deep down that it wasn't going to work.

It felt like defeat though, and Ilya was never one to admit defeat. So Ilya earnestly tried for the next month. They went to shows every weekend, and Kip spent more time hanging out at the shop. Despite Ilya’s best efforts, things never felt natural.

The other shoe dropped a month later when Kip stopped by the shop.

“Hi. I have that new Shannon and the Clams album,” Ilya said, pulling it out from under the counter where he had stowed it for Kip.

“Oh, uh. Yeah, thank you. That's not why I came,” Kip was toying with the zipper on his coat, and Ilya narrowed his gaze on the nervous movement.

“I met someone,” Kip blurted out. Ilya's hands tightened on the album sleeve.

They hadn't been seeing each other enough to even entertain the idea of being exclusive, but Ilya hadn't been seeing anyone else these past few weeks. He'd thought of it as good practice for when he was ready to take the leap and be a boyfriend. And stupidly, idiotically, he had wondered if the infrequent sex might make him want Kip more, might make their encounters more exciting. It had yet to work, but Ilya had been prepared to test the theory a bit longer. Kip wasn't supposed to bail out first.

“Who? Where?” Ilya asked.

“His name is Scott. I met him through Shane, this friend I went to undergrad with. I wasn’t planning to fall for him, but it just…it all happened so fast.” Kip was breathless as he described being swept off his feet, and Ilya felt intense jealousy. Not that Kip was now off the market, but that Kip had experienced something Ilya was beginning to think might never arrive for him.

That was the moment that codified the heartbreak. Ilya’s fears had come true. He had actually tried to be boyfriend material this time, but it wasn't enough.

There was something, someone immediately better than him, lying in wait for Kip. That eluded Ilya. He had a chance with someone he should have appreciated, and he'd been unfeeling and unable to connect. Something was probably broken inside of him.

“I want to stay friends,” Kip said sincerely.

Ilya couldn't even pretend to hold it against him.

“Sure, friends. But you stop getting discount now that I am not sleeping with you,” Ilya slapped the record on the counter and Kip laughed, agreeing.

***
Present Day

“What's new with you guys?” Cliff asked, sliding in next to Scott.

Kip had begun towing Scott to the shop shortly after they started dating. True to his word, he and Ilya had remained on good terms and still sometimes went to shows together.

Ilya had planned to be mature and kind to the man who had given Kip all the romance and happiness he deserved, but Ilya couldn't manage it. Scott's taste in music was awful, all the worst of the classic rock genre. He was even worse than Troy at coming up with novel answers to top-five prompts, and he served as a stark reminder to Ilya’s failings.

Scott ran a non-profit for at-risk youth, and as if that wasn't bad enough, he spent his free time volunteering as a coach for a hockey charity. Ilya really hated him.

Fortunately, Kip seemed to think Ilya’s constant antagonism of his boyfriend was funny, and Scott only found it mildly annoying, so Ilya kept it up whenever he could.

He really wasn't in the mood tonight to be reminded of his brief attempt at dating Kip. When Ilya and Rob got together, Ilya had felt like all his fears were assuaged. Rob was an accomplished, intimidating kind of man like Kip, and he had been able to love Ilya. It turned out Rob had just waited three years to bail out, Kip was smart enough to do it after one month.

“Well, we've got kind of big news,” Kip grinned. He nodded at Scott, a wordless encouragement to be the one to announce it. Intimacy reached out of years of partnership.

Ilya tried to swallow the bitterness as he remembered him and Rob doing that same dance.

“We're getting married,” Scott announced.

Ilya almost dropped his drink.

“No way! Congrats, man,” Cliff tried to dap Scott up across the table, to hilariously awkward results.

Troy began asking about wedding details, the engagement story, facts that mattered very little to Ilya.

He found himself glancing between Kip and Scott frantically.

Things hadn't worked out between Ilya and Kip because Kip was meant for Scott. Ilya never stood a chance. He wasn't deficient, he had just been getting in the way of a true, lifelong commitment.

Fuck Rob, who knew why Rob had left him. All that mattered was this proved Kip and Rob weren't a pattern.

Ilya could feel an ecstatic smile stretch across his lips.

After a few more rounds, they called it a night. Cliff and Ilya decided to brave the October chill and headed off on foot. Cliff lived several blocks away from Ilya, which was both a blessing and a curse. He routinely abused Ilya's kindness to borrow his car to pick up bizarre free items on Craigslist, and he had a bad habit of showing up unannounced, simply because he was bored. He also brought Ilya soup when he was sick, and he was good company for a walk home, so it all evened out.

They smoked and talked about shows they might go to that weekend as they strolled lazily in the direction of home.

“You seemed pretty happy that Kip got married, considering you put him on your heartbreak list,” Cliff said.

“Well, that is the whole point. I am not the problem, Kip had a future husband to meet,” Ilya explained. He had an extra bounce in his step as he recounted it.

“Maybe others will be like this. I think I should talk to all of them.”

“You're going to call up all of your exes and ask if they got married recently?” Cliff couldn't keep the judgment out of his voice.

“No, not so specific.” Ilya took a long drag as he considered his plan.

“Just think it could be helpful. What if I am not the problem? All of the heartbreaks, and they are not my fault?”

It was more vulnerable than he usually let himself get. But he had been listening to breakup albums for a week, he had cheap vodka loosening his tongue, and he could see the spark of interest in Cliff's eyes.

“You are braver than me, dude. You could not pay me to call some of my exes.”

Ilya shrugged. Truthfully, it was a stretch to call anybody on the list an ex. The only person he had been an official, labelled boyfriend to was Rob, and he wasn’t about to call Rob to ask where things went wrong. This was the next best option, and he hoped they would all absolve his itching insecurities the way Kip and Scott’s engagement had.

“Wait, how are you going to talk to that one guy if you don't even know his name?” Cliff asked.

Fuck. Ilya should have taken his time to think of someone easier to put on the heartbreak list.

“Not sure. I will work on it,” Ilya scowled.

***

Ilya’s days off were sporadic, often weekdays wherever he could grab them. This week he had taken Friday off and he was sitting on the living room floor, smoking and staring at the stacks of albums he had begun to organize.

When the keys jingled in the lock, he felt his stomach instinctively leap, even though he knew it wasn't Rob.

“Oh my god, are you smoking in here?” Liz wrinkled her nose as she walked in, and Ilya smirked.

He was aware that every detail of her visit would be relayed to Rob, and he knew it would infuriate Rob to hear that Ilya had reverted back to smoking inside.

Ilya had also put extra effort into his outfit, styled his curls, and gotten pastries from the bakery down the block that Rob loved. He hoped Liz would commit the whole scene to memory.

“Hello, Liz.”

Liz had called the night before to ask if Ilya wanted to talk. Her exact words had been ‘just because Rob was my friend first doesn't mean I don't worry about you,’ which was an extremely unappealing way to put it. Ilya was determined to show her that there was nothing to worry about, and he hoped the message would make its way back to Rob as well.

“Why are you on the ground? What are you doing with your records? And again, you're smoking in here?” Liz tossed her coat on the back of the Eames chair Rob had purchased last year.

Ilya always liked Liz. She was direct, she was a little erratic, and she had a way of casting judgement without making Ilya feel insecure. Rob's other friends were generally well-intentioned, boring lawyers. They always seemed to talk about Ilya as if he was a feral animal Rob had tamed.

“Yes, I am smoking in here. I like sitting on the floor, it is good perspective. And I am reorganizing my collection.”

Ilya answered her questions as he stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and got up to hug her.

“You look fantastic,” Liz gave him a warm, first hug, and Ilya felt a thrill of satisfaction. His preening that morning had worked.

“Pastry?” He gestured to the pink box on the table.

Liz helped herself to a Danish and settled on the couch.

“So. How are you?”

“I am fine,” Ilya lied. He had watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind the night before, then listened to a ton of Sigur Rós while he chainsmoked in bed. Things were bleak.

Liz sighed heavily.

“I'm sorry. You know I love Rob, but I think he's making a huge mistake.”

Ilya straightened up. He was suddenly filled with a rush of affection for Liz.

“Yes, he is, isn't he?” Ilya grinned.

Liz didn't seem to think it was funny. “And I don't know what he's thinking with this Ian guy, really.”

Any warmth Ilya had felt leeched from his body. He was stock still, too afraid to give a reaction.

“Yes, well…” Ilya trailed off. He had two courses of action. Play it cool, say nothing and let Liz go back to Rob so she could tell him how great Ilya looked, how he didn't care at all that Rob had walked out.

Or Ilya could thoroughly embarrass himself, beg for information about this man named Ian, ask who the fuck Ian was, and why Rob was with a man less than a month after he dumped Ilya.

If Ilya did that, Liz would go home and tell Rob that Ilya was totally desperate.

Ilya wrestled with his impulses, and ultimately decided to cling to his shreds of dignity.

“Has Rob said when he will get his own place?”

Liz shook her head. “He's ready to buy, you know. So it could take a while.”

She didn't intend it as a jab, but Ilya received the punch regardless. Rob had wanted to buy a condo for years, and they had many arguments about it. In a rare example of level-headness, Ilya recognized that their financial inequity felt safer under a lease, committing to a mortgage that he could only pay a fraction of felt incredibly risky.

The evidence was now plainly in front of them, and Ilya had an urge to pick up the phone and force Rob to admit that he was right.

“Where are you going after the lease is up?” Liz interrupted Ilya’s spiteful thoughts.

He looked around at the apartment. It had never been his favorite, too many sharp angles and bright white walls. But they had made it home for two years, and it was hard to resign himself to the inevitable downgrade when he was apartment hunting on one income.

“Not sure. Marley mentioned talking to his landlord,” Ilya said. Cliff lived in a building that had been beautiful a hundred years ago, but now showed its years. The tile in the entryway was chipped and pitted, the parquet floors in Cliff’s apartment were scuffed and discolored. The radiator made an ungodly noise at all hours of the night, despite Cliff’s apartment always being drafty. There were worse places to live, but Ilya wasn’t enthralled with the idea of moving there.

“Well, if you need a place to stay between leases…after Rob moves out, obviously.”

It was kind of Liz to offer. Ilya smiled at her and nodded, and they both knew he wouldn't ever take her up on it.

“And you're taking your medicine, therapy is going well?” Liz was heavily therapized, and had been enthusiastic when Rob finally convinced Ilya to get help for his depression.

Ilya grimaced and nodded. Truthfully, he was probably drinking more than he should on his meds. And therapy felt like his insides were being roughly scraped out, it had yet to make him feel any better.

Ilya endured another hour of Liz’s well-intentioned fussing. He could tell he was succeeding in his effort to seem stable and unaffected, but his grasp on the mask was slipping with every minute that ticked by. He finally begged off with an excuse about needing to swing by the shop soon for a delivery.

The moment Liz left, Ilya whipped out his phone.

Rob followed too many people on Instagram, it made for poor sleuthing, but Ilya searched and searched and couldn't find anybody named Ian.

He started to get desperate, turning to a Google search with the scraps of information he could guess about the man Rob had left him for. His search history looked idiotic.

Ian lawyer Montreal
Ian Rob Gordon lawyers Montreal
Ian gay lawyer Montreal
Ian gay Montreal

It was like trying to find a needle in a haystack, only somehow worse, like searching for a needle when you had never seen a needle in your life.

Ilya was beginning to spiral as he envisioned the worst case scenario. A man somehow hotter than Ilya, almost certainly a lawyer because Rob only seemed to know other lawyers. He probably owned a beautiful house, didn't smoke, and took Rob out to expensive dinners instead of shows in divey clubs.

His phone buzzed, snapping him out of his misery. When he saw the message, he lit up. The perfect distraction had landed in his lap, an opportunity to revisit another member of the top five heartbreak list.

Svetlana: Sasha is coming to town in two weeks.
Svetlana: Please don't get in a stupid fight with him this time.

Chapter End Notes

I promise we'll see cocky/menace Ilya as the story progresses, but a lot of the heartbreak flashbacks (and his present day heartbreak) brought out his insecurities and penchant for moodiness.

I will be so honest, the first draft of this story had me edging the reader with Shane mentions for a lot longer. I promise he will make an appearance soon(ish)

Also, apologies to Montreal residents. I have never been to Montreal and I'm sure it shows.

Title of this chapter is from a Liz Phair song I listened to on repeat as a dramatic 16 year old.

Chapter 3: Water Me

Chapter Notes

For a formative time, Svetlana, Ilya, and Sasha were a set. Their teenage years were full of partying, bickering, and fucking. They shared a level of intimacy that could only be achieved by showing each other the worst versions of themselves.

Svetlana's worst trait was an inability to cushion her words. She was blunt to a fault, and it could be a charming kick in the pants or a devastating blow.

Ilya had been on the receiving end of a harsh assessment when they first had sex as teenagers. Ilya had been thrilled. His hot friend that he adored had slept with him, and everything felt perfect. Svetlana had rolled over and told Ilya he had a lot to learn, and that she had thought sex might make her want them to be something more, but it had made her realize she would never see him that way.

It was Ilya’s first heartbreak, albeit one he quickly bounced back from, because it turned out she was correct. They'd never want to be more than friends who fucked.

Sasha's worst trait had always been taking the party too far. If Svetlana and Ilya stayed up till six in the morning doing lines, Sasha would surface after a 48 hour bender with drugs in his system he couldn't even name.

So Svetlana and Ilya braced for Sasha's visit like one would prepare for a natural disaster.

“The vodka is in the freezer?” Svetlana called over her shoulder.

Svetlana, mercifully, was hosting Sasha. Ilya's place was a mess these days, with stacks of albums scattered across the apartment and dirty laundry piling up.

He was not doing well, and Sasha wasn't going to be tactful about that if he saw it. Ilya also had a not-unfounded fear that Sasha would probably come onto him once he heard Ilya was single, and it would be easier to reject him when they didn't have to coexist in Ilya’s apartment together.

Ilya yanked open the drawer to Svetlana's freezer and shot her a thumbs up to confirm that she had put the good vodka on ice.

Svetlana lived in a gorgeous loft outfitted with tasteful vintage furniture and framed prints of musicians that an old girlfriend had created.

Despite their closeness, or maybe because of it, Svetlana and Ilya had never lived together. She loathed sharing her space with other people, and Ilya knew she was taking a bullet for him, opening up her home to Sasha.

“You said he landed?” Ilya asked, opening a Dieu du Ciel while making eye contact with a screenprint of Grace Jones.

“Yes, he should be here any minute,” Svetlana strolled up to the kitchen island. “This is my last reminder. He is our oldest friend. He is a pain in the ass, but he is our pain in the ass, so play nice.”

Ilya held up his hands in a gesture of innocence, and the buzz on Svetlana's intercom saved him from making a promise he couldn't keep.

In moments, Sasha was tumbling through the door with an absurdly large suitcase, wet kisses on the cheek, and a bag of coke.

“Where the fuck did you get this? You just landed,” Svetlana plucked it out of his hands.

“I have my ways. Ilyusha, where is your handsome boyfriend? Too intimidated to see me?”

Ilya thought about getting up and walking out without a word to Sasha. It felt like the easiest course of action. Sasha had been an abject disaster the one time he and Rob met. He had alternated between hitting on Rob, hitting on Ilya, and angling for a threesome. When they had gone home that night, Rob had begged Ilya to never ask him to hang out with Sasha again.

“We broke up,” Ilya said through gritted teeth.

He watched Sasha's face light up, and as much as he hated it, it was almost comforting. Everyone else had been treating Ilya like he was fragile, like he was going to fall apart at any moment.

“Too bad! His loss, right?” Sasha flung open a cabinet and started rifling around for glasses. He poured vodka for the three of them and raised a toast.

“To Ilya’s shitty ex. Thank you for giving us back fun Ilya!”

Ilya glared at him, but threw back the shot. “Fuck you, I have always been fun.”

Sasha shook his head. “Not true. You were so…” he waved his hand in the air, searching for the right adjective. “You were small with him.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Ilya spat.

Svetlana was shooting daggers at him, trying to remind Ilya of their agreement to be peaceful during their brief time with Sasha, but Ilya couldn't let it go.

“Relax! You aren't with him anymore, it doesn't matter,” Sasha rolled his eyes.

Ilya opened his mouth to interrogate, to ask Sasha to explain himself, but Svetlana cut him off.

“OK, we have time for another shot and a line before we have to leave for the show. Sasha, put your things away so we don't trip on them in the hall when we come home.”

They were piling into a cab twenty minutes later to head to La Sala Rossa.

“Does this mean you have that gorgeous apartment all to yourself?” Sasha asked, inexplicably rolling down the window on a chilly autumn night.

“Yes, I have the apartment. No, you cannot come over,” Ilya stabbed the button to roll it up.

“Why not? You're so wound up, maybe you need some rebound sex,” Sasha smacked Ilya’s hand away and rolled the window back down.

“That is never happening,” Ilya crossed his arms. He and Sasha hadn't hooked up since he left Russia. As unkind as it was, Ilya hadn't wanted Sasha once he had other options. He never told Sasha in so many words, but Sasha clearly knew why they had stopped sleeping together. He hated Ilya a bit for it, and Ilya let him be a brat about it because he felt bad, and they did this dance in perpetuity.

Svetlana pinched Ilya’s arm in a desperate reminder to behave, and he flashed her an exaggerated smile.

It didn't improve much from there. Svetlana had been the one to suggest the show, correctly guessing that Sasha would like Purity Ring. But the venue was intimate, and a far cry from the clubs that Sasha was used to. Watching him duck into the bathroom over and over for another bump made Ilya feel like he was crawling out of his skin.

***

Twelve Years Ago

“I’m leaving,” Sasha said.

Ilya peeked at him from the corner of his eye. They had been laying side by side in Sasha’s bed for a while, deadlocked into awkward silence.

“Ok, give me a minute. I’ll get up.” Ilya started to rise, and Sasha put a hand on his stomach to push him back down. The motion made Ilya feel ill, the whole afternoon had made him feel exposed and uncomfortable, and he should have left a while ago anyway.

“Not that. I mean I convinced my parents to send me to boarding school in Nice,” Sasha explained.

“Oh,” Ilya felt even worse now. Envy was curdling inside him, and a vague sense of betrayal. They were supposed to suffer through Russia together, and the three of them were supposed to move somewhere together as soon as they were eighteen. They had all spent afternoons daydreaming about life as bohemian young adults. They weren’t supposed to split up now, and Sasha wasn’t supposed to start the rest of his life without them.

“I leave in two weeks,” Sasha continued.

Ilya bolted upright.

“Two weeks? What the fuck? Have you told Sveta?”

Sasha shook his head. He didn’t look the least bit sorry. His face was shining with excitement and unrepentant joy.

Ilya could taste acid in his throat as the reality of the situation hit him.

“What the fuck was this?” Ilya gestured between them. “You get to fuck me as a goodbye present?”

The words sounded too vulnerable as they came out. But Ilya felt betrayed. Sasha had asked, coaxed, whined for over a year, trying to convince Ilya to bottom. Ilya had held out. Sasha was either bad at fingering or Ilya wasn’t particularly fond of it, he didn’t know which, but their experiments hadn't instilled much excitement about having more of Sasha inside him.

And the truth, the ugly truth of it, was that it felt too vulnerable, felt like a loss of control that Ilya was not prepared to embrace.

But that morning, Ilya was catastrophically bored, and Sasha invited him over and broached the topic again, and Ilya finally gave in.

It wasn’t great. Ilya had taken forever to relax, he was in his head the entire time, and when Sasha finished and offered to blow Ilya, Ilya had declined.

Now he felt used. Sasha had finally gotten what he wanted, which felt cruel and pointless. He was skipping off to a country where he could fuck any willing boy, instead of coaxing his reluctant friend into an awkward fuck. Ilya felt like he was a conquest, he felt abandoned, and he was filled with anger and hurt.

“Whatever, you are such a baby sometimes,” Sasha rolled his eyes and lit a cigarette.

“Fuck you.” Ilya spat.

He refused to see Sasha before he left for France. Svetlana didn’t know why, so she was pissed off at Ilya for weeks. Sasha returned the next summer, and Ilya fucked him a few times because his options were limited. It felt transactional for both of them, it wasn’t fun like it had been before.

When Svetlana and Ilya moved to Montreal for university, Ilya could tell Sasha was hurt. Sasha might have made the first betrayal of leaving them as teenagers, but Sveltana and Ilya’s move cemented that they had abandoned their childish plans to all move to Paris, or London, or Tokyo, to share an apartment and constantly party.

Whenever Sasha visited, it served as a stark reminder that their trio was fractured. In preparation of Sasha’s inaugural visit their first year in college, Ilya started seeing a classmate. A man named Dave who had a full, scratchy beard and broad shoulders, as physically different from Sasha as possible.

When Ilya introduced the two of them, he’d locked eyes with Sasha and hoped that he silently communicated everything he was thinking.

We both used each other. I don’t know if I can ever look at you without feeling sad, without remembering how scared we were in a country that hated us. I love you like a fucked up family member. I hate you for leaving us first.

***

Present Day 

By the time the show ended, Sasha was three sheets to the wind.

“Where to next?” Sasha asked, eyes glassy as they huddled and smoked.

Svetlana seemed to weigh the pros and cons in an instant, and decided they would head to a warehouse party.

Somewhere between the third and fifth shot of the night, Ilya succumbed to something he'd been battling for weeks: the urge to talk about Rob.

“Liz told me he is already seeing someone,” Ilya told Svetlana, lighting her cigarette on the fire escape. Sasha was inside, tongue down the throat of a man who looked like he could be his twin.

“Rob cheated on you?” Svetlana looked like she was going to punch a hole through the brick wall behind her.

Ilya didn't feel like getting into specifics and waved it away. “Maybe, maybe not. But fuck him, right?”

Ilya had searched high and low, and Rob’s new man remained a mystery to him. It gnawed at him, trying to imagine what Ian looked like.

“Liz said his name is Ian, but we don’t know an Ian. I am maybe going a little crazy trying to find him,” Ilya admitted.

Svetlana scowled. “Who cares, fuck him.”

“Fuck who?” Sasha popped his head out of the window to the fire escape.

Svetlana knew better than to expose Ilya’s pain, and she shook her head.

“Nobody is fucking anybody, come here.”

Sasha slipped into Svetlana’s arms and let her pet his hair as they huddled together in the dark, music pulsing below their feet.

“I am sorry about your boyfriend, Ilyusha,” Sasha said sleepily.

Ilya felt his hackles raise, ready for an underhanded comment or inappropriate flirting.

“I thought if any of us would find love, it would be you,” Sasha continued.

Ilya felt his mouth drop open in shock, and Svetlana whacked Sasha on the arm.

“What about me, asshole?” She laughed.

“Oh please, you are the worst of all of us. Your heart is made of steel, you don’t want it. You know I’m right,” Sasha pointed at Ilya as if he was a zoo animal. “He has always just been searching for it, wanting it, waiting for it.”

Ilya hated the truth of it, but the words didn’t hit as an insult. Ilya could tell that Sasha wasn’t trying to be cruel or pitying.

He’d never had an illusion that Sasha or Svetlana would be the love of his life, but that fact alone had earned each of them a spot on his top five heartbreaks. He loved them in a complicated, fucked up way that felt involuntary, sometimes even coercive.

Things would have been better if the boy he’d experimented with in Russia wasn’t an asshole who made Ilya feel like a means to an end. Things would have been easier if Svetlana was someone he could love romantically. Instead, they had tangled love between the three of them that felt both inadequate and outsized.

“What if I moved to Montreal?” Sasha asked, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Svetlana and Ilya both shouted “no” in unison and they spent the next hour bickering and prodding and jabbing Sasha into admitting that he was just fucking with them, and he was never going to leave Paris. They all knew it was better this way.

***

Ilya’s sleuthing had hit dead end after dead end, and he was almost ready to call it quits and just ask Liz who the fuck Ian was.

The more that Ilya had spiraled and tried to imagine the man, the more things were deteriorating in the apartment. His project organizing his collection was going nowhere, which now meant he couldn't find anything he wanted to play. He kept forgetting to water plants, because that had always been Rob's forte, and he spent the night on Cliff's couch last week because Ilya saw a giant spider in his bathroom and didn't have the courage to trap it, because Rob had always taken care of spiders.

Ilya came home from the shop one evening, bone tired and ready to fall into bed. He stopped at the mailboxes to collect his usual stack of bills and junk mail. There was a raunchy postcard from Sasha, and Ilya tucked it into his pocket before tossing the junk in the trash. As he was about to swing open the bin, his gaze landed on the label of an envelope. It was in Ilya's box by mistake, it belonged to their upstairs neighbor.

Ilya and Rob had met Ray a little after moving in. Ray was almost like an inside joke between them. On the street, you would think he was any other fixed-gear riding, hemp milk-drinking crust punk. But he could afford the rent in their nice building, so Ilya had nosed and pried and found out over happy hour drinks one day that Ray came from money. So much money that he didn’t need to work, but Ray worked part time at a bike shop because “those were his people.”

Rob had always wrinkled his nose at Ray's gages, his overalls, his rat tail. Ilya had selfishly felt a bit of pride when the three of them hung out. He might not be a lawyer, he might not ever be as successful as Rob, but at least he wasn't a trust fund baby who made his own kombucha.

But now Ilya clutched the envelope and stared at the address label for the man who lived directly above them.

Ian Raymond. There could be other explanations. Rob could have marched out into the world and found a random man named Ian.

But Ilya knew Rob. He'd spent three years sleeping next to the man, fighting with him, making up with him, learning everything about him. And Rob wasn't the type to hop into bed with someone he didn't know.

Every memory began to swim in Ilya’s mind as he tried to make sense of it. When they could hear Ray have loud sex above them, was Rob wishing that was him? When they had last hung out, had Ray over for dinner a few months ago, had they already slept together? Was Ilya an unwitting third wheel?

Ilya had half a mind to race up the stairs, bang on Ray's door and demand answers. Maybe he'd even find Rob there. That thought knocked the air out of Ilya and he suddenly couldn't stand.

He sank to the floor and closed his eyes, wishing he'd never met Rob. Ilya had begun to convince himself that Rob left because Ilya didn't measure up, that he didn’t have enough ambition and he didn't fit into Rob's life. It was an insecurity Ilya had battled forever, and it seemed like the only answer.

But Ray, dirtbag Ray, didn't fit that equation. Which meant something worse, even more insidious. Rob just fell out of love with Ilya. Or maybe he never really loved him, Ilya wasn't sure what was worse.

Feeling began to return to Ilya’s numb limbs, and he hauled himself to his feet. He threw Ray's mail in the trash and took the stairs two at a time until he reached the safety of his apartment. He threw on the first record he could find, poured himself some vodka, and cranked Surfer Rosa as loud as it could get. Ilya hoped Ray would come down to complain, but he never did. Maybe he was out on a date with Rob.

***

“Top five live albums,” Troy prompted. It was a topic they'd covered before, but the answers varied depending on the day.

They were crowded at a table at Monk's, Kip and Scott shoved next Troy and his boyfriend Harris. Cliff was waiting for his date to arrive, and Ilya felt like he stuck out like a sore, heartbroken thumb.

“Johnny Cash, Live at San Quentin. Not Folsom,” Cliff answered quickly.

Ilya and Troy nodded, there was no need for Cliff to defend that one.

“Stop Making Sense has to be on the list, right?” Kip offered. Another easy one, but an essential addition to the list.

“Wings Over America?” Scott offered.

Ilya gagged, his opinions on Paul McCartney's post-Beatles career were well-trod ground.

Troy nudged Harris.

“Homecoming, both the music and the visuals,” Harris decided.

Cliff raised his eyebrows at Ilya, and Ilya almost drew a blank. Rob hadn't been nearly as obsessive about music about Ilya, but he had a soft spot for certain albums, and on rainy days he often put Simon and Garfunkel's Central Park album on.

“Sam Cooke. Live at the Harlem Square Club. It is a classic for a reason. Sounds nothing like how he sang in studio albums, the audience is like another instrument. It is perfect.”

Cliff nodded appreciatively, then his entire face lit up when his date entered. True to their bad habits, Cliff had hit on Marianne at the shop.

When Ilya nagged him for breaking the rule they had all broken a dozen times, Cliff argued that he couldn't help falling for a girl whose favorite artists were Fela Kuti and Fiona Apple.

Ilya white-knuckled it as the lone single for another hour. Troy and Harris got up to cue up the jukebox, Cliff and Marianne had disappeared to a bathroom to do god knows what, and Ilya found himself stuck with his good friend and his worse half.

“Have you seen Rob lately?” Kip asked. Word had gotten around quickly that Ilya had been unceremoniously dumped, which meant more and more people were treating Ilya like a wounded bird.

“No,” Ilya shook his head. “Not interested, either.”

Kip squinted at him, knowing it was a lie.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

Ilya made a face like he'd eaten a lemon. The last thing he wanted was another relationship. These days he was confident he would never let another person hurt him again.

“Well. Maybe you just need to get back out there,” Kip said.

“I am getting laid, do not worry,” Ilya groaned. Since learning about Ian's identity, Ilya had pursued a string of unsatisfying one-night stands.

“I mean go on a date. Wear something nice, talk to the person before you fuck them?” Kip had a way of saying harsh judgments with charm and affection. Ilya almost entertained the idea, because Kip made it sound so appealing.

“He might not be ready, babe. It's only been a month or two, right?” Scott asked.

Ilya straightened up, immediately irritated. “No, I am ready.”

Scott looked unconvinced, but Kip was excited.

“Great! Maybe we can set you up. Scott, wasn't Shane saying he's ready to start dating again?”

Scott shook his head firmly. “No, not Shane. I don't think that's a good idea.”

“Why not? What is wrong with this Shane?” Ilya asked. Anything Scott said made Ilya want to run in the opposite direction. So if Scott thought Shane shouldn't date Ilya, Ilya was determined to go on a date with that man.

“I just don't think you guys are very compatible,” Scott said.

Ilya narrowed his eyes. Somehow, Scott's innocuous words sounded offensive.

“He is hot?” Ilya asked

Scott and Kip both nodded with a fervor that told Ilya they had probably spoken often about how sexy this man was.

“Then we are compatible,” Ilya grinned. “Tell him I will go on a date.”

Scott was glaring at Kip, but Kip studiously ignored him as he pulled out his phone.

“I'm going to ask,” he stressed “if Shane is interested. I'll give you guys each other's numbers if he's up for it.”

“Send him a photo of me,” Ilya suggested. “So he says yes.”

Scott snorted at Ilya’s confidence, but Kip shook his head.

“No, that's weird. I'm not treating you like a puppy I'm trying to get adopted.”

“Fine, but he will regret it if he says no and then finds out how hot I am,” Ilya sighed.

Kip put his phone away, and Ilya resolved to take this man on the most romantic date in the world just to prove Scott wrong.

Chapter End Notes

More Shane edging! Sorry, not sorry.

The Sasha/Ilya scene is not what earned this fic the Vers Ilya tag, that comes later.

In case it's not clear, Ian/Ray is based off many, many people I knew in my teens/early 20s. Lots of kids who came from rich suburbs, used crystals instead of deoderant and dumpster dived, you know the type (if you do not, consider yourself lucky).

I made an era-appropriate playlist on Spotify under the title Top Five Heartbreaks. Starts with moody breakup tunes, ends with sappy love songs. Tried to include a lot of Montreal artists!

& last note: Ilya’s defiance when it comes to Scott just felt like a very funny reason for him to agree to get back out there.

Chapter title is the FKA Twigs song, mood song for the chapter is probably fineshrine by Purity Ring. Ilya is blasting Where Is My Mind by The Pixies when he finds out about Ray.

Chapter 4: Someone Great

Chapter Notes

438-xxx-xxxx: Hi, is this Ilya?

Ilya: Yes. Who is asking?

Shane: This is Shane, Kip gave me your number.
Shane: I'm just texting to say that I'm not really looking for anything serious right now.

Ilya: ???
Ilya: What did Kip tell you? I am not looking for a husband.

Shane: Me either!
Shane: Good. I'm just looking for something very casual. Sounds like we're on the same page.

Ilya: Should I come over to your place tonight and fuck you?

Shane: No.
Shane: Thanks for the offer.

Ilya: Ok. Let me know when you change your mind.

***

“What did you tell your friend?” Ilya asked.

Scott squinted at him. Ilya had run into him at the co-op, buying pickled beets. Usually he would have pretended to ignore Scott in public, but Shane’s texts had piqued his interest, and Scott was his only source of information on the man.

“Your friend Shane. First thing he says is that he is not looking for anything serious. Did Kip tell him I am serious?”

“No, God no,” Scott shook his head so vigorously that Ilya marked it down as an offense to revisit at a late point. “Kip just told him you got out of a serious relationship recently. Shane did too, so I think Kip just wanted to let him know you'd get it, if he needed some time.”

Ilya thought about the polite rejection of some (nearly) anonymous sex. Maybe he hadn't lived up to Kip's generous expectations. Ilya had vowed to romance Shane just to spite Scott, but he couldn't get anything going if they didn't meet up and see if they had chemistry.

“Shane seems like a serious person,” Ilya said.

Scott nodded, tossing some whole grain pasta into his cart. Ilya had now been trailing him through the aisles of the store, and he realized he should probably buy something other than a jar of beets. He knocked a box of pasta into his basket.

“I mean, he kind of is. That's why I thought setting you up might be a bad idea. Not that you're not serious about stuff!” Scott hastened to explain when he saw Ilya's stormy expression. “But your serious is like, finding new bands and hunting down rare records for customers. Shane’s is like…running a charity and renovating his cottage.”

Ilya frowned. Scott had a point, Shane didn’t really sound like he would be interested in Ilya.

That impression only deepened over the following weeks. They texted sporadically. Shane always initiated, and he always seemed to end the conversation. Ilya eventually gave up on the idea that they'd meet in person. Whenever Ilya would suggest meeting for a drink or a fuck, Shane rebuffed.

***

Shane: What are you doing today?

Ilya: Working. Do you want me to come over tonight?

Shane: No, thanks. What do you do for work?

Ilya: I run a record store.

Shane: That sounds hard.

Ilya: Why?

Shane: It seems like a challenging business to keep afloat, financially.

Ilya: We do fine.

***

Shane: image attached
Shane: Is this a good album?

Ilya: You are asking me if Purple Rain is a good album?
Ilya: You are funny. Kip did not tell me this.

Shane: I was being serious. My mom's birthday is coming up, and she said she wanted a Prince album.

Ilya: You can come to my shop, I could help you pick out some options.

Shane: I'm out of town this week.

***

Shane: Kip said you're from Russia. How long have you lived in Montreal?

Ilya: Ten years.

Shane: Do you like it?

Ilya: I stayed here ten years, so it is obviously better than Russia.

Shane: Right, sorry.

Ilya: Nothing to say sorry for, you are so Canadian.

Shane: Sorry.
Shane: Shit. Forget I said that.

Ilya: I will forgive you if you ask me to come over tonight.

Shane: Sorry, tonight is no good. I have company staying with me.

***

Shane: What are you doing this weekend?

Ilya: Working. But I can get a drink Sunday night, if you want.

Shane: No, thanks. I have work Monday morning.

Ilya: We're never meeting up, are we?

***

“Top five dream jobs,” Cliff prompted as he locked the door.

Ilya looked up from the till. “Cliff, are you trying to tell me you are quitting?”

Cliff rolled his eyes. “Top five dream jobs that aren’t here, obviously. Go!”

Ilya pointed at Troy to hop in while he yanked the bills out of the register.

“Harris and I have talked about opening up a cider brewery.”

Ilya couldn’t help grinning at the domestic, love-sick answer. Harris had hosted Ilya for many Thanksgivings and Christmases on the Drover family farm. Sometimes it felt like Troy had plucked his boyfriend straight out of a romcom.

“Hockey player,” Ilya answered. When he was a child he had briefly dreamed about it. But his mother’s passing sapped the joy from the sport, and he’d hung up his skates a long time ago.

“At least as a record store owner you have all your own teeth,” Troy said. He looked at Cliff, who was pondering.

“Antique dealer,” Cliff decided. “Travel the country finding priceless items.”

Ilya opened his mouth to point out that Cliff was already kind of doing that for free, always trawling the streets of Montreal for secondhand furniture, when the landline in the office started ringing.

Only one person really called that number, and Ilya’s chest squeezed as he carried the cash from the till into the office.

“Hi, old man,” Ilya said, tucking the phone against his ear. He grabbed a deposit bag and pen and sat at the desk to multi-task.

“Hey there. Marie and I are drinking margaritas on our balcony, enjoying the sun, and I just looked at the time,” Wiebe said.

“I know, I know. Rub it in. It is -2 today,” Ilya griped. He and Wiebe kept up through texts, but the occasional closing time call was always a pleasant treat.

“Any good shows lately?” Wiebe asked.

“Cliff's new girl took us to a Mac De Marco show at La Coop,” Ilya said, scribbling on the deposit slip. “Getting bored of retired life? Want to move back?”

“Not a chance. But you know I miss you kids, we'll probably come up in the spring for a few weeks.” Wiebe's words soothed Ilya. It had been a different kind of heartbreak when Wiebe decided to move.

Ilya had enjoyed exploring Montreal in university. But it wasn't until Ilya trekked the city with Wiebe, gone to shows and had dinners with him and his wife, that Ilya felt like he truly belonged, like Montreal had become home.

“Rob's treating you right?” Wiebe asked. Ilya flinched. Wiebe always asked about Rob, it shouldn't have come as a surprise.

“Ah…” Ilya glanced out the window of the office and watched Cliff and Troy fucking off, nowhere near done with the closing tasks.

“Rob broke up with me,” Ilya said.

“Oh, Roz. When?” Wiebe sounded so concerned that Ilya wanted to tell him it was all a bad joke, laugh it off and stop talking.

“A few months ago,” Ilya said.

“A few months! Ok, ok,” Wiebe was clearly trying to rein in his reaction. He and Ilya texted at least once a week, and Ilya had dodged any questions or mention of Rob since the breakup. The magnitude of the cover-up was exposed now.

“How are you holding up? You have a place to stay? Shit, I wish we were still there, you could have crashed in the guest room. Hey, maybe you come down here for a few weeks,” Wiebe was spinning out.

“I am ok. He is helping with the rest of the lease, I am not homeless. I just feel…fucking stupid. I wake up and I still think he is next to me. And I come home, and his shit is still there, and it is like I live with a ghost,” Ilya was letting himself fall apart more than he had with anybody outside of his therapist.

Something about not seeing Wiebe's face, knowing that Wiebe was two borders away, made it all feel safe.

“Yeah, that's got to make it impossible to move on. Any idea when he might get his things?”

Ilya frowned. He'd thought about asking, but while Rob still paid the lease, Ilya didn't feel like he had a right to ask him to come get his shit. Ilya was living in an expensive storage unit for Rob, and for now that worked. He wasn't ready to see Rob, to watch Rob pack all his things and slam the door shut on their history together.

“I do not know. Liz says he might buy a home soon.”

Wiebe sighed, clearly feeling helpless so far away. “How are the guys? Cliff and Troy are looking out for you? Svetlana's giving you hell?”

Ilya smiled as Wiebe assessed his proxies.

“Yes, everyone is fine. Sometimes too much, but fine,” Ilya said.

“That’s good. Roz, I'm so sorry. I know you two had some really good years together,” Wiebe sighed.

These days all of Ilya's friends were firmly and vocally anti-Rob. It was what Ilya had needed post-breakup.

Now Ilya's throat tightened as he listened to Wiebe remind him that it had been different once, that Rob hadn't always been a source of misery.

“I know,” Ilya said quietly. “I am just so fucking mad at him, I do not know if it will ever stop.”

“I ever tell you how Marie and I met?” Wiebe asked.

“Yes, one hundred times. Your love story is out of a movie or something,” Ilya rested his forehead on the desk. Wiebe and Marie had made eyes at each other across the room at a punk show. He'd lost track of her in the crowd that night, but he couldn't get her out of his head. The next week he left an ad in the classifieds, and the rest was history.

“I don't know if I told you that I was couchsurfing at the time because my girlfriend dumped me that week,” Wiebe said casually.

“Marie was a rebound?” Ilya asked, scandalized. He thought he knew everything about Wiebe's life, he was surprised this detail had been kept from him.

“That’s what she was afraid of, for a while. But hey, once you and I hang up I'll ask if she still thinks that, forty years later,” Wiebe chuckled.

“My point is. Feel the hurt, feel the anger, feel all of it. But don't try to close your heart off.”

Ilya couldn't muster the courage to try to speak, and mercifully Wiebe understood.

“OK, love you kid. I'll let you get to it. You call anytime, promise?”

“Promise,” Ilya said. He hung up, his heart feeling like a wrung out sponge.

***

“Where are you at with your ex tour?” Cliff asked one night.

Cliff had seemed to pick up on the fact that Ilya didn't want to invite anybody to his place these days. So Cliff harangued Ilya to walk the five blocks to his apartment that night, with promises of nice whiskey and the new D'Angelo album. Ilya had joked that Cliff was trying to seduce him, but deep down he appreciated that Cliff was trying to get him out of his apartment. It was getting depressing in there.

“There is no ex tour,” Ilya explained. “And I am more than halfway through.”

“Is it helping?” Cliff asked as he slid the record out of its sleeve.

“Maybe,” Ilya shrugged. His fire escape conversation with Sasha and Svetlana had helped and hurt. He found himself remembering Sasha's assessment about Ilya at inopportune times.

Ever since his mother had died, Ilya thought he had built firm walls, projected that he didn’t need anybody or anything. But Sasha had called him on his shit, and Ilya was confronted with the fact that maybe he had just been wanting and waiting for love. It was humiliating.

“OK, more than halfway through,” Cliff settled into his creaky arm chair as Ain't That Easy began to play. Cliff was an avid Craigslist lurker, a habit that paid off in dividends for his record collection. It was also on full display in his apartment, vintage furniture in various conditions, some of it more fashion than function.

Cliff took a sip of whiskey. “Who's left?”

“Rose, my old neighbor. And mystery man,” Ilya sighed.

“Did you ever try to find that guy?” Cliff asked.

Ilya glared at him. “Why would I look for a man who ghosted me?”

In truth, Ilya had gone back to that bar often in the weeks after they'd hooked up, hoping he'd run into him. Cliff didn't need to know that.

“If I had the best sex of my life with someone, I would try to chase them down,” Cliff mused. “Maybe we can find him. What do you remember?”

Cliff pulled out his phone, and Ilya winced.

They hadn't really exchanged any personal details, and searching for the identifying features he did remember (Asian Canadian with freckles and a gorgeous dick) would probably land Cliff on some racist fetish website.

“I think I will talk to Rose first,” Ilya declared.

Cliff shrugged and put his phone away.

“I don't remember you ever talking about her,” Cliff said.

“Yes. There was a reason for that,” Ilya grimaced.

***
Four Years Ago

“Can I help you?” Ilya rushed to ask as he saw a pretty woman teetering up the windy steps to the apartment above his. He'd moved into the brick plex in Mile End a few months earlier, and the unit above him had laid empty until now.

The woman looked over her shoulder and assessed him. Ilya found himself straightening up, shooting her a grin. She had auburn hair that was in a messy braid, and brown eyes that bored through his skull. She seemed to like what she saw because she nodded to the van parked in front.

Ilya scrambled to the sidewalk, selecting the heaviest looking box and following her up to her apartment.

It looked exactly like Ilya’s. Shitty kitchen, small bathroom, nice big windows that Ilya was going to have to shrink wrap in the winter to keep the cold out.

“Thanks. I’m Rose,” Rose stuck out her hand and Ilya grasped it.

“Ilya, I live below you.”

Their hands lingered for a moment. Ilya watched her lips part and travel over his face. The moment snapped when Rose looked over Ilya’s shoulder.

“Oh, that’s my boyfriend. Come on, he’ll be thrilled to meet a neighbor so early. Our last apartment was a bunch of snobs.”

Ilya swallowed his disappointment and trudged down the steps to shake hands with a nice man named Henri.

Ilya was not proud of the events that followed. Three months after Rose and Henri moved in, Ilya’s dad died. He was a wreck, looking for distractions in the worst places. One of those distractions happened to live directly above him with a very kind boyfriend.

Ilya told himself that it wasn’t like he owed Henri anything, he wasn’t the one dating him. Rose chose to cheat on him with Ilya. Again, and again, and again.

Rose was funny, she was doing weird experimental theater that Ilya didn’t pretend to understand. She didn’t know Ilya’s father had died, and he used their time together to slip into a parallel world where he didn’t have to reckon with grief. Outside the bubble of his shitty apartment were the concerned faces of Wiebe, Svetlana, Cliff, and Troy. Inside his apartment with Rose, there was no pity, no soft tones, no questions of whether or not Ilya was ok.

When Ilya told Rose one afternoon that he was going to buy the shop from Wiebe she looked alarmed.

“With what money? No offense, who’s going to give you a loan that big?”

It was an honest and understandable question. Rose knew exactly how cheap Ilya's rent was, they clearly existed on similar budgets.

“I have an inheritance,” Ilya said. Rose left it at that and didn’t ask anything else. They never really went past surface level with each other.

Rose got up to get dressed, and Ilya stayed in bed, watching. She had told him once, laughing, that it creeped her out when he watched her put her clothes back on, so he made sure to do it with focus every time.

“You should stay. One night,” Ilya said. In retrospect, he had no idea why he asked. Maybe it was the chaos of grief and taking on the shop, maybe it was because he thought it would help him ease the edge of guilt that he felt every time he saw her slip back up to her apartment. He probably asked her to stay because he wanted to prolong the distraction, draw out the time that he could shut his brain off. Whatever his reason was, it was a terrible decision.

Rose paused, one shoe on.

“Stay here?”

Ilya nodded, even as his stomach twisted.

“Ilya…that’s not what this is. Not for me,” Rose said.

“It’s not a big deal, forget it,” Ilya groaned. The damage had been done, however.

“Maybe we should stop. I love Henri, we’ve just been going through a dry spell, and I shouldn’t have…” Rose trailed off.

Ilya had no illusions that she was going to leave Henri for him. He wasn’t sure he even wanted that, anyway. When they had first started hooking up, Ilya had felt a sick sense of pride. He had been irresistible, he had been too exciting to pass up, even when Rose had Henri at home. As their affair had dragged on, Ilya realized it was the other way around. Henri was the one who wasn’t worth leaving, Ilya was only temporary.

A few months after they stopped seeing each other, Ilya moved. As he loaded the last crate of records into the pickup truck he’d borrowed from Troy’s boyfriend, Ilya was struck with the thought that he wished he hadn’t ever slept with Rose, because she probably would have been a great friend.

***
Present Day

Ilya texted Rose hello, and the message languished with no reply for a whole afternoon until he was closing the shop.

Cliff and Troy had already left, and Ilya was latching the safe when his phone started buzzing.

As he stared at the screen, he faintly remembered that he and Rose had rarely texted. At the time he assumed it was some kind of safeguard against Henri seeing anything on her phone. Now, he wondered if that's just who she was, the type to call instead of text.

“Hello?”

“Hi Ilya,” Rose's voice was cheery as ever. “So, is this an early mid-life crisis?”

“What do you mean?” Ilya asked warily. He took a seat at his desk in the back office.

“I mean are you calling me because you're having one of those ‘what does it all mean’ moments that men get around this age? I've just had a lot of exes call me up lately wanting to rehash our relationships, and why we broke up, and I just think that's all so pointless, you know?”

Ilya tipped his chair back, staring at the water-stained ceiling.

“No, of course not. I would never,” Ilya lied. “So very many exes, hm?”

“What can I say, I'm a popular girl,” Rose teased.

Her confidence was a quality that Ilya had been drawn to. He knew he was hot and charming, he never pretended to be humble about those facts, and Rose was the same.

“So, how have you been?” Ilya asked.

“Oh, good. My theater troupe is working on a new show about doppelgangers. We’re doing a preview on Thursday, you should come!”

Ilya’s hesitation was enough of an answer, and she started laughing.

“Or you could just come to the dinner I'm having at my place next weekend. It'd be nice to catch up. No live theater, but I should warn you that lots of theater kids will be present.”

Ilya felt his mouth curve into a smile. When they had stopped fucking, Ilya felt like she pitied him, like he was this creature she had wounded because she didn't pick him.

There was none of that in her voice now as she laughed and teased him, and Ilya found himself looking forward to the opportunity to prove that he wasn't a pathetic mess anymore.

“I will be there.”

“Can't wait, it'll be fun. I'll let you pick the music,” Rose said.

***

Ilya was excited to attend Rose's dinner party. Their drama aside, she had always been fun, and he imagined her experimental theater friends would be entertaining, in a pretentious way.

For the last few months, Ilya’s social life revolved around the shop, Monk's, or random shows. The last time he'd gone to a dinner party, the last time he'd really socialized with strangers, was when Rob's friend from law school hosted a stuffy housewarming dinner.

That dinner hadn't been all terrible. Rob, Liz, and Ilya had snuck out to share a joint between dinner and dessert. Liz had done an impression of their host's sneeze that made Rob and Ilya laugh so hard they cried.

Ilya shook that memory out of his head as he walked up to Rose's building.

He brought a bottle of wine that Rob had purchased and left in their pantry when he moved out, so Ilya knew it was definitely expensive, and probably tasted good.

Ilya fussed with his curls as he rode the rickety elevator to Rose's apartment. He had no interest in hooking up with Rose again, but he wanted to demonstrate that he wasn't a fucking mess anymore. If he looked great doing so, all the better.

Ilya knocked on the door and faintly registered that Solange was blasting loudly enough on the speakers inside that his knock might get drowned out.

As he grabbed the doorknob to see if it was unlocked, the door swung open.

In the hours that followed, Ilya would claim it was that action that affected him, that he had been thrown off balance by the unexpected movement, his arm lurching forward as the door swung on its hinge.

It wasn't the truth. The truth was that the door swung open, and Ilya came face to face with the gorgeous, freckled one-night stand who had snuck out of his bed three and a half years ago and lodged himself in Ilya’s fantasies ever since.

Ilya was so shocked that he dropped his bottle of wine and it shattered on the ground between the two of them.

Chapter End Notes

The last Shane edging/Shane cliffhanger!

In every universe, Harris's defining trait is apples.

Chapter title is the LCD Soundsystem song.

Chapter 5: Myth

Chapter Notes

“Shane, who's—oh my god, are you guys ok?” Rose rounded the corner, looking glamorous in a silky slip dress. She was barefoot, and she stuttered to a halt when she saw the shattered glass and pooling wine on the ground.

Ilya faintly registered that he had finally learned the man's name as Shane practically fled the scene.

“I'll get your dustpan Rose, one minute.”

Ilya watched him leave and felt an undue amount of panic. It was probably because he hadn't prepared himself for this, he had waltzed up expecting to joke and laugh with Rose, and now he had to reckon with a man who had made him feel painfully alive for one evening before running out on Ilya and leaving him feeling adrift.

He had a nagging fear, a deeper concern as he watched Shane's retreating back. Shane had slipped from his grasp that night, and Ilya was desperate to pin him down now, to not let him leave his sight until he could learn more about him. He had become such a mythical figure in Ilya’s mind, and he needed to demystify the man.

“Butter fingers, huh?” Rose asked, leaning against the wall of her entryway.

“Your friend opened the door too fast, I slipped. He owes us new wine,” Ilya protested.

“Oh, good luck telling him that. So, how have you been?”

Ilya was opening his mouth to answer, although he wasn't sure what would come out.

I've been a wreck since the only man that loved me left and started fucking our upstairs neighbor?

I'm on a fucked up odyssey visiting people who broke my heart in some way?

I think I might be dreaming right now, because that man in your kitchen has evaded me for years?

Ilya didn't have time to say any of it because Shane scurried back with a dustpan and damp paper towels, and carefully swept up Ilya’s clumsiness. He used the flashlight on his phone to check for shards he missed, his tongue sticking between his teeth a little in concentration as he dabbed paper towels to collect the tiny fragments. It was all very charming, and Ilya was fascinated.

“OK. All clear. But maybe wait to take your shoes off,” Shane stood.

Before Ilya could say anything, Shane was departing again, heading back into the depths of Rose’s apartment to dispose of the evidence. Ilya swallowed the irrational twinge he felt watching Shane's back recede.

“It is good to see you,” Ilya said.

Rose squeezed him in an enthusiastic hug.

“I'm glad you came. We're going to have fun tonight, right?”

Ilya was quickly enveloped in the party, and he felt like a salmon struggling to swim upstream. Every time he edged closer to Shane, one of Rose's theater friends would corner him to introduce themselves. They were all exceedingly friendly, many flirtatious, and Ilya thought to himself faintly that it would be a great opportunity to find another one-night stand. But he was completely distracted by Shane.

Ilya almost wondered if Shane didn’t recognize him. He seemed so indifferent, moving through the party in a distant orbit. But when Rose announced that dinner was ready, Ilya glanced up from his drink and saw Shane standing across the room, staring directly at him. Shane looked away quickly, and that speed sent a thrill through Ilya. It seemed like confirmation that Shane was as stunned and preoccupied as Ilya.

Ilya beelined for a seat next to Shane, and noticed with satisfaction that Shane stiffened a bit when he sat down.

“Ilya, how’s the store these days?” Rose asked, filling her wine glass.

Shane choked a little on his drink.

“Sorry. What’s your name?” Shane was wide eyed.

“Ilya.” He couldn’t understand why the news made Shane look so concerned. It had felt significant, learning Shane’s name after all this time, but it didn’t instill a sense of alarm in him.

“Are you…you aren’t friends with Kip Grady, are you?” Shane asked.

Realization thunked into place with a dull thud.

“You are that Shane? The one who won’t meet me in person, Shane?”

Ilya wondered if he had somehow slipped and hit his head on his way to Rose's. It seemed completely improbable that the man he'd been slightly obsessed with a few years ago was the same person who had been sending him frustrating texts all month. It drove Ilya a little insane that Shane had been in such close proximity to him all this time.

Rose was watching their exchange with fascination, and she interjected.

“You two know each other?”

Shane waved it off. “Not really. Kip tried to set us up, but uh…we obviously haven’t met up.”

Ilya narrowed his eyes. Maybe Shane was a prude with his friends and didn’t want to tell Rose that he had anonymous one-night stands. There was something faintly insulting about Shane refusing to acknowledge their hookup, and Ilya hoped he conveyed his disapproval through his glare.

“Incredible,” Rose laughed. “What a small fucking world.”

Ilya resisted the urge to tell her that she didn't know the half of it.

“How do you two know each other?” Shane asked.

It was Ilya’s turn to squirm. Rose had every right to be transparent, Ilya had knowingly participated in an affair. But he already felt so tense sitting next to Shane, trying to calibrate the mystery hookup with the stiff, formal man in his phone.

“Ilya was my neighbor, ages ago,” Rose said.

It was neutral enough, but Shane was too sharp. It was a quality Ilya was beginning to pick up on.

“I don’t remember you ever talking about an Ilya you were friendly with. How long ago?”

Rose grimaced at Ilya, and Ilya nodded.

“We lived in the same building, back when Henri and I lived in Mile End,” Rose said.

From the way Shane nodded and stared at his plate, it was clear he knew exactly which neighbor Ilya was now. Ilya felt the guilt curl in his stomach, more pronounced than it usually was when he thought about his fling with Rose. Shane looked so disapproving, even disappointed.

Rose cleared her throat. “Anyway, Ilya moved out a little before I caught Henri with another man.”

Ilya’s gaze snapped from Shane to Rose.

“No. Henri is queer?”

Rose nodded. “Not the first gay boyfriend of mine, I should have seen the signs.”

It didn’t really absolve Ilya. They had still done something shitty together, but hearing that Henri had also cheated on Rose made Ilya feel lighter.

Revisiting his heartbreaks had yielded incredible results. Kip hadn't found Ilya deficient, Ilya had just been in the way of true love. Svetlana and Sasha were still enmeshed with him, loving the best they could. Cheating with Rose had been a low point, but Ilya hadn't been the homewrecker in a perfect relationship, like he had previously thought. And Rose had led Ilya to the final entry on the heartbreak list, which felt like a small miracle.

“Shane, I do not know a lot about you,” Ilya said. The tips of Shane’s ears flushed as soon as Ilya said his name, and Ilya felt a pulse of pride and excitement in his core.

“Likewise,” Shane said.

Rose's brown eyes were dancing back and forth between them.

“Scott says you work at a charity?” Ilya asked.

“Shane runs a non-profit,” Rose interjected proudly.

Ilya wondered if Rose just wanted to insert herself, or if Shane was the type to brush off his accomplishments.

“It’s to help address diversity in hockey. Camps, gear, scholarships for private leagues. That's how I met Scott, sometimes his org places kids in our camps. And he coaches some sessions when he can.”

Ilya opened his mouth to make a snide comment about Scott being some holy saint, but realized those words would probably apply to the man who ran a charity.

“I played, back in Russia. Culture there may have been even worse than North America, and I know North America is bad,” Ilya said.

Shane looked at him dead-on, and for the first time that night his eyes weren't immediately darting off. It winded Ilya, being on the receiving end of that focused gaze.

“Yeah, it's pretty fucked. As a gay kid…I think if I stuck with it, I wouldn't have come out of the closet.”

Ilya nodded grimly. Shane looked at him with something resembling warmth, before he changed the topic.

“So, you're a small business owner?”

Ilya bristled, ready to be offended. He remembered Shane implying that a record store must be struggling financially.

“Shane studied business. He has an MBA, he was in finance for a bit before he went into the non-profit world,” Rose elaborated.

Ilya raised an eyebrow to ask her why she felt the need to butt into their conversation, but Rose was too busy looking at Shane. She looked proud, she looked hopeful. She looked like she had just kicked Shane under the table, because he winced and glared at her.

“Yes. Championship Vinyl. I worked there first, then bought it when owner retired. You should come by,” Ilya said.

Shane nodded noncommittally.

“How do you two know each other?” Ilya asked, pointing his fork between Rose and Shane.

Rose beamed. “He was my first gay boyfriend. One month, first year of university.”

“Only one month? You must be super gay,” Ilya smirked.

“I'm regular gay,” Shane glared.

Ilya was having too much fun now. He remembered how easy it had been to fluster Shane that one night, and it seemed to be a trait he had not outgrown.

“Right. Not so gay you can't fuck Rose,” Ilya teased.

Shane looked disgusted, and Rose started laughing.

“Oh no, that is exactly how gay he is,” Rose said. “We tried to hook up like, two times. They were both disasters.”

Ilya couldn't take his eyes off of Shane. His cheeks were bright pink as he stared back at Ilya. Ilya was confident that they were both thinking the same thing, that their evening together had been the furthest thing from a disaster.

Ilya ran his tongue over his bottom lip as he tried to think of an appropriately teasing response, and he saw Shane’s breath catch for a moment.

He was instantly transported back to that evening, to the sensation of Shane staring at him like he wanted to pin Ilya to the ground and devour him.

“Rose, where is your bathroom?” Ilya asked abruptly.

Rose pointed towards the hall. “Second door on the right.”

Ilya shot Shane one last look and then stood, ducking into the hallway out of sight. He found the bathroom, the vintage blue tile illuminated by a comical number of candles that Rose had clustered on the far end of the counter.

Ilya left the door cracked open and splashed water on his face while he waited. When he looked up at the mirror he almost didn't recognize himself. His eyes were a little wide, still in disbelief, and his cheeks were flushed.

It was the most present he'd felt in months, the jolt of seeing Shane had yanked him out of his post-breakup stupor.

Just as Ilya was beginning to wonder if he'd misread things, Shane pushed the door open and shut it quickly behind him.

They stood there, staring at each other for a moment. Ilya luxuriated in it, the air between them felt potent and charged with possibility.

“I thought maybe you wanted to talk,” Shane said. His voice was a little raspy, the sound stuck in his throat.

Ilya considered it. He couldn't figure out how to ask Shane why he ran away without sounding pathetic. He didn't want Shane to think he'd been moping over it for years, and even worse, he didn't spoil the chances of hooking up with Shane again.

“Do not really want to talk,” Ilya shrugged. He took a step forward, watching the way that Shane tipped his chin slightly as his gaze fell to Ilya’s mouth.

Ilya hesitated in front of Shane, giving him the opportunity to reject Ilya, to say that he'd ran away that night for a reason.

Instead, Shane surged forward, grasping Ilya’s face as his lips met Ilya’s.

It knocked the breath out of Ilya, and he scrambled to keep up as Shane’s tongue slid past his parted lips, tasting him. Shane’s lips were delciously soft, and Ilya wished he could savor their kiss, wished they were in Shane’s apartment, and not the bathroom at a dinner party.

Shane tangled his fingers in Ilya’s curls, and Ilya sighed into his mouth. One of his lasting memories of Shane was how hungry he was, and now he was clutching and tugging at Ilya with the same neediness that made Ilya feel desperately wanted.

Ilya felt his eyelashes flutter as Shane’s tongue ran against his, and he reached down to cup Shane’s hardening cock through his pants.

“That's…we can't,” Shane broke away, and Ilya’s hand retreated.

Ilya’s mind started racing, worrying that he had wrecked his chance to hook up with Shane again.

“Not here,” Shane said, and Ilya couldn't keep the grin off his face at the opening.

“How soon can we leave?” Ilya asked.

Shane shook his head. “No, not tonight. It's…I'll explain another day. Not tonight.”

Ilya’s lips pursed into a frown. It was easy to read Shane’s desire and irritation at the dinner table. His other thoughts and emotions evaded Ilya, and it drove Ilya a little mad.

“Ok. Not tonight. But soon?”

Shane nodded. He opened his mouth as if he had something else to say, but then he closed it.

Ilya leaned in to kiss him one final time, already regretting that it would have to end.

Shane was more measured at first, which felt like an insult. Ilya reached down and hitched his hands around his thighs, yanking Shane up in the air and setting him on the countertop. Shane locked his legs around Ilya’s waist, tugging him close as they kissed.

Ilya couldn’t help himself, he rocked his hips forward, grinding against Shane. The gasp that escaped Shane made Ilya feel utterly frantic and out of control. He wanted to get on his knees and suck Shane’s cock, he wanted to fuck him on the countertop, he wanted to beg Shane to explain why they couldn’t sleep together tonight.

Shane arched his back as Ilya moved to gently at the soft skin behind Shane’s ear.

“Fuck, that feels good,” Shane breathed.

Ilya was hit with the sudden and searing clarity that they might actually fuck in Rose Landry's bathroom if one of them didn't come to their senses. He moved back reluctantly,  stroking Shane’s calves as he loosened them from where they were wrapped around Ilya’s waist.

“We should stop now,” Ilya said apologetically, brushing a kiss on the freckles scattered across Shane’s cheekbones. 

Shane was looking at him, hazy and out of breath, and he nodded.

“You will call me?” Ilya asked. He hated how desperate he sounded, but he was so pathetically thrilled at the idea that he’d have another chance to sleep with Shane.

“Yeah, I…yes. I’ll call you,” Shane said. His gaze darted to the ground, and Ilya didn’t feel terribly confident, but it was the best he could get.

“Ok. I will go back now,” Ilya laid one final, soft kiss on Shane’s lips before slipping out of the door.

Rose smirked at Ilya as he slid back into his seat, and he wasn’t able to hold back a grin in return.

***

“Come on, help me,” Rose grabbed Ilya’s wrist when dinner ended. Guests were settling in the living room with wine, and Rose tugged Ilya towards her turntable.

Ilya glanced over his shoulder, ostensibly surveying the mood of the room, but his gaze snagged on Shane, talking to Rose’s friend Miles.

Ilya watched as Miles leaned in to speak into Shane’s ear, and Ilya felt something sharp twisting in his stomach.

“I don’t know if I would have thought to set you two up,” Rose said. Ilya snapped his attention back to her collection and selected 99.9%, pulling it out of its sleeve.

“I have learned not to question Kip,” Ilya shrugged evasively, and slipped the record onto the turntable.

“Don’t get me wrong, I like it, I think,” Rose sipped her wine with a thoughtful expression. “You might be what he needs right now.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow and Rose switched topics.

“So why did you call, really?”

Ilya gritted his teeth, considering. If he told Rose the truth, he worried that she might rescind her approval, tell Shane to stay far away from the mess of a man who just got dumped by his boyfriend.

Ilya decided to push through and tell some of the truth. “I have been thinking about that time, when we lived in that building. Was not something I was proud of.”

Rose nodded. “Me either. I was in a really bad place back then. Not that it makes it any better, I know. I regret it, it wasn’t kind to Henri and I don’t think I was very kind to you.”

Ilya startled a bit at that. “You were never mean,” he assured her.

Rose shook her head. “I don’t know. I was pretty cold, I think. You seemed to be going through a lot, and I’d just bolt out of there. I wish we’d never hooked up, you know. I would have liked to have been your friend instead.”

Ilya laughed, loudly.

“What’s so funny?” Rose asked, laughing in return.

“Nothing, just I have thought this too. Maybe we can be friends now instead,” Ilya explained.

Rose beamed at him and extended her hand, and they shook on it.

***

Ilya had hoped to get Shane alone again during the party. Not to frantically make out in the bathroom, but just to talk to him more, assure Ilya that this wasn't some fever dream of coincidence and kismet. Shane seemed to evade him just like he had all evening, slipping off into conversation with other friends of Rose’s.

When Ilya finally decided to call it a night, he walked down the hall to the shoe rack to collect his boots.

“Hey,” Shane popped his head in the doorway, and Ilya fumbled his boot, dropping it on the floor. Shane walked towards him, mouth tugging at the corners as if he was trying to fight a smile, and Ilya was reminded of the note the night had started on.

“You owe me a bottle of wine,” Ilya said. Shane’s eyebrows shot up.

“I owe you wine? If anything, you owe me for cleaning up your mess.”

“Would not have dropped it if you hadn’t opened the door so suddenly,” Ilya said. He had no idea why their simple exchange was so captivating to him, but he wanted to poke and prod Shane as much as possible.

“It’s not my fault you have terrible balance. You’re sure you played hockey? I don’t know if you could even stand on a pair of skates.”

Ilya glared at him as he slowly tied his laces. “I have not been on the ice in very long time, but my edges are probably better than yours.”

Shane’s eyes lit up, and Ilya felt a sting of satisfaction. He’d managed to say something to completely hook Shane.

“I doubt that,” Shane grinned. “But maybe we’ll have to go to the rink and see.”

Ilya sat there, shoes tied, wishing he could stay, or wishing he could take Shane with him.

“Anyway. I just…wanted to say goodnight. I’ll see you soon?” Shane asked. His voice had a nervous edge to it, as if Ilya hadn’t made it desperately clear that he was counting the seconds until he could get into bed with Shane.

All Ilya could do was nod, and Shane flashed him one intoxicating, slightly shy smile, before Ilya summoned the willpower to stand and leave.

Ilya felt like he made his way home on a cloud. The ride on the metro, the bone-chilling air that snapped at him as he hurried to his apartment. None of it registered, his thoughts were full of Shane Hollander.

He had built Shane up in his memory, then shoved those recollections deep when things got serious with Rob. Tonight, it was undeniable that Shane was as beautiful as he remembered, and almost aggravatingly fascinating.

The scraps of information Ilya had were tantalizing, and their brief texts were dancing through Ilya’s memory. Ilya had a thousand questions. What did Shane listen to? What did he look like when he woke up in the morning, sleep still in his eyes? Why hadn't he invited Ilya over tonight?

When Ilya let himself into his apartment, his gaze fell on the ransacked shelves of his collection.

After he'd fucked Shane all those years ago he had a moody spell of listening to Leonard Cohen and Beach House. He dug through his stacks, loosely alphabetized, and put on Bloom, the dreamy, clanging opening notes of Myth floating through the speakers.

He started hunting, slotting the shelf that roughly represented the time period where he'd crossed paths with Shane. As he quickly pulled the albums together, he remembered the brief, irrational flash of optimism and excitement Shane had instilled back then. Shane had left all those years ago without saying goodbye, but Ilya thought their night together was so good, so unforgettable, that he was bound to come back to Ilya.

Ilya stilled as he thought about that conviction. It had felt stupid as the time passed, but somehow the universe had sent Shane back through his path like a boomerang. Ilya rifled through a stack of albums that were leaning against the Eames chair.

New Skin for the Old Ceremony contained a song that Ilya had self-indulgently listened to at least a dozen times in those first weeks post-Shane. When he found it, he placed it in the last spot on the bottom shelf, representing the present.

It was not lost on Ilya that this was the furthest he had gotten on the project since he'd first gotten the idea after Rob dumped him. Shane Hollander had prompted inspiration, both for the catalouging project, and for yanking Ilya out of his depressing rotation of breakup songs.

Stupid, irrational hope was blooming in Ilya’s chest once again.

Chapter End Notes

Ilya loves to think that he's super chill and doesn't give a fuck, but he slept with Shane once and then listened to Leonard Cohen's "Lover, Lover, Lover," one hundred times, wishing his beautiful mystery man would come back to him.

We'll find out eventually why Shane left! But not for a little while.

I am *not* saying Rose's bf cheating on her makes it fine that she cheated on him btw, nobody's messy behavior/thoughts in this fic should be seen as endorsement lol.

Also, sorry we didn't get a "Charlie, you bitch! Let's work it out" moment with Rose, it's an iconic High Fidelity scene that I couldn't really work into this fic.

We are also firmly reaching the "ish" part of High Fidelity-ish au. There are still story elements from the movie and TV show that will work in as we go, but a lot of Shane/Ilya's story is original.

Chapter title is from the Beach House song.

Chapter 6: You're Not Good Enough

Chapter Notes

It all came crashing down the night of Harris's birthday party.

Ilya had been riding the high of running into Shane a week prior, and he had let his guard down. He was too happy, too optimistic, too certain that he was finally emerging from the fog of his breakup.

Harris wanted the same party every year. Karaoke in a private room, forcing everybody except Troy to sing duets with him. Ilya sat there, watching Harris and Cliff sing “The Boy Is Mine,” and he pulled out his phone to record it.

He and Shane had been exchanging more texts, although Shane was still being oddly evasive. He was in Ottawa for the week visiting his parents, but whenever Ilya mentioned meeting up when he got back, Shane seemed to deflect.

Ilya: video attached
Ilya: Hope Ottawa is exciting. This is what you are missing out on.

Ilya had already learned that Shane had the bedtime of a babushka, so he didn't expect a reply. He opened Instagram to see if Shane had posted anything that day. Shane’s social media had been horribly underwhelming when Ilya first found it. No photos of himself, few photos of anything personal, almost everything was work related. Flyers for fundraisers, adorable shots of smiling kids in hockey gear. The occasional photo of a lake or a hiking path.

Ilya was thrilled to see that Shane had posted something that day, a delightfully boring photo of a puzzle that Ilya would have to tease him about.

Ilya scrolled down his feed and his stomach dropped. Ray had posted a photo of Rob, smiling at him across a candlelit restaurant table. It felt like a knife had been driven through Ilya’s heart, seeing that expression of tender affection turned towards someone who wasn’t him.

Ilya immediately flipped his phone facedown and tried to ignore it for the rest of the night. Instead, it festered. He got drunk, his rage simmered, and when he got home he went on a rampage. He gathered as many of Rob's things as he could find and shoved them in the small second bedroom that Rob had used as an office.

As he feverishly scooped up armfuls of clothing, books, and records, Ilya fumed. Finally, he caved and did something he had vowed to never do. He drunk dialed Rob.

It went straight to voicemail, and when the tone beeped to record a message, Ilya’s mind went blank.

“Fuck you, Rob,” he said, and then hung up.

He buried his face in his hands immediately, regretting how stupid and anticlimactic his words were.

Course correcting, he started to text.

Ilya: Fuck you.
Ilya: Get your shit, I'm done living with it. Won't even have to go far, your boyfriend just has to take it up a flight of stairs.

Ilya stared at his phone, thinking of all the things he wanted to say. He wanted to type “I can't believe I ever let myself care about you,” or maybe he'd write “I hope you cringe every time you see Ray wear a bandana around his neck like he's a cowboy, or a fucking baby who needs a bib.”

Common sense prevented him from sending any of those messages, so he sent one final “fuck you,” text and passed out.

***

Ilya woke the next day, bleary eyed and filled with regret. When he saw the unanswered messages he'd sent to Rob, he winced and vowed to never drink cheap beer again.

Troy had wisely asked for the day off in advance, so it was Ilya and Cliff battling their hangovers that morning.

“I'm just glad Harris only has a birthday once a year,” Cliff moaned as he nursed his coffee.

“You say this, but you forget we have engagement party and wedding eventually,” Ilya whined, resting his forehead on the counter.

“Fuck, we should tell Troy to put off the engagement a few months. Give us some time to recover,” Cliff muttered.

“No more talking, please,” Ilya begged.

“Alright, I'll find something to keep myself busy,” Cliff vowed, and shuffled off.

Friday mornings tended to be slow, with business picking up in the afternoon. Ilya kept his head pressed to the counter as shame and embarrassment swirled in his gut.

“Hi.”

Ilya jerked his head up and fought to keep his eyes from bugging out.

Shane had strolled into the store. He was in a suit, of all things, his heavy winter coat slung over his arm, and he was making his way up the aisle toward the counter that Ilya was perched behind.

“Hi. I did not think you would ever come here,” Ilya said.

He was kicking himself. Of course Shane would drop by on the day that Ilya looked and felt like dirty gum that had been scraped off someone's shoe.

Cliff poked his head out of the store room where he'd ambled off to do inventory, summoned by the tinkle of the bell above the door. He shot Ilya a nod, silently asking if he needed help. Ilya waved him off.

Shane frowned as he approached. “It’s not that I didn't want to see the store, it's just…never mind.”

Ilya wanted to push back, but he still held a fear that if he nudged Shane too far, he'd bolt again.

It was unfair how good Shane looked, composed and beautiful in a dark blue suit. Ilya was wearing a faded green t-shirt that he'd picked up off the floor that morning. It was only after he got to the store that he realized it was Rob's shirt, and he had spent hours wanting to rip it off.

“What is this?” Shane pointed above him as the trippy, poppy music floated through the speakers.

Ilya jerked a thumb towards the wall where they displayed the album they were spinning.

“Os Mutantes. You like?” Ilya tried his best to bite back the smile that was threatening to split his face in half.

“Uh, not really,” Shane said politely. Ilya could tell he kind of hated it, he was grimacing at some of the reverberating guitar and the clashing tempo.

“OK, so we find something you like. What do you listen t—” Ilya's words died on his lips as he watched Ray enter the shop.

Ilya hadn't seen him around the building ever since he and Rob broke up, and in his mind he had cleaned Ray up. The Ray who had stolen Rob away would chop off his rat tail, stop wearing the little nylon bicyclist cap, and slap on some deodorant.

It turned out that Ray didn't have to change a thing about himself, Rob must have adored him as is. His Carhartt overalls were the polar opposite of the subtly luxurious sweaters and button ups that Rob had filled Ilya’s closet with over the years.

Ray strolled up without even glancing at Shane, and Ilya felt panic swell in his chest.

“Hey Ilya,” Ray said. It was already awful, his tone was measured and calm.

“Hi Ian,” Ilya replied.

Ray looked confused.

“Liz told me she doesn't like Rob's new guy named Ian,” Ilya said. Liz would probably hate him for making a petty comment at her expense, but he didn’t care.

“Liz and I get along just fine,” Ray said. It was pointed and mean, and it lodged deep within Ilya. “Anyway, that's not what I'm here for.”

Ilya glanced at Shane, who was pretending to be very interested in staring at the rare records behind the counter.

“What are you here for?” Ilya asked.

“The late night phone call, the text messages. Ilya, it's inappropriate, Rob has moved on,” Ray said.

Ilya considered grabbing him by his collar and throwing him out. He considered melting into the floor to escape this humiliation. He fantasized about summoning Cliff from the storeroom so they could take turns kicking Ray.

“Rob wants you to be happy, he wants you to move on. So just stop—”

“Why are you here?” Shane interrupted Ray.

Ray and Ilya both blinked at Shane. Ilya watched Ray size him up, his gaze flicking back to Ilya as he tried to comprehend why this gorgeous man in a suit was confronting him.

“That’s not any of your business,” Ray said.

Shane shrugged. “It isn't really yours, either. It sounds like you're delivering a message from someone else, why didn't he just come say it himself?”

Ilya had no idea how to react. He was delighted, he was embarrassed, he was a little turned on.

“He is right,” Ilya cleared his throat. “You and I do not owe each other anything. Rob can talk to me, if he wants.”

Ray stood for a beat, glaring at Shane, then Ilya before muttering something unintelligible.

“Take care of yourself,” Ray told Ilya, condescension dripping from his voice. He turned and left.

“You did not have to do that,” Ilya said, glancing warily at Shane.

Shane shrugged. “I'm sorry. He was right, it wasn’t my business.”

Ilya felt his defenses going up, he was trying to think of an excuse to shove Shane out the door, when Shane surprised him.

“He just seemed so annoying.”

Ilya couldn't help laughing, he was too startled and happy.

The sound transformed Shane’s serious face. The corners of his eyes crinkled, his cheeks took on a little pink as he laughed with Ilya.

“God, he is the fucking worst,” Ilya confirmed. “Our neighbor. My boyfriend left me for him, if that was not obvious.”

Mercifully, Shane didn’t look at Ilya with pity. If anything, he looked offended on Ilya’s behalf.

“Kip said you were getting out of a relationship. That's a shitty way to end things,” Shane said, chewing on his lip.

“Do you always go shopping for records in a suit?” Ilya asked, changing the topic.

Shane blushed, and Ilya wished he could take a photo of him. His cheeks were a perfect peach, his eyebrows furrowed a little in annoyance.

“I had a work thing. A meeting near here, I thought I'd stop by before I go back to my office,” Shane said.

Ilya rarely wanted to hear about someone's job. The minutiae of dry meetings, office work, lunch breaks. It was all tedious and dull, and it only ever made him grateful that he wasn't chained to a desk all day. Something about Shane made Ilya want to ask him to crack open his planner and walk through every boring detail of his work day. It was probably because Ilya still didn't really know anything about him, he was starving for details.

“What are you doing after work?” Ilya asked, resting his chin on his hand. He hoped it sounded seductive, and the way Shane’s lips parted affirmed that he had nailed it.

“Uh, that's what I came here for. I was wondering if you wanted to get a drink after I'm off work.”

Ilya blanched, his stomach roiling at the thought of stepping foot anywhere that smelled like alcohol, and Shane seemed to notice his trepidation.

“Or not, I…yeah, never mind, I was just—”

“Ah, no. Yes, let's meet. No to drinks, my friend's birthday last night was…festive.”

Shane grinned. “Yeah. You know, you didn't send me any videos of you doing karaoke, kind of seemed like a cop out.”

Ilya shook his head. “No, if you ever want to see me sing karaoke, you have to come yourself. No video.”

Shane fidgeted with the sleeve of his suit, and Ilya felt nerves rising in his stomach. It felt like any time Ilya made passing mention to meeting up or going out, Shane wanted to flit away.

“So. Tonight. Maybe I just come over to yours?” Ilya asked.

Shane shook his head vigorously, and Ilya tried to swallow his disappointment.

“No, not that. But I'll think of something. I'll text you details this afternoon?”

Ilya nodded, and he was only half-confident that Shane would follow up.

***

Ilya was conflicted when he got Shane’s text later. On the one hand, he was happy to be proven wrong, to have evidence in his hand that Shane Hollander actually planned to see him. On the other hand, Shane’s suggestion was terrible.

Ilya: I do not want to skate. Please pick another date.

Shane: It'll be fun. And who said it was a date?

Ilya: If this is not a date, then I really do not want to go. Besides, they will have terrible rental skates with dull blades.

Shane: What size are you?

Ilya: What?

Shane: I run a hockey non-profit. We have skates, I'll bring some.

Ilya: You will steal skates for me? Is this white-collar crime?
Ilya: Are you a secret bad boy?

***

One of the reasons Ilya didn't want to skate with Shane was because it was impossible to put together a sexy outfit for skating outside in the frigid cold. Snow had come early that year, and with it, the local skating ponds had frozen.

Ilya got out of his car, cursing at the chilly air as he twisted his cashmere scarf up his neck. It was a gift from Rob, one that was too nice to not use.

Rob hadn't replied to Ilya’s vengeful messages from the night before, maybe he had found Ray's proxy intervention satisfactory. Ilya strolled towards the rink at Beaver Lake, wondering if Ray had told Rob about the beautiful, stern man in a suit at the record store who had told him off.

All thoughts of Rob, and Ilya’s stupid, drunk choices fled his mind when he walked up and saw Shane, waiting with skates in hand.

“Is this all because you did not believe I can balance on skates?” Ilya asked. Shane looked unfairly good, even in his dorky winter coat.

“Maybe,” Shane grinned, before holding up the skates.

They shuffled over to a bench, yanking boots off and lacing up skates. Ilya silently prayed that his body remembered what it used to be able to do in his sleep. It had been a few years since he had been on the ice.

Shane tucked their shoes in the bag he brought, and then stuffed his heavy coat in as well, before standing.

“Let’s see if you can keep up,” Shane said, before he took off.

Ilya’s mouth dropped open, equal parts delighted and pissed off. It felt like Shane was running away from him yet again, and Ilya refused to let that happen.

He got to his feet and began slicing across the ice, following Shane around the bend of the rink. Shane looked over his shoulder and gave Ilya a surprised stare that felt like an enormous compliment. Ilya tore towards him and thanked the universe that he still had skating imprinted in his bones, that he had a few inches of height on Shane, that his legs were long enough that he could catch up to Shane's head start.

“So, what is your plan?” Ilya asked when they were neck and neck. They were flying now, outpacing the handful of other people out on the ice that evening.

“What plan?” Shane asked, his breath a little tight. He was straining to go faster than Ilya, and clearly getting annoyed that he wasn't making headway.

“You keep saying you have something to explain. You will not let me come over and fuck you, now you make me chase you in circles on the ice,” Ilya realized when he laid it all out, he sounded kind of desperate. He hurried to correct that perception. “I can spend my time other ways, with other people. Is no big deal.”

Shane whipped his head to look at Ilya, and he abruptly slowed his pace. Ilya flew out in front of him before he could glide to a slower speed.

“I know that, I'm not…we both said neither of us is looking for anything serious. I just…nobody really knows this yet, so don't tell Scott and Kip. It makes it kind of complicated for me to see anyone,” Shane was getting worked up, and Ilya’s mind was racing as he tried to figure out where the conversation was headed.

“I still live with my ex,” Shane blurted out. He couldn’t seem to meet Ilya’s gaze, instead focusing on his mouth.

“Oh. Ok?” Ilya's words came out as a question. He was baffled by Shane’s nerves.

“What does this have to do with me fucking you?” Ilya asked, deciding to get to pressing matters.

Shane’s cheeks were already pink from the cold, but they flushed red as they looped around a bend.

“It means I'm really not ready for anything serious.” Shane saw Ilya open his mouth to remind him, and Shane cut him off. “I know you don't want that either. But I just mean….things are messy with me and Matt. And I'm trying to be considerate. So I'm obviously not having anyone over to my place.”

Ilya felt a scowl settle on his face. This was theoretically fine, he would need to summon the energy to clean up the depression hovel his apartment had turned into, but the prospect of having Shane over so they could fuck was a terrific motivator.

“And I'm not really ready to spend the night at anyone's. Matt and I…he's not going to ask where I'm going if I'm out for a few hours on a Friday night, but I don't want to rub it in his face that I'm sleeping with anyone. You know?” Shane bit his lip, and Ilya desperately wanted to suck on it.

Ilya was struck again by how terribly serious Shane was. He was a little perturbed by how much consideration Shane was giving to his ex-boyfriend, part of Ilya wondered if Shane was still in love with the guy, if they might get back together.

It would be fine, Ilya supposed. There were worse things than having a fling with an emotionally unavailable, stunning man who had once made Ilya come so hard he swore he believed in God for a moment.

“No big deal,” Ilya assured Shane. “No sleepover, nothing serious. You worry too much, Hollander.”

“Fuck you,” Shane shook his head, grinning.

They skated some more, chirping and racing. Ilya kept turning Shane’s information over in his head, comparing it to his own fucked up attempts to move on from Rob.

“Why do you live together?” Ilya finally asked.

Shane's skates stuttered for a moment, surprised that Ilya had circled back to the topic, but he answered.

“The way things ended…it was my fault. I didn't feel like I could just kick him out. Our lease ends in a few months anyway, we can get a clean break then.”

Ilya nodded. “My ex is still paying his share of the lease. All his shit is in the apartment, and I tell him to come get it, but if he does…”

“He might tell you to go find a new place,” Shane finished his sentence. To Ilya’s relief, Shane didn’t seem to judge him for it. Svetlana had begun to get on Ilya’s ass about it, telling him things would be better if he just broke the lease and found a place he could afford. It wasn't even like Ilya was attached to the apartment. These days, it felt like a reminder of his failures, but he felt overwhelmed and immediately depressed at the prospect of moving. He and his therapist were spending many hours unpacking his feelings on it.

“It is fucking awful when you let someone tie your lives together and then it goes to shit,” Ilya said.

Shane’s nose scrunched as if there was something he wanted to say, but he seemed to force the words back down, settling for a nod instead. Not for the first time, Ilya wished he could pry Shane’s head open with a crowbar, coax the thoughts out that lay just beneath the surface.

They skated a little more before Shane announced that he should probably be getting home. They sat shoulder to shoulder while they took their skates off, and Ilya realized he already resented Shane’s ex he had never met.

“What is he like?” Ilya asked, lacing up his boots.

“What?”

“Matt. What is he like?”

Shane frowned. “He's fine. He works in finance. He's from Toronto.”

Ilya shrugged, accepting defeat. Matt would have to remain a mystery.

They got to their feet and trudged in the direction of the parking lot. Only a couple cars remained.

“Which one are you?” Ilya asked.

Shane clicked his keys and a Jeep at the far side of the lot lit up.

“No,” Ilya shook his head. “Why do you have this boring car?”

“Fuck off,” Shane laughed. “That's what Rose calls it too.”

Shane didn’t comment on the fact that Ilya was following him to his car, but he was staring straight ahead with too much focus, putting immense effort into not looking at Ilya. Ilya felt the pulse of tension again, the eager anticipation that built inside of him when he knew he'd get to kiss Shane Hollander in a few moments. It was intoxicating, and Ilya wondered how many times he would need to kiss Shane for that anticipation to fade.

Shane popped his trunk open, and Ilya couldn't resist peering over his shoulder to see the contents. A first aid kit, some gallons of water, and a wool blanket were all stowed neatly.

Shane tucked the bag with the skates into the trunk, then slammed it shut and turned to face Ilya.

“So. I had a nice time,” Shane said.

Ilya couldn't help grinning. Shane was so earnest, so uninterested in playing coy.

“I did too.”

“You want to meet up again, soon?” Shane asked. “Maybe some night I can come see your place.”

“Sure,” Ilya said. “Soon.”

He reached up and stroked his thumb across Shane's cheek. Shane shivered, and Ilya wasn't certain if it was because of the chill of Ilya’s cold thumb, or the sensation of his touch. Either way, he took it as an excuse to kiss Shane’s cheekbone, then his jaw, then the corner of his mouth.

Shane’s lips found his, and Ilya had the sensation of getting yanked under a current. The only thought coursing through his mind was that he wanted to devour Shane.

Shane's lips were cold, his hands freezing as they cupped the back of Ilya’s neck and sent a shiver up his spine. Ilya instantly needed more, and his hands roamed everywhere. Grabbing at Shane’s ass, dragging up his chest, fisting in his silky hair.

When Shane pulled off, staggering back for a breath, Ilya was panting as if he had just sprinted a mile.

“Come on,” Shane said, unlocking his car and climbing into the backseat.

Ilya had no idea where this man had come from, but he was certain that he had been designed to drive Ilya completely insane. He climbed in after Shane, slamming the door behind him. There was a brief second of quiet, of the two of them staring at each other in the dark, and then Shane was crawling on top of Ilya.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya gasped as Shane started grinding against him. Shane was already half-hard, and Ilya found himself momentarily distracted by epithets and threats he wanted to level towards Shane ex who was preventing Ilya from trapping Shane in a bed and fucking until they forgot how to speak.

Shane started scrambling to unzip Ilya’s fly, and Ilya grasped him by the hips and threw him onto the seat, so Shane was lying on his back. It was supposed to be hot, but Ilya had to fight a laugh when he saw Shane’s offended face.

“Fuck you, sorry for trying to give you a blowjob,” Shane said. He looked angry, and his words carried no threat for Ilya.

“If you are very good, maybe I will let you suck my dick,” Ilya teased, tugging at Shane’s pants. Shane couldn't seem to be bothered to argue once Ilya shimmied his pants past his hips and was mouthing at Shane’s hard cock through his boxers.

Ilya lost himself in it. The frustrated whines from Shane as he bucked his hips, the torture of having Shane in his mouth, separated by fabric. When it began to be too much for both of them, Ilya tugged Shane’s boxers down.

“Fucking finally,” Shane groaned.

Ilya hid his smile in Shane’s hipbone for a moment.

“Do not remember you being so bratty,” Ilya said, glancing up at Shane as he grasped his cock.

Shane looked momentarily soft, and Ilya wondered if he was reliving memories of their night together. Shane ran his fingers through Ilya’s hair, and Ilya swallowed hard. It felt too tender.

With a welcome distraction, he wrapped his lips around Shane’s cock and swallowed him down. Shane practically yelped, surprise giving way to pleasure when Ilya began bobbing his head. Ilya dragged his tongue along Shane’s hard cock, cheeks hollowing out as he pulled off with a wet pop.

“We do not have time now,” Ilya said, keeping his tone casual. Shane was watching him with a haze clouding over his eyes. Ilya idly stroked his thumb over the head of Shane’s cock, smearing precome.

“But soon, I will make you beg for this,” Ilya told him. Shane looked entranced. “I will be very nice tonight, but not next time, yes?”

Shane nodded feverishly, and Ilya took him in his mouth again, sucking relentlessly. Ilya grasped at Shane’s hips as Shane sighed and moaned and writhed beneath him.

“Fuck, just like that. Please don't stop, fuck, I'm going to—” Shane’s warning was cut off as he came down Ilya’s throat. Ilya gently sucked him through it, until Shane was whining from overstimulation.

He slid off, panting and happy. As Ilya stared up at Shane, who was recovering his senses, the recognition of the feeling hit Ilya like a sledgehammer.

He wasn't sure when he had last felt completely satisfied and happy. Certainly not since the breakup, when the spectre of his deficiencies loomed over his shoulder. But here, in Shane’s boring car, Ilya felt powerful and full and useful.

“Oh my god, come here,” Shane reached for Ilya, and Ilya slid up, meeting Shane’s lips.

Shane’s kiss was filthy, his tongue running against Ilya's as he tasted himself. Ilya felt himself moan into Shane’s mouth involuntarily, and the sound seemed to awaken Shane. He pushed and shoved at Ilya until he was sitting upright, and Shane moved to kneel on the floor. It looked cramped and uncomfortable, and Ilya couldn't really care, because Shane on his knees, even in a stupid car, was a memory he wanted to preserve forever.

Shane tugged and yanked until Ilya’s pants and boxers were yanked lower, and then he paused. He stared at Ilya’s hard cock with hunger, and then looked up at Ilya through his thick eyelashes. Ilya felt a jolt of pleasure when he realized Shane was asking for permission, and he nodded.

When Ilya saw Shane grasp him and lick a stripe up the length of his cock, he almost blacked out. Shane was lost in it, immediately moaning around Ilya as he wrapped his lips around him. The car filled with the wet noise of Shane sucking on his cock, of him gagging when he tried to take Ilya to the back of his throat too quickly. Ilya buried his fingers in Shane's hair, tugging lightly to guide him. As he watched Shane's eyes flutter closed, he realized he knew exactly what they both needed.

“Yes, just like that Shane. Fuck, you're taking me so well in your pretty little mouth.” Ilya had meant to sound stern, domineering, but instead the words came out as a gentle, approving croon. Shane sped up, the praise hitting him perfectly.

“You like this? Hearing how good you are, how perfect you feel? Fuck, Shane. I want to fuck your mouth, want to use you, want to make you prove how fucking—” Ilya’s sentence was cut off as Shane swirled his tongue around the head of Ilya's cock.

Ilya's back arched off the seat as teetered at the edge. Shane made a low, needy moan, and Ilya scrambled to keep talking. “I will make you beg, stuff you full of my cock, see how much you can take—fuck!"

Shane dug his fingers into Ilya’s thighs, and Ilya looked down to see drool dribbling down his chin. He was wrecked, deliciously wrecked and single-minded on his knees for Ilya.

When he glanced up, Ilya couldn't hold on any longer. Ilya screwed his eyes shut, coming into Shane’s mouth as he gasped and threw his head back. It felt like a lifetime passed, as he sat there and feeling returned to his limbs. Shane had his head resting on Ilya’s knee, one hand stroking at Ilya’s thigh.

Ilya stared at the ceiling of Shane’s van and felt the giddy happiness slip away from him. All he could think was “What am I doing?”

Frantic blowjobs in a parking lot with a man he'd mytholigized in his memory, 24 hours after he'd drunk dialed his ex. Ilya was a fucking mess, the happiness felt outsized and unearned and only served to torture him as the haze of his orgasm dissipated.

Ilya glanced down at Shane and thought to himself that at least Shane was equally fucked up. Living with his ex, limiting his sex life out of consideration for a man he wasn't even dating anymore. They were colliding at a perfect time, really.

“I should go,” Ilya said.

Shane straightened up, nodding. Extracting themselves from each other, righting their clothes, and sliding out of the backseat was awkward and clumsy.

They stood in the frigid cold for a second, and Ilya wasn't sure if they were supposed to kiss goodbye. Shane’s eyes were darting around Ilya’s face, and Ilya settled for quickly, softly brushing his lips against Shane’s.

“Get home safe, Hollander,” Ilya said.

Shane smiled at him, a small one, but it was genuine and warm.

Ilya listened to Boxer as he drove home, the mix of melancholy and comfort of "Slow Show" wrapping around him. He no longer had anybody to hurry home to, the lyrics pounded that truth into him. But something about the yearning melody felt apt for tonight, an evening that had left him wanting more.

When he got home, Ilya found he was wide awake, no sign of sleep in sight. He began to clean. Dirty laundry moving from the floor into the hamper, dishes that piled up in the sink were shoved in the dishwasher, overstuffed recycling going down to the dumpster, broom tackling dust that had settled in corners.

It was spurred by the motivation of having Shane over, but it was something deeper too. The brief minutes with Shane in the car, gasping as Shane gave himself over to Ilya and swallowed him down, the feeling of Shane’s fingers in Ilya’s hair, of his head on Ilya’s knee…those moments were the most present Ilya had felt in months. And now he sat in his apartment, which had felt like a tomb ever since Rob left, and Ilya wanted to cling to that feeling. He wanted to bat away the fog he had been existing in, and Ilya had to admit that Shane Hollander might be uniquely helpful at dragging him out of his post-breakup stupor. 

Chapter End Notes

Posting this early because the Mariners lost in a walk-off on Heated Rivalry night at Fenway, and I'm depressed.

Os Mutantes is an objectively batshit choice to put on while hungover, but I think Ilya and Cliff were just feeling masochistic.

Want to make it clear that a frantic car blowjob from Shane isn't curing Ilya’s depression! He is still going through it, and has more work to do, he's just excited and ready to clean his apartment.

I don't think we're going to get any therapy scenes, I feel awkward and stressed when I try to write therapist dialouge. Sorry Galina!

We're not done excavating Shane, the penultimate chapter will be from his POV, and we'll learn a lot more about his headspace then.

Chapter count also went up. I was editing Chapter 9 and just felt that it made more sense to split into two chapters.

Chapter title is the Blood Orange song.

Chapter 7: Party Talk

Chapter Notes

“Who are you smiling at?” Svetlana asked suspiciously.

Ilya waved her off, finishing his text to Shane. In the week since their date, it had become a habit of Shane’s to send Ilya a photo from bed. Not the kind Ilya wanted, but he had grown to enjoy the shots Shane sent of the book he was reading, or of Shane’s legs in pajama pants, stretched out on top of crisp white sheets. Each image had prompted the same general response. Ilya would tease Shane about his early bedtime, and Shane would extoll the virtues of waking up well-rested at five in the morning.

Tonight, Ilya had asked for a selfie, and Shane sent one, flipping off the camera. He was wearing reading glasses, and Ilya felt like he was about to run through a brick wall like a cartoon character.

Ilya: Shane, this is unfair
Ilya: You cannot just send me porn, I am at my friend's house.

Shane: ???
Shane: I'm fully clothed, this sounds like a personal problem.

“Ilya!” Svetlana snapped her fingers, and he rolled his eyes. He fired off a few dozen emojis that hopefully conveyed how much Shane’s photo had turned him on.

“Sorry, it is nothing,” Ilya said. Svetlana had invited him over to watch a boring French New Wave movie. She should have anticipated that he would find a way to distract himself.

“No, you don’t get to blow me off that easily. Who were you making heart eyes at?”

Ilya shifted uncomfortably on the couch.

“Like I said, nobody really. A friend of Kip's, we went out last week.”

It felt bizarre to summarize Shane like that, to leave out their encounter three and half years ago, to hold himself back from describing how beautiful Shane was. But the eager excitement in Svetlana's eyes pushed Ilya to temper her expectations.

“He is just something fun right now. Nothing serious, for either of us. It is just nice to have a distraction.”

Svetlana looked at him skeptically, then shrugged.

“Makes sense. You should move into your own place before you get a new boyfriend.”

Ilya rubbed his temple, feeling the beginnings of a headache. Svetlana’s blunt advice was needed. Everyone else was still treating Ilya tenderly, and he was firmly in the self-loathing part of his breakup journey. He wanted his friends to stop acting like he was a wounded bird, and instead ask him how the fuck he was going to move on.

“I know, I know. I just look at my shit and his shit, and I think about leaving the last place we were together and it fucking…” Ilya couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence, to say that it hurt.

Svetlana reached over and squeezed his arm, and they lapsed into a stoic, Slavic silence.

The movie lulled Ilya to sleep, and he woke in the early hours of the morning, tucked under a blanket on Svetlana's couch.

He squirmed, fishing out his phone to check the time. His heart picked up pace when he realized it was 5:01.

Ilya: Good morning! Go eat a worm, or whatever the saying is about birds and waking up early.

Shane: Wow. Why are you up? Are you on a walk of shame right now?

Ilya: I would never.

Ilya’s thumbs hesitated, and he frantically thought of something, anything to send. Because right now they were skirting around the fact that Shane had ducked out of Ilya's early in the morning all those years ago and had a walk of shame. Ilya tried to picture it for a moment, but it stirred something ugly and painful in his core.

Ilya: I am a changed man. I wake at 5 to go for jogs and drink protein smoothies.

Shane: Glad to hear it.
Shane: We should do a 5AM run together soon.

Ilya smirked at his phone, pleased at Shane calling his bluff. He sent a shrugging emoji and promptly rolled over and went back to sleep.

***

“Top five romantic movies,” Troy prompted. It was a slow afternoon, an hour before closing, with a few regulars browsing the new arrivals.

Ilya opened his mouth to protest, to remind his friend that this was insensitive to a man who had just been dumped, but then he reconsidered. Troy asking this question must mean that he thought Ilya was doing better, and Ilya desperately wanted to be on the road to recovery. He could fake it and pretend that he hadn't relapsed into lying on the floor listening to Frank Ocean the other night.

“When Harry Met Sally,” Cliff called out from the store room. “It’s got everything. Right person, wrong time. Friends to lovers, dramatic confession. It’s perfect.”

“I’m going with Moonstruck,” Kip piped up. “Cher and Nicholas Cage are campy and crazy about each other.”

Troy nodded at Ilya, and Ilya realized he was not up to the task.

“Wiebe and Marie watch Roman Holiday every Valentine's Day,” Ilya said. “It is very good, bittersweet.”

Ilya had privately never understood their tradition. Roman Holiday was an example of love not being enough, of two people choosing to let go of each other.

Troy frowned. “That’s not your answer though.”

Ilya shrugged. “Come back to me.”

Kip migrated over to the counter, and together they looked at Troy expectantly.

“Is it cliche if I say Brokeback Mountain?” Troy asked, awkwardly running a hand through his hair.

Ilya and Kip shook their heads in sync.

“No, that's a great romance. It's beautiful. Tragic, but beautiful,” Kip said. He turned expectantly to Ilya, waiting for him to round out the list.

A month or two ago, Ilya would have said Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. It had been the perfect movie to watch while heartbroken, two people who couldn't help hurting each other, trapped in love, despite themselves. But that was utterly depressing.

“Before Sunrise,” Ilya finally supplied.

Cliff ambled out of the store room, nodding appreciatively.

“Marianne loves that one. Two people just falling hard for each other in one night. You don't always need time to fall in love, sometimes you just connect,” Cliff said.

Ilya and Kip exchanged a loaded glance. Cliff was a terminal romantic, but his relationships never seemed to last past a month or so. Marianne had lasted longer than most, and Ilya half expected Cliff to be talking about marriage soon.

With a pang, the reality of Ilya’s life these days slapped him in the face. Kip was getting married, Troy was eagerly planning his proposal, Cliff would probably elope with Marianne tomorrow if she let him. At least Svetlana wouldn't join their ranks. Ilya had asked her to marry him when they were eight and she had confidently declared she would never marry.

“I guess. Harris said it took a while for him to move past his crush on me to actually liking me,” Troy mused.

“That is because you did not tell him for months that you were obsessed with him,” Ilya reminded Troy.

Troy had just been a regular customer at the store when Harris was hired onto the marketing team at the company Troy had worked at. He had confided about his crush, and Cliff encouraged him to do something thoughtful, like bring Harris a coffee. Months later, after Harris finally worked up the nerve to ask Troy out, did Cliff and Ilya find out that Troy had brought him coffee every day, but was too shy to say anything more than “hello,” or “good morning.”

Kip eyed Ilya. “Speaking of romance, I heard you and Shane had a good date.”

Ilya twisted his mouth as he wavered between a smile and a scowl. He wanted to hear exactly what Shane had told Kip, but he also felt oddly nervous.

“He told you this?” Ilya asked.

Kip looked triumphant. “Just said you guys went skating, that he had a great time. I should have thought to set you guys up years ago, you’re both so crazy about hockey.”

“Do not get too excited,” Ilya cautioned. Kip probably thought Shane was ready for something serious, if Shane hadn’t told him he was still living with his ex. Ilya tried to feel flattered that Kip thought Ilya was in a place to move on from Rob too. This whole afternoon had made it clear that Ilya was perhaps too accomplished at pretending he had recovered from his breakup.

***

Ilya had been looking forward to Saturday evening all week. Shane had agreed to come over, and Ilya had spent the last few hours feverishly adjusting his apartment, making sure everything was perfect. His place was cleaner than it had been in months.

Ilya’s record organization project had been neatly set in milk crates instead of sprawled across the living room. He had put fresh sheets on his bed, fantasizing about how they were going to ruin them over the course of the next few hours.

The daydreams came crashing down abruptly when Ilya got a breathless call from Troy. He had just hung up when Shane knocked on his door.

“Hi,” Ilya's flat tone seemed to land with a dull thud, and Shane glanced over his shoulder, as if the gloomy greeting was intended for someone else.

“Hey,” Shane stepped in, tentative.

“Sorry, sorry,” Ilya rubbed his forehead. He was acting like a spoiled child, but he was so disappointed.

“My friends just got engaged. They want me to come celebrate. Now.”

Shane’s mouth twisted, and for a moment he looked stricken. Ilya watched his face contort and felt the movement echo in his stomach. He had been eagerly waiting to have Shane in his apartment, but Troy and Harris might kill him if he refused to go.

“OK. Um. Another night, I guess,” Shane fidgeted with the zipper on his coat, and then began to turn towards the door. The sight of Shane retreating twisted Ilya's heart.

“You should come,” Ilya blurted out.

Shane’s eyes widened, and Ilya wondered if it seemed too serious, if Shane just planned to fuck him and leave as soon as possible. The invitation hung in the air longer than Ilya would have liked, but eventually Shane nodded.

“OK. Sure. Should we bring a gift or something?”

The tension began to melt from Ilya’s body as he registered Shane’s sweet thoughtfulness.

“I have champagne. Come in, will take a minute.”

Shane tugged his jacket off and followed Ilya down the hall to the kitchen.

“This is a nice place,” Shane said.

“Thank you. I did not pick it,” Ilya said, crouching down to pick through the wine fridge.

“Like…at all?” Shane sounded perplexed.

Ilya grabbed at the first bottle of champagne he found, and straightened up.

“Yes. Rob found the place, I did not see it until we moved.”

Shane was fighting very hard to keep a judgmental expression off his face.

“I did not care where we lived,” Ilya shrugged. It was somewhat true. Ilya had gone to a few apartment tours with Rob, but he had quickly felt like a fraud, or maybe more like an obstacle.

Rob wielded the financial heft in the relationship, and Ilya couldn't shake the sense that he came off as ungrateful if he objected to an apartment. They fought about it, Rob getting understandably frustrated when Ilya was unable to verbalize exactly why the apartments they visited didn't feel like home. Eventually, it was easier for Ilya to throw in the towel and hand it all over to Rob. Rob had settled on a place less than a week after Ilya ceded his right to an opinion.

Ilya didn't like to think about the apartment hunt, nor the colassal fuck up he'd made in the first few months after they moved in. Ilya glanced at the kitchen sink and resisted the urge to shudder at the guilty memories flooding through him right then.

With incredible effort, Ilya shoved all his regrets to the back of his mind and tried to refocus on the beautiful man in front of him that he would not be able to fuck that night.

Shane was running his hand over the countertop of the kitchen island in a way that made Ilya oddly jealous of an inanimate object.

“You have a thing for kitchens?” Ilya asked, raising an eyebrow.

Shane flushed a little. “Fuck off. I just pay attention to this stuff. I bought a cottage in Lanaudière a few years ago, I'm fixing it up right now.”

Ilya wanted to tease him for having such a boring, stuffy hobby, but his first thought flew out of his mouth before he could control it.

“Maybe I can see it sometime.”

They both stared at each other for a split second, before Ilya ducked his head and began digging through the cupboard where they kept grocery tote bags. It was incredibly stupid and embarrassing to invite himself to see Shane’s cottage when Shane couldn't even spend the night with another man.

Shane cleared his throat, and Ilya kept his head ducked as he felt heat build in his cheeks.

“Maybe, in the spring. When it's warmer, and the guest bathroom is finished. That's the project I'm working on right now, my mom is helping, and it's —”

“OK Hollander, enough house talk. You do shots?” Ilya straightened up.

Shane wrinkled his nose, and Ilya couldn't help smiling at the way his freckles scrunched.

“They will all be wasted when we get there. Should get a head start,” Ilya explained. He yanked open the fridge. “Beer?”

“Sure,” Shane accepted a bottle.

They didn't have time to fuck, it wasn’t going to happen tonight. But Ilya didn't want all of his effort to go unappreciated. He had practically performed a miracle, turning the apartment back into liveable condition, and he found himself savoring the fact that someone else was back in it. He hadn't had anybody over since Liz came by and dumped the Ian bombshell on him.

“You want the tour?” Ilya asked. Shane nodded, and they embarked. If Shane noticed odd absences on the wall, bare spots between framed concert posters, he was polite and didn't ask whether Ilya had yanked photos of him and Rob off the wall and chucked them into the office.

“We don't go in there. My ex's shit is in there,” Ilya pointed at the office's closed door.

“This is bathroom, this is bedroom,” Ilya paused at the open door to the bedroom and felt his stomach flutter when he caught Shane look morosely at the bed.

“And this is the living room,” Ilya led them back to the room that was directly across from the kitchen.

Shane’s eyes traveled over the crates of albums and landed on the shelves.

“What’s with all the crates?” Shane asked.

“I am organizing my collection autobiographically,” Ilya said.

Shane looked confused, and Ilya desperately wanted to kiss him. There was a not completely unpleasant tension between them right now. A knowledge that if they touched, they would fall into Ilya’s bed and never leave. Ilya dug his nails into his palm to center himself.

“I am organizing by my life. Albums I listened to in university,” Ilya pointed to the lefthand side of the shelves. “Music I listen to now,” he pointed towards the bottom right. He watched Shane crouch down to thumb through the present day, and Ilya had to resist flinching. They were a mix of indulgent breakup albums and sappy records about love.

“I don't think I've listened to any of these,” Shane said.

Ilya blinked at him. They were not particularly deep cuts.

“What do you listen to?” Ilya asked. He had been wondering for ages, he had hoped to bring it up when Shane stopped by the record shop, so he could curate recommendations for Shane once he knew what he liked.

Shane shrugged. “I mainly listen to audio books and podcasts.”

Ilya immediately re-thought everything. How could he fuck a man who listened to podcasts?

Shane noticed his disgust and laughed.

“I'll listen to whatever people put on, too. I'm not very picky. Well, maybe not everything, I really didn't like what you were playing when I went to your store.”

Ilya relented a little, grinning at Shane.

“Your mother has good taste in music. Prince is a genius. What else does she listen to?”

Shane looked at the ceiling as he tried to recall.

“Uh. She likes Diana Ross and Etta James. She plays them when she gardens.”

Ilya nodded, going to his milk crates. “And your father?”

“He likes Fleetwood Mac a lot. And ABBA.”

Ilya whipped his head around. “No. ABBA?”

Shane looked at him innocently. “Yeah, when I was really little he and I would dance around the living room to Dancing Queen.”

Ilya’s heart ached for a moment. He had a deep, burning wish that he could have seen that.

“Fuck, I do not have any ABBA, or else I would make you recreate this right now,” Ilya groaned.

Shane shrugged, smirking, and took a sip of beer.

Ilya changed course with that information, and dug out an LP of “You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real)”

“Here, poppy like ABBA, but more complex. This is Sylvester. Very queer, unapologetic. Wore what he wanted, sang like he wanted.”

Shane was listening intently, brow furrowed as if Ilya was giving him a quiz.

“You like?” Ilya asked, leaning against the back of the couch.

“I do. I bet my dad would, if he hasn't already heard it. I'll ask,” Shane began browsing the shelves again.

Ilya’s hackles raised when Shane got to the most full shelf, the period of time where Ilya had met Shane and then lost him. Running into Shane again had stirred up those memories so vividly. He had pulled albums that he listened to at the time, but he had also pulled music that reminded him of the general time and place. The soft reminiscing of Ravyn Lenae, the aching croons of Cigarettes After Sex.

“OK, time to finish our drinks. Troy and Harris will never forgive me if I miss their big night, and they will not remember that I made it if we get there late,” Ilya declared.

In half an hour, they were approaching Monk's. Ilya realized he was kind of throwing Shane to the wolves, placing him in the awkward position of explaining who he was to Ilya, which was just a man he had planned to fuck that evening.

Shane seemed nervous, and Ilya began cursing his friends, whom he loved dearly, and who had supported him through his shitty breakup.

“Last chance to bail,” Ilya told Shane when he grabbed the door handle.

Shane shook his head, and they headed in.

It was chaos. Someone had cued up “Dancing On My Own” which felt incongruous for the celebration of a lifelong commitment. Cliff had Marianne hitched on his back for some reason, as he attempted to play darts. Everyone, down to the bartender, looked hammered already.

“Ilyaaa!” Troy yelled from their regular booth. His eyes widened when he saw Ilya had brought company, and Ilya tried to silently convey with his eyes that he desperately needed Troy to be cool.

“Who are you?” Harris asked Shane, oblivious to Ilya’s cues.

“This is Shane,” Ilya said, placing the champagne on the table.

“Kip and Scott introduced us,” Shane said. It was becoming an unspoken rule that they would never acknowledge that night three and a half years ago. Ilya tried to not feel bitter about it.

“Harris, I am very proud of you,” Ilya said. “Troy was taking too long to plan his proposal, I am glad you beat him to it.”

“He told me all about it, poor thing,” Harris sighed dreamily.

“I don't care,” Troy beamed, looking at the band on his finger. He went a little cross-eyed, and Ilya made a mental note that Troy was probably past his limit for any champagne tonight. “I do care. I still want to do it my way. But who cares, we're getting married!”

“Cheers to that!” Harris clinked his glass to Troy’s beer bottle, and then looked at Ilya and Shane, aghast. “Catch up! We're celebrating!”

“Come on, you heard the fiancé,” Ilya rolled his eyes. His words had their intended effect, Troy and Harris had sappy, romantic smiles as they registered their new labels.

Shane and Ilya pushed up to the bar, watching Sam the bartender bicker with one of Harris's friends about the ingredients for a complicated cocktail.

“Do you guys always party like this?” Shane asked, looking around him.

“No, not nearly. Harris just likes to go big, when occasion calls,” Ilya explained.

“Troy too?”

Ilya glanced over his shoulder as his friends. “Yes. He is quieter than Harris, but I think that is why they are good for each other. Sometimes Troy needs to be pushed.”

Sam got their orders, and they remained at the bar for a moment to take first sips.

“Was that what you were like with your ex?” Shane asked.

Ilya’s stomach churned, he had been trying very hard to not think about Rob. Rob would have been thrilled for Troy and Harris, and he probably would have gotten drunk and said things to Ilya about getting married one day, just like he had when they'd gone to one of Rob's friend's wedding. Ilya had been stunned by it, the thought had never even crossed his mind. When Rob didn't bring it up in the sober light of the next day, Ilya had to assume he never meant it.

“Sorry,” Shane said, quickly filling the silence as Ilya reflected. “I don't…you don't have to answer that.”

“No, is ok,” Ilya said slowly. It was kind of the whole benefit of his and Shane’s thing, that the two of them were coming off breakups and could relate.

“We were not very similar. Sometimes that was good.” The primary example that floated to mind was that Rob had the presence of mind to push Ilya towards therapy and medication, something Ilya might never have sought on his own.

In many ways, Ilya had felt like Rob was the head of their household, the one who took the lead on arranging their bills, getting their dishwasher repaired, researching what vacuum to buy. The totality of decision making that Rob had assumed slammed on top of Ilya like a boulder when Rob left.

“Sometimes I think Matt and I were too similar,” Shane said, breaking Ilya’s train of thought.

“Hm. You both go to bed at nine?” Ilya teased. Something ugly stirred inside of him as he said it. He felt oddly possessive of their bedtime routine now, to the point that he often forgot Shane’s ex was occupying Shane’s spare bedroom when Shane sent him cute photos.

“OK, he doesn't go to bed as early as me. But we met at the same job, we have the same routines. Sometimes I felt…” Shane trailed off, watching Harris and Troy. Harris was waving at a friend, Troy gazing at Harris adoring. “Sometimes I felt like we were just really good roommates.”

“You did not fuck?” Ilya was too sober to have asked that question, he wasn't sure what his excuse was what he was thinking.

Shane’s eyes flicked to his, and when they lingered on Ilya’s lips, Ilya felt his mouth go dry.

“I guess we felt like roommates who slept together,” Shane conceded, and Ilya hated the way it sounded. He hoped it was unsexy, he feared it wasn’t.

“Oh no,” Shane muttered, glancing at the door. Scott and Kip had entered.

“Oh no?” Ilya asked.

Shane turned around, as if he didn’t want to be seen. “I love Kip, he’s a good friend. But he’s been a little too enthusiastic about me and you. It’s like he thinks we’re going to get married or something.”

It stung Ilya’s pride a bit when Shane talked like that, but it was honest.

“Yes, he has been like this with me too,” Ilya admitted.

As if summoned by their griping, Kip and Scott approached.

“Look at you two! Shane, I didn’t expect you to be here,” Kip was smiling so hard, it hurt to look at. Shane was right, Kip looked far too excited to see the two of them together.

“We had plans, then Troy and Harris decided to get engaged,” Ilya explained.

“How rude of them,” Scott said drily, before leaning over the bar to order for the two of them.

“What plans did the lovebirds interrupt? Another skating date?” Kip said.

Ilya and Shane exchanged a glance that lasted too long to be subtle.

“Ah. Just a quiet night in,” Ilya finally said. Kip immediately understood the euphemism and looked like he was fighting back a laugh, but he mercifully let it go.

“I should get home soon,” Shane said, glancing at his watch. “Uh…early day tomorrow.”

Kip didn’t seem to register Shane’s excuse, and he grabbed Shane’s arm. “No way, we just got here! Come on, I want to hear how Harris proposed.”

Shane shot Ilya an apologetic look over his shoulder, but he let Kip drag him away. Ilya felt an odd mix of gratitude that Shane was staying, tinged with a stiff discomfort over Shane acting like he had anything to be sorry about. He wasn’t Ilya’s to monopolize that night.

“How are things going with that?” Scott asked.

“None of your business,” Ilya snapped automatically, before wavering. “He is hot, and fun. But it is not more than that.”

Scott’s glare looked like it could cut through metal, and Ilya realized he sounded like he was disparaging Scott’s friend.

“I do not want more, he does not want more. Please tell Kip we are not getting married.”

“You try talking Kip out of an idea,” Scott rolled his eyes. “For what it’s worth, I told him I thought this was too soon for both of you. Rebound hookup, sure. Go for it. But I was a mess for a year after my last relationship. I don’t expect either of you to move on quickly.”

Ilya bit the inside of his cheek. It shouldn’t have felt so ugly to be seen, but Scott’s words made Ilya feel sick.

“What is Matt like?” Ilya asked. His eyes were glued to Shane, who was crammed in the booth next to Kip, laughing at something Troy said. He looked beautiful in the dim light of the bar.

“Uh,” Scott let out a heavy exhale as he tried to find the words. “I didn't spend a ton of time with him, honestly Shane and I mainly see each other through work. I know more from what Kip tells me.”

Scott scratched at his stubble, and Ilya realized he was weighing what to say. There was real judgment on his face, irritation that Ilya had never seen, no matter how much they bickered.

“They have a long history. I don't love how he made Shane feel, a lot of the time. But I think Shane felt guilty, or responsible, or something. And that's why he stayed so long,” Scott shot Ilya an earnest glance. “I mean it, I think it's great you guys are having fun together. He really needs to spend some time not being so…attached. It's good to see.”

Ilya finished his drink and turned to get another from Sam, unable to look at Scott, desperately needing to prevent himself from staring at Shane. Scott made his way over to their friends, and Ilya stared at the bartop, lost in thought.

Ilya couldn't help feeling concerned, lingering on insecurities. Scott and Kip seemed to trust him to be kind and distracting with their friend, and Ilya wished he had their confidence.

“Roz! You made it,” Cliff clapped a hand on Ilya’s shoulder, startling him out of his brooding.

“Wouldn't miss it. Even though I had other plans,” Ilya pouted.

Cliff's eyes widened and he turned to scan the room. He had heard about the date with Shane, knew that Ilya had been eagerly planning to meet him tonight.

“Is that him?” Cliff jerked his chin in Shane’s direction.

Ilya nodded, and Cliff let out a low whistle.

“Fuck you, he is mine,” Ilya swatted at his arm. Heat coiled in his belly when he said it, staking a claim on Shane felt intoxicating, however false it was.

“I'm happily taken, and mostly straight, but you have all the luck, huh? He's gorgeous.” Cliff was beginning to piss Ilya off.

“Look away, Marley, before Marianne leaves you for drooling over my date,” Ilya grumbled.

“She would never,” Cliff said dreamily, smiling in the direction of Marianne as she furiously punched songs into the jukebox.

“What does this mean for your hunt for mystery man?”

Ilya should have anticipated it. Cliff had been dogged in his encouragement that Ilya find the man who had been the best sex of his life. Ilya regretted ever including Shane on the list, or providing Cliff with any information about him.

Ilya’s eyes flicked back to Shane, and all he could feel in that moment was pure wonderment that they had run into each other again, and a petulant desire. If he couldn't have Shane in his bed that night, he decided he at least needed to hear Shane come.

“I have time to find out why mystery man ran away,” Ilya said carefully. “I did not make a timeline for this.”

Shane’s eyes found Ilya’s, as if he could feel the heat of his stare. Something crossed his face, settling into a comfortable, almost smug expression. He stood, squeezing out of the booth, but he didn’t walk to Ilya. Instead, he headed off to the bathroom.

Ilya abandoned his drink and Cliff immediately, not caring how it looked.

Ilya followed Shane, grateful that the bathrooms were all single-occupancy. The last thing he wanted was Cliff pounding on the door to a locked bathroom in five minutes because he had a bladder the size of a thimble.

The second the lock turned behind him, Ilya was on Shane. He wasn't sure where he started and Shane stopped, hands grasping at each other, gasps mingling through wet kisses. The tension of the evening had broken, and Ilya felt wrecked with the relief of it.

“Fuck, I want you in my bed,” Ilya groaned.

Shane stilled, and Ilya tried to swallow down the panic rising in his chest.

“I'm really sorry, I just think—” Shane’s thoughts were cut off with a swift kiss.

“Later. Tomorrow, maybe?” Ilya asked hopefully. Two nights in a row didn't feel casual, it didn’t feel restrained, but he was too hungry right now to pretend.

Shane bit his lip and nodded before his mouth met Ilya’s again. Ilya could feel the blood pounding in his ears, head swimming with images of Shane in his bed.

Shane pressed against Ilya, backing him up until he thudded against the door. Ilya knew, and loved how Shane could turn into a quivering mess beneath him. But this side of Shane, the one that feverishly yanked at Ilya’s pants in this stolen moment, was just as devastating.

Ilya forgot how much he wanted the luxury of time, he forgot any promises to torture Shane. There wasn’t time for it, and all his mind could focus on was the heat of Shane’s breath on his neck before he began to kiss and suck his way down Ilya’s throat.

Ilya fumbled with Shane’s pants, hitching up his shirt. For a moment it was a clumsy tangle as they both hurried to put their hands on each other. Ilya threw his head back when Shane squeezed his cock, and the slam against the door made Shane freeze.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, is your head-”

“Don’t stop,” Ilya growled, shaking off the dull throbbing sensation on his skull. Shane gently ran his fingers through the curls at the base of Ilya’s neck for a moment, and Ilya was hit with a sense of deja vu. It was too soft, too sweet for a frantic hookup in a bathroom.

The head of Shane’s cock was already slick with precome, and Ilya began stroking him as he found Shane’s mouth and dug his teeth into Shane’s bottom lip. Shane was shuddering against him, thrusting into Ilya’s hand, when he abruptly broke away.

Ilya stared at him, hand slowing, before Shane did something that made Ilya go weak in the knees.

“Here,” Shane held his hand out beneath Ilya’s mouth, and Ilya spat. He didn’t know whose moan was louder when Shane took both of them in his hand, all he knew was that he might black out from the sensation of Shane’s hand squeezing his cock to Ilya’s.

“Yes, oh my God, Shane,” Ilya panted breathlessly. Shane’s eyes were fixed on Ilya’s cock, he was biting his lip with a hunger that made Ilya want to throw him on the filthy bathroom floor and feed his cock into Shane’s mouth, inch by inch.

“You’re such a fucking slut,” Ilya cried out as Shane’s hand sped up. Those words finally snapped Shane’s attention to Ilya’s face, and Ilya almost lost focus. Shane’s eyes were gleaming, a fucked out sense of determination on his face.

“You like that?” Ilya asked, barely holding on as his hips bucked, chasing Shane’s hand. “You like hearing how you’re a filthy slut, sucking my cock in your car, jerking me off in a fucking bathroom? You’re so desperate for it.”

“Fuck you,” Shane seemed to finally find his words, but there was no bite to them. He was shaking, and he pressed his forehead to Ilya’s. They both watched Shane's hand stroke their cocks, transfixed, gasping together until Ilya’s orgasm crept up suddenly.

“Shane, fuck, I’m going to-”

“Yes, come on, please Ilya. I want you, I want you to-”

When Ilya saw Shane’s come splash on his stomach, he gasped and crushed Shane’s mouth with his to stop himself from saying something stupid and embarrassing as he came all over Shane’s hand.

Shane stroked him through it, shuddering and wrecked, and then they rested there, kissing languidly.

Ilya’s mind was like soup, fluid and nonsensical thoughts floating in a haze. One thought was the strangest. Ilya blamed it on being half-drunk, on the whirlwind of the evening. The thought lingered with him long after they said goodnight, after the party ended and Ilya wandered home and crawled into bed.

Ilya lay awake that night and the only thing he could think of was the transcendent feeling of Shane’s mouth on his, and how all he had wanted to say in that moment, pressed against Shane, was “I missed you, I missed you, I missed you.”

Chapter End Notes

I love writing these two as dumbasses who try to be casual. Sure, Ilya, getting excited to text Shane at 5am is very casual. Shane anxiously asking Ilya if he is walking home from a one-night stand is also super casual.

We aren't going to learn Shane’s whole deal till his POV, and Ilya might have some things he's been withholding too...

Obviously they both still have some shit to work out, with regard to their previous relationships, but it doesn't mean they can't fuck about it!

Chapter title is from the Craft Spells song.

Chapter 8: Don't Move

Chapter Notes

I know I said I was going to post on Tuesdays and Fridays, but I needed to just hit post on this chapter so I would stop editing it into oblivion.

Ilya thought he was nervous the night before. He was convinced at the time that the anticipation of fucking Shane again would eat him alive, but he realized that morning that he had new depths of craving and nerves. A frantic hand job in the bar the prior night had left him practically begging for more.

Shane had determined that he would come over at noon, probably because it would look like he was out getting lunch with a friend. Some idiotic, prideful streak in Ilya wanted to fuck him so well that it would be unmistakable when he got back to his apartment. He imagined Shane walking in looking wrecked, his stupid ex knowing immediately that Shane had stolen off to meet another man.

Ilya spent the morning trying to distract himself, but it was fruitless. Every album he threw on seemed to be too sultry or romantic, and finally he yanked Let's Get It On off his turntable and settled for silence.

When Shane finally knocked on the door, Ilya almost leapt out of his skin. He smoothed his hair and tried to walk slowly, plastered a confident smirk on his lips as he eased the door open.

It was completely unnecessary. Shane was guileless as ever, and launched himself at Ilya the second he was inside, pausing only to kick his shoes off in the foyer.

“Hi,” Ilya mumbled between kisses.

“Hey,” Shane slipped his tongue between Ilya's lips and began backing him up down the hallway. His hands roamed over Ilya’s shoulders, squeezing his biceps, before he yanked at the hem of Ilya’s t-shirt.

Ilya paused to take it off, toss it over his shoulder, and he motioned for Shane to do the same. He hadn't seen Shane shirtless since their hookup three years ago, and it was a gorgeous sight he wanted to drink in.

Unfortunately, Shane was ravenously impatient, and Ilya was only able to stare at him for a second before Shane was back, crowding Ilya against the wall of the hallway.

Ilya lost himself in it for a moment, clutching at Shane’s waist as Shane boxed him in. Ilya usually preferred being the one to lead, to roughly yank someone into place and take what he wanted. Shane’s raw hunger for Ilya had him reconsidering. If they kept hooking up, if he had Shane in his bed more often, he decided he wanted to have Shane throw him around one day.

Shane began fumbling at Ilya’s pants, and Ilya took the opportunity to lean down and grab him by the backs of his thighs, hitching him in the air.

“Bed?” Ilya asked.

Shane nodded breathlessly as he wrapped his legs around Ilya’s waist, and it took everything Ilya had to not sprint for his room.The walk took longer than he would have liked, but it was only because Shane couldn’t stop kissing him, and Ilya was both helpless to say no, and fearful of running into a wall walking with his eyes closed. They finally made it to his room, and Ilya threw Shane on the bed before he started yanking his remaining clothes off. Shane scrambled to do the same, and Ilya paused as he watched Shane neatly fold his pants and underwear, tucking them on top of Ilya’s dresser.

Ilya stared at the clothes, then at Shane, inappropriate fondness saturating him for a moment. Shane’s eyes widened, and Ilya hurried to shake off the sensation that was forming in his chest.

Ilya tugged Shane onto the bed and began kissing every inch of him. Almost unconsciously, he started cataloging every response. How Shane sighed when Ilya sucked on his neck, how he squirmed when Ilya pinched his nipple, how his abs tensed when Ilya ran a hand along the soft skin of his inner thigh.

“Fuck, please do something,” Shane finally pleaded. Ilya had been lazily trailing kisses along his stomach for a while, and when he looked up at Shane he realized he had no idea how much time had passed since Shane stumbled into his apartment.

“You think I am doing nothing?” Ilya asked innocently, leaning up to gently tug one of Shane’s nipples between his teeth. Shane gasped, and Ilya ran his tongue over the sensitive skin, soothing him.

“I didn't come over here to—” Shane lost his breath for a moment when Ilya sucked on his earlobe. “Fuck. I didn't come here for you to just torture me for an hour.”

“Oh, you do not like?” Ilya drew back, pretending to be concerned. He was growing to love how bratty Shane was, the challenge of shutting him up was too much fun.

“I would like to be fucked. Please,” Shane glared. “Sometime today, if you can manage it.”

Ilya peeled himself off of Shane and sat up, straddling him. Shane’s aggrieved expression faltered as he stared at Ilya, eyes landing on his hard cock.

Shane’s dazed expression made Ilya want to preen, it made him want to tackle Shane and kiss him into oblivion, and more than anything, it made him want to give Shane exactly what he asked for.

He got up, fishing lube and a condom out of the bedside table. He and Rob had rarely used condoms in the final year of their relationship, and Ilya hadn't had anyone over when his apartment had been a depression den.

Going to the store earlier this week and buying condoms had somehow been a thrilling experience, all part of the anticipation of Shane. Ilya was almost embarrassed by that fact, but then he uncapped the bottle of lube and saw Shane shiver, and he forgot any pretension.

“You are so desperate, aren't you?” Ilya murmured, kissing Shane’s thigh as he pushed it up to his chest.

“Oh my god, fuck you. It's like you're scared or something, just fuck me already,” Shane panted.

Ilya traced his slick fingers along Shane’s rim, trying and failing to suppress a grin.

“Why would I be scared?” Ilya asked, teasing at Shane’s entrance.

“I don't know. Maybe you think you can't fuck me well,” Shane was already gasping, coming up with some bullshit to keep being a brat. But Ilya couldn't let it slide.

“We both know that's not true. How many times should I make you come? I think it was twice, last time?” Ilya asked. He was fed up of pretending they hadn't been in this very position before, and Shane’s mouth dropped open.

“Maybe you forgot how to fuck me,” Shane challenged.

Ilya dipped one finger into Shane and watched him arch off the bed. “No, malysh. I do not think I could forget to make you moan,” he crooked his finger slightly and found the spot that made Shane gasp for air. “You sound so pretty for me, how could I forget?”

Shane's flashed at the endearment, and Ilya was filled with adrenaline as they stared at each other, memories of their night together lingering heavily. Shane had lost words already, but he moaned softly and Ilya took it as an invitation to add another finger. He was losing his mind at how tight Shane was, how slowly Ilya needed to move to work him open.

Shane was circling his hips, fucking himself on Ilya’s fingers, and Ilya swore under his breath when he added another. Shane looked so beautiful, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow, completely focused on chasing his pleasure.

“Come here,” Ilya pulled his fingers out, grinning at the frustrated whine that escaped Shane’s lips. He leaned up to kiss Shane. It was meant to be a sweet, soft kiss of gratitude. Something sentimental to thank Shane for so willingly giving himself up to Ilya.

Instead, Shane grasped the back of his neck and kissed Ilya with a fervor that had Ilya’s head spinning.

Ilya sank into the kiss, pressing against Shane, palming his chest, stroking his hair. When he felt Shane’s hips squirm, he finally drew back.

Ilya scrambled to put the condom on, pouring too much lube into his hand as he slicked himself. He glanced up to check before lining himself up, and he lost his breath.

Shane’s eyes were shining as he watched Ilya, and all traces of combativeness were gone.

“Ok?” Ilya asked hoarsely, dragging the head of his cock along Shane’s rim.

“Please,” Shane sighed.

Ilya slowly pushed in, immediately feeling wrecked by how tight Shane was. He couldn't decide what was hotter, watching the point where he was burying himself in Shane, or watching Shane's eyelids flutter as Ilya stretched and filled him.

“Fuck. Oh my god, you're so fucking big,” Shane groaned, throwing his head back. Ilya almost asked him to say it again, but he was too distracted trying to maintain a modicum of control. The first gentle rock of his hips had them both moaning, and Ilya already worried that they weren't going to last long.

Ilya tried to move slowly, thrusting deeper as he clutched at Shane’s thigh with one hand. It was exquisite torture, Shane was impossibly tight and the breathy sounds escaping his lips wound around Ilya in a haze.

“More,” Shane croaked.

Ilya cursed and began to speed up, hips snapping as Shane clutched at the duvet and moaned. The room filled with the sound of their skin slapping against each other and frustrated gasps as Ilya tried to hang onto tenuous control.

“You're so fucking pretty for me,” Ilya whispered. Shane’s eyes snapped open, and that was more than enough encouragement for Ilya to keep going.

“You love it,” Ilya said through gritted teeth as he felt Shane squeeze around his cock. “You love me using you, fucking your pretty, tight hole to get off.”

It couldn't have been further from what Ilya felt. If anything, he felt like he was in service of Shane right now, desperate to give him whatever he wanted. But Ilya had a sense that this was exactly what Shane wanted right now. Shane wanted to offer himself up to be taken.

Ilya reached up, tugging at Shane’s hair as he pounded into him.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered.

Shane’s hand flew to his cock, and within seconds he was gasping.

“Ilya, I'm going to—please let me—”

“Come for me, please Shane, please, please,” Ilya wasn't sure he had ever begged like this in bed before, but he felt like he might die if he didn't see Shane come in that moment.

When Shane did come, coating his hand and his chest, Ilya felt like the word collapsed in on itself. He slammed his hips into Shane, feeling him clenching and spasming around his cock, and then Ilya came, gasping and nearly sobbing.

He buried his forehead in Shane’s shoulder as he rode out the aftershocks, and then stayed nestled there. He listened to Shane’s heart pounding, then gently receding to a normal pace. 

Ilya had no idea why it felt this good, why sex with Shane was somehow, undeniably, the best sex of his life. Something in their DNA made them completely compatible, and Ilya still couldn't believe he had gotten another opportunity to sleep with Shane after all these years. 

Finally Ilya dragged himself up. “Shower?”

Shane still had his eyes closed when he nodded.

Ilya smacked his chest lightly. “Come on, I think I will make you come one more time today.”

Shane’s eyes shot open, and Ilya hopped up with renewed energy as Shane followed him to the bathroom. The second they got in the shower, Ilya dropped to his knees.

***

“What are you doing next Friday?” Ilya asked, stroking his thumb along Shane’s shoulder blade.

After they exchanged lazy blowjobs in the shower they had collapsed back into bed. Ilya didn't want to spoil the moment. He knew it was a desperate move to schedule their next hookup less than thirty minutes after he’d been inside Shane, but something about Shane made Ilya want to drop pretension and posturing.

“The kids have a game on Friday,” Shane said sleepily.

“Kids?” Ilya pressed a kiss into his damp hair. He was still feeling a little sex drunk, but he wondered faintly if Shane had somehow forgotten to tell him he was a father.

Oddly, absently, Ilya waved it away. He'd never dated a parent, but the idea of Shane with children was a little enchanting.

“Yeah, a couple kids we’ve given scholarships to are playing in a scrimmage on Friday before World Juniors. The tournament is in Sweden this year and I can't make it, so this is the next best thing.”

Shane turned to look up at Ilya. “You should come.”

Ilya’s thumb stilled, and Shane immediately registered it.

“Or you don’t have to, I was just thinking-”

“No, I will come,” Ilya said quickly. He tucked his chin on top of Shane’s head, and they lay there for a few minutes before the spell was solidly broken, and Shane announced that he had to go.

Ilya coaxed a few lazy kisses from Shane when he walked him to the door, and then all too quickly, Shane was gone.

Ilya leaned against the door for a moment after Shane left. Spending time with Shane had begun to feel like a vicious cycle. Sublime highs, followed by disconcerting melancholy. It was like Ilya had been immediately sent into withdrawls. In an effort to drown out the silence, Ilya headed for the living room to blast The Cure on his stereo and try to sort through more of his collection.

***

“You have lost your mind,” Svetlana said flatly when she walked into Ilya’s living room.

“It makes sense to me,” Ilya pouted.

She walked up to the shelves and waved her hand. “Ilya, I can’t find anything! Who organizes a collection in some secret code?”

Ilya shook his head. He was still sorting a bit, but the bulk of the project was shelved now. He had stayed up too late the night before, lost in the ritual of throwing albums on while he organized and reminisced. He had gotten tied up in the early years of university, when he and Svetlana were settling into Montreal. In a fit of sentimentality, he'd invited her over the following night, and now he was remembering why he both adored and hated her.

“This makes sense to me, that's all that matters,” Ilya said. “Besides, who else is playing these records?”

Svetlana sighed. “Is this supposed to make me think you are all better? Because saying things like that does not help your case.”

Ilya threw himself dramatically on the couch, and she followed, tugging his legs so they stretched over her lap.

“Have you spoken to Rob?” Svetlana asked.

“Not really,” Ilya said. “He did finally text about getting more of his shit.”

The text had been a surprise, weeks after Rob had ignored Ilya’s message, after Ray had shown up at the store and humiliated him. Ilya had almost hurled his phone across the room out of panic, but had maturely responded with a thumbs up to Rob's message that he would text soon about a good day to come collect some things.

“That’s great!” Svetlana straightened up. “It's about time.”

Ilya fidgeted with the upholstery of the couch. The apartment had been a bit easier to stomach with most of Rob's things exiled to the office. But too much of him remained. Furniture, appliances. Everywhere Ilya looked, there were reminders.

“Would you be here when he comes over?” Ilya asked quietly.

Svetlana cocked her head to the side. “You still haven't talked, right? I don't know if I should get in the way of that.”

Ilya groaned. “Yes, that is what Galina said too.”

His therapist and Svetlana being on the same page was irrefutable proof that he needed to brave this alone.

“I can wait in my car outside, and the second he leaves I'll come in and we can listen to whatever tragic breakup songs you want to listen to,” Svetlana nodded to the wall of records.

Ilya brightened at that. “Really? You would do this?”

“For you, yes,” Svetlana squeezed his legs where they fell across her lap. “Now, more importantly. What are we doing for New Year's?”

They had more or less adapted to the North American holidays, spending December 25th exchanging gifts with friends, December 31st at a show or a party. But no matter how they celebrated, they always spent the 31st together, and they had one tradition they clung to.

Every year since they were small, the two of them wrote their wish for the new year and lit it on fire shortly before midnight. When they were children, Ilya’s mother would light them with a match and drop them in the sink. As they got older, they'd drop them in their glasses of champagne and knock back the bubbles and charred scraps of paper. Rob thought it was disgusting, Ilya maintained that it was charming.

Ilya’s wish last year had been frivolous, a wish that the Raiders would win the cup. He regretted wasting it. The first year he had been with Rob, he'd used his wish to pray that Rob didn't leave him. When they'd kissed at midnight, Rob complained that he tasted of burnt paper, and Ilya had fierce hope in his chest that the remnants of his desperate wish would work.

Svetlana stood up to look for an album to play. Ilya watched her sigh and complain, and he tried to think of things he might wish for in the new year. A new apartment. A healed heart. No hangover after Troy and Harris's wedding.

An unbidden memory floated in his mind as he considered his hopes and dreams for the future. Ilya mentally swatted it away as fast as he could, the sheer idiocy of it was embarrassing.

It was useless and pointless to linger on the mental image of Shane opening the door to Rose's apartment. Ilya wasn’t even sure what he would wish for. More incredible sex? Not having a time limit on their hookups? He shoved that line of thinking away as he loudly complained about Svetlana putting an album back in the wrong place.

***

Ilya was less than enthused to discover that Scott Hunter was third wheeling his date. Or rather, Shane had invited Ilya to watch a youth hockey scrimmage and Ilya had foolishly, optimistically twisted it into a date in his mind.

“Hey, I didn't know you were coming,” Scott said when Ilya found the two in the stands, settling in next to Shane.

“Shane invited me,” Ilya said, and Shane beamed at him.

Scott stared at Ilya with a serious expression that made Ilya want to stick his tongue out.

Instead, he turned his attention to Shane.

“Who are we rooting for?”

Shane lit up as he pointed out the three members of the national team who had come up through his non-profit. He was quick to detail their skills on the ice, he had an encyclopedic knowledge of their stats. But he also mentioned in the same breath their hobbies, how they did in school, what their families were like.

“Jason's had a really hard few years. His mom passed away from breast cancer two years ago. I expected him to stop playing, but I think it's been his distraction. Sometimes I worry he's putting too much of himself in it,” Shane said quietly, watching the young man warm up on the ice.

Ilya’s throat felt tight as he watched the softness in Shane’s eyes. He would have given anything to have someone care that much when his mother died, when he was going through the motions and primarily playing hockey for the violence that took him out of his mind for a few blissful minutes.

“It is hard to lose a parent so young,” Ilya found himself saying. His tone made it obvious how he knew this, and he realized he didn't mind the vulnerability for once.

Shane looked like he wanted to say something, but his eyes flicked to Scott and he clearly reconsidered saying anything too personal in front of someone else.

Funnily, Scott was the only person Ilya might have been alright having the conversation in front of. The only thing they had in common was that they were both orphans, and it was an odd alliance between them. When Ilya’s father had passed away, Scott and Kip had sent him flowers that he almost threw in the trash. Ilya had stopped to look at the card, and the grim understanding from Scott's message had been a rare comfort in those early days.

Shane seemed to settle for a tiny, sad smile, and Ilya returned it. They lapsed into momentary silence as the game began.

As the evening progressed, Ilya couldn't decide what he enjoyed more, Shane’s excited chattering, or his thoughtful quiet. It struck Ilya that he hadn't felt this comfortable, this at ease, in ages. He still had a sting of nerves, it felt like a lightning bolt was striking him every time their knees brushed. But Ilya found himself laughing with Shane, attentively listening, and drinking up glances at Shane’s bright eyes, watching the players fly across the ice. Ilya felt full.

“We should go to a Metros game sometime,” Shane said to Ilya. Scott let out a surprised laugh, and Ilya glared at him.

“What’s funny about that?” Shane asked, glancing between them.

“Go ahead,” Scott nodded at Ilya.

Ilya plastered on his sweetest smile. “I am a Raiders fan.”

Shane’s mouth dropped open, and Ilya could see Scott silently laughing.

“But you've lived in Montreal for ten years. Did you ever live in Boston? Why Boston, what's wrong with you?”

Ilya couldn't help joining Scott, choking back a laugh. He knew Shane was serious about hockey, but he hadn't dreamed that he would be this furious.

“My friend Svetlana's father is former goalie. He played for Boston. Sergei Vetrov.”

Shane’s eyes widened, and Ilya could see the recognition, the questions and statistics racing in his mind.

“You would like her, I think. I can introduce you two.”

Ilya tried his best to ignore the piercing gaze that Scott had trained on him. He was sure it sounded like an inappropriately serious step, introducing his best friend to Shane. In reality, Ilya said it with no certainty that he and Shane's arrangement would last long enough for him to meet Svetlana. Ilya was still clawing his way back from a breakup, and Shane wasn’t faring much better. Which is why Ilya didn't think too seriously when he opened his mouth next.

“We should go to a game the next time Boston is in town.”

***

Shane asked Ilya to wait while he went down to congratulate the families and kids from his program. Scott lingered next to Ilya for a moment.

“What?” Ilya asked, exhausted from the sensation of Scott staring at him all night.

“Nothing, I just…” Scott trailed off and he glanced down at Shane, who was smiling proudly while he snapped photos of Jason and his family.

Ilya had a surge of that same, gnawing fondness that had begun to take root whenever he was around Shane.

He admired Shane. Not in an intimidating way, although Shane was intimidatingly accomplished and focused. But Shane took so much pride in what he did, he was so earnestly happy about what his ambitions had achieved. It was impossible to not fawn over him a bit.

“You two have a good night, yeah?” Scott slapped Ilya on the shoulder awkwardly, and made his way down to say his goodbyes.

By the time Shane was done, Ilya was certain they'd have to part for good. It was late, and Shane’s stupid ex would probably be chewing at the walls of the apartment like an untrained puppy, or whatever it was that made Shane afraid to leave him alone too long.

“Did you drive?” Shane asked as they strolled out. Ilya shook his head. He had hoped for more car sex, so he had taken the metro. That seemed foolish now.

“Here, I'll drive you. I do have to get back, so I can't come in or anything,” Shane said apologetically.

“Who said I was going to invite you in?” Ilya jabbed. His stomach was doing flips, stupidly happy to steal a few more minutes with Shane that night.

Shane grinned and flipped him off as they walked up to Shane's car.

“I think I like the back seat better,” Ilya said, sliding into the passenger seat.

“Shut up. Don't make me regret this,” Shane rolled his eyes. He started the ignition and then did something innocuous that caused permanent psychic damage to Ilya.

He slung his arm around the back of Ilya’s seat and angled his neck to back out of his parking spot. It was mundane and ordinary, and Ilya decided he must be incurably horny, because he was extremely turned on by the light heat radiating from Shane’s arm. Shane’s face was focused and his neck was twisted in a way that made Ilya want to lean over and suck on it.

Before he did anything stupid, Ilya crossed his arms and looked out the window.

“Do you need my address?” Ilya asked.

“No, I remember it,” Shane said.

They drove in silence for a while, before Ilya realized just how silent it was.

“Wow, do you really never listen to music?”

Shane laughed. “I mean, I was listening to a podcast on the drive here. I figured you wouldn't want to hear that.”

Ilya grimaced, but he couldn't debate it. He reached for the radio, clicking it on and scanning.

He landed on the college radio station. The DJ was playing Les Fleurs and noticed he Shane’s shoulders drop a fraction.

“You like this?” He asked.

“It’s nice,” Shane nodded. Ilya filed it away, wondering if he had any Minnie Riperton albums at the store.

"Um. I wanted to say more, at the rink. That I'm sorry about your parent," Shane said. Ilya noticed his fingers tightening on the steering wheel, and oddly, Shane's nerves soothed his.

"It is OK. I was talking about my mother. She died when I was twelve." Ilya had explained this fact of his life dozens of times, and it never really felt easier. He always kept the specifics close to chest, but something about Shane's openness made Ilya speak again.

"She was very sad. She killed herself," Ilya said. He heard a tiny gasp from Shane and hurried to recover. "She was very beautiful, and so funny. She taught me to skate. I think...life was very hard for her. I was happy, tonight. Seeing how much you care for Jason. I understand what you say about hockey and his grief, but I think this is more good than it is bad, for him."

Shane was silent for a moment, and when he spoke the words came out a little reedy, as if he was struggling to keep his emotion in check.

"I'm so sorry that you lost your mom so young. I mean, at all. Losing a parent is awful, at any point in life. Um. If you ever want to talk about her, I'd love to hear what she was like."

Ilya swallowed hard. He never spoke about his mother these days. Occasionally with Svetlana, one of them would mention a random memory. But there were so many small details and fragments that rattled in Ilya's mind, that he hadn't spoken out loud in years. Sometimes he worried that he would lose them if he didn’t repeat them, but talking about her still hurt so badly. 

"Maybe one day, I will." Ilya was surprised to realize he meant it. Shane’s earnest softness was inviting.

Shane nodded, and silence resumed for a bit, before Shane broke it in the worst way.

“Um. What's the latest with your ex?” Shane asked.

Ilya slouched in his seat. He appreciated that they could talk openly about their breakups, but he felt like Shane had taken a thumbtack to the warm bubble of the evening and punctured the happiness out of it.

“He texted that he will come get his things, and finally talk. I say fine, then he never texts back.” It came out harshly, but Ilya couldn't keep the venom from his voice.

Part of Ilya knew that he was dreading their talk, and that's why he was snappy. But a worse, uglier feeling was forming inside him. Much like he wanted to talk to Shane about his mother, Ilya had an impulsive and stupid urge to talk to him about the breakup in detail. To admit the worst of what Ilya had done in the relationship, even if it risked scaring Shane off. Ilya had no idea why, maybe it was his tendency for self-sabotoge. 

Ilya watched Shane out of the corner of his eyes. Shane was frowning deeply.

“That’s not very mature of him,” Shane finally said. “But…I guess I'm living with my ex, so who am I to judge.”

“How is that going?” Ilya asked. He was still uncertain how Shane felt about his ex. Rob had clearly hated Ilya enough to leave and not see him for months. Shane was still tiptoeing around Matt's feelings.

“I don't know. Can we not talk about it right now?” Shane asked, biting his lip.

“You brought it up,” Ilya couldn't help pointing out. He immediately regretted it, he didn't want to argue with Shane in the ten minutes he had him all to himself.

“Sorry, I am being grumpy,” Ilya quickly said.

To his surprise, Shane didn’t hold onto it. Too many fights with Rob had dragged on for hours because Ilya was reluctant to apologize, and Rob was even more stubborn about not accepting apologies.

“It’s ok, I think it's normal for both of us to get irritated talking about our exes,” Shane said. He pulled up to the curb in front of Ilya’s, and Ilya felt a small twist of longing.

When he turned towards Shane, he imagined for a moment that he saw it in Shane’s eyes too. Something more than a desire to come upstairs and fuck. Ilya had a brief, but vivid fantasy of digging out a Minnie Riperton album for Shane, laying him back on the couch and kissing every inch of him, reminding Shane that Ilya was better than his bitchy comments, shitty behavior in his previous relationships, and his bad attitude about his ex.

“I'm sorry that I have to go,” Shane said. His forehead was creased as if it truly pained him, and Ilya couldn't help leaning in to kiss it. He pressed a kiss on the bridge of his perfect nose, and then kissed Shane’s soft, full lips. Shane sighed into his mouth and brought his hands to Ilya’s curls, twisting them in his fingers.

It was the first time they'd kissed without real urgency, and Ilya felt himself melt into the sensation of Shane tugging at his hair, licking into his mouth.

Too soon, Shane broke away. His eyelids were heavy, and his expression made Ilya’s stomach leap. He looked regretful. He looked bitterly, sorely disappointed that he had to say goodbye, and that somehow softened the blow.

“Can I see you next weekend?” Shane asked. Ilya nodded, unable to find words while Shane looked at him like that. Ilya leaned in for one last kiss, and when it was his turn to break apart, Shane let out a tiny whine.

Ilya let himself into the apartment, and took the stairs two at a time, replaying the memory of Shane Hollander wanting him.

***

“Roz, you won't believe it,” Cliff sounded breathless when he walked through the door.

Ilya had gotten in early, and was answering emails in his office. He'd been going back and forth with a woman who was looking for a rare David Bowie record that they did not have, and could not procure.

“What?” Ilya asked.

Cliff shoved his phone in Ilya’s face, and Ilya squinted.

“Craigslist is full of treasure, I'm telling you,” Cliff was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“This person is getting rid of a collection. Doesn't say what's in it, but look at the size of this. We'd be crazy to not check it out,” Cliff said.

Ilya grabbed his phone and flicked through a few images. It was a collection in crates that took up nearly the whole floor of a garage. It would be a pain to comb through, but Cliff was right. Inventory at this scale rarely fell in their laps.

“Have you messaged them?” Ilya asked. Cliff nodded.

“Told them we can be there in an hour.”

“Troy, can you handle the store for a few hours?” Ilya called out.

“I'll live,” Troy said. Cliff flashed Ilya a grin that made him look like a piranha.

***

Ilya got an itchy sensation on the back of his neck once they got the address. It was in Hampstead, and when they pulled up it was clear that the person listing the collection had money. Ilya had to assume that they didn't know the value of the collection, or they simply didn't need the money. It was possible the collection was just total shit, but the sheer scale of it made Ilya suspect otherwise.

The unsettled feeling only got worse when the door opened. Ilya’s father had married a much younger woman after his mother passed away. Polina always seemed to be in a haze of dissociation, and this woman had the same expression.

“Cliff?” She asked.

“Great to meet you, this is my boss, Ilya. We can't wait to take a look at your collection,” Cliff shook her hand.

“Come on,” the woman began strolling off into the expansive house, and Cliff and Ilya hustled to follow her.

“What is your name?” Ilya asked, trying to not gawp at the luxurious furniture and art adorning the space.

“Meredith. You boys will be able to take it today?” She asked.

“Definitely,” Cliff promised. They had borrowed Harris's truck just to be safe.

Meredith flung the door open to the attached garage.

Ilya had come along with Cliff on more Craigslist hunts than he would have liked. He never got the same satisfaction Cliff seemed to find in unearthing junk to take home. This time was different. Ilya looked at the expanse of vinyl in front of him and felt like every one of his nerve endings was screaming at him.

They got to work, carefully pawing through the crates. Ilya’s stomach began to churn, and when he got to the second crate he glanced up. Cliff was looking at him. Ilya knew they had the same stricken expression and a moment of telepathic agreement.

“Ah…how much are you selling these for?” Ilya asked.

“Fifty dollars,” Meredith said, leaning against the wall.

“That’s…” Ilya glanced at Cliff, weighing his morals. His morals won out. “That’s very generous, but we cannot. Many of these are very rare. This collection…we cannot afford all of it. We can maybe afford one crate.”

“Oh, I know what it's worth. That's why I want you to take it all for fifty dollars,” Meredith told them.

“Uh…what do you mean?” Cliff asked. His hands were clutching an album that Ilya recognized, although he'd never seen it in the flesh. It was a copy of Prince's The Black Album, which had been withdrawn before it could be released to the public. Ilya felt his mouth go dry.

“I mean my husband just took a 20 year old to Hawaii for the week. This collection might be the only thing in the world he actually loves.” Meredith sounded eerily calm for someone whose husband had just left her.

“Uh. Why not throw it out in a dumpster?” Ilya asked.

“Roz!” Cliff hissed, angry he was giving Meredith any ideas.

“No, this is better. He'll get back and ask where it all is, I'll tell him I sold it all, and hand over a fifty dollar bill.”

Ilya had to admit it made for a devastating mental image.

“I can't, I…”

"If you don't want to, there are plenty of other people who responded to the listing," Meredith said.

Ilya could picture the opportunists, the collectors drooling over the crates just like Ilya and Cliff were now.

“Meredith, can we have a minute alone?” Cliff asked sweetly.

Meredith shrugged and wandered back into the house.

“Roz, I get it. But shit, some of these records…we can't just pass this up,” Cliff pleaded.

“I know,” Ilya groaned. He kneaded his forehead. “I don't know what to do, I need to think.”

Ilya stared at the albums and tried to figure out what Wiebe would do if he were there. He pulled out his phone and texted, asking if Wiebe had a minute to talk.

Cliff was rifling through the crates at a rapid pace now, gasping obscenely. It was all too distracting.

“I need some air,” Ilya straightened up and let himself out the side door of the garage, pacing the driveway in the cold. Almost involuntarily, he pulled up Shane’s number and dialed.

Shane answered immediately, and Ilya felt an overwhelming flood of relief.

“What’s up?” Shane sounded concerned.

“I have a hypothetical,” Ilya said.

“OK.” Ilya heard the wheels of an office chair roll back and then a door lightly closing.

“Is this a bad time?” Ilya asked.

“No, I've got time. I'm curious, what's the hypothetical?”

“I have a chance to buy this collection. Like, massive massive collection of records. And there are some albums here that…” Ilya struggled to find the right words. “They are albums you never see, anywhere. Very rare.”

“Oh. Uh…sounds great?” Shane was obviously confused.

“But the woman selling only wants me to pay fifty dollars,” Ilya said.

“So you're worried about ripping her off? Can you afford to pay what it's worth?”

“No, we cannot afford that. We would need to be millionaires, which I think she is. But she is doing this as like…weird revenge thing with her husband. He is having an affair, or he left her for a younger woman, I am not sure exactly how it started, it was—”

Shane cut him off as he began to spit out details that didn't matter.

“Oh. That's really bad,” Shane said.

Ilya squeezed his eyes shut. He knew Shane would agree with him, but it was still awful to stomach.

“But also…” Ilya’s eyes snapped open as Shane began to speak. “Is she just going to give it to the next buyer? She probably will, right? So it might be better off in your hands. Or maybe you can hang onto it for the husband, somehow?”

Ilya kicked at the pavement. “I think that feels worse. I deceive her and he gets to ruin her life and keep his records.”

Shane was very quiet for a moment. Ilya worried he had said too much.

“Yeah, I guess. Just hard to think about all that work and time, and passion…I'm sure that collection means a lot to him. And it just goes up in smoke.”

Ilya felt his heart swell, and he wasn’t sure Shane even knew he was saying the right thing.

“It is awful. It is just in crates on the garage floor and all I can think is that maybe I am looking at the only soul this man has? Or the only good in his soul, anyway.”

Shane took a sharp inhale, and Ilya flinched.

“Is that how you…” Shane mercifully trailed off as he veered too close to Ilya’s greatest fears. “I think people are more than their belongings or their interests.”

“No, that is who you are. What you like matters. Like you and hockey, they are one,” Ilya argued.

“I mean, sure. When I was younger it was all I had. And when I realized I couldn't, or I wouldn't keep playing…I had to figure out who I was. I know you're more than what you listen to, or what you collect. I'm sure this guy is too. Even if he's an asshole.”

Ilya tipped his head back, squinting at the clear blue sky.

“You are a good listener,” Ilya finally said. “What should I do?”

“I don't know,” Shane sounded frustrated. “There isn't a right answer, is there?”

Ilya bit his lip. “I think there is not. Just bad answers and slightly better ones. Cliff will hate me.”

“He won't. You're impossible to hate,” Shane said softly.

Ilya's fingers tightened on his phone when he heard that. He wasn't even sure what words were rising in his throat, but he could feel something vulnerable and needy threatening to tumble out.

“I'm sorry I wasn't more helpful,” Shane sighed.

“No, you were perfect,” Ilya promised.

Shane made a small, dismissive noise, and Ilya opened his mouth to argue, to hound him into accepting Ilya’s praise.

“Roz, time's up. We gotta figure this out,” Cliff poked his head out of the garage.

“I have to go,” Ilya said, waving Cliff off.

“I heard. Um. Let me know how it goes. Maybe tomorrow? If you're free?” Shane sounded so uncertain, so unaware of the fact that Ilya constantly wanted to be around him. It stirred something painful in Ilya’s core.

“Yes, please. Come over, I'll make dinner,” Ilya offered.

He hung up and trudged back into the garage as if he was headed for the gallows.

Meredith was standing, arms crossed with the same uncanny, breezy expression on her face.

“We cannot do it,” Ilya said.

Cliff hung his head in defeat, and Ilya’s resolve wavered. All of the conflicting information and advice swirled in his head.

“We cannot take all of it. Will you let us take a few? We can pay more than—”

Meredith stuck her hand up to halt him. “I'm not really worried either way. Take what you want, I just spoke with someone who will get the rest.”

Ilya ignored Cliff's accusing glare, and nodded. He felt like scum anyway, but he thought about his collection, stacked on his shelves in autobiographical order, and he thought about how much of him was imbued in it.

He wouldn't want it shipped off wholesale for collectors to pay top dollar and hoard behind a glass case.

“OK, we will take a crate,” Ilya promised. Meredith shrugged and wandered back out.

“Roz, I don't know if we have time to look everything up, figure out what's worth the most…” Cliff trailed off, overwhelmed.

“We are not doing that. What we take is for us. Me, you, Troy. We are not selling it. Do not get greedy, what fits in one crate, yes?”

Cliff nodded, and they scattered, frantically scanning the labelled crates.

Ilya felt like a vulture, descending on the carcass of a man he didn't know. He also felt an absurd, ugly swell of love in his chest.

He tugged out albums breathlessly for himself, for Cliff, for Troy, Harris, Svetlana.

Ilya felt his face break into a nearly hysterical grin when he stumbled across Hovas Vittne, a rare recording of a song ABBA had written for their manager's birthday. He tucked it between what he feared was an original pressing of The Velvet Underground's debut album, and the mono copy of Pet Sounds that Ilya had been meaning to cough up the cash to purchase for years.

Before he knew it, they had a full crate. Cliff shot one last, sorrowful look at the rows and rows of albums, and then they made a hasty departure.

Ilya peeled out as if they'd just robbed a bank, which they may as well have.

Cliff thumbed through their haul, whistling when he found something particularly impressive.

All Ilya could think of was whether or not Shane would approve of his decision.

***

“It sounds like you made the best of a shitty situation,” Shane said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.

Ilya had fretted over dinner, and he was too nervous for the first few bites to bring up Meredith and her bizarre proposition. Mercifully, Shane was curious as always, and asked about it.

“Do you really think?” Ilya asked skeptically, stabbing at his pasta.

Shane nodded. “No matter what, it's shitty. She was hell bent on her plan. You weren't comfortable taking advantage. At least the ones you took have a home that appreciates them.”

Ilya felt a little tension ease from his shoulders.

“OK, if you think so…I have something.”

He'd meant to save it for after dinner, but he was too wound up. He grabbed the ABBA album from the living room and returned, placing it on the table.

“What is…?” Shane peered at the cover, a smile spreading across his lips as he read the sleeve.

“Maybe you can give this to your father. It is just like...joke song, silly song. But maybe fun for him. I would have gotten something for you, but you listen to podcasts,” Ilya tried to couch his nerves with teasing, but Shane looked up at him sharply.

“If you care so much, you should recommend some stuff for me to listen to,” Shane challenged. He had no idea that he had just posed Ilya’s favorite activity, his true passion. A playlist began assembling in Ilya’s mind immediately.

“This is really…my dad is going to be thrilled,” Shane said quietly.

Ilya bathed in the gratitude for a moment, before he panicked. “You do not have to tell him where it came from. I do not think your parents want a record from some random guy who fucked their son.”

Shane’s mouth twisted, and Ilya could tell he had said the wrong thing. He was torn between hope and logic. Hope that Shane felt Ilya’s description was inadequate, that what they were doing felt like just a bit more. Logic reminded Ilya that they were just two virtual strangers who had hooked up a handful of times, and Ilya had developed an inappropriate fascination with Shane’s freckles and brattiness and warmth.

“What are you doing for the holidays?” Shane asked, abruptly changing topics.

“Your Christmas is not so important for me. Russians have different Christmas, in January, and New Year is more important anyway. But I will probably spend the 25th with Troy and Harris. Harris’s family does a big Christmas party every year. What will you do?”

“Ottawa, with my family. I’ll bring the record for my dad, but I’m not going to pretend I found it, I’ll tell them where it came from,” Shane said.

Ilya’s heart squeezed, and he realized a few seconds too late that a dopey smile was forming on his face. Shane wasn’t smiling, but his warm brown eyes were dancing across Ilya’s face like he couldn’t choose which feature he liked the most.

Shane glanced down at his plate.

“Um. Dinner is really good, but-”

“Come on,” Ilya laughed as he threw his napkin on the table and practically sprinted to his bedroom.

***

“Are you hungry? Want to go back and heat up dinner?” Ilya asked. He was spooning Shane, who was still collecting his breath after he had ridden Ilya like a fucking cowboy.

“Mm. Maybe later,” Shane mumbled. Ilya pressed a kiss into his shoulder, and the touch seemed to push Shane back to lucidity. He stirred, pushing Ilya on his side and snuggling around to spoon him. It was mortifying how immediately limp Ilya went in his arms, as if he’d been waiting a lifetime for this.

Ilya had been held countless times, but Shane’s strong arms were clutching at Ilya with a steady assurance that made Ilya’s brain settle into something warm and syrupy. They laid like that, Shane gently kissing Ilya’s neck and stroking his abs, before he shifted. Ilya stilled for a moment when he felt Shane’s hardening cock, and then he ground his ass against Shane, delighted at the low groan he elicited.

Shane’s hand slid from his stomach, and Ilya almost forgot how to breathe.

“Do you ever…?” Shane asked, finger rubbing softly against Ilya's entrance.

“Sometimes,” Ilya was embarrassed by how breathy he sounded, but he couldn't help it. He'd bottomed for a few people, not many. Over the years with Rob it had happened only a couple of times, more of a novelty than an act either of them craved.

Ilya turned his head to look Shane in the eyes, and the expression on his face set Ilya on fire. He loved how greedy Shane got. How he was unabashed in his hunger and unafraid to let Ilya know how much he wanted him. It made Ilya want to give himself over completely, and the thought of Shane taking what he wanted sent a shiver down his spine.

“It’s been a while?” Shane asked. Ilya nodded.

“We don't have to tonight, then,” Shane said, and Ilya had to bite back a whine. The pout on his face made Shane laugh.

“We can do other things, just…maybe you'd feel better if we work up to it?” Shane planted a kiss on Ilya’s shoulder and then twisted, tugging Ilya to the bed.

“You are really giving me the wrong idea,” Ilya said, happily squirming with his face down into the duvet as he felt Shane climb on top of him.

“Calm down,” Shane smacked his ass playfully, and Ilya froze.

“Oh fuck, sorry. Was that—”

“No, no sorry,” Ilya peeked over his shoulder and started laughing. Shane looked so distraught. “I liked, maybe you should do this more.”

Shane blushed and moved to kiss Ilya softly on the lips. Ilya was faintly disappointed that Shane didn't resume smacking him, but they could revisit Ilya's newly awakened fantasy another time.

Shane instead palmed Ilya’s ass, kneading with his hands.

“You're so fucking hot,” Shane whispered so softly, it was as if he didn’t even want Ilya to hear.

He reached for a pillow, propping it beneath Ilya’s hips. When Ilya heard the lube bottle uncap, he had to resist arching his back immediately. Shane’s slick fingers began tracing his rim, feather light touch turning into firmer strokes. It quickly became torture, Shane’s fingers rubbing against his sensitive skin.

“Who is taking too long now?” Ilya asked through gritted teeth. He had never felt like he was empty before, but the thousandth lazy pass of Shane’s fingers had him aching to be filled.

Shane responded by slipping a finger inside him, and Ilya let out an utterly embarrassing moan.

Shane was dragging his finger inside Ilya slowly, and Ilya’s hips ground down involuntarily, seeking friction for his hardening cock.

“I could take longer,” Shane teased, slipping his finger out of Ilya.

Ilya summoned all his strength and hauled himself onto his elbows to turn and glare at Shane. It was a complete mistake. Shane was kneeling with a triumphant, cocky grin that made Ilya feel completely unbalanced.

Just as Ilya was trying to form a comeback, to urge Shane to get on with it, Shane’s eyes turned from playful to ravenous, and he slid two fingers into Ilya.

“Fuck!” Ilya turned quickly, biting the duvet underneath him to keep the rest of his moaning in check.

“That feel good?” Shane asked.

“Yes, please don't stop,” Ilya croaked. Shane began to slowly move, stroking his fingers inside Ilya until he brushed the spot that made Ilya cry out.

It was like a shark smelling blood in the water. Ilya could have sworn he heard Shane laugh, and Shane began to pump his fingers harder, dragging along Ilya’s prostate with every movement. With his left hand he grabbed Ilya’s hip, yanking his ass higher. The angle completely undid Ilya.

He was babbling in Russian now, unable to shut up as he squeezed his eyes shut and felt Shane fucking him with his fingers.

“Fuck, why is it so fucking good with you? I want to tie you up and never let you leave,” Ilya was gasping between every desperate word, spinning out as heat began to coil in his belly. When he heard Shane moan, he peeked over his shoulder.

Shane was lost in it, eyebrows furrowed, biting his lip as he watched his fingers disappear inside Ilya. It was one of the hottest things Ilya had ever seen, and when Shane glanced up at him Ilya came, untouched, without warning.

Ilya was gasping, choked, rattling breaths as his orgasm crashed over him. He was faintly aware of Shane moaning, and with his thin grasp on lucidity, he rolled over. Shane kneeled over him, stroking his flushed cock.

“Fuck, Ilya. Can I..?” Shane looked so close, and all Ilya could do was pant and nod.

Shane tightened his fist and in an instant he was coming on Ilya’s chest. Ilya felt his spent cock twitch. The sight of Shane Hollander straddling him, coming on him, was something he wanted to memorize.

Ilya yanked Shane towards him, and he crashed onto Ilya’s chest, kissing Ilya through contented sighs. As they lingered, pressed against each other, swaying through messy, lazy kisses, Ilya’s mind did what it did best. It tried to ruin his happiness.

Ilya thought about Shane slipping away all those years ago, and how uncomfortably familiar it felt when Shane left him to go back to his apartment with his shitty ex boyfriend. Ilya wasn’t sure how much longer he could take the sting of Shane being yanked away from him, but he wasn't sure Shane would even be his to hold onto once Ilya laid bare his past mistakes. The dread of losing Shane crept into his bones even as Ilya clutched Shane, kissing his way across the freckles on his cheekbones.

***

“Ok, I’m going now,” Shane threatened.

“Mm. You said this ten minutes ago,” Ilya reminded him. He had Shane pressed up against his door, and Shane hadn’t made any real effort to leave. Ilya had only bothered to tug boxers on, and Shane had been all too happy to grope at his bare chest for the past few minutes while he breathlessly panted into Ilya’s mouth.

Shane brushed his lips against Ilya’s collarbone. “I wish I could stay.”

Ilya’s heart stuttered for a moment as tried to figure out how to respond. He wanted Shane to stay, he wanted to trap Shane in his bed for at least 48 hours.

“Then you should stay,” Ilya finally answered. Shane drew his head back to look at Ilya, warm brown eyes searching his.

“Not tonight,” Shane said slowly. Ilya could feel his jaw tense as the disappointment settled.

“But maybe next week? I just…I think it’s time for me to be an adult, tell Matt I’m seeing someone. I don’t know, if I need to break the lease or something because it’s too much for him, I can do that. I should-”

Ilya cut Shane off with a kiss. As much as he wanted to hear the rest of what Shane said, he was too happy, too excited to not swoop in and kiss him. The irrational fondness that had taken root inside Ilya might not be one-sided after all. Maybe there was a world where Shane liked him enough to look past his flaws. Something as simple as Shane spending the night with Ilya shouldn’t feel so magnificent, but it did, and Ilya was uncomfortably aware that he would be counting down the seconds until he could fall asleep with Shane in his arms.

Shane tugged his fingers through Ilya’s curls one final time, and then finished their kiss with a nip at Ilya’s lower lip.

“Ok. Really leaving now,” Shane said, his expression grim. Ilya fought back a smile, and he stepped away, giving Shane enough room to unlatch the door.

When Shane opened the door, Ilya felt like he had just been dunked in a bucket of cold water. Rob was standing there, key in hand. His eyes flicked from Shane to Ilya, who was half-naked and half-hard from Shane’s frustrating goodbye. Rob’s mouth scrunched into a tight line, and Ilya felt himself shrinking under his accusing glare.

Horror dawned on Ilya as Rob turned towards Shane.

“Who the fuck are you?” Rob asked Shane.

Chapter End Notes

Chapter title is from the Phantogram song, which I associate so heavily with 2010s falling in love/heartbreak. Ilya definitely listens to "Boys Don't Cry" when Shane leaves his apartment at the beginning of the chapter.

My favorite totally casual thought of the chapter is Ilya immediately preparing to be the s̶t̶e̶p̶d̶a̶d̶ dad that stepped up when he thinks Shane has kids. (In my mind they're also like 28-29, which in my opinion is also pretty young for Shane as a character to have kids, but Ilya doesn't even question it because he's down bad)

Apologies to Nick Hornby for changing the record selling scene. In High Fidelity, the main character rejects the offer completely. I totally understand the narrative/character purpose behind that, but I wanted to switch it up for these characters.

I had a lot of fun writing the cliffhangers in this fic, but I'm pretty sure this is the last major one.

Chapter 9: Feels Like We Only Go Backwards

Chapter Notes

Please don't get too mad at Ilya for his past mistakes

Ilya briefly felt as if he needed to throw himself in front of Shane, like a soldier taking a bullet. Rob's anger had always been passive aggressive, but right now he was looking at Shane with an unbridled rage that made Ilya feel sick.

"Do not talk to him like that," Ilya snapped at Rob. Rob rolled his eyes, and Ilya realized the urgency with which he needed Shane to get out of the line of fire. 

“I am sorry. You should get out of here,” Ilya muttered to Shane.

Shane glanced at him with concern creasing his forehead. Ilya desperately wanted to kiss the worried divot forming between his eyebrows.

“OK, I…I'm sorry,” Shane said, as if his presence was a problem for Ilya. If they had more time, if they didn't have an audience, Ilya would assure him it was the furthest thing from the truth.

Instead, Rob snorted, and Ilya glared at him. Ilya wished he could tease Shane for being so polite, tell him that he belonged in the apartment more than Rob. But it felt imperative that Shane get out of there before Rob said anything unfair and shitty to him.

Shane brushed past Rob awkwardly, and then glanced over his shoulder at Ilya one final time. His expression was haunting. Ilya barely noticed Rob walking into the apartment and closing the door, he was too fixated on trying to place the expression on Shane’s face.

When Rob flung his keys into the bowl in the entryway, Ilya realized it. Shane looked like he had been resigning himself to a goodbye.

“I…I don't know what you're here for, but I have to—” Ilya moved to the door, but Rob shuffled in front of it.

“No way. You call me to come get my shit, you chew out my boyfriend, and now you're going to leave so you can go run after a guy?” Rob sounded astonished.

“I'm not running after a guy,” Ilya lied. It sounded pathetic when Rob said it like that. “I just do not need to be here while you are. This is what you want, right? You do not talk to me for months.”

Rob rubbed his forehead. “I needed space, it doesn't mean I don't want to talk to you.”

“You have had months, and you come over no notice on a Saturday night, what the fuck is that?” Ilya could hear his voice rising, but he didn’t care. All the anger and hurt he'd been trying to process was unleashing.

“Fine! Fuck! Next time I'll call. Oh wait, you probably won't pick up the phone because you'll probably be balls deep in some other person, and I'll fucking walk in on you. Would that make you happy?” Rob snapped.

Ilya had an irrational streak of anger at the implication that he was fucking around. Some idiotic part of him was still clinging to the joy of Shane promising to tell his ex about Ilya, about the possibility that they were becoming something more.

“What do you want? You brought a moving truck at 9pm on a Saturday?” Ilya asked.

Rob rolled his eyes. “Can you just put some clothes on? I want to talk.”

Ilya turned and marched into the bedroom, yanking on the clothes that were crumpled on the floor, remnants of his date with Shane.

“I got you that sweater,” Rob said quietly.

Ilya looked up, surprised. Rob had followed him and was leaning in the doorframe, glancing between Ilya and the fucked up bed, with its covers messed and pillows tossed about.

“Are you serious about him?” Rob asked.

“It is not your business,” Ilya sighed.

“Maybe,” Rob shrugged. “But you're fucking him in the bed I bought.”

His words punched through Ilya. His worst fears in their relationship had come true, Rob was circling back to lord his financial contributions over Ilya.

“Fine, take the bed if you want,” Ilya said.

He stared at Rob and tried to get the twisting sensation in his stomach to settle. He'd imagined this moment countless times. Forcing Rob to see how much he'd hurt Ilya, posturing to Rob that Ilya was completely fine and over him. They had both had equal time in his fantasies, and he hadn't considered the reality playing out in front of him. A complicated miasma of regret, awkwardness, and a sense that neither side was coming out on top.

“Why are you here?” Ilya asked.

Rob moved to sit on the bed, and Ilya recoiled. He couldn't stomach the thought of sitting and having a conversation inches away from the spot where Shane had straddled him and left him speechless.

“Not here,” Ilya shook his head and walked to the living room.

Rob followed, pausing as he looked at the shelves of records.

“Liz said you were reorganizing?” Rob floated over to look, and Ilya resisted the urge to swat him away. It felt too personal, and Ilya had his walls slammed up now.

“Yes. Autobiographical.” Ilya wasn't sure why it mattered that Rob learned what system he'd used. It was strange, seeing Rob in the space that used to be theirs, surveying a collection that Rob used to be able to navigate blindfolded.

He watched as Rob's eyes widened, and then scanned the shelves, honing in on the section that had been the hardest to organize.

“I remember when you first played this for me,” Rob said softly, running a finger along the spine of Blond.

Ilya swallowed the lump in his throat. He had played the album for Rob the first time he had him over. They had hooked up on the floor that night, a frantic fuck on Ilya’s threadbare rug. Afterwards, Ilya had wanted to linger, clutching Rob tight to him, but Rob got up, complaining that his back hurt from laying on the ground.

It felt stupid to pathologize something so innocuous, as if Rob leaving to take a shower 30 seconds after they'd had passionate sex was some great sign of incompatibility that Ilya had failed to notice.

Still, Ilya stood there and watched Rob scan the music of their years together, and all he could see was the glaring flaws of their relationship.

“Why now?” Ilya asked.

“What?” Rob was jerked out of his reverie.

“Why come here now? It has been months since you left. It has been weeks since I texted you, even.”

Rob sighed and turned to sit on the couch.

“Ray wants an open relationship.”

Ilya threw his hands in the air.

“So what? Why do I need to know? And is he Ian or Ray? Why the fuck can he not choose between two names?”

Rob glared at him. “Your friends call you like five different names, calm down.”

Ilya crossed his arms and waited for the rest.

“I don't want to talk to my friends about this,” Rob said, running a hand through his hair.

“Not even Liz?” Ilya asked, engaging against his better judgement.

“She…” Rob closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “She isn't a huge fan to begin with.”

Ilya felt like punching the air in victory, but he restrained himself.

“Anyway, I don't have anyone else to talk to. And you and I kind of…had our thing.”

Ilya’s glee evaporated. “You think that was the same thing as an open relationship?”

He felt like he was going to be ill, he was flooded with flashbacks of vomiting in their kitchen sink.

“No. Ray is proposing a mature, honest relationship. What you offered was like…fucked up guilt and your idea of payback,” Rob said.

Silence invaded the room, and Ilya finally took a seat on the far end of the couch.

“Was that what Ray…?” Ilya couldn't finish his thought.

“No, I told you it was a stupid fucking idea two years ago, and I meant it,” Rob snapped. “I don't know. We flirted, but nothing happened until I broke up with you. He seemed…simple. More open.”

Ilya leaned his head back on the couch to stare at the ceiling. Every word Rob said hurt, like a knife twisting in his side. But a fucked up part of him needed to hear it.

“I was closed. And complicated,” Ilya assessed flatly.

“This really wasn't supposed to be about us,” Rob sighed.

Ilya craned his neck to glare at him. “Oh, you think you will come over and just get boyfriend advice from your ex?”

Rob stared at him, and for a moment Ilya thought he had successfully driven him away.

“OK, fine. You want to do this?” Rob asked.

Ilya was frozen, regret forming.

“You never wanted to let me in. You lied to me, for like a year about your mom,” Rob began.

Ilya winced. Lying was a strong term for it. He had told Rob his mother passed away when he was young, and Rob hadn’t pushed him for details. He had only told Rob about the cause of his mother's death one miserable evening, when he had been in bed for 24 hours and Rob was trying to coax him out.

“You were independent, to a fault. You never asked me for help, never asked me for advice,” Rob continued. This was a complaint Ilya had never heard before, and it stung.

“Because you made me feel like shit!” Ilya blurted out. “Anytime I get your opinion, it was judgemental, and shitty. I am running the shop wrong, I spend my money wrong, I talk to your co-workers wrong, it is all wrong to you.”

“If I made you feel like shit, then why the fuck were you with me?” Rob yelled.

“It was obviously not all shit,” Ilya gestured between them. They both stared at each other, chests heaving. Ilya could remember, in glimpses, much happier times spent on the couch. Laughing, listening to music, sharing what had happened in their days.

But Ilya could also remember what Sasha had said. That Ilya had shrunk with Rob. He had tried to sand down his rough edges, and tried to not take up too much space. Ilya thought he was preserving what they had, that his outsized neediness would eat Rob up until there was nothing left for either of them. It felt maddening that Rob was angry about him withholding.

Ilya stared at Rob and he thought about how much of himself he had held back in their relationship, and how bizarrely easy it was to throw himself at Shane, somehow trusting that Shane could catch all of him.

“If you do not want an open relationship with Ray, tell him that. He will stay with you, or not,” Ilya shrugged.

Rob blinked and then rubbed his eyes.

“Sure. Yeah, forget it. I don’t know what I was thinking,” Rob stood.“I'll uh…I'll come back later. After the holidays, I'll come back and get my things.”

Ilya remained planted on the couch as he watched Rob walk towards the door. Rob turned to look at Ilya, and Ilya realized with a horrific lurch of his stomach that Rob was hoping Ilya would ask him to stay.

A few months ago, Ilya might have. He would have been happy to pry Rob off his boyfriend, to feel that he was worth crawling back to. Now Ilya looked at him, and all he felt was dull sadness for the two of them.

“I am sorry,” Ilya finally said.

Rob turned and left without another word.

***

“Troy, I have a question,” Ilya said quietly.

Cliff was in the far corner of the store, helping a customer sift through their hip hop albums. Cliff, terminal and spontaneous romantic, was the last person who needed to weigh in on Ilya’s love life.

“What’s up?” Troy drifted over to the register.

Ilya rubbed his thumb on the countertop, mustering the courage. He hadn't slept much after Rob left, and when he did sleep, Rob and Shane were twisted into his thoughts so inextricably, he wasn't sure what was real.

“When did you know? With Harris?”

Troy's forehead wrinkled. “When did I know I wanted to marry him?”

Ilya shook his head firmly. He might be losing his mind, but he was still miles away from thinking about marriage.

“When did you know it was more than a crush?”

Troy’s eyes widened, and Ilya silently prayed that he had picked the right friend to have this conversation with, that he hadn't miscalculated.

“It’s kind of hard to remember,” Troy said slowly. “When I think back on it, it's like…it was always there. I remember there was one morning, he had spent the night, and when he left, I just watched him go out the door and it felt so wrong. Like I knew I would never get tired of him, I would always want to spend more time with him.”

Ilya couldn't help himself, he covered his face in his hands as he processed the familiarity of what Troy had told him. Getting serious with Rob had been easy, a progression of dates and hookups that built over a reasonable amount of time. What Ilya was feeling these days was intense, unprecedented, and illogical. He was terrified.

Ilya had texted Shane after Rob left, apologizing for putting Shane in an awkward position. Shane had yet to respond, and it was eating Ilya up inside.

“Uh, are you and Shane…”

“Rob came over last night,” Ilya switched the subject so abruptly that he tailspinned into another topic he didn't really want to discuss.

“Oh shit,” Troy said.

Ilya didn't respond, and for a moment he hoped Troy might leave it at that. Troy was quieter with his emotions than any of their other friends, a quality Ilya always appreciated. But true love had seemed to unlock something more talkative within him.

“Are you OK? What did he want?” Troy asked.

“He is having boyfriend problems. I think…” Ilya winced. “I think he was hoping he could use me. Get back at his boyfriend he is mad at, maybe.”

“What an asshole,” Troy said quietly. He looked like he might set something on fire with his glare, and Ilya felt a small victory at correctly choosing the right person to share his jumbled thoughts with.

“Boss, a little help here?” Cliff called out.

Ilya glanced over Troy’s shoulder and groaned. Cliff was holding up The Low End Theory, an album that Cliff often included on his ever-changing top five list of best 90’s hip hop albums. Ilya really didn’t have the mental capacity to riff out another list right then.

He was shocked and thrilled when Liz walked in the door, saving him from another debate about who was the best member of Wu-Tang

“Hi Liz,” Ilya called out cheerily.

“Hi Ilya,” Liz charged up to the desk, and Ilya realized far too late that she looked like she wanted to pulverize him.

She slapped her palms on the counter and yelled “Fuck you, asshole!”

Liz turned around and stomped out of the shop, the bell above the door tinkling as she slammed it behind her. Ilya felt everyone staring at him, and he had a delayed response as he hauled himself out of his seat and grabbed his coat.

“Liz, Liz, wait up,” Ilya called down the street as he hustled after her.

“Fuck you!” Liz yelled, but she stopped.

Ilya caught up to her, and when he looked at her expression he knew.

“He told you?”

“You fucking cheated on him?” Liz looked like she had a half a mind to punch him.

“Yes.” Ilya resisted explaining further. It would only seem like he was trying to diminish what he did, and he did deserve to get yelled at by Rob's best friend.

“Fuck you! I fucking stood up for you. When he left you, when he started dating that fucking asshole with the awful stick and poke tattoo of a Mason jar, I…fuck you, Ilya!” Liz looked so hurt, and it took everything Ilya had to not talk her out of it.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya shoved his hands in his coat pocket. “I will always be sorry I did it. Rob did not deserve it.”

Liz stared at him, squinting. She had clearly expected a fight.

“Please don’t get back together with him,” Liz said.

Ilya startled at that. “That will never happen,” he promised.

“I hate you,” Liz said. Ilya nodded. It hurt to hear from someone he once considered a friend, but Svetlana would have been similarly scathing, if she was in Liz’s shoes. At the end of the day, Liz had always been Rob’s.

“Whatever Rob says, just…promise me you won’t get back together with him. For his sake,” Liz asked.

Ilya shook his head slowly, still processing. “It will never happen, I promise you, Liz. I do not think he wants that, and anyway—”

Ilya cut himself off, he had been rambling as his brain tried to sort out Liz's plea, and he had wandered too close to a topic he didn't want to discuss with Liz.

She pounced.

“You're seeing someone anyway. I know, Rob told me. When he told me everything,” Liz snapped her fingers at Ilya.

“I could use a cigarette. Please.”

Ilya fumbled in his pocket and produced one, extending his lighter as well.

After Liz took a steadying drag, she squinted at him.

“You really like this new guy, don't you?”

“I did not say that,” Ilya said cautiously.

“You don't need to. Your face says all of it. Just mentioning him, you go all soft,” Liz grimaced.

Ilya didn't have a rebuttal. It felt like anything he said would dig him into a hole, so he stayed silent.

“Why did you do it?” Liz asked.

“What did Rob say?” Ilya deflected.

“Just that you were dumb and scared,” Liz rolled her eyes.

Ilya shrugged and nodded, and looked at the sidewalk as he scuffed his shoe.

“That is about it, yes.”

“I really liked you,” Liz said, bitterly.

Ilya looked up and saw the hurt in her eyes. It was like being transported back to two years ago, when he'd told Rob. Back then, Ilya had been frantic to plead his case, to say anything to prove it was a one-time fuck up. It was, and he had earned Rob's trust back, gradually.

Here, now, in front of Liz, Ilya felt no urgency to explain things to her. That when it happened, they had been strained for months over the apartment hunt and weird comments Rob kept making about the profitability and the future of the record store.

How Rob had dressed Ilya from head to toe before a dinner with his firm, like he was molding Ilya into the appropriate boyfriend to bring to a work party. How Rob had completely ignored Ilya at that party, laughing and constantly touching another partner, a handsome man who Ilya had never heard Rob mention before that night. Rob ignored Ilya to the point that he didn't even notice when Ilya left.

Before he knew it, Ilya had found himself in a bar a few blocks away, catastrophically drunk. He'd gone home with a woman whose face he only vaguely remembered, and when he got back to their apartment the next morning, he'd vomited in the kitchen sink and then woke Rob up to tell him.

Ilya had begged Rob to go sleep with someone else, one time, to make things even. Rob told him to fuck off, and instead they did couples therapy for three months.

After therapy, after their relationship began to reassemble and Rob promised he trusted Ilya again, Ilya would bring up the offer as a joke.

Yet another thing that hindsight cast into sharp focus. Ilya had clung to a sense of getting even, to an idea that he was always a few steps beneath Rob, and if he could just drag Rob down to his level, Ilya's sense of inadequacy would ease.

“I hate you,” Liz said again, snapping Ilya out of his contemplation. Her tone had some warmth to it, at least.

“Please take care of yourself.”

She bundled him in a brief, surprising hug, and then turned and marched off down the sidewalk without a backwards glance.

Ilya watched her leave, reconciling himself to the knowledge that it might be the last time he ever saw her.

***

Two days passed without hearing from Shane. Ilya had reached out twice, once with a joke about meeting up for a 5am run, another asking if he had listened to any boring podcasts lately.

Ilya couldn't think of anything else but Shane, and he resorted to desperate measures.

“Ilya! How are you?” Rose was extremely chipper, almost offensively so for how anxious Ilya felt.

He could have asked Kip if he had heard from Shane, but that felt too humiliating. Rose was outside the friend group, word wouldn't spread that Ilya was this clingy and attached to a man he wasn't even officially dating. And besides, Rose had seen Ilya at his worst, and she still wanted to be friends with him. 

A tiny voice in his head reminded him of what Shane had said. Shane wanted to tell his ex he was seeing someone. Ilya tried to tell himself that it wasn’t an enormous overstep to call Rose right now.

“Oh, you know. Shop is busy right now.”

December was always hectic, last minute gifts from well-intentioned friends and family of vinyl devotees. Ilya had patiently worked with a customer the day before who knew virtually nothing about the music tastes of their niece they were shopping for.

“Tell me about it,” Rose said, and Ilya could hear the sympathy through the phone.

“What, busy time for theater?”

Rose laughed. “Oh my god, theater is not paying the bills. No, I work at a place that does boudoir photos. So many people getting sexy calendars or photo books for their significant others right now.”

“Hm. Slutty Santa and reindeer?” Ilya guessed.

Rose's laugh confirmed it.

“So. Why did you call?” Rose asked.

Ilya sighed and stared at the ceiling. He had to appreciate how direct she was.

“I was wondering if…has Shane said anything to you?”

Rose was silent for a moment, unsettlingly so.

“Said anything, like what?”

Ilya rubbed his forehead, he couldn't understand what she was parsing out, so he needed to stop beating around the bush.

“He was here a few days ago. My place. My ex showed up, and Shane left. And now he is not replying to my messages.”

“Oh,” Rose said. “OK. Let me see what I can do.”

“No, I do not need—I just mean that I was worried. And wondering if he is alive,” Ilya admitted.

“Oh calm down. I'm not going to tell him you're in love with him or anything, just…I can guess what his headspace is like, I'll check on him.”

Ilya’s eyes squeezed shut in relief, and he was filled with gratitude for his stupid, idiotic mistake of hooking up with his neighbor all those years ago.

Later that night he got a text from Shane, and Ilya yanked his phone off his bedside table when he saw the notification.

Shane: Sorry, been a busy few days. Is everything OK with you?

Ilya: Yes, but I would be better right now if I could see your glasses.

Shane sent a photo of his glasses, folded on his bedside table, and Ilya responded about a thousand angry emojis. They hadn't addressed the elephant in the room, but Ilya hoped they could delay it as long as possible. For now, it felt too good to get another bedtime text from Shane.

***

“Top five Christmas songs,” Harris prompted.

Ilya was in a lousy mood. He had invited Shane to Monk's that night, and Shane had told him he was sorry to miss it, but he was busy.

“Last Christmas’, obviously,” Cliff said.

“Merry Christmas (I Don't Want to Fight Tonight)?” Troy offered.

Scott leapt in. “What about—”

“If you pick ‘Simply Having A Wonderful Christmastime’ I will throw this drink in your face,” Ilya threatened.

Scott rolled his eyes. “I only picked that one time. I was going to say ‘Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas,’ the Judy Garland recording. It's so sad.”

“That’s a good thing?” Cliff asked.

Ilya dug his fingernail into the label of his beer bottle and exchanged a sympathetic smile with Scott. The holidays had been depressing for Ilya ever since his mother died. It got better after moving to Montreal, but it was still a dull ache of a reminder, another year passing without her.

“I pick ‘The Christmas Song’. Nat King Cole,” Ilya said. Wiebe was especially fond of that album, and Ilya had grown used to listening to it while he wrestled with wrapping paper and double-sided tape on December 24th.

They all turned expectantly to Kip, who shrugged.

“Can I just go with the whole Charlie Brown Christmas album?”

The group shouted him down for the cop-out, and then Harris and Cliff got up to fetch them another round.

“I need a smoke,” Ilya got up, and Kip shot Scott a pleading look.

“Fine,” Scott rolled his eyes affectionately. Kip had ostensibly quit two years ago, but every now and then he'd bum a cigarette off Ilya if he'd had enough to drink.

They hunched against the cold outside, taking initial drags in the frigid air.

“So,” Kip started.

Ilya waved his hand, cutting him off. “Please do not ask about Shane.”

Kip exhaled, laughing. “I wasn't going to, I promise! But since you brought him up…”

Ilya glared at him, but Kip was cheerfully undeterred.

“I'll just say one thing, and leave it alone, I promise,” Kip said. “I was right.”

Ilya squinted at him. He wanted to prod and ask Kip to elaborate, but he was preoccupied with wallowing in guilt and fear at the moment. Curiosity eventually won out.

“Right about what?”

“That you guys would hit it off! Ok, I didn't think you'd get along this well. I should have set you up years ago. I almost did,” Kip said, completely unaware of the way those words detonated inside Ilya’s mind.

“Years ago?” Ilya choked out.

Kip nodded. “Yeah, between breakups. God, like…three or four years ago I wanted to get Shane back out there, but he wasn't ready. And then Matt was back in the picture.”

Kip grimaced, and Ilya took a very long drag to prevent himself from interrogating his friend.

Ilya tried to wrap his mind around meeting Shane on an awkward blind date. He tried to picture what his life would have looked like if he was Shane all this time. It could have erased all his regrets of the past few years, the shit he put Rob through and the way Rob had decimated his confidence.

Ilya braced against the chilly December air, and considered a worse outcome. Maybe he and Shane would have fallen in love, moved in together, and Ilya still would have fucked it all up. Maybe it didn't matter who it was, that anybody Ilya had dated in the past four years was always doomed to be collateral damage.

It was a pointless thing to dwell on, but the possibility of it all kept Ilya awake that night after he crawled into bed.

***

Rose invited Ilya to her place a few days later, for a party that she apparently threw annually. Ilya tried to not think too hard about whether or not it was a pity invite to put him in the same room as Shane.

Shane had been busy, responding to texts late and not mentioning when he wanted to meet up again.

Ilya knocked on Rose's door and tried to swallow down the anxiety that built and built all day.

Rose answered the door this time, in a hideous Christmas sweater.

“No wine to drop on the ground tonight?” She teased, sweeping her arm to usher him inside.

As Ilya hung his coat, Rose casually confirmed what Ilya had been hoping to hear.

“Shane got here an hour ago. I should have warned you, or maybe you already guessed. He can be kind of intense about this, he might be a little tough to talk to tonight.”

Ilya felt how sappy his smile was, but Rose looked delighted by it.

He trailed her into the dining room, where her friends were clustered around gingerbread houses in various states of assembly.

Shane snapped his head up at the sound of their footsteps, and beamed at Ilya. It was instant relief, something loosening in Ilya’s chest that had felt constricted ever since Rob had surprised them last week.

Shane nodded towards the empty seat next to him, and Ilya had to fight the urge to race to his side.

“Rose says you take this very seriously,” Ilya said as he sat. He eyed the structure Shane had begun. It looked sturdier than some of the other houses so far, and Shane had progressed to piping icing trim on the eaves of the roof.

“I've won this competition the last three years in a row, I have a reputation to uphold,” Shane said firmly.

Ilya reached for some smaller pieces of gingerbread. “Will you let me contribute?”

Shane looked at him warily, and then tilted his head.

“On a trial basis. What are you going to make with that?”

“I think dog house,” Ilya said. Shane nodded, and they fell into their comfortable silence that Ilya had begun to treasure. Ilya couldn't believe this was an ideal night for him, he was mortifyingly happy to make gingerbread houses with a beautiful, boring man.

Ilya was fixated on piping shingles onto the roof when Shane spoke.

“How was it? After I left.” Ilya could have sworn he heard some shakiness in Shane’s voice, and it wrenched at him.

“Not great. He was mad at his boyfriend, mad at me. We fought, but no…” Ilya cast around for the right word, trying to choose carefully. “No closure. I think maybe this is something we will never get.”

“Oh,” Shane’s voice was quiet, and Ilya rushed to clarify.

“I am glad, in a weird way. There is not closure between me and him, but…I think for me. Moving on.”

Shane's eyes snapped to Ilya’s, and he was silent for a moment. In those few seconds, Ilya worried that he might have betrayed too much. That Shane’s offer the prior week didn't really mean the same thing it had meant to Ilya. Maybe Ilya was moving too fast.

“I know what you mean,” Shane said slowly. Ilya’s heart leapt, and he had to set the icing down. He couldn't guarantee that his hands would remain steady as he listened to this.

“I'm, um. I'm moving out,” Shane said.

Ilya fought to keep his face at neutral, but his jaw went slack and he felt like doing a cartwheel. He might have the opportunity to spend the night in Shane’s bed, shower with whatever heavenly smelling body wash Shane used, wake up with his face buried in the crook of Shane’s neck.

“When?” Ilya asked. He was ready to set up a countdown on his phone.

“As soon as possible. I'm sorry, I know I've been hard to get ahold of this week. I was packing and touring places, and honestly fighting with Matt a lot. So I know what you mean about fighting with your ex."

Ilya grimaced. The sooner Matt was truly out of Shane’s life, the better.

"I think I found a spot this morning I liked. After this,” Shane gestured at the gingerbread house. “When I can wash my hands, I'll show you the listing. I'd like to hear what you think.”

Ilya felt dizzy. He didn't trust his words, didn't trust his brain to prevent him from saying something stupid and intense as soon as he opened his mouth.

Shane turned back to the gingerbread house, which he was now beginning a lawn for.

“I also…I'd like to talk to you more about my breakup. About the past few years. There are some things you should know, I think. But maybe not tonight, if that's OK? I'm just really happy to spend some time with you. It's been a long week.”

Ilya’s stomach churned as he thought about what he'd need to divulge. Shane deserved to hear the worst of what Ilya had done. If Shane chose to drop him after he found out, at least Ilya wouldn't be living with the spectre of guilt looming over him.

He swallowed and nodded weakly. “Sure, later.”

Chapter End Notes

The part of the story I was most nervous for! A key part of High Fidelity is that the protagonist was very culpable (and in the source material, primarily at fault) for the breakdown of their relationship. The one-off cheating is straight from HF. Rob wasn't right for Ilya to begin with, but Ilya's trying to grow and be better, and that means admitting how much he contributed to the eventual breakup.

I saw people theorize that Ilya cheated on Rob with Shane. It felt more important that Ilya's decision to cheat was contained to what he had going on in his relationship at the time. Shane’s POV chapter will cover their first hookup, and what was going on in Shane’s life when it happened.

I hope Ilya’s sadboy insecurities aren't too annoying to read right now. He is working through it and learning to accept that he can love and be loved!

Next chapter will not be quite so gloomy, and then chapter 11 we'll finally get Shane's POV. I missed living in that neurotic brain.

Idk which Wu-Tang members the record shop gang would pick as their favorites, but foe the record, my favorite is ODB.

Chapter title is from the Tame Impala song.

Chapter 10: Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You

Chapter Notes

Ilya had rehearsed what he would say to Shane. He had talked it over with his therapist, he had written it down and practiced saying the words out loud. Imagined Shane’s hurt, distrustful expression when Ilya explained what he was capable of.

The worst part was that Ilya needed to bare it all, confess to Shane about his lowest moments because he also needed to tell Shane what he was beginning to feel for him. That Ilya wanted to spend all of his time with Shane. That he woke up wondering how Shane’s day was going to go, and he ended his nights picturing Shane in his glasses, reading in bed.

Ilya thought he had imagined every way the confession would be received, thought he had prepared for everything. It all went out the window when Shane called him the day before he was supposed to come over for dinner.

“Hello?” Ilya hopped off the stool behind the register, waving Cliff over to cover it. He weaved through the crowded shop until he got to the back office, and he quickly shut the door so he could hear Shane better.

“Hey, I have a weird question, and you can totally say no if you want,” Shane’s voice was tinny, it sounded like Ilya was on speakerphone.

“I will not say no,” Ilya promised.

“Could you water my plants?” Shane asked, sounding anxious. “My dad, he, uh…my dad got hit by a car.”

“What?” Ilya almost dropped his phone out of sheer panic.

“He’s ok. He got hit by some asshole at a crosswalk and he broke his collarbone, but he’s ok. But now I’m going to Ottawa earlier than I thought for the holidays, and Matt already left for Cancun with his family, and I thought the plants would be fine when I was just gone for a couple days, but now it’ll be more like two weeks, and-”

“Shane, I will water your plants,” Ilya interrupted. His chest ached at the worry in Shane’s voice, but he tried to bring levity to the situation.

“Shane, you really need to work on bad news delivery. Tell me first next time that your papa is ok, before you say he was hit by a car.”

“I'll try to keep that in mind the next time my dad is hit by a car,” Shane muttered. “Um. Anyway. I'm going to be in front of your store in fifteen minutes so I can drop off my key.”

Ilya felt his mouth twist in an enormous smile, that Shane knew he could count on Ilya to help him, that Shane asked as a courtesy but had already been on his way.

“I will see you soon.”

In exactly fifteen minutes, Shane pulled up in his boring Jeep that Ilya had come to adore. He shook his head as he approached Shane’s car, wondering how he had let this happen to him.

“Thank you so much. I don't move into the new place until January, so just, um. The apartment is kind of a mess because my things are in boxes. I'll text you the directions when I get to my parents’, you don’t need to go over until Sunday. Maybe you could grab the mail then? I'm so sorry, I had the mail paused for the days I planned to go, but—”

Ilya couldn't resist kissing him. Partly to quiet Shane for a moment, partly because he felt helpless in the face of Shane’s worry.

“I will follow all of your orders,” Ilya promised. Shane’s eyes widened a bit at that, and Ilya wished he could shove him into the backseat of his car and immediately test that interest.

“And I will take care of your apartment. Please tell me when you make it to Ottawa?” Ilya asked.

Shane nodded, and handed over his key. Ilya slipped it in his pocket like it was nothing, but it felt like it was burning a hole through the denim. He wished things were different, that Shane was extending his key because he wanted Ilya to let himself into Shane’s home whenever he wanted. Ilya dreamt for a moment about the regular routine it could be. Ilya imagined getting home before Shane, lounging on the couch watching hockey, or starting dinner. Hearing Shane’s key turn in the lock, and feeling his heart leap when he saw Shane, worn out from work and beautiful.

Ilya really needed to get a grip.

“I'll…um,” Shane scratched at the back of his neck nervously. “I'll miss you. I didn't think I would be gone so long.”

Ilya surged forward, kissing Shane again. His lips were cold, his breath startled by the speed with which Ilya had swooped at him, and when Shane melted into Ilya’s touch it felt like everything might turn out alright.

Too soon, Ilya remembered that Shane had been tearing across town so he could drop off his key and then go to his father's bedside.

“I will miss you too,” Ilya said quietly. Shane looked at him, a little dazed. He nodded and then marched to his car. Right before he pulled out of his parking spot, he gave Ilya one final look.

It was completely inscrutable. Something soft, something conflicted. Ilya couldn't make sense of it, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

***

Ilya was practically vibrating with excitement that Sunday. It felt a little wrong to be so thrilled to see Shane’s apartment with Shane not there, but he couldn't help it. As open and earnest as Shane was, Ilya still felt like Shane kept parts of himself tucked away.

When Ilya entered the apartment, he was hit in the face with new facts about Shane.

Shane or Matt made a lot of money. Maybe both of them. The apartment was stylish and palatial, and Ilya was a little stunned.

The second thing Ilya noticed, with an exhilarating thrill in his stomach, were the boxes. Shane had boxes everywhere, neatly labelled. Even though Shane had mentioned moving, seeing the evidence flooded Ilya with excitement. Some were only half-full, and Ilya couldn't resist peeking into the open box marked “books.”

It seemed to be all non-fiction, and Ilya began mentally forming a reading list for Shane.

Ilya wandered into the living room, pulling up the detailed instructions Shane had left. There were a staggering number of plants, many with fussy care directions that Shane had lovingly typed out.

As Ilya filled the watering pot, his eyes landed on the fridge. Ilya and Rob's fridge had been littered with novelty magnets and photobooth strips of their friends, photos of two of them. Ilya had ripped the photos of him and Rob off the fridge ages ago.

Shane and Matt's had a whiteboard calendar, a Metros season schedule, and a single photograph.

Against his better judgement, Ilya moved closer for a better look. It seemed to have been taken in the apartment, a selfie on the couch.

Matt was, unfortunately, devastatingly handsome. Ilya shouldn't have expected anything less. In the photo he was beaming at the camera, and Shane was smiling at Matt with his arm slung on the back of the couch. He looked comfortable, maybe in a way that Ilya hadn't quite seen before.

Ilya squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, but the image was burned into his retinas. This had been a mistake. Ilya couldn't resist snooping for any information about Shane, and it was coming back to bite him.

As Ilya walked over to carefully water Shane’s two dozen plants, he tried to remind himself that Shane wasn't his to begin with. Ilya had clung to the fantasy that they had returned to each other for a reason, but the truth was that when Ilya inevitably came clean and told him about his role in his prior relationship imploding, Shane probably wouldn't want him after that, and Ilya would be left with the wreckage of his mistake again.

Ilya sent Shane a video of his hand petting a giant leaf on a plant that Shane was particularly worried about. He slipped his phone away, and glanced around the living room.

Maybe it was because most of Shane’s things were in boxes, but the apartment was not as illuminating as Ilya had hoped.

Ilya drifted towards the bedrooms, peeking into both, dismayed to find that they shared a wall. They looked nearly identical, the only thing that designated Shane’s room were the navy bedsheets that Ilya recognized from their nightly photos.

Ilya hesitantly stepped into Shane’s room, and stood awkwardly, his hands in his pockets as if he was in a cramped antique store and he might break a fragile object with one abrupt turn.

The walls were bare, the bookshelf cleared out. The dresser had a handful of items on top, and Ilya stepped closer.

A glasses case, a small framed photo of a dock overlooking a lake, and a couple wrinkled square paper napkins, the kind that came from bars. One had smudged, illegible writing scrawled on it.

Ilya stared at the napkins, wondering why Shane was keeping pieces of trash on his otherwise tidy dresser, when his phone buzzed.

Shane had sent him a text thanking him, and Ilya hurriedly stepped out of his room, guilt swelling inside him. Shane hadn’t invited him into his home for Ilya to poke around.

Shane: Thank you again. Rose is out of town already, and Kip over-watered everything last time I asked him to take care of my plants.

Ilya: No problem. I am good at following directions from cute bossy men.

Shane: I meant to give you a Christmas gift, but I left it in the apartment. It's better if I give it to you in person, is that OK?

Ilya: More than OK. You did not need to get me anything.

Shane: It's really nothing, you might hate it.

Shane: My dad is trying to get off the couch without help, gotta go. Talk to you soon.

Ilya put his phone away and glanced around the apartment one last time. His gaze landed on a small square box, resting on the stand next to the entryway. It was neatly wrapped, and Ilya knew immediately that it was his gift. He could continue his poor behavior, rip it open and torture himself with guilt over whatever thoughtful gift Shane had purchased for him.

Ilya grimaced as he thought about the gift he had prepared for Shane. It felt weak in comparison, even without knowing what Shane had gotten him.

He squared his shoulders and strode out, locking the door behind him and double-checking the latch. He was already wracked with guilt, he didn't need to make it worse.

***

The longer Ilya agonized over Shane’s gift, the worse his catastrophizing got. Now that they weren't exchanging gifts until after New Year's, he had weeks to fixate. He was convinced that introspection was overrated, wished he could just put on blinders and ignore the emotions that were eating him alive.

Instead, he texted Wiebe.

Ilya: Made a playlist. Can you look at it?

He sent the link and within an hour Wiebe was calling him.

“Well?” Ilya asked, getting to his feet so he could pace his living room.

“Roz…” Wiebe sounded like he was trying to soothe a wild animal, and Ilya immediately regretted asking for a second opinion.

“Is it that bad? It is for someone who does not listen to music, I only know one or two songs that he likes,” Ilya fretted.

“No, it's not that. The playlist is great, wouldn't expect anything less. Just…who is this for?”

Ilya's feet came to an abrupt halt.

“His name is Shane,” Ilya said quietly.

“And does Shane know how you feel, or is this how you're telling him?” Wiebe asked.

Ilya’s heart clenched. “What do you—this is very obvious?”

He had half a mind to put Wiebe on speakerphone and review the playlist right then, song by song, so he could see with fresh eyes where he had completely exposed himself.

“Oh Roz,” Wiebe's voice was all tender affection, but Ilya could hear amusement creeping in. “Yeah, this is…this seems serious.”

Ilya wanted to faceplant onto the couch and never surface again. He could feel his cheeks burning from embarrassment.

“I want it to be,” Ilya admitted. It was painful to say it out loud, especially with the knowledge that Shane didn't, or wouldn't want the same thing.

“I wish it could be. But I do not think it will happen. So this is closest I can get, I think. Maybe this way he will know how I am feeling, even after he says ‘no thank you’ to me.”

Ilya tried to phrase it as a joke, but Wiebe grumbled and cut him off.

“If he does, he's an idiot,” Wiebe said. Ilya opened his mouth to argue, but Wiebe beat him to it. “But I don't think you fall for idiots. Tell me about him.”

Ilya heaved a sigh, and then the words tumbled out of him. He was too tired to keep it bottled up, and Wiebe was the best kind of confidant. He had always expertly coaxed bits and pieces out of Ilya over the years, undeterred whenever Ilya put his walls up or brushed him off. The quiet persistence had paid off, and Wiebe was perhaps the only person aside from his therapist that Ilya could voice these tremulous thoughts to.

Ilya’s words were rapid and messy, and he kept repeating himself. He mentioned about three times that Shane lived with his ex, he described Shane’s ambition and warmth breathlessly, and he had to restrain himself from traumatizing Wiebe with descriptions of the incomprehensibly great sex they had.

“And when I am with him…when he looks at me, he makes me think maybe he wants more. That he feels this too. But he does not know everything about me, and I think if he does, he will not look at me the same way,” Ilya finished, heaving a sigh.

“What is so bad to know about you? You think he doesn’t have baggage you guys haven’t talked about yet?” Wiebe asked.

Ilya chewed at his lip. It was hard to imagine Shane with any skeletons in his closet, and Ilya tried to think of something that would drive him away from Shane. Maybe if he found out Shane was a murderer, he would walk away. But Shane already had so many habits and quirks that Ilya never would have thought he’d fall for. Shane was a morning person, a non-fiction enthusiast, and he didn’t listen to music. If Kip had told Ilya any of those qualities beforehand, Ilya never would have let him give Shane his number.

“What do I do if he does want this?” Ilya asked, voicing his worst fear. “What do I do if I am not ready and I fuck it all up like I did before?”

Wiebe sighed heavily, and Ilya could picture him hanging his head in frustration.

“Kid, all you can do is try. I don’t think I was ready for Marie when we met. Hell, she really didn’t think I was ready. But you saw how that turned out.”

Ilya registered some truth in those words, felt his heart settle a fraction. He did have to swallow the urge to argue, to tell Wiebe that it wasn’t fair to use his perfect marriage as an example of the best case scenario. Instead, he changed the topic to their holiday plans, and Wiebe took mercy on him, steering them to more neutral waters.

***

Christmas with Harris’s family was festive, warm, and exhausting. Ilya was dead tired when he got home that evening. The Drovers always offered to have him stay at their home on the pastoral apple farm, but he wanted to crawl into his own bed that night.

The second he stepped inside, his phone lit up, and his heart jolted in sync.

“Merry Christmas,” Ilya said. He winced at how soft and tender his voice was, but he couldn't help it.

“Merry Christmas,” Shane sounded sleepy. “I guess I'll also say that to you in January. I was researching Russian Orthodox Christmas today.”

“You do not need to do that,” Ilya protested, even as his heart warmed at Shane’s confidence that they would still be in contact in January. A few weeks was a low bar when it came to planning for the future, but Ilya was clinging to any and all signs.

“I know. I'm just curious,” Shane said. Ilya smiled. Shane was endlessly curious, and it was one of his qualities that Ilya had grown too fond of.

“Mm. I am curious about some things,” Ilya said. He heard Shane’s breath hitch. “Where are you?”

“In bed. My childhood bedroom,” Shane said.

“What are you wearing?” Ilya asked, kicking his shoes off and heading for his bed.

“My dad gets us matching Christmas pajamas every year, I'm wearing mine. They're flannel, they're really warm,” Shane said. Ilya rolled his eyes, because what he wanted to do was laugh at Shane thwarting any attempt on Ilya’s part to be sexy. Somehow, conversation about flannel pajamas was doing it for him anyway.

“Take them off,” Ilya said, switching to speakerphone so he could yank his own clothes off. The rustling on Shane’s end of the line sounded hurried.

“Ok,” Shane said. He already sounded breathless and needy, and that realization went straight to Ilya’s dick.

“Were you thinking about me today?” Ilya teased, moving to grasp his cock.

“All day,” Shane admitted. Ilya squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as he processed Shane’s honesty.

“What were you thinking?”

“Just…I wanted you there. For all of it. Presents, dinner, watching a movie on the couch in the den.”

Ilya desperately needed to regain control.

“I think it is better if you are here. I can fuck you until you scream. If I am at your parents’ I would need to gag you, make you quiet.”

“Fuck,” Shane said quietly.

“Are you touching yourself?” Ilya asked. He hoped he knew the answer, hoped he had gotten enough of a read on Shane by now.

“No, I was…I wanted you to tell me when.”

Ilya was going to die. He might already be dead and in heaven. Shane handing total responsibility to Ilya made him feel trusted and powerful in a way he had never felt before.

“I will tell you what I want to do to you,” Ilya said, slowly stroking his cock. “And maybe, if I am feeling nice, I will let you touch yourself.”

Shane whined a little, and Ilya rolled over, fumbling for the lube in his bedside table. He hoped the sounds were loud enough, the click of the cap and the wet sound of him slicking himself cueing Shane, making him hungry.

“If you were here,” Ilya closed his eyes as he stroked himself. “I would want you on your knees, want to grab your hair so I can fuck your mouth.”

Shane’s breath was ragged, and Ilya almost couldn’t believe he wasn’t touching himself.

“I want that,” Shane said. “I want you to feel yourself in my throat.”

Ilya moaned as he imagined it, wrapping his hand on Shane’s neck as Shane swallowed around his cock.

“You’re so fucking good for me, Shane,” Ilya hissed, squeezing the base of his cock for a moment as he tried to collect himself. “Your mouth is so perfect, you look pretty when you suck my cock. Your eyes-”

Ilya stopped himself. Shane's doe eyes when he was sucking Ilya’s cock were one of the sexiest things Ilya had ever seen, but Ilya also just missed them. Missed getting lost in them, missed the way Shane stared at Ilya like he wanted to swallow him whole. Ilya had abruptly veered into territory that was too romantic, that was not filthy in the slightest.

“I love your eyes,” Shane said quietly, his voice strained. “When I’m on my knees for you, you look-”

Shane broke off into a moan, and Ilya’s hand sped up.

“I need to fuck you, Shane,” Ilya couldn’t keep the desperation out of his voice. If he could leap through the phone, he would. “I need to pin you down. Need to fuck your pretty, tight hole until you are begging to come.”

“Please,” Shane sounded like he was trembling with need, and Ilya pictured him. Hands clutching the sheets as he tried to obey, his cock hard and untouched.

In that moment, Ilya lost his mind. He was so desperate for Shane, so frustrated and filled with longing, that he couldn’t control himself from voicing exactly what he felt.

“I need you,” Ilya gasped, fist tightening as he fucked his hand. “You’re so fucking perfect. Nobody feels as good as you, like you’re fucking made for me. Fuck Shane, it's like you were made to be mine.”

“I am,” Shane said, and Ilya was too consumed to fight it. He let Shane’s words wash over him as his back arched off the mattress.

“I’m yours. Ilya, you make me feel so good. It's just you, for so long. I don’t…fuck,” Shane moaned, and Ilya pictured his eyelashes fluttering. “You’re all I want. I want...fuck. Ilya, I need you.”

“Touch yourself. Come for me,” Ilya ordered through gritted teeth. The sigh of relief from Shane immediately sent Ilya to the edge, and he couldn’t keep the frantic need out of his voice.

“Shane, I’m so…I’m going to-”

“Fuck, Ilya. I’m-”

Shane’s gasping, helpless moan as he came was exactly what Ilya needed. His vision blurred as he came, coating his tight fist and up across his chest. For a moment, Ilya imagined Shane in the room with him, his beautiful eyes shining as he leaned down to lick across Ilya’s stomach, tasting him.

The haze lingered longer than it usually did, Ilya staving off reality. The warmth of Shane’s words hung in his chest, filling him with unearned hope.

“You only want me?” Ilya finally spoke.

“Fuck,” Shane groaned, and Ilya could picture his embarrassed, scrunched face. His cheeks were probably turning pink, the peachy color that made Ilya want to bite him.

“We can talk about that later,” Shane mumbled. “When I’m not covered in come and my parents aren’t upstairs.”

“Hm,” Ilya said, his limbs felt heavy and his mind was still too foggy to grasp onto the negative. In the morning, there was time to spiral and worry and try to remind himself of Wiebe's assurances that Ilya might improbably deserve exactly what he wanted. In the same breath, Ilya told himself in the morning he could reconcile himself to the fact that Shane might not want Ilya after they spoke properly.

“Do you snore?” Shane asked.

It startled Ilya enough to make him laugh. “No, not really. Why, do you?”

“No,” Shane said. “I just wonder sometimes. What it’ll be like sleeping with you. Again, I guess.”

Ilya wasn’t sure his heart could take much more. He didn't want to touch on their one night together, it didn't feel like that night counted when he had woken up without Shane in his bed. Ilya's heart was aching so much that he felt like curling in on himself.

“Soon?” Ilya asked hopefully. He could be painfully optimistic that night, and reckon with reality in the morning.

“Soon,” Shane promised.

***

By New Year’s Eve, Ilya was wrecked with need and nerves. Shane was returning on New Year’s day, and Ilya had spent an anxious hour examining Shane’s plants the morning of the 31st, looking for any signs of harm that Ilya might have unwittingly perpetrated.

Svetlana had decided on a party at Artgang that evening. Cliff tried to rally the troops, but there were too many shows, too many parties to attend, so their friends were scattered across the city.

Ilya, Svetlana, Cliff, and Marianne danced and drank their way through the night. Ilya kept checking his phone, as if he would somehow miss the clock striking midnight. Texting Shane a happy new year felt anticlimactic, but it was the best he could do.

Cliff caught Ilya when he glanced at his phone on the dance floor for the millionth time, and he grabbed him by the shoulder and steered him towards the bar.

“Where’s your guy?” Cliff asked, yelling over the music.

“Not mine. Not really,” Ilya scowled. Cliff squinted at him, calling his bluff.

“He is with his parents,” Ilya said. “Gets back tomorrow.”

Cliff clapped a hand on his shoulder, swaying a bit from the sheer number of shots he had downed that evening.

“Great. You can lock him down tomorrow. Forget that mystery guy on the list, you don’t need to find him.”

Ilya felt too loose, too consumed with the improbability of all of it.

“That is him,” Ilya said. Cliff looked bewildered, and Ilya tried to reassemble his drunken thoughts. “Shane is the same mystery man. From years ago.”

Cliff’s eyes widened, and he started beaming. “No fucking way. How the hell did that happen? What are the odds?”

Ilya shook his head and shrugged. Cliff grabbed him by the shoulders.

“It’s like a sign or something,” Cliff said, his stare intense. “Love is in the air, Roz, I can feel it.”

Ilya realized, with detached numbness, that he didn’t balk at Cliff’s words.

“Should I ask Marianne to marry me tonight?” Cliff wondered, leaping to the next thought.

“No,” Ilya frantically grabbed his shoulders back, and the next ten minutes were spent trying to furiously talk his friend out of a drunken proposal.

By the time he had convinced Cliff to wait at least until the sober light of day, Svetlana had appeared, waving a small notebook from her purse.

Ilya retrieved champagne from the bar, and they hurried outside with the glasses tucked under their coats.

“Ok,” Svetlana handed Ilya a scrap of paper and a pen. “This year I will wish for a Rolls Royce.”

Ilya rolled his eyes. They always bantered about their New Year’s wishes as the clock ticked down.

“What about you?” she asked, taking a sip of champagne.

Ilya only had one desire, and he was quiet for long enough that Svetlana’s eyes widened.

“Shane?” She asked.

Ilya kicked at the pavement and shrugged. Svetlana squeezed his arm for a second, and then they heard chanting from inside, people counting down the seconds.

Laughing, they scrambled to uncap their pens and scribble on their pieces of paper. All Ilya could manage to write was “be brave.”

He wanted to wish for Shane, but even dreaming about it felt too tender for a silly wish that he would wash down with champagne. So he settled for what he needed: the courage to tell Shane who he was, tell Shane how he felt, and to survive it if Shane didn’t want him back.

They hastily lit the slips of paper on fire, and Ilya watched it burn nearly to his fingertips before he dropped it in the glass. They swigged the remains, and when the clock struck midnight they swapped kisses on the cheek.

Svetlana was giggling, taunting Ilya in Russian for turning into a sappy romantic, when she glanced over his shoulder and her eyes widened.

Ilya turned, and his heart nearly gave out. Shane was walking up the street, smiling shyly at him. Ilya watched him make his way towards them, and it was as if his wish had already come true. His guard unraveled, his body nearly going limp as he let the realization wash over him.

He was in love with Shane. Horrifically, desperately in love. Ilya had no idea what to do about it.

Chapter End Notes

Sorry Shane is gone for most of the chapter. Ilya needed some breathing room so he could freak out and realize he's fallen in love. Shane's POV is up next!

Montreal people (if any are reading this?) I used a real 2010s NYE party which was hosted by Kaytranda in a space called Artgang at the time. From what I read, Artgang was both a venue and a boutique? Then the boutique moved to a different space, and the venue remained under the name Ausgang Plaza. In case for some reason you did not know that history and wondered why I was having them attend a party in a tiny clothing store.

Chapter title is specifically from the Lauryn Hill cover of the Frankie Valli song (every chapter title is from a song on the companion playlist!)

I was having a really shitty time last week when I posted the new chapter (got bad news and cried so hard that my dog freaked out and headbutted me). Everyone left such thoughtful and kind comments on the last chapter, so I just really wanted to say thank you. I have loved talking music, breakups, and bottom Ilya with you all, and I'll really miss it when the fic wraps up. (Everything is fine now btw, it was just a specifically shitty day last week)