Summary:

Ilya considers, then, the idea of a smaller joy, the kind so molecular no one would know how to make him feel sorry for any of it. He thinks of Svetlana and him at McDonald’s, drunk and laughing; sprints, instead of long and dreadful runs; and even then that familiar swath of freckles, all faded from weak winter sun. There are times when Ilya is sorry, and there are times when he is not. (or: Heated Rivalry, as told through so many apologies.)