Summary:

There was a time when Shane felt like he had only really even seen Ilya in semi-darkness: the lights on the Vegas strip, a dimly lit hotel room, the shitty fluorescence of the stairway outside the condo where they’d meet in Montreal. It’s not true, of course. He saw Ilya on the well-lit ice before anywhere else, in front of crowds and cameras, on red carpets and stages. But for years it had felt like the real Ilya was the one he got glimpses of in the stolen hours before one of them had to leave. Ilya is beautiful in the light. Or: childhood bedrooms, chickpea-flour pasta, and early morning workouts.