Summary:

He holds out the cigarettes and lighter in one hand and the vodka glass in the other, and Ilya looks at him, surprise evident in his hazel eyes even in the dim light.

“What?” Shane grins. “Didn’t think I knew about your secret stash?”

Ilya’s smile back almost reaches his eyes, and he takes Shane’s offerings without a word.

Flint strikes and with a flick of flame, a different type of smoke starts to fill the air, floating slowly up into the trees.

Normally, Shane would wait inside until Ilya finished his cigarette, but today, he sits and leans his head on Ilya’s shoulder, willing to make the concession.

“I hate this day,” Ilya says, his face once again stony, while he lets out a long puff of smoke into the cooling air around them.

“I know,” Shane says, his fingers tracing along the soft fabric of Ilya’s sweats. “I hate it for you.”

It’s the same every year on the anniversary of his mother’s death. A long day spent with few words and deep sighs bleeds into nightfall. They sit and look out over the water, ghosts flickering across Ilya’s eyes like the firelight around them.
___

Or Ilya hates this day. Shane hates it for him. They sit together anyway.