Summary:

Ilya glances at Shane, at the way the dying light is catching in his hair, refracting. At that spiderlily mouth, slightly open and curling coyly, two teeth peeked through the dark gap like an American Girl doll. At that shoulder, bare and pale and close enough to touch if Ilya just leaned forward, if he just reached out and took another liberty. To touch another person is to say: I know you will die, and I am doing this anyway. His mother used to say something like this. About painting. Every portrait is an act of faith, Ilyushenka. Faith and futility both. ⋆ contrary to personal preference, ilya gets a roommate.