Work Text:
Shane: What’s your favourite colour?
Ilya tossed off his gloves, threw them into his locker and grabbed his phone. A few notifications from Instagram popped up first, which he waved away with a flick of his thumb. A couple SportsNet notifications followed, all recapping games they’d announced the scores of during his game’s intermission, so he whisked them away as well.
And then, finally. A notification he actually wanted. Ilya furrowed his brow a little at Shane’s words. Favorite color?
Ilya: Why?
Shane responded immediately.
Shane: Good game btw.
Shane: It’s just that I realized I don’t know your fav colour.
Ilya: Idk. Brown.
Ilya: *poop emoji*
Shane: That’s boring.
Ilya: Oh? Me now?
Shane: Your fav colour can’t be brown.
Ilya: It’s blue, actually.
Shane: What shade?
Ilya huffed a little and pulled up the internet on his phone. Typed “shade” into Google. A bunch of curtain companies popped up, and Ilya rolled his eyes.
Ilya: Curtain???
Shane: No, shade means like, kind of color. Dark blue vs. light blue, you know?
Ilya: Oh. Dark. Like colour of night sky at cottage.
Shane: Aww
Ilya: What? Is just color.
Ilya: Good color.
Ilya: Why the fuck do you care what my fav colour is?
A few minutes passed, and Shane didn’t respond.
Ilya: Is color or colour Canadian spelling?
Shane still hadn’t responded — it was past 10:30pm Central Time, so he was probably asleep. Ilya sighed and placed his phone back on its shelf. Harris hollered for someone to talk to gathered reporters, and ‘someone’ was Harris’s nice way of saying “Rozanov”, so Ilya stepped away to answer questions that had nothing to do with colours.
***
Ilya was not a morning person, not ever, but he’d make one, very narrow, very exclusive exception. His phone was ringing, and only one number could bypass the phone’s privacy settings.
“Hanggggh,” he grunted into his phone.
“Morning, sunshine,” came Shane’s voice through the speaker, and Ilya grunted in pleasure.
“It’s c-o-l-o-u-r, with the u,” Shane added.
“What the fuck?”
“Colour? You asked me whether—“
“Shane, my eyes aren’t even open yet.”
Back in Montreal, Shane laughed, and the most perfect sound in Ilya’s whole world echoed through his speakers, all the way in Dallas.
“Your favourite colour is dark blue,” Shane said. “The colour of the sky at the cottage. Very romantic of you.”
“Shuddup.” There was a pause through the line, as Shane whirled his blender. Ilya waited patiently until the noise stopped. “What is yours, though?”
“Silver,” Shane said immediately.
Ilya blinked. “Why?”
“Colour of the Stanley goddamn Cup.”
Ilya snorted. “Yes, of course. Would be yours.” He could hear Shane gulping down his nasty healthy smoothie. “Why you ask?”
The gulping stopped. Shane swallowed noisily, the way he did when he was nervous. Ilya cocked an eyebrow, and wished they were video-calling.
“I just— I mean, okay.”
“Sounds serious,” Ilya teased.
“No, I mean, you know — you know how I feel about you. I love you, Ilya. But sometimes, it kind of occurs to me that I don’t know a lot of small things about you. Like, your favourite colour. I know I’d know those things if we lived closer together, and I know they don’t really matter, but —“ Shane stuttered for a few moments. “I guess I just want to know everything about you. So, there. I said it. So, can you shut me up, please, and tell me your favourite stupid colour?”
Ilya smiled. “My favourite colour is orange.”
Shane scoffed. “Like those godawful Philly jerseys?”
“No, like sunrise,” Ilya said. “Cottage sunrise.”
Suddenly, strangely, there was a heavy lump in Shane’s throat. He cleared it after a beat. “Right, of course. They’re beautiful.”
“Yes,” Ilya said. “Yes, like you.”
***
Ilya was, if he was being very honest with himself, incredibly high.
He tried to refrain during the season, he really did. But he was on day 15 without seeing Shane, and his legs were aching, so he took a gummy with enough CBD to excuse the THC too.
By the time he was truly and properly baked, he’d showered and tucked himself into bed. In the silence of the dark hotel room, the only light from his phone, he went to Google and typed in: questions for couples
He scanned the results quickly. Most of the links looked like spam, but then Ilya quirked a grin, and pressed the New York Times’ article about 36 questions that lead to love. He grinned even more as he read on, and then went to text Shane.
Ilya: Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?
Shane: What?
Ilya: Can you not read?
Shane: ???
Ilya: You have dream dinner. Who would you invite? It cannot be me.
Shane: I have no idea.
Ilya: I would invite Kate Upton.
Shane: oh my God.
Ilya: What?
Shane: Of course you would.
Shane: I’d probably invite my great-grandfather.
Ilya: Oh, fuck you.
Shane: I’ll count on it.
***
The second and third questions on the funny list were even funnier than the rest. Ilya imagined Shane’s reaction if he texted him, ‘would you like to be famous?’
He could never text something like that. It would need to be in person. He’d want to see Shane’s freckles scrunch up the way Ilya liked them best, his little nose curved up in joy. And then he’d probably try to whack Ilya, and that would make it even funnier.
The third question was self-explanatory: yes, Shane did rehearse what he was going to say before making a phone call. Obviously.
The fourth question, though, was more interesting.
Ilya: What would happen on your perfect day ever?
Shane: Uhhhh.
Ilya: Use imagination.
Shane: Why??? You are asking the weirdest questions.
Shane: Are you trying to hack my accounts with my two-factor authentication questions?
Ilya: No, am planning your last day. Need to make sure I check all the boxes.
Shane: You’re an idiot.
Shane: Morning sex with you. Burger and beer for lunch. We take the kayaks out in the afternoon. Boathouse blowjobs.
Shane: And you’d know what I’d want after that.
Ilya: Good perfect day.
Shane: What would be yours?
Ilya: Details not matter. Just day with you.
Shane: Love you.
Shane: Even though these questions are still weird.
Ilya: :*
***
Question 5 asked whether Shane could sing — absolutely not — and Ilya’s side of things was not worth remarking on.
That night, when Shane and Ilya chatted on the phone, Ilya asked. He’d sat through a 20 minute tirade about Shane’s left-winger, so he thought he might be able to get away with it.
“So, if you lived to 90, would you want to retain either the mind or the body of a 30-year-old for the last 60 years of your life? Which would you want?”
“Uh, what?”
“If you lived to be—“
“No, I got that part. Just, what the fuck?”
“Is good question.”
“You’ve had a lot of those lately.” Shane sighed. “What is going on, Ilya?”
“I found this list, in the New York Times,” Ilya said, after a long pause. “Because you said we did not know small things about each other. So I googled. And I found list of questions, to get to know each other. The article says they are questions to fall in love, but I figure we are already late for that.”
Shane sounded grainy on the other end when he said, “Oh, Ilya.”
“What? Is just list.”
“Yeah, but—“ Shane swallowed. “Yeah,” he said again, and Ilya could hear his smile through the phone. “Yeah, it’s a good list, I think.”
Later that night, Ilya sent Shane the link to the article listing all the questions to help them fall in love.
***
Shane: Do you have a secret hunch about how you will die?
Ilya: High-speed collision. You will die boring in old age.
Shane: Not funny.
***
Ilya: 3 things we have in common?
Shane: Love of hockey, #1.
Ilya: No????
Shane: Oh.
Ilya: #1: Good dick. #2: Hot. #3: Best at hockey.
Shane: We can’t both be best at hockey.
Ilya: Everyone knows I am best. I was trying to be nice! Like you. Good Canadian.
Shane: We could put loving each other as #1, but I’m not sure if loving each other counts as one. Since there’s, like, two of us. Obviously.
Ilya: No, no. Stick with dick, hot, hockey. Important things first.
***
It was after a really bad, stupid loss for Montreal that Ilya texted Shane the next question. He might have thought it was passive aggressive, if it were from anyone but Ilya. But from him, it was an affectionate nip, a reminder, of who the fuck he was.
Ilya: For what in your life do you feel most grateful?
Shane: You, obviously. Sure as fuck wasn't that game, Jesus.
Ilya: It’s your cock for me.
Shane: FaceTime?
***
While in San Francisco for a game, Shane couldn’t sleep. Ilya was back home in Ottawa, probably asleep, but Shane pulled up the New York Times article anyway.
Ilya hunting down the article and peppering him with the questions made something warm and fuzzy erupt inside Shane. He felt like his veins were filled with sparkles. He couldn’t imagine a single person in the history of the universe who could understand him the way Ilya did.
Question 10 was a bit of a downer, for them: if you could change anything about the way you were raised, what would it be?
Sending a simple enough question requiring a dissertation-length answer from Ilya wouldn’t be fair to ask him over text. Wouldn’t be fair to ask him something like that at all.
Question 11, though, was cute. But Shane didn’t want to learn Ilya’s life story in less than four minutes. He wanted to learn every detail, even if it took years. He hoped it would take decades and decades.
But the next question had him reaching for his phone immediately.
Shane: If you could wake up tomorrow having gained any one quality of ability, what would it be?
Ilya: Unfair.
Shane: How?
Ilya: Like, sex ability?
Shane: It’s the New York Times, so probably not?
Ilya: Borrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnngggggggg
Shane: I don’t know what my sex answer would be. The other ability I’d want would definitely be scoring every time I shot on net, you know?
Ilya: Oh my god you are so boring
Ilya: My answer would be so explicit I cannot write it down
Ilya: I will show u next time I see you
***
Ilya: You have crystal truth-telling ball. What do you want to know?
Shane: How the fuck Columbus just beat us.
Ilya: No, no. I am trying to cheer you up.
Ilya: I would ask crystal ball, how did I find boyfriend so handsome?
Shane: Did you see the third period?
Ilya: No, I was watching new Avengers. Columbus is boring team to watch.
Shane: I’m sure the clips will be all over TSN. We fucking choked.
Ilya: Can we talk about balls instead of pucks?
Shane: Ugh.
There was a long pause. Ilya drummed his fingers on his lips. His hotel room was quiet, the only light from his phone. Three dots popped up, and Ilya waited.
Shane: I’d ask it how long my career will be. Never thought of it much before but I’ve been wondering a lot lately.
Ilya tried not to roll his eyes.
Ilya: Yes, you are getting very old.
Shane: Shut up.
***
Montreal’s flight back home was delayed thanks to a snowstorm in New York. While Shane’s teammates spent the extra time at the run-down airport bar, Shane found a comfortable seat near an electrical plug, charged his phone, and texted Ilya.
Shane: Delayed two hours. Won’t be able to call till late, sorry.
Ilya: No problem. Late for you, early for me.
Shane clicked over to the New York Times article that lived permanently in his phone’s internet tabs. The questions were getting a lot deeper than favourite colors.
Shane: Want the next question?
Ilya: No. Depressing.
Shane squinted at his phone. He wasn’t sure how the next question was depressing.
Shane: What’s depressing about wanting to know something you’ve dreamed of doing for a long time?
Ilya typed for a long time, stopping and starting, until his message popped up and Shane’s heart sank and grew 10 times.
Ilya: Kiss you in public. Tell everyone you are my boyfriend.
Ilya: And you know why I have not done it.
Shane’s eyes burned a bit, and he blinked. Rested his phone in his lap for a few minutes, until the heavy feeling in his throat passed.
Shane: I love you.
Ilya: Next question is dumb too. Great accomplishment?
Shane: Cup, obviously, I know.
Ilya: No no
Ilya: Yours is scoring me
Shane: That too.
Shane: How’s Ottawa?
Ilya: I think you are getting our snow.
Shane: I hate flight delays.
Ilya: Not even you can control weather
Shane: What’re you up to?
Ilya response, in picture form, made Shane drop his phone, and then retrieve it very quickly.
***
Ilya: Next question is so funny
Ilya: What do you value most in a friendship?
Ilya: Ask Montreal’s fifteenth-best player.
Ilya: You want them to have too many children and be bad hockey player.
Ilya: Ha ha ha ha
Shane: Oh, shut up.
***
Shane called Ilya Friday around lunchtime. “Hey,” he said into his phone.
“‘Ello,” Ilya said, his mouth clearly half-full.
“What’s for lunch?”
Ilya took his sweet time answering. “You probably do not want to know.”
Shane scrunched his nose. “No, probably not.” He listened to Ilya take a few more bites. “Tell me it’s not McDonald’s?”
“Burger King,” Ilya said.
“Jesus Christ, Rozy.”
“What? Is food.”
“That’s not a good pre-game meal.”
“No, no. I should be eating grass and soybeans like you.”
“I don’t eat grass.”
Ilya laughed. “Yes, yes, whatever. Am I seeing you tonight?”
“Yeah, I’ll leave here right after the game. Should get to yours at around, I don’t know, midnight?”
Shortly after 10pm, Shane navigated out of Montreal, twiddling the radio in his car. The game against Washington had been exhausting, and a nasty check into the boards made the entire right side of his body ache.
“Call Ilya,” Shane told Siri, and a few moments later, Ilya picked up.
“Are you okay? That check looked bad.”
“I’m fine,” Shane said, a little curtly. “I’m just exhausted. Can you stay in the line so I don’t fall asleep on this drive?”
“Of course,” Ilya said. He was pleased Shane thought to call him first; often, he’d call Yuma or David to keep him away on the hour-and-a-bit-long drive. “I was saving rest of questions for this weekend, but we can start now.”
“If you say so.”
“Okay, here we go. What is your most treasured memory?”
“Huh. Winning the Cup or meeting you.”
“You could at least say meeting me first, before Cup win.”
“Fine, meeting you, and winning the Cup.” Shane huffed a laugh. “What’s yours?”
“Watching you be drafted number two,” Ilya said, grinning. Shane could hear the smile through the phone, and it made him smile too.
“You asshole.”
“I want asshole.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be there in like,” Shane spared a glance at his phone, “ninety minutes.”
“Lucky me,” Ilya said. “Next question sucks. What is most terrible memory? Who wants to know these things?”
“People trying to fall in love, apparently.”
“Yes, well, we are too late. We can skip bad ones.”
“What’s yours, though?” Shane asked.
“What do you think?” Ilya said, testily.
“Right. I know. Sorry.”
“If you knew that in one year you would die suddenly, would you change anything about the way you are now living?” Ilya read. “Why?”
“Did we get to the depressing fucking questions?”
“Is not depressing, this one,” Ilya countered. “I would spend year in bed with you. Easy.” Then he laughed aloud, full of glee. “Oh, next question is great. Makes up for sad ones. What does friendship mean to you?” Ilya laughed and laughed. “I am going to conference call in Hayden.”
“Don’t fucking call Hayden.”
“Why? Three-way call is great. Closest we’ll probably get to what you really want with Hayden.”
Shane groaned loud enough for the car speakers to pick up the noise. “How did the answers to these questions turn into you ribbing me?”
“Ribbing? What does this mean? You mean rimming?”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Next question is like Valentine’s Day. What roles do love and affection play in your life?”
“A secret boyfriend and secret gay sex,” Shane said, then laughed. “Jesus.”
“Good secret gay sex,” Ilya added.
“Goes without saying, I think.”
“Sure, fine. Whatever. I will be reminding you how good in less than two hours—“
Shane’s stomach clenched in anticipation. “Not while I’m driving, okay?”
“You are so boring.”
“What’s the next stupid question?”
“Oh, we have to say five nice things about each other,” Ilya said. “Alternate sharing something you consider a positive characteristic of your partner. New York Times wants us to give five each.” Ilya paused. “Is easy. First, your mouth.”
“Your dick.”
“We alternate, yes? So my turn?”
“Yeah, what’s your second favorite thing about me?”
“Boring.”
“What? I thought you wanted to do this—“
“No,” Ilya interrupted. “You are so boring. I love it.”
Shane grumbled something about getting chirped, but Ilya couldn’t make it out over the comforting white noise of Shane’s car on the highway. “I’m not boring.”
“You are good boring. There is bad boring and good boring and you are good.” Ilya sighed. “Everything about you is good. How do I choose just five things?”
“It’s my turn, anyway.”
“Okay, tell.”
“You’re a damn good hockey player. Fun to watch.”
“Your second favorite thing about your hot funny nice boyfriend is that he is good on ice?”
Ilya heard Shane huffing, and smiled deviously. Shane would be so worked up by the time he arrived.
“It’s a compliment. I like watching you play, okay?”
“Fine, fine,” Ilya said. “My third favorite thing is that you are funny guy. You do not let anyone know this, but is true.”
“Hey, Rose thinks I’m funny too.”
“Your ex-girlfriend does not count.”
“My Mom thinks I’m funny.”
“Yes, well, that is her job. She cannot say her son is wet blanket.”
Shane sighed. “How did this turn into me complimenting you while you make fun of me?”
“Okay, okay. I will stop.” Ilya was not going to stop. “My other favorite thing about you is your real estate fetish.”
“I do not have a real estate fetish.”
“No, no, you do. Is okay. I benefit from it, now. Cottage is great.”
“Yeah, it is.” Shane paused, like he was debating something. “I can’t wait for this summer, honestly. I need a break stat.”
“Oh God,” Ilya said. “That check from Smith really did hurt, did it?”
“Shut up.” They were both silent for a few moments. Shane soaked in the Quebec countryside, drenched in darkness. He wanted to be in Ilya’s arms already. The distance between Montreal and Ottawa, which felt like relief when Ilya played in Boston, held such weight these days. Two hours was still two hours too far.
“I forgot what number we were at,” Shane finally said. “It was five each, right?”
“We can finish it easy,” Ilya said. “Dicks and mouths and holes. Onto the next—“
Questions 23 and 24 were like being checked into the boards.
23. How close and warm is your family? Do you feel your childhood was happier than most other people’s?
24. How do you feel about your relationship with your mother?
“Okay, next question,” Ilya said. “We have to say we statements. What the fuck does this mean?”
“Oh, I remember reading that one,” Shane said. “It’s like we’ve got to agree on three things about us.”
“I do not understand.”
“Okay, well, here’s one: we are both feeling horny.”
“We are both sex starved!” Ilya laughed.
“We are locking ourselves in your bedroom tomorrow,” Shane said. “There, three.”
“Next, the New York Times wants us to complete sentence. I wish I had someone with whom I could share…”
“That I am Ilya Rozanov’s boyfriend.”
“And that I am Shane Hollander’s boyfriend.”
“Next question is silly,” Ilya said. “If we were to become close friends, what would be important for the other to know? Answer is obvious.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, you squeak when you are trying not to come.”
“Oh, shut up. A friend wouldn’t need to know that, anyway.”
“A good friend might,” Ilya said cheerfully. “Should we dial in Hayden again?”
“Oh, fuck you,” Shane said, but he was laughing.
“Okay, next question is more fishing for compliments. Skip. Next one is better, share an embarrassing moment! I know yours.”
“What is it?” Shane said a little defensively.
“Being drafted second,” Ilya laughed, a little evilly.
“And yours is playing for Ottawa,” Shane said, and it was so unexpected and not like Shane at all that Ilya just laughed and laughed.
“Hm, when did you last cry in front of another person? By yourself?”
“I don’t cry much,” Shane said.
“No, you do not. But your eyes fill with tears, no? Like, a lot?”
“That’s not crying, though.”
“Close enough. Tears produced.”
“When did you last cry?”
The honest to God truth, which Ilya would never tell Shane, was that he cried last week, when he woke up from a dream where his mother was alive and beautiful and with him, and then he woke up, and he was alone in his big, empty bed.
“I never cry,” Ilya said.
“Yeah, okay. What’s the next question?”
“Ugh, more compliments.”
“Skip,” Shane said in a jokey tone. Ilya knew he probably wanted him to ask anyway, but messing with Shane was more fun. Ilya had a whole night and the whole next day to make Shane feel wonderful.
“What, if anything, is too serious to be joked about?”
“Hm,” Shane said. “I mean, there are a lot of things.”
“Like how you squeak when you are trying not to come?”
***
The next morning, after they’d had a lazy few hours in bed together and Shane had fixed them both disgusting smoothies, they sat on opposite ends of Ilya’s couch, facing each other. The soles of their feet pressed against each other, and they both played on their phones.
“Do you like our game?” Ilya asked, without looking away from his phone.
“What game?”
“Question game.”
“It’s my second favorite game to play with you,” Shane said, smiling.
“First is racing to see who comes first, yes?”
“Yeah,” Shane said, not looking away from his phone either. “Hockey is third place.”
“Next question is weird one,” Ilya said. He read aloud: “If you were to die this evening with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, what would you most regret having not told someone? Why haven’t you told them yet?”
Shane grimaced. “That one’s a little too close to my nightmares.”
“What nightmares?”
“Of you dying in a high-speed crash in one of your stupid fast cars.”
“Oh yes?” Ilya said, grinning. “At least I would go out with gusto. You will die at age 95 in bed. Boring.”
“Surrounded by our great-grandchildren,” Shane added.
“Who are all Stanley Cup-winning hockey players.”
“Right, right,” Shane said. “What would you tell someone, though? Like, what’s your answer to the question?”
Ilya put down his phone, resting it on his upper thigh. “I would tell you that I love you more than anything else in the world.”
“Aw,” Shane said. And then he climbed over Ilya’s body to grab Ilya’s cheek and kissed him fiercely. And they both forgot about the rest of the questions.
***
That night while Shane co-opted Ilya’s kitchen to cook something repulsively healthy — it had cabbage in the recipe, for God’s sake — Ilya pulled out his phone.
“We are almost at the end of the questions,” he said, a little sadly.
“Three left, I think, right?”
“Yes. Want the first?”
“Hit me,” Shane said.
“I will in a little bit,” Ilya said. “When you serve me disgusting meal.”
“Oh, it’ll be great,” Shane said half-heartedly.
“Okay. House catches fire. You save loved ones — ha, more like I’d save you — and pets. You can make final trip to save one item. What is it?”
“Which house?” Shane asked earnestly, then flinched. “Jesus, I sound like a rich asshole, don’t I?”
“You are rich asshole,” Ilya said. “With bad taste in food, and good taste in men.” He punctuated the sentence with a kiss pressed against the back of Shane’s neck.
“Maybe I’d leave you in the burning building,” Shane said.
“Let’s say cottage,” Ilya said. “Since that is our real house.”
It was sad and true. Their houses in Montreal and Ottawa were fantastic, yes, but they could never be their home in the way the cottage was. Shane would have traded the entirety of his Montreal house’s trophy room for a single framed photo on the wall of him and Ilya together.
“I would save that big dildo you keep in your bedside table,” Ilya said. “Is very important to me.”
“Oh, shut up.” He paused, contemplatively. “I’d take that picture Mom took of us at the first hockey camp, I guess. The one on the fridge.”
“Oh, the one held up with a Boston magnet?”
“I’ll swap it out next time we’re there,” Shane grinned. “What’s the next question?”
“Oh, Jesus. Next one is bleak. Skipping.”
“What is it?”
“Who’s death in your family you would find most disturbing? What does that even help us learn about each other?”
Shane made a face. “Yeah, skip. What’s the next one.”
A sly, sexy smile spread across Ilya’s face. “Oh, this is best question yet. I have already asked you it, many years ago, just in different way.”
Shane looked up from the food spread all over the counter, and watched Ilya approach him. Ilya kissed Shane’s forehead and then his lips and then his chin, then grabbed both sides of his face and squeezed, so the freckles on his nose scrunched together.
“Is very funny last question.”
“What is it?” Shane asked softly.
“Share a personal problem, and ask partner’s advice on how to handle. But I already told you about my big problem, didn’t I?”
Shane’s face split into a smile so wide and earnest that Ilya’s heart broke, just a little bit. “You mean when you threatened to marry Svetlana?”
“Yes, and you tried to kill me with your glare. Was scary.”
Shane shook his head and laughed at the memory. At the warm feeling it gave him in his chest, spreading all over his body. He loved Ilya so much.
“And your problem still hasn’t gone away, has it?”
“No,” Ilya said, adoringly. He brushed his thumb down Shane’s cheek. “No, this problem can never go away. I thought it might have to, for years. But then my problem came up with the solution all by himself.”
Shane pressed a kiss to Ilya’s palm. “Move to Ottawa. Start a charity.”
“Have so much sex.”
“Ask each other dumb silly questions.”
Their smiles were so wide it was kind of gross. Ilya loved it.
“So many questions,” Shane said. And then, more quietly, he added, “I want to know everything about you.”
“You will, sweetheart,” Ilya said. “You already do.”
“Still,” Shane said, turning back to the shitty cabbage meal he was preparing. “I still wish there were a few more, you know?”
Ilya put his thumb under Shane’s chin and gently guided his gaze back to Ilya’s. “I will get more for us. Starting with, why are we eating cabbage willingly?”
Shane laughed. “So we live forever, and I can ask you all the questions I want.”
Ilya laughed back. They were so, so deliriously happy. “And I will always find an answer for you, sweetheart.”