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Four peach pits on a coffee table. Stones, still clung to by soft flesh, piled onto a napkin.
A smile on the face of the man Shane loves. His hands are sticky, the tip of his nose has a spot of wetness from the juice of the fruits, lips taste like heaven.
“I have had peaches before,” Ilya says. “But these are…” he searches for the word, “amazing.”
Shane smiles. “I knew you’d like them,” he says.
Shane’s fingers are uncomfortably sticky, chin has a stripe of juice running down it, shirt has a slight damp spot on it. He doesn’t think he cares, though he’d like to wash his hands. Next time, he thinks, I should cut them up and put them in a bowl.
Ilya looks at Shane. “Thank you,” he says.
"Of course," Shane says. "Do you know why they're so good?"
Ilya shakes his head. "Mm-mm.” He inspects the fruit in his hands for signs of something special. They are normal peaches, he thinks, in as much as they’re the same fruit he’s always seen. These are sweeter, though, and their flesh softer.
“They’re from Georgia,” Shane says. “I got them delivered up here.”
Ilya’s face doesn’t show any changes. “What makes Georgia peach special?” he asks. He turns his peach slightly, runs his thumb over the fuzz on the skin.
“Georgia’s the peach state,” Shane says. “Even though Alabama produces more than they do—anyway, they’re definitely the best.”
“They call states after fruits?” Ilya asks, slightly bewildered.
“They call states after all types of stuff,” Shane says. He tries to recall some of the weirder ones Hayden had told him when he’d gone on a kick of learning American state nicknames for some reason. “They call Pennsylvania the keystone state, Tennessee is the volunteer state…there’s so many.”
“That is stupid,” Ilya says plainly. “Americans are stupid.”
Shane just nods. He looks down at the napkin on the table, looks again at Ilya. He’s inspecting the peach in his hand, searching for the perfect bite.
“I’m gonna wash my hands,” Shane says. He stands up and stretches his back as best he can without actually touching anything.
“Mm,” Ilya hums in response.
A beat of silence as Shane watches Ilya bite into the peach.
Ilya raises an eyebrow. “Yes, Hollander?” he says teasingly.
“I, uh…I like you,” Shane says. He shouldn’t be so bashful about this, he thinks.
“I like you too,” Ilya says, very matter-of-factly. He plucks the pit out of what remains of his peach and sets it on the napkin. “Go wash hands.”
Shane nods, smiling to himself. He takes great care to not touch anything on his way to the kitchen sink and takes a paper towel to turn on the faucet with. He lathers his hands with the soap—funnily enough, a summer peach scent—and thinks about Ilya. That’s all he ever does, really, but he doesn’t mind it. Shane lets himself be lost in thought for just a moment, imagining the sweet taste of peach juice on Ilya’s lips.
“Hollander, you are dead?” Ilya calls. “It does not take so long to wash hands.”
“I’m good,” Shane replies. He quickly rinses his hands and dries them, then makes sure he didn’t drip anything on the floor while he walks back to Ilya.
In the living room, Ilya is finishing the last bite of his peach. “Perfect. We need to move to…where was it?” Ilya asks.
“Georgia,” Shane supplies.
“Georgia, yes. We must go there,” Ilya says. “Even if it is stupid place, peaches are very good.”
“I can just get more up here,” Shane giggles, moving to sit next to Ilya.
“Eh, I suppose,” Ilya says.
“Go wash your sticky hands,” Shane says.
Ilya makes a brief gesture, as if reaching to put his sticky hands on Shane’s face, then gets up from the couch. He picks up the napkin holding the peach pits and takes it with him. Shane hears the light sounds of a trash can being opened and closed, the sound of the kitchen sink being turned on, hears Ilya humming something.
Shane looks closely at the coffee table and couch, making sure no juice was spilled on them. There’s only a small spot where the napkin had lain, and which could be easily wiped up.
Ilya returns, still humming to himself. He brought a damp paper towel and promptly wiped away the bit of peach juice Shane was looking at.
You know me so well, Shane thinks.
Ilya looks up and winks at Shane.
There are three peaches left in the box. Shane thinks he’ll cut them up and serve them with dinner tonight.