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“My mother used to brush my hair,” Ilya says. It’s the sixth or seventh night—he’s lost track. They end each day by the fire, Ilya’s head pillowed on Shane’s shoulder, or Shane curled into him, resting against Ilya’s side in the cradle of his arm.
He hasn’t talked so much about his mother since she died, but once he started telling Shane about her, the memories overtook him. This one slipped out as Shane stroked his hair, fingernails skimming across Ilya’s scalp.
“Tell me more.”
“She made sweet cakes for my birthday. I don’t know the word in English. Her perfume smelled like flowers, and her skin was soft. She would hug me every night before I slept. After she died…”
Shane waits for him to complete the sentence, but he doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t have to. Shane’s hand slips out of his hair, and he wraps his arms around Ilya and squeezes tightly, presses a tender kiss to his forehead and two to his cheek.
“You should find a recipe for those cakes, and we can try making them.”
Ilya lies still and lets Shane hold him. He can already taste the sweetness in his mouth.