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The problem, as Ilya saw it, was not the ghost. The problem was that the ghost was a pussy.
He had bargained for a rattling chain, a clanking baritone threatening doom, a fog crawling through their shiny Toronto apartment like a B-movie. Instead, Gary—the name appeared in Ilya’s head with the clarity of a slap shot to the mask—was some tremulous Victorian sap who couldn’t watch two men get each other off without audibly suffering.
“Is ghost is not even brave,” Ilya said after the third night of flickering ceiling lights. He sprawled naked on their grey velvet sofa, damp hair sticking up. “He sigh like a librarian whose favorite stamp break. Weak.”
Shane, already tugging on a pair of joggers to investigate the breaker panel, laughed. “Maybe he’s shy because you keep yelling at him mid-orgasm.”
“Because he make light go chek-chek-chek.” Ilya snapped his fingers to mimic the staccato flicker. “Is mood murder. I am ready to bust nut, then phoo, Bryan Adams concert lighting effect.”
A soft gust of air shivered over Shane’s shoulder, and the hallway lamp dimmed in a scandalized wave. Ilya grinned at the ceiling. “Ha! You see? I call him pussy and he go woo.”
It started with small things. Shane discovered the ghost same hour Ilya did: they were finally christening the new place, a corner-unit loft with brutalist windows that made their king bed less of a bed and more of a stage. Shane had dropped to his knees, murmuring “God, you taste amazing,” when the air cooled, a chill skimming his bare spine. The bedside lamp dimmed. Ilya, half-propped on pillows, cocked a brow.
“You getting ghost boner?” he asked, accent thick, eyes gleaming. “Because I am getting ghost boner.”
Then came the sigh. It rolled out of the wall, a drawn-out “huuuuuhhhhh” that sounded like someone expiring during afternoon tea rather than haunting hot NHL forwards. Shane startled so hard his teeth grazed Ilya’s skin. Ilya yelped. Shane apologized to Ilya. Ilya apologized to his dick. The ghost sighed again, louder, followed by a pathetic rattle from the air ducts.
They christened him Gary the next morning over cereal. “Because he is Gary,” Ilya said. “He is man who write letter to newspaper complaining about ankle showing.”
Shane nearly snorted milk through his nose. “Fine. Gary it is.”
Gary proved consistent. He only manifested during sex. Showers, naps, movie nights, workouts—nothing. But the moment either man slid a hand into the other’s waistband, the thermostat dipped. When the first moan broke the air, a dead Victorian throat moaned back, all wounded propriety and long-suffering despair.
Oddly enough, their shared annoyance fermented into delight. Ilya thrived under hostility; he had spent his early NHL years harvesting boos like a dragon hoarding gold. Gary’s prissy exhalations taunted him, became a dare. Shane, by contrast, discovered that outrageously teasing a ghost loosened some internal knot he hadn’t realized existed. Their sex life, already a holy mess of tenderness and competition, mutated into a performance art piece for their invisible roommate.
Two weeks in, the lights flickered during a midday quickie. Ilya barked a laugh mid-thrust. “You hear that, Zaichik? He doing opera. I must truly be hero of filth.”
Shane, legs flung wide over Ilya’s shoulders, cheeks flushed, fired back, “He’s just mad because you keep saying ‘hero of filth.’ That phrase sounds like a ska band.”
“I am leader singer,” Ilya growled, pounding deeper, deliberately louder, hands slapping Shane’s thighs for the acoustics. “Gary, you ready for encore?”
The sigh that followed was audible even over Shane’s gasping “nnngh—Ilya, Il—oh fuck.” The overhead light buzzed, then blew out in a soft pop, showering them with darkness.
“Ha!” Ilya thrust one final time and collapsed chest-to-chest with Shane. “We win. Ghost surrender. He blow fuse.”
Shane buried his laughter against Ilya’s neck, shoulders shaking. “Great. Now we need to buy new bulbs.”
“Worth it,” Ilya said smugly. He thumped Shane’s sternum. “You and me, we break ghost. We make him resign position.”
They didn’t fix the bulb until the next day, preferring candles for the night’s rematch. They wanted Gary to feel the drama.
The rules of Gross Out Gary evolved organically. If Gary sighed, one point. If he sucked all the warmth out of the room and made the thermostat flicker—two points. If he annihilated a light bulb, five. If the entire breaker tripped and plunged the apartment into darkness, that was the equivalent of winning the Stanley Cup.
They kept a tally on the whiteboard in the kitchen, sandwiched between grocery lists and Shane’s carefully penciled workout schedule. “Shane: 8. Ilya: 12. Gary: still a pussy,” Ilya scribbled after one triumphant Saturday morning.
“You’re cheating,” Shane said when he noticed. “You can’t claim the breaker trip. That was me sucking you off on the balcony. Gary was just worried about the neighbors.”
“He was worried because he is Victorian pervert. If he is not wanting to watch, he move on. But he stay, moan, crash electricity. Means I win.”
Shane folded arms across his chest. “Excuse me? I was the one on my knees.”
“Yes, but I told you to wave to pedestrians. You did not. Therefore, my creativity win.”
Shane opened his mouth to argue, then shut it on a smirk. “Fine. I’ll just have to gross him out harder.”
“Bring it, baby,” Ilya shot back, entirely too pleased.
They spent that afternoon plotting, sprawled on the floor with their hockey schedules and a truly chaotic amount of lube options arrayed like tactical equipment. The whole situation felt like adolescent truth-or-dare, plus orgasms.
Shane, flipping through a notebook, mused, “What if we do the rubber ducky thing?”
Ilya’s eyes sparkled. “You mean, row of duck on headboard cheering? I like. Gary will hate.”
“And you could—okay, hear me out—you could monologue about how the ducks are the judges while you fuck me.”
“I do accent? Like British?”
“Absolutely not. Gary’s British. He’d feel seen.”
“Tvezdyok,” Ilya cursed fondly. “Fine, I do hockey commentator voice. ‘And here comes Ilya Rozanov, his cock unstoppable, the duck panel screaming—’”
Shane threw a pillow at him, laughing so hard he nearly wheezed. The ghost, perhaps sensing blasphemy, rustled the curtains despite the fact the windows were closed. Ilya pointed accusingly toward the empty corner. “See? He already nervous.”
“He’s probably just grateful you aren’t calling him a pussy for once.”
“I will when he deserve it,” Ilya promised. “Which is always.”
They bought twenty-four rubber duckies. Shane stacked them like a yellow battalion along the headboard, each one sporting a differently colored Sharpie-drawn expression. Ilya gave himself a handlebar moustache with eyeliner, claiming he needed to embody a villainous emcee.
The moment they started, Gary’s presence amplified. The air chilled, the thermostat display flickered, and a faint, dreadful sigh whispered from the ceiling vent.
Ilya, already naked except for the ridiculous moustache and a pair of black socks, threw his arms wide. “Welcome, honorable duck jury! Today we present le pièce de résistance: Shane Hollander being absolutely plowed!”
Shane, kneeling on the bed, hands braced on the mattress, barked a laugh. “Le pièce de résistance is French, babe.”
“I know. We are cultured.” Ilya slapped his ass, eliciting a sharp “Ah! Fuck!”
The ghost exhaled a limp “Huuuuuhhhh” like an offended aunt.
“Point,” Shane gasped, glancing at the whiteboard on the nightstand. “Another point for me.”
“You keep score now? We in middle of—”
“Of course. I’m multitasking.” He arched back, seeking friction, murmur thick: “Please. Ilya, please.”
Ilya softened immediately, sliding a palm up Shane’s spine, voice dropping into reverent Russian. “Takaya krasota.” Such beauty. He nosed between Shane’s shoulder blades, inhaling sweat and soap, letting tenderness anchor him before the ridiculousness resumed.
“Ladies and gentle-ducks!” he announced in English, thrusting slow, deep. “Observe the stamina! Observe the bounce! Observe—oh ho ho—” He dipped his head, licking a trail down Shane’s spine. “Gary, take notes. This is how you fucking live.”
The lights dimmed sharply. The central air grumbled. Another sigh, ragged with despair.
Shane moaned—“nnnnngh, God—Gary, poor Gary”—and reached back, gripping Ilya’s thigh. “He hates this,” he laughed breathlessly.
“Then we go harder.” Ilya drove in, rocking them both, voice pitching into an enthusiastic commentator’s patter. “Rozanov lines up the shot, Hollander’s ass is ready, the ducks are chanting, Gary is writing strongly worded letter!”
The lamp exploded. Glass shattered like little stars. Shane shrieked, half laughter, half shock, clenching around Ilya in a burst of molten heat. “Shit—shit—Ilya, fuck, I—ahhhh—”
“Hnnnngh—da, da, squeeze me, zaichik.” Ilya held on, pounding through the chaos, each thrust a percussion. “Gary, you break another lamp we send you invoice!”
The ghost responded with the loudest sigh they’d ever heard, a gale-force exhalation that fluttered their hair and rattled the apartment door. Several of the duckies toppled, rolling across the headboard like rubbert toys fleeing a tsunami.
Shane collapsed flat, cheek pressed to the sheets, laughter and moans tangled. “We did it. Five points. Maybe ten. That sigh should be ten.”
“Was blood-curdling,” Ilya agreed, shoving deep, chasing his own climax. “Does Gary have blood? He must now because we spilled duck blood.”
“Ducks don’t have—oh, fuck, yes, yes—” Shane’s protest dissolved into a high keen. “Ilya, come on, come on, I need it, want to feel you—ahhh.”
That needy whine snapped Ilya’s restraint. He slammed home, groaning “Ugggh, ya lyublyu—” and spilled inside, body shaking. Somewhere above them, the smoke alarm beeped twice. Ilya panted into the curve of Shane’s neck. “We kill him. He ascended.”
The thermostat display blinked “88” in a frantic loop, then reset. The room felt faintly static, the aftermath of an electrical storm. They lay tangled in laughter, sweat, and the heady product of their efforts, hearts pounding.
“Well,” Shane eventually said, voice muffled, “that’s going to be a fun story when the electrician asks why half our bulbs keep blowing.”
“I tell them truth,” Ilya said solemnly. “We pro athletes. Our sex is high voltage.”
Shane rolled onto his back, eyes glittering. “We’re absolutely writing ‘high-voltage sex’ on the maintenance request.”
Gary retaliated by passive-aggressively flicking the porch light off whenever they tried to eat dinner on the balcony. Shane ate pasta in increasingly dramatic gloom, complaining that their ghost had no respect for carbs.
“It is because he never get carbs when alive,” Ilya said. “Probably lived in old-timey time when bread is taxed.” He twirled spaghetti onto his fork, waving it threateningly at the darkness. “Gary, listen: carbs good. Cocks better. Stop sighing.”
A gossamer breath wafted past—“huuuuuh”—brooding and deeply offended. The fairy lights strung along the railing blinked in Morse code. Ilya’s grin sharpened. “He is jealous. He want pasta. He want cock.”
“Stop hitting on the ghost,” Shane protested, choking on laughter. “We already have enough weirdness.”
“Maybe if we give him pasta offering, he leave us alone during sex.”
“Bribing a ghost with spaghetti is maybe step too far.”
“Is there such thing as too far?” Ilya smirked. “Besides, we need new challenge. Ducks were level medium.”
Shane considered, twirling his wine glass between fingers. “What about costumes?”
“Yeeeees.” Ilya leaned back, gleam predatory. “I go to little fetish shop on Queen Street. Get policeman hat.”
“I’ll be the criminal?” Shane asked, wiggling eyebrows.
“No. You be naughty librarian.”
Shane almost spilled his wine. “You realize that will break Gary for real. Librarian sex? He’ll die twice.”
“Good,” Ilya declared. “He deserve.”
They dedicated a Saturday to costume shopping. The clerk at the fetish shop didn’t even blink when they asked for “one police hat, one pair of wire-rim glasses, and whatever else screams ‘spectral shame.’” They ended up with handcuffs, a ruler, and a feather duster that Ilya brandished like a baton.
Back home, they set the scene. Ilya dragged the armchair to the center of the living room and declared it his interrogation chamber. Shane, wearing nothing but the glasses, a loosely buttoned white shirt, and lace underwear he’d bought on a dare from himself, perched on the chair with legs spread just enough to tease.
Gary manifested before anything happened—lights flickering, air chilling. A disembodied sigh shivered across the room. Shane’s lips twitched.
“Officer Rozanov,” he intoned, making his voice husky and posh all at once. “I’ve been a very bad librarian.”
Ilya nearly broke character with laughter. He snapped the handcuffs, straddling Shane’s thighs, moustache now replaced with a smudge of glitter eyeshadow from earlier. “You hide books? You whisper too loud? Tell me, Shanelibrarian.”
“I refused to reshelve the Kama Sutra.” Shane tilted his head. “I needed it for research.”
“Ohoho.” Ilya dragged a fingertip along the edge of Shane’s glasses. “Research for what?”
“For how to best make you moan.” Shane’s voice dropped on the last word, rumbling through Ilya’s bones.
Gary exhaled like a dying accordion. The floor lamp dimmed to half strength.
Ilya’s heartbeat thundered. He cupped Shane’s jaw, thumb stroking over the warm rush there. “You already know how,” he murmured, eyes tender despite the ridiculous scene. “But is good to keep studying.”
He kissed him first, soft, lingering, tasting laughter and challenge. Shane leaned in hard, hands sliding up Ilya’s sides, dragging nails lightly down his back. The props clattered to the floor. The ghost’s energy twitched in the air, expectant.
Shane pulled back, breathless, nipping Ilya’s lip. “Should we give him something to really sigh about?”
“Da,” Ilya breathed. “We go full West End show.”
Shane stood, pushing Ilya down into the armchair, taking control. He climbed onto Ilya’s lap, straddling him, the lace framing his thighs like delicate brackets. He rocked down, rubbing their cocks together through thin fabric, and Ilya’s brain melted.
“You’re under arrest,” Shane murmured, sliding his glasses down his nose. “For murdering Victorian innocence.”
Ilya barked laughter, then bit it back when Shane rolled his hips with sinuous intent. “Oh, fuck, baby. Do that again.”
Shane obeyed, slower, grinding. “You like that, officer?”
“I like you,” Ilya said honestly, the words slipping out unguarded. Shane’s eyes softened, and there, in the middle of their absurd theatre, a pulse of uncomplicated love swelled. Gary’s sigh shifted, less offended and more bewildered, a sound like someone walking in on raw intimacy and realizing they shouldn’t watch.
Shane kissed him again, a kiss that tasted like commitment, then slid down to his knees. He unbuttoned Ilya’s pants with teeth, a pantomime that somehow hit every kink button Ilya owned. The ghost flickered the lights desperately. Shane, glanced up with wicked eyes, whispered, “Watch me,” and swallowed Ilya down.
“Aaaaagh, dushka.” Ilya’s head hit the back of the chair, fingers threading into Shane’s hair. “You look so perfect, so dirty. Gary, you see? This is art.”
Shane sucked, humming, the vibration punching a groan out of Ilya. “Guh—Shane, yes, take it, fuck.” His toes curled. The room temperature plummeted, their breath ghosting white. Still Shane bobbed, relentless, a hot slick heaven.
When he pulled off, lips shiny, he rasped, “You gonna complain to management, Gary? You want me to stop? Too bad.” He crawled into Ilya’s lap, sliding the lace down, scorching skin against skin. “Ride me,” he demanded softly. “Give him the show.”
Ilya grabbed the lube, slicked himself and Shane with practiced efficiency. He lifted Shane, teasing the blunt head against his entrance until Shane whimpered “Please, please,” and sank down. He was tight heat and fluttering muscle, and Ilya cursed in Russian, half prayer, half profanity. “Bozhe moy, you feel like—mmm.”
Shane began to move, slow, deliberate, each rise and
each fall rolling his hips with decadent purpose, squeezing around Ilya so tight he saw sparks. “Ahhh—fuck—Shane,” he groaned, palms framing those shaking hips. “You ride like champion bull. Gary, you hear that? Champion bull sex.”
“Mmmm,” Shane moaned, the sound molten. “You like my bull riding, officer?” He braced his hands on Ilya’s chest, nails digging lightly. Sweat beaded on his temples, glasses fogging. “Say it. Say you love watching me use you.”
“I love,” Ilya gasped without thinking, voice cracking into honesty. “Love you, love this, love when you look at me like you own me.”
Shane rode him harder, the lace catching, sliding, until it bunched at his thighs and he tore it off impatiently, tossing it aside. He bounced, thighs clapping against Ilya’s, whimpering “ahh-ahh-ahh” in high breathing stabs. The ghost’s sigh rose, a tremulous wail, lights dimming to a candle’s heartbeat.
“Gary’s gonna faint,” Shane chuckled breathlessly, then shuddered, head tipping back. “God, god, Ilya, I’m—ohhh—”
“Come,” Ilya urged, thrusting up, hitting that sweet, just-right spot. “Come for me, come on, do it, I want to feel—”
“Aaaahhh, yes, yes, yes!” Shane cracked apart, body jerking as he spilled across Ilya’s stomach, slick heat splashing their chests. His muscles clamped hard, milking Ilya until Ilya snarled, the sound raw, and shot up inside him with a guttural “Ungggghhh, daaa, take it, baby.” His hands crushed Shane close, mouths colliding, tongues tangling, everything slow and tender even as their bodies spasmed.
The thermostat fritzed, emitting a pathetic beep, then the breaker tripped with a decisive thunk. Darkness swallowed them. Somewhere in the gloom, a final despondent sigh gusted through the vents before silence reigned.
Ilya laughed shakily, forehead pressed to Shane’s. “We win. Again. Ghost is lying on fainting couch.”
Shane giggled, still trembling, glasses askew. “We need to count how many appliances he’s ruined. That’s, what, the fourth breaker trip?”
“Fifth. Remember Tuesday kitchen table event? You used whipped cream, he squealed, entire microwave died.”
Shane snorted and then, softer, brushed knuckles along Ilya’s cheek. “You okay?”
“Never better.” Ilya kissed him, slow and sweet, moustache long wiped away, voice reverent. “You make me stupid happy. Even when we are scaring Victorian ghost.”
“We’re not scaring him.” Shane nuzzled. “We’re educating him.”
“Da, sex ed. We are philanthropic.” Ilya stroked the back of Shane’s neck. “But now we must reset breaker, otherwise I cannot make victory smoothie.”
Shane made a disgusted noise. “No smoothies after sex.”
“Yes smoothies after sex. Protein is necessary. Gary, tell him!” Silence. Ilya grinned. “See? Gary agree with me.”
They disentangled, sticky and laughing. Resetting the breaker became routine enough that Ilya did it still naked, only pausing to flex at Gary’s presumed corner. The ghost stayed quiet, perhaps recuperating.
Three days later, their teammate Troy dropped off a box of early Halloween decorations, because apparently “couples who move into fancy lofts need spooky vibes.” Inside, they found fake cobwebs, plastic bats, and a haunted house pamphlet for “Nightmare Carnival”—a pop-up horror maze downtown with actors, animatronics, and aggressively toned goth teenagers.
“We should go,” Shane said, eyes gleaming. “Maybe we’ll discover we’ve built up ghost tolerance.”
“I already have ghost tolerance. I fight him daily.” Ilya squinted at the pamphlet. “But carnival? With clowns? No. Clowns are crimes.”
“You chant that you fear nothing,” Shane teased, poking his side. “Except apparently clowns.”
“Clowns are demon jesters. But I go, because I must protect you. You have gentle heart.”
Shane smirked. “We both know I’ll be dragging you through the whole thing.”
“Is lie. Ilya Rozanov is brave like steel.”
“Brave like steel,” Shane repeated, laughter dancing behind his words. “Sure.”
They bought tickets for Friday night. Gary responded to the plan by flickering the bedroom lamp the moment they started dressing. “He jealous,” Ilya muttered, pulling on a black hoodie. “He wish he could come.”
“He absolutely wouldn’t survive.” Shane adjusted his beanie. “Besides, if he follows us, maybe the haunted house will implode. We’d be heroes.”
“Or we get banned for yelling at corpses,” Ilya said. “Which is possible.”
They arrived at Nightmare Carnival to find a line snaking around the block, teenagers shrieking while fog machines belched cloudy vomit into the air. Shane linked their fingers, trying and failing to suppress a grin. Ilya eyed the costumed actors (blood-smeared nurses, chainsaw men) with suspicion.
“If one of them touch my ass, I punch,” he announced.
“They’re not allowed to touch.”
“They always say that. Then wooo, Scooby-Doo villain jumps out.”
Shane leaned close, breath warm in the autumn chill. “If you get scared, you can hide behind me.”
Ilya scoffed loudly. “Ha. I hide from no man.” He paused. “Except maybe tax auditor. Those are terrifying.”
Predictably, they lasted exactly six minutes inside before devolving into chaos.
The first hallway was lined with animatronic dolls that turned their heads to follow them. Shane pretended to be unfazed until one doll dropped from the ceiling, landing inches from his face. “Jesus Christ!” he yelped, grabbing Ilya’s arm hard enough to bruise.
“Ha! I knew you would scream,” Ilya crowed triumphantly—then a strobe light flashed, revealing a bloodied actress crawling toward them on all fours. He shrieked, an actual high-pitched “AIEEE,” and bolted.
Shane had to sprint to keep up, both of them barreling through curtains, slamming into walls, cursing in stereo. At one point, Ilya dove behind Shane, using him as a shield as a clown with a chainsaw revved by their ears. “No, no, no!” Ilya yelled, voice cracking. “I do not fuck with this! Shane, protect me!”
“Protect you?” Shane laughed hysterically even while running. “What happened to brave like steel?”
“Steel melts!” Ilya declared, ducking as fake bats swooped overhead. “Fuck this! Where exit? I am suing.”
They stumbled into a mirror maze, panting. Red lights flashed. Their reflections distorted. Gary’s chill—apparently he had tagged along—washed through the maze, shivering over their skin.
“You feel that?” Shane gasped, pressing back-to-back with Ilya amid the mirrors. “Either Gary’s here or the AC’s blasting.”
“Gary, you little perv,” Ilya shouted at nothing. “You follow us? You seeing us be cowards? Fuck you!”
A disembodied sigh resonated, echoing weirdly in the mirrored space. The lights flickered, confusing the maze’s sensors. Several intended scares failed to trigger, leaving actors staring blankly. Shane busted up laughing through his terror. “He’s short-circuiting the haunted house!”
“Good! Burn it down, Gary!” Ilya grabbed Shane’s hand. “Come, we use ghost cheating to escape.”
Gary’s presence surged, plunging the maze into near-darkness for a heartbeat. The exit lights flickered back on. They hurtled toward them, ducking around stunned actors. A manager yelled something about safety protocols; they ignored him, bursting into the crisp night like convicts.
They doubled over, sucking in air. Shane wheezed. “We’re never going back in there.”
“Correct.” Ilya flopped to the curb, clutching Shane’s knee. “We are cuddling only. No more haunted houses. I retire.”
Shane plopped beside him, giggling. “We lasted six minutes.”
“Six heroic minutes. Gary saved our lives.” Ilya glanced upward theatrically. “Thank you, Gary.”
A breeze ghosted over them, cold but oddly affectionate. They sat in silence for a minute, hands laced, shoulders touching, watching other patrons scream their way out. The madness felt distant, replaced by something warm. Shane rested his head on Ilya’s shoulder.
“You good?” he murmured.
“Always, when you here,” Ilya said, kissing his hair. “I like doing stupid things with you.”
“Even if Gary third-wheels?”
“Especially then. He make us creative.”
They ambled home, stopping for hot chocolate. Gary trailed, occasionally dimming a streetlamp as if clearing the path. Back at the loft, the moment they stepped inside, the thermostat blinked in an agitated pattern.
“He mad we went out without telling him,” Shane said.
“We bring him souvenir.” Ilya fished in his pocket, pulling out a fake severed finger he’d snagged from the haunted house exit. He placed it on the coffee table. “Gary, enjoy. Is organic.”
The lights steadied. Apparently satisfied, Gary settled.
October dissolved into a parade of progressively more absurd attempts to rattle their ghostly roommate. They staged a full séance mid-threesome with a Ouija board balanced on Shane’s back; Ilya insisted the planchette spelled VILE when he thrust hard enough. They did a kitchen counter act involving whipped cream, cherries, and the Canadian anthem. They built a blanket fort and made slow, tender love inside while Gary sighed so dramatically the fairy lights browned out.
One quiet Sunday morning, Shane woke to Ilya murmuring Russian to the ceiling. He rolled over, blinking. “You talking to Gary again?”
“Yes,” Ilya said matter-of-factly, still sprawled naked, hair wild. “He sigh all night because you snore. I tell him is cute.”
“I don’t snore.”
“You purr. Like sex cat.” Ilya grinned. “Also, we need new challenge. Scaring Gary is becoming too easy. We need boss level.”
Shane propped on an elbow. “Boss level like…?”
“Like… public service announcement sex. We film educational video.”
Shane choked. “No, we’re not filming anything.”
“Okay, fine.” Ilya drummed fingers on his stomach, thinking. Suddenly he lit up. “I got it. You ever read that Kama Sutra page Gary was mad about?”
Shane groaned. “Not the Kama Sutra again.”
“Nyet, wait. There is position called The Floating Lotus. I looked online. Is basically a pretzel. If we can do that while Gary watches, he will combust.”
Shane squinted. “The Floating Lotus? Isn’t that where I’m on your lap and our legs are all intertwined?”
“Da. So romantic. And dangerous. Perfect.”
“You just want an excuse to stretch me like taffy.”
“Always.” Ilya rolled on top of him, kissing his nose. “Say yes.”
Shane pretended to deliberate, even though he’d already melted. “Fine. But if we both end up in traction, we’re blaming Gary.”
“Deal.”
They spent the afternoon stretching, pulling up YouTube tutorials (from yoga instructors, not porn—although Ilya did suggest the latter). Gary hovered, lights flickering with curiosity. Finally, twilight draped the room. Candles glowed. The bed looked like a soft apocalypse of pillows.
Shane straddled Ilya’s lap, hands on his chest. Ilya guided his legs around Shane’s waist, hooking ankles behind his back while Shane wrapped his own calves around Ilya’s hips, their bodies a woven knot. It was precarious, intimate, stolen from a painting.
“You ready?” Shane whispered.
“Always for you.” Ilya cradled his face. They kissed, tongues slow, hearts pounding. Gary’s sigh started low, a warning, as if preparing for catastrophic embarrassment.
Shane eased down, taking Ilya in inch by inch, groaning a drawn-out “ohhhh” that rippled through the candlelit room. The position pressed them chest to chest, mouths hovering inches apart, arms clinging. Their breaths synced. Sweat slicked their skin. Every grind sent sparks up their spines.
“Fuck,” Shane gasped, eyes wide, the stretch intense but ecstatic. “You feel so deep. Ilya, I—mmmnnn.”
“I got you,” Ilya murmured, voice reverent. “Look at me. Stay with me.”
They rocked, slow at first, exploring the strange geometry, both laughing when they wobbled, then moaning when the angle hit perfectly. Shane’s fingernails dug crescents into Ilya’s shoulders. Ilya’s hands cupped Shane’s ass, guiding the tempo. Outside, rain tapped the windows. Inside, the air thrummed with spectral disapproval.
Gary grew louder, his sighing a constant, almost comical metronome. Lights flickered, bright-dark-bright, shadows flowing across their faces like water. Shane threw his head back, hair sticking to his neck, a string of “ahh, ahh, ahh” spilling out. Ilya whispered Russian filth, each syllable a caress: “Take it, moya sladkaya neprilichnost, feel me, let go.”
Shane snapped, all that slow burn erupting. “Ohhh, fuck, Ilya, I’m—ahhh—” He spasmed, release spilling hot between their bellies, his body clenching tight around Ilya. The intensity dragged Ilya with him; he groaned, long and guttural, spilling inside, shaking. The candles guttered.
Gary’s finale sigh was seismic. Every bulb in the apartment burst simultaneously, tiny pops rippling like fireworks. The stereo sparked to life and died. The smoke detector chirped once, offended, then silence fell.
They clung to each other in the dark, panting, laughing in disbelief. Shane finally managed, “We just blew every light we own.”
“Worth it,” Ilya panted, forehead pressed to Shane’s. “That was… fuck, that was everything.”
“Yeah,” Shane whispered, eyes shining even in the gloom. “Everything.”
They disentangled carefully, limbs protesting. Replacing bulbs became their post-coital cool-down. Ilya did it nude, balancing on chairs, muttering at Gary. Shane recorded snippets, blackmail material for a rainy day. The ghost stayed quiet, perhaps meditating on the kaleidoscope of sin he had witnessed.
Weeks layered into a comfortable routine: practices, games, road trips, ghost harassment. When December rolled in with early snow, they hosted teammates for a holiday party. Gary behaved, merely fluttering the tree lights when someone mentioned marriage equality. Ilya called him “woke ghost” and toasted the empty air.
Later that night, after the last guest left and the apartment hummed with leftover warmth, Shane curled into Ilya on the couch. They watched snow drift past the floor-to-ceiling windows. Gary was silent, perhaps finally used to them.
“You ever think we’d end up like this?” Shane murmured. “Living together. Tormenting a ghost.”
“Yes.” Ilya nuzzled his hair. “Maybe not ghost part, but the rest. I always know I want forever with you.”
Shane smiled, pressing closer. “Same.” He hesitated. “Do you think Gary’s… happy? Like, weird question, but maybe we’re giving him something.”
Ilya shrugged. “Maybe he lonely. Maybe he bored. We provide entertainment, education, high drama. Is public service.”
“We should hang stockings for him,” Shane mused. “See if he flickers in gratitude.”
“Okay, but if he fills stocking with Victorian dust, I am moving out.”
They found an extra stocking, wrote GARY in glitter glue, and hung it on the mantle. On Christmas morning, it contained a single dead AA battery—the one from a lamp Gary annihilated weeks prior. They laughed until they nearly cried.
New Year’s Eve arrived. They decided to stay home rather than brave crowds. Gary approved by keeping the heat steady. They cooked dinner together, danced to cheesy pop songs, and toasted to “more orgasms than blown fuses.” At midnight, fireworks burst outside, painting their loft with red and gold.
Ilya pulled Shane close, foreheads touching. “This year, we break scoreboard,” he said softly.
“We already have. Gary’s the one losing.”
“Da, but next year, we find new levels. Bigger dares. Maybe we even invite ghost to therapy.”
Shane laughed. “He’d sigh the entire session.”
“Therapist be like, ‘I hear tension,’ and Gary go ‘HUUUUUH.’” Ilya kissed him, soft, lingering. “I love you. With ghost, without ghost, in haunted house, on kitchen counter. All of it.”
“I love you too,” Shane whispered, thumbs stroking Ilya’s cheeks. “Even when you scream at clowns.”
“Is survival instinct,” Ilya protested lightly. “Anyway, bed?”
“Definitely.” Shane tugged him toward the bedroom, grinning.
Gary will be fine,” Shane finished, pulling Ilya down for a kiss that stole the oxygen right out of the room. Fireworks painted their joined shadows on the wall. The ghost gave a single, exhausted sigh that fluttered the curtains like a curtain call. He didn’t flicker a light or drain the heater. He just hovered, a witness to two men who turned embarrassment into alchemy.
The city roared midnight. Fireworks sizzled. Gary hovered like a lonely chandelier, present but unobtrusive. Maybe he’d learned something. Maybe he finally understood. Either way, he fell silent as their breaths leveled out and sleep crept in. The scoreboard on the kitchen whiteboard still read Shane: 42, Ilya: 44, Gary: eternally scandalized.