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Leaving the comfort and safety of The Cottage was like crawling out of a warm cozy bed in the middle of winter; it had to be done, but adjusting to the cold of the open air was jarring and unpleasant, and all you wanted was to climb back into bed.
The drive back to Ottawa was quiet, rarely interrupted by conversation. While the air conditioning kept the heat and humidity at bay, the air in the car grew heavy and sacred with the promise of future days together, while days and weeks apart loomed ahead like fog. Shane’s Land Rover was the last place of peace they’d see before Ilya left for the turmoil of Macdonald-Cartier International, Boston, and off-season training. Their chances of seeing each other between off-season training and the preseason games were unlikely.
Shane’s flight wasn’t for another couple days. But they couldn’t travel together anyway. Not without paparazzi, gossip blogs, and hockey fans finding out and bombarding them with questions. Regardless of schedules, Ilya was stuck making the solo trek across the parking lot of international departures to return to Boston.
And it was a trek.
Ilya muttered vicious halfhearted curses in Russian. Shane’s paranoia was probably warranted, maybe, but it didn’t mean Ilya enjoyed the heat bouncing off the pavement and adding curl to the dampening hair at the back of his neck.
They’d had two perfect weeks at The Cottage, even with the bump of David’s unexpected visit and the resulting reveal.
Ilya allowed himself a smile at the thought of helping with David’s meatloaf recipe and the freedom that came with finally being open about their relationship - even if only to Shane’s parents. His smile grew remembering Shane’s joyful embarrassment at being teased by his lover. Ilya grinned. Moy pomidor, he thought fondly of Shane’s face going tomato bright at his chirping. It was all more than Ilya and Shane had ever dared to dream. It was less than they wanted. It was enough, for now.
Ilya kept his head down as he navigated the busy corridors of the departure section of the terminal. It was against everything he was to shrink his body, his smile, and strive for invisibility. But he knew it was important. He’d even dressed for the occasion.
“You cannot walk through Ottawa International looking like a sexy hockey god. Fucks’ sake, Rozanov.” Shane had explained in exasperation.
“Ah, hockey god. I know this term. Is for best player in the league, yes?” Ilya had watched from his reclined position against the headboard (and a mini mountain of pillows) as Shane searched his suitcase and Shane’s own closet for something that wouldn’t give Shane and every Canadian in the airport feelings when they saw Ilya wearing it.
“Exactly. It’s embarrassing seeing you dress like this when you’re the second best player in the league.”
“Tell that to my dick.”
“Tell that to my All-Star records,” Shane had leaned over Ilya and nipped at the sharp line of his jaw.
“Was basically a tie.” Ilya had dragged Shane to the bed and flipped their positions in an instant. “I think I win next race. Stamina. Endurance. You will lose, Hollander.”
Shane had grinned, fierce, affectionate. “No chance, Rozanov.” And dragged Ilya down for a filthy kiss.
Ilya had won the endurance race by using every bit of his super star accuracy to nail Shane’s prostate over and over until his boyfriend made a mess all over the sheets, throw pillows, and himself.
But somehow Ilya entered MacDonald-Cartier International in a boring, Hollander-approved outfit. The blue linen shirt still smelled like Shane and strained against Ilya’s broad shoulders and biceps. The baseball cap and dark shades helped render Ilya unnoticeable as he made a beeline for international security.
The processing through security was tedious, and he grimaced as he produced his Russian passport. The deep red colour brought Ilya’s attention to the constant pit in his stomach when he thought of Russia. Someday his passport would be no different from the navy Canadian ones he saw around him. Someday he would be free, he reminded himself. Someday.
There was a flare of recognition in the clerk’s eyes as he handed over his passport and made brief eye contact. Ilya offered a smirk and hoped that he could trust his discretion.
Finally, in the departure terminal proper, Ilya searched for a place to rest. The first stop was an executive lounge. He set up in a corner with his headphones and Russian rap, and relaxed while idly watching planes come and go.
Eventually, he grew restless. He had missed people, seeing them, feeding off their energy, observing their little quirks. The ache in his stomach was partially from missing Shane (already. He was so soft for Hollander), but also became a physical thing as it rumbled with hunger.
The various buffets and kiosks in the lounge were wholly unappealing. Too much rabbit food. Too much like Shane’s macrobiotic diet, which he’d somewhat followed for the past two weeks. Ilya was really craving something decidedly outside Shane’s diet. Something that would help him picture exasperation, love, and disgust warring on Shane’s face if he saw Ilya eating it.
So he tucked his chin and left the lounge on a bit of a mission.
As he dodged suitcases and handfuls of travelers, Ilya’s eyes settled on a red and white sign. Playing hockey in Canada regularly since that first World Juniors in Saskatchewan all those years ago meant that Ilya was familiar with the Tim Hortons franchise that loves hockey - and hometown hockey hero Shane Hollander - so well. He wandered in that direction thinking of a Double Double or icy sweet Iced Capp, a sausage and egg on a biscuit, and at least two crispy soft hashbrowns. It wasn’t exactly a McGriddle, but it would do.
Waiting in line, Ilya let his eyes roam over the display of pastries and donuts behind the glass. His eyes caught on one particular donut and a shit-eating grin blossomed on his face.
A few minutes later with his prize in hand, Ilya settled at an out-of-the-way table, pulled out his phone, took an obscenely large bite, and snapped a photo.
The photo showed Ilya’s face half obscured by a black ball cap, and his plump, sensual lips stretched taut around a thick, round donut. White custard oozed from a hole in the side, around Ilya’s plush lips, and a dollop dangled precariously, threatening to drop to his jaw or the tanned hollow of his collarbone and the hickey that Shane had left there last week, reckless with the thought of getting to leave filthy marks on his boyfriend.
Alone, the photo was suggestive. Ilya added a caption to push it over the edge.
“Already missing that Boston cream?”
He smirked, licking his lips and devouring the rest of the donut, and sent the pic.
A couple hundred kilometres away on the edge of a lake, too peaceful and pristine to be real, Shane Hollander picked up his phone from the dock beside him. He flicked it open to a text from Ilya.
The resulting yelp startled a handful of stupid Canadian wolf birds into flight.
“Fuck you.” he sent back. A hot flush raced across his cheeks and highlighted his freckles, darkened and numerous from his time in the sun with Ilya.
Then, a few moments later, “Of course I am. Asshole.”