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The late autumn air has that particular Montreal crispness to it. Not quite cold, but sharp enough to pink the tips of Kip’s ears as they climb the winding path through the trees.
This place that Shane has driven them all today is all wet earth, decaying leaves, the tannic sweetness of maple and something resinous drifting down from the pines that cluster along the ridge. Woodsmoke curls faintly underneath it all, probably from one of the old Outremont houses tucked below the tree line, and every breath Scott takes feels like drinking something cold and clean.
Being here is nothing like the muted seasons of Manhattan.
Scott and Ilya walk a few paces behind.
Up ahead, Shane and Kip are walking close enough that their shoulders brush with every other step. Shane is gesturing at something overhead, speaking French to a passing jogger who laughs at whatever he’s said.
Kip’s legs are still a little shaky. Whether that’s from this morning or last night or the hike itself, Scott couldn’t say. Probably all three. Kip is wearing Scott’s hoodie because his own jacket wasn’t warm enough, and the sleeves hang past his fingertips in a way that makes him look cared for.
The trees are like stained glass that afternoon—all reds and golds and oranges so vivid they look painted. Sunlight filters through the leaves and throws shifting patterns across the path, across Shane’s shoulders, across Kip’s upturned face.
“He looks good in your clothes.”
Scott follows Ilya’s gaze to where Kip is now laughing at something Shane said, his head tipped back, throat exposed. The hoodie swallows him. Makes him look smaller than he is. Scott knows exactly how much strength is coiled in that compact frame, knows how Kip can take and take and still ask for more, but right now he just looks soft and young and happy in a way that loosens something in Scott’s chest.
“Yeah,” Scott says. “He does.”
Shane chooses that moment to stretch, rolling out some tension in his shoulders, and Scott’s gaze snags on the movement.
The way Shane’s henley pulls across his back. The cords of muscle in his forearms where he’s pushed his sleeves up. He’s broader than Kip, built different—longer limbs, wider through the chest, that sort of solidity that comes from years of hockey. He’s handsome in a way that Scott has always been aware of but has recently started noticing, which is a different thing entirely.
“Shane also looks good,” Ilya offers. “In case you are wondering.”
Scott cuts him a sideways glance. Ilya’s expression is mild, innocent in a way that means he’s seeing more than he’s letting on.
“Wasn’t wondering,” Scott says, but it comes out flatter than he intended, and Ilya’s mouth curves.
“No? You are looking very hard for someone who is not wondering.”
Scott’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t have a good response because Ilya isn’t wrong. He was looking. Has been looking more than he’d like to admit, ever since last night when Shane was behind him, inside him, one hand gripping Scott’s hip while the other reached around to touch where Scott and Kip were joined—
“Is okay,” Ilya says, bumping their shoulders together as they walk. “I like that you look. Means you are paying attention.” A beat. “Means last night was not just... how do you say. Caught up in the moment.”
Scott turns that over in his head. He watches Shane lean down to say something in Kip’s ear, watches Kip’s answering grin, the easy way they move together.
“It wasn’t,” he says finally. The words come out careful, measured. “There was more to it than that.”
“Good.” Ilya’s voice is satisfied.
Up ahead, the path curves around a massive oak, and Shane stops, pointing at something through the trees. Kip leans in to look, and Shane’s hand settles automatically on the small of his back. It’s such a casual touch. Proprietary in a way that should maybe bother Scott, but doesn’t.
Kip glances back over his shoulder, catches Scott watching, and smiles.
It’s a specific smile. The one that means I know what you’re thinking and I’m thinking it too and we’ll talk about it later, just the two of us, when we’re alone.
“Come,” Ilya says, already moving forward. “There is lookout. Best view of the city. Shane will want to show off.”
“He’s been showing off since we got here.”
Ilya’s grin is fond. “Shane wants you to love his city. So he shows you everything beautiful and pretends it is casual.”
They catch up as Shane is steering Kip off the main path onto a narrower trail that switchbacks up toward the ridge. The undergrowth is thicker here, ferns gone gold and brittle, and Scott has to watch his footing on the exposed roots.
The trees thin as they approach the lookout, and then the view opens up all at once, sudden and staggering.
Mount Royal does give a fantastic view of the city.
“Holy shit,” Kip breathes.
Shane is clearly pleased, and points out landmarks to him, their voices a low murmur that doesn’t quite carry.
From here, Scott can see the spires of the old churches rising up between glass towers. A cool breeze sweeps up from the valley.
Ilya comes to stand beside him.
Scott looks out at the city for a long moment. He thinks about how strange it is to be here. How even a year ago, the idea of spending a weekend with Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov would have seemed absurd.
Wind rattles through the branches above them. A shower of leaves comes loose. Crimson and purple-grey spiral down around them. One catches in Ilya’s hair—a bright red maple leaf caught fast in honeyed-brown strands.
Scott reaches up without thinking and plucks it free.
Ilya goes still under his touch.
“You had a—” Scott holds up the leaf, feeling suddenly stupid. “Leaf.”
“Ah.” Ilya’s mouth curves, but there’s a glint in his eye. “My hero. What would I do without you to save me from maple leaves.”
Scott snorts.
Ilya takes the leaf from Scott’s fingers, twirling it by the stem, and tucks it into his jacket pocket with exaggerated care.
“For memory,” Ilya says, patting the pocket. “Of the time Scott Hunter rescued me from dangerous foliage.”
Scott should really drop his hand, but he doesn’t. Instead, his fingers drift down, brushing the hair back from Ilya’s temple, tucking it behind his ear. The strands are softer than he expected. Ilya’s eyes flutter half-closed, just for a second, and Scott watches the way his breath catches.
“Mm. You are gentle,” Ilya murmurs. “For someone so big.” He flexes his fingers, a teasing imitation of Scott’s careful touch. “No more like bear. More like baby deer.”
Scott’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t rise to... whatever this is. Ilya’s grin only sharpens as he leans into Scott’s touch rather than away from it.
“Nothing? No comeback? After I have seen you naked. With my boyfriend’s dick inside you?”
Scott’s face goes hot. He drops his hand like he’s been burned, but Ilya is already laughing, low and delighted, clearly pleased with himself for landing that hit.
“I think,” Ilya begins, almost as if about to apologize, except he doesn’t sound remotely sorry. “That you like that I say what I am thinking.” He tilts his head, studying Scott with that unnerving directness. “Easier for you than people who make you guess.”
Scott doesn’t have a response to that. Mostly because Ilya’s right, and that’s a strange thing to sit with. On the ice, Ilya’s mouth has gotten him cross-checked into the boards more than once. Hell, Scott has been the one to do it.
A few feet away, Shane has his phone out, taking pictures of Kip against the backdrop of the city. Kip is pretending to pose dramatically, one hand pressed to his forehead.
“I’m still figuring out what this is,” Scott says finally.
Ilya’s expression shifts. The teasing glint softens into something more serious, more searching. He takes a half-step closer, not quite into Scott’s space but near the edge of it.
“That is fair,” Ilya says. His voice has dropped, lost some of its performative edge. “Last night was... a lot. Many things at once. Hard to know what is what.”
Scott swallows. He’s acutely aware of how close Ilya is standing. Of the way the wind is pulling at Ilya’s hair again, sending strands across his forehead.
“I’ve figured a few things out,” Scott says.
Ilya’s head tilts. “Oh? You are thinking now?”
Scott’s jaw works. He’s not good at this. Not good at naming things while they’re still happening. He’s spent his whole life learning to keep his cards close and keep it all compartmentalized.
“I know I’m still thinking about last night. More than I expected to.”
Ilya’s mouth curves, but it’s not the smug grin from before. “This is good. I am also thinking about it.” He pauses. “About you, specifically.”
“Me?”
“Mm.” Ilya’s gaze drops to Scott’s mouth, just for a second, then back up. “You are very controlled, Hunter. I used to think it annoying. Like playing against department store mannequin.” He shrugs.
Scott's eyebrow twitches.
“Now I think it... interesting. Because I have seen what happens when control slips. And I am curious what else does this to you.”
Scott should step back. Should make a joke, break the tension, return to safer ground.
Ilya shrugs, easy. “I am patient man. Ask Shane.” A beat. “Well. Do not ask Shane, he will say I am least patient person. But for this—” His eyes hold Scott’s.
The wind picks up, cold enough to bite, and Scott is very aware of how still they’re both standing. How close.
“I am going to kiss you now,” Ilya says, the same way he might say I am going to order another drink or I am going to win the Cup this year. “While there is no—how do you say—audience.”
Scott’s pulse kicks up. He glances toward Shane and Kip, but they’re still occupied, Kip now making Shane take a photo of him pretending to hold the city in his palm.
“They won’t mind,” Ilya adds.
Then he’s moving, closing the distance like it was never a question.
Ilya’s mouth is warm, unhurried. Nothing like last night, when everything was heat and urgency and hands everywhere. Scott remembers watching Ilya’s hand fist in Kip’s hair, remembers the tears streaming down Kip’s face as Ilya fucked his throat and remembers thinking Jesus, he’s relentless.
This is nothing like that.
This is soft. Almost sweet, if Scott could ever use that word to describe Ilya Rozanov. Just a gentle press of lips, Ilya’s hand coming up to cup the side of Scott’s jaw, thumb brushing across his cheekbone—the same hand that had held Kip’s head still, the same thumb that had wiped away Kip’s tears before pushing back in.
It’s disorienting, how soft he can be.
When Scott finally pulls away, Ilya’s eyes are bright with something that looks like satisfaction.
A wolf-whistle cuts through the air. They both turn to find Kip watching them, Shane’s arm slung casually around his shoulders.
“Don’t stop on our account,” Kip calls.
Scott groans and is about to say something back to that, but Kip is already bounding over, cheeks flushed pink from the wind, Shane trailing behind with his hands in his pockets.
“Hi.” Kip tucks himself under Scott’s arm like he belongs there, which he does, fitting perfectly against Scott’s side the way he always has, the way he always will. “You two look cozy.”
“Rozanov and I were just talking.”
“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Kip grins, but his eyes are searching Scott’s face the way they do when he’s checking in without wanting to make a thing of it.
Scott answers by pressing a kiss to his temple.
“What were you talking about?” Shane asks, coming to stand beside Ilya. Their shoulders brush, and Ilya’s hand finds Shane’s, fingers interlacing.
“Foliage,” Ilya says, completely straight-faced. “Very dangerous. Scott saved my life.”
Shane’s brow furrows. “What?”
“There was a leaf.” Scott gestures vaguely at Ilya’s hair. “It was—never mind.”
“He is being modest,” Ilya says. “Was very heroic. I am in his debt now. This is how it works, yes? He saves me from leaf, I owe him favor.”
“That’s not how that works,” Scott says.
“In Russia, this is how it works.”
“That’s not—”
"You have never been to Russia. How would you know."
"I have."
“Not the part where this rule exists.”
Kip is grinning up at Scott, clearly delighted by this entire exchange. “I think you should let him owe you a favor.”
Scott exhales through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. “You are all impossible.”
Shane laughs, the sound warm and easy. “Come on. There’s a café near here. I want to take you there.”
The four of them start back down the trail, the path narrower here so they have to walk in pairs. Scott keeps Kip tucked against his side, and ahead of them, Shane and Ilya move with the easy synchronicity of people who have learned each other’s rhythms over years.
Scott watches the way Shane’s hand drifts to the small of Ilya’s back, guiding him around a patch of loose gravel.
“If you had told him to back off, he would have.” Kip’s voice is quiet, pitched just for Scott.
Scott tightens his arm around Kip, pulling him closer as they navigate a root-studded section of the path. “He asked first.” He keeps his voice equally low, conscious of Shane and Ilya just ahead. “In his own way… gave me an out.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Scott watches the way the dappled light moves across Shane’s shoulders as he walks. “I chose not to take it. That’s the part I’m still sitting with.”
Kip nods slowly, processing that. His fingers find the hem of Scott’s jacket, twisting the fabric the way he does when he’s thinking hard about something. “Okay,” he says finally. “That’s—I mean, that’s allowed. You’re allowed to want things.”
Scott’s chest does something complicated at that. He looks down at Kip, at the earnest furrow between his brows, and feels a surge of tenderness so acute it almost hurts.
“Shane and I talked about them coming to visit us in New York.”
Scott’s step falters. “Oh?” He keeps his voice neutral, but his mind is already turning that over—what it would mean to have Shane and Ilya in their space, their apartment, their bed. “When were you thinking?”
Kip shrugs. “We didn’t get that far.”
Scott nods, filing that away. Ahead of them, Ilya says something that makes Shane laugh and shove at his shoulder.
Suddenly, Ilya turns, walking backward for a few steps with the careless confidence of someone who has never once worried about tripping over anything. “Hunter! Kip! You are walking too slow. Shane has whole itinerary planned. Café, then something else beautiful, then another something beautiful.”
“I don’t have an itinerary,” Shane mutters.
“You have itinerary in your head. I can see it.”
Kip laughs, tugging Scott forward. “Come on. Apparently we have a schedule to keep.”
Shane smiles as he waits for them to catch up.
Scott lets himself be pulled along, Kip’s hand warm in his. The path widens enough for all four of them to walk abreast, and somehow Scott ends up between Ilya and Kip, Shane on Ilya’s other side.
Ilya’s elbow bumps against Scott’s as they walk, and Scott isn’t sure if it’s accidental or deliberate. With Ilya, it’s hard to tell.
Then Ilya’s hand drops, casual as anything, and squeezes Scott’s ass.
Scott nearly trips over his own feet.
“Rozanov,” he says, voice tight.
“Yes?” Ilya’s expression is perfectly innocent. His hand is already gone, swinging at his side like nothing happened.
Kip is biting his lip so hard it looks painful, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. On Ilya’s other side, Shane has his face turned away, but Scott can see the tips of his ears have gone red.
“You can’t just—” Scott starts, then stops, because what is he going to say? You can’t just grab my ass in public? They’re on a mostly-empty trail in the woods. There’s no one around to see.
“Can’t what?” Ilya asks.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“I think you are imagining things, Hunter. Maybe the altitude is getting to you.”
Scott keeps his pace steady even as heat crawls up the back of his neck. He doesn’t dignify that with a response. But he also doesn’t pull away when Ilya’s shoulder presses against his again, and when they reach the café, he lets Shane order for all of them in French, and he doesn’t complain when Ilya steals the last bite of his croissant.
He’s still owed a favor, after all.