Work Text:
The day before the ceremony at 7, Shane made his way to the kitchen, planning to set coffee for Ilya. He opened the closet to find the coffee and mugs. Jessica appeared--reaching for coffee, tea, mugs, and sugar. She shot him a 'morning' and ate an apple. She was loud in Ilya’s house, though not in voice. It was the way she moved from room to room, knowing where everything was. The way she sat on the couch as if it were her house, her life inside Ilya’s life. Shane is only visiting. Her car is outside. Her 'room' with Lego--why did she have a room when Shane did not even have a toothbrush?
Shane immediately felt a bit possessive of the idea and annoyed that Jessica seemed to know her way around Ilya’s kitchen. He was unreasonably irked by the fact that she was in his kitchen at eight in the morning, even if they had slept there. Shane knew they were just friends, but he was annoyed at their closeness, irritated in the same way he had previously been with Svetlana: irrationally vexed by these women and their familiarity with his person.
But his vexation about Jessica was sharper than what he felt for Svetlana. He could rationalize Svetlana: she came first, knew Ilya since Moscow--childhood friends, a biographical friend--someone Shane could not fight because she was there before everything, and also someone Ilya stopped sleeping with for Shane. Someone who liked Shane before. But Jessica was in Ilya’s life by circumstance: the failure of the Ottawa plan -- his plan. She was in Ilya life because a chain of events hadn’t worked, because Shane wasn’t ready--still not ready--and Ilya had left. He was avoiding direct contact; he mostly felt Svetlana’s eyes on him--a silent grievance.
His distance from Jessica had grown on its own after the awkward encounter at the ceremony. Jessica had gone out of her way to let him know she was a lesbian. Far from easing things for him, it only made him realize that she must have seen the dread on his face when she arrived at the ceremony with Ilya. After the relief of knowing she was not Ilya’s girlfriend, a quiet anger—misplaced, shapeless jealousy—settled in. He knew that other people, everyone like he once did, would assume that the beautiful woman on Ilya’s arm was his girlfriend. And it made him angry, because he could not step forward and say, No, he is with me. He is mine. We are together. Because that thought was even more frightening. His jealousy and possessiveness had nowhere to go; the space of self-deprecation he carved inside himself was already full.
Defying logic and reason, the fact that, unlike Svetlana, Jessica and Ilya’s relationship had never been sexual or even slightly romantic made it worse. If she had slept with Ilya even once, he could have felt he had the upper hand, that in this terrain, Ilya was his. He could have looked at her in Ilya’s kitchen and pitied her as a former hookup, thinking that, as he did, Ilya was thinking about him--that even if circumstances had put Ilya in her path, or allowed her to insert herself into Ilya’s life, part of Ilya still came back to Shane. They were not together, but they were not not together.
But she had not slept with Ilya. She was not even remotely attracted to him. And to add insult to injury, she was nice to Shane. He could see that she wished things would work out, even casually conversing about how and when she had come out, or telling him as a matter of fact, “I love Ilya, and you love him. I am on the side of your love.”
But how could she be? She had what Shane wanted. He should be the one showing her where the mugs, the coffee, and the sugar were; where to remove her shoes at the door; talking about where they had found the Egyptian cotton sheets. He should be the one with the streaming-platform profile with the silly avatar. But he was not. Shane was at a strange kind of war, a war that felt wrong, a war against her, or rather against what she had: intimacy, the right to be here, to know not only game nights but weekdays, having a favorite bar, and watching ridiculous TV shows.
The day before, Shane engaged in a small act of petty reclamation of Ilya. Had he planned it? He liked to think he had not, but why then--him, usually such a light traveler--had he packed not his usual travel toiletries, but brand replicas of a full bathroom: electric toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, fragrance, deodorant, shower gel? He unpacked everything, acting nonchalant in Ilya’s ensuite bathroom. He placed a second glass next to Ilya’s. He had packed an extra shirt and pyjamas to leave there. He might not have known where the coffee, mugs, sugar, teaspoon, and cups were, but he was in Ilya’s ensuite bedroom, the maps and the territory of what belonged to him. Shane spent the day being clingy, sharing unspoken words with Ilya during TV time, slipping away for a nap, and Ilya following minutes later--leaving no doubt about the content of the nap.
And yet, it wasn't enough. He wanted taco nights, to commiserate about Amazon delivery guys, and his name on fridge letters.
The night before the ceremony, everyone grew tipsy but not drunk; they turned to a YouTube playlist and sang off-key pop songs. Shane and Lindsay were held hostage by Ilya, Jessica, and Svetlana. Shane drifted, wondering whether to extend his stay. He needed more time--he needed this, he needed him. His mind went back to the year in Ottawa, and he could now see how Ilya’s life was limited, geographically constrained -- how the promise of the foundation that was supposed to allow them to be friends in public had not been fulfilled. They rarely went anywhere together, no coffee shop, no restaurant, no movie theater, no museum. They could have, he did those things and more with Hayden. But he was so scared, He knew he was scared, but it was not just that. He wanted to be with Ilya -- in the house in Ottawa, at the cottage -- to have him. After years of stolen hours, of months apart, he wanted more. Still, Ilya is not Hayden. Ilya makes him forget everything, lost in his eyes. What if Shane forgot that they were outside? What if his hand drifts? What if he forgets, and his lips reach Ilya's neck? One camera, and he could lose everything. But it didn't happen, so why did he feel like he'd lost more than anything?
Lost in his mind, he heard Jessica's girlfriend, Lindsay, exasperated: “Oh no, please God, not again.” Svetlana was laughing as she made herself more comfortable on the couch, shouting, “Hello, police, a crime is about to be committed, please come, the victim is Riri!” A song that Shane did not know started. On the screen, Rihanna’s album cover appeared. On the left, the lyrics of a song called Love on the Brain. Ilya and Jessica were now standing, each with a remote in hand, miming the preparation of their voices. They started singing along--it was objectively very bad. It made Shane smile at first. But as the song continued, he watched Ilya and Jessica, eyes locked, singing along, singing at each other:
“And I'll run for miles just to get a taste.
Must be love on the brain
That's got me feeling this way
It beats me black and blue, but it fucks me so good.
And I can't get enough.
Must be love on the brain, yeah
And it keeps cursing my name
No matter what I do, I'm no good without you.
And I can't get enough.
Must be love on the brain.”
He felt physically sick, and he did not know why. Lindsay was giggling and booing -- why did he feel so sick? Why could he not have it? He should be the one singing badly, sexually charged songs with Ilya. Itwas unfair, because it was him who, since he was 17, ran for miles just to get a taste of Ilya, him that Ilya always fuck so good, and him that Ilya cursed the name, his first name, his last name, the petname, in Russian and in English. Him whose love for Ilya occupied every part of his brain and body. But he did not have bad karaoke traditions in Ilya’s house, because Shane was not ready. So Ilya had found friends who had become part of his life. Not between encounters. Not in the space in between meet-ups, calls, and waiting.
The next day, the emotions surrounding the ceremony gave Shane relief, as his brain had forgotten the unilateral war he was in. He was the one who had won the bet on whether Ilya would cry at the ceremony or not, because after all, even if he did not know the day-to-day of Ilya, he knew Ilya.
But the war came back stronger as they went back home. Shane, who had mentally mapped the kitchen that morning, was moving with more ease, reaching for wine glasses for the group. He did not get to enjoy his win. As he was setting the glasses, Ilya swiftly took his glass and Jessica’s glass and exchanged them: “This is Jessica’s glass. She is grumpy when she does not drink from it.”
Jessica added, “I own it.”, cut by her girlfriend, “Yes, babe. Not everybody gets discounts at Crate & Barrel by noticing price errors. We are soooooo grateful.”
And one more joke. One more moment, to remind Shane he is transiting here. Shane is glad he is drinking his ginger ale in a tumbler glass, at least--or he hopes this one was not picked by Jessica.
After two drinks in, it’s easy, by the end of the night, to take Ilya’s hand and follow him back to his room, to allow himself be stripped of his clothing and pressed gently into the bedsheets, to let the murmurs of félicitations against Ilya’s mouth turn into gasps and moans. Shane felt a ravenous hunger--to balance the day, to claim victory in his secretive war. He melted into Ilya, not letting him go far, whispering, “I want to see you,” looking at him, pleading, begging, promising -- “I love you, tell me you love me, tell me I am everything.” And at every stroke, every “I love you, Shane, only you. You are everything,” Shane let go of the war, retreating until Ilya made him forget.
A few days later, back in Montréal, in his car leaving the airport, he felt something inside him loosen -- as if he had finally stepped out of that unspoken war. After finding the courage to ask Ilya to wait, and hearing“okay,” he understood that what he wanted -- what he had envied Jessica for -- belonged to something far larger: kitchen clutter, Taco Tuesdays, ordinary vacations, shared nights, domestic tenderness, Instagram posts, the luxury of time to be bored together. The slow accumulation of signs -- not only of himself, but of them, together, in space, in a place, plural. He will be ready. He must.
As he exited the airport garage, he connected his phone to Bluetooth, opened TIDAL, and pressed play. Love on the Brain [Explicit] - Rihanna