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The late afternoon sun hung heavy over the lake, painting the water in streaks of molten gold and casting long, lazy shadows from the tall pines that surrounded their cottage. The air smelled of charcoal smoke, pine resin, and the clean, mineral scent of the lake.
Shane sat in a worn Adirondack chair, the wood warm against his back, watching the smoke curl up from the grill where Ilya stood, a picture of domestic concentration as he poked at four thick beef patties. His body shivered when the cool breeze hit the sweat still clinging to his neck but his brain right now was stuck years in the past, in the fluorescent-buzzing hell of a backstage bathroom in Vegas.
Shane had always remembered with startling detail every night he spent with Ilya. They were all twinged with a kind of bittersweet feeling, nervous feeling, even doubtful, but none had shame.
None except the night at Vegas.
Shane remembered when he had rushed to the bathroom backstage, heart hammering from the touch, from the sting of Ilya’s careless attitude. He remembered the door swinging shut, sealing them in that sterile, tiled space. The smell of industrial cleaner and sweat. He remembered demanding, voice tight, “What the fuck do you want, Rozanov?”
And Ilya, leaning against the wall, all cool, bored arrogance, had not even properly looked at Shane as he had said, “I want you to suck my dick.”
He remembered, like crystal clear glass, the overwhelming wave of arousal that had crashed through him at the easy, cruel dominance in Ilya’s voice. The sheer, fucking audacity of it. It had short-circuited every other thought. But he also remembered, like the sharp jagged edge of that same glass, the feeling of utter shame that followed.
Shame at how easily Ilya could say those words to him. Like he knew Shane would give up control. Like he knew Shane wouldn’t fight back. And they had spent barely any nights together, they had fucked only once, for God’s sake. And Ilya knew him so intimately, so completely, it was terrifying. At the time, the dizzying, dangerous thrill of being understood–being wanted in that raw, unfiltered way–had overtaken Shane.
That undercurrent of humiliation hadn’t hit him while Ilya held his face and kissed him, all possessive heat. It hadn’t hit when Ilya told him to wait, to put on a show, when Ilya fucked him against the cool rumpled sheets with a focused intensity that felt like being claimed and discarded in the same breath.
But it had hit when it was over. When Shane had walked out alone, his dress pants feeling loose and wrong, without a glance from Ilya, without a smile.
Without a kiss.
The shame. The overwhelming, choking, mocking shame. That Ilya could ask him to suck his dick after six months of radio silence, after the brutal, cruel words he’d said to Shane in Sochi, and Shane would… let him. That Shane would bend for him. That Shane was just so fucking easy.
Shane had felt insulted at many moments in his life. When the kids with paler skin said he smelled, even when his mom packed lunch suited for a western school. When the kids with the same skin tone said he wasn’t one of them because of his name, his accent, his lifestyle. When scouts and agents had called his Asian heritage “an interesting addition,” like his mother’s genes had just increased his selling price. But Shane had faced all of that with the steely, quiet respect he carried for himself, for his parents, for his own relentless work.
Self-respect was something Yuna Hollander had grilled into him, something he wore like armor.
Until that night in Vegas. Until Ilya Rozanov had looked at him and seen not the armor but the exact spot to slide the blade beneath it.
“Shane? Canada to Shane, hello, is someone listening?”
Shane jerked, the present rushing back in a wave of sound and scent. Ilya was looking at him, turned away from the grill, a slight frown between his brows, a spatula in his hand. The sun caught the few gold-brown strands in his hair and the sight was so normal, so now, it made the ghost of that past shame feel even more grotesque.
“Sorry,” Shane muttered, his voice rough. “Zoned out.”
“You are staring at burgers like they have offended your family,” Ilya said, but his tone was light, probing. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Fine.” Shane forced a smile. “Smells good.”
Ilya watched him for a second longer, then nodded. “Needs sauce. You have something? Mustard, maybe ketchup? Something… not ketchup.”
“In the kitchen. Pantry, left side. There’s dijon and there’s this maple bourbon stuff my mom left.”
Ilya pointed the spatula at him. “Maple bourbon. Yes. Do not move burgers.” He headed inside the cottage, the screen door slapping shut behind him.
Shane’s eyes went back to the grill. Four burgers. Ilya was making four burgers, unlike Shane. Because Ilya could look at a recipe and cut it in half while Shane… Shane would make the whole thing and eat leftovers for three days, because that’s what the instructions said to do. He shook his head, a sharp, frustrated motion.
This was why he hated thinking about that time, that night. It always filled him with a kind of self-hatred he wasn’t used to. He was used to discipline, to self-criticism, to the clean burn of anger at his own mistakes on the ice. But this? This was a murky, sickening pity. A lack of respect for himself. It rattled him, how much control Ilya’s simple, detached words and actions from years ago still had over him.
I want you to suck my dick.
I need to sleep.
Goodbye, Hollander.
Not even ‘goodnight’. And wasn’t it fucking hilarious that Shane was concentrating on that? Maybe if he got angry about the bigger things–the cruel words in Sochi, the dismissal, the six months of silence–he wouldn’t have to think about how it made him feel, to not even get a kiss after that humiliation ritual. To have given so much and received… not even a proper goodnight.
“Shane?”
He jerked up only when Ilya’s hand landed on his shoulder, warm and solid through his t-shirt. His boyfriend–because Shane could call him that now, the word still new and fragile and incredible on his tongue–looked worried. Ilya bent down, his knees popping, bringing them eye-to-eye. He took Shane’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, his calloused fingers gentle.
“Talk to me,” he said, his voice low, stripping away any pretense of lightness.
And Shane wanted to. He really, truly did. The words were a tangled, aching knot in his chest. But then the burgers hissed, and Ilya’s eyes flickered to the grill and he moved away, dropping his hand to go and tend to them. And Shane felt it. The rejection. The absence.
They hadn’t kissed today.
Which, in the grand scheme of things, shouldn’t be a big deal. They’d had an emotionally taxing day yesterday with the talk with his parents, the careful, nerve-wracking reveal of his sexuality and their relationship. Ilya had kissed him all last night–soft, reassuring kisses in the dark, kisses that tasted like shared vulnerability. So it shouldn’t be a big deal that Shane had woken up today alone in the bed. That Ilya had made him coffee and eggs without a morning kiss. That they’d thrown a football by the lake, laughing and shoving, without a single brush of lips. That he was now about to eat burgers without having been kissed.
It shouldn’t be a fucking deal at all.
“We didn’t kiss.”
Saying the words felt like a boulder had been lifted off his chest for a few blissful seconds before a whole mountain crashed down to take its place. What the fuck was he thinking? Saying something so pathetic, so needy, so utterly stupid over something so insignificant? Heat flooded his face, a different kind of shame, fresh and hot.
“What?” Ilya’s voice was quiet, confused.
Shane couldn’t look at him, couldn’t bear to see the realization of how stupid Shane and Shane’s emotions were dawning in those blue eyes. So he busied himself with the plates on the table beside him, aligning them perfectly. He fiddled with the napkins, folding and refolding a corner. He picked up the bottle of the maple bourbon sauce Ilya had brought out, studying the label as if it held the secrets of the universe.
Hands, warm and sure, clamped over his, stilling his frantic movements. Ilya knelt on the ground before him, the rough gravel of the ground surely digging into his knees. He rested their joined hands on Shane’s thighs, a heavy, grounding weight. Shane could still avoid his eyes, staring at the top of Ilya’s head, at the way his hair curled beautifully in the humid air.
“Sweetheart.”
The endearment, spoken so softly, was the final crack in the dam.
“You’re mean,” Shane said, and–oh no, it wasn’t supposed to come out like that, thin, watery, choked. Why was his voice doing that thing? Ilya’s arms were around him then, pulling him into a tight embrace from his awkward kneeling position, and God, Shane felt so humiliated, crying over a fucking kiss like some desperate teenager.
“I am mean,” Ilya whispered into his ear, his voice rough with emotion. “I am so mean. So mean to my Shane.” He repeated it like a mantra, and Shane choked out another sob, the sound ugly and broken in the quiet afternoon. He hit Ilya’s shoulder, not hard, a weak, frustrated thump.
“And you don’t kiss me,” Shane choked out, the words a bitter, accusatory sound. He felt the flinch that ran through Ilya’s body, a full-body recoil. “You don’t kiss me now. You didn’t kiss me then.”
Ilya’s hands rubbed slow circles on his back, up and down his thighs, even as Shane’s fingers dug into the hard muscle of Ilya’s forearms, nails biting, intending to leave half-moon marks. The self-pity and hatred were still there, swirling in his gut, but they were being rapidly, violently overtaken by an emotion Shane was completely unprepared to face: anger. White-hot, righteous anger. Not at himself, but at Ilya. At the man holding him.
“I–I need to go,” Shane gasped, trying to untangle himself. He couldn’t live with this, with saying something unforgivable to Ilya, not when they had finally, finally sorted everything out. He was so unused to being angry at Ilya, truly angry, that it felt terrifying. These emotions were too big, too sharp.
But Ilya was shaking his head, his grip firm. His knees had to be aching on the bare ground, but he didn’t let go.
“Talk to me,” he insisted, his voice leaving no room for argument.
“I’m scared,” Shane admitted in a rush. When Ilya looked taken aback, his brow furrowing, Shane forced out the rest. “I’m angry at you. I don’t want to be. But I am, and that makes me scared.”
It took a few moments, the only sounds the distant cry of a loon and the crackle of the dying fire in the grill. Ilya leaned back just enough to cup Shane’s face, his thumbs wiping away the tears tracking through the summer dust on his cheeks. Shane’s vision was blurry, but he could see the intense focus in Ilya’s eyes, the patience there. An endless, steady patience just for him.
“Why is my Shane scared of being angry at me?” Ilya asked, his voice so soft it made Shane’s lip tremble. He hit Ilya’s chest again, a pathetic little thud. “I am your boyfriend. Who will you be angry at, if not me? Be angry at me. Only at me.”
But Shane was shaking his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “It’s… it’s stupid.”
“It is not.”
“It’s such an old thing! I don’t know why I’m even…”
This time, Ilya was quiet for a long time. Shane could feel the rise and fall of his chest, could smell the charcoal and burger grease on his shirt, mixed with his own clean, soapy scent. He thought Ilya would finally let it go, would stand up and go back to the ruined burgers and they’d pretend this never happened.
Then, quietly, like Ilya was scared of running Shane off: “Does it upset you a lot? This old thing?”
It didn’t. It didn’t upset him a whole lot. Only when Ilya didn’t kiss him. When Ilya didn’t wish him goodnight. Two things that happened rarely, if ever, now. So no, it could not upset him a lot. That would be stupid.
“Yes,” Shane whispered. But he wanted to be stupid. Maybe just for now. Maybe just for the next few minutes, he could be as stupid and needy and hurt as he felt.
Ilya bent his head, pressing his lips to each of Shane’s knuckles, one by one. The touch was so gentle, so reverent, it felt like the kisses were landing directly on his raw, pounding heart. Shane sniffed, the anger momentarily stunned by the tenderness.
“Tell me,” Ilya murmured against his skin. “Please.”
“Vegas.” The word dropped like a stone. “That… that award show.” Shane started, the dread and anger and hatred swirling into a nausea in his stomach. He felt sick. “Why did you treat me like that?”
Ilya’s lips lingered on his last knuckle. Shane heard the world around them–the chirping birds, the gentle lap of the lake against the dock, the frantic drum of his own heart. There were too many emotions to pick one, so he focused on Ilya. On the way he slowly raised his head.
The pain in Ilya’s eyes was a physical blow. He looked lost. Gutted. Defeated.
Shane hated it. Hated that he’d put that look there.
“I’m sorr–”
“Stop.” Ilya’s voice was sharp, final. He sighed, a heavy, weary sound, and raised his hand again to cup Shane’s cheek, his thumb stroking the arch of his cheekbone. “No. You should not say it. You should never say it to me for this.”
“Ilya…” Shane breathed, because he didn’t know what else to say.
Ilya swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Shane could see he wanted to look away, to hide, but he held Shane’s gaze, forcing himself to stay open. “I wanted to protect you,” he said, the words seeming ripped from him. “I wanted to protect myself. Mostly, I think… I wanted to protect you from myself.”
He offered a smile then, but it was a sad, heavy thing that didn’t reach his eyes, and Shane felt the weight of it in his own soul.
“I was so scared, Shane. Of… of loving you. Needing you. Of making you love me, need me. I was a fucking disaster. I thought if I stayed away from you, far away, made it mean nothing… then it would not hurt when it ended. When I ruined it. When I drove you away for good.”
Ilya’s thumb kept stroking, a constant, soothing motion. It helped Shane concentrate on something else that wasn’t his own burning eyes.
“But I pushed you,” Ilya continued, his voice dropping to a ragged whisper. “I made you fall. I gave you bruises. I gave my Shane so many bruises.”
The ownership in the phrase ‘my Shane’ was no longer possessive in an intimate way, but in a devastated, regretful one.
The anger, which had been banked by Ilya’s pain, flared again, hot and bright. It mixed with a profound, aching sadness. Shane slapped Ilya’s shoulder, not playfully. A real, sharp smack. Then he leaned forward and bit the side of Ilya’s neck, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to sting, to mark.
“You didn’t even ice them, you asshole,” he growled against Ilya’s skin, the words muffled, trembling.
Ilya’s arms tightened around him, pulling him into a crushing hug. He buried his face in Shane’s neck. “I know. I am an asshole. The biggest.”
“They still hurt. The bruises,” Shane admitted into the space between them, his voice so small and broken it felt like it cracked something in the air between them. A final, damning confession.
Ilya pulled back just enough to look at him, his own eyes bright. “I will ice them,” he whispered, fervent, desperate. “I will use spray. Use medicine. I will kiss them. I will kiss you.”
He was babbling, a stream of promises falling from his lips as he began to kiss Shane’s face–his tear-damp cheeks, the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his temple.
“I am sorry, Shane. I am so, so sorry. For Vegas. For every time I was cruel because I was scared. I am sorry. I am so sorry, lyubímyy.”
He kept apologizing, each “sorry” a kiss planted on Shane’s skin. On his forehead. His closed eyelids. The bridge of his nose. Each one felt like an absolution and a brand. Shane was crying again, but it was different now–a release of the bitter anger, the old shame washing out with the tears, leaving him raw and empty and ready to be filled with something new.
Ilya pulled back finally, cradling Shane’s face, his own cheeks wet. Shane expected to be kissed on the mouth then, the natural culmination, but Ilya just held him, their foreheads touching, sharing breath.
“I am sorry,” he said again, the simplest, most profound sentence.
Shane smiled, a wobbly, tearful thing, and then a sob hiccupped out of him, and then Ilya’s mouth was on his. It wasn’t a pretty kiss. It was messy and salty with their tears, clumsy with the angle, too much teeth at first. But for Shane, it was the only thing tethering him to the earth. He felt like he’d been untethered for years, floating in the cold, shameful silence of that Vegas bathroom and elevator. This kiss, desperate and real and now, anchored him. Ilya’s hands were in his hair, holding him close as he kissed him again and again, short, fervent presses between more whispered apologies against his lips.
“I’m sorry… I will kiss you every day… I’m sorry, solnyshko.”
The apologies melted on Shane’s skin, sweet and sticky and warm. Shane kissed him back, his hands fisting in Ilya’s shirt, pulling him closer from his kneeling position, needing the solid, real weight of him. The world narrowed to the taste of salt and Ilya, the feel of his stubble, the sound of his ragged breaths, the scent of smoke and summer and them. The old, sharp edges of the memory began to blur, soothed by the relentless, apologizing pressure of Ilya’s lips on his, over and over, as if he could kiss the bruises away for good.
Maybe he could. They had so much time together now, after all.