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Ilya was wearing Shane’s shirt.
Shane had handed it to him, wordlessly, earlier that evening as they stepped outside to watch the sunset. Ilya had been wearing a tank top, and Shane knew how quickly the temperature dropped here once the sun dipped below the horizon.
Ilya had given him a look: skeptical, fond.
You know I am from Russia, yes?
Shane had just laughed, shrugging.
I don’t want you to be cold.
Ilya had put it on, and kept it on.
Shane had to try to keep himself from staring.
After their first morning here, when he woke to find Ilya still in his bed, he had stopped worrying that if he looked away from him for too long that he might disappear. Mostly. But the sight of him— Ilya on his couch, in his shirt, was too good to resist.
It was easier to look at Ilya when he wasn’t looking back. Bearing Ilya's full attention could feel like staring into the sun; as though when Shane looked away he would blink to find spots in his vision in the shape of Ilya's eyes.
He let himself take in the view, for a moment. Ilya was looking at his phone, but his gaze was far away. Shane catalogued details: worn flannel, dark golden curls, cupid's bow. He was so beautiful.
It felt gluttonous to have this much of what he wanted. Shane wondered if it would ever be enough. There was a space within him that had long been kept vacant for whatever Ilya would give him, and it felt like years of wanting had only widened it. Now, every look, touch, and word from Ilya was being siphoned away into some depthless well, and it was all Shane could do to keep from begging for more.
He made himself look away, back down at his own phone.
He switched idly between apps, unable to focus on much of anything he was seeing. Ilya’s words from earlier kept running through his head unbidden. I was thinking maybe a Canadian team. Shane had almost convinced himself he had heard him incorrectly. It was disorienting, imagining a world where Ilya didn't play for Boston, yet he couldn’t help but thrill at the idea that they might finally live in the same county.
It wouldn’t change anything, not really. They’d still be on the road for most of the year, still opponents on the ice, still Rozanov and Hollander.
But something was changing, wasn’t it?
Ilya was here. That wasn’t nothing. This was more than they had ever had.
Shane feared he would be spoiled forever now, that two weeks of Ilya all to himself would break him open and rearrange him. Make him unable to bear the old pattern of this thing they did. He just wanted Ilya to stay. To never leave.
It was irrational, he knew, but he wanted it so badly that his chest hurt. And with Ilya here, wearing his clothes and talking about the future, it felt possible. As if through sheer force of want he could keep the days from turning and preserve the bubble that had started to form around them here, safe and happy and together. Together.
“I could marry Svetlana,” Ilya’s voice broke into the quiet between them.
Shane felt the ground drop out from under him.
He raised his head and stared at Ilya, who was not looking back.
Just two nights ago, Ilya’s face had been a mask of annoyance at the mere mention of Rose’s name. He had teased him about “loving” Hayden. They had laughed.
Ilya was not smiling now.
“She’s American, it would be easy citizenship,” Ilya said, finally lifting his eyes to Shane’s.
Shane knit his eyebrows, steeling himself, searching Ilya’s gaze for a familiar playful antagonism. But Ilya’s expression was guarded. Carefully casual.
Ilya looked away, and Shane felt the room stretching away from him in every direction. He hadn’t moved— neither had Ilya— but they were somehow farther apart. Shane couldn’t feel the place where Ilya’s feet touched his. He couldn’t feel anything, really, beyond the sensation of his heart climbing into his throat.
“She would do it, her father is goalie Sergei Vitrov,” Ilya continued. Shane could hear the truth in it. She would do it. And Ilya would do it. He would marry her.
“Yeah, you’ve told me.” He said quickly, to stop Ilya going on. His eyes had begun to sting. Shane dropped his head, staring down at his lap.
He should be better at this by now. He had years of conditioning against the way Ilya would sometimes try to deny this thing between them—making it small, never looking it in the eye. They both did it. Though, they had walked that line for so long. Shane thought he'd learned to weather it. Thought he was learning to push back.
But here, tonight, he felt exposed—his armor removed piece by piece. Ilya grabbing his hand and smiling at him in the car, caressing his face and asking him about his parents, holding him while they slept. Shane was helpless against it. He was laid bare before him. At his mercy.
“She would help me,” Ilya went on. Casual. Off-handed. Shane heard him sniff.
He kept his eyes trained on his lap. Took a deep breath, held it, and let it out.
It was nothing he didn’t already know. Svetlana was Ilya’s best friend, a regular woman, and Ilya liked women. Marrying a woman wouldn’t be a concession for him. It would be normal—Ilya could have that normalcy if he wanted. Shane should want that for him. He shouldn’t want to keep him here, where they had to hide.
But Shane couldn’t go with him. He could only watch.
Ilya’s feet pressed into his, jostling him. Shane barely felt it. There was a rapidly growing distance between them and Shane couldn’t tell if the room was still growing or if he was shrinking. He took another breath around the lump in his throat, and his eyes welled, threatening to spill.
“We are friends,” Ilya said. Something in his voice had changed, but Shane was too far away to hear it well.
Shane nodded. He knew they were.
“And it would just be for the passport.” And there it was. Practicality.
Ilya was not in love with Svetlana. He had said as much to Shane before. It wasn’t like that for either of them. But he did love her, and he would marry her. Because these two weeks would end and Ilya would still be Ilya and Shane would still be Shane and whatever was changing between them wouldn’t change the world around them.
Ilya could marry Svetlana and he would never have to go back to Russia.
But he could never come back to Shane. Not really. Not for good.
Shane barely had time to hide his eyes with his hand before the first tears began to fall.
“Hey, hey,” Ilya started, so gently, and Shane’s breath shuddered out of him. His shoulders shook. Dead giveaway.
He kept his hand over his eyes. Tried to quiet his sawing breaths. Maybe if he didn’t make any more noise they could both close their eyes and pretend this wasn’t happening.
Shane could swallow this. He could put this feeling into that space inside him and let it fill. Let there be no room for anything else. It would be easier for everyone this way.
Ilya’s hands were on him. Twin spots of heat and pressure on each of his legs, fingertips digging in.
Ilya said his name, and Shane held perfectly still. A vanishing act. Ilya kept talking, but Shane couldn’t hear it, or make sense of it.
He shook his head.
Stop talking. Stop crying.
Don’t look, Ilya. Don’t see this.
Ilya’s hands moved off his legs and left him cold. The couch shifted as Ilya moved. Maybe he would step away. Walk into the kitchen and pour a glass of water. Walk out the back door and smoke a cigarette.
Shane would gather himself back into his usual shape and they could talk about it later. He could meet the exchange intact and things might make more sense, or he could pretend they did.
Then Ilya’s warm fingers threaded into his, bringing him back into the room. Shane didn’t open his eyes, but the air around him shifted with the shape of Ilya kneeling next to him. The room rearranged itself again, shrinking down to the size of the space between them. Shane’s breathing slowed.
“Please, Shane, I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. Bad idea. I’m so sorry” Ilya rocked their hands together with his words. “Please don’t cry.”
Shane dragged the hand covering his eyes down his face, smearing tears downward until it covered his mouth. He kept his eyes closed.
“I’m not crying.” He said: automatic, ridiculous. The words were muffled behind his palm.
Ilya breathed a small laugh. He took the hand covering Shane’s mouth and brought it down to his lap. Shane opened his eyes and stared down at their fingers. Squeezed Ilya’s in his. Tightly. Ilya squeezed back.
He could feel Ilya’s eyes all over his face.
“Okay,” Ilya started, “but your face is wet. Maybe there is leak in your ceiling?”
Solid ground. Mercy.
Shane smiled involuntarily. He turned his head, finally, inevitably, to meet Ilya’s gaze.
He didn’t know what he expected to see there. Regret, maybe. Or something more lighthearted in the wake of the joke: a laugh, a soft place to land. Ilya’s brows were drawn together, eyes wide. And all Shane could see in those eyes was naked affection. Shane blinked.
“I won’t do it.” Ilya said, seriously. He reached up a hand and cupped Shane’s jaw, tracing a thumb across the wetness on his cheek. Shane leaned into the touch, helpless.
He dropped his eyes to Ilya’s mouth. Blinked again. Sun spots.
“You won’t?” Shane asked, and it came out mumbled. Ilya dipped his head to catch Shane’s eye again. He held it.
“I won’t. That’s not what I want. I just want..” Ilya faltered. Shane’s mind supplied a number of demands he couldn’t make: Say you want me. Say you’ll never leave. Say you love me like I love you.
“I want to stay. Here. With you. I want to find a way to stay. To be close. That’s all.” Ilya finished, dropping his hand from Shane’s face.
That was all.
That was everything.
Ilya was here, and he didn’t want to leave. He wasn’t leaving, not yet.
He was kneeling in front of Shane, holding his hands and telling him he wanted to stay.
Shane could work with that.
They were staring at each other, Ilya’s words hanging in the space between them, and Ilya was looking at Shane with such openness that Shane couldn’t help it. He leaned forward, closing that space, and kissed him.
Ilya met the kiss eagerly, threading a hand into the hair at the nape of Shane’s neck. Caught between Ilya’s hand and mouth, Shane melted, heat all around him. His fingers tangled in the front of Ilya’s shirt, Shane’s shirt, and the reminder made him smile so wide he had to pull back, had to look at Ilya again.
Ilya smiled back at him.
“You won’t marry her.” He said, allowing himself this one demand.
Ilya’s smile grew.
“No.” He said: warm, resolute, sure. And Shane was sure too. Sure that they could figure something out. That it wasn’t hopeless.
Shane could iron out the details later, could make a plan, but he could see it now. Wherever they went from here, they would go together.
“Good.” Shane said, and kissed him again.