Chapter Text
Shane sighed, his right hand absentmindedly tracing circles through Ilya’s hair. He leaned his head against the window, feeling the train’s vibrations rattle through his body. It was barely 8am, but the sky was already bright, almost white with occasional smatterings of darker greys and mottled blues. Shane yawned, and, hearing quiet chatter behind him, looked over his shoulder. The ticket attendant had made her way to their carriage, and was standing a few of rows behind. She was talking to an older woman, who sat, legs crossed, with a polite brindle greyhound by her feet, the faded grey goggles around its bright hazel eyes belying its advancing age.
Shane nudged Ilya awake, stifling a laugh as Ilya stretched languidly, his airpod falling from his ear and rolling under the seat.
“Fuck.” Ilya muttered, supporting his hand on Shane’s thigh as he stretched down to retrieve it, his head disappearing under the seat. The ticket attendant arrived next to them, and Shane reached out over Ilya to proffer their tickets for inspection. She wore a navy blue jumper, and a laminated badge pinned to her chest revealed her name to be Maureen. Deep wrinkles cut into her face, and her grey hair was cut in an unsympathetic bob, close to her face. Her mouth stretched in slightly toothy smile as she scrawled her pen over their tickets, meeting Shane’s eyes over Ilya’s back.
“Let me guess” she volunteered, her obviously Glaswegian accent clipped “The west highland way”. Shane blushed slightly - was it really that obvious? He nodded lightly, as Ilya hoisted himself back upright, holding the errant airpod triumphantly.
“Yes.” Ilya announced to Maureen. “We are walking the west highland way. You can tell because of how professionally we are equipped, yes?” He chuckled, “You can blame my boyfriend for that. He is very prepared. The world could end tomorrow and we would be fine, would start a new life in the woods.” He gestured above him at the two large rucksacks sitting in the luggage rack, both bulging at the seams. A pocket torch hung down from each bag, attached by a carabiner, together with an assortment of handheld tools - pocket knives, compasses, midge repellent and suncream. Ilya slapped Shane on the shoulder indulgently.
“He is lucky I am so strong, have been training all year for this. I warned him though, I will be complaining. A lot and also very loudly”. He grinned at his boyfriend “and I will not be carrying your bag also. No matter how much you beg”. Shane’s mouth dropped open in indignation, but before he could retort Maureen laughed loudly, a great bellow emerging from her small frame, and as she did her whole face softened. She looked almost childlike, her open and unaffected amusement infectious. Shane found himself smiling too, although he couldn’t help surreptitiously elbowing Ilya in the ribs.
“You’re right to be prepared” she said, furrowing her brows at Ilya with an air of mock chastisement. “Every year one or two eejits set off with just a pair of sandals and a toothbrush and have to be airlifted from the side of a mountain. You don’t want to be like them. Very embarrassing - the local papers have a field day.”
“See” Shane said smugly, looking pointedly at Ilya.
“Still”, Maureen continued, “there probably is such a thing as too much stuff, especially when you have to carry it for 96 miles. I mean…” she glanced up at the rucksacks again, before raising her eyebrows pointedly at Shane “is that a hoofpick?”
“See” Ilya retaliated, even more smugly. Shane scowled, but couldn’t hide the smile shining openlythrough his dark eyes. Ilya continued, tone saccharine, “We did not bring a horse, Shane. Far too big for the plane. We have no hooves to pick.”
Shane rolled his eyes. “It’s a penknife too, asshole. And what if we come across a horse in trouble, anyway? I read that there are ponies at some points along the route”
Maureen smiled again, and again it transformed her face. “You picked the right time for it anyway - it’s been a glorious summer, taps aff weather all round. You boys have fun. I’m sure you will.” she told them, her smile emanating sincerity. And both Shane and Ilya believed her - how could they not? “And if no one’s taught you about taps aff weather yet, then no doubt some bald old man will be along to horrify you shortly” She added, and winked at them, eyes shining with mirth, before continuing down the carriage.
They had traveled to Scotland almost on a whim, booking the flights a week before they flew out. Two weeks at Shane’s cottage hadn’t felt like long enough; but here no one knew them, and they could finally find space to breathe, together - to hold hands on trains, to step out into a crowd without sunglasses. It was a risk, undoubtedly, but a calculated one, and so far it had paid off. No one gave them a second look. Independently, both could scarcely believe that any of this was real. They were so far away from their old lives that they could exist almost entirely outside them, Boston and Montreal across the Atlantic and startlingly unimportant.
It was another bonus, although one that had gone unmentioned, that their impromptu trip would also give them a much needed break from Shane’s parents. Well-intentioned as they were, Ilya had noticed their enthusiasm and endless questions beginning to chip away at Shane. He would sag slightly under Yuna’s ceaseless planning, his eyes focusing on the point between her eyes as he nodded without enthusiasm. Having their time together scrutinised so intensely, so shortly after it had begun, had been wearing for them both.
Ilya hoped that the trip would be a chance for them to say all the things they always previously left unsaid, when their love existed as fragments of borrowed time nestled in between seemingly endless periods of longing and loneliness and fear.
On the train, Shane watched Maureen go, her previous stern expression reinstated. The carriage was quiet, its only other occupant - aside from Shane, Ilya, and the woman with the greyhound - a man in his 40s in a rumpled orange tweed suit. The man snored gently, his head lolling forward as the train rattled around a corner, the corner of his lip wet with saliva. Shane stifled a laugh as Maureen ‘accidentally’ stood on the man’s foot, watching him jolt awake with a start, an alarmed expression on his face, before wordlessly reaching inside his breast pocket to produce a ticket, almost as crumpled as his odious tangerine suit.
The train pulled into Milngavie a few minutes later, Shane realising with amusement that Ilya had fallen asleep again, his head resting on Shane’s shoulder. He shook him awake, and they scrambled from their seats, swinging the rucksacks over their shoulders and stepping out onto the platform. The only other person standing there was the woman with the greyhound, and she gave them a small, polite wave before turning and walking away towards the exit gate, the slight drag of her left leg matching the sedate pace of the aged greyhound.
“Breakfast” Ilya announced as they began to walk into the village. “Now. Or I will die of starvation, and you will have to explain to Yuna and David why their new and best son has become a sad skeleton, a ghost of his old self.” Shane rolled his eyes mildly.
“I brought sandwiches, we can eat them as we walk”.
“Ah, no.” Ilya stopped dead, his arms stretching out beseechingly towards Shane. “You would have me eat boring sandwiches for breakfast, on day one of hike, when there are still beautiful cafes among us. Maybe later, when we are in middle of nowhere, Shane, when I am desperate, then I will eat sandwiches. But for now, please, please, let me have proper food. I have to keep my strength up for when you make me carry your rucksack, no?” He clasped his hands together in mock prayer, fixing Shane with pleading eyes, threatening to fall to his knees.
“Jesus, Ilya - could you be anymore dramatic! They’re good sandwiches! And I will not be asking you to carry my rucksack. So please god, be quiet and start fucking walking.”
Thirty minutes later and they were sitting in a small cafe. Ilya sat with a contented, if slightly smug, look on his face as he began to eat a third bacon roll. Shane sat across from him, picking at his uninspiring porridge, trying to maintain a face of disapproval; yet unable to do so as he took in Ilya’s overt glee.
“You do know a bacon roll is still a sandwich - right?” he teased, his dark eyes flickering with humour. Ilya opened his mouth to respond in indignation, but with his mouth full of bacon roll, a small glob of ketchup fell onto his chin. He swallowed, hastily, before retorting “That was your fault. You wait until I take huge bite of roll and then you tell me wicked untruths. Bacon roll is good and exciting no, while sandwich is very boring. And a roll is not a sandwich - obviously. Is roll, not sliced bread. And is hot, not cold. Very different. Obviously. But you can make it up to me Shane, do not worry. I will let you lick ketchup from my chin”. He grinned, tongue curling round his lips lasciviously.
“Fuck off. You’re disgusting.” Shane handed him a napkin, shuddering as his hand brushed against Ilya’s greasy fingers.
“Mmm. Maybe. But you love me.
“Yeah.”