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There was a certain romance in the way the light caught in Ilya's penthouse in the mornings. Shane had never seen it firsthand—he'd been there a thousand times, but always at night, always with the lights of the skyline reflecting into the river, like some cheap knockoff of stars. Ilya had said that parts of Boston reminded him of Moscow: the history, the museums, the winding river bisecting the city (the other side isn't actually Boston anymore, Ilya would say, but Shane failed to see how the distinction between Boston and Cambridge mattered).
No. That morning light was reserved for those who were present to see it, and Shane always slinked out of Ilya's apartment long before the sun came back up.
The only reason Shane knew about it at all was that Ilya had done a spread about the place for some magazine three years after buying it. It was half celebrity profile, half Architectural Digest. The article had focused on the space itself—its soaring ceilings and open floor plan, its three guest bedrooms and sweeping master, its breathtaking views and sprawling rooftop patio—and how Ilya chose to live within it.
(Rozanov's Synesso espresso machine rests atop the quartz countertops he had installed during the pre-move renovations. He drinks a cappuccino before morning practices, an old habit from his days in Russian junior hockey.)
(The palette—navy, slate, walnut, crimson—combined with the dim, warm lighting lends the space a sleek moodiness that contrasts sharply with the bright sunlight drawn in by the nearly floor-to-ceiling windows in the main living area.)
Then there had been the photos. Shane had never been so jealous of a camera before. Ilya sipping coffee in his Adidas sweatpants, shirtless and leaning against his kitchen counter. Ilya on a stationary bike in his home gym. The last photo in the set, the one that haunted Shane's mind: Ilya, sprawled across his bed sometime in the early morning, the entire room gone golden as the sunrise filtered in through the windows, every bronze strand in his wild hair highlighted, the divots and curves of his muscles cast in brightness and shadow.
All because of that damn morning sun.
Shane thought about that light more often than he should've, but he couldn't help it. He thought about watching Ilya wake up on days off, rumpled and sleepy with pillow lines across his face and his hair puffed out like sheeps' wool. He thought about kissing Ilya good morning and nipping out for his ten-kilometer run, winding his way through the narrow Boston streets and coming back to breakfast on the stove. He thought about hugging Ilya from the side while he made plates and nuzzling his face into the rough stubble on Ilya's neck.
It was such a stupid, ridiculous fantasy that sometimes Shane wanted to hit himself just for having it. He was such a fucking loser. Utterly pathetic. Ilya didn't lie in his bed in the middle of the night and fantasize about a life with Shane. Ilya knew what he was doing. He was brave and strong, he'd left his entire world behind and built a new life for himself, and he knew how to keep people at arms length. There were the people he let in, like Svetlana and his friends on his team, and there were the people he kept out.
Ilya had the right idea. Even if he truly did want Shane—and that was an important if—he never would've let it fester. He never would've let the rot take hold the way it had in Shane's body. Not when it put everything they both cared about at immeasurable risk.
That was the tragedy, Shane thought. Loving someone he would never be able to have. Could Ilya tell? Did he laugh at Shane when he wasn't around, or make fun of him to that beautiful Russian girl? Ilya had said she liked him, Shane was pretty sure, but he couldn't remember the exact details of the conversation. He could remember how his brain interpreted it: Svetlana, the girl I fuck when I'm bored of you. She's gorgeous. She likes you. I bet she'd let you watch while I fuck her. Would you like to watch me fuck a woman? Would you like me to remind you how meaningless this all is to me? I think I'm going to marry her.
A different delusion, Shane decided. One where Ilya might have chosen to let him in. No NHL, no hockey—well, maybe beer league. A little house tucked away in the middle-class Ottawa suburbs Shane himself had been raised in. Boring jobs. Shane, a personal trainer, Ilya… Shane wasn't sure. Whatever he wanted to be. Work during the day, and then coming back to each other. Complaining about traffic, gossiping about the bitchy neighbor, making iced tea and cuddling on the couch.
The fantasy was ephemeral and vague and really made no logical sense, but Shane let himself enjoy it anyway. He imagined the two of them getting a cat, and putting together furniture, and going for walks. He imagined dinner dates in public, and he imagined coming home afterward, Ilya's big hands wrapped around his waist and kissing each other breathless against the front door, a thigh slotted roughly between Shane's legs.
Shane had to stop, he decided. He had to stop because this was never going to come to pass, and thinking about it made him want to rip out his own throat with his bare hands. Forget a life together—Ilya was never even going to let Shane stay the night. That wasn't how this worked. It would be better to accept the reality in front of him than to imagine one where things were different.
That picture, though, of Ilya in his bed. Shane would've given anything to see the view firsthand, in some domestic, unguarded universe where he was simply watching his boyfriend sleep.