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Fingers skimming over brightly-coloured displays of candies and various sweets, Ilya plucked a bag of sour gummy worms and a few chocolate bars.
Over the years, it had become frustrating habit for his mind to wander to thoughts of Shane.
Those kinds of thoughts were unsafe. But where usually he would rein himself in, in this moment, he let himself wonder — wonder whether Shane ever found himself in the duty-free shop before a flight. Probably not. Shane probably packed his travel bag to annoying perfection, always remembering an empty bottle to fill past security, never having to waste five dollars on a tiny water bottle. If he ever did step into one of these stores, it was probably because Hayden fucking Pike had pulled him in, chatting his ear off about his five hundred babies or something annoying like that.
Shane would never be left facing a flight without a way to entertain himself. He’d bring books, Ilya assumed. Not the type to pop in some headphones and watch one of the movies offered as in-flight entertainment.
And they wouldn’t be fun books, of course; only books about hockey, or hockey players, or something equally boring.
His bag would be filled with boring foods he would try to pass off as “snacks” — dried fruits and dry, unsalted nuts. Some seeds, maybe.
He wouldn’t be making his way over to the cash register, aimless, nothing to do but kill time. His eyes wouldn’t roam over the various magazines and newspapers lined against the counter, begging for someone boring, or simply bored, enough to buy them.
Ilya was not boring but he had taken to reading The New Yorker in secret. Roughly six years ago now, sometime after his first press conference with Shane — Hollander, only, back then — where he had allowed himself to get flustered under the bright lights and heat of the crowded room, struggling to follow the too-rapid, too-complex words of one of the reporters.
It wasn’t the only publication Ilya used to improve his English, but it was one that had remained constant — cemented permanently, perhaps, when he had found out a few months later that it was also read by none other than Shane’s own dad.
So, it was second nature for Ilya to look over the assorted magazine covers until he spotted the distinct font. But somewhere along the way, his eyes caught on a bright pink proclamation of SEX.
Ilya’s interest was piqued. Most of the magazine was covered by another magazine staggered just below it, but he could make out an unfamiliar title stretched across the top — COSM and ITAN. The rest of the name was obscured by the image of some woman’s head.
Tugging the magazine up, he snorted at the full caption: 30 SEX MOVES TO KEEP HIM INTERESTED.
That was certainly not advice he needed.
Curiosity satisfied, he was about to let the glossy pages slip from his fingers when another caption on the cover, smaller but far more intriguing, drew his attention: Is he your BOYFRIEND or just a FLING? Then, in even smaller text: Take our SITUATIONSHIP or RELATIONSHIP quiz to find out!
Ilya was a largely impulsive person, not taken to second-guessing his choices. He was dressed to blend in anyways, with a baseball cap and sunglasses. Besides, if a fan saw him with such a magazine, it would be easy enough to wink and make some off-handed joke about how some women needed a few tips.
He didn’t really care. In fact, if being spotted was a risk, he’d much rather tuck The New Yorker within the confines of this COSM-ITAN magazine. Far easier to distract and charm with the personality that the world, and Ilya himself, had carefully constructed: playful, sex-drenched, a bit of an asshole
Twenty minutes into the flight, The New Yorker remained shoved into his bag, forgotten. Ilya had far more important things to focus on than finding a new word to surprise Shane with. (The most recent word was “prudent.” He had savoured it for a few weeks, refusing to let it slip out over phone calls or texts in anticipation of witnessing Shane’s full reaction during their next video call: a surprised blink, a pause, and then a rueful little chuckle, like he was a bit embarrassed by his own surprise.)
Ilya flipped through the colourful pages impatiently, scowling when he got to the very end without finding the quiz. Returning to the front, he carefully dragged his finger down the table of contents.
“Ha!” he said as he finally found it.
Opening to page forty-nine, he was unsurprised to have missed it first read-through — the page was white with plain-looking red text; unassuming compared to the rest of the magazine, all loud fonts and sexy images.
COSMO QUIZ: Are you in a relationship or stuck in a situationship? Answer these TEN questions, add up your score, and we’ll let you know if he’s your boyfriend or just a boytoy!
“What is… ‘situationship’?” he said. And why was there a score?
He glanced down the rest of the page and saw that each question had three response options, each with a score from 1 to 3.
“Okay,” he murmured. He didn’t even bother grabbing his bag — he knew he wouldn’t find a stray pen tucked away somewhere. (Shane would probably have a mix of pens in different colours, maybe even different types, plus a variety of pencils, both mechanical and perfectly-sharpened traditional wood.)
Ilya waited, perfectly patient, for the next flight attendant to pass down the aisle. After a few breaths, he started drumming his fingers against his thigh. Then his foot started bouncing. Just when he glanced up at the little call button, deciding this was definitely urgent enough to press it, he heard a muted click of heels.
“Good morning, sir,” the flight attendant said. She wore a wide smile painted bright red and her hair tightly pulled back. “What can I get for you?”
“Pen.”
The woman’s brows furrowed, just a tiny bit, before her expression smoothed out. “Of course, sir,” she said. It might have surprised her, but it wasn’t the strangest request she had heard. Probably not on this very flight, even. “Anything else?”
“Ah, coffee,” Ilya said, waving his hand to bring the conversation to a quick end.
He waited, magazine closed with his finger marking the page — he might be able to brush off any questions about having this magazine, if someone recognised him, but not specifically a boyfriend quiz — while he waited for the attendant to return.
She did, shortly after, with a steaming coffee and a pen. “Any cream or sugar?” she asked.
“No, thank you,” Ilya said. It was second nature to send her a quick, flirty smile before turning back to his magazine, a clear indication the conversation had ended.
He looked over the first question: How often do you communicate with him?
1 point: We go days without talking. 2 points: We talk every 2-3 days. 3 points: We talk every day.
Ilya circled 1 point.
Do you have nicknames for each other?
1 point: No, and I wish we did. 2 points: No, but I don’t really like nicknames, anyways. 3 points: Yes, he’s my shnookums and I’m his pookie-bear!
“What is… shnookums?” Ilya muttered. “And what is this type of bear?”
Hesitating, he looked between the first and second options before going with the second.
Is he seeing other people?
1 point: Yes. 2 points: Not sure / I don’t think so. 3 points: No, we are exclusive.
Ilya scowled at the page, mind filling with images of Rose Landry and her stupid smiling face as she held Shane’s hand in the dozens of paparazzi photos he had seen of them together.
“Oops,” he said as the thin paper ripped under the pressure of his pen. 2 points.
After carefully unclenching his fist, he set down the pen and reached for his coffee. At the first bitter sip, his nose immediately furled. He did not like his coffee black, but he hadn’t wanted the flight attendant to dawdle at his side any longer than necessary. He took another sip, still grimacing, and pushed the coffee away. Returning to the magazine, he flipped to the next page.
Have you met his friends?
1 point: No (no one really knows about me). 2 points: A few of them. 3 points: We hang out so much, his friends are now my friends!
Ilya was pretty sure that chirping Pike on the ice didn’t technically count. Not that he really wanted to consider Pike one of Shane’s friends. 1 point.
How do you guys plan to hang out?
1 point: Always a “u up?” text late at night. 2 points: Mix of pre-planning and last-minute booty calls. 3 points: We always plan in advance.
Well, that was an easy answer. With game schedules being released in the summer, outside of one-off events like conferences and awards shows, they knew when they’d be in each other’s cities many, many months in advance. 3 points.
Is he emotionally vulnerable with you?
Ilya paused. Sometimes Shane had little outbursts of emotion — anger that he tried desperately to cling to even as his eyes turned all glassy. It was pretty adorable, frankly, even in moments when Ilya snapped back at him.
1 point: No, I never know what he’s feeling. 2 points: Sometimes, but he’s a bit closed-off. 3 points: Yes, he’s open about his feelings.
They didn’t talk feelings. In the lead-up to this trip, so many times Ilya’s fingers had itched to text Shane or blurt out over the phone: I’m nervous. This is kind of terrifying. He never did; he had only ever texted things like “can’t wait to feel how wet you get for me,” never “can’t wait to see you.” Shane would usually text back some variant of “fuck off.”
Over the years, that “fuck off” from Shane had morphed in its meaning, shifting from “don’t text me that kind of stuff because someone might see it” to “I like you flirting with me but I’m too boring to know how to respond.”
Privately, in the past weeks, Ilya had begun to wonder if a new meaning was emerging: “I miss you.”
Ilya circled 2 points.
How often do you sleep over at each other’s places?
1 point: We’ve never spent a night together.
The coffee churned in his stomach, acidic and heavy. He did not like to think about that day, eight months ago, when he finally had Shane Hollander in his home and in his bed, only to lose him between one breath and the next.
Without bothering to read the other options, he circled 1 point.
Do you talk about your future together?
1 point: Never. 2 points: Sometimes, but nothing concrete. 3 points: Yes! We have several future plans.
If Ilya closed his eyes, he could still see Shane’s face against the stark white sheets of that hospital bed. Swollen with a bruise blooming across his nose and eyes and cheeks, red-purple splotches obscuring the constellation of freckles Ilya so deeply cherished. His eyes, bright but hazy, struggling to stay open. His sweet and easy smile, entirely unguarded. The drawled, almost sing-song lilt of his voice. “I had a whole plan to ask you something…”
His hand hovered over the page a moment before circling 2 points.
That was the end of the questions. As he tallied the scores, the fingers of his left hand drummed with anticipation. Seventeen points, which meant —
“Not my boyfriend!?”
Ilya looked around. Across the aisle was a man in a business suit, headphones in, glaring at the television screen in between furious typing on his laptop; oblivious to the world. The seats were too wide to see the people in front of or behind him, but that meant they couldn’t see him, either.
Scratching at his cheek, Ilya settled a little lower on his seat. He returned his eyes to the page to read the answer: Sorry to break it to you, girl, but that’s not a boyfriend! Looks like you’re still stuck in the situationship phase. But don’t worry — turn to page 34 to find some tips on how to kick your relationship up to the next level…
“This is not acceptable,” Ilya decided. Maybe he had marked something wrong, or misunderstood one of the questions. English wasn’t his first language, after all.
Flipping back to the first page, he quickly scanned for any responses with 1 point circled, which he now understood to be the worst possible option for every question. Stupid tricky quiz.
What is your favourite activity to do together?
1 point: Have lots of steamy sex. 2 points: Watch movies and chill. 3 points: Have long conversations.
Ilya had circled what was, objectively, the best answer yet netted the fewest points. Maybe there was a misprint? Ah, yes, that made sense. They had accidentally switched the points around. Ilya crossed out the 1 and wrote down the number 3 .
At the nicknames questions, he reconsidered. Whenever Ilya wanted to tease Shane, he would call him things like “Mr. Real Estate.” Shane always called him “asshole.” And what was a nickname, if not something you called someone that wasn’t their actual name?
Gleefully, Ilya circled 3 points.
As for meeting Shane’s friends… well, the stupid quiz didn’t ask how, and Ilya certainly had met some of Shane’s friends. Teammates. Same thing to someone like Shane, probably, whose life revolved around hockey. Ilya changed that to 2 points.
Do you share any common interests?
1 point: No, but opposites attract… right? 2 points: Some, but we also butt heads sometimes. 3 points: So many! We’re basically the same person!
Tapping the pen against his lips, Ilya paused. Their rivalry was driven by a mutual competitiveness, each of them always striving to one-up the other, but it also played off the clash of their personalities — Shane quiet and serious where Ilya was loud and charming.
In the margins of the page, he started to write some quick notes. He is very boring. He only likes hockey, nothing else. At the same time — We both play hockey. We talk about hockey.
They certainly weren’t “basically the same person,” which was why Ilya had originally circled only 2 points — he could never be so fussy and uptight. But on second thought, they were the only two players in the entire league who played at their level. They were only ever in competition with each other; Ilya had only ever been challenged, and pushed to play harder, by Shane. That was… sort of like being the same person, wasn’t it?
“Ah, wait,” he said as another common interest they shared crossed his mind. The most important one, really. He wrote down, We both like fucking each other a lot. Grinning, he scratched out the two and circled the three.
As for sleeping at each other’s places… it hadn’t happened yet, but it would, starting tonight. (The thought alone made him bite his cheek to tamp down a giddy, childish grin.) A couple times a month would give him 2 points, but several times a month was 3 points. Since Ilya would be there for two weeks, that counted as several, right?
Shifting restlessly in his seat, he counted up the scores once again (twenty-four, this time; a much more impressive number) and flipped the page to see the new answer.
Congrats, girl! You’ve already DTR — Ilya did not know what that meant — and are in official boyfriend-girlfriend territory. Now you just have to focus on keeping your man! If you need some tips on how to keep things spicy in the bedroom, turn to page 21…
“I do not need these tips,” Ilya said, offended at the mere suggestion. But he supposed it couldn’t hurt just to check whatever it said — out of curiosity, from the perspective of an expert. Just like how he might review an article on better stick-handling written for novice players.
He tucked the pen into the crease of the quiz page and flipped to page 21. A few minutes later, he shut the magazine closed with a smug smile. Exactly as he had suspected, it hadn’t taught him anything new.
A few days later, Ilya was sitting across from Shane’s parents, cradling Shane’s face while calling himself Shane’s boyfriend for the first time.
It wasn’t a shock, when Shane smiled back at him and nodded. It wasn’t even exciting, really. Instead, something loosened within Ilya — something deep and tightly wound that was finally unspooling, perhaps for the first time in his life. The only way he could describe it was a feeling of rightness; like making a new discovery, only to realise the knowledge had sat within himself all along, just waiting to be recognised.
And he didn’t need some stupid score from some stupid magazine quiz to tell him that.
“By the way, my dad asked me to remind you about a copy of The New Yorker…?” Shane asked, confusion clear in his tone.
On the morning Ilya was due back in Boston, they stood in the kitchen, moving seamlessly around each other as Shane rinsed and cut fresh fruit and Ilya prepared scrambled eggs with veggies. Had it been up to him, they would have lounged in bed, completely naked, until Ilya would be forced to goad Shane into breaking several traffic laws just to get to the airport in time. Instead, Shane had insisted on having one last meal together.
It was a suggestion that, to Ilya’s surprise, had enticed him more than the thought of fucking. Of course, he would make sure to squeeze in at least one more fuck after breakfast.
Two, probably, given how easily Shane shot off.
“Ah, yes, stupid New Yorker did not send him copy last week,” Ilya said, half-distracted as he poured some beaten eggs into the hot pan.
“Why do you have a copy of last week’s The New Yorker?”
“I bought it as gift for your dad at the airport.”
The knife made a sharp thud against the cutting board as Shane looked over at him, gawking. His fingers were stained red from the strawberries and Ilya licked his lips, hungry to suck the juices right from Shane’s skin.
“… Really?” Shane asked.
Rolling his eyes, Ilya resettled his focus on the frying instead of Shane’s distracting, sexy fingers. “No, not really. Go, is in my bag.”
Shane carefully placed the chopped strawberries into the bowl of fruit and washed and dried his hands (much to Ilya’s displeasure). “I thought The New Yorker was too boring for you,” he said as he passed Ilya on his way out of the kitchen.
“Yes, that is why I like,” Ilya called back. “I fall asleep no problem on plane.”
He paused, straining to hear over the sizzling of the stove, and — there it was, Shane’s laugh. He smiled to himself.
Ilya didn’t have a list of all the things he would miss back in Boston. It would be easier, and quicker, to list all the things he would miss his right leg if it was one day severed from his body. But that sound was certainly one of the things he’d miss the most.
A moment later, Shane reappeared. Instead of walking over to the counter to resume prepping fruit, he hovered near the doorway. “Why do you have Cosmopolitan?”
Ilya was quick to flash Shane a disarming, teasing smirk. “Sex tips.” Waving his hand, he affected an air of easy casualness. “Nothing useful. Even for you.”
Ilya expected the habitual “fuck off.” Or possibly, as a deliciously promising new development, an offer to show Ilya first-hand exactly how good Shane could be.
He did not expect Shane to say, in a too-curious tone, “Oh, really?” Shane paused — Ilya might have thought it was for dramatic effect, if Shane was capable of such theatrics. “Then why was it open to some kind of… boyfriend quiz?”
Ilya hummed as he grabbed the salt and pepper shakers, continuing to cook as normal. “A what?”
“‘Are you in a relationship or stuck in a situationship?’” Shane read out. “It’s been completed, too.”
If Ilya looked over now, he was sure he would see a small, teasing smile on Shane’s face. But, no — it wouldn’t be so small. Not anymore.
“Ah, it was left by person before me. On the seat. They must have done this — this quiz.” Ilya said that word, “quiz,” like it was unfamiliar to him. A bit of a hard sell, even he had to admit, after all these years.
“Is that so? Because it looks an awful lot like your handwriting.”
Fuck. Ilya remembered scribbling some notes as he had mulled over one of the questions.
He moved the frying pan to another burner and flicked off the element’s dial. Spinning around, he maintained a neutral expression except for the slight raise of a single brow. “You know my writing?”
It was a glorious sight, watching as Shane’s cheeks darkened and his eyes dropped to the ground. “I-I don’t…”
“Mr. Obsessed,” Ilya said, smirking as he regained the upper hand. A few long strides carried him across the kitchen to stand in front of Shane. Gripping Shane’s jaw, Ilya signalled him to look up. “I should be worried?”
Shane rolled his eyes before he met Ilya’s gaze. He wore that reluctant half-smile Ilya loved, the one that said Shane not only knew he was going to give into whatever Ilya was goading out of him, but that he would love every second of it.
“No,” he said, soft and unconvincing as he looked down again. Then, with a little more conviction, “Aren’t I the one who should be worried?” His eyes flickered up and down, unable to settle between Ilya’s eyes, Ilya’s mouth, and the floor.
“Why?” Ilya said. He leaned forward, pressing feather-light kisses down Shane’s cheek and throat. His hand slid down Shane’s right arm until he could tug the traitorous magazine out of Shane’s grip and fling it away. “We are boyfriends, yes?”
“Yes, but —” Shane’s voice was already unsteady. (He was so easy. It drove Ilya absolutely fucking insane.) “Um,” as Ilya sucked at the soft skin just under his jaw.
Breakfast ended up being a little cold but all the more enjoyable for it because in between bites, Ilya sweetly kissed Shane’s flushed, post-orgasmic face and drank in his dopey smile.
They fucked a second time and (thanks to the three hundred fucking alarms Shane had set, all staggered in intervals) Ilya wasn’t even late for his flight.
He even had time to stroll through the duty-free shop, pausing as he saw a now-familiar name stretched across one of the magazine covers.
He snapped a quick picture and sent it to Shane. Should I buy?
The message had barely sent when the tell-tale bubbles of Shane’s typing appeared. It made Ilya smile, picturing Shane sitting somewhere (no, not sitting — he would have stripped his bed after getting back home. By now, he was probably shaking out the bedding, carefully and one item at a time, before placing it into the dryer), watching his phone. As desperate to hear from Ilya as Ilya was him.
That won’t be needed, Shane texted back. There were some more bubbles and then, to Ilya’s delighted surprise, Shane sent a winky face.
The magazine cover boasted of a new quiz: Are you keeping your man satisfied? Find out with 6 quick questions!
Maybe I find one for men to answer about wives, Ilya texted. You can give to Pike.
That earned him an eye roll. Grinning, Ilya slid his phone back into his pocket.
Loaded up with snacks and this week’s copy of The New Yorker, he was in line to board when his pocket buzzed. Pulling out his phone again, he pursed his lips against a sappy smile that threatened to spread across his face.
Text me when you board.
Buzz. And when you land.
Buzz. Okay?
Okay, Ilya sent back. Mr. Obsessed.
This time, Ilya received a heart. He could no longer hide the smile, even as the boarding agent asked for his ticket and passport.