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It was an evening in late November, during a stretch of a few off days, when Ilya got back from taking Anya on her evening walk. He unclipped her leash and removed the booties that protected her feet from the cold and the road salt. After he slipped off his own shoes, he walked further into the house looking for his husband.
Ilya noticed Shane sitting in the chair by the fireplace with his legs curled up against his chest. Shane held his phone in one hand, and the other was somehow threaded under and back between his knees as he chewed on the thumbnail. Ilya’s bad knee twinged just looking at him.
Shane had his earbuds in and did not look up as Ilya crossed the space. It wasn’t until Anya bounded over to say hello that he raised his eyes in Ilya’s direction. He took out his earbuds and smiled. “Ilya,” he said. “How was the walk?”
“Moy krendel,” Ilya murmured, leaning down to kiss Shane’s head. “I never understand how you sit like this. I cannot sit on your lap this way.”
Shane leaned into the kiss and unfolded his legs, opening his arms in invitation. Ilya sat sideways across his lap, draping his legs over the armrest, and looked over his husband’s face.
Shane was quiet for a moment. “My pretzel?” He guessed with a huff of laughter.
“Very good,” Ilya said. A beat of silence, and then, “The walk was very nice. The neighbors are keeping up with clearing the sidewalks, so Anya did not get too cold or wet.”
“I’m really glad you agreed to the heated driveway,” said Shane. “I know you think it’s silly and wasteful, but it means more privacy than someone coming to plow once the snow gets heavier. And less ice buildup.”
Ilya rolled his eyes. “Oh my god, Hollander. You are so boring. You have your hot husband in your lap and all you think is driveway.”
Shane laughed, jostling Ilya slightly. “You brought up the snow, asshole. I’m making conversation.”
Settling deeper against Shane’s chest, Ilya reached out his hand to brush over his freckles. “Make conversation instead of make love? My Canadian.”
“Please don’t say make love,” Shane said with a laugh. “Your dog is currently licking my toes.”
Ilya turned to look down at Anya, who was indeed nuzzling at Shane’s feet. He grinned back at Shane. “She is my dog when she licks your toes, huh?”
“Well she didn’t get it from me, that’s for sure.”
“Hmm,” Ilya said, and let the conversation rest. He loved when Shane laughed with him. “What did you do while we were out?”
Shane’s eyes darted over to his phone, placed precariously on the side table with his earbuds bunched over the screen. “Just watching a video.”
From where Ilya was sitting, arms wrapped loosely around Shane’s shoulders, he saw that the screen was still illuminated, and the video was paused showing a handsome man in a brown suit jacket with dark hair and a nice smile.
“He is hot,” said Ilya with a smirk. “But not hotter than me. I leave for thirty minutes, and you must watch a video with a handsome man? Who is this, moy lyubimyy?” He tickled Shane behind the ear. “Why do you hurt me?”
Shane reached for his phone as he squeezed his head against his shoulder, trying to trap Ilya’s hand. Cackling, Ilya pulled his hand back and swiped the phone, leaving Shane with nothing but the earbuds. Ilya held the phone slightly away and looked closer at the screen. The man looked familiar somehow.
“Who is he though? He is not a hockey player.” Ilya shifted to look back at Shane. Shane seemed somewhat embarrassed. No, Shane seemed apprehensive. “Shane? What is it?”
Shane was quiet for a moment. “He’s an actor,” he said. “He was in a Spiderman movie, I think, and he has a new one coming out soon.”
Ilya laughed lightly and handed Shane his phone back. “It is okay to have a crush on an actor, Shane. Is natural. You do not need to be embarrassed.”
Shane looked away with pursed lips. “It’s not—I don’t have a crush on him.”
“…Okay,” Ilya said.
It was their first year of marriage. Their first year playing on the same team. Being together all the time meant learning so much more about each other, discovering the embarrassing moments they could have avoided sharing when they spent so much time apart. So Ilya didn’t understand why Shane tried to deny his crush on the actor who played Spiderman that one time. And why would he hide it? Ilya wondered. That Spiderman was hot.
Shane’s lip twitched. “Shut up, asshole, I don’t, I swear.”
“Okay, okay,” Ilya laughed. “No crush on anyone but me. My good husband. But why are you blushing?”
Shane didn’t answer right away, looking over to where Anya now sat in her bed by the fireplace, nosing at a well-loved stuffed rabbit. Ilya kept his eyes on Shane’s face, and he moved his hand to play with the hair at the base of Shane’s neck.
“It’s a video about—about grief,” Shane said haltingly. His brows were furrowed, and he avoided Ilya’s eyes. “The actor, Andrew Garfield, his mom died. And he’s talking about what it’s like to grieve her.”
Ilya leaned back slightly, but he felt Shane’s hand tighten against his thighs. His stomach felt hollow, or maybe too full, or maybe like it was just gone.
“Oh,” he said, finally. “Was it like—did she?” He hoped Shane knew what he didn’t want to ask.
“No,” Shane replied. “I think it was some kind of illness. Cancer, maybe.”
“Hmm,” Ilya acknowledged, because he didn’t know what else to say.
Shane continued, slowly and carefully. “He said some things about what grief felt like, and it made me think about your mom. You.”
Ilya felt a prickle of irritation and started to remove himself from Shane’s lap. After he stood, he reached out to help Shane out of the armchair. “I am not the only one with a dead mother, Hollander. But I am hungry after my long walk. Can we make dinner now?”
The transition was abrupt and maybe a tinge too sharp, too glib, but Ilya was glad that Shane took the hint as they walked to the kitchen together, hands loosely clasped.
Later that night, after they had eaten, had sex, showered, and crawled into bed, Ilya sat in the dim lamplight while Shane read a book about a college hockey team. Ilya rested against the side of Shane’s chest, stroking his husband’s arm lightly where it lay across Ilya’s stomach. He listened to his husband’s breathing, to the rustle of the pages, and he thought about his mom.
“This video,” he whispered into the quiet of the room. “This video, it made you think of me. And my mother, even when she did not have the same sickness.”
He heard Shane close his book and place it on the bedside table. He let his husband adjust them so Shane was curled up behind him, and he held Ilya more tightly in his arms.
“Yes,” Shane said. He kissed the back of Ilya’s head. “But everything makes me think of you.”
“Why this?” Ilya asked. His throat hurt. “What did Spiderman say?”
Shane huffed a laugh and rubbed his thumb across Ilya’s chest. “He said he liked talking about his mom even when it made him cry because it reminded him how much he loved her.”
Ilya felt Shane’s steady breathing, and he tried to match it with his own. He listened closely for the beating of his husband’s heart. The space between his eyes ached even as he closed them to push away the pressure in his ears.
“Ilya?” Shane questioned. “Baby?”
Ilya pressed a kiss to Shane’s arm and tasted warm salt. “We can watch it, please?”
“Are you sure?” Shane sounded hesitant.
Ilya nodded into the warmth of Shane’s body.
“Okay, gimme a second.”
Shane pulled away to unplug his phone. He shifted them slightly and brought his phone so that Ilya could see it while Shane watched from behind him.
The video started to play, some talk show host introducing the actor and making conversation about his movie, some musical.
“Do you like musicals?” Ilya asked, not sure he cared about the answer but always wanting to know more about Shane.
“Sometimes, I don’t know,” Shane said. “I think this one is supposed to be pretty sad though. It’s about the guy who wrote RENT.”
“Rent? Like landlord?”
“It’s a musical about friends in New York,” Shane said. “Some of them have HIV/AIDS. It’s a clue in Dad’s crosswords a lot, but I haven’t seen it.”
“It sounds very sad,” Ilya muttered. “Shouldn’t musicals be happy?”
“Do you want to talk about musicals or watch the video?” Shane tweaked Ilya’s chin. Ilya grabbed his hand and held it between his own.
Ilya didn’t answer, but he turned his attention back to the video. Some of the questions were hard for Ilya to follow when his mind was so sleepy, but his attention sharpened when the show host mentioned the actor’s loss.
“…how art helps you deal with grief.”
Ilya concentrated on the man’s face and thought back to the press conference he gave with Shane where he talked about his mother’s death—all those people watching him but imagining he spoke only to Shane.
The actor on the screen smiled in response to the question, but Ilya thought the smile was very sad and fragile.
“I love talking about it, by the way,” the actor said. “So if I cry, it’s only like… It’s only a beautiful thing. This is all the unexpressed love, right? The grief that will remain with us, you know, until we pass. Because we didn’t—We never get enough time with each other, right?”
Ilya felt Shane kiss the side of his head and not pull away. He knew he was crying.
“So, I hope this grief stays with me because it’s all the unexpressed love that I didn’t get to tell her. And I told her every day. We all told her every day. She was the best of us.”
They watched the rest of the video in silence. The actor talked about making art to heal his wounds and singing for his mother. Ilya remembered the weight in his arms as he lifted the Stanley Cup over his head. Dlya tebya, Mama.
Shane put the phone away and coaxed Ilya into turning over so they were facing each other. Ilya buried his face in the crook of his husband’s neck and breathed in his scent. One of Shane’s hands slowly scratched the hair at the base of Ilya’s neck, and the other moved softly against his back.
“I did not talk about it,” Ilya whispered into Shane’s skin. Shane’s hands kept moving, but Ilya felt him kiss his forehead. “It was accident. We did not talk about it.” More quiet, with Shane’s steady breathing and solid warmth. “I did not tell her every day,” Ilya confessed. “I was a bad kid, a terror. I made Papa so mad, and he made her so sad. He was so hard on her, and it was my fault.”
Ilya thought Shane would shush him, tell him it wasn’t his fault, but Shane just held him and pressed kisses into his hairline. For some reason, maybe because Shane already knew Ilya’s ugliness, it made it easier to keep talking.
“I did not tell her every day,” he said again. “Not even when she died. And it is with me forever, but it is maybe not beautiful. It is bad, because it is from me, and because I never say. I think of what I do now, for her, but it is for her memory only. I wish always that I was not bad and that she would stay. Even when I understand why.”
Ilya felt Shane moving so that they were at eye level and closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see his husband’s concern.
Shane kissed the corner of his mouth. Then one cheek, then the other. He kissed Ilya’s eyelids, and his nose, and where his ear met his jaw. He kissed Ilya’s forehead and then rested his own against it.
“My husband is not bad. You were not bad,” Shane said. And then, “It’s okay to wish she had stayed. I wish that things had been different for her, and for you.”
The silence stretched between them.
“I did not tell her every day,” Ilya repeated for a third time. “And maybe she did not know. And after, I did not say it. We did not talk about it. Maybe she does not know.”
Shane didn’t respond for a moment. “Do you want to talk about her more? Would you want to talk about her with me?” He finally asked.
Ilya was quiet. At some point, he had stopped crying, but it didn’t feel like it would take much for him to start again. Did he want to talk about her more? What would he even say? What could he even say, when he didn’t remember the sound of her voice? If not for faded pictures in a yellowed envelope, brought to life in dreams, he thought he might not even remember her face. Sometimes all he remembered was the feel of her arms when she pushed him out of the room and faced his father alone. Sometimes all he remembered was her hand hanging off a bed.
“I would listen,” Shane said, when it became clear Ilya didn’t know how to respond. “I know this is a lot right now, a lot to talk about. But I’ll always listen if you want to talk about her, or how you miss her, and it’s never too much. You’re never too much.”
Ilya’s eyes burned, and his teeth ached. He clenched his eyes shut even tighter—he could not look at Shane and see the lie in his face.
“Hey,” Shane said. “Hey, baby, no. Please open your eyes. Please open your eyes.”
Ilya slowly relaxed at the feeling of Shane’s thumb rubbing gentle circles at his temple. He opened his eyes and focused on Shane’s freckles, barely distinguishable in the shadows cast by the lamp. He saw that Shane had been crying too.
“Maybe I will try,” Ilya said. “Spiderman seems, how you say, okay about it?”
“Well-adjusted,” Shane offered around a small smile.
“Maybe, maybe no” Ilya dismissed. “Is more like, he can feel it and miss his mom and say that, and he lets people see him, and it does not hurt him, and it makes him feel better to say it where people can see.”
Shane hummed. “It’s vulnerable and not lonely, maybe?”
Vulnerable and not lonely. “Yes,” Ilya said. “It is very lonely. My mother must have felt lonely, and I felt very lonely, and sometimes I still feel this. I would like to feel not lonely about this.”
Shane leaned closer, and Ilya kissed him, tasting their tears. He let Shane pull him into a hug.
“I’m with you always,” Shane promised. “You’re safe in my heart, and you’re not alone.”
Ilya exhaled deeply at Shane’s words—on another night, the reminder of what he thought would be his last words might have been too much, like pressure on a bruise that couldn’t heal. The thought of leaving Shane, the thought of no more time. But this was a promise of time, and of tenderness.
After several minutes of breathing together and exchanging slow, salty kisses, Ilya felt Shane pull away.
“I need to wash my face again,” Shane said. “And so do you. You’ll feel better.”
Ilya laughed. His husband. “I am not getting up,” Ilya denied. “My face will survive.”
Shane rolled his eyes and climbed out of bed. Ilya drifted and heard his husband move around the ensuite, listening for the running of water and rustle of towels. He refocused as he heard Shane come back into the bedroom, and Ilya looked at the materials in his husband’s hands.
“Will you let me take care of you?” Shane asked, holding a towel in one hand and moisturizer in the other.
Ilya relented with a smile, rolled on his back, and allowed his eyes to close as Shane patted his face with a warm dampened towel, careful not to pull at his skin. Ilya’s breath caught at how gently Shane moved the towel around his eyes, at his hairline, behind his ears. Even better was the press of Shane’s strong, calloused fingers, wet with lotion, as they made slow upward motions on Ilya’s forehead, cheeks, and temples.
“There, all done,” Shane said. “Do you want some water? Some lip balm?”
“Yes to lip balm,” Ilya said, putting some on when Shane handed it over. “No water. I’ll have to fucking piss three times in the night.”
“And you say Scott Hunter is old,” Shane said, laughing. “Thirty comes for us all.”
Ilya grumbled at that, but he held the covers up for Shane all the same.
“Roll over.” Shane prodded at his hip. “I need to hold you right now.”
Ilya moved without protest because he wanted to be held.
“You will end up on your stomach anyway,” Ilya said. “Bad for skin, you know.”
Shane groaned and bit lightly at Ilya’s shoulder before soothing it with a kiss.
“Do you think you’ll be able to sleep?” Shane asked. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Ilya thought about it. “I think I will sleep,” he said after a moment. “I think I will dream of her.” He hoped he would dream of her, and he hoped this time, Shane would be there too.
Shane kissed the clasp of the chain that held Ilya’s cross. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
~fin~