Archive of Our Own

At the heart of a cool winter, a blue sky was a rarity. But that afternoon the sun burned bright, as if it were blessing the brand new pair of skates resting in Shane’s restless lap. Clean black leather, stark white laces, the letters CCM printed across the side in a shiny red, like the skin of a ripe apple. They were the first Junior size his growing feet had finally managed to fill, and he vibrated with the need to feel ice beneath those sharp blades.

Summer had come and gone in a blur. Balmy days spent in the comfort of his air-conditioned bedroom, immersing himself in hockey. Trick shots and stick handling, the history of the league, the games that had been more than a score on the board, the special few that shifted the culture entirely. The names etched into the Hall of Fame, and what they had done to earn it.

One day, Shane Hollander would live among those names.

The car slowed to a stop in the parking lot of their local arena, and Shane was halfway out the door when his mother’s voice carried over the metal frame.

“Hold on, kiddo.”

Dark eyes gleamed in the afternoon sun, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “Forgetting something?”

What could he be forgetting? He had his new skates. At the trunk, his father was gathering his bag and stick, wearing a ballcap with the team’s name printed in bold lettering across the front, a whistle already hanging around his neck.

A frown tugged at Shane’s expression as he looked up at his mom for a hint. With one eyebrow raised, she opened her arms.

“Oh,” he breathed.

Impatience practically hummed through him as he hurried forward and accepted the quick hug. With her arms around him, he counted.

One.

Two.

He didn’t make it to three.

“Bye, Mom! See you after!”

Her gentle laugh carried across the lot, fading into the cool breeze as Shane barreled past the sedans and pick-up trucks toward the entrance. Down the hallway he’d been dreaming about for eight months, and into the change room that always felt a little like coming home.

Bright blue eyes and lanky limbs wobbled on a pair of skates nowhere near as new or nice as his own.

“It’s Holly!”

“Hi, Hayden,” Shane murmured, remembering to smile. It was a habit he’d been trying to learn, though he found it easy to forget.

“Pike, remember?” Hayden whispered.

Shane nodded firmly. They’d made a pact to establish their nicknames this year, and if they committed to them, the rest of the boys would have to as well.

A chorus of chatter followed as he smiled wide at a handful of familiar faces, noticing others among the crowd who were as new to him as the skates at his side.

“Nice to see you boys!” David called as the change room door swung open again. He tossed a hockey bag down into Shane’s favorite cubby. In his other hand was a clipboard, which he tapped with a sharpie. “Let’s do a quick attendance. Everyone ready?”

As the members of their team called out in attendance, Shane focused entirely on pulling off his battered sneakers and finally getting those Junior skates onto his feet. Certainly they’d make him the fastest on the team. That they’d guide him to the puck with ease. That they’d turn on a dime and kick up more snow than anyone else during drills. 

“Pike,” David called, winking playfully when Hayden’s hand shot up like a rocket. “How’s your parents, Pike? They end up getting their hands on that new grill?”

The boy nodded, though with less enthusiasm this time. He didn’t want to talk about his parents in the change room, or look too cozy with the coach.

Shane understood that, somewhat. Still, he liked having his dad’s voice to return to on the bench. Appreciated the knock on his helmet every once in a while, reminding him that he was proud. He loved, above all else, making his parents proud. Seeing his mother’s smile from behind the glass when he scored a goal, or hearing his father’s clap when he slid back into the bench.

Around the room, David circled, checking laces and offering help with most. At eleven, despite how hard they tried, it was impossible to get them as tight as the professionals.

The only member of their team to deny his assistance was a boy Shane didn’t recognize from last year. With his back to the cubby, he couldn’t identify him by name, only the blend of green and gold in his narrowed eyes and the short, sandy curls atop his head. Even sitting on the bench, it was obvious he was taller than most kids their age. Built wider in the shoulders, too, his jersey tight where Shane’s hung loose.

It was hard to identify, from the chart of emotions they’d been studying in school, whether what Shane felt was envy or interest.

Regardless, he couldn’t seem to look away. For a long moment, he even forgot about his skates. His attention remained glued to the boy in the corner, who frowned too deeply as he tugged at his laces until his cheeks burned red.

“Who’s that?”

Hayden turned to follow where Shane was looking. “New kid, I guess. He didn’t say hi.”

They dressed eagerly, finally shuffling out toward the ice. This would be the first year the game shifted to a competitive edge, with teams from nearby neighborhoods rivalling against them on the ice. And Shane had been so excited about the prospect of being back out there that he wasn’t expecting the rush of dizzying nausea that caught him by surprise when he spotted the purple and yellow jerseys on the opposite bench.

It was fine, he told himself, as the team took ownership of half the ice, following David through a series of warm-ups.

But he tripped on a turn. Dropped his stick twice. Missed the puck entirely when he attempted a slapshot, which earned a snicker from nearby.

By the time they returned to the bench to form lines and await the first whistle, tears prickled the corners of Shane’s eyes, and an odd burning sensation filled his lungs.

What good were these stupid skates if he was playing worse than he had last year?

He was slamming his heels against the rubber mat, trying to kick them off before the face-off commenced, when the nudge of an elbow to his padded side made him pause. With his vision slightly blurred and a lump in his throat the size of a puck, Shane hid the tremble of his bottom lip and turned to his right.

The new kid didn’t force himself to smile. Not like Shane had been practicing all summer. He seemed content to appear possibly rude, perhaps a little strange. And unlike his mother’s warnings, Shane didn’t find himself offended by it.

Rather, he thought, why not keep smiles for moments that pulled them from you naturally, when you hadn’t even realized you’d done it?

“You are okay?”

The boy’s voice carried a foreign accent, unlike the French children Shane learned alongside.

“Fine.” A lie, of course, which Shane knew was wrong, but the boy showed no nervous energy, and he was clearly more built for the sport. Shane was reluctant to offer him another advantage. Still, the distraction momentarily eased his panic, and he found himself clinging to it. “You’re new.”

“Yes.” The boy dipped his chin toward his chest, curls tumbling clumsily beneath his helmet.

“I’m Shane.”

“I know,” he replied, and Shane wondered if his father had told him already. Surely it wasn’t yet because his skill spoke for itself, though he dreamed of such a day. “I am Ilya.”

A name he’d never heard before. He repeated it quietly, just to see if his tongue could curl around the syllables as smoothly as Ilya’s had. It must have been, thankfully, close enough, because Ilya nodded. He refocused on the ice, his gloved hand resting on the edge of his stick, the picture of calm.

Shane’s eyebrows furrowed as he tried to do the same. Slouching his shoulders an inch forward. Narrowing his eyes. He watched with his breath caught in his throat as the whistle blew and the first play was won by the opposing team.

Disappointment settled thick over his skin, like a sweater that was too heavy, knit from the wrong fabric.

Was this what it felt like to compete in a real game? Did the players he looked up to feel this during each match? And how did they manage to stay so steady and so quiet?

In a few short minutes, it was Shane’s turn, and Ilya led them from the bench, easy and confident on his blades.

Like a mirror to his teammate, Shane followed suit. He watched Ilya glide smoothly into place, as if he’d been born with skates strapped to his feet. When Ilya tapped his stick lightly against the ice, twice in a row, Shane did the same, unsure why.

It caught Ilya’s attention, and he flushed in response. Worried he’d done something to annoy him, perhaps stolen his signature move.

But then Ilya smiled. Not as wide as a river or as bright as the sun, but it was there, like a trickle through a mossy forest, or the first crack of light over the horizon. Shane didn’t have to think about it when he offered a crooked, toothy smile in return.

This time, when the puck fell into that perfect curve of wood beneath his hands, Shane knew exactly what to do.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It smelled of grease and pepperoni in the room that sat above the rink, a wall of glass facing out onto the empty ice. They’d played their final game of a nearly undefeated season, and the energy of those victories was palpable in the room, electric in the air. Laughter burst from every corner, sneakers squeaking against the linoleum as two dozen eleven-year-olds in hockey jerseys ran playfully around the visiting parents and siblings of the team.

Pike’s finger poked Shane in the shoulder. “You’re it.”

Exactly what he’d been waiting for.

Shane loved being the fastest in the room, seeing the surprise and shock when he managed to pass the baton off within a matter of seconds. Satisfaction was only an inch away when a hand yanked the back of his jersey, halting him in place.

“Take it easy, kiddo.”

“Dad—” Shane complained, squirming.

But then his father’s voice boomed across the room, low and commanding, though never cruel or punishing. Still, every head turned toward him in wait.

“If everyone can find a seat, I’d like to say a few words before we hand out a couple special medals.”

The crowd responded with slow obedience, metal legs dragging across the floor as chairs formed a haphazard semicircle facing David and the small cardboard box on the table beside him.

When Shane turned to find a place to sit, it was no surprise that his gaze landed on Ilya. It always did.

While most had gravitated back to their families, Ilya sat alone, tucked against the back wall, legs sprawled lazily over the floor, Ilya was messily eating what Shane suspected was his third slice of pizza, tomato-stained fingers and a bit of cheese clinging stubbornly to his cheek.

The world narrowed quickly to the empty space beside him, which Shane filled a moment later, sliding carefully to the floor, knees tucked in. 

“You have food on your face,” Shane murmured, pointing toward Ilya’s cheek.

Ilya shrugged. “Is okay. What does it matter? We are winners.”

“So?” Shane shook his head, outgrown black hair falling into his field of vision. “You need a napkin, Ilya.”

It was expected when Ilya stuck his tongue out in response.

“Gross.” Yet he smiled, a little, when he turned away.

At the head of the room, David cleared his throat, tapping a plastic knife against a plastic glass. The sound barely reached Shane and Ilya.

“A great season, boys,” David clapped, and the crowd followed suit. “We’ve got a fantastic team here, and I can’t wait to see what you bring to the ice next year. You all played like pros out there, and I couldn’t be more proud of each and every one of you.”

Deep down, Shane hoped his father placed him at the top of that list. Maybe he’d tell him later, after they’d driven home.

“That said, I’ve got a few shiny medals here.” David raised an eyebrow and shook the box, earning a chorus of intrigue from the audience. “If I call your name, you can come up here and grab yours, alright?”

Shane nodded, eager to receive his. He knew exactly where he’d hang it, on which hook in his room waited for the weight of ribbon and gold. It was only the start, he told himself, of a collection that would fill a whole room one day.

To his side, Ilya yawned.

“Stop that,” Shane hissed, and Ilya levelled him with a disinterested stare.

How could he not care? While it bothered him some days, Ilya was easily the second-best player on the ice. He skated nearly as fast as Shane, took risks where others didn’t. Wove through the defense like they were ghosts, leaving behind a spray of ice as he sped toward the net. Surely there was a trophy in that box for Ilya, too.

“Is just a cheap toy,” Ilya mumbled, gesturing vaguely with stick-stained hands. “Means nothing, really.”

Shane’s chest burned hot. “That’s dumb. Of course it means something.”

Their argument was interrupted by the clank of metal as his father pulled the first medal from the box.

“Okay, let’s see here. Most Improved. This goes to the player that we’ve seen show great effort in taking their game from good to great.”

Quiet settled over the room, so complete a pin might have echoed against the walls.

“Hayden Pike!” his father called, and Hayden dashed toward the table, grinning from ear to ear. “Good job, kid. Looking forward to seeing you grow even more next season, alright?”

He nodded eagerly, finding Shane and flashing a thumbs-up. Shane shot one back.

The minutes continued in a series of medals: Most Sportsmanship, Most Team Spirit. As they stretched on, so did Shane’s patience. Not only for himself, but for Ilya. Neither boy had been called to the front, and yet it was their goals, combined, that had led the season high. That had sent their opponents home crying, on occasion. Whose speed on the ice made even the adults gasp.

“Calm down, Hollander,” Ilya whispered, and Shane turned, unaware of when his breathing had grown so short or when his hands had begun to shake a little, until Ilya’s finger poked him in the cheek, right into the freckle he always told Shane was shaped like a star. “Is just about the game, right?”

“Right,” Shane nodded, blinking hard.

And Ilya was right. It wasn’t about the medals. It was about the feeling. The utter belonging he felt nowhere else but in his skates, with a stick in his hand, passing a puck to Ilya or receiving one from the other end. Or in the changeroom, when Ilya clapped a clammy hand over his shoulders and knocked their helmets together and for that split second Shane could picture it.

The big leagues.

But when his dad looked directly at him across the room, Shane thought: medals aren’t so bad, either.

“For this award, I’ve got two,” he announced, and beside him Ilya had gone still. “Tough to make a call like this when you’ve got players like I do. The kind that show up to every practice, play every game like it’s the first and the last. So for this medal, Most Dedicated, I’d like to call my son, Shane Hollander, and Ilya Rozanov, up to receive these awards.”

In a second flat, Shane was on his feet. The absence at his shoulder stopped him from charging across the room, and he looked back.

It was rare for Ilya to look nervous, but Shane had memorized the signs. The twitch of his soft jaw. The widening of his gold-flecked eyes.

He stretched his hand out. “Come on, Roz.”

“Go,” Ilya muttered. “I do not want stupid thing.”

“Ilya,” Shane said, a little angrier this time. “Don’t be dumb.”

“My papa will—” Ilya stopped himself.

What did his papa have to do with this? He’d barely shown up for any of the games, and he wasn’t here today either. It was a miracle Ilya lived close enough to the arena to bike there, because Shane could count on one hand the number of times he'd spotted him in the crowd.

With his lips pressed into a firm line, Ilya slid his warm palm into Shane’s. Without gloves, the unveiled brush of his fingers as Shane hauled him, with some effort, to his feet made Shane’s mind feel a little fuzzy at the edges. When Ilya’s hand slipped free, he nearly reached back out for it.

For courage, maybe. Or comfort.

“Over here, boys,” David called, and Ilya walked behind Shane like a shadow until they reached the table. A thick ribbon slid over Shane’s neck first, and then Ilya’s, catching slightly on his curls before settling over his chest.

Shane peeked up at him. “G’job, Roz.”

Ilya shrugged. “Dedicated. Best player. Is same thing, yes?”

“There’s no best player award,” Shane argued. “And anyway, that would be me.”

“You wish,” Ilya murmured.

To the crowd’s amusement, David’s shoulders shook with a hint of laughter, offering them both a clap on the shoulder. “Keep up that spirit, alright? We’re gonna need a lot more where that came from.

After the pizza had been cleared from the tables and everyone’s limbs had grown sluggish, Shane followed his parents back to the sedan. His fingers hadn’t left the cool surface of his medal yet, clinging to it like he was somewhere lost at sea and it was the lifeline keeping him afloat. He couldn’t stop the swell of pride in his chest when he glanced down and found it gleaming in the red glow of the brake lights.

The crunch of rusted chains nearby pulled his attention.

Beneath the bright lobby lights of the arena, Ilya was yanking at the lock wrapped around his handlebars. The medal he’d been given was shoved into the pocket of his jeans, a peek of ribbon sticking out from the fabric. Whatever was wrong with his bike had twisted his expression into the same fractured frustration that appeared whenever Ilya missed an easy shot or tripped over a wayward stick.

Shane’s feet were moving before he’d even given the command, like gravity itself was tugging him toward his friend.

“Hey,” he called, catching Ilya’s attention. “Do you need a ride?”

Ilya kicked at the tire, blowing out an exasperated huff. “I lost key. Cannot get it unlocked.”

“My dad can fix it. He has, um, big scissors. But it’s late, so…” Shane glanced over his shoulder, where his mother and father leaned against the car, watching him with unreadable expressions. Not angry, exactly. Maybe they hadn’t identified this emotion in class yet. 

“Fine,” Ilya said, because what other option did he have? The reluctance was obvious, and Shane had learned quickly that asking for help was about as pleasant to Ilya as pulling out a loose tooth. “Your mama and papa do not mind?”

They brushed shoulders as they ambled slowly back toward the sedan.

“Of course not. Why would they?”

The thought hadn’t even occurred to him. What parent would get mad about that? They had a car, after all. What good was it for if not driving around, giving Ilya an easier way home?

One day, Shane would have his own car, something sleek and fast. And he’d tell Ilya to throw the old, crappy bike into the Ottawa River. Wherever Ilya needed to go, Shane would go, too.

What Shane hadn’t expected was the sadness in his mother’s eyes, barely masked behind a soft smile. Maybe something had happened, he thought, but they’d tell him later, brushing aside the faint prickle of worry.

“Hi, Ilya. Are you coming over tonight?”

“Oh, I—”

“Yes,” Shane blurted, turning to silently signal to Ilya that he should play along. 

Why correct her? They’d never had a sleepover before, and Shane was excited to show Ilya his room. The trophies he’d already won. His collection of hockey cards and figurines. The basement where his father kept his old jersey from McGill framed on the wall.

To his relief, Ilya dipped his chin. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh no, don’t call me that. That’s a title for a much older woman.” Yuna gestured toward the sedan as David lifted the hockey bag from Ilya’s shoulder, and no one commented on the way Ilya’s bottom lip trembled just slightly at the gesture. “Call me Yuna, okay?”

They didn’t stop at Ilya’s house on the way home. It wasn’t until they’d arrived that David called Grigori to ask if it was alright for Ilya to spend the night. Shane couldn’t hear the response on the other end of the line, but it must have been good, because his father flashed Ilya a thumbs-up from the landline.

For a minute, Shane thought he might combust with excitement.

Sure, sleepovers with Pike were great. They played games, wrestled, watched movies, and ate junk food.

But with Ilya, Shane felt a different kind of pride. Like he had to earn every smile, nod, every rare laugh. And when he managed to impress him, his world lit up anew, a rush he would chase again and again.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The ache in his limbs was a reminder that he was growing, and Shane should have been grateful for it, knowing the advantage it would give him on the ice in the following season. But the discomfort made it practically impossible to care. 

“It will get better,” Ilya said as they lay in the soft grass, staring up at the oddly shaped clouds drifting across the summer sky. When Shane groaned for the third time, Ilya grabbed his thigh and squeezed. “Stop, Shane. You are making me crazy.”

The pressure on his sore muscle was a temporary balm, though it never lasted long enough. Shane threw an arm over his eyes, slightly thicker now that he’d reached twelve years old.

“It feels like it’s trying to break off my body.”

“But soon you will be tall like me.”

Steady fingers kneaded slowly around his leg, a reminder of Ilya’s strength, which had only grown more impressive since winter had bled into a warm summer.

“My mom said it’s called puberty,” Shane murmured, unsure why the word sounded a little shameful. They’d heard about it in gym class, too. A sudden stage of accelarated growth, what to expect and how to handle it. Hair in places he hadn’t known it would grow, the timbre of his voice sometimes unrecognized by his own ears.

“No.” Ilya shook his head, and Shane lifted an arm, peeking up to where his friend now sat upright, messy curls like a halo, sunlight catching each strand and drenching it in gold. “Is called growing a pair. Welcome to the club, Holly.”

“You’re an idiot.” Shane shoved him, slightly annoyed by the lack of reaction from his anchored frame.

If this growth spurt didn’t kick things into overdrive for him, Shane worried he might be conceding best player status to his friend. It only made sense, though that didn't make it any easier to accept. Ilya’s size already towered above the rest of the team, and combined with the sharp edges of his developing muscle, it would be a miracle if they stayed evenly matched much longer.

Still, Shane found himself willing to try.

“Maybe.” Ilya shifted a little, leaning back until his head rested on Shane’s stomach.

They often ended up in this position, and Shane knew it would be strange to rest his fingers in Ilya’s hair, but he thought about it sometimes. The curls were nothing like his own, which were dark and flat and smooth like silk. Instead, he kept his arms raised, trying to control his breathing so Ilya didn’t bob up and down too much.

“Did your dad work stuff out with the schools yet?”

The back of Ilya’s head rolled slightly against his stomach. “No. I’m stuck.”

“But your school sucks,” Shane argued, realizing he sounded a little indignant.

His mother would scold him for using such a crass word, but how else could he describe it? The school Ilya attended barely had any sports, and the kids there were mean. Not to mention Shane didn’t want to spend the year apart after a summer of being practically inseparable. To not hear his faint accent in the morning, complaining when Shane tried to shake him out of sleep so they could play on the console in the basement, or ball hockey on the street.

The thought seemed unfathomable, like leaving a part of himself behind. Not just a useless pinky finger or the tip of an ear, but a whole limb or an organ, one he depended on to walk, to breathe.

“Is okay,” Ilya murmured to the sky. “Is just a school.”

“But after?” Shane whispered, his optimism barely hidden beneath the crack in his voice. “You’ll come over every day, right? After school, you can bike here, and we’ll do our homework together, and Mom can make us dinner, and you can keep using my pajamas. I don’t even care if you take the red ones. They fit you better, anyway.”

Just say yes, he silently pleaded. Don’t leave me alone.

But the silence hung as thick as pollen in the summer breeze, and Shane knew he’d asked for too much. That Ilya’s father would want him home, sitting at the table with his classwork, keeping his focus on his studies.

The problem was, the longer Ilya spent at home, the stranger he seemed when he returned to the Hollander house. It was almost like his joy had been drained away, and sometimes it took Shane minutes, even hours, to coax him back into the boy he knew. For that reason, and others he couldn’t yet put into words, Shane tried to keep Ilya at his house as often as possible.

When Ilya rolled off him and jumped to his feet, Shane blinked rapidly into the bright sky, trying to make out his silhouette. “Where are you going?”

“Is enough, being sad,” Ilya declared, his accent thick whenever he spoke with such determination. “Let’s go, Hollander. There is one week left. We need to go crazy, a little. Yes?”

Shane chuckled. “I don’t know, Roz.”

“Do not be boring.” He reached down and grabbed Shane’s hand, and maybe that was what Shane had been hoping for, though he’d never say it out loud. Still, he lingered a moment, hoping to keep Ilya’s warmth on his palm for a few seconds longer. “Up. I want to climb the tree.”

The old oak at the edge of Shane’s property; the one they’d been eyeing all summer. Though David had promised a treehouse, his work had grown too busy over the season for the project. From the top, though, they’d wondered what they might see. If they could spot the tip of Pike’s blue-shingled roof a neighborhood away, or the river that snaked through the center of the city.

The idea was exciting, but the reality was… terrifying.

Each branch twisted and turned like Shane’s stomach when he imagined placing his growing feet on their knotted limbs. There was probably a reason his parents had discouraged it so strongly. Parents knew best, didn’t they? That was what they were for. Protecting you from life’s greatest dangers.

Sometimes he wondered if Ilya’s dad knew that.

Feeling a sudden pang of panic at the thought of Ilya returning to the man he’d never met but had already imagined as the villain from one of his favorite superhero movies, Shane sprang up from the grass and nodded with more confidence than he felt.

“Okay.”

There it was, that smile that stretched a mile wide. Something fluttery trembled behind Shane’s ribs at the sight, a feeling he didn’t have a word for yet. All he knew was that he wanted more of it, and would do almost anything to keep it there, among Ilya’s moles and dimples.

Ilya still hadn’t let go of his hand, tugging him toward the edge of the lawn.

The closer they got, the larger the tree seemed to grow, as if it were shooting up toward the sky in real time. A ceiling of greenery shadowed them, creating the illusion of safety, like it was hiding them away from the rest of the world.

Half a foot above Shane’s head hung the lowest branch, but Ilya wrapped his palms around it easily, using his bare feet to find purchase on the bark before kicking himself upward until he was straddling the trunk.

“Here.” He reached down.

Shane’s stomach somersaulted as he took the offered hand and hauled himself closer to the branch.

Through some huffing and a few scrapes along his skin, Shane joined Ilya on the first branch. They faced each other, legs dangling over the edges, high on the adrenaline of breaking a rule and seeing their fantasy begin to take shape.

Now that they’d started, there was no stopping. They’d reach the top of the tree one way or another, and if it took all afternoon, Shane would be glad for it. Maybe they could even get stuck up there forever.

Minutes stretched into an hour as they climbed higher and higher, never looking down. That seemed like a sure way to regret how far they’d come. Sometimes they took different routes, but they always found their way back to each other, spiraling up the tree like monkeys in the jungle.

“Your other foot,” Ilya called from above him. “On the branch that looks like a hockey stick.”

Straight with a curved end, wider at the tip, to his left. Shane held his breath like he’d tied a knot at the base of his lungs and pushed himself upward, barely catching his balance. 

Above them, blue sky peeked through the branches, sunlight dancing through the canopy. Then he looked out and saw everything at once, like a king peering over his kingdom.

“Wow,” Ilya breathed beside him, clinging to the branches.

It wasn’t often he ran out of words. Usually he had something ready, something clever, funny, or captivating. Where Shane stumbled over his sentences, Ilya filled the gaps with ease. Other times, when Pike or the red-haired kid that lived next door couldn’t understand Ilya’s accent, Shane repaid the favor, translating for him. It had been like that since the day they’d met. 

“Yeah,” Shane nodded faintly, his head a little light and dizzy as he acknowledged the height where they sat. But it was hard to feel afraid when he felt like a god, and gods didn’t get scared.

“Look,” he said, gesturing. “That’s where you crashed your bike.”

“And that,” Ilya pointed to the left, “is where you stepped in dog shit. I can smell it still, I think.”

“Shut up,” Shane grinned, bumping him carefully.

They couldn’t move around much when the fall could snap their necks, but Shane couldn’t help himself from shimmying a little closer, pressing their bare, sun-kissed thighs together, freckles and moles lining up like a constellation, steadying himself in the shared balance.

The question crawled up his throat again, unwelcome, but determined to escape here among the leaves and branches, where no one else could hear.

“Do you… like being at home?” Shane asked quietly. “Is your dad nice?”

A faint line formed between Ilya’s eyebrows, furrowed in thought. The edges of his jaw, sharper these days, tightened like a blade.

Birds sang somewhere nearby, and the breeze rustled the leaves. Shane hated every stretch of silence while Ilya considered the question, as if he needed time to write a script. Why wouldn’t he just answer? They didn’t lie to each other, did they?

“My papa is… not like your papa,” Ilya finally said, turning toward him.

With the whole world sprawled out around them, they stared at each other. Green and brown. Blue and gold.

“If I could stay here,” Ilya said quietly, “I would. Okay? Forever.”

Heat prickled at the corners of Shane’s eyes.

“I don’t want to go back to school,” he whispered. “I don’t want summer to end.”

I don’t want to lose you.

“We will make it work.” The assurance of his steady tone, the cool resolve in it, was a warm balm to Shane’s anxiety. 

“Yeah.” He looked back out over the neighborhood, swallowing the lump in his throat that felt Ilya-sized. It’d come back thicker when they were forced apart next week, a final goodbye as they began the seventh grade. Pushing the thought as far back in his mind as it would go, he forced a small smile. “But let’s stay up here for a bit longer, anyway.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“You know the competition is with the other team, right?”

Ilya and Shane turned to Hayden Pike, who was flushed red with exertion as they funneled into the changerooms. A laugh echoed across the room when Ilya tugged his helmet off and tossed it carelessly into the cubby.

“It is not my fault Holly thinks he is faster than me.”

“I am faster than you,” Shane shot back, reaching forward to knock Ilya’s stick out of his hand, grinning when it clattered to the ground. “You just got lucky, asshole. That goal should’ve been mine.”

“Doesn’t really matter whose goal it was, right?” Hayden stared at them, incredulous. “Like, we won. Isn’t that the point?”

Sure, Shane thought, but just as important was winning the bet they’d made at the start of the year. If Shane scored more goals, Ilya had to shave off an eyebrow. It was a ridiculous punishment, but if Ilya won, Shane had agreed to paint his nails bright pink for a whole week, so really, the stakes felt even.

They hadn’t told anyone about the silly deal they’d shaken on, but it was there in the gleam of their eyes, promise and threat wrapped playfully together in a way that had grown addicting.

It was only their second year playing together, but it might as well have been their tenth. Like the sun and the moon, they orbited one another constantly, never failing to show up where and when they were expected. Where one shone, the other reflected.

“Pike is just jealous,” Ilya chirped, shoving their friend back an inch.

If Hayden was water, steady and consistent, Ilya was oil, refusing to compromise. They didn’t blend the way Shane sometimes wished they would, considering they were his two best friends.

Next year they’d all be at the same high school, and Shane already dreaded the idea that he might be expected to choose sides. It was hard enough accepting that Ilya was stuck at that terrible elementary school for another half year, let alone ruining the excitement of finally sharing classes, of catching each other's attention in the hallway. 

Shane rolled his eyes. “Ignore him.”

“I always do.”

It was minutes later, when Ilya pulled his shirt free, revealing smooth, white-marble skin and a scattering of moles across lean muscle, that Shane abruptly turned toward the wall, fixing his gaze on a nick in the plaster and glaring at it until his eyes burned. 

The changes had happened both slowly and somehow, all at once. Not only to Ilya’s narrow, sturdy frame, but to Shane’s reaction to it. Something to do with puberty, he rationalized. Or maybe it was envy. Ilya was still a couple inches taller, broader in all the right places. But jealousy shouldn’t make his chest tighten like that. It shouldn’t burn in his core like a hot coal, pulsing with his heartbeat.

There’d been no one to ask about this strange affliction, and Shane had become vaguely sure it wasn’t something to be proud of, so he’d taken to avoiding it altogether.

Or, he tried to.

A brush of air moved past his ear, and warm skin pressed against his back, stilling him entirely. “We are still on for movies at your place tonight, yes?”

His voice croaked, always unpredictable these days. “Yep. Yeah. Pike’s coming too, by the way.”

A long, theatrical groan echoed through the changeroom. Ilya spun on his heel, taking the weight of his presence with him, and Shane was once again reminded that disappointment was probably not the right emotion to feel in that moment. That he shouldn’t crave the closeness Ilya so often offered him, shouldn’t feel spoiled by how easily Ilya reached for him.

“Can it, Roz.” Hayden tugged his hoodie on, glaring at Ilya from across the room. “You know, the way you try to keep Hollander all to yourself, it’s no wonder you don’t have a girlfriend yet.

The room spun like Shane had stepped into a twister, built of a fear that had always lingered on the outskirts of his mind. Would people start to notice? Start to question it? Even Shane had avoided letting his thoughts wander too far down that road, so hearing his other best friend be the one to poke a hole in their little bubble was enough to leave him reeling.

But he didn’t get the chance to respond because Ilya was already moving. A flash of skin and bared teeth as he lunged toward Hayden, shoving him back into the cubbies with a heavy thud. Hayden grunted, limbs flailing as he tried to push the larger boy off him.

“Hey!” David hollered.

It would be his last year coaching their team, and Shane already dreaded the day he wasn’t around anymore. Wouldn’t be there to jump in when Ilya did something stupid like tackle one of his own teammates.

With one hand planted on Ilya’s chest, David separated them with an easy shove, firm but careful enough not to hurt either of them. “What are you two thinking? What’s going on here?”

“Pike is a fucking ass—”

“Language,” his father snapped.

“But Ilya’s being a shit—”

“LANGUAGE!”

The ground refused to swallow Shane whole, no matter how badly he begged the universe for it. He stood there instead, frozen, watching the whole disaster unfold with wide eyes.

So if Ilya had a girlfriend, that would make things better? Make their friendship easier for everyone else to understand? But Shane didn’t want Ilya to get a girlfriend. He didn’t want to share his time with someone else. Didn’t want Ilya spending his allowance on movie dates and ice cream for someone else, saving it for flowers or stupid stuffed animals instead of hockey cards and video game rentals with Shane.

He didn’t want anything to change.

They both grumbled something under their breath, too embarrassed to make things worse in front of the coach. David kept a careful eye on them as they finished changing, and soon the boys were stomping out of the locker room, still buzzing with pent-up aggression.

It was some time after dinner when Shane heard the gravel crunch outside, followed by the familiar crash of Ilya’s bike hitting the ground.

With his stomach still twisted in a knot, he jumped off the couch and sprinted for the door. His hand closed around the knob, but he paused there a moment, digging around for his composure and managing to find the smallest scrap of it.

The door opened to Ilya, bundled in a thick parka with a few strange holes he’d never explained, the rubbery coat warped in places like raindrops had melted into it. Beneath the knit hat Yuna had given him last year, a few stray curls poked free, catching the lightly falling snow.

For a moment, breathing was all Shane could manage.

This washis best friend. That was all.

There was nothing wrong with that. Hayden had only been teasing. He hadn’t meant anything by it.

“Pike is here?”

“No.” Shane shook his head. “I guess he’s not coming.”

Ilya shrugged, then walked inside like the house belonged to him.

In some ways, Shane guessed it kind of did. Yuna and David treated him like family, always setting out a fourth plate, washing the sheets for the air mattress they left on Shane’s floor.

They’d never had the heart to tell Yuna that it rarely got used. Once the lights were off, Ilya would shift silently into the narrow space beside Shane, settling there like it was the most natural thing in the world. They fell asleep like that. Not cuddling, obviously, but sometimes their legs tangled, entirely by accident. Sometimes their fingers brushed in the dark, because the mattress was small, and not because Shane had opened his palm in silent invitation.

“Good,” Ilya muttered, kicking his boots off before setting them neatly beneath the long bench. Then he straightened to his full height and peered down his nose at Shane. “You are being weird. Why? Because Hayden said stupid thing?”

Was he? Maybe his heart was beating a little faster than usual, and he suddenly didn’t know what to do with his arms. The room seemed smaller now, too, with Ilya standing only a foot away.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Shane finally managed, the words catching in his throat.

“He deserved it.” Ilya leveled him with steely certainty. “He is just jealous he has to share you. Too bad.”

A low laugh slipped from Shane as he took a wobbly step backward, trailing Ilya down the hallway toward the theatre room. It was an exaggerated name for what was really just an old television and a few bean bag chairs. The VCR was already powered on, a stack of movies waiting on top.

Without needing to be told, or maybe simply out of habit, Ilya flopped down beside the cases and began sorting through them.

Shane lingered in the doorway, watching. His thoughts were still racing in frantic circles, like a rabbit loose in his head, refusing to slow down long enough for him to catch it.

“But that’s silly, right?” Shane said finally. “Like… that thing he said about a girlfriend.”

Ilya’s fingers stilled over a movie about dinosaurs. Through thick lashes, he peered up at Shane. “Yes. Would be dumb to get girlfriend before high school. There will be many more to choose from next year, yes?”

Gravity shifted a little, trying to take Shane down with it.

“You want one?” Shane asked, unsure why the question was equivalent to tearing off an extra-sticky band aid, or why the word tasted like ash on his tongue. “A girlfriend, I mean?”

“You will, too.” Ilya blinked, like this was obvious.

What would he even do with a girlfriend? Kiss them, he guessed. That was what couples did. But he’d never found himself particularly jealous of the boys who had already established themselves, stealing quick pecks at school dances or holding hands at recess. He’d heard them talk, though. About how pretty the girls were. How soft their skin felt. Some of the boys with less decorum bragged about bra sizes or the “base” they’d gotten to.

Regardless, Shane had always been a little behind. Last to hit the milestones his friends seemed to reach months earlier. This was probably just another one of those moments, he decided.

“Right,” he said, pointing at the tape in Ilya’s hands. “Not that one.”

Ilya scanned the cover and tossed it aside.

They eventually settled on an action movie that David probably hadn’t meant to leave in Shane’s room. It was a little too mature for their age, but Ilya didn’t seem particularly shocked by anything. Whatever he watched at home, Shane suspected, was probably just as racy.

“She is hot,” Ilya murmured when a barely-dressed curvy woman appeared on screen, blonde curls cascading down her back and covering just enough. Or maybe not enough? Whatever he'd been meant to think.

“Yeah. Super hot.”

A second later, Ilya burst into laughter. Heat climbed instantly into Shane’s cheeks, and he sank deeper into the beanbag chair, like it might swallow him whole. But there wasn’t any judgment in Ilya’s laughter. Not like the way Hayden had spoken earlier. Not like it was meant as an insult.

When Ilya reached over and wrapped a hand around Shane’s knee, giving it a small shake, Shane finally peeked over at him.

“You do not have to pretend,” Ilya said lightly. “Maybe she is not your type.”

That had to be it. He probably just preferred brunettes.

Halfway through the movie, someone knocked on the door.

The scramble for the remote was chaotic and panicked, and they had just barely paused the movie when the door creaked open to reveal Hayden Pike standing nervously on the other side.

“Hayden!” Shane blurted, grinning. “You came.”

“Yeah, and, uh… sorry. About earlier.” Hayden flicked a quick glance toward Ilya, making it clear the apology was meant for him, too, before setting his sights on the third beanbag. “Can I watch?”

They didn’t need to say anything more than that. For the first time all day, Shane felt something like peace settle in his chest when Ilya flicked the screen back on and the tension slowly melted away, like a wall had been knocked down and suddenly there was room for all three of them again.

The woman appeared back on screen, and Hayden’s eyes widened. 

“She’s hot.”

Ilya laughed again, just as boisterous, and Shane’s nose wrinkled. “Not my type.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Third period was math, and Shane was, by all accounts, failing miserably. The numbers jumped around the page like they had a life of their own, never settling properly into the equations, lines that refused to connect in his brain no matter how long he stared at them. His mind simply wasn’t built for this, for formulas and shapes and whatever the fuck a hypotenuse was; it was made for hockey, for pushing his body to the brink of exhaustion, for executing a perfect slapshot to the top-right corner of the net. If they gave out grades for that, he would be a straight-A student.

The pop quiz taunted him from the desk, written in a language he had never learned but was somehow expected to understand. The pencil trembled between his fingers, worn nearly to the metal from how many times he had stalled and walked it up to the sharpener at the front of the room.

The scratching of graphite across paper all around him grew louder and louder until it buzzed in his ears like a swarm of flies. Shane glanced sideways at the other students, wondering how they were doing it so easily, what they had already figured out that continued to evade him. Even after he had grown another half-foot and filled out in the places he had always hoped he would, the boys his age still seemed to be racing miles ahead of him in ways that had nothing to do with size or strength.

His breath caught halfway in his chest as sweat gathered along his temples and the ringing in his ears sharpened into something high and relentless.

Screw this.

“Shane,” the teacher called after him as he shoved back from the desk, the metal legs of the chair squealing against the tile floor.

He didn’t look at her, because if he did he suspected he might scream, or cry, or throw the pencil across the room. Instead, he kept his shoulders squared and walked straight for the door.

Once he reached the hallway, his pace quickened without his permission, his legs threatening to trip over one another as moisture welled behind his eyes. The humiliation of it burned hot beneath his skin, and still he couldn’t stop it from rising up inside him. The realization pressed in harder with every step: he was never going to be the kind of student his mother expected him to be, never going to impress these teachers who looked at him like he simply wasn’t trying hard enough.

The bathroom was thankfully empty when he pushed through the door. Shane hurried to the sink and twisted the cold-water tap open, splashing several cupped handfuls against his face in an effort to cool the heat gathering there.

When the door creaked open behind him, he jumped slightly and blinked hard, trying to keep the tears gathered along his waterline from spilling over.

To his relief, it was Ilya.

“You ran out,” he said, as though this had not been obvious to anyone watching. “Ms. Miller sent me to get you. You are… okay, yes?”

The sound that came out of Shane’s throat was rough and strained, like a cupboard that had not been opened in a decade.

“I fucking hate math.”

“Oh,” Ilya breathed, and then Shane’s tears came, because his closest friend was here, and he didn’t have to keep up the act. A ragged sob burst from him, and he turned back toward the wall, hiding his fractured expression. Another exhale, “Oh, Shane.” 

Arms closed in on him, squeezing. “It is okay. Math is stupid. You do not need to know it when you are big hockey star, yes?” 

They’d look ridiculous to anyone walking in, but Shane didn’t bother trying to get out. The pressure from every side, the warmth of Ilya’s breath on his ear, was grounding him, pulling his back to reality, and he melted into it.

“But I need to know it now,” he choked out, “I don’t get it.” 

“I will teach you,” Ilya said, the softest his voice could go, his accent barely a whisper, “Will be much better than Ms. Miller. She uses too many big words. Makes it seem much harder than it really is.” 

The tremble in his shoulders ceased, and he shifted out of Ilya’s arms, turning to face him. There was barely a few inches between their faces, and he focused on the shape of Ilya’s lips, the thick width of his cupids bow, the pillowy curve to the bottom one. Just like his mom had told him when he got too panicked; find something to focus on. “You will?” 

Ilya nodded. “What else?” 

“Like, after school?” They’d only been hanging out a day or two a week lately, which Shane had been coming to terms with. Had made his peace with most days. “What about Maria?” 

The girl who’d stolen the other half of Ilya’s time. Silky brown hair that she often kept in a high ponytail, a track star who every teacher adored, with grades that spoke for themselves and a smile that they’d past on the cover of the yearbook. It wasn’t a surprise that she’d set her sight on Ilya; he was gorgeous, too. Or, so he’d been told. Curls that always flopped the right way, eyes that shone like the sea at sunset. The only person that could make Shane laugh until his sides hurt. 

He wasn’t bitter. Maria was nice. 

But they hadn’t shared his bed in months, and Yuna had commented that Shane should do something else to keep himself busy. But most nights, he brushed off plans with other friends, even Hayden, because Ilya sometimes showed up without warning, and he didn’t want to miss it. If he wasn’t home, then who knew when he’d get the chance again? 

Then a gentle finger reached up and wiped the tear off his freckled cheek, and Shane forgot all about math. He didn't want to admit that he'd missed Ilya’s touch, but it was obvious in the swell of relief behind his ribs. 

“She can come with,” Ilya added, and Shane tried not to wince. The faint glimmer of hope in his chest extinguished like a melted candle. “What? You do not like her?” 

“No, she’s great, I, uh, just, don’t really want to suck at math infront of a girl. It’s already bad enough, okay?” Shane moved from Ilya, because something about having his hands on him when he talked about his girlfriend felt…wrong. It shouldn’t, by all accounts, but it did, settling in his gut like a brick, like he was doing something worth feeling guilty about. “Forget it. Let’s go back to class.” 

A broad chest blocked his path. “Shane.” 

“Ilya.” 

“It bothers you,” Ilya said slowly, like he was testing cold water. “Me and Maria?” 

“What?” Shane blurted, “No. Obviously not. Why would it bother me?” 

Because you like me. Because you think about kissing me, sometimes, when you can’t sleep and your body is doing that…thing. Because, because, because-

“Because you are Shane Hollander, and you do not know how to talk to girls, and she makes you nervous, probably.” 

“Fuck off.” The curse was new on his tongue, and he’d been using it all the time, enjoying the small rebellion. In the flock of boys they hung out with, young athletes and jocks that enjoyed breaking the rules, it had become their favorite word. 

Ilya gave him a soft shove. “Tell me I am wrong, then. You know that Abby has been batting big eyelashes at you since the first day. Still, you pretend you do not see here.”

“I’m not pretending.”

It was the honest truth. In a group, no matter how big or small, Shane looked for Ilya. Hardly noticed anyone else, because one ear was reserved specifically for Ilya’s voice, an eye for his gaze. If there’d been a girl vying for his attention, he hadn’t had the space to notice. 

The bathroom wall was cool against his back when he leaned against it, accepting that Ilya wouldn’t leave til he got an answer out of him, and selfishly, Shane was happy to soak up their time together alone, without the chatter of the guys or the distraction of the girl that clung to his side. With his sleeve, he soaked up the moisture still clinging to his skin.

“So?” Ilya crowded him, tracing his features like he was studying for a test, which meant nothing other than Ilya had no physical boundaries and Shane never drew them. “You will ask her out, then?”

No.

“Yes.”

“Good,” Ilya clapped him on the shoulder, but it didn’t slip away. Fingers curled into the fabric of his sweatshirt, and Shane’s focus narrowed to the pin pricks of heat, the feeling of being held in place, how fuzzy his mind went. “We can double date.”

“Double date?”

“Yes. Will be adorable,” he smirked, reaching out to tug on his hood, “After you learn algebra.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

There were ghosts where Ilya had once been. An empty desk in every classroom. The hollow cubby where his gear should have sat. A void in the hallway, a chill beside Shane’s locker. The whole school seemed quieter, almost eerie without Ilya’s laugh, which always sounded like he had been caught by surprise, or as if he were laughing at a joke only he understood.

But no one else seemed to notice.

Only Shane, who stared into those blank spaces as if Ilya might materialize out of thin air if he willed it hard enough. A full week had gone by, and still he hadn’t heard from him. He didn’t know what to tell people when they asked where Ilya had gone, or why he hadn’t said anything before leaving. The day before he disappeared, there had been no warning signs. The only strange thing Shane could recall was spotting Maria crying on her friend’s shoulder while he walked toward the bus, but he had never had the chance to ask Ilya why. Whether they had gotten into another argument, or whether something worse had happened this time.

After all the stupid arguments the couple had over the past year, it seemed impossible that they would not find their way back to each other eventually. Even so, as cruel as it felt, Shane could not help clinging to the hope that they wouldn’t.

But Ilya had not come over that night. The phone on the wall had not rung, and the uncertainty had made Shane’s skin itch.

It no longer itched. It ached, deep and hollow, like something inside his chest had cracked open. Where the fuck did he go?

Seven days passed before Shane finally decided to break the one rule Ilya had given him years ago. He went to his house.

First he had to find the address in the paperwork his dad kept in the office. Luckily, everything was neatly organized, each player’s application for the team stacked carefully in the bottom drawer. The road wobbled beneath the tires of Shane’s bike, or perhaps he was the one wobbling, but by the time he reached the address he had scribbled across the back of his hand, his knees had begun to feel weak. Did Ilya really bike this far every day? No wonder his calves were made of pure stone.

Shane had always been curious about where Ilya’s father lived. Now that he stood in front of it, there was hardly any time to take it in. The two-story house was, by all accounts, entirely ordinary. A maple tree stood on the front lawn, autumn leaves scattered across slightly overgrown grass. The siding was a dull gray, unremarkable compared to the extraordinary sixteen-year-old who lived behind those plain walls. A single-car garage sat to one side, and a few narrow windows peeked out from behind prickly bushes.

With hesitant steps, though refusing to turn back, Shane made his way to the front door. He wished absently for a small window to peer through, something that might give him the vaguest idea of what waited for him on the other side.

There was no obvious doorbell within reach, so Shane curled his shaking fingers into a fist and knocked twice against the door.

His pulse skyrocketed in response to the sharp thuds.

It was rare that he ignored something Ilya had told him not to do, even if he usually fussed about it first. Would he be angry? Would this ruin everything between them? Still, Shane couldn’t see why it should. The house did not have devil horns sprouting from the roof, and there was no half-burnt couch rotting on the front lawn. The only unknown was Ilya’s father, who had always existed more as a passing mention than as a real, breathing man.

As frightening as it was to imagine facing him for the first time, it was still better than living another minute without knowing that Ilya was safe. That he had not been sent back to Russia, or vanished into any of the other fears that had grown and multiplied in the dark corners of Shane’s mind.

At the sound of the doorknob shaking loose, Shane straightened his shoulders and puffed his chest out.

Hi. I’m Shane Hollander. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Rozanov. Is Ilya home?

He had recited it in his head the whole way over, a hundred times straight, until it was the only sentence he knew. He clung to it now, already tasting the words on his tongue as the door pulled open.

On the other side was not the older man he had glimpsed in the bleachers on the rare occasion that Ilya’s father attended a game. There was no fading gray hair or stiff suit coat. The man who greeted him instead was younger, maybe a decade older than Shane or Ilya, with thin lips that seemed permanently set in a scowl. His brown hair was similar in color to Ilya’s but not in shape, and his blue-green eyes looked eerily familiar, like a stranger had stolen Ilya’s soul.

Those gold flecks, though, were missing. They belonged to Ilya alone.

Through a thick Russian accent, much rougher than Ilya’s polished one, the man spat, “Who the fuck are you?”

“Hi. I’m Shane—”

“Whatever,” the man cut him off, gesturing toward the road. “Get out of here. I’m not looking for whatever you’re selling.”

“No, I’m not selling anything,” Shane started to explain, but the door was already beginning to close. Alarm bells rang loudly in his ears, and before he could think better of it he jammed his foot into the narrowing gap. The door slammed against his pinky toe, sending a pulse of pain up his leg as the man reluctantly opened it again.

Shane hissed through the pain. “I need to see Ilya.” 

A narrow glare pinned him in place. Shane knew he had grown impressively tall over the past year, but beneath this man’s sharp stare he felt about two feet high. If the broad-shouldered, thick-chested stranger decided to physically remove him from the doorway, Shane knew he wouldn’t stand much of a chance.

“Why?” the man asked.

“Because,” Shane said, clearing his throat and forcing confidence into his voice, “I want to talk to him.”

“I’ll bet you do,” the man muttered, though Shane had no idea what he meant by that. Whatever it was, it didn’t sound positive. “Get lost, kid. Ilya will be back in class on Monday.”

“But he’s here?” Shane asked, stubbornly keeping his foot planted.

“None of your business.”

From somewhere deeper inside the house, a hoarse voice called out, “Andrei. Leave him alone.”

It was Ilya. He sounded like he hadn't used his voice in a few days, and it lacked the warmth he'd grown used to. Still, the breath rushed out of Shane’s lungs as he craned his neck past Andrei’s shoulder, spotting his friend standing in the shadowed hallway beyond.

“Ilya!”

Andrei snickered, mocking him openly, nothing like the whispered gossip at school or the polite commentary adults usually hid behind. “Ilya, Ilya! What is this, brat? Your boyfriend has come to check on you?”

“Go home, Shane,” Ilya called back. There were no soft edges in his voice, only something sharp and unforgiving. “I will be back on Monday.”

That wasn't going to happen. Something about this whole situation was deeply wrong, setting off alarm bells in his mind, and he knew he wouldn't sleep all weekend if he left without figuring out what it was. Besides, he had spent the past few months lifting his dad’s weights, putting on extra muscle before the next hockey season started. He was eager to see if it counted for anything.

“Fuck it," he cursed, shoving against the door.

It gave beneath his shoulder, and he stumbled past Andrei into the house.

“You little shit—”

“Touch him,” Ilya snapped, stepping between them so quickly Shane barely registered the movement, “and I’ll kill you.”

Andrei growled and shoved his chest against Ilya’s. “Big words for such a little boy. You want to talk to your boyfriend? Go on, then. It’s not my grave. Papa will deal with you when he gets home.”

There was no time to think about what that threat meant, because Ilya was already turning away and dragging Shane down the dim hallway toward a door at the very end.

His grip on Shane’s wrist was tight and unrelenting, and Shane found himself staring down at Ilya’s fingers wrapped around his arm, completely unconcerned with how hard they held him. As far as he cared, Ilya could leave bruises. Better yet, maybe they could stay there forever.

Ilya shoved him into the room before turning back to twist what looked like a custom-made lock into place.

“What are you doing here?”

“I—” Shane stopped short.

Faded purple bruising surrounded Ilya’s right eye, stretching from his eyebrow to the ridge of his cheekbone. It was old enough that the swelling had begun to fade, though the skin was still faintly red at the corners. Which meant that when it had first happened, it must have been much worse.

There was a split in his lip as well, scabbed over and swollen.

“What the hell happened?” Shane asked, reaching out instinctively. His thumb brushed gently over the wound, as though he could not quite believe it was real. For a moment he half expected the bruise to wipe away beneath his touch, like an elaborate, terrible prank, but the deep plum color remained, and when Ilya winced faintly beneath his hand, Shane knew there was no punchline waiting.

“Fuck, did you fall?” Shane blurted. “It was your bike, wasn’t it? I told you that thing was junk. I told you to take mine.”

“It was not my bike,” Ilya said, grabbing Shane’s hand. Not to push him away, to his relief, but to wrap his hand around Shane’s like a glove, pressing his cheek into the knot of fingers. The sort of thing someone might do with their girlfriend.

“It was my brother,” he said quietly. “He is home from Russia while my father is away on a business trip. We got into… a fight.”

“A fight?” Shane stammered, inching closer. “But he didn’t have a scratch on him. Doesn’t look like a fair fight, Ilya.”

“Don’t,” Ilya said, shaking his head, his voice thin like it was being pushed through a straw. He guided their hands upward, bringing Shane’s knuckles to his mouth where their thumbs were woven together, and pressed his lips to the seam. If he had meant to stun Shane speechless, it worked, because his head rushed like he had stepped into a wind tunnel. Every ounce of sensation flooded to the exact place where Ilya kissed him, lightly, like a plea. “It is not worth talking about.”

“We have to talk about it, Ilya. That’s illegal, I think. If I told my mom—”

“You can’t.” Ilya’s voice turned icy. “If my brother gets in trouble with the law, my father will be upset, and then we will all have to go back to Russia.”

“But—”

Ilya closed the distance without warning, and Shane faltered slightly when Ilya’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him tight against his chest. Muscle and warmth and the faint tremble of bone surrounded him, and once Shane felt the shake in Ilya’s shoulders, he leaned into it fully, threading his arms around Ilya’s waist and crossing them over the small of his back.

Shane hid his face in the crook of Ilya’s shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne and another smell that was unmistakably him. “I was so worried.”

“I wanted to come, but Andrei was sure if anyone saw me—”

“They’d call the cops?” Shane finished, outrage thick and hot in his throat. “Yeah. He’s probably right.”

“I am okay, Shane,” Ilya murmured against his ear, sending a trail of goosebumps racing down Shane’s spine. “I am fine. And you are here. You should not be here. I should be very angry with you, but… fuck, I am happy to see you.”

If he had the grace to slow down and savor the moment, Shane might have tried to memorize the feeling of Ilya’s chest pressed against his own, their breathing uneven and staccato. His nose was tucked against Ilya’s neck, warm and soft. It felt impossibly good, impossibly right, to be in his arms like this, longer than the quick hugs after a good game when they were buried beneath equipment and padding.

But he could hardly enjoy any of it, because he was still picturing Andrei’s fist anywhere near Ilya’s face, or imagining how horrible it must have been to sit here alone with ice pressed to his cheek, probably clutching the cross-chain around his neck like he did whenever his worry grew too large. When he had no choice but to close his eyes and offer a silent prayer to his mother, who Shane often wished he had the chance to meet. For as cruel as his brother was, and presumably his father too, Shane hoped Ilya had at least experienced one true love in his life. That she had been warm and soft and sang to him, read to him, brushed his hair.

Had anyone ever brushed his hair?

Without thinking, Shane shifted his arms, trading places with Ilya’s, and threaded his fingers through those curls. For years he had wondered what they might feel like beneath his palm. They were a little rough, though free of knots, but that hardly mattered compared to the way Ilya seemed to lean into the touch, following it with a low rumble of approval rolling quietly from his throat.

“Shane…” he whispered against his neck. “What is this?”

“My mom does it for me when I’m upset,” Shane answered simply, rather than admitting he had been dreaming of doing this for a long time. With Ilya leaning into him, like every ounce of stress from the past week was finally draining away, he added, “You’re coming to my house. And you’re staying.”

“I can’t—”

“Shut up,” Shane mumbled, tugging lightly at his curls. “You’re doing it. Pack a bag right now. We’ll climb out the fucking window if we have to.”

For the first time, it was Ilya who obeyed without argument. He nodded gravely and pulled a duffel bag from his messy closet, tossing it beside a dated dresser. The sheets on his bed were twisted into a tangle of knots, and Shane sat on them anyway, silently watching while Ilya shoved shirts and pants and shoes into the bag.

Because it seemed just as important as clothing, Shane offered to carry his hockey bag.

There was not much else, which made Shane’s stomach hurt. Where were the posters? The medals? Books he had loved, or toys from childhood that he had never quite managed to throw away? There was no evidence of Ilya’s personality anywhere in the room. It felt gray and bleak and strangely empty, like a place someone only slept rather than lived.

Before they left, Ilya scribbled something quickly onto a note. Just a couple of lines on a language Shane couldn't read.

Then they crawled out the window, whispering in the fading daylight as they strapped their bags onto their bikes and started toward the Hollander house. Sunset slipped lower toward the horizon, drenching the sleepy neighborhood in orange and pink, and they drifted toward the center of the road like they owned the whole world. In this moment, with Ilya back at his side, Shane almost felt like that was true.

But something was different now between them. A thread had come loose while they stood there earlier, clutching one another for long minutes, breathing so close that it had become impossible to tell where one breath ended and the other began.

They walked in silence for a while.

Maybe they would never talk about it again. Maybe that was okay, if it meant keeping him close.

“I broke up with Maria,” Ilya murmured eventually, guiding his bike over a crack in the pavement.

When Shane glanced over, Ilya wasn’t looking at him, his eyes fixed somewhere ahead.

“I, uh… thought so,” Shane said. "I saw her crying after class.”

“She is always crying. Sometimes... reminds me of how my mama was, so happy some days and the next, like a ghost.” Ilya thought about this a long moment before he shrugged. “But we argued a lot. Did not get along. So.”

When they stumbled through the front door an hour later, just as the first stars began to appear in the sky, Yuna burst out of the kitchen, her eyes widening immediately.

The lecture that followed was long and thorough. When they asked about Ilya’s eye, the boys recited the explanation they had agreed on: that he had biked over a loose sewer grate and the handlebar had caught at the wrong angle. If Shane’s parents doubted the story, they didn’t say. If they wondered why Shane had announced that Ilya would be staying for a while, they didn’t push too hard on that either.

Shane suspected they might simply be happy to have their second son home and safe.

This time, Ilya was given his own bedroom. bThe storage room, really, where David dragged a mattress up from the basement and set it beside an unused treadmill and several boxes of old paperwork, promising to clean the space properly the next day. He explained that Ilya shouldn’t have to sleep on Shane’s floor anymore. That he was sixteen now, practically a man, and he deserved his own space.

But once the house had gone quiet for the night, Shane heard the soft creak of a door opening across the hall, followed by familiar footsteps.

“Hi,” Shane whispered.

“Can I—”

He eagerly lifted the sheets in response. “Like when we were kids, right?”

Ilya stifled a laugh. “Yes. Like kids.”

But there wasn’t as much room now. As much as Shane often thought about returning to those days, so uncomplicated and free of the pressures of high school and triple A hockey, they weren’t kids anymore.

Now, lying on their sides and facing one another, there were barely a few inches between them in the dark room.

And because he was no longer a kid, Shane’s thoughts drifted to places it shouldn’t. “Did you and Maria, um…share a bed?”

Ilya’s lips quirked upward. “Have sex, you mean?” 

Shane nodded, unable to repeat it. “I never asked before, and you didn’t really talk about it, so I guess I’m just wondering. You can just pretend I didn’t ask, if you want.”

“Once,” Ilya answered quickly, like he didn’t want to leave Shane wondering. Maybe he thought he was doing him a favor, putting him out of his misery. Perhaps Shane had grown too obvious in his affection, unnamed and confusing as it was, and Ilya was only pitying him.

“Are you curious, what it’s like?”

Was he? He was curious about some things, but they all centered on the boy in his bed, and what he might do with those steady, graceful hands, or with his lips, which had teased him earlier, a crumb offered when he was pretty sure he still craved the whole meal. A steady thrumming beat rose behind his ribs, buried fantasies stirring as Ilya lingered only a finger’s length away.

Beneath the heavy sheets, Shane squirmed a little and hid his face in the pillow before nodding.

“Ah,” Ilya hummed. “It is a bit awkward, at first.”

It was never awkward with Ilya, Shane thought absently, though he still couldn’t meet his gaze. His cheeks had gone warm, and he hoped the moonlight wouldn’t betray him to his best friend.

“Then…” Ilya shimmied closer, the mattress dipping beneath their combined weight.

Fingers slipped beneath Shane’s loose t-shirt, drifting over his ribs,  slow and exploratory, and drawing a low, breathy sigh from his lips. Like tiny fireworks bursting across his skin, sending shockwaves everywhere else. From Ilya, he reminded himself, dazed, as if he’d stepped into a dream. The fingers traveled down his chest, and it was only because night had fallen and the day had been so strange that Shane no longer had the energy to question what this meant, whether it was right or wrong. All he could do was soak it in and hope it would never end.

“It is nice,” Ilya murmured. “Much better than alone.”

This time, Shane suspected that Ilya was the one embarrassed, and because he couldn’t miss witnessing such a rarity, he turned his head from the pillow, squinting in the dark.

“Are you blushing, Ilya?”

The gentle caress turned into a crab claw, pinching at the soft curve of his side.

“Go to sleep, Shane.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Junior hockey was tough. Nothing Shane and Ilya hadn’t prepared for, but the jump from their old league to this one, playing against guys as old as eighteen, some already drafted, was jarring. There wasn’t room anymore to mess around during practice or coast through a shift. The bragging rights they’d carried from their last team meant little here. At least they remained on the same line, their chemistry as strong as it always had been, still able to find each other on the ice like they bore an internal compass pointing to the other. Sometimes, Shane thought he might have been born with it, and it was only a matter of time before they found one another.

What made it harder was knowing they’d both get noticed soon, if they hadn't already. Scouts were everywhere, clipboards out, and this was exactly what they’d worked toward since they could first lace a pair of skates. The first pair of Juniors flashed in his memory, the weight on his lap in the car ride to the arena, the day he’d met Ilya at the local rink. Shy and stand-off-ish, yet he’d been the only one to notice that Shane’s composure had broken, and had been the one to guide him back to reality that day and a million times since.

Once they were drafted into the OHL, they’d likely be separated. Because they weren’t yet eighteen, they’d have to move away, live with billet families in whatever city their new team called home. It would be everything they’d dreamed of, yet it sat like a looming deadline, a countdown that he dreaded watching.

The whistle blew and Shane crouched for the draw, snapped his stick down, and won the faceoff with ease. Kicked off from the circle and cut through the neutral zone with the puck tucked in his curve, whizzing past the first defender. A shoulder nearly brushed his as another player tried to cut in, a stick jabbed in a half-hearted poke, but he burst through untouched. This time, he'd been faster, sharper, and keenly aware of the eyes in the stands, the scouts watching every stride.

A defenseman blocked the goalie’s weak side where he’d been hoping to find an opportunity.

It didn’t matter. Shane shot the puck across the ice, and he knew Ilya would be there, barely needing to look before the pass rocketed from his stick to the other. Ilya caught it and sent it flying in one seamless motion, over the goalie’s glove and tucking into the top left corner.

“Fucking right!” Shane yelled, pumping his fist as he cut toward his best friend. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

Ilya was grinning too wide to reply, knocking his helmet lightly against Shane’s. The rest of the team crowded around them a moment later, and Shane loved watching Ilya drowning in their praise. There were few others who deserved it as much as he did.

But it wasn’t until they were back in their shared hotel room, a few cities away from home, an unfamiliar view laid out in twinkling lights from the window, two beds when they had only ever used one, that he saw Ilya’s confident composure crack a little around the edges.

“You saw the man in the blue suit, yes?” Ilya was changing into a loose pair of sweatpants as Shane flicked through the channels, sprawled over the thick duvet. “I think he was watching you the most. Every time I peek up, he is eyeing you.”

“You think so?”

Shane realized he shouldn’t have sounded so put out by this admission. Years of hard work were coming to fruition, and he was meant to be celebrating, but this chapter of his life somehow felt incomplete. When Shane did things, it was with the goal of perfection, or as close as he could manage. Even with math, he had managed to swing his grade around, with the help of Ilya, his mother, and a paid tutor. The dread of leaving something unfinished dragged behind him like an anchor begging to be let loose.

But there was a careful avoidance between himself and Ilya. Not in distance, because they were best friends, and they lived across the hall from one another, played for the same team, and there was nothing that Shane experienced where Ilya wasn’t at his side. At times, though, they were magnets of the same side, pushing away when they dared to move too close. Exchanging affection that could still pass as friendly from the right perspective, or through a foggy mirror.

“It will not be much longer now,” Ilya hummed, as if this were a casual statement, like it didn’t make Shane’s chest constrict like a snake had weaseled its way around his lungs. How could the biggest moment of his life be on the horizon and still, he felt nauseous? Resistant to move forward? Wondering if maybe science had advanced enough that there was a way to pause time, to live in those brief moments with Ilya for an eternity?

The truth was bursting from him, had been crawling up his throat for months, years, and he never knew when his last chance would be. Couldn’t travel across the western hemisphere without having at least said it once. But not now, not yet. Not when he couldn’t be sure that Ilya didn’t feel the same. How could he know, for sure?

Maybe that was the awful part of it all, that he might never know, and it was almost better that way. That he never knew what it felt like to have Ilya’s affection unbroken by boundaries, because how could he move on after that? It would only make it harder. Or worse, if Ilya had never felt the same, hadn’t spent the last year in a state of constant need, a feeling that clutched his gut and blurred his thoughts, that distracted him during exams and kept him company at night.

So he would keep it buried. They would be friends, only friends, for as long as Ilya was willing.

“Let’s sneak out,” Ilya said without preamble, and Shane blinked hard. “Do not look so scandalized, Shane. Like, to the pool. Not to a fucking club.”

“It’s closed now, Ilya. It’s almost midnight.”

“So?” Ilya was moving toward him, grabbing an ankle and tugging him toward the end of the bed. Shane squirmed, which only made him laugh. “Come on. I am not tired.”

“We’re gonna get in trouble,” Shane groaned, knowing this was the exact attitude that Ilya would tease him about, but he couldn’t help himself. In his heart, he wasn’t a rule breaker. He liked making people happy, comfortable. Didn't like putting anyone in an uncomfortable position any more than he liked being in one.

But, with a final tug, Shane’s feet were on the floor, and Ilya was standing between his legs, squeezing his chin. “Maybe a little trouble is good for you.”

Sometimes Shane wondered how much of it he did on purpose, just to see the blush rise beneath his freckles, or the catch of his breath in his throat. Wide-eyed, he stared up at Ilya, a confession once again burning a hole on his tongue. Unable to speak without risking it spilling from his lips, he nodded. Forced out a single word. “Fine.”

They were dressed in hotel slippers, creeping quietly down the carpeted hall. The elevator chimed with pretty music as Shane grumbled about pissing off the coach, and Ilya bounced eagerly on his heels, watching the floors drop.

“Told you,” Ilya smirked as the door to the pool room flashed green, “the girl at the front desk said she would leave it unlocked for me.”

“You fucking flirt,” Shane shoved him. “I knew you two were talking for too long. So, what, you planned this?”

Ilya didn’t answer him, stripping his pants off, then his shirt, until he was clad in only a pair of boxer briefs. “Don’t be a chicken, Shane.”

“I’m not a chicken.”

He only had half his clothes off when a noisy splash echoed through the room, and he turned to see that Ilya had vanished beneath the water, a circle of ripples left behind. Quickly, he tore free of the rest, hoping they could get this over with before anyone noticed. There was definitely a camera in the corner, and though there was no way to prove if it was just for show, he wasn’t all that interested in finding out.

“So warm,” Ilya called out, his voice bouncing over the tiled walls.

“Liar.” Shane stepped closer, dipping a toe. It wasn’t exactly cold, but nowhere near the temperature of his morning shower. “There. I did it.”

“Shane, I swear—”

He didn’t let him finish before jumping from the edge, knees tucked to his belly as he barreled into the open water next to him. Weightless and laughing, Shane floated to the surface, kicking his feet when Ilya tugged him closer. Wet curls hung heavy over his eyes, gleaming with rebellion and joy and, fuck, it was contagious.

“You’re an idiot,” Shane breathed, and he would blame the chlorine for it later, but he added bravely, “but I think I'm really going to miss you.”

“We might stay on same team,” Ilya countered, the kind of hopeful lie you told a kid when you wanted to break the news a little easier.

They let the fictional possibility linger, something to cling to while they kicked toward the shallow end, leaning against the cool tile.

Finally, Ilya cleared his voice. “I am going to… miss you, Shane.”

“Convincing,” Shane huffed a laugh, because it sounded a little like Ilya was being held at gunpoint. Talking about the heavy stuff, facing hard truths, wasn’t their strongest suit. They had become experts at dancing around them, a delicate waltz that required more energy than it might have to just execute the spins and turns outright. They skipped clumsily over mines and cracks, just barely avoiding the faults in the floor.

“It is more than miss,” Ilya admitted, and Shane’s grin slipped from his face at the honesty in his tone. 

Barely had time to react before Ilya was pushing off the wall and facing Shane, moving easily through the water as he stretched an arm out on either side of him, gripping the edge of the pool. In a cage of limbs, there was nowhere to escape the weight of Ilya’s gaze as it traveled over him, his lips, his nose, his ears.

Was he memorizing it all, too?

“I do not want to regret anything.” Ilya drifted closer, and Shane decided the chlorine definitely must have been too strong, that Ilya was high off the fumes or something, because they were suddenly almost flush against each other, sharing the same warm breath.

“What—” Shane stammered, the tip of his nose brushing Ilya’s and stealing his focus, “what would you regret?”

Ilya kissed him. 

There was no warning, no chance to brace for the way his thoughts vanished, leaving only the press of Ilya’s mouth, soft and certain, against his own. He had dreamt of it a hundred times, but nothing compared to the tumble in his stomach or the sharp, desperate instinct to pull him closer. One hand found the back of Ilya’s neck, tentative, as if testing his willingness, while the other slipped around his waist beneath the water.

Their lips parted naturally, adjusting and finding rhythm together while the pool water clung between them like a second skin. How could something feel this completely right, as if this had been his purpose all along, like he’d put on earth to do this and this alone? It was new, strange, like trading a stick for a tennis racket, but somehow his body understood the rules without practice. Their noses brushed again as he explored Ilya’s mouth, top lip, bottom, both together. Then Ilya’s tongue traced the seam between them, and the spark shot down his spine straight to his knees.

The world might as well have cracked in two, and Shane wouldn’t have noticed. Ilya’s fingers slipped into his wet hair, guiding him closer, his teeth scraping lightly along Shane’s lip. A palm pressed against his chest, pinning him to the pool wall, and Shane would have let him do anything.

Time ceased to exist while Shane gave Ilya everything he silently asked for, and when their hips met, instinct took over, searching for friction in the narrow space between them. When Ilya groaned against his mouth, low and raw, Shane thought he might never breathe again.

“Shane—” Ilya broke apart, breathing hard, lips reddened, cheeks flushed. “That is good, yes? Now I will have no regrets.”

That was it? A single moment, a one-time thing? Shane wanted to reach for him again, to ask for more, to stretch the moment out as long as it was possible. It wasn’t possible to taste sunlight and be content with the memory. But Ilya was already turning, wading toward the steps, leaving rings of water in his wake.

Shane stayed where he was, speechless, like the pool had turned to wet sand around his legs, every nerve still alive and buzzing, want still sparking dangerously in his chest.

When Ilya dangled a towel from the outside, it was enough to shock Shane back to reality. So he really was going to pretend like nothing had changed, like the world hadn’t just turned itself inside out. Looking anywhere but at his best friend, he climbed the steps slowly, plucking the towel from Ilya’s reach.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, his lips still loose and clumsy from their kiss. “So—” 

The door to the pool room creaked open, and they both turned, wide eyed, to the man in a pressed suit. “The pool is closed. Does your coach know about this. Actually, hold on a second. What’s your room number?” 

“Eighteen-nine." Ilya stepped forward. "And my name is Hayden Pike.” 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The highway traffic crawled, thick with snow and congestion. The storm, though perfectly timed for the holiday break, made every mile harder. Tires slipped, brake lights glared red against the white road, and the wipers smeared more than they cleared. On a good day, the drive from Kingston to his parents’ house took two hours, maybe two and a half if he kept the limit, but today the GPS promised four. Accidents, roadblocks, and every other obstacle possible lay in his way.

Distance was the price he paid for playing in the OHL, and soon enough, he’d be called up to Montreal’s national team. It wasn’t that far, technically, but life without his parents and without Ilya still felt like relearning how to walk.

At least Ilya had the luxury of flying home. If flights had stayed on time, he was probably already sprawled on the sofa with Yuna and David, drinking spiked hot chocolate and watching bad Christmas movies. Ilya had joined Windsor’s OHL team but was drafted for Boston’s NHL lineup, which meant that what had once been a seven-hour drive would soon turn into a seven-hour flight. The distance between them only seemed to stretch further every day.

Some nights, Shane told himself the gap didn’t matter. Their weekly calls, voice notes, and blurry cellphone photos of locker rooms and hotel breakfasts: those could be enough. Just like one kiss had been enough.

But today, Christmas Eve, his chest ached in a way that made him want to lay on the horn or drive the shoulder just to reach home faster.

With a sharp breath, Shane leaned back in the leather seat of his rental and tried to focus on the music instead of the ache. Not on the fact that he hadn’t seen Ilya in weeks, and that the last time they’d shared a rink, they’d been wearing different jerseys, competitors now. He could still picture Ilya’s hazel eyes behind his visor, the muscle memory that almost made him pass the puck across the ice. Later, in the parking lot, their hug had been brief, their small talk too careful before they went off to separate hotels.

A part of him feared this was what their future looked like as rivals, not friends. But tonight, Ilya was waiting for him in his childhood home, probably wearing those ridiculous matching Christmas pajamas Shane’s mother bought every year. Maybe things wouldn’t be so different after all.

The drive stretched endlessly, hours thinning into something make-believe and torturous, but at last the exit appeared, and the city rose to meet him. Familiar landmarks cut through the falling snow, soft lights guiding him the rest of the way.

They opened their doors at the same time: Shane from his rental, Ilya from the porch. For a moment, both paused, one hand each on their handles, like they were steadying themselves. Then they were moving, or maybe it was gravity or something stronger, pulling them toward each other like an elastic drawn too tight.

“You look older,” Shane said, grinning. It was absurd that he’d ever had to remind himself to smile around Ilya. He took him in greedily, the short, neat curls around his ears, the sharper jawline, all the edges that belonged to eighteen. Some things hadn’t changed at all, the silver chain around his neck, the uneven rise of his smile that revealed the hint of a dimple.

Ilya smirked. “Not as old as you, grandpa.”

“By a month,” Shane shot back.

Then they were in each other’s arms, the hug fierce and clinging, like neither trusted the other not to disappear again. The wool of Ilya’s sweater smelled of pine and smoke, but underneath was something more familiar, the scent that, to Shane, always reminded him most of home. It hollowed him out and filled him at once, and he melted into it, soft as putty in a warm hand, completely certain that if Ilya let go, he would crumble to the ground.

But Ilya didn’t. He kept one hand at the small of Shane’s back as he leaned away just far enough for their foreheads to meet. For a heartbeat, the present folded into the past, memory flickering bright in Shane’s eyes. Because Ilya wasn’t stepping back this time. He was—

He kissed him again. Slow, lasting only a second, but enough to set the world off its axis. This time, Shane didn’t wait for gentle or cautious. He’d been waiting too long for this, for the bloom of heat in his chest, the fog softening the edges of his thoughts.

“Here?” Shane laughed softly against his lips, already chasing the next touch. If his parents were watching from the window, they’d hardly be surprised. They’d never been blind to the signs that he’d been in love with his best friend from day one.

“Here, sure. And everywhere else,” Ilya murmured, his fingers sliding behind Shane’s neck, pulling him close again. He parted Shane’s lips easily, drew out a rough, low sound that vibrated between them, and the warmth unfurled, burning away the winter air around them. “Do you remember,” he breathed between kisses, “when I said I would have no regrets?”

Shane nodded. Words scattered uselessly, the only one left in his mind being Ilya’s name.

“I have one.” Ilya kissed him again, the corner of his mouth, the freckles near his nose, the tender spot at his temple, until Shane’s eyelids fluttered shut, content to drown beneath every touch. “I regret not doing this again. Not telling you I want to keep doing this for a long, long time.”

Shane’s voice came out quiet and uncertain. “With hockey, and everything. Next year we’ll be in different cities. You still want this?”

“Yes. Still.” Ilya’s nose brushed Shane’s cheek, and Shane leaned into it, craving. With a palm against Ilya’s jaw, he pulled him back for another kiss, long and unhurried, tasting equal parts certainty and surrender.

“So what, like…” Shane hesitated, voice rough as gravel. “Together?”

Ilya’s teeth grazed his neck, teasing. “You mean boyfriends?”

Shane gave a breathless laugh. “Whatever. I don’t know.”

“You do know.” Ilya’s voice vibrated against his skin, his grip tightening at Shane’s back. “Say it. Say I’m your boyfriend.”

There was hope in it, raw and vulnerable. Shane had only expected the comfort of Ilya’s company this weekend, a few familiar laughs, the welcome spark of the familiar calm that always came with him. Kissing him, hearing these confessions, feeling the walls finally fall away; it was almost too much to believe was real. He exhaled shakily. “That’s what you want?”

“You will make me admit I’ve thought about you every day since the pool?” Ilya asked, shivering now but too stubborn to move inside. “For a long time before that, before I even knew why?” His voice fell softer. “You want me to say please?”

Shane smiled back at him, reverent. “I didn’t know you knew that word.”

“Please,” Ilya repeated, just sarcastic enough to hide how much he meant it. And Shane thought that if he never heard it again, it would still be fine. He didn’t like making Ilya beg. He only wanted to give, to understand what he wanted before he even asked. To make him feel good. To be enough.

“Yeah,” Shane nodded, breathing heavily, little puffs of cool air forming in the space between their lips. “Okay. Fuck, I didn’t expect, but I hoped, you know? Like, I thought maybe you were just curious.”

“I was curious,” Ilya squeezed his hand, fingers growing ice cold. They had to go inside, warm up, but the snow was soft and thick, and the streets were empty, and it almost seemed like they had the whole world to themselves out here. “And now I am not curious, because I know what I want.”

Ilya always got what he wanted. Shane made sure.

“I know I’ve told you before, like, as friends, but—” Shane searched for the words now, but they held a different meaning, felt heavier and harder to lift from his chest to his lips.

Ilya shook his head. “Do not tell me now.”

He bristled. “Why?”

“Because we need to go inside and sit with your parents, and you will make me a mess if you say it out loud.”

So he waited. When they’d stumbled in from the snow, Yuna and David were smiling faintly at each other, like they’d scurried back to the dining table after getting caught red-handed. It was a conversation Shane knew he couldn’t avoid forever, but it was Christmas Eve, and it felt quietly agreed upon that enjoying the holiday came first. That enjoying the privilege of touching Ilya, of staring too long without fear of judgment, of appreciating everything about him openly and proudly, was what this three-day stretch was for.

Dinner came and went in a blur of laughter and stories and warmth. They’d each had a glass of wine, leaving Shane’s skin buzzing and his mind light. Beneath the table, Ilya wrapped his fingers around Shane’s knee, and Shane pressed their feet together in return. On the couch later, they shared a single blanket, and Shane rested his head on his boyfriend’s broad shoulder, reveling in that small, juvenile word that he could finally claim as his own.

When they’d toed upstairs later that night, it was with clumsy, quiet kisses traded on every step, like they were making up for lost years and couldn’t waste a single minute. The door creaked as Shane found himself pressed against it, a soft sound slipping from him as Ilya’s weight pinned him there, like that closeness was something he’d always craved.

Then the mattress, which squeaked with age as they fell into it, tugging at clothes and skin and hair.

On his back, still floating from the rush of it all, Shane watched as Ilya pressed a kiss to his lower stomach, tracing along the hem of his boxers. Then up his sternum, soft and light, the cross from his chain cool against the warmth he left behind as he followed a path to his chin. His fingers ghosted over the trail he’d marked, and when his lips found Shane’s, he paused, hovering in place.

“I love you,” Ilya breathed, and there was a hint of desperation in his voice, mixed with a rare flicker of nerves.

Shane frowned. “I was going to say it first.”

“Is not a competition,” Ilya grinned, devious and playful. “You can be second place.”

“No way.” Shane stole a kiss. “You made me stop. I still win.”

A dramatic groan tore out of Ilya, almost loud enough that Shane worried Yuna and David might wake. “Fine. A tie.”

“Fine,” Shane echoed through a broad smile. “I love you, too.”

When Christmas morning arrived, it was without any sleep. They drowsily pulled themselves down the stairs, following the scent of waffles and bacon, sharing glances and blushes because they had left almost nothing unexplored the night before. It was still a permanent echo on his skin, the memory of touch in all the places Ilya had pressed his lips to, brushed his fingers over. The way Ilya had covered his mouth, stifling his groan as his hand stroked quick and clumsy, and Shane had realized exactly what Ilya meant when he’d told him that climbing that peak and tumbling over the edge was “much better than alone.”

When he had returned the favor, it was with Ilya’s fingers tangled in his hair, his tongue and lips and hands gloriously occupied beneath the sheets, and he hadn’t expected it to feel so good. He had always assumed he’d built up the fantasy too highly, that he would be disappointed when it felt like an intrusion more than a pleasure, but he had been wrong. So wrong, because he had never felt more complete than when he drew that kind of response from his boyfriend, the way Ilya had squirmed and thrust and cried out against the pillow.

They were images he shouldn’t have been replaying at the dining table, but he couldn’t help it. He wasn’t sure he would ever think of anything else, that last night was etched into the recesses of his brain, permanently rewiring the threads.

“Merry Christmas, boys.” Yuna set two mugs of coffee down in front of them, and her soft smile seemed to say more than her casual greeting. “It’s really good to have you both here again. The house gets lonely when you’re gone.”

“We should not be saying such sad things on Christmas,” Ilya shook his head, messy curls falling loose while he wrapped his palms around the coffee mug. “We will always come back, Yuna. Yes, Shane?”

The way he said his name held a new meaning now, like he’d sworn it as his own, staking claim to each syllable. If he was blushing, there was little he could do to hide it, morning sunlight pouring in through the bay window and laying him bare. “Yeah. Yes. Of course. Every chance we get.”

“Good,” Yuna nodded. “Okay, enough with the sappy stuff. Let’s eat up so we can do gifts, yes?”

It didn’t matter how old they’d grown; it was still everyone’s favorite part of Christmas. They tore through wrapping paper eagerly, cross-legged on the rug, knees brushing carelessly against one another. When he pulled out the tiny box that had Ilya written all over it (haphazard wrapping, slightly crude paper,) he knew it was for him. He cracked open the little black box and found a chain, much like Ilya’s, but there was no cross at the end. It was a tiny silver tree.

“The oak,” Shane breathed, partially in shock that he’d managed to find something so perfect. It made his own gift feel thoughtless.

“Yes,” Ilya nodded, a bit hazy. “Did not think I needed to get a little fire truck, too.”

The afternoon they’d recklessly climbed to the top of the tree in Shane’s backyard came rushing back, when Yuna and David had found them frozen to the top branches after realizing there was no way in hell they’d be able to climb back down. An hour later, they were climbing the ladder of a fire truck instead, as a group of uniformed men shared a much-needed laugh and his parents paced the yard, lectures building fiercer until the boys finally touched the grass.

It had been worth the trouble, though. That day, he swore something changed. Like the universe had seen them up so high and tied their souls together with an invisible string, vowing never to let them wander too far. Maybe Shane was being overly romantic, drunk on the cloud of everything that had happened, but moisture pricked at his eyes regardless, impossible to blink away.

“I don’t even know what to say,” Shane mumbled.

“‘Thank you,’” Yuna offered, one eyebrow raised. “Seems like the way to go?”

“No. It is okay.” Ilya shook his head. “You do not thank me. I do it because I…” He glanced up at Shane’s parents, as if reminding himself that this room, this house, this family were safe, free of the judgment and abuse he’d grown up alongside. “Because I wanted to. And because I love you, lyubimiy moy.”

So much for leaving the sappy stuff behind, Shane thought, as he turned and buried his face in Ilya’s thick sweater.

He wore the necklace every day.

To every game, every practice. He wrapped his fingers around it when he missed Ilya most, like he could feel his pulse in the cool silver, could close his eyes and find himself back at the top of that tree, the world spread out beneath them.

The distance felt insignificant compared to everything they had already climbed through, still here despite it all. And on the hardest nights, when the miles between them felt a little too far, the chain against his collarbone was there to remind him of one consistent, reliable truth.

Ilya would be there, waiting for him, when he came home.