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Shane Hollander was a headache personified for Ilya.

It was bad enough on their own, the rumors, that Hollander fucked his way to get to where he was right now, that he bribed, that he was just a token—an omega of Asian descent as a captain, playing good enough to fuck up the self-esteems of all the insecure alphas on the field. He was a brilliant player and he was ruthless, but it was different from Ilya’s own playing style. Ilya chirped to get under his opponents’ skin and fought like it was second nature to him; Hollander said something in such a serene tone with a language none of them knew, and was built sturdy enough to be a wall of brick, muscled enough to not look like a traditional omegan physique, and had no qualms in sending people skidding against the ice.

“Inilah makonyo kalo punyo anak tu jangan yang lahir dari daki peler,” he once said, to someone leering at him and saying stupid shit like sucking the dicks of the entire opponent team. It ended with a fight and Hollander won against someone who towered over him, with just a split lip on his end. None of them understood what he said, though his condescending gaze alone conveyed more than his words could.

“Susah memang punyo anak otaknyo kurang dijemur,” he said another time, and he sounded so disappointed and admonishing enough that the other party just went away with grumbles. It wasn’t just his opponents, however. It was also his teammates; they didn’t understand either, but they must have known enough that whatever Hollander said, it was unsavory.

Other times, he simply said one word and went away from the prospect of a fight. Pilat, kacuk umak, peler, bange, lolo, words that Ilya could only parse after watching the games repeatedly. There were people on the internet who apparently understood, but they thought it was hilarious to gatekeep, and not every player was as intensely curious as Ilya. He just knew, after hours of scouring the internet, that it was a regional language from Indonesia, which was a quarter of Hollander’s lineage. They didn’t specify what each word meant, but they did provide the context that none of it was nice.

Apparently, Hollander had a severely potty mouth, and Ilya didn’t know why he found it so hilarious.

But that wasn’t the problem, the cause of the headache, though Ilya appreciated someone who could utilize their obscure knowledge into baiting their opponents. No, it was Hollander’s wardrobe that was the main issue. When they first met, Ilya had already known about him. It was hard not to, when a player that good was on the roster and every available team was vying for his talent. Ilya had the same offers, if not more, and it was good; it was an option should Russia become too much of a daylight nightmare to him. But people wanted Hollander in a different way than they wanted Ilya, he knew this.

They not only wanted a player with a high hockey knowledge and instincts. They wanted a mascot, they wanted to expand their repertoire and experiment with it; they wanted the attention of the media for being the outlet of such talent, who was seen as a token omega in an alpha-dominated field, one who could manage to trounce the impossibilities. They wanted Hollander because he was a miracle; they wanted Ilya because he was a bad omen.

Hollander wore a short skirt and a hoodie, alongside his jacket. His powerful legs covered in thigh-highs, and some sneakers beneath. It was a bit ridiculous, how the man’s muscles seemed to strain against his clothing, and Hollander wasn’t small by any means. But it fitted him, this attire, for some reason. Perhaps it was the juxtaposition in his sturdy physique and the pleated skirt, perhaps it was the fucking freckles Ilya had noticed second. They were all distracting, and maybe Hollander knew that too and it was his tactic to mess with Ilya’s mind before the match.

“I wanted to introduce myself,” he had said as Ilya struggled to light up the cherry tip.

The reply came to him, unbidden and unplanned. “You are not cold,” he said, then gazed down at the skirt at Hollander’s confused expression. The other boy just laughed and shook his head.

“Call me superstitious, but this is my lucky skirt,” Hollander said with a smile, and it pulled at his cheeks, his freckles moved with it and Ilya wanted to hit him so badly. “I’ve had it since the start of high school and I usually wear it to important matches.”

“Ah,” Ilya drawled, the cigarette finally lit up. “So you think this match is important. Why.”

“You have a weird habit of turning questions into order, don’t you?” Hollander said, and it was… weird. He sounded fond, instead of exasperated. Ilya didn’t know what had warranted this behavior. “But—yeah. This is important; I’ll be playing against you, after all. You’re an awesome player to watch.”

Ilya lifted a brow, suspicious and a little too distracted by the skirt and freckles. Not a good combo, those, at least not for him. “Yes,” he said simply, dragging a lungful of smoke into his mouth. He let it out, then heaved a deep breath. The acrid taste of the cigarette and the smell of tobacco was on his nose in seconds, but there was another smell, jasmine and mint, and something else he couldn’t pinpoint.

That was another thing that he noticed, the third one: Hollander’s scent. They were required to wear industrial-strength scent patches, all designations. They needed those specific ones because they’d be sweating and moving a lot and normal patches just wouldn’t hold, and it’d be a festa of hormones and scent and chaos, and hockey was already chaotic enough on its own, without the addition of biological mess into it.

Outside of the ring, people usually still wore patches, just to be polite. Ilya didn’t, because he didn’t give a shit about it. Hollander also didn’t, because—whatever the reason it was for. But it made Ilya aware of jasmine and mint and the coppery tang that migrated from his nose to the back of his throat. It was familiar, but Ilya was too preoccupied by the fact that Hollander was traditional enough to wear skirts and thigh-highs. He thought that the boy would fight against the stereotypes of his designation, just to prove himself more. But Ilya supposed that Hollander was secure enough in his skills that he didn’t need to adhere to weird expectations.

They were silent for a moment, just them leaning against the wall—Ilya smoking and Hollander watching him smoke. His smile was still plastered on the curve of his lips, and wasn’t it unfair? That a boy this handsome was also gifted by pretty freckles and lush, downwards lashes, and a lovely shape of lips. Here was a heartbreakingly beautiful boy, and he was wearing a skirt and his scent was both comforting and alarming, and he sought out Ilya on his own.

What was he supposed to do with all of this?

“You will not be so nice when we beat you,” he said as parting words when Hollander made to leave.

“That’s not happening,” Hollander replied with such conviction, and maybe Ilya would bleed at the end of the fight, just to catch Hollander’s base scent on his tongue again.

Because he finally figured it out, the familiar smell, and he wanted to laugh as he watched Hollander’s retreating back. Shane Hollander, a brilliant player, a beautiful omega, a mild-mannered boy who only chirped like he was praying to a cruel god—gentle and ruthless within its mystery—smelled like jasmine and mint, and blood. That was his most basic scent, and Ilya chuckled once he was alone. Hollander was both pretty and dangerous, and it made him feel alive, that that kind of boy had looked him in the eye without fear.

Ilya wanted him, and wanted to crush him. And maybe, just maybe, he’d allow Hollander to shatter him into pieces in return.

Ilya watched Hollander’s matches with a reverence he didn’t want to examine yet. Incredibly smart, incredibly dedicated to the game, and incredibly fast, the announcer had said, and Ilya could see all of it—had experienced it on his own. He had seen curiosity on that face as he watched Ilya play from the seats, had seen the disappointment when Ilya beat him. It was something Ilya kept to his own, the fact that it brought him comfort—the scent of blood. He couldn’t smell Hollander properly with the patches, but when the blood spilled, he could pretend that it was Hollander’s scent, overpowering and ever present in every match. It was, in a way, a lucky charm on its own, just like Hollander’s skirt.

“See you at the draft,” he said, a mockery and an invitation for Hollander to crash his smoking time again.

Hollander’s face was curt when he posed for the camera, his forefinger and middle finger a stamp of disappointment he had to keep up for the media, while Ilya gave his confident grin at the masses. It wasn’t the same within his mind, however, because Hollander wasn’t wearing a suit. No, he chose to wear something Ilya didn’t know, but marveled at anyway because it suited Hollander, hugged the muscles and curves of his body and made him look dangerously beautiful and untouchable—lethal, to Ilya’s dwindling patience of dealing with this peculiar boy.

It would be much later that he knew what Hollander was wearing. Hōmongi, a silver one that contrasted with Hollander’s tan skin and dark hair, his big, brown eyes framed by simple eye-makeup. There were patterns of cherry blossom on the sleeves, the obi decorated the same with more subtle color, his feet covered in white tabi and zori. His hair was too short for any updo, but there were hair pins with small flowers decorating them on the side of his head, pulling his bangs aside. He looked beautiful enough that Ilya ached with it as he watched the boy zone out from the conversation. It gave him pride that Hollander’s mind had never strayed from their conversations when he was with Ilya.

The sight of him in that hōmongi was enough to keep Ilya’s temper in check throughout the whole ordeal. Enough for his patience as he waited for another chance to speak with the boy again, to inhale the peculiar, juxtaposing scent so they could live in the cradle of his lungs. When they met again, in the gym of the hotel, they didn’t say much, but Ilya enjoyed the competitive moment as they ante up the speed of their spin bikes. He enjoyed the fact that Hollander didn’t back down; enjoyed even more the moment after as they panted and shared the water bottle.

Enjoyed, the silent allowance to guide Hollander, noting the brush of their fingers, gasping a little when Hollander heeded his whispered command.

He continued watching Hollander like a particularly devoted fan, maybe a luckier one because he had known that the boy’s palm was rough underneath his own. He listened as fights broke out and Hollander said some incriminating words against his opponent—not known enough to be parsed, but conveyed clearly with his smug face. Kau bae dak biso main, bange; anak bajingan; susah memang ngomong dengan wong tuo bangko; maen tu dengan stick hockey, bukan dengan kontol kecik kau itu. Ilya wanted to both kiss him and hit him. It was a conflicting feeling he had never felt until this stupidly beautiful boy came into his life. Hollander was a pretty omega, and Ilya chased after his rougher side instead—one that could stand up against numerous alphas, one that never shied away from the violence on the ice, and one that looked unbelievably lovely as he trounced his opponents.

It drove Ilya crazy, the fact that all Hollander did was chirp on the ice and admonish enemies with sheer disappointment at them alone, and he still settled underneath Ilya’s skin like a sharp thorn. It was definitely enough to distract him from the bigger mess that was his family situation. Mr. Pretty Freckles; Mr. Perfect; Mr. Potty Mouth, because Ilya religiously checked the side of the internet that knew what Hollander was saying, and they were finally letting people in on the secret. Hollander’s mouth was even worse than Ilya’s, as it turned out. Not only because of the myriads of creative insults, but also the way he said it—like he was walking in a park full of flowers, instead of insulting his opponents. It delighted Ilya immensely.

So, when they met again, after the loss of Ilya’s team, for some stupid advertisement he didn’t care about, Ilya let the knowledge that he knew what Hollander had said trickle into their conversation. Hollander seemed surprised, but not more surprised than when he found out Ilya had asked for him in the first place.

“How to say it… be-jeng-an?” he tried on his mouth, and Hollander smiled at him. He corrected it gently, bah-jeeng-ahn, and they laughed about it for a moment. “What does it mean?”

“You already know what it means,” Hollander said, a corner of his lips pulled up slightly.

Ilya shrugged. “Maybe I don’t.” It was a lie of course, but Hollander had this habit of indulging Ilya, and it was yet another thing that made his head spin. Bastard, could be used in an insult or friendly term, could also be used in an exclamation, and Ilya tasted it on his tongue, shaped the word with his lips until Hollander looked proud.

Then, the scent hit him full force when he slipped into the shower and Hollander was already there, scrubbing at his skin with methodical movement, some unseen rules of which part of himself he had to wash first. There were no scent patches, no sweat, no grime, no perfume, to obscure the scent of jasmine and mint and blood. Hollander was anything but gentle on the ice, but off of it he was polite, withdrawn, except for when he was with Ilya—with him, Hollander was more… carefree, suspiciously fond, and not as uptight. But still, someone this pretty, having such a violent scent, was a wonder Ilya marveled at.

Ilya was no stranger to fights, to red spilled on the ice, and perhaps this was his bad habit of seeking cheap thrills rearing its head, but he found himself following Hollander’s scent with such reverence.

So, Ilya stroked his cock, and jasmine overpowered the whole room when Hollander stared. It disappointed him, that it wasn’t the tang of blood, but this was nice, too. It was sharp, cloying, almost like the smoke sticking to fingers and fabrics.

It made him sick. It made him feel alive.

“I might open,” Hollander told him, and Ilya wanted to clench on his nape, where his scent gland was, and cruelly grasp at it until Hollander keeled in pain.

“I might knock,” Ilya said, and Hollander looked at him like he was a wounded prey wobbling away from danger, ready to be torn apart after he was done with the thrill of the chase.

So, Ilya took the lift, and almost had a heart attack when he saw Yuna. She was a beta, he could pinpoint, not only from her stature but also her subdued scent, despite no sign of scent patches visible. It was also another reason why Hollander was called a miracle, because Yuna’s husband was an omega, and she was the one who had carried their son. Omegas’ sperm was known to be too weak to sire. He smiled awkwardly and heaved a deep breath when the lift moved again.

Then, he heaved another deep sigh through his nose when Hollander opened the door, clothed in a bralette and simple cotton panties. He closed the door and advanced on the other man, and Hollander was saying something about we should talk, and how could he expect words from Ilya, when he was standing there like this? Ilya couldn’t understand this man, the allure he had, the easy way he seemed to have wreaked havoc in Ilya’s mind.

Hollander’s chest was framed nicely by the bralette, bigger than they usually look in clothes, though Ilya had known this. It was one of the very few things that showed Hollander’s omegan physique. But the rest? He was a strong animal knowing that he could win any fight. This boy was a juxtaposition of gentle disposition and fearlessness. He awoke the sense of primal instincts on his enemies, and the need to possess at the same time. Stupidly, it worked on Ilya, too.

“This is such a bad idea,” Hollander said with a knowing smile, and Ilya grasped at his jaw, crowded him against the wall, and kissed him softly. Then more, kissed him deep and firm, until they separated and Hollander fell to his knees smoother than when he skated on ice. It was one thing to know that he was Hollander’s first with an alpha—it was another thing to learn that Hollander could destroy someone with his brown eyes and wet lashes, looking up at Ilya like he would chase him to the end of the universe. It was just the heat of the moment, but with Hollander’s mouth on him, with his reverent stare, Ilya believed he could commit the unspeakable just to come back to jasmine and blood.

“—and you make me curious,” Ilya had said, more honest than he had been in a long time. So, he returned the favor with great interest, cataloguing the way Hollander moaned and groaned, laughed with him as they lay on the bed that had their saturated scent embedded in it, one to who knew many more in the future. Ilya knew, though; he counted every encounter they had. It was just another thing Shane made him do, this eagerness for next time.

“Shane Hollander,” Ilya said, with great venom and taunt and something he didn’t want to name. “Will you disappoint them.”

Shane smiled, and Ilya could tell it was because of Ilya’s habit of wording questions into a statement, an order. “Idak lah. Dak mungkin,” Shane said, confidence lining his words, and Ilya would ask him what they meant later, how the words were shaped on the boy’s lips.

Then, it was Shane’s shoe hitting Ilya’s gently as they braved the hungry hyenas and their cameras. It was Shane’s assured words that Ilya listened to closely, carve them into his heart because Shane went out of his way to save Ilya from saying something outrageous or something that would be interpreted wrongly, shaped into whatever the media liked because while he was an alpha, he was a prey to these shameless bajingan. The media loved him and his bravado, his swagger, but they’d be ready on a pin drop to turn against him nonetheless.

Then, Shane dethroned him from his record not even a minute after, and Ilya tried his best not to frown at how closely seated Shane and Scott Hunter were. I mean, I had fun but I didn’t get drunk, and it was so funny to Ilya, despite his visible reaction, that the boy was such a ruthless player yet he was so clean when it came to inhibition and diet. Then Shane said, jadi cuma rombongan anak Finland ngomongi keponakan yang mereka kacuk’i? and Ilya recognized some of the words, enough to laugh quietly. He should ask Shane what keponakan and rombongan were, so he said 1221 and found satisfaction in Hunter’s confused face.

Scott Hunter was next door, and he was hot but he was a bajillion year old, and Ilya kind of didn’t want to share the sight of Shane’s flowy dress underneath the hoodie. So, he quickly pulled Shane into the room, laughing at the boy’s kittenish anger and told him to get on his knees, and had the breath punched out of him seeing the skirt of the dress formed a halo around Shane’s form; carried him and all his muscle mass and welcomed the solid weight within his arms, touch a tad too gentle when he caressed Shane’s backside because he didn’t want to scare him.

But Shane wasn’t scared, and it kind of made Ilya want to punch the walls, because Shane wasn’t scared of him on the ice, out in the open, and in bed. He wanted to punch something because it was either Shane was just that good with rolling with the punches, or he simply had another experience beforehand, and Ilya couldn’t handle it. He had never inquired if Shane wasn’t averse to betas, or even fellow omegas. Ilya had always been a greedy boy, but this beautiful, fearless omega in his arms? He wanted more than he knew was allowed.

Ilya didn’t say it’s just a plan to fuck, because it was important for him to know a place where Shane was at his most comfort, a place of his own, and Shane rewarded him by chasing after his lips when Ilya pulled away slightly. To be coveted by this boy, Ilya would destroy someone with his bare hands.

“Oh my God, Hollander, you are so boring,” he said, but he saved his number as his own name, and Shane’s as his on Ilya’s phone, because he wanted to be just as fearless as this boy.

Shane was in yet another hōmongi at the rookie of the year award, this time in greyish blue and patterns of landscapes and flowers. His obi was more elaborate this time around, and he carried a small silver purse with him. He wore a headband with intricate design; it looked good with his short hair. He was wearing a patch, but Ilya was so attuned to his scent now that he could smell jasmine from where he stood, the underlying rusty tang beneath. It clashed against his delicate clothing, and Ilya wanted to take him away from these people, take off his hōmongi and juban to reveal the warm skin under the layers of fabrics.

He did scrunch his nose when he saw Hunter getting close to Shane, and the subsequent drinking afterwards. Ilya was more than familiar with alcohol, but he was also bummed that he lost, and people were clamoring for Shane’s attention and it irked him greatly, more than losing. So, he escaped towards the rooftop, to his cigarettes. He wondered if Shane would humor him and take a drag; see if he’d choke on the smoke. It’d be funny, and dangerous, because the sight of Shane Hollander with a cigarette should be forbidden for everyone’s peace of mind.

He smelled Shane before he heard him. “I don’t know if it’s worth jumping over,” the boy said, and Ilya looked at him. He had lost his headband and purse, the long sleeves swaying from the wind. “I just need some air,” he then said, and Ilya bit back a laugh.

“You are drunk,” he said, yet another question-statement out of his mouth.

Shane smiled, and it should be categorized as a crime, those lips with sheen of lipstick and gloss. “Maybe,” he said. “Do I smell that bad? You’re crinkling your nose.”

Ilya sighed out a breath full of smoke. He could say some bullshit, but Shane had this keen ability of clocking him out. “You smell like old men and cheap vodka.”

It was Shane’s turn to crinkle his nose. “Ew, jijik lah. What do you mean I smell like old men?”

“You were with Scott Hunter,” Ilya shrugged, and it took a second for Shane to register what he said, before he let out a peal of laughter. Ilya smiled at the sound of it. “Why are you here, really?”

“Nothing,” Shane smiled. “I just want to see the view and get some air.”

“Well, here is fucking view, Hollander,” he said with a raised brow. “Check it out,” he continued, palm over his lips as he inhaled a lungful of smoke. Shane’s eyes followed the white fog.

“Tuo bangko,” Shane then said. Ilya shot him a confused look, and he explained, “Old men—it means old men. Now you can insult Scott Hunter without him knowing, though I don’t know what personal vendetta you have against him.”

Ilya grinned. “Nothing against him; he’s hot as fuck. But he’s so old, yes? What is word… ah, ancient.”

“He’s not that old,” Shane laughed.

“I go home in three days,” he told the boy.

“Okay?” Shane replied. “It must be nice?” Ilya threw him a look, and he chuckled at that. “I’ll leave you to it, alright? I’m going back. I’ll see you next season?”

Ilya stared at the offered a hand, and he inhaled one last time before squashing the cigarette beneath his shoe. That hand, with delicate shape of nails that clashed with the roughness of the palm, Ilya wanted to cut it off Shane and kept it for himself. He smiled, devious and open, and crowded the other against the wall, next to the door; pulled him by his obi, and felt the flutter of those sleeves on the side of his face as Shane cradled him close.

Ilya’s kisses were rough, but Shane welcomed them nonetheless. He felt the ripple of muscles underneath the fabrics on the shoulders, and he was getting hard, fast, at the thought of Shane splayed open, the lovely fabrics around him as Ilya defiled him. He wanted so much, but the other pulled away after one last kiss, smiling against his lips.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Shane said, and sounded like he was on the verge of laughter. “We’re in public, Ilya.”

“No one is looking,” Ilya threw at him, trying so hard to be nonchalant with a raging boner underneath his tuxedo.

“You don’t know that,” Shane said, teased, really, with his tone. Ilya wagged his eyebrows, and he laughed in response. “Kacuk umak, Ilya,” he continued, then turned Ilya around until his back hit the wall, and kissed him like he was trying to convey something they both didn’t want to acknowledge yet.

When he pulled away, Ilya was feeling better about having to go back to Russia. “See you next season.”

Shane looked back to throw him one last smile, then disappeared with a flutter of fabrics and jasmine.

It was a while before they had time for themselves again. They played, and Shane knocked people out on ice, and chirped with a soft smile on his face as Ilya tried his hardest not to laugh, not so openly anyway. His team would look at him strange each time he smiled at whatever Shane was saying, but only Cliff who stared at him like he knew something. He wasn’t afraid of taking a peek at Ilya’s phone, and it wasn’t as if he tried to hide who it was, anyway. The only thing he said was: don’t let it mess with your head, to which Ilya replied with пошел ты.

Shane already messed up with his head the moment he sought Ilya out, anyway. It wasn’t like any of them ever let the other win—they were competitive to a fault, and Ilya swore that Shane was more violent with him than with any other player. He had nasty bruises to prove it. So, yeah, Shane did mess with his head, but Ilya would take it any time compared to whatever misery waiting for him at home. Even the thought of his mother’s grave wasn’t enough to deter the budding thought of leaving, sometimes. It was a thought that steadily became consistent the more Shane taught him Palembangnese and laughed with him at stupid jokes.

What’s a girl to do on a lonely night in Montreal, he typed. And felt giddy when Shane simply replied: ngacuk, I guess. He knew that word; Shane truly had a potty mouth, and it made Ilya laugh endlessly.

Oh yes, it does. Read it again, he sent another time, and got kau ni dak ketolong lagi as a reply.

He sent a picture of his hard dick, and Shane didn’t immediately reply. It was a while before he got: ya tuhan tolong lah, ngeseli jugo wong ini ni.

It took two minutes for Shane to explain each word and the context in general, and Ilya hurt his side from laughing too much.

One for each inch of the dick you want, he said. Shane told him to makan taik bae kau, Ilya.

How many times can you cum in 1 hour?

Lebih banyak dari kau, tentunyo.

It made Ilya grin; so Hollander could sext. Where are we meeting?

We’re not. Fuck you.

No, go back to your language. I don’t want to hear your boring ass English insults. Then, are you as hard as I am right now?

“Wow, this Montreal girl works you up, brother,” Cliff said, despite Shane’s name clearly on display. Ilya could appreciate his effort, at least.

“Shut muko tolol kau, Marly,” he said, because Shane was a bad influence on him. Cliff looked at him like he had grown a second head.

“You’re straight up blushing, Roz,” Cliff said, seeming like he was ignoring what Ilya said, and could garner that it was an insult.

“Uh, no,” he said, brows furrowed. “Never in my life have I blushed,” he continued, even though it was a blatant lie. “Russians do not do this.”

Cliff just laughed it off, and Ilya didn’t feel the sting of losing as much as he tried to navigate the streets towards Shane’s place. When the backdoor opened, he looked around in mock wariness, and said, “You will murder me.”

“Maybe,” Shane said, amusement in his voice. “Get in,” he said, and they tousled on the stairs, laughing with each other. It made something within Ilya’s chest twitch, but it wasn’t unpleasant. It was distracting, however, because Shane’s skirt was navy and had a slit on his left leg. It showed his toned muscles beneath, and a tantalizing tease on its own. Ilya wanted to ruin the skirt and kept it at the same time.

They left their shoes on the small shelf near the doorstep. Genkan, Shane had told him, the space was called genkan. Mr. Businessman, Mr. Landlord, he had teased, and Shane gave him a small chuckle. You think there is enough, he said. Taik lah, Shane responded with a smile that shaped his face into a particularly endearing frog.

Come here.

No, you come here, and Ilya pulled off Shane’s hoodie to reveal a black halter top beneath, the v line framing Shane’s chest nicely. He kneaded it, asked you still want? And Shane answered with a smile: I still want.

Don’t worry it will fit, he said as he dragged his cock against Shane’s slicked entrance. It was the fourth thing about this man, he didn’t gush out slick as much as the average omega, but it was still wet enough to ease the way in. All this time that they fooled around, Ilya only ever rubbed his finger between the cheeks, feeling the sticky slick and wondering if the taste would be as sweet as others he had had, or if it would be as clean-tasting and smelling like the rest of Shane.

So, he took the chance to try. It was sad to see the top and skirt go, but Ilya supposed they could have other chances to fuck with Shane’s clothing on. Right now, Ilya wanted skin-to-skin; wanted to taste, to ruin. He wondered, as he thrust into the slick, tight hole, if he was being too rough for a first time. But Shane could take it; could take everything Ilya was willing to give, and more. It punched the breath out of him, that this beautiful man, with his beautiful freckles and smile and humor, was willing to be beneath him; be cradled within his arms.

Worth the wait? And Shane kissed him gently in return.

Ilya tied his shoes and Shane held close his jacket. We won’t see each other during the Olympic, he said and tightened his hold and babbled about his family. It stung, and it must have shown on his face, because Shane caressed it and though he didn’t understand the context, he still said to Ilya, it’s going to be okay. Maybe it was a lie; maybe it was just a clumsy attempt at comforting, but Ilya found that it did make it easier to breathe, to give a small, yet genuine smile.

Dreaming of what, bronze medal, he said and didn’t reach out for his jacket. Mati bae di empang kau, Shane replied and didn’t even pretend to give it back. So, Ilya kissed him, just as gently as what had been bestowed to him moments earlier, and left the building with only his t-shirt and jeans on his body. It warmed him, to know that now Shane held a piece of his clothing, and perhaps of himself.

When the Olympics came around, Ilya bitched about losing to Latvia and Shane told him that Hayden had finally been brave enough to take a peek at his phone and saw Ilya’s name there. They had an awkward talk and everything, and Ilya wished desperately that Shane would give his, arguably, closest friend the Palembangnese treatment of creative insults. Shane didn’t, of course. He just explained that Ilya was a friend, and that there was no way in all hell that he’d let Ilya win at something, if he could help it. Despite his calm demeanor, Shane was, after all, a very competitive son of a bitch.

Then, Shane showed up in his Sherpa fleece jacket and Ilya shoved the thought of his father, his brother, to the back of his mind because Shane looked so fluffy. He wanted to know how he was doing, Shane said, and Ilya heaved out an exhausted sigh. It made the other man’s brows furrow in concern, and it occurred to Ilya that, other than Svetlana, Shane Hollande was the only person in this world who probably genuinely cared about Ilya’s whereabouts and wellbeing.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Ilya said, smile a little grim around the edges, and Shane graciously didn’t comment on that.

“I wanted to be here,” Shane said, and Ilya let him stand close enough he could feel the warmth of the fleece, of Shane. They watched the rest of the skating routines together, whispering to each other despite it being only the two of them there. Shane didn’t go back to his seat, and Ilya didn’t tell him to.

I’m ashamed, Father, he had said and knew it wouldn’t be enough. He let his heart break a little as he said, Mama is dead. You remember? It made him feel young and afraid, knowing that he was losing his Father to his illness, the way he lost his mother to her loneliness and thoughts. He remembered Shane’s touch, his smile, his insults, and he suddenly wanted to be in the man’s arms, so he could feel safe—cherished.

“You need to stop giving a fuck what he thinks,” Sveta told him, and Ilya wondered in silence how her words would be translated into Shane’s language. He listened to her advice and predictions about how the matches would go, about how he could win the cup, and he believed her, because if Svetlana Vetrova said something, then the world would will it be.

So, Ilya played and he chirped in all the languages he knew, let Shane’s own insults pour from his mouth as people threw him a confused look when they recognized the words, and won the fucking cup. Shane had watched him, Ilya found out, and laughed when Shane relayed the message from J.J that he was an animal shit, cock-sucking Russian.

This is for you Mama, he screamed with all his heart, and told Shane what it meant; told him her name and how she was the best thing in his world; said nice purse when they met again and Shane rolled his eyes at him, and couldn’t take his eyes off of the pastel blue irotomesode the other was wearing. It was different than his hōmongi, this one was more formal, with patterns only at the bottom of the attire, the obi matching them. Shane was wearing light make-up, because he didn’t like the consistency of a foundation, and Ilya tried not to be distracted by the eyes and the flower pins keeping Shane’s bangs away from his face, and how painfully pretty he looked.

The fabrics stretched with Shane’s shoulders as he moved, the muscles rippling beneath, and Ilya wanted to steal him away from the spotlight, the world, the expectations on their shoulders put onto them by the hockey world. Shane wasn’t by any means small, but Ilya could still cover him with his frame, and yet he wanted nothing more than to be protected by those shoulders, those callused palms.

They did their parts at the award, and stole the chance of having pictures of them together when Shane was dressed this beautifully. Shane’s lips were trembling with laughter, so were Ilya’s, but they kept it down and the pictures turned out nice. Later, Ilya would look at them and swiped his thumb on Shane’s freckles on the screen.

Shane didn’t shy away from Ilya’s palm at his nape, where his scent gland was, and further down his spine until it rested at the base of it. He said you already have my number, even though he shouldn’t, and Ilya finally laughed when there were murmurs rippling through the audience. It was okay; let them know, that Ilya might have coveted this beautiful boy, sent to earth to destroy dumb oafs like Ilya. Let them know that he had memorized Shane’s scent, enough to discern it beneath the clean smell the man always sported because he couldn’t stand perfumes; know, that Ilya would never let him win, but he’d let Shane destroy every piece of Ilya.

The bathroom was divided for the three designations, and Ilya shouldn’t be in the omegas’, and yet no one was there but them, and they broke into peals of laughter upon seeing each other. Did you see their faces? Ilya had said; my mother will hound me down, Shane replied. My father, too, Ilya said, a little somber, and Shane surged forward to envelop him within the swirl of the fabrics and into his strong arms. Ilya let himself have it; staying despite everything.

Please, Ilya said, and Shane kissed his temple softly.

Okay, Shane said, as if he would give Ilya everything he had ever wanted, everything he couldn’t say to the world at large.

They went back to their seats, let everyone smell their intertwined scents; watched the whole boring show, and later, when they were together, Ilya meticulously unraveled Shane’s irotomesode and let them hang from the man’s arms, let them fan out on the plush bed as Ilya watched and Shane let him. Ilya gave the commands, but he knew that it was within Shane’s control that they did this, that he was allowed to do this. Shane’s submission wasn’t one born out of designation, no. It was something that he kept to himself, and Ilya was lucky enough to be allowed to hold it carefully on the cusp of his palms, hoping and trying his damnedest that he wouldn’t ruin it.

Later on, after Ilya cleaned up Shane’s body and the man complained about ruining his kimono, Ilya clothed him with his own hoodie and pants and Shane bestowed a soft kiss on his lips, his cheeks, his temple, and the crown of his hair. I don’t want to leave you without a kiss, the man had said as he stood before the door, a bag holding his clothes in hand. Ilya had surged forward to kiss him deep and firm, and there was a touch of desperation there he had never felt in a long time.

It was dangerous, to covet this man; dangerous, to want to hold him and be at peace within Shane’s embrace. But Ilya had given and given, and maybe, this was the chance for him to take, something he wanted with all his heart despite his fears.

So, Ilya didn’t say goodbye. He said, until we meet again.

Ilya didn’t go to clubs that often anymore these days, and when he did, he either spent his time glued to Sveta’s side, or busy texting Shane on some corner of the seating, smiling like a fool when he got pictures from the man. Ilya had seen him in traditional Japanese clothing, had seen him in skirts and sometimes in dresses. Fuck, he had seen Shane in panties, which still amazed him because Shane was bigger than most omega in all departments and he still could tuck his cock within the soft garments. Ilya talked about this at least three times a week.

He watched all of Shane’s advertisements, and laughed when the man told him that Hayden was Judging their closeness but couldn’t really say anything about it because Shane didn’t have a problem with it. I like being close to you, Shane had admitted on a phone call, voice hushed and almost shy but he didn’t retract his words. Ilya had almost thrown his phone at the walls after that revelation.

Put away your nipples, Ilya had said after watching a commercial. Jangan cuma biso mikir pake kontol kau, Shane had typed back.

Ilya checked their matches schedules religiously, and didn’t realize that he had texted Shane more than anyone in his life. Shane talked shit at him with that serene, casual tone of his and hit Ilya hard on ice, and Ilya pushed him roughly on the beds in return. There were talks about their friendship and the rumors about how Shane must have let Ilya win because he was an omega, and an omega should always submit to their alpha. It was a disgusting notion and Ilya terrorized the media until they averted their eyes and shut their mouth. It wasn’t as hilarious as what Shane had said, however. Ilya didn’t know if his agent allowed it, if Yuna allowed it, but Shane had said lebih mending aku mati tenggelem di sungai Musi daripado kalah dari siapopun. Jadi jangan bukak lagi mulut bau pilat kau itu sebelum aku rendem kau di aer cucian piring, and he had said these things like he was rattling out grocery list.

Shane won the cup and Ilya got to see him in the hoodie and sweatpants he had given to the man, hugging the jacket from so long ago close to his chest as they video-called. Shane’s heat was coming close and it was the fifth thing Ilya noticed: that they almost had a synchronized bodily needs schedule. They both took suppressants, however, because it was necessary and they could play without worrying about heats or ruts. Ilya had always spent his ruts with someone, but lately, it just didn’t do it anymore for him. Shane had taken suppressants earlier than Ilya, with doctor’s prescriptions and got the good brand so that the side effects weren’t as much, but on the case that his heat still came, he usually spent it alone.

They didn’t talk about it much, but Ilya, on one of his drunken nights, had admitted: I wanted to spend it with you.

Maybe we can, Shane had responded. When you’re not drunk out of your ass and can properly think.

Ilya read the message, and kept it on his mind, on a particular shelf where he put all of Shane Hollander related things and musings. It was such a small shelf at the beginning, but now it threatened to encompass the entirety of Ilya’s mind palace. He found that he was okay with it.

He let Sveta lean her head on his shoulder as he typed text after text to Shane, wasn’t ashamed in the slightest that he acted like a high school girl with her first crush. Shane wasn’t a crush—he was more than that, but Ilya couldn’t find the word yet.

Siap dibegal di gang gelap Montreal duo minggu lagi? Shane had typed, and Ilya immediately called just to hear the cadence of the man’s tone as he explained what he had sent. Shane won another cup and Ilya whined and complained about it, and laughed when Sveta gave him a knowing smile.

It all lessened the melancholy of taking care of his father and seeing him deteriorate day by day; the exhausting arguments he had with his brother. Ilya didn’t know whether he should be grateful that no one mentioned Shane, or be angry that he knew the reason was because they thought it was only a one-night type of thing, that Ilya was just chasing after cheap thrills and a fuck with such a highly-coveted omega. It made his blood boil, but he soothed with the fact that Shane could destroy these bajingans with just his words.

Jacki’s pregnant again and apparently, I also have to make her happy, Shane sent one day, along with pictures of Hayden’s children. There was also a picture of him holding a baby so awkwardly, yet so closely and it made Ilya miss the scent of jasmine and blood so much. They never talked about the prospect of a family, because it was something so far away. They both were amazing athletes in their own regards, and they had big dreams, big achievements to chase after. Settling down was simply not an option at this point of their lives, they both understood this. But the sight of Shane with a baby was enough to make Ilya ache a little, make his mind wander into what-ifs and what-could-be’s.

“I’m ready,” Svetlana said, then glanced at the TV and raised a brow. “Didn’t you see him enough? This is becoming an obsession, Ilya—if it’s not already.”

He turned off the TV before he could get distracted by the arch of Shane’s back as he posed for his stupid yoga. “It’s not an obsession.”

“No,” Svetlana agreed, gently, like he was a particularly slow child. “It’s worse.”

He commiserated about teasing and know-all close friends with Shane, and Ilya learned how to shape his lips around the words I miss you. He didn’t know when they would pour out of his mouth, but he kept it on the Shane-shelf nonetheless.

When Shane came to his place, and praised the design, it made his heart jump in pride and he wondered if he should have given the codes for the door already. I should go, Shane said and Ilya gave in to the yearning animal inside him and said or you could stay; is Hayden your mother; stay. So, Shane did, and Ilya felt like he had asked something more than what he had said; that he had bared his heart a little more than what Shane could already garner about.

He held Shane close in sleep, pretended he was half-awake just to feel the warmth on his skin a little bit longer. He made tuna melts, gave Shane his stupid ginger ale, and they talked shit about the hockey players on screen. Ilya let the stories about Sveta trickle from his lips, as Shane listened intently, because he had known Svetlana in passing and he knew that she was important to Ilya. It made Ilya feel appreciated, made him less guarded about boasting about how smart Svetlana was, how much of a good friend she was, how she was his fail-safe and they had talked about getting the green card just so Ilya could escape his daylight nightmares.

Through all of this, Shane had gotten closer and closer to him on the long couch. You think she’s the only woman in Boston who’s sleep with you, Shane said and it alarmed Ilya enough that he didn’t used his questioning tone. It was a dangerous territory, jealousy, because they only had so much and it wasn’t enough yet for that kind of emotions, that kind of admission. So, he didn’t say I think I will find someone else; didn’t pretend that he didn’t know what kind of water they were treading into.

I never hear about you with other alphas, or whatever designations you fancy, he said, just to tell Shane that they were allowed to feel like this, to talk about this.

Shane looked at him like he was a dumbass, and maybe he was, and said seriusan? Memang bengak apo gimano kau ni? I either spent my time texting you and don’t notice other people, or smelling so much like you that it repels anyone else, and it settled something in Ilya’s chest.

How is your father, Shane had asked, and Ilya didn’t brush it off, didn’t give an empty smile. You’re not okay, Shane continued, and Ilya pulled him into his arms. I will be, with you, he said with too much feelings, too much honesty, and Shane gathered him in his arms and said nothing, just let the lull of comfortable silence surround them.

They left together, after showering and scrubbing their skin so that the smell of sex wasn’t carried to the open. As much as they could handle the repercussions, the unnecessary rumors were just not worth it. The media could speculate as much as they wanted, but Ilya and Shane were stubborn and ruthless enough not to let anything dictate the direction and speed of what they had, what they wanted to be.

When Rose came into Shane’s life, Ilya was the first to know. I met and talked with Rose Landry, Shane had sent, with three exclamation marks, and Ilya had laughed because it wasn’t often that Shane was this excited, like a little puppy in a playpen. The media was excited, too. Big fonts on numerous websites with Rose and Shane’s relationship being the title; numerous posts of people who immediately claimed that they were together. It stung a little that when it came to Ilya and Shane, the friendliest title they could get was rivals-slash-friends, and the most careless was fuck-buddies. But with Rose, people were all about a perfect couple, even though they had only known each other for a bit. Not long enough to be compared to Ilya, but only he and Shane knew about it.

And Svetlana. And Hayden. And Cliff. And apparently, now, Rose.

Okay, the rumors about them had been going long enough, that Ilya thought it was a miracle that Yuna Hollander hadn’t knocked down his door and interrogated him within an inch of his life. It was through Shane’s insistence alone that prevented that kind of disaster from happening. They were close, he had told Yuna, but they were still figuring things out, and the first time Ilya heard about this, he thought that maybe he had been destroyed by Shane’s consideration of their relationship. A dumb oaf and a handsome boy with the sharp cut of his cheeks that had Ilya bleeding.

The rumor mill about Rose and Shane still went on, especially because she came to matches wearing his number. But Ilya had met her, when they and their entourage came to the same club, had heard her talk and understood why Shane was immediately taken with her, aside from the on-going crush on one of his favorite movie stars. Rose still didn’t know that, and Ilya found it funny enough that he kept teasing Shane about it. Ilya danced with her, and left with a warning for Miles, and he thought he heard cameras clicking through the loud sound of the music. It probably would make the news or something, since people knew that Ilya didn’t care about designations when it came to his conquest.

Shane still came home with him, after kissing Rose softly, and though Ilya liked her enough, he still spent his time erasing her scent, and any others, from Shane’s skin. Shane didn’t mind, and asked Ilya if he could meet Svetlana. Maybe he could bring Rose and Hayden, too, so their circle would be complete, and they could bombard Ilya and Shane about their relationship. Maybe, he wasn’t really clear on the details, too busy worshipping Shane’s exposed skin and the way his strong legs looked so good in his skirt, which this time Ilya had prevented himself from ripping it off of Shane.

It went viral, the picture of Shane kissing Rose on the street outside of the club, and Shane and Ilya heading off together, hand-in-hand. The media wasn’t kind to Shane’s reputation, and he only said sekendak aku lah, because he was beautiful and he was brave. Ilya watched the interview with a stupid grin on his face. Svetlana took one look at him and rolled her eyes so hard they were probably stuck on the back of her head. Who could blame him?

Here was a man, a terrifyingly beautiful man, who had known Ilya better than anyone in this world; who had given him comfort and laughter and bravery and a piece of his heart. Here was someone who didn’t back down against the discrimination against his designation and stood up against all odds. Here was a pretty man who was sent to earth to destroy Ilya.

And he would let Shane destroy him, would ask him to stay and cradle all the fractured pieces.

“I’ll have the same as my friend, please,” Shane said, dropping to the seat next to him, and Ilya really needed to look away before he drooled. Because the man’s skirts and dresses had always been covered, either by his hoodies or his jackets, or Ilya’s. This time, however, the yellow summer dress wasn’t hidden by anything—pretty and decorated in small flowers, the skirt stopping just above Shane’s knees. Ilya looked down and almost choked on his saliva, because for the first time he had ever seen, Shane was wearing heels. Granted they were not those terrifyingly tall heels he often saw Sveta in, since Shane only wore zoris to formal events and sneakers to others. They were white Mary-Jane with straps, and they looked unbelievably good on Shane.

It was funny, and novel, seeing Shane be shy, because Ilya was so used to his potty mouth, but there he was, voice small when he said, “I hired a stylist.”

“Ah,” Ilya nodded, and didn’t pretend like he wasn’t undressing Shane with his eyes. “That explains the make-up and everything.” He shrugged, trying and failing to be nonchalant. “You look nice. Nicer than usual.”

“You think so?” Shane asked around a smile.

Ilya gave him one back. “Very much so.”

“Rose recommended the stylist to me,” Shane continued, and Ilya couldn’t help the grin on his face. “Shut up,” the man laughed. “I should circulate, I guess.”

“Mm, no,” Ilya said, smile softening. “Stay with me longer.”

Shane looked at him for a moment. Then, “Or, you could come with me?”

Ilya blinked. He wasn’t expecting the offer, but he moved when Shane stood up. He was taller than Ilya, right now, with added inches from the heels. “You want me to come with you,” he asked, looking up at Shane.

“Questions, Ilya. Not orders,” Shane reminded him with a glossy smile. “And—yeah, if you want? It’s not like it’s a secret we hang around each other.”

Ilya’s hand had reached out to hold Shane’s before he could realize it, and they stayed like that through conversations, through surprised looks, through the sun dimming on the horizon. It was one of the nicest things Ilya had ever had in his life, being wanted, being flaunted. Not like he was a possession, but something cared for and cherished. Appreciated.

So, Ilya played harder than he ever did in his life, roared out a laugh when Shane pulverized their opponents and put his potty mouth into actions, joined in the insults with a grin on his face; let that grin stay as he stood next to Shane in interviews, and resigning himself to an interrogation from Yuna Hollander, who was a looming threat that got bigger and bigger by the days. Ilya was willing to go through it, however, he found that he wanted to.

When Shane said I like you, more than anything, more than I expected, Ilya sat down and listened. They weren’t pretending and they weren’t hiding anything, but the world out there could also be cruel. Ilya’s world was cruel, outside of the safety he had created with Shane. So, he let the man be a comforting weight in his lap as Ilya told him how he found Irina, how he was so young and so afraid and so hurt, how he wasn’t given the chance to grief and mourn her; how his father was getting worse, and there was nothing stopping the downfall. Throughout it all, gentle fingers ran through his hair; a rough palm on his neck to ground him.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” Shane whispered, kissing Ilya’s temple. “You have me, and Svetlana, and even Rose. We can get therapy, we can fix what was broken, together. Aku dak bakal kemano-mano, Ilya.”

I’m not going anywhere, he remembered through the funeral, as his father’s body was lowered to the ground and Ilya had to endure the pominki with his family staring him down, trying to catch him off his guard and strike where it hurt the most. He struck back, just as hard, when his brother called Svetlana names that shouldn’t have been said; made his choice by throwing away everything he had in Russia, just so he could escape into Shane’s waiting arms and be comforted by his presence.

“And I love you,” Svetlana told him, cradling his face with her small palm. “And I know that Shane does, too. You are not alone. And whatever you need, I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere.”

It was the echo of Shane’s words in her voice, that really cemented his decision.

“I wish he could know me,” Ilya said through the phone call. No one was around and it was cold outside, but the thought of having Shane on the other side of the line kept him warm.

“I wish I spoke Russian,” Shane said.

Ilya’s lips ticked into a reluctant smile. “I wish I spoke Palembangnese.”

“You did,” Shane chuckled a little. “Just the curse words, though. Maybe I’ll teach you properly, and you can teach me.”

He hummed. “Yeah, you could probably learn it in a week. No accent. Perfect,” he said, and his smile was a smidge more genuine when he heard Shane laugh quietly. I won’t understand but maybe it’ll help? The offer came, and Ilya took it—told Shane everything on his mind, the way he was breaking apart, how much he hated the place he called home, had given everything and more and it still wasn’t enough and he felt fucking empty. Told him, that it killed Ilya, how he lost everything without being able to stop the downfall, like holding grains of sand between his fingers.

And I love her, but not like I love you—that all I want is you.

“It’s always you,” he said, voice wavering. “I’m so in love with you, and I don’t know what to do about it.”

And Ilya wanted, so badly, to repeat all of this in a language Shane could understand, because he believed that his wound could be sutured, his pain could ebb away; that he could finally stand stronger instead of being a coward his whole life. That in Shane’s arms, he would start a war.

In Shane’s arms, Ilya would believe in anything.

“Front door, brave,” Ilya said around a grin, and Shane didn’t even bat an eyelash before he responded with an answering grin.

“Makan taik bae kau, Ilya.”

Then, Shane fell down, and brought Ilya’s heart with it.

Cliff drove him to the hospital, after they got the room number from a very angry and very reluctant Pike. Ilya didn’t know what had shown on his face, but they looked at him like they knew, like they understood—enough that Pike told him: I don’t trust you, but Shane does. Don’t fuck this up, Rozanov. And Ilya wouldn’t; wouldn’t even dream of it.

It haunted him, the cloying scent of blood from Shane as he was taken away. Ilya had always loved his scent, the jasmine and mint and the ever-present coppery tang of blood. But this time, it scared Ilya, so much that he didn’t know what to do with himself. Cliff was remorseful, and was blessedly tactful about this, because he knew just how important Shane was to Ilya.

“Hey, take your time, yeah?” Cliff said, and Ilya nodded tersely. “Tell me when you need to be picked up.”

Shane was drugged to the nine when Ilya slipped into the room. He babbled a lot, switching between languages he knew, and Ilya could only catch a few strays here and there. It was almost endearing, the way Shane was so happy to see him, if the cause wasn’t something that hurt Ilya so. Seeing Shane so small and fragile on that bed made him want to destroy everything and more; made him want to curl into those arms and be reassured that Shane would be okay.

“Yes,” Shane breathed out. “Better,” he said, as soon as Ilya’s hand was in his.

“You scared me,” he said, honest—always honest when it came to Shane.

Then—then, the invitation was there, laid out in the open as Shane gave him a crooked smile.

Willyoucometomycottagethissummer—don’t go to Russia, come to my house. We’ll have so much fun. We’d be completely alone, together.

And Ilya wanted, so badly that he trembled with it. He knew he could have this, not because Shane was so high, he couldn’t think straight, but because he knew the offer was genuine and Shane really would want him in the cottage, together without the constraint of time ticking away. It was easy, to covet this chance—they had nothing to hide, nothing to lie for. The only danger nearby was Shane’s parents and what they would think about Shane having a getaway with Ilya Rozanov.

So, Ilya didn’t placate him with maybe, didn’t soften it for both of them, the gravity of his want. He said, I will be there.

I will always be there.

“What do you want from my son?”

Yuna Hollander was much smaller than Ilya, but she stared him down like she could kill him in a heartbeat. He didn’t doubt that. Ilya just didn’t even know where to start.

They were outside the café adjoining the hospital, where people dawdled around to get coffee. David was there, too, but at least he wasn’t trying to explode Ilya’s head with his sheer gaze alone. He actually looked imploring, hopeful, and it emboldened Ilya.

“I want everything he wants to give me, everything he allows me to have,” he said, trying his hardest not to look away. He didn’t want to be seen as hesitant. He wanted them to know just how desperate Ilya was when it came to Shane.

It was terrifying, being interrogated by Yuna and her precise way of knowing where to hurt, but David’s familiar floral scent made Ilya brave enough to weather the storm.

So, he said I fell in love with his freckles and his scent. I fell in love with the way he wasn’t afraid to stand up against those who underestimated him. I fell in love with his weird habits and potty mouth and his competitiveness and the way he is so assured in achieving his dreams. I fell in love with the way he never shied away from my rougher side, and will embrace me despite everything. I fell in love with fancy fabrics and flower hairpins and skirts and the softness he guarded so closely from the world.

I fell in love with everything that he was, is, and will be.

Yuna was silent for a long moment, trading looks with David. Then, she asked, “And your loyalty? Where does it lay?”

“With Shane,” he answered without pausing. “No one, nothing, but him.”

She heaved a deep, shaking breath, and nodded. “Kalo sampe kau ngapo-ngapoi anak aku, sampe ke ujung nerako pun dak biso kau lari.”

Ilya didn’t know what exactly the words meant, but he got the gist of it from the lethal look in her eyes, and he nodded solemnly. But then those eyes softened, and David clapped Ilya’s shoulder, and he started telling Ilya how much Shane blushed when they were texting—how Shane prioritized replying to him in any activity they were doing together. How Ilya had always been a part of Shane, even before rookie season, because Shane was so enthralled by Ilya’s way of playing and wanted to be brave enough to approach him.

Some things they said, he already knew; some things, he just learned and kept them in the humongous Shane-shelf. It took a while until Ilya called Cliff to pick him up, making promises to visit Shane whenever he could. To talk to them, without fear or doubt and insecurities. Maybe it was David’s calming presence, maybe it was Yuna’s quiet assurance, so much similar to her son, but Ilya left the hospital with hopes blooming in his chest.

I’m glad you’re here.

Me, too, but… also, like, terrified, yeah?

You have nothing to fear, and Ilya believed that and held Shane’s hand in his.

Then, he whispered, Я тоже тебя люблю—until they poured gently from Shane’s lips, until Ilya believed them, until there was nothing they knew more intimately than the words they exchanged between kisses.

Learned the assured answer of aku sayang dengan kau—tasted those words, shaped them on his lips, found out that they felt like home.