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It quickly became difficult to remember how it started. In the morning they went on a run and shared breakfast on the deck, and then somehow, they found themselves sitting on the far ends of the couch, pointedly not looking at each other while scrolling on their phones.
If you asked Ilya, it was because Shane had called him useless and lazy—validating the harshest opinions of himself, shared only by his now-dead father.
If you asked Shane, it was because Shane asked Ilya—very politely, mind you—to please remember to unload the dishwasher when it’s clean because Shane has done it every single time for a month straight. And that “you are just sometimes forgetful” is absolutely not a synonym for “you are useless and lazy and I hate you.”
So there they sat. Two globally recognized elite athletes at the height of their careers—huffing and puffing like angry school children.
Ilya finally sighed loudly and looked over at Shane.
“What time is your flight?”
“What time is my..what?”
“Your flight. What time.”
“Ilya, what the hell are you talking about.”
It has been an entire blissful year since Shane signed with the Centaurs—three hundred eighty-one days, to be exact. A year of mornings, each slower and more settled than the last. A year of cool winter nights enjoyed cuddling on the couch, sunny afternoons spent lounging on the deck, and bright spring mornings spent racing through their new neighborhood.
They attended their neighbor's daughter's dance recital, obviously Bella was the most talented one in her class. They signed autographs for their mailman Gary's six cousins on his dad’s side, "big big fans of you guys, they'll never believe it! Don't worry, I legally can't tell them where you live."
And, perhaps most important of all, they finally came to a resounding agreement on their favorite delivery pizza joint and their favorite dine-in pizza restaurant.
“The cheese from Gianna’s Diner settles nicely at room temp, but is scaldingly hot when fresh—it’s the perfect state after sitting in a car for the twenty-five minutes it takes to be delivered to our house.”
“Yes, of course. This is perfect way to describe it. And Tony’s has the best bread sticks, they must be eaten right out of the oven. But tonight, even soft delicious bread cannot entice me, let's order in.”
"Exactly, yes. Please order for me the Greek salad. Dressing on the—"
"On the side, yes I know Shane. This is same every time."
It was easy. The type of easy that most couples take for granted.
But for two men that spent nearly a decade separated by distance, bigotry, rivalry, and suppressed feelings—it was an easy that was felt deep in their bones. The presence of it was ever-known.
The intimate moments of their life were now able to be lived in, well past the abrupt endings caused by their past life spent in different countries—in separate worlds. A cup of coffee growing cold instead of dumped out in a hurry, containers of leftovers piling up in the fridge instead of tossed in a hotel waste basket, clean jerseys being hung side-by-side instead of shoved into suitcases.
The slowness of their new life almost felt sinful with how deeply pleasurable it was.
“Ilya? What do you mean? We don’t have our next away game until next Tuesday. Did my mom arrange something with you? You know I don’t like it when—”
“Shane, moya lyubov. There is no flight. This is the point, no?”
Shane continues to look incredulous. But a bit less angry between his brows.
“We have time for this. Time to be angry, to be annoyed. It is a privilege.”
“A privilege.”
“Yes, it is. To get to argue like old married couple. To get to be sulking next to each other. Separated only by atrocious number of throw pillows instead of atrocious number of kilometers.”
“Attrocious? Are you doing word of the day again?”
“Yes. Is not the point.”
“What actually is your point.”
“That I love this.”
“You love when we argue?”
“No, I love that we get to argue.”
“Ilya.”
“Shane.”
“How am I supposed to be angry at you now?”
“Well, that is a privilege as well. We have time to forgive each other.”