Archive of Our Own

Shane Hollander knew how to lose gracefully. It was one of the first things he learned about playing hockey. After how to fall down and how to get back on his feet. It didn’t matter that he was a hockey prodigy or the best damn player, no matter whose ice he was on. He played on a team, and sometimes teams lost. The important thing was, he didn’t lose alone.

Well, usually.

It was warm for a November night, but Shane couldn’t stop shivering as he waited for the Uber after leaving Ilya’s. Rozanov’s, he corrected himself mentally. He’d never called him Ilya before today. Once was not a habit. Once was a mistake. He could switch back. He would switch back.

Wrapping his arms around himself, Shane hunched against the wind. He’d neglected to grab his jacket, more concerned with getting out of there as soon as possible than with what he was wearing. He glanced down at Ilya’s joggers and t-shirt. They were nice. Not his, but nice. The wrong brands. No one would notice, except his mother, probably, and Yuna Hollander was blessedly hundreds of miles away from this particular loss. He’d have to mourn his jacket and his t-shirt and his pants later. He wasn’t getting them back. Ilya would probably burn them. Or keep them as a trophy.

Rozanov. He ground the syllables silently against his teeth. Rozanov, Rozanov, Rozanov.

“Rozanov,” he muttered aloud, just for good measure. He could do this. He could remember.

The Uber arrived just then, and Shane had never been more grateful to get into a stranger’s car. He wished he had sunglasses or a ball cap to obscure his identity, not because he was worried the driver would clock where they were and connect it to Rozanov–see? He could totally do this–but because he knew the loss was written all over his face. The driver would probably just think he was cold or grumpy or focused. Shane Hollander could be any of those.

Shane Hollander could not be heartbroken.

They set off across the busy streets of Boston, Shane fidgeting with his phone case. Popping the corner of it off his phone and back on again. He liked the rhythm of it. It gave him something else to repeat other than Rozanov’s name.

Tipping his head against the back of the seat, Shane let his vision shutter. The memory bloomed behind his eyelids. There they were, on the couch. Ilya’s hand in his hair–because yes, at that point he was Ilya. It played out slow, all fuzzy around the edges. Every touch, a buzz against his skin, every moan a rumble through his chest. Their names on each other’s lips. Their hearts in each other’s hands. Then, Shane had squeezed too tight. Or Ilya had. And he’d had to go. Get out.

It had started out soft and glowy, everything cast in a warm sheen. La vie en rose.

It had ended like a horror film, Shane running for the door like lions were chasing him. Did that make him the final girl?

Shane didn’t watch a lot of movies. He watched tape. He reviewed every game over and over again, searching for mistakes. He couldn’t control everything that happened on the ice. He knew that. But he could control what came after. He could control the fall. The loss.

So that was what Shane did for the entire ride back to the hotel. He reviewed the tape, playing the events in his mind, searching for errors, for weakness. If he could learn where he went wrong, he could prevent this in the future. And he was pretty sure he knew what the mistake had been.

Ilya.

Rozanov.

Yes, that was it. The names. He could fix this.

But the more he ran through the events leading up to his great escape, the less sure he was. He needed to go back further to be sure. It wasn’t just the names. He’d felt strange before they’d exchanged last names for firsts. There were other firsts, too.

Like shared meals.

Shared sleep.

Shared clothes.

He’d stayed. Shane had never stayed before. Ilya had never asked him to. Ilya had never asked him a lot of things.

“You want tuna melt?”

“You like them? Girls?”

Why had he asked Shane that? About girls? Girls had nothing to do with whatever they were doing. Obviously. What Ilya had with girls, it was different than whatever he had with Shane. It was different than what he could have with Shane. Shane knew that. He didn’t need to be reminded. Rozanov would eventually get bored with him. He was boring, after all. Fucking his archrival would only stay interesting for so long. Then, he’d move on. Back to women. And Shane… Shane would be alone. Probably.

He and Rozanov couldn’t be… anything. Could he and Ilya?

“Fuuuuck,” Shane whispered, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes like he could blot the memory from his brain.

No such luck. If anything, his mind burned brighter with images from the last few hours. Ilya, carrying two plates with warm sandwiches. Ilya, smiling up at him with an uncharacteristically uninhibited smile. Ilya, lifting him up onto the counter and pressing bare skin against him, hips slotted between Shane’s thighs. Ilya, asking him to stay.

“Hey man, we’ve arrived.”

Shane grunted. You can say that again, he almost said before realizing where he was. In the back seat of an Uber. Outside the hotel. Where his teammates were staying.

“Right, yeah,” Shane said, but he didn’t move. Something about it all felt impossible, like he didn’t know how to put one foot in front of the other.

He walked through it in his head. He’d unbuckle his seatbelt, slide open the door, enter the hotel. Maybe he’d see a teammate or two. J.J. would wave, yell “Oy, Capitaine!” Shane would wave back, smile. He’d get on the elevator and ride alone, walk the hallway alone, scan his keycard and turn the door handle alone.

“Back so soon?” Hayden would say. “Lily kick you out already?”

Shane was a master at schooling his expression so it would say nothing. He would don the mask he always wore in the hockey world, the one that said he was not a threat, not a problem. He wasn’t there to represent anyone, anything. He was just there to play hockey.

And that was what would break him. He’d never had to wear that mask for Hayden. Would his best friend see through it, or not? He wasn’t sure which was worse.

“You okay, dude?” asked the Uber driver.

“Yeah, sorry.” Shane reached for his seatbelt, swallowing hard. He could do this. He could walk out of here. He would do it, and he wouldn’t look over his shoulder to see if Eurydice was there in his shadow. “Actually, no. Do you think you could take me back? I, uh… forgot something.”

The words were out of his mouth before he could wrap his tongue around them, let alone his head, but relief struck him harder than a Raiders defenseman checking him into the boards. He didn’t need to go back to the hotel room. He didn’t need to explain himself to Hayden. He had demons to face, but none of them were here. They were back where he’d left them, on the couch, sweat drenched and spit slick with swollen lips wrapping around the ghost of his name.

“You gotta do it through the app, man.”

--

Ilya didn’t know how long he sat there in the wake of Hollander, only that it was dark by the time he stood up. His knees were heavy like they were weighed down, not by minutes or hours, but by as many years as Scott Hunter. He would have to do something young and stupid to counteract it, like buy a new car he did not need or go sky diving. He would take Marleau. Day after the game against the Metros. Win or lose, adrenaline was always good.

But Ilya had none of that energy now. The coffee table was covered in evidence, two plates with the remains of the tuna melts, an empty can of ginger ale left behind like a murder weapon. Yes, this was a crime scene. He would alert the authorities.

Wanted: Shane Hollander.

So fucking wanted. 

Ilya should have known better than to want. Wanting was for other people. Better people. Not lazy Russian fuck-ups who disappointed their fathers and annoyed their brothers. Ilya Rozanov was living the dream already. Best hockey player in MLH. Drowning in beautiful, willing women. Richer than God. He had been too greedy, thinking he could have more.

He wasn’t stupid. Ilya knew he could not have Shane Hollander. Not in all the ways he’d thought about. Not out loud. Not in public. Not to the world. But he’d thought maybe, if he could curb the want, he could ask for just a little, just an inch. He would have made himself be content with that, whatever Hollander would deign to give him. A moment here, a moment there. Maybe two moments together in a hot tub five feet apart because they’re not gay. Well, one of them, at least. Ilya was bisexual. He couldn’t speak for Hollander, even though he was pretty sure. Almost sure. Maybe.

Hollander’s name was linked to his more than any woman’s in the press. That was how he liked it. Ilya didn’t like to share. Not his food, not his cars, not his accomplishments. He was the best. No one could touch him. Except Shane Hollander. He was always there, right next to him at the top. And he didn’t mind so much, after a while. He got used to Hollander’s weight beside him. He’d come to rely on it. 

He had made a nest in the shade of Hollander’s tree, and then Hollander had milled it for lumber.

Ilya would have shared it all with him. Ilya would have even shared him if he’d asked, if that was what it took to keep him.

But Hollander was gone, now, and Ilya was left to clean up the mess he’d left behind.

Get up. Clean up.

It was jarring to think in a language that did not claim him, though he found himself doing it more and more as the years wore on and the distance between him and Russia grew ever wider. It was stranger still to imagine his father’s words, his father’s voice, berating him in a language he did not speak. But Grigori Rozanov would find a way to shame him in any language, in any universe. There was no escaping the crushing weight of paternal disappointment. Not when he was only a phone call away. Not when he still held the leash around Ilya’s neck from all the way across an ocean.

Ilya prided himself on never blinking first. It was why his face-off percentage was so high. He did not have wet, sensitive eyes like some other hockey players he could mention but wouldn’t. Big and brown, with perfect lashes that brimmed with emotion. Ilya would not lose to those eyes on the ice tomorrow. He did not think he could bear the shame. But even he couldn’t win a staring contest with a can of Canada Dry.

So, he would not start with the dishes. He could come back for those later. First, he would clean himself. Yes. This, he could do. Wash that man right out of his hair, as the song went. He’d spent hours during his rookie year watching American movies to help with his English. Whatever was on TV. He had especially liked the channel that showed musicals. It was easier to remember words when they were set to a melody.

If Ilya had thought the couch was bad, it was nothing to his bedroom. The sheets were still twisted and stained, pillows tossed on the ground. This was the true wreckage. A demolition site. Hollander had come in like a wrecking ball.

Without breathing, Ilya bent to pick up a pair of dark jeans, a white shirt. Folded, of course. Hollander had been so desperate to get away from Ilya, he had left his clothes behind. Pain lanced through his chest, and Ilya thought absently that, yes, now would be a good time for a heart attack. Oxygen raked against his throat and lungs, burning its way in and out, in and out. He’d heard somewhere that breathing was something the body knew how to do instinctually. Even if he tried to stop, even if he forgot how, this muscle memory was stronger than his willpower.

Ilya shook out Shane’s clothes and draped them on the bed. It looked like a shedded skin. The only proof he had that for a few precious hours, Shane Hollander had been there. Had been his.

With a jolt, Ilya staggered toward the bathroom, steps falling heavy and uneven. He couldn’t look at the ghost of Hollander in his bedroom for another moment without vomiting. He vomited anyway, heaving into the toilet like a teenager drunk on vodka for the first time. But it wasn’t liquor he couldn’t hold, it was Shane.

Shane. Shane. Shane.

He’d thought he’d got it right, for once in his life. He’d made the time, planned the food. He’d taken his time with Hollander, unwrapping and unraveling him until he was pretty and panting in his bed. And when he’d asked him to stay, carefully so Hollander would not know how badly he burned for it, he’d gotten what he wanted. He thought that meant he could have more. He should have known better.

Water spilled down across Ilya’s shoulders. Distantly, he knew it was too hot, but not in a way he could feel in his body. He stood there under the steady stream, unable to look away from the memory of Shane running out the door like they were a car crash and he was the driver. 

He’d fucked something up. Of course he had. And now he could not fix it. Maybe he should have made something different, something better. But Ilya did not know how to cook many things, and he did not think Shane would like the Russian foods his mother had taught him to make. Tuna was a stupid idea. Terrible for breath. Shane hadn’t liked the fishy smell, maybe. But no, that was not when it went wrong. Shane had pressed their mouths together, open and wanton, his name heavier on his breath than any aftertaste.

So, it was the conversation. He should not have asked Shane about girls. It had been too much pressure. But he had wanted to know. Did Shane Hollander have a girl back home? Did he have a life planned out for him with a little wife and a million kids like Hayden Pike? Would he run toward her one day when he realized how lazy and useless Ilya really was? He knew Hollander liked his dick, but could he like the man, too? Even a little?

He had tried to make it easy by sharing first. He liked girls. He liked them, many. But none of them enough to ask them to stay. Even Svetlana was not it for him. He had tried to say so. Sveta was everything he could ask for and more. She understood him, she knew him, like no one else did. She was too good for him, truth be told. But she did not want him any more than he wanted her. Not like that. Not like… Shane.

Had Shane not understood what he was saying? That he had no exit ramp from Highway Hollander. If not Shane, then he would have no one. He would break down on the shoulder of whatever stretch of road he could cling to, and he would not call a tow.

Or maybe that was the problem. Shane had understood. He’d seen Ilya’s casual confession for what it was and been disgusted. Yes, it was disgusting, wasn’t it? Ilya Rozanov, the Russian menace, reduced to a crying, shuddering mess under an increasingly tepid jet of water.

When at last Ilya could feel the sting of cold as the water heater gave up somewhere in the bowls of his house, he reluctantly got out of the shower and draped a towel haphazardly over his shoulders. He did not bother to dry off completely, pulling fresh clothes over damp skin. He dragged a toothbrush across his tongue and gargled mouthwash just to taste something other than Shane on his lips.

Back in the bedroom, he was greeted by the neatly folded stack of Hollander’s clothes. Fuck. He pulled back the blankets, flinging the clothes across the room. The pants landed on the floor, the t-shirt on top of the lampshade in the corner. He couldn’t bring himself to leave them like that, even though it was maybe what they deserved. Shane’s outline, left behind to mock him.

With careful hands, Ilya picked up the dark jeans and folded them in half the way he’d seen Shane do dozens of times. He placed them on a shelf in the closet next to his Raiders sweatshirts. Sleeping with the enemy. Yes, that was appropriately vindictive. Then, he turned to the t-shirt, ready to put it away, too. Fold it into a neat square, then hide it away in the closet where it belonged. Then, he would close the door on Shane Hollander.

A familiar scent washed over him the second he touched the soft cotton. Shane. Nothing else but Shane. Ilya had noticed in the early days that Shane didn’t like scents. He didn’t wear them–no cologne, no scented shampoo. Even Shane’s deodorant was odorless. But Ilya, who reveled in luxury, liked his little bottles of scented oils and cologne. He’d held back once he’d noticed the way Shane wrinkled his nose at anything too strong. He wanted to overwhelm Hollander, but not like that.

Ilya pressed the shirt to his face and inhaled. It would have been embarrassing, if anyone had seen him, but not as much as what came next. A tear leaked from the corner of his eye, then another and another. Russians did not cry. This, Ilya had been told so many times, it was practically branded against his chest. His father’s words, his father’s voice. A reminder that Ilya was too much like his mother for Grigori Rozanov to claim him with any kind of pride. Russians do not cry. What did that make his mother, then?

Just for tonight, Ilya told himself, behind closed doors, in the dark of night, he would let himself be something other than Russian. Something else. Something more. He would let himself be sad, too.

So, he curled across the bed horizontally, clutching the shirt to his chest. A sob rose in his throat, but he swallowed it down. Not yet. He wanted to feel the loss, but he did not think he could bear to hear it. He dragged himself up on his elbows and unlocked his phone. It was already connected to the speakers, so all he had to do was select a playlist and let the music wash over him.

The first sob broke from his chest as his sad, empty house filled with opening notes of Adele’s Someone Like You.

--

Shane had an entire Uber ride to think about what he was going to say. It wasn’t enough time.

He tipped the driver generously, apologizing on his way out the door–for what, he wasn’t sure. Once the Uber was gone, he trudged up the street toward Ilya’s house. He briefly worried Rozanov wouldn’t let him in. He was the sort of guy to hold a grudge, and Shane wasn’t sure he could explain with any kind of efficacy or efficiency that could meet the moment. Even he wasn’t sure what had happened, what had made him run, or what had brought him back.

All he knew was that he didn’t want to go the rest of his life trying to remember to call him Rozanov instead of Ilya. Being called Hollander instead of Shane.

As luck would have it, Ilya’s front door was unlocked. Shane made a mental note to scold Ilya for that later. Anyone could walk in. He was fortunate Shane wasn’t a robber. Or a paparazzo.

“Ro–Ilya?” Shane called into the space, his voice echoing back to him in answer. He waited a minute, but Ilya did not appear in the hallway to tease him, to taunt him, to march him back toward the door and toss him out into the cold. Shane wasn’t sure he preferred silence to any of those options, even the last one.

He took a few tentative steps inside, removing his shoes at the door even though Ilya had told him he didn’t have to. It would be harder for Ilya to throw him out if he had to stop to put his shoes on, he reasoned. In the distance, Shane heard the shower, and a sigh of relief rocked through him. Ilya wasn’t ignoring him. He just hadn’t heard him. He was busy. That was fine. Shane could wait.

Shane stood there, thumbs in his pockets, teeth worrying his bottom lip. This was ridiculous. He wasn’t a schoolboy waiting to see the principal (not that Shane had ever been sent to the principal’s office). He was a guy, visiting his… whatever Ilya was to him. He could sit down. 

He made eye contact with the couch and suddenly, no, no he could not sit. Not there. Not where they… Not there. Not without talking to Ilya first. It felt like wearing a dead man’s clothes before he was buried, or taking another player’s number before he retired. He could be patient for a few minutes.

But minutes stretched on and on. Shane was sure Ilya had been in the shower too long at this point, but he didn’t want to intrude. It wasn’t like they hadn’t seen each other naked plenty over the years, and even under a showerhead more than a few times. But this was new territory, and Shane didn’t yet know the rules.

They’d never exactly fought before. There had been the stretch of time between the Olympics and the MLH awards where they hadn’t spoken, but nothing had really happened. They just didn’t speak, and then after, they did. There had been no apologies, no explanations. Their bodies did the talking for them in that Las Vegas hotel penthouse. The gravity of Ilya’s eyes on him had dragged him back into orbit. The stress of toeing the line, of guessing and hoping and needing, was harder on his mind and heart than balancing on the ice with two knives strapped to his feet was on his ankles.

So, Shane couldn’t sit, but he also couldn’t stand. He needed to do something. So he did what he always did when he was anxious. He cleaned.

Shane had realized young that putting things in their orderly place calmed his nerves. His mother once told him he used to sort things for fun, like the silverware drawer. Now, he found a steady rhythm in carrying the dishes to the kitchen and washing them under a stream of warm water. It took him a minute to find Ilya’s dish soap, but he was gratified to discover Ilya did, in fact, own a bottle of Dawn. He could have just placed them in the dishwasher, but he liked the meditation of warm, soapy water on his hands. Next came the pan Ilya had used for the melts. He scraped dried cheese with the single sponge Ilya owned before placing it in the empty drying rack. Finally, he collected the can of ginger ale, pausing to scan the kitchen for a recycling bin before giving up and placing it next to the sink.

When Ilya was still not out of the shower, Shane turned his attention to the countertops, cleaning them with paper towels. If Ilya let him back into his life, Shane was determined to stock this house with a more robust closet of cleaning products. The place wasn’t dirty, by any means. Shane assumed Ilya hired someone to clean for him, judging by the state of it, but still, it wouldn’t hurt to have Lysol wipes at the very least.

The shower finally shut off after Shane had organized the pantry and folded and re-folded the single throw blanket draped on one of the chairs. He froze, straining his ears. How long would it take Ilya to get dressed and come back out? A few minutes, maybe. 

Shane tried to imagine it. Ilya would step out and–what would he be wearing? Joggers, probably. God, what would Shane do if Ilya came out dressed for the club? Cry, maybe. Jump his bones. It was a tossup, really. He could feel his brain snagging on this one detail, but ultimately, it didn’t matter. 

There were things he needed to say. Like… like… what the fuck was he going to say?

“Hi, Shane here.”

God, no. Ilya knew who he was. He didn’t need to introduce himself.

“I fucked up.”

Yeah, that was better. Direct. To the point. But then what? What could he say that would take them back to that moment on the couch, awash in afterglow, wrapped in the blanket of their first names? He wanted to immerse himself in the hazy warmth of Ilya’s hands on him, their breath tangled and raw. Unhurried. Unburdened. But would Ilya even let him have it again? Or would Shane’s departure scare Ilya back into his cave, leaving only the sharp edges of Rozanov behind?

Shane would take it. Anything he could have. He wanted Ilya, but he’d settle for Rozanov.

The click of a door brought Shane into his own body. Like a flick of a lighter in the cold. He listed toward the bedroom door, eyes glued to the handle, waiting for it to turn. It didn’t. Shane strained to hear what was going on inside. Rustling. Maybe blankets? He raised his hand, poised to knock, but then sound filled the house.

Music.

Beautiful music. A woman’s voice. Anguish the likes of which Shane had never felt pouring from the speakers.

Adele. His mind supplied the name for him, like the knowledge was sitting somewhere in the depths of his brain. He’d heard the song before. A lot. It had been played to death on the radio. Shane didn’t listen to a lot of music, preferring not to overcrowd his senses. He liked to focus on what he was doing–like working out or driving–but Hayden and Jackie always played the radio in the car, and J.J. loved to play DJ any chance he got. Shane remembered thinking the song was kind of dramatic, but it was pleasant enough to listen to that he didn’t usually bother asking to change the station when it came on. It was a few years old, at least, but he felt in that moment that he was hearing it truly for the first time.

He let the song draw to a close without meaning to. The next song began with the familiar piano chord progression of Rihanna’s Stay. He didn’t think he could stand there and listen to another achingly desperate song that so closely mirrored the emotions making a wreck of his insides while Ilya… what? Went about his life? Shane had nearly broken, more than once, in the last hour, and Ilya was listening to music like nothing had happened. Shane didn’t know if he could bear it, but he definitely couldn’t keep standing there outside the door to Ilya’s bedroom waiting for him to come out.

With a deep breath, Shane reached for the door handle and pushed it open.

“Listen, I know I–”

Shane didn’t know what he’d expected, when he walked into Ilya’s room, but it certainly wasn’t this. Ilya was draped over his bed sideways, bare chested, which at least sorted the what will he be wearing conundrum. His arms were pressed over his face, something white clutched in his hands. It would have all been quite picturesque, like a renaissance painting, if not for the heaving, horrid sobs racking Ilya’s entire body.

“Oh fuck,” Shane whispered. It was something, the way his body leaned forward without him meaning to. In his mind, Shane didn’t hesitate to join Ilya on the bed and wrap his arms around his beautiful boy who should never have been made to feel even a fraction of this. But in reality, Shane was rooted to the spot, struck silent and still by the scene before him.

Ilya lowered his hands, peeking over them and cracking open an eye to look at Shane through bleary, red rimmed eyes.

“What do you want, Hollander?” he asked in a croak, a shadow of his usual bravado.

“I–uh–I know I left, but I…” Shane really should have practiced what he was going to say.

“You come back for your things.” Ilya spat it like an accusation. “Cannot go to team meeting in Adidas.”

Shane glanced down at the joggers he’d inadvertently stolen from Ilya. “I mean, yeah, I guess, but–”

“Need specific t-shirt, like security blanket, yes?” Ilya threw the words almost as hard as he threw the shirt, balled up and damp with tears.

Shane caught it, blinking down at the rumpled article.

“Sorry is not folded,” Ilya said hollowly.

Shane was already halfway through folding it out of habit when Ilya’s words met his ears. Heat crawled up his neck and face. He finished the job, of course. He wasn’t one to leave something as easy as folding clothes half done. Besides, it gave him a few extra seconds to compose himself.

“I don’t care about my clothes,” Shane said eventually, setting the folded shirt on the dresser.

“Does not seem like truth.”

Shane crossed the room, his knees coming to bump against the foot of the bed. “Sorry, can I… I’m going to sit now.” It took all his willpower to turn the question into a statement, but he didn’t think he could bear it if Ilya told him no right now. He wanted to do more than sit, really. He wanted to crawl into Ilya’s embrace and make a place for himself under his skin, but he wouldn’t push his luck. He lowered himself gingerly onto the bed, feet dangling off the end.

“Oh, now you want to sit?” Ilya propped himself up on one arm, letting more of his face come into view. It was blotchy and pink. Even so, Shane didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone more beautiful.

With a nod, Shane scooted an inch or two closer. “I freaked out,” he said quietly.

“Yes, I know panic attack when I see one, Hollander.” His voice had regained some of its usual melody, but the teasing quality was a false overlay, like one of those Instagram filters Shane didn’t know how to use.

“Shane,” Shane said quietly. “I wish you’d call me Shane.”

“Why? So you can run away again?” Ilya rolled his eyes, still swollen from tears. “I will not be making mistake twice.”

“It wasn’t a mistake.” Shane set his jaw, trying to look more confident than he felt. “Me, running away. That was the mistake.”

Ilya flopped onto his back, staring up at the ceiling with the air of someone bored with the conversation. If not for the way his fingers curled toward Shane, he might have believed the facade.

“Is what we do, no?” Ilya said through a sigh. “Get closer, run away. Feel something, shut down.”

“Yeah.” Shane inched his fingers closer to Ilya’s, brushing their thumbs together atop the rumpled comforter.

“Should know better by now,” Ilya said. “We work best when things are simple. Should not try anything new. Keep things the same.”

“I don’t want that,” Shane said, and Ilya’s hand moved immediately, coming to rest on his own chest as he looked away from Shane. “I don’t want things to stay the same,” Shane amended. “I want new things.”

“New things. Different things. Go get them, Shane Hollander. You… you deserve to have… nice things. With nice girl. Canadian, probably.” Ilya spoke into the sheets, voice muffled. “Go find your real life Lily. She is probably waiting for you.”

“Like your real life Jane?”

“My Jane is not real.”

Something inside Shane cracked and bowed, like a branch hanging by a thread of bark to the rest of the tree. He couldn’t hold on like this for much longer without falling. So, he let himself fall.

“Yeah, she is. She’s right here.” Shane reached out to cover Ilya’s hand with his, lacing their fingers together and pressing their palms to Ilya’s chest. “And she’s not going anywhere.”

The contact was like a shock to his system. Where before he could only watch Ilya’s body, now he could feel its every move. Breath, ragged. Heart rate, elevated. Temperature, warm.

For a minute, Ilya just breathed with Shane’s hand in his, running his pinky along the edge of Shane’s palm. Shane thought maybe Ilya was done talking, now. That would be fine, as long as he didn’t let go of Shane’s hand. Shane didn’t think he could weather the loss of contact.

The song died, and the silence filled with only the sound of Ilya breathing in and out of his nose, the quiet sniffs of sinuses foggy with tears. Shane reached to wipe the corner of Ilya’s eyes, even though they were dry, but then the quiet was broken by a new song.

Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You.

Ilya shot up, scrambling for his phone. “Okay, enough.”

Shane cracked a smile. “Interesting playlist.”

“Is random shuffle. Means nothing.” Ilya turned off the music, then for good measure, shut his phone down entirely.

“Okay,” Shane said. He wasn’t going to argue the point. They both knew Ilya was lying.

Ilya came back to the bed and turned on his side, facing Shane fully now. “So, team does not need Hollander for meeting after all?”

Shane swallowed a correction. Ilya would call him Shane again when he was ready. It wasn’t worth ruining what they’d managed to salvage for one little detail. Instead, he scooted closer until their hips were flush. He tucked his head into the hollow of Ilya neck, breathing him in. “Turns out I had a prior engagement. Double booked.”

Ilya’s hands came around Shane and pulled him even closer, fingers toying with the hem of the too-large t-shirt he’d lent Shane. “Team will be disappointed. Pike will cry?”

“Shut up,” Shane said through a laugh, lips brushing Ilya’s collarbone almost by accident. He wedged his knee between Ilya’s, wanting to be closer. As close as possible without being literally inside each other. There would be time for that later. Shane didn’t think he or Ilya could resist the allure of makeup sex for very long. He was looking forward to it. But not yet. Right now, he needed to be exactly where he was, cuddled against Ilya’s chest, holding onto him like he’d never let go again. Something about the way Ilya clung to him told Shane it was what Ilya needed, too. He pressed a hand directly over Ilya’s heart, and added, “I think… I think my team is right here.”

“That was very cheesy, Hollander.”

“Fuck off. I was trying to be nice.” In any other circumstance, Shane might have shoved him, but he didn’t want to create even an inch of distance. 

“Can be both, okay?” Ilya’s lips came to rest on Shane’s forehead, brushing the lightest of kisses into his skin. “I like when you are cheesy.”

“You were the one cuddling my dirty laundry,” Shane grumbled.

Ilya nuzzled into Shane’s hair and breathed deep. “Yes, but now I have real thing. Much better.”

“Much better,” Shane echoed. Then, just a whisper, calling on a ghost he wasn’t sure would answer, he added, “Ilya.”

Ilya bent his head brushing Shane’s nose with his and teasing Shane’s mouth open for a kiss. Later, Shane would wonder if he imagined it, but in the seconds before their lips reunited, he would swear Ilya whispered back, “My Shane.”