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Ilya's head hurts.
A woman is asleep, looking more put together than anyone should be in a hospital chair. Their fingers loop together. He studies her maroon nails, the shade deep like the color of oxidized blood. A memory of her flashes through his mind. In it, she looks younger, all of her glee unrestrained as she throws her head back to laugh.
The steady beeping of the monitor tells him nothing. His head feels like a drum, each echo of his heart and his breath rips through him violently. He wants to bury his face in his hands. He wants to cry. There’s another memory, of a different woman, blonde, tucking a curl behind his ear and him into bed. Her cold hands tilt his chin up.
Ilya steadies himself.
“Hello?” he calls out, soft, surprised at how raspy his voice is.
The woman blinks awake. She's on the edge of his bed quickly, bending down to scatter kisses against his temple.
“Idiot,” she says, and then they're hugging. Ilya pats her back and tries to place her face. Her face is lovely and familiar—he knows her—
“How's your head?” she asks. She fixes her hair and smooths the front of her shirt.
“Hurts,” he says. “What happened?”
“You had a bad collision with Vaughan, Boston lost, and the cup will go to New York. Not yet, but nobody in San Francisco will stop Hunter.”
He tries to figure out what that means. Everything flows like syrup—he knows what a game is. He knows New York City. He knows Boston. The names of people have less hold.
“Hockey,” she says. “Hockey?” Hockey conjures ice and blades, hockey conjures up camaraderie and colliding with his teammates in celebration.
“I know hockey,” he complains. “You are almost as bad as,” he pauses, failing to come up with a name. Something catches painfully in his throat. “Who do I know that likes hockey?”
Her smile flickers. “Ilyushka, what is my name?”
She calls for a doctor.
He knows his own name. Hockey and Svetlana start to piece together the parts that make up Ilya Rozanov. His heart rate settles as memories play in his mind. He is captain, his season is over, and it is almost summertime.
Ilya hates not knowing. That's not a new thing, he thinks, it's a him thing, and he's already remembering how to recognize the slow coiling of something sour in his gut from a person talking to him like he's stupid. Svetlana takes the spot next to him and holds his hand as the verdict is delivered by a doctor wearing a Boston pin on his lanyard.
“Take it slow,” he says. “Take it easy on yourself.”
“When will everything come back?” he demands.
“It's different for everyone,” he admits. “Your brain needs time to heal.”
“You learn that in medical school?” he asks. “That is magic cure? Sleep it off?”
The doctor startles. He drops his pen and his gaze.
A truth he hates: this will take time. He wants to be better. He wants to take to the ice again, because he can remember the way skating felt like flying. He wants, Ilya stops thinking, and the words echo in his mind. I want. He's not sure if that sentence has an ending.
Wanting. Ilya remembers this part too.
“I want a cigarette,” he announces.
"I don't recommend cigarettes," the doctor says.
“Thank you,” Svetlana interjects. She digs her nails into his palm. “He will rest.”
Svetlana knows where everything in his house is.
“Me and you?” Ilya asked, only once. She shook her head.
There is a large mauve suitcase that she unpacks in the guestroom. He walks through the halls like a ghost, trailing his fingers along the plaster. There are no pictures of his life on the walls. His phone is a better proof of life, a colorful camera roll of hockey players and strobe lit rooms—and an impressive graveyard of ignored texts.
Three days in and the return of his memories is a slow bleed. He finds himself thinking about a specific restaurant, or wanting to rewatch a particular movie, or remembering a four year old picture of the worst haircut of Carmichael's life.
He remembers Sveta, he remembers Cliff. He remembers that he was at a funeral last month, and that he had temporarily blocked his brother's number. Ilya does not remember much about his father, only that in the end, his father did not remember much about Ilya. (They now have this in common.)
He does not remember much of his childhood. There was his mother, until there wasn't. There was hockey. Ilya does not know if the fuzziness with his teenage years is a product of amnesia, time, or stolen liquor. There are secrets he is keeping from himself. Do not look, in big bold letters in his mind. Ilya's curious, but there are bigger questions to start with.
He has a plain white shirt sitting on his dresser, separate from the rest. Ilya's unsure what makes this shirt unique. It's a white t-shirt. All identifying tags have been cut off.
“Marleau wants to see you,” Sveta says, standing in the doorway while tapping furiously on her phone. Her nails make a satisfying click with each touch. “The picture of you drooling wasn't good enough for him.”
“He can come here,” Ilya says. He folds the shirt carefully and tucks it safely into one of his drawers. “Sveta. What fucking picture did you take?”
Cliff brings the entire Boston roster to his house.
People are made up of memories. Ilya collects every piece his team shares, even the pieces that sound like lies. They vie for his attention, and Ilya warms at the careless blunders as they tell Ilya about himself.
He keeps remembering the ugly: every punch and thrown insult, every curled lip and every pair of dropped gloves. It is nice to have the softer memories too.
Eventually the team recedes like a wave, leaving after a few hours of food and beer, and Ilya smiles at the way he had been swept up in their chaos.
“What a night!” Cliff Marleau stands in the center of his living room after the last player had been coaxed into an Uber, and puts his hands on his hips.
Sveta looks up from her spot, on the other end of the couch, and raises her empty glass. These are your people. We are your people. And Ilya did not disagree—seeing Sveta and his teammates was enough. Years of shared history triumphed the missing memories. His body knows the truth.
“When do you leave?” Marleau asks, and Ilya looks to Sveta.
“For Russia,” she explains. “Now that the season is over.”
Ilya kicks out his legs and slouches further down the couch. “Do I always go to Russia?”
“Yes,” Sveta says. “To see your parents.”
“To see their graves?” He sighs. “I did not make other plans? This summer?”
Her eyes narrow.
“Stay in Boston!” Marleau crows. “We could do boys' trips.”
“Did Cara break up with you?” Svetlana asks. “I’m asking for Ilya, even though he doesn’t remember her right now. He thought her perfume was too strong.”
“Patchouli,” Ilya adds, with no clue what that means.
“That’s a word you remember?” Sveta asks.
Marleau sighs. “If you mean Camilla, yes, she did. My signal to leave, if he’s gonna be a dick again.”
Summer. Everyone had their plans, ready for heat and sun and no practice. Ilya watches his ceiling fan spin. There is no note of any plans on his calendar.
He wakes up reaching out to the empty half of his bed. His heart thumps loudly against the confines of his ribcage, and he keeps checking around corners. There is a second toothbrush in his bathroom. There are nine cans of ginger ale in his wine fridge and three full boxes in the back of his pantry. Somebody is missing.
The TV plays a brightly animated cartoon. Sveta plays with his hair.
“Is there someone else?” Ilya asks.
Her hand stills in his hair. “What,” she says.
Ilya takes the remote and turns the TV off. The room darkens without the light source. “I am missing something. There is someone you have not told me about. Someone important.”
“I do not keep track of every person in your phone.”
He hates not knowing. He hates the idea that any of his memories might not come back, that his sense of self is fragile. He stabs a finger at her chest.
“Amnesia is not public knowledge. What if somebody is out there, and I have not texted, because I do not know to text?”
“Your people can handle being ignored.” Svetlana drags her lip between her teeth and sighs. “Have you checked your texts?”
“I have gotten a lot of texts. I have left them all on read.”
(There had been one specific thread he had looked for—Carter Vaughan. Vaughan had sent an apology that was less of an apology and more of a goading tease. Only Sorry again, man! Hope you’re doing OK. Guess I ate my Wheaties 😎
Ilya had, two days prior, sent eat your wheaties if u and 🧓🦕 want to have a chance)
She hums. “Check for texts from a Jane.”
jane: Saw you go down. Text me when you get your phone back please.
jane: JJ heard a rumor that your injury was worse than the statement said. Please call me
jane: You’re worrying me, Ilya.
Ilya: Hello Jane
Ilya: Do not worry I am ok ))
jane: Hello Ilya
jane: You were losing that game anyways. How hard did Vaughan hit you?
Ilya: I have “amnesia”
Ilya: Annoying. Did not remember Svetlana or my team at first
jane: Do you remember how to play hockey?
Ilya: Yes. I also remember how to breathe 😎
jane: Wait. Do you know who I am?
Ilya: Yes. You are one of my girls
jane: Fuck off
Ilya: Ah! Personality
jane: …
jane: You don't remember me?
Ilya: I remember one big detail
jane: ?
Ilya: your ass
[sent with slam effect]
Ilya: Hello? Jane?
Ilya: 😒
Ilya stumbles out of his room after the sun has already risen and his lungs are in his throat. The dream fades quick. The feeling of fingers pulling his hair does not. The declined call from last night taunts him.
Sveta orders breakfast delivery for the both of them and Ilya sprawls out on his rug. He watches the trees move with the wind. There are little new memories today so he tries to conjure up his dream. He drags the long fur between his fingers.
The person is not here. Where is Jane, he thinks about asking, why are they not here? This would be childish, this would be petulant, like a toddler demanding a scrap of affection.
She is drinking out of a mug with a blue comic book character design on the front. Her nails click against the keyboard of her laptop.
“Is Jane a fake name?” Ilya asks. The typing stops.
He can hear the birds outside. Ilya dreamed of holding tightly to a man in the same bed he woke up alone in. Ilya dreamed of dark hair fanning out on his sheets.
“I’ve thought that,” she admits, and returns to her typing. Ilya lets the knowledge wash over him. “What did Jane say?”
“Do you think Jane is a man?” In the dream, the man had rolled over, brown eyes narrowed into something playful.
He rolls onto his stomach so he can see Svetlana. Her dark eyebrow arches. “Do you remember?”
“I had a dream,” Ilya says, “of a man. He has dark hair and freckles. He is paranoid. He tells me to fuck off, and he does not mean it.”
Her breath hitches.
“Sveta?” he asks. “What do you know?”
She leans down to pat his ankle. “You don’t do anything by halves, do you?”
jane: Text if you remember.
jane: I hope that you do.
Shane stares at the lake in his parents backyard and ignores his phone.
There are the usual text messages: Hayden and Rose call to check in, JJ calls to try and get him to go out, and there is near silence from his other teammates. His agent has a marketing opportunity for him. His dad sent him a YouTube video about a man sprinkling salt.
Nothing new from Ilya. Shane never wanted anyone to know. And now, nobody does. He digs his nail around the strap of his sling and focuses on the texture of the rock digging into his leg.
Their secret is easier to keep these days. (Their secret is a lonely truth to keep, even when it had been shared amongst two people.) Shane looks at the sky.
Shane's lost count of how many times he's had to stop himself from checking in on Ilya. He does not want to know an Ilya that does not know him.
Ilya had not confirmed if he was or wasn’t coming to the cottage, so there were things they hadn’t said yet. Ilya does not remember the commitment that he is going to miss.
Yuna Hollander drops down next to him. He schools his expression as best as he can, but it must not work, because Yuna reaches out to thumb tears off his face.
“Sweetheart, I know it’s hard when a season ends. You have so many years of hockey left. You will try again.”
“It’s over,” Shane says. “This year is over.”
“Hockey won’t love you back,” Yuna says. Shane looks up, surprised to hear her say it. Yuna looks equally surprised that she had. “All I mean, is that one day you will have won Montreal a dozen cups and they’ll hang your jersey -”
“Mom.”
“But one day, you won’t be a hockey player. You’ll be someone who was a hockey player. And I want you to have something to hold on to.”
“Mom,” Shane protests. “You just said I have a lot of hockey left to play.”
“I don’t ask,” she continues. “We don’t talk about it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care.”
“About what?”
“You’ve been acting heartbroken, baby,” she says, and Shane focuses on the place where his foot disappears into the lake.
“Rose and I are friends,” he says. “I told you. We weren't compatible. No hard feelings.”
“I thought there might be someone else. Someone who is—is maybe not like Rose?”
“Okay,” Shane says, “Okay, Mom.”
“Is there?” she asks.
His vision blurs. Nobody knows. Shane wants to call Ilya.
“There was,” he admits. “I thought this summer we might get a chance to talk. To slow down and figure out if we could even be something.”
“And—he?” she prompts, gently. Shane keeps his gaze fixed firmly ahead, and nods once. “He doesn’t want to?”
“He’s a fucking asshole,” Shane says. “He’s got the invitation.”
“Well,” Yuna says, and stands up. “I think he’ll take it. Dinner’s ready.”
Shane rubs at his eyes and takes her hand. “Maybe. I think a part of him does want to.”
She puts a hand against his chest. “If he’s missing you like you miss him, he will.”
“Maybe,” Shane repeats. He needs a subject change, and Yuna is as predictable as he is. “How many games do you think the finals are gonna go to?”
ilya: Are you pretty boy in my dreams?
jane: You're dreaming about me?
ilya: Are you blushing?
jane: Fuck off.
The mystery of Jane gets shelved because Ilya has people coming over to watch the game. He’s certain now that Jane is a man—there’s enough in their older conversations. It explains the secrecy. It explains the dreams.
New York takes to the ice for the first game in the finals and Ilya decides that he is bored. It is easy to remember that he does not care much for Scott Hunter, and calling the man boring and old is practically muscle memory.
Cliff drops a beer in front of Carmichael and a bowl of popcorn in front of him.
“This might be over in four,” Marleau says, when Hunter scores an early goal.
“Embarrassing for San Francisco,” Ilya says.
“Paint drying would be more interesting,” Carmichael says.
“There’s at least three more of these,” Marleau mutters. “We could watch something else?”
He clicks through the channels and settles on a rerun, a Montreal and Boston game from about a month before Ilya got hit. They had won this game, and he feels a curling of pride in his stomach even though he barely remembers playing.
“Roz, have you watched yourself play?”
“Barely,” Ilya says. “Leave it on.”
The game is already more interesting than watching the finals—Ilya tracks a different version of himself. He navigates the play, weaving through Montreal players with the puck.
Someone takes it from him, and he’s the one left chasing. His vision narrows. The rerun keeps playing. The mindless chatter from his teammates fades, and it is as if the only thing Ilya hears is the scrape of blades on ice.
The Montreal center cuts effortlessly between two players. His movements are fluid, a graceful strength to the way he navigates the ice. Ilya, on screen, slams into him, and his own helmet ducks to whisper something into 24's ear. The lettering on the back of 24's jersey says Hollander. Their heads stay together a few seconds too long.
“Hollander,” he reads. His head pounds. Nobody named Hollander has texted him. “He is very good at hockey.”
“Don’t let anyone hear you say that.” Carmichael snorts. Ilya frowns. The version of himself and Hollander on screen are still pressed into the boards, until Hollander finally shoves him off.
“What?” Ilya demands. “Who is he? Twenty-four?”
“He's your mortal enemy,” Carmichael says. The illusion shatters. “You guys hate each other.”
Cliff’s laugh is more of a bark. Carmichael slides a phone over, zoomed in on a screenshot of an interview. He grabs the phone. The google search bar says Shane Hollander face.
Dark hair, freckles, Shane -
Hollander, please, Ilya’s bitten tongue, and the sight of his retreating back -
He’s going to throw up. Ilya sits, his back straight, and takes a slow breath. He drops his head between his hands.
“You’re giving him a headache!” Cliff says. “Hollzy is your rival. You two were the first and second draft picks, and now you two are the captains of Boston and Montreal.”
“And now he is second best hockey player,” Ilya says, still holding the phone. It’s more of an echo, something he thinks he’s said before. Shane’s face is placid. The Shane on the phone talks carefully, shoulders squared with the microphone in his face.
He looks different in Ilya’s dreams.
ilya: Do you think I was fucking Shane Hollander
sveta: my rate is $1000/hour for this conversation ))
ilya: 🙄
ilya: Man from my dreams is my rival
ilya: TMZ says he is fucking rose landry
ilya: Why is she blue.
ilya: her movie is very bad 👎
ilya: r/xsquad says this isn't accurate to the comic books
ilya: I think shane and me broke up
sveta: ?
ilya: New memory 🎉
ilya: Shane left me
sveta: he has not blocked you
ilya: you are saying I have a chance?
sveta: you are familiar with rough patches
ilya: 🙁 🙁
sveta: how many concussions have you had
Ilya: 2
sveta: ? fucking liar
ilya: 2 many 2 count 😛
sveta: lose my number
Ilya watches as many interviews as he can find. There are hours and hours of post game interviews over the years, and Shane is stoic in all of them. He nods at thoughtful questions, and his jaw tenses at the less thoughtful ones. There are advertisements too—shirtless photographs of Shane meant to sell cologne and juice and underwear.
Someone made a compilation promising Hollander’s best plays from All Stars. Ilya is in this video. They collide on screen, in matching uniforms, and Ilya kisses Shane’s visor. He pauses, and rewinds the video.
He ends up clicking on random videos, watching Shane lift the cup, watching Shane doing yoga, watching Shane try American candy, watching Shane get a bucket of ice water poured on his head. The next video in his recommendation is Hollander hit by Marleau - MTL vs BOS. Shane goes down. Shane gets carried off of the ice. A small version of Ilya gets pushed, helplessly, to the sidelines by a ref. An article about that game mentions that Ilya had been to the hospital. Ilya does not remember going. There are no recent photos of Shane Hollander. Nobody has seen him since his injury.
Ilya remembers something new. He remembers crying in a hotel room, and he has to put his laptop down to take a minute. Shane was there, holding him, and Ilya doesn’t even remember what made him cry. There is a long history of phone calls between them in his call history, including a few on the days Ilya had been in Russia. He wishes for the audio. Voicemails! Only one. Still, it is from Jane, even if it is barely twenty seconds. Ilya hits play.
“Hey, Ilya, your message is so dumb. Have I told you that? I guess you're busy. Or not able to be on your phone yet. Anyways—um—call me? I wanna hear your voice. I want to know that you are well,” Shane says. Ilya replays the voicemail again, and again. He has a name for his loneliness.
ilya: If I call, will you pick up phone?
Jane: You don't know who I am
ilya: I have been dreaming about you
ilya: freckles. mouth.
Jane: fuck off
ilya: boring.
ilya: second best hockey player.
Jane: Ilya. You remember?
Jane: fuck
Jane: I'm at Hayden’s. Give me ten minutes and I'll call you
“Ilya?” Shane says, when he picks up the phone. Ilya has to steady his breathing. It is not the first time that Shane has talked to him, but it almost feels like it, hearing the cautious warmth in his tone. “Sorry it took a little longer, Hayden and I were-”
“Pike,” Ilya mutters.
“Oh, so you remember the most one sided rivalry in the history of the league-”
“One sided? Because he cannot score?”
Shane scoffs. “Ilya,” he says, and Ilya wants to hear his name again. “You remember? Me?”
“Yes,” Ilya says. “Most. Maybe not some stuff.”
Ilya keeps any I love yous to himself, wondering if Shane will say it first. He bites down hard on his lip. Shane does not say it. Shane does laugh at him.
“Good,” Shane says. “That’s good. Uh—the invitation is still there. To come to my cottage in Ottawa this summer.”
“Okay,” Ilya says. They shouldn't. He remembers. Jane's contact had no image, it was only the letter "J" staring back at him, because they cannot be friends, they cannot be anything more-
“Okay?” Shane asks.
“Maybe,” Ilya corrects. He almost drops his phone. He hangs up
That night, he dreams of a hockey game that takes place in the sky. The blue expanse of a summer day replaces the ice, and Ilya drives the puck between defencemen he will later realize were only made of clouds. The other center is the sun. (The other center wins.)
When the game ends and the final buzzer sounds, the sun, now shaped like a man, skates up to him. Their handshake burns his palms, and Ilya wakes up feeling like he’s falling.
He paces his kitchen while the espresso machine pours. Movement is easier than stillness, and Ilya strangely wishes for unsteady ground. Shane hadn't called or texted since he hung up on him.
“You are so dramatic,” Svetlana says, and takes the freshly brewed espresso before he can. “Are you going to Russia this summer?”
“I should,” Ilya says, and gets another mug out. He jabs his thumb at the machine before remembering that he needs to get a new pod. Ilya swears and abandons the machine.
He takes a cigarette outside. Ilya inhales, letting his lungs expand. The smoke curls when he exhales, a dirty dancing stream escaping upward. He does not take another drag.
Svetlana sits next to him and steals the cigarette. Her phone chimes with a notification. The screen is angled away, so he cannot read the message, but the text makes her smirk.
“They are dead,” she says, and puts the cig to her lips. “You are not.”
“Maybe I miss my brother,” he says. Svetlana’s eyes narrow. She carefully brushes a dark strand out of her face, and dodges his attempt to take back the cigarette. “Maybe I miss the architecture. Gimme.”
“Shane?” she prompts. “You could see him.”
“I will see him next season,” Ilya says. He can walk away from quick fucks in hotel rooms. He’d never leave Ottawa. He does not like the way that Svetlana is looking at him.
“What, now you have remembered to keep him a secret?”
“Svetlana,” Ilya says. She puts the cigarette out for both of them. “It is complicated.”
“You are not complicated,” she says. “Secret. What is another secret? What will you do when you see him again?"
Cave. A part of him wants to call Shane again. What would he even say? Would he choke down an I think I love you, it is killing me, let’s stare down the barrel of a gun together? Ilya coughs, his hand twitches, and wants another cigarette. He wants, so badly, to see Shane. To invite him to Boston. To go spend time in Shane’s meticulously clean home. To hold him, to fuck him, to be near him.
“You should go,” Ilya says. Svetlana's jaw drops. “I remember where everything is.”
She throws her hands up. “Congratulations."
Ilya stays where he is, and Svetlana leaves.
A few hours later, there are three rapid knocks on his door. Ilya drags himself to his feet and wonders if is a Boston player or Svetlana, or if someone is here to put him down. "Sveta?" he calls out. "I will pay for your forgiveness with vodka and cigarettes."
Shane Hollander is on his porch.
His own Maserati peels out of the driveway.
“That is my fucking car,” he says, to avoid looking at Shane Hollander on his porch. This is more than a dream, more than any of the interviews he watched over and over again, hoarding little pieces of Shane Hollander. He is braced, his shoulders squared with the doorway.
Shane shrugs. “She called it reparations.”
“Hollander? What are you doing here?” he asks, tentatively. Ilya does not move. There is a part of him scared to disrupt this, if it is another one of his increasingly temperamental dreams. His dark eyes take in Ilya, the low slung sweats and tousled curls.
“Svetlana picked me up at the airport,” Shane says, answering none of Ilya’s questions and walking inside. “Tomorrow night I'll fly back to Ottawa.”
“Okay,” he says. Ilya locks the door behind them. He follows Shane into the kitchen. “When—when did you?”
“This morning. It was an early flight.” All Shane Hollander does is play hockey and shrug and act like it's normal for him to show up somewhere without an explicit invitation.
“Ah,” Ilya says.
Shane is the one to step closer, to sling an arm around his neck and press their lips together. Ilya remembers how to kiss Shane Hollander.
“Missed you,” Shane says. “I missed you so much.”
He fits his hands to his waist, dragging the linen up until he is touching tanned skin. Shane opens his mouth and Ilya holds tight, licking in until he cannot tell which one of them is shaking more. He cups Shane's face with both of his palms. Dangerous, to have Shane Hollander to look at. Dangerous, to have the world in his hands. Shane flushes, his dark under eyes are prominent, and his eyes are bloodshot. Ilya thumbs softly across his face.
“You really remember everything?” Shane asks. “Us?”
“Yes,” Ilya says. “You are slow and a bad hockey player.”
Shane laughs, a surprised snort pulled out of him, like he wasn't prepared to hear the joke. He leans in for one more kiss, slower this time, before leaning back. His eyes shine.
The duffel ends up in Ilya’s room, on the empty half of the bed, and Shane goes directly to the fridge to get a ginger ale. He points at the clock on the oven.
“Put the finals on,” Shane says. “We've already missed the first period.”
Please never leave, Ilya thinks. “You want to watch Scott Hunter win?”
“You think he’s gonna?”
“I think San Francisco will lose.”
“You are ignoring an entire season of dedication from New York-”
“I will give you a million dollars if San Francisco wins the cup.”
Shane blinks once. “Just put the game on, Rozanov.”
New York wins, Scott Hunter lifts the cup, and Shane taps furiously at his phone screen, locked in some argument with his mother about player statistics. Ilya watches the wives and girlfriends swarm their players through half lidded eyes, sprawled out on top of Shane, and listens.
Shane pauses, hand stilling in his hair, and Ilya opens his eyes. Scott Hunter has broken from the herd of red jerseys and skates towards the crowd.
“What is he doing?” Ilya asks.
“I don't know,” Shane trails off, and they both watch as Scott Hunter helps a man onto the ice and pulls him to the center.
Hunter kisses the man. On screen, the celebrations continue around the couple, and Ilya dares to hope. He puts his mouth against the back of Shane’s hand, and closes his eyes.
One day, he'll kiss Shane like that.
“I will go to the cottage,” Ilya says, with his eyes still closed.
“Hey,” Shane says. He takes his hand back and gently tilts his chin. His gaze is steady, betrayed by a slightly manic look in his eyes. “You know, I've invited you, like, three times now.”
“Do it again. For luck.”
“And you keep saying maybe like an asshole.”
“I am an asshole,” he says. Shane hides nothing when he looks at Ilya. His face bleeds with raw affection, his thumb swipes softly across his cheek.
“Yeah, you are,” Shane agrees, and kisses him. Ilya lays down and Shane’s hand returns to his curls, pulling softly. If he did something to earn this, he has not remembered yet.
The Admirals continue to celebrate, swarming their captain and his boyfriend. Ilya has his ear pressed against Shane’s ribcage. He closes his eyes, and listens to the steady beat of his heart.