Chapter Text
“Morning.”
Ilya always greeted him like this, short and a bit distant.
“Morning.”
And Shane could only give the same response. He did his best to pretend he didn’t care, but under the table his knee was already anticipating a brush against Ilya’s—an intimate secret he had to himself to enjoy for an entire breakfast.
Ilya showed up at his home two weeks ago.
David and Yuna, being the devout hockey fans they were, billeted teenage hockey players every summer when they were in town for junior tournaments. They fed them, housed them, and brought the kids to watch any games that were happening in the city; they organized family events on days off, brought them grocery shopping, celebrated holidays with them and lived together.
For his parents it was like having a second child. For Shane, though, it was an annoying intrusion that he quietly kept to himself.
The hockey players that came to their home every summer were all tall, built boys. They got along well with his parents and spent their time training hard. Shane didn’t hate them.
But he had to give up part of his bedroom, had to wait for his turn in the bathroom, had to endure their “performance diet” on the dining table, and put up with their habit of constantly appearing in front of him shirtless.
He particularly hated the last bit.
He hated himself for always seeking bodies of the same gender instead of smiles from the opposite. He felt confused and deeply bitter. He didn’t like the boys that came to his home every summer. He hated summer.
They were stuffy and restless.
Just like the way he’d felt the first time he saw Ilya.
Irresistible.
Ilya would lounge in the sun on the front lawn during his time off. David put out a deck chair just for him, one with red and white stripes and “Hi Hawaii” lettering on the back. Shane didn’t even know they had something like that in their house, and Ilya evidently got used to it faster than he did.
Shane’s bedroom window was right above that patch of lawn. He quickly yanked the curtains shut every time Ilya lay there, as if he’d seen something obscene.
Ilya must have noticed.
Shane didn’t know how to be around Ilya. When Ilya so much as glanced at him he would become flustered and begin scrutinizing himself from head to toe. Was his hair sticking up in the back? Did he forget to roll up the cuff of his jeans? Were his socks too childish? His blush too obvious?
Just what exactly was he not doing right? Shane wanted Ilya to give him an answer, but he was too scared to ask. He could only hide behind his curtains time and time again while he replayed in his mind what he’d just glimpsed, those muscular arms and exposed thighs beneath Ilya’s shorts.
Ilya was probably sick of the snow in Russia, because he always welcomed the sunshine here in tank tops and shorts without a care for what Shane thought. It made a mess out of Shane everyday.
He’d finally had enough one day, marching up in his sunglasses to where Ilya was on the lawn in an attempt to get through to him.
“Do you dress like this in Russia, too?”
Ilya howled with laughter for a good ten seconds. Now Shane was even more abashed, standing in front of Ilya with his lips pressed tightly together and blocking out most of the sunlight.
“I like your sunglasses.”
“Oh! Uh, thanks.”
Shane felt guilty immediately. He shouldn’t treat a young boy like this, not when he was here training alone in a foreign country. He should be more sympathetic to Ilya as someone his same age rather than wallow in his own teenage anxieties.
“Do you want to go to the corner store?” He extended a friendly invite, trying to make up for his rude question.
Ilya accepted the invite with a nod and stood up. He was tall—well, probably tall for a seventeen year old. Shane, for one, only reached his shoulder. The golden cross that rested near his collarbone was dangling right in front of his eyes.
Was Ilya Catholic? He didn’t seem like it to Shane.
In his mind, religious folks tended to be friendly and kind, sometimes even boring; they were grateful for everything and always smelled of a faint warmth, of scented candles and fresh cut flowers.
Ilya was the antithesis of all that. He was overly brash and reckless without a care in the world. He would take off his shirt and sunbathe in the yard, would enthusiastically praise the forty-year-old Mrs Miller next door for being “stunningly gorgeous”, and enjoyed playing with the neighbourhood cats and dogs. He recently christened a black stray cat “Wakanda”, and several kids nearby caught onto it, calling out “Wakanda! Wakanda!” Ilya was quite pleased with his celebrity effect.
Everyone knew Ilya. He was a bit different from all the other young hockey players that usually came to this town. He had a thick Russian accent and a head of brownish golden curls; he loved to tell jokes, enjoyed showing off his beautiful muscles, and happily struck conversations with anyone and everyone. They all adored him, his mom and dad, the missus next door, the old gentleman across the street and his giant St Bernard dog, and lastly, Shane himself.
Every person and living thing adored him.
Ilya had everything that Shane couldn’t, that Shane didn’t dare to have, that Shane longed for.
Shane longed for him.
Shane was sure Ilya must have noticed.
Ever since Ilya moved in, Shane has found it harder and harder to sleep.
The adults’ bedroom was downstairs and the boys’ were upstairs. Their bedrooms were interconnected as an outer room and an inner room. Ilya’s room had two doors, one opened to the hallway and one opened to Shane’s room.
The floorplan of this house was too intimate. When other boys stayed in that room, Shane would lock the connecting door from his side and leave the key in his nightstand drawer.
But now that Ilya was here, he could no longer lock that door. Shane couldn’t pinpoint the reason, but he just didn’t want to.
Hell, he even wanted to leave the door open, wide open, so he could hear Ilya and let Ilya hear him.
Did Ilya talk in his sleep? Did he snore? Did he grind his teeth? Or did he just breathe softly?
The burning curiosity kept Shane wide awake night after night. The only solution to his problem would be for him to lie in the same bed as Ilya, listening to his sounds, and he would get the answer to all his confusions.
One time, he really did open the door, just a tiny little crack because he was scared of getting caught by Ilya.
He crouched down in front of the crack in the dead of night with his thoughts running wild and fingers trembling. He wanted to push the door wide open and walk in, into Ilya’s world.
He didn’t dare admit it but he had to. Shane liked Ilya when he spoke loudly, his brazen Russian accent, the way he always talked with his hands, his loose curls, and his expression when he winked at Shane from the lawn.
Shane liked all of it, liked all of him.
It was like Shane had fallen into a dream, a dream where he could be held by a man—by Ilya—in his arms, lying on the bed in that room, sharing the same blanket and pillow. He could settle into a tight embrace and inhale a whiff of Ilya’s scent. What would Ilya smell like? Something fresh, or something more intense?
Shane had no idea. To this day he still hadn’t gotten a chance to be that close to Ilya, he didn’t know what Ilya smelled like.
Would Ilya’s hugs and kisses smell the same?
The sharp thought almost punctured Shane’s body. He had to get up immediately and return to his bed.
Stop.
Stop.
Stop thinking about it.
But he couldn’t help himself, because he didn’t know what kind of sounds Ilya would make at night or what his kiss smelled of. He tossed and turned restlessly. His whole body was burning up, so much so that he pushed his blanket off onto the floor.
He heard the sound of his own breathing, rapid and violent.
He felt sorry for himself.
Ilya was so close to him. There was still a crack left in that door, why shouldn’t he be able to just think about it? Why did the cashier girl at the corner get to have Ilya smile at her? Why did the coach’s daughter get to sit with Ilya on the bench and talk to him? Why was Shane Hollander the only unfortunate soul who had to swallow the sorrows of his unrequited crush every night, only to fall for Ilya all over again every morning?
Fuck it!
Screw this. He didn’t care anymore.
He went back to the door and pushed it open, revealing the forbidden territory beyond. He could now fully see and hear Ilya’s presence.
Other than his own breathing, there was another minute sound that emerged from the still of the night.
Ilya was crying.
It was a sort of whimper, a strangled sob like a cry for help.
Ilya did indeed talk in his sleep, but Shane didn’t understand his broken and slurred Russian. He began panicking immediately, turning to leave and shutting the door tightly behind him.
This was bad. That was incredibly rude of him.
Shane lay in bed, quietly catching his breath. He felt guilty for having unintentionally intruded on Ilya's trauma. He didn’t know what had happened to Ilya, he just felt so, so sorry. He regretted opening the door. It should’ve stayed locked and no one should be taking even a single step across, that would be for the best.
After a night of tossing and turning, he took one of his stuffed animals and left it in front of Ilya’s door early the next morning, along with a light blue sticky note and a short message.
Then he bolted off immediately after, to the library in town or the arcade or the supermarket, anywhere would be fine. He couldn’t face Ilya, so he fled hastily.
That was the only time Shane abandoned his chance to greet Ilya in the morning.
Ilya wasn’t always home. He often had to practice with his team and sometimes left for days to play in another city. Yuna and David always prepared a sumptuous dinner to welcome him home, so Ilya was eternally delighted when he sat down at the table regardless of his game results.
Shane had noticed this about him. Ilya was really just a homesick boy at heart. He whined to his parents, flattered the adults, and got along with all the kids and dogs.
But Ilya never brought up his own home, the one that was back in Russia.
Shane was curious again, everything about Ilya made him curious. It was a shame that he was too frightened to even mention the name “Ilya.” He pretended he didn’t care at all while his ears were on alert at all times for any mention of Ilya nearby. The moment his name came up, he burrowed into the topic like a mouse, piping up with a few words even if they were awkward and unnecessary.
“Oh yeah, Ilya’s not home this week.”
“Yup, Ilya comes with us to watch the game sometimes.”
“Mhm, That’s how Ilya is.”
Ilya lurked in everyone’s words. Shane was focused on listening to every conversation around the community. Whenever someone mentioned Ilya, he instantly got the urge to say something, but not too much. Shane Hollander wasn’t usually a talkative person, so how come he was suddenly interested in chatting when it was about Ilya? No way, that was too obvious, everyone would notice it.
Would Ilya notice as well?
Ilya probably already did, Shane thought to himself more than once.
Ilya kept giving him impressions that were too good to be true.
Yuna loved to bring the kids into town to watch sports games, whether or not they were hockey. The Hollander parents were just inexplicably enthusiastic about a lot of sporting events. Yuna was in charge of looking up game schedules, David had the job of driving everyone to and from the venue, and Shane and Ilya busied themselves chitter-chattering away.
Any game they went to was always filled with fanatic spectators. They once bought seats in the middle of a dedicated fan zone and the people around them were screaming like crazy, so Ilya nudged toward Shane again and again until they were so very close. It was as if this extroverted heartthrob suddenly became terrified of other humans and Shane was the lone island where he was willing to take refuge.
Every time something like this happened, Shane desperately wished that Ilya actually liked him.
It was a shame that wishes didn’t always come true. Ilya was actually closer with the daughter of the team coach. Shane had seen her around a few times; she was a charming girl, outgoing just like Ilya, and also liked to laugh and spoke Russian.
Shane was convinced that Russian was why Ilya chose his friendship with Sventlana. Even with all other reasons considered, it wasn’t because of her stunning looks or bubbly personality or being a girl.
Ilya constantly hung out with Svetlana to talk. They stealthily snuck out together and snuck back before the curfew every time, all for the sole reason of sharing a common language.
Svetlana was privileged. She could unabashedly lean against Ilya, joke around with him, comment on his fashion and critique his hockey skills, to the point where Shane suspected they were about to become a couple. They were so beautiful together, a perfect match.
But he just had to barge in and fall for Ilya as well and turn everything into a nightmare. He couldn’t bear the idea of Ilya and Svetlana being together, or Ilya with any other girl or boy. His mind uncontrollably conjured images of Ilya holding hands, kissing, nakedly embracing someone else. He’s imagined all kinds of intimate acts, but none of them would ever happen between Ilya and Shane.
Every time Svetlana appeared at their door, Shane’s insides twisted together so painfully that he wanted to throw up, but he was scared of being too conspicuous. He just feigned curiosity. “Where are you guys headed to?”
“The mall in town, Svetlana wants to get some things.”
“Oh, okay.”
Shane retreated, not sure how to keep the conversation alive.
“Do you want to come with us?” Ilya offered.
Oh no, that’s fine. You’ll definitely be speaking Russian together which I won’t understand. And you’ll have to avoid me if you want to hold hands, how inconvenient. I don’t need to get anything so it would be pointless if I went. You guys go on without me.
He searched around for excuses, but all he really wanted to say was “yes, I want to go with you.”
I want to go with you and only you.
But he couldn’t say that, it would be incredibly rude to Svetlana. This “date” never belonged to him anyway, he was only offered admission because Ilya had asked.
So he said “okay,” pulled on a baseball cap, and went out with them.
Svetlana had a clear target of what she wanted to buy from which store.
Shane had nothing in mind, his only intention was being with Ilya. He hoped that the next time Ilya invited him it would be only between the two of them, without other girls or boys or adults or children.
The two of them, just the two of them would be enough.
The summer heat faded into early autumn. Shane thought he was finally becoming closer with Ilya, specifically when Ilya began to smile when greeting him “morning” and bump Shane’s knee with his own after sitting down at the table. They’ve developed a sort of secret harmony.
Sometimes Ilya would teach him a few words in Russian. He sat on the lawn while Ilya slouched on the deck chair, repeating each word after Ilya.
“лето”
“лето”
“What does it mean?”
“Summer.”
“щенок”
“щенок”
“This word means puppy.”
“What about an old dog?”
It was a nonsensical question. “An old dog is старая собака,” Ilya laughed.
“Why is the word suddenly so long?”
“I do not know, is just how we say it.”
“Teach me some longer words.”
Ilya pondered for a few seconds. “Мне нравятся твои веснушки.”
Shane looked up at him. “That’s a sentence.”
Ilya nodded. “It is a sentence. It means ‘you are a puppy’.”
Shane scrunched his nose. “No it doesn’t, I didn’t hear the word for puppy.”
Ilya split into an annoying smirk. “See, you already remember how to say щенок!”
He shoved Ilya’s thigh in protest. Ilya fell back grinning from ear to ear, lying on the deck chair with his limbs fully splayed out. Shane immediately fell silent at the sight of his relaxed posture.
Shane turned to put on his sunglasses and shifted his gaze toward the street. There wasn’t much to see, just garbage bins, houses, trees of varying heights, pedestrians and cats and dogs that passed by.
“Do you want to go to the park together this evening?” Ilya suddenly asked.
Shane felt a tingle crawl up his spine. He turned around to confirm that those words were actually said and it wasn’t just his hallucination.
“Why not now?”
Ilya shrugged. His sunglasses slid down his nose, revealing his bright blue eyes. His air of nonchalance often frustrated Shane, leaving him feeling stuffy and restless.
“I want to go in the evening.”
“Okay, evening then.”
Ilya didn’t speak again, seemingly having dozed off in the sun.
Shane couldn’t figure out the meaning of what he said in Russian, nor why Ilya wanted to go to the park in the evening. He simply allowed his eyes to slowly trace Ilya in the sunlight, picturing he could touch him, kiss him. Ilya was like a statue displayed under the gallery spotlight for people to admire, and that was how Shane admired him, abiding by the sole rule of no touching.
He wasn't allowed to get closer. It fuelled his agony all the way into the evening.
He didn’t know what time Ilya meant by “evening”, so he was still drowning in his anguish after dinner to the point of near self-combustion.
When exactly were they going? Or did Ilya suddenly not want to go anymore? But he didn’t say anything, what should I do? Go back to my room and read a book? Stay in the living room to wait for him? Go look for him upstairs?
Where was Ilya?
Shane felt a surge of anxiety. He was worried Ilya changed his mind, that he would never hear Ilya extend another invite for anything, that their time alone together had been so easily squandered.
Shane began to spiral. He resented Ilya for not giving him a chance, and himself for not being able to seize it.
Ilya wasn’t leaving for another two months, but Shane compulsively prayed for him to get going immediately, preferably tomorrow. Then he wouldn’t have to see him and his life could return to normal, when he wasn’t having trouble sleeping and feeling restless. How nice did that sound?
But now that Ilya was standing in front of him, he wished instead that he could hold onto this man tightly, that these two months would pass by a little, just a little more slowly.
“Let’s go.” Ilya sounded like an evening breeze.
Yes, let’s go, take me with you anywhere. Shane wanted to press himself into Ilya’s palm. On their way to the park he continued to dream. He returned to the night he pushed open the door and listened to Ilya breathing and mumbling in his dream; he nuzzled closer to him, attempting to hear Ilya’s heartbeat.
They sat down at a park bench and Ilya handed him a can of ginger ale. He had no idea when Ilya bought it—probably while he was dreaming.
They sat like this in silence. Shane wasn’t good at opening conversations, and for once Ilya didn’t say anything either.
Shane guessed that it had to do with the phone call that morning. Ilya probably didn’t know about the house’s awful soundproofing, but Shane could hear Ilya every time when he hid in the room to pick up a call, and every time he sounded so full of pain.
He figured Ilya didn’t exactly have a good relationship with his family.
He also imagined that Ilya would much rather stay here rather than return to that home of his in Russia.
He had too little information. He could only speculate wildly in his own mind.
“Is it cold in Russia?” Shane began talking mindlessly.
“Yes.”
“Do you find it cold here?”
“No.”
“You’ve been to this park before?”
“Svetlana took me here.”
Oh, Svetlana.
Shane didn’t want to talk anymore.
“What, you do not like Svetlana?” Ilya, however, seemed to have reverted to his usual cheekiness and was staring at Shane with a grin.
How was he supposed to answer that? Shane had absolutely no reason to hate a friendly and outgoing girl, except for the fact that she did everything he didn’t dare do.
She had everything he couldn’t have.
“You’re very close with her.”
“That is why you hate her?”
The topic was beginning to become dangerous. Shane was terrified that Ilya was just toying with him but held on to a shred of hope. Was this him testing how Shane really felt?
Ilya’s figured him out.
He was sure of this as he gazed into Ilya’s eyes under the moonlight. Ilya knew, Ilya was well aware. Aware of Shane’s stare hidden behind his sunglasses, his sleeplessness after lurking by the door at night, his seemingly serendipitous touches under the dining table, his dislike of Svetlana.
He was way too obvious.
Shane felt frustrated at how bad he was at hiding anything. He probably looked ridiculous.
“Russia is not always so cold.”
Ilya miraculously changed the subject and began talking mindlessly like him.
“Sometimes, days are very very long in summer, the sun is almost never gone. Mama really liked summer.”
This was the first time Ilya talked about his family. Shane stilled instantly, his breathing, his heartbeat, his blinking, none of that mattered right now.
“My cross is from my mother. It is her heirloom.”
Shane was once more consumed by an inexplicable wave of guilt. He didn’t like how Ilya talked to him like he was tearing open a wound. It pained him, and Ilya must be in pain, too. He liked to see Ilya being happy.
He turned over thoughts in his head and started to speculate again. He thought Ilya’s homesickness was in part a longing for his mother whom he’d never see again, and that Ilya was scared to go back to a home without his mother.
His own notions stabbed him painfully. He also thought about Ilya leaving in two months when it would soon be winter. It would no longer be his mother’s beloved summer, nor could Ilya bring Canada’s summer with him. He would be leaving completely alone. Shane felt utterly devastated.
“Why are you crying?” Ilya noticed his anguish.
“I miss summer.” He replied without answering the question.
“There is summer every year.”
But you aren’t here every year. Shane cried even harder.
Ilya watched him. Shane didn’t know why anyone wanted to look at a sobbing, freckled boy, but Ilya indeed kept watching him. There was an emotion in his eyes that Shane didn’t dare name; he was almost drowning in it.
Ilya wiped away his tear, just a single drop, his thumb dragging across Shane’s cheek. The way his brows slightly furrowed made Shane want to kiss him very, very much.
But no one offered that kiss. They simply waited quietly for the tears to stop. Ilya relaxed and finally leaned against Shane’s shoulder.
“Я не хочу тебя покидать.”
Ilya said something in Russia again. Shane didn’t understand it, but he knew it was meant for him. They were so close, the words uttered so softly that only he could hear.
After debating with himself for a few seconds, Shane decided not to press about the meaning of the Russian words. The pronunciation wasn’t staying with him, and neither was Ilya.
He decided to accept the fact that Ilya came into his life during summer and would be gone by winter.
He decided to accept the fact that Ilya was leaving, and that they likely will never meet again for the rest of their lives.
Ilya became especially emotional in the two weeks before his departure
He spent more time than usual talking to the St Bernard across the street, hugging the giant dog time and time again.
One day, he suddenly grabbed one of Shane’s stuffed animals and asked, “can I take it back to Russia?” Before Shane could think about what he meant, he turned around and grabbed the mug on the table. “Or I can take this instead.”
Shane couldn’t figure out what he was doing.
It was only yesterday that he exclaimed at the dining table, “When I go back to Russia I cannot eat such good pasta!” Yuna was exceedingly charmed, and insisted more than once that he keep in touch to come visit whenever he’s playing in Toronto again.
Ilya smiled, changing the topic to something else.
Many hockey players maintained contact with their former billet families, even after they’ve been playing in different cities and countries as an adult; it wasn’t anything uncommon.
But Shane had a strong feeling that Ilya won’t be contacting them ever again.
The winds gusting from Siberia were icy cold, Shane was sure Ilya would freeze to death, his soul forever chained to that godforsaken place just like his mother. Ilya was flamboyant, bold, and endlessly charming, but a single phone call from Moscow was enough to shatter these illusions. The appearance that he put on here was just the frenzy before his demise; once he returned to Moscow, his soul was going to wither away.
Shane wanted to know if he said “don’t go back to Russia”, what was the likelihood of Ilya staying?
Probably infinitely close to zero.
But he knew Ilya liked it here. Ilya liked the meals Yuna and David prepared for him, the cats and dogs, the evening park, and maybe he also liked Shane a little bit.
It must be true, Ilya didn’t want to leave, either. That must be why he got terribly sick a few days before his departure, his entire body preventing him from returning to Russia.
“Are you feeling better?”
Shane came to check up on Ilya with some warm water. He dragged the only chair in the room to his bedside and sat down, waiting for Ilya to finish drinking before speaking.
“A lot better.” Ilya gulped down the entire cup, leaning against the pillow with the empty cup clutched in his hands.
The room was warm and stuffy. Shane watched Ilya slowly rub his finger against the glass cup, feeling quite breathless himself.
“When Mama was sick before, it was always me who took care of her.”
Ilya suddenly said.
Shane’s lashes fluttered. He wasn’t sure what Ilya meant.
“I was little and very worried about her health, so I could not resist crawling under the blankets to rest together with her.”
“Then I would wake up in Mama’s arms, and she was healthy again.”
Shane’s heart was pounding like crazy. He must be going insane to think that Ilya was hinting at something with every word.
“I want to rest now, Shane.” Ilya set the cup down on the nightstand, then stared straight at him.
It was dark outside, the sound of the TV drifted up the stairs. Ten pm was the time Yuna had mandated for the kids to be back in their rooms, where they were free to read, chat, or go to bed early as they pleased.
Shane went to turn off the lights for Ilya, then stumbled his way back to his bed, the wrap draped around his shoulders falling to the floor.
He buried himself into Ilya’s arms.
Ilya held him very, very tightly, curled up, shaking, breaths ghosting his neck.
And once again, Shane heard that sob in the darkness, it was so close, it sounded so helpless.
Ilya didn’t want to utter a single word, he just silently drenched Shane with tears that melted like snow.
“Ilya,” Shane said, “don’t forget me.”
Ilya sounded like he was about to shatter, the sound of his cries too broken to piece him back together. He started saying things in Russian again, going on and on and on. Shane was nestled in his soft, golden curls, listening to Ilya’s incessant rambling in the language he’d been teaching him all summer.
Nonetheless, he didn’t have enough time to learn. Ilya’s language was too heavy and too loaded, there was so much he couldn’t understand. By the time Ilya was leaving for the airport three days later, Shane still hadn’t been able to grasp anything.
He went back into the room. The wrap that was dropped in Ilya’s room that day had been collected as laundry with everything else and was now folded neatly at the top of the bed, only left with the scent of detergent. Ilya had just gone, and already Shane could no longer find a single trace of him.
At last, he opened the connecting door and sat in Ilya’s room, staring off into the empty space.
His 17th year of being Shane Hollander came to a hasty end. His summer died with the only Russian phrase he understood that night, one that he suspected would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Прощай, моя любовь.
(Farewell, my love.)