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It was a cold winter night, cold enough to be comparable to the ones in Russia. Ilya is hiding in his apartment in Ottawa and sadly without his personal heat pack. Shane had some boring photoshoot with Calvin Klein in New York. If it were any other brand, Ilya would have begged and pouted until Shane relented and stayed home with him. However, he was also very eager to see his dear husband in some sexy underwear, so he gritted his teeth and bid farewell to his lover for 3 days.
It is only the first night and Ilya has never felt more alone. He decides to cook a simple soup to help with the cold. A russian recipe, frikadeller soup, or simply a chicken meatball soup. With plenty of time to kill, he decides to make his own meatballs, adding garlic, onion, pepper and plenty of herbs to spice up the meat. He adds them all into a chicken broth, which has been simmering with potatoes and carrots. He grins as he stirs, enjoying the aroma wafting through his whole house.
Shane would love this, he automatically thinks, then falls into a bout of sadness when he realises Shane is not here to eat it with him. He pulls his phone from his pocket and immediately facetimes his husband. Hearing the phone ring then go to voicemail, Ilya pouts. Shane must still be at the shoot. Not wanting to bother him again, Ilya sets his phone aside and lets the soup simmer to gain more flavour.
15 minutes later, after Ilya has browsed through every possible channel on the television, he plates himself a steaming bowl of soup. On second thought, he also grabs a shot glass and a bottle of vodka.
One shot, one sip and before he knows it, the alcohol starts hitting. Ilya is in denial about it, something about Russians never getting drunk. However, the melancholy rises in his chest and he dials for someone else, Sveta.
“Hi,” she says as she picks up. “What’s going on?”
Chattering and laughter can be heard in the background.
“You with your friends?”
“Yes, getting ready to hit the bar. What do you need?”
Ilya hesitates, tied between wanting to share his feelings and also letting Svetlana have her own time.
“Just missing Shane.”
On the other end, Svetlana laughs, “it has not even been a day!”
“I just miss him!” Ilya shouts back.
“Alright lover boy, call him.”
“I did.” Ilya frowns, “but he did not answer.”
“So I was the second choice?” Svetlana jokes.
“Well. Maybe.” Ilya quietly says.
He reaches for another meatball in the soup then pauses. Something suddenly does not seem quite right. Svetlana is still speaking to him but he filters out her voice as he stares frantically at the meatballs.
Freckles start forming, then large brown eyes. It’s Shane!
Ilya tilts his head, then blinks, yet the meatballs remain looking like Shane. Then he gasps, panic surges through his body. They don’t just look like Shane, they are Shanes!
Ilya just ate his husband!
“-ya. Ilya!” Svetlana’s voice finally comes through. “What’s wrong?”
“Sveta! I think I just ate Shane.”
There's silence from the phone.
“Sveta?”
Ilya looks at his screen, thinking he might have accidentally ended the call but gets confused when he confirms the call is still connected.
“Sorry, can you repeat yourself?”
Ilya frowns, frustrated at Svetlana being slow on the uptake. “I said, I ate my husband! We need to fix this!”
There is another bout of silence before a noise of confusion.
“Ilya, are you high?”
Ilya tugs his hair, pure panic coursing through him. “No! Why would I be high? I didn’t take anything! This is not the issue right now. The problem is that I just ate my husband!”
He receives no reply except for a facetime request that he immediately accepts.
A highly amused and slightly concerned face greets him.
“Do you mean eating him out?” Svetlana asks, a look of disgust passes through her features.
“What? No.” Ilya says, shaking his head in disbelief, “I won’t share my husband's ass with you.”
“Alright!” Svetlana says, raising her arms in surrender, “then what exactly are you saying?”
“Look!” Ilya says, flipping his camera to the bowl of meatball soup. “It’s Shanes! I feel awful, I ate so many of him.”
Uncontrollably, tears start welling up and he sniffs. “What should I do, Sveta? He’s not coming back.”
“Oh darling.” Svetlana coos. “Give him another call. I’m sure he will pick up.”
Mischief lace her words but Ilya does not notice, dutifully obeying her.
Ilya sniffs again but nods, “I’ll call you back.”
He hangs up and dials Shane’s number and miraculously, someone answers.
It’s not Shane.
Or it’s a clone, but a bad clone as his husband’s freckles are missing.
“Who’s this? Why do you have Shane’s phone?”
Hearing that, the clone’s smile drops.
“What? No, Ilya, it’s me, Shane.”
Adamantly, Ilya shakes his head.
“No! I know my husband and you’re not him.”
Then, realisation dawns on him and he lets out another loud gasp.
“I ate your freckles.”
Clone Shane blinks. “What?”
“Ilya, what do you mean?”
Suddenly, Ilya bursts into tears as he caresses his phone screen, poking clone Shane’s face freckle by freckle.
“It’s gone! Oh my god, I ate it. I ate them all. I knew it. They looked too yummy. I should have known.”
On the other hand, Clone Shane was concerned, then extremely bewildered.
“Ilya, darling, what are you saying? Why are you crying?”
He shakes his head sadly, mourning deaths he caused single-handedly. “They are gone, clone Shane. All gone. Your freckles.”
“My freckles?” Clone Shane asks, looking closer into the phone then looking away, possibly going to look in a mirror. Then, he lets out a giggle.
“Oh baby, there's just concealer over them. I promise they are still here.”
“They made you cover your freckles? Why are they concealing them like Elsa?”
Real Shane laughs even harder, then looks adoringly into the screen.
“The real question here is why are you high?”
Ilya shakes his head. “I am not high. Why are you and Sveta saying same thing?”
Real Shane smiles, eyes twinkling in delight. “Look at your eyes, baby. Your pupils are so dilated and your eyes are so red.
Ilya blinks, registering that he suddenly feels rather floaty. He gets up, almost tripping over his own feet and rushes into the bathroom to see himself in the mirror. To his horror, his eyes are indeed bloodshot. Taking note of his body, he realises his limbs are tingly and slowly accepts that he really is high.
“Oh my god.” he says as he walks back into the living room, where he is still on call with Shane.
“Do you believe me now?” Shane says from his phone.
“How- how did this happen?”
“No idea, you silly goose. Please sleep it off. Do you need my mum to come and check on you?”
That certainly woke him up.
“Nope. No Yuna. Will be fine on my own. Bye Bye Shane.”
He hears a loud laugh before he hangs up. Ilya scrubs his hand over his face and looks at the bowl of soup again. They still look like Shanes. He sighs, suddenly feeling a wave of exhaustion. He lays down on the sofa and promptly falls asleep.
-
A loud knock rouses him from his sleep. He groans and wills the delivery person to leave his parcel at the doorstep. It is to no avail as the knocking becomes incessant and then there’s Svetlana calling his name.
Sveta?
He rubs sleep from his eyes and drags his body to the front door. An impatient Svetlana stands on his front porch with hands on her hips, before huffing and pushing him aside to let herself in.
“You cooked?”
Ilya closes the door and turns to look at her, completely unsure at what she is getting at.
“It smells like spices in here.”
“Oh,” Ilya waves his hand, gesturing to the pot on the stove. “Meatball soup.”
“The meatballs that you thought were Shane?”
Ilya freezes.
“What in the loving-”
“Oh my god. What happened yesterday? What time is it?”
Ilya makes a dash for his phone and sees that it is almost 2pm. He scoffs in disbelief.
“What the fuck happened yesterday?”
“You should have asked yourself at 8pm.” Svetlana says, grinning as she recalls the wonders of high Ilya.
“How did I even get high? I don’t remember eating any-”
Ilya pauses, suddenly remembering something. He rushes towards the spice rack in the kitchen and grabs a seemingly innocent herb jar. He flips it upside down and reads the label on the bottom.
In Shane’s neat handwriting, there are words clearly written.
‘WEED! Don’t use as condiment (unless to get high)’
Ilya feels Svetlana walk up towards him. She grabs the bottle and reads the warning before doubling over in laughter.
“Oh my god. You did not.”
Ilya groans, “I absolutely did.”
“Now I have to explain to Shane.”
Svetlana's eyes light up at these words. “I have to hear this.”
Seeing Shane’s expression was another form of torture.
“Please don’t”
“I did not say anything.” Shane replies mockingly.
“You were about to!” Ilya whines, before quietly saying, “I accidentally put weed in my meatballs.”
Beside him, Svetlana bursts into another round of laughter.
“Is Svetlana there?” Shane says. “Are you enjoying the show?”
His eyes are filled with all knowing playfulness.
Ilya huffs in mock anger, “did you do this on purpose, Hollander?”
Shane’s lip quirk up at the use of his last name and shakes his head.
“Actually, I did tell you. But you were too busy tapping away at your screen to listen to me.”
Ilya pouts, swatting Svetlana who was trying to keep her giggles at bay.
“I miss you so much that I saw you in my soup.”
Shane softens, “I miss you too. So very much. I will be back soon alright?”
Ilya nods sadly, bringing the phone closer so he can see Shane's freckles better. Despite Shane’s reassurance, he is still not convinced his precious freckles have not disappeared.
Shane sees through Ilya’s intentions and smiles.
“Don’t worry baby. I will let you count my freckles and make sure each and every one of them is still here.”