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Ilya can’t decide. Just this afternoon, he’d been so sure about taking Shane to Pizzeria da Romolo on Bank Street. He thinks about them sitting outside on a patio in the warm September sun, legs stretched toward each other, toes touching, the table spread with mugs of West Coast IPAs and short ribs or Neapolitan pizzas, and he can see it — warm cheese stretching from the corner of Shane’s mouth, a dab of sauce on his chin. He would reach over and kiss it off, a small lick maybe, just because he could, and no one would care.
But there were also cooking classes at La Bottega; he knows Shane would enjoy that. And yesterday after practice, Wyatt had told him about something called Pierogis and Pinball at House of TARG, which sounded fun, but Ilya thinks maybe it’s better to do something quiet, a picnic at a park or even kayaking out in Mooney’s Bay. There are so many options. How do people even choose?
He is spiraling again.
Truthfully, Ilya has been spiraling about taking Shane on a date since he’d first thought about it. His Shane. The Shane he’d pushed up against the wall in that first Toronto hotel room; the Shane in the faded blue hoodie he’d kissed the stairwell; the Shane he learned how to make a tuna melt for; the Shane he looped fingers with on the beach in Tampa after the All-Star Game; the Shane that loved him and planned a future with him and asked him to get married. All these different iterations of his husband, after everything. He still can’t believe it sometimes. And now, with the season starting in a few weeks, he doesn’t want to miss another chance to make it happen.
I need opinions, he texts. Is important.
The bubbles in the Centaurs group chat pop up immediately.
Bood: Wow, Rozy. I’m touched.
Shut up or I will delete you from chat.
Bood: You would never.
[Ilya Rozanov has removed Bood from the conversation]
Ok, so I am planning my first date with Shane.
Troy: Wasn’t I just at your wedding?
Yes. So?
Hazy: Not sure I understand the question, Roz.
I am not sure how to date.
Ilya’s phone lights up, his teammates texting all at once. He runs his fingers through his hair, tugging on the ends of his curls, suddenly nervous.
Luca: What do you mean, Cap?
Troy: Like, you’ve never had to make reservations before? Or…
I did not date before Shane.
Was very casual.
He sets his phone down on the coffee table in front of him and rolls his shoulders. They must know what he means, right? There’d been Sasha, his coach’s son in Moscow, a few other men too. And lots of women: in clubs and hockey stadiums and airports and bus stations when he’d been younger, in Russia and probably in every city he’d played in. But that was fucking. This was Shane.
Hazy: Got it. So what do you need to know?
How do I make the best first date for Shane?
And Ilya knows, this is why he’s worried. He’s been feeling better since starting therapy and talking to Galina. Like all his fractured parts are starting to knit back together again, some stretched taut and others loose, but no longer falling apart. He doesn’t believe in regrets, instead owning that every decision and mistake and experience has brought him here. But it is slow, difficult work to trust yourself and sometimes, he still doubts. He hadn’t been enough for his father, for his brother, and god, even for his mother. What if he isn’t enough for Shane? He is learning how to ignore this voice, how to tell it to go straight to the pit of hell. But some days, like today, it feels so real.
*
Anya is already stretching out her hind legs when Ilya pushes the front door open, a bouquet of yellow sunflowers and eucalyptus crushed under one arm and two bags of groceries in the other.
“Not now, Anyusha. I need help with something first.” He scratches the dog quickly behind her ears. “We are going to surprise our Shane.”
He toes off his Adidas sneakers and heads into the kitchen, flipping on the lights as he goes. The house is quiet still, but the screened-in windows are open, and he can hear Willa and Andrew across the street playing freeze tag.
Ilya clicks his tongue, calling Anya over to him. “Will you wear this, if I slip it on your collar?” He crouches down, fastening a denim bow on Anya’s collar and pulling a frayed jean dog jacket over her head. “We will make Shane laugh, yes? Your own little Canadian tuxedo for our first real date.”
Anya just stares, tongue lolling out of her mouth, and Ilya grins. It looks like she’s smiling too.
He slips back into the kitchen, determined to sort through the groceries before Shane gets home from his run. His cell phone buzzes in his pocket.
Hazy: One more thing. Don’t forget to tell Shane why.
What do you mean?
Hazy: Why do you want to go on a date now, after everything?
And that’s the easiest answer Ilya has ever given, besides his yes to marrying Shane. Because he deserves it. They’d spent so many years hiding in hotel rooms and stairwells, and then hiding behind the charity once he moved to Ottawa. Ilya wants to hold Shane’s hand across a table, on a patio, in full view of everyone. It’s the very least of everything that Shane deserves.
*
“Ilya, you home?”
Shane drops his duffle bag next to the door and kicks his running shoes off. Ilya hears them hit the wall, one right after the other.
“In the kitchen.”
“I tried to call, but you didn’t pick up.” Shane leans against the doorjamb and takes a long drink from his water bottle, sweat still curling around the shell of his ear. “What do you want to do for dinner?”
Ilya keeps his back to Shane, slowly stacking the pre-packaged beef and broccoli bowls in their freezer, hiding his nerves. “Not sure. What are you thinking?”
“Sandwiches from Di Rienzo’s maybe? Or I could warm something up for us. Just don’t want to cook tonight.”
“I have an idea.” Ilya says the words quickly, as if he hasn’t been rolling them over in his head all day. “We should go out.”
“Out? Where? I just got home.” Shane scrunches up his nose. “I’m still sweaty.”
Ilya tries again. “Ok. Shower now. I have a few more things to do. Then, we go. I want to see the sun on your pretty freckles.” He runs a finger across the freckle under his chin and Shane laughs, low at the back of his throat.
“Ok, if you want. I’ll be quick.” Ilya’s cock twitches at the gravel sound of his voice.
“Not too quick, Malysh. We cannot have that.”
*
After a lot of internal debate, Ilya had made a reservation at Pizzeria da Romolo earlier that afternoon. Placed the bouquet in tepid water. Stocked the fridge for later. Straightened Anya’s bow. Then, he showered and shrugged on Shane’s favorite shirt, a crisp blue linen one with buttons down the front. He wants everything to be perfect.
“Almost ready!”
The bedroom door clicks shut just before Shane appears in the doorway, and Ilya sucks in a breath. He looks magnificent: long dark hair tied back in a wet bun, tan khaki shorts slung low on his hips, reading glasses tucked in the collar of his own blue linen shirt.
Ilya grins, tugging him closer by his belt loops. “We are twins now, Shanya? What if I want everybody to know you are my husband tonight?”
“I’m sure no one will think we’re related,” Shane says drily. “But I can —”
Ilya kisses him, and he tastes like cinnamon chewing gum. He’s waited all day for that taste. “Mm. I know. Let’s get ready to go.”
He’d called a car service to pick them up at 5, so they’d have time for a drink on the patio before dinner. They usually drove themselves everywhere in the offseason, either in Shane’s Jeep Cherokee or Ilya’s Porsche if the weather was right, but it was mid-September, the first Friday after Labor Day weekend, and Ilya knew that Bank Street would be packed.
“I think it will be nice to relax, so someone will pick us up. We have reservations in a half hour.”
Shane looks at him, his eyebrows furrowing. “I don’t mind driving, especially if you want to have a drink tonight.”
“No, do not worry. This will be good.” Ilya winks and squeezes Shane’s bicep, kissing the corner of his mouth, imagining all the ways he’ll take him apart later. “I have plans for you. Probably in the back of the car.”
He says it mostly to see Shane’s reaction: a ribbon of pink flushed skin across his cheekbones, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. Shane doesn’t say anything, just barely nods.
The black Cadillac XTS pulls up to the gated driveway just as it begins to drizzle. Ilya throws a hoodie at Shane and then slips another one over his own head. “Come on, moy pomidor. I’ll race you. Last one to car buys the first drink.”
Unable to resist a dare, Shane elbows past him, careening out the door and around the corner before Ilya can even turn the lock. “Not fair! You are a cheater!” And then he’s sprinting down the drive, too, the rain suddenly coming down in a rage. They are wet and breathless, their laughter echoing in the quiet Rockcliffe Park neighborhood, porch lights just beginning to tick on, and Ilya is sure, once again, that today is his favorite day.
“Fuuuuck!” Ilya hears Shane skid across the pavement before he rounds the Cadillac and sees him. He’s landed in a puddle, legs out, a trickle of blood already oozing from one knee. At least he’s laughing.
“What, you are auditioning for Wipeout? You take that too literally, I think.”
Shane smirks and pulls himself up. “No, asshole. If you haven’t noticed, it’s raining. My tread is worn out.”
“Poor Shane,” Ilya sighs. “We must email Reebok later to send a new pair. Or five.”
Shane pushes Ilya against the car and bites at his lip, grinding into him. “Shut up, or we’re going to miss our reservation.” He pulls back and straightens Ilya’s collar. “Let’s just go.”
Ilya shakes his head. “No way, go inside and change. I will call ahead and tell them we are running late.” He is wet and hungry now, and knows that Shane must be feeling even worse. Ten more minutes won’t matter.
Except, it really does.
The traffic on the parkway is backed up for miles, and a drive that should have taken only 15 minutes takes more than 40 instead. As the minutes drag on, Ilya can hear the windshield wipers streaking in time to the hands on Shane’s Omega wristwatch.
Shane squeezes his knee. “Hey, you ok?”
Ilya doesn’t answer at first, his face turning to look out the window. He feels his mood shifting, darkening, but doesn’t want to spoil things. “Yes, I’m fine.” Another few minutes tick by, and the car winds slowly along the Ottawa River. It passes Rideau Hall, then the French Embassy before Shane tries again. He grabs Ilya’s hand and pulls it onto his lap, stroking his thumb. “Ilya, I’m ok, really.”
Ilya turns to look at Shane over his shoulder and gives him a wry smile. “I know,” he says. “I think I am just tired.”
I am tired, he thinks, sinking lower in the back of the Cadillac. Tired of fucking things up. Ilya is startled by the intensity of the thought and how suddenly it appears, though maybe he shouldn’t be. He understands now — at least in theory — how his brain works, but even the comfort of that knowledge doesn’t stop his face from tightening with shame. He knows he should be using one of those grounding techniques from Galina or cataloging the things in his life he’s grateful for or doing another deep breathing exercise. But Ilya can’t bring himself to do any of those things. It feels like too much work.
Shane, to his credit, doesn’t push.
Twenty minutes later, their car pulls up next to the upscale pizza place in Centretown and Ilya has resolved to start over. The rain has stopped, over almost as quickly as it started, but most of the windows on Bank Street are dark, even the string lights hanging from the green awning out front.
Ilya holds out his hand. “Come on, Shanya. The sun is not so good after the rain, but I still want to sit outside with you. We can ask for towels to mop the chairs.”
Shane looks around the deserted street. “I think the power’s out. It doesn’t seem like any of these shops are open.”
He grabs Shane’s hand and pulls him toward the door. “Everyone has generators. We will just go check.”
Ilya uses his hoodie to wipe the condensation off the front door and peer inside. It’s dark and empty, just as Shane suspected, chairs already flipped upside down on tabletops. Even the giant pizza oven in the back is filled with banked ashes.
He can feel Shane staring at him, waiting him out. Ilya scrubs his neck. “Ok, you’re right. Closed.” He sighs. “What do you want to do now?”
“We could go somewhere else since we’re already here,” says Shane. “It doesn’t look like we’ll find anything on this street, but we can search nearby.”
Ilya nods, digging his phone out of his pocket. A couple blocks away, there’s a pub and a kebab house, as well as a Tim Hortons. He calls one right after the other in quick succession.
“Busy,” he says. “Damn.”
“Ok, takeout? We can drive around to find something.”
“Yes, ok.” He swipes across his lockscreen to bring up the number of the car service he’d used earlier. Black. He swipes again. Nothing happens. “Shit. I think my phone is dead.”
Shane stares at him. “Now is not the time, asshole.”
“No, I’m not joking. It is dead.” Ilya sees Shane’s brow furrow. “Why do you look worried? We will call your car service instead.”
“I left my phone at home. I didn’t want to be distracted on our date.”
Ilya groans and leans against the building. “Of course. So, we are stuck.”
A crack of thunder rolls long and low in the distance just before the sky opens up again. And Shane, huddled under the green awning and curled against Ilya, starts to laugh as the rain pours down. At first, it’s just a little puff of air against Ilya’s neck, but then he’s hunched over, hands spread over his thighs, the laughter spilling out of him.
Ilya doesn’t know how to respond. He just stares at him and feels a little uncomfortable, if he’s being honest. Usually, he’s the one to take changes in stride, or make a joke to lighten the mood. But Shane looks so beautiful standing there, so free and light and happy, that soon Ilya starts laughing too.
“Asshole,” he says quietly, the last of his laughter ending in a sigh. “Tonight was going to be perfect. And now, we are stranded here, in middle of nowhere Ottawa, hungry and wet, no way to call —”
“Ilya, stop. What do you mean that tonight was going to be perfect? We were just grabbing dinner.”
“No. Tonight is our first date.”
Shane whips his head up. “What are you even talking about? We’ve been together more than 10 years by now, and we’re married. You’re not even making sense.”
“Yes, but everything has always been secret for us,” Ilya says. He runs his thumb over Shane’s cheek. “I wanted to take you out tonight and hold your hand and kiss pizza sauce off your lips where everyone can see us.”
Shane looks confused for a moment, but decides to let the pizza sauce comment go. “We haven’t been on a date before? What about…”
“Nope.”
“Are you sure? You don’t even want to hear how I finish the sentence?”
“Shane. I would remember a first date with you. We have not been out together since,” Ilya pauses for a moment and barks out a surprised laugh. “Well, since we have been out. Since before everyone found out about us because of idiot Hayden. And even before then, everything was secret.”
Shane looks up at him softly. “I really love you. I can’t believe you planned this whole thing, and I had no idea.”
“That part is not surprise, Sweetheart.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
“It doesn’t matter now, anyway.” Ilya’s eyes sweep across the darkened street. “I ruined everything.”
Shane steps closer and pulls Ilya against him, just on the edge of rough. “Stop. You didn’t ruin anything.” His breath is warm and soothing against Ilya’s wet cheek. “All I ever want is to be with you. That’s enough for me.”
He pushes Ilya around the corner of the building, out of sight from the storefronts and into a dark alley. It smells faintly of wet cardboard and pizza grease, but neither of them moves away. With another push, Shane shoves Ilya up against the brick, his forearm holding him in place. “Listen to me right now.” He takes Ilya’s chin and tips it up until he’s forced to meet his eyes. “You’re enough, and you always will be. I just wish I could make you see it too.”
Ilya makes a small, strangled sound, his eyes wide and bright. They’re no longer shielded by the thin awning out front, and he can see through Shane’s soaked linen shirt. Ilya feels like he’s floating, and absently, thinks about how the fabric over Shane’s nipple would feel rough against his tongue, about the warm slide of wet freckled skin under his hands, about —
He hears Shane unzip his pants before registering that, almost unbelievably, he’s already tugged them down his hips and is kneeling before him on the wet concrete, his mouth pressing damp kisses down his thigh. “I love you,” Shane says and takes him fully in his mouth, wet and sloppy.
Ilya is suddenly all sensation: skin buzzing, knees shaking, warm and wet and almost itchy with pleasure. He concentrates on the feeling of Shane’s tongue, the perfect bow of his mouth, his hands, the forearm still pressing him into the wall, all of it to ground him here in this moment.
“I love you so much, and I will tell you as many times as you need to hear it.”
“Please, Shane.” Ilya’s voice pitches higher, sounding choked even to his own ears. “Please.” He isn’t sure what he’s asking for anymore; he just wants to feel different, to feel like he is the man that Shane says he is for once. He will take whatever Shane gives him tonight in this dingy back alley in the rain. He will take it all and tuck it away somewhere safe, so that on the days when he feels dark and numb, he can spin these memories out in the palm of his hand and remember he’s loved by Shane Hollander.
*
Ilya borrows a phone from the cashier inside Circle K and calls their driver. By the time the car arrives, they’re both drenched in rain and sweat and decide to pick up two orders of pasta carbonara from Guilia’s on the way home. It isn’t their original plan, but Ilya feels exhausted and tries not to care.
Shane nudges his empty takeout box onto the floor and turns to Ilya. “How are you?”
“A little better.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not right now. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Ok.” Shane pulls Ilya’s head onto his lap and starts carding his fingers through the curls at the back of his neck. The house is still except for the rain still pounding on the windows. Shane has dimmed the lights. Ilya knows he’s letting him soak in this quiet, grounding him in his touch, and it’s working. He feels the tightness under his skin start to lessen.
“Where’s Anya?” Ilya asks. “Have you seen her since we came home?”
Shane shakes his head. “I figured she was already curled up asleep on the bed. Didn’t think to check.” He leans over and kisses his forehead. “Was too worried about you.”
Ilya eases himself up and lets out a low whistle. “Annushka, come see papa.”
When they don’t hear anything, he tries again. “Anya, I have a treat for you.”
That does it. They both hear the springs shift as the dog jumps off their bed, the soft pads of her feet landing with a thwump. When Anya appears in the doorway, her fur is matted on one side, and she’s crumpled the blue jean bow Ilya had slipped on her collar earlier. Somehow, she’s also managed to slip one leg out of the matching jean jacket, so it’s dragging behind her on the floor. She saunters over to Ilya and flops down, belly up in the air.
“Ilya. What am I looking at right now?”
For a moment, Ilya can’t remember why their dog is in clothes. When he does, he hangs his head and groans.
“Oh, Shane. It is too much. I can’t even explain.”
Shane raises his eyebrows. “No way. You’re going to have to do better than that. Did you buy this outfit for her?” He stops himself, grinning. “Never mind. That’s a stupid question, of course you did. But why?”
“Don’t you see what I dressed her in?”
Shane eyes Anya, still on her back in front of Ilya’s feet. “She’s wearing a bowtie and a jacket. Were you taking pictures of her for Harris to put on the team’s socials?”
“No! Is Canadian tuxedo for our first date. She is a fancy Canadian dog tonight. We thought it would make you laugh.”
Instead of laughing like Ilya expected, Shane’s eyes start to well. “Ilya, I can’t believe you did all of this for me.”
Ilya looks insulted. “Malysh. That is a stupid thing to say.” He leans toward Shane, brushing their noses together. “We had to hide for too long. You deserve all of this.”
Shane pushes Ilya down on the couch and straddles him. He kisses the skin behind his ear, the long column of his throat, the inside of one of his elbows. “Just so you know,” he says. “Tonight was perfect. Thank you.”
For a moment, Ilya doesn’t say anything. He’s thinking about every one of Shane’s reincarnations over the years and how he’s loved him through them all. How he’s probably loved Shane from the very first moment they’d met on the rooftop in Saskatchewan. And how every day they wake up together still feels a little bit like a miracle.
He reaches up to cup Shane’s cheek. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”