Archive of Our Own

November 2012

Ilya’s breath came in  puffs, his footfalls heavy on the sidewalk. November had settled over Boston cold and grey, sending bursts of wind down the streets and alleys of Beacon Hill. The kind of weather that sent the early morning joggers back inside until April, which Ilya preferred. The paths were clear, brisk air stung his throat and lungs, the smell of decaying leaves carried all the way to morning skates on the soles and laces of his sneakers. He’d never quite understood complaints of the cold, or at least he had never minded the cold as much.

He slowed at the final corner, deciding to walk the last half block to his front door. He’d taken a shorter route that day, a long rectangle of a circuit two blocks up, a block over, and another two down. He hadn’t pushed himself to exhaustion. He pulled his headphones out of his ears and stuffed them into his shorts pocket, wanting the crunch of leaves under every step unmuffled by music. Blue was bleeding into the overcast grey. Traffic rattled in the distance, and a car alarm beeped a few blocks over. Doors opened and closed as people left for work. 

There were stretches on his front steps to look forward to, a hot shower not long after. He hadn’t had breakfast, but Ilya let himself daydream for a moment about what junk he’d supplement his team nutritionist approved lunch.

Two houses from his own, a dog barked – a shrewd show collie called Peaches, though Ilya was sure he had ten better names for the animal made up whenever the owners let him pet her. A moment later, something small and grey barrelled across his path, caught on the loop of his shoelace, and tumbled behind the wheel of a parked car. 

Ilya stopped hard, both startled and curious. Peaches wasn’t barking anymore, as if the cause had vanished. Ilya was suddenly certain he’d almost tripped over the trigger itself.

He check the time on his phone. Nearly eight in the morning. Nothing but an optional skate in the afternoon and a three o’clock game the next day to look forward to. There was time, Ilya reasoned, to walk over to the silver Nissan with the dent in the back bumper. To crouch down on the leaf-covered sidewalk, and peer around the tire to investigate.

“Oh. Privet, kotenok,” he murmured, more to himself than anything. “Is this your hide spot?”

A kitten blinked back at him, eyes mothlike but focused. Fluffy grey fur shot out in all directions, giving the creature the look of a twitchy, frazzled rain cloud. Bat-like ears flickered this way and that, and little white dappled paws drew in close when Ilya reached out a hand. All at once, the little body let out a fantastic, puffed-up hiss; forceful enough to almost knock itself over.

Ilya pulled his hand away, grinning. “Well done, kotenok, very fierce. You must be a lion. Yes, I think so.” He glanced around him, saw no one, then peered back around the tire. “I think maybe you escaped the zoo. So maybe I bring you back.”

His next reach was greeted with a pitchy yowl and a swat that sent the kitten wobbling. Ilya clicked his tongue, murmuring nonsense as the animal glared at him, looking more embarrassed than angry – or maybe he was imagining things. He had always liked his schoolmates’ pets better than he liked their owners, come to think of it.

“Okay, kotenok, you will not like this plan,” Ilya started again. “This–,” he tapped the tire’s rubber sidewall. “Is no place for you. Someone will come to drive and then, well.” Ilya frowned, wrinkling his nose as the thought turned on him. “We do not want you to be accident, kotenok.”

Ilya dropped out of the crouch onto his backside. The leaves were damp enough to soak the dry-fit fabric, but he didn’t care. He glanced around himself, at the porches and trashcans, thinking. He looked back to the furball underneath the car, who seemed to have gotten a little braver and inched a little closer. Humming, Ilya pulled his shirt off over his head. November was definitely too cold for that normally, but he was making a bet. He sat as still and relaxed as he could, palms on the pavement and head tipped back like the late autumn sun could warm him before it crested the roofs of the neighborhood. He felt time tick by in his skin as he pretended to lounge there, sweat-damp shirt in his lap.

The kitten moved forward, bit by bit. Regarding him with big dark eyes and more suspicion than such a small body should be able to hold. Its ears twitched and whiskers flinched. Ilya wondered if the creature was moving towards him or towards an escape route. He didn’t know what it was thinking, but was certain of his own reflexes. He knew they were quick, explosive when he wanted to be, and moments later, he was proven right once more.

The kitten hopped up onto the curb. Half a breath later, Ilya nabbed it by the scruff and plopped it into his tee shirt. It put up a cursory fight until the fabric swaddled its paws and little body.

“Sorry, kotenok,” Ilya said, pushing himself back up to standing with the grumpy swaddled cat cradled against his chest. “It is for the best. You are better like this than hurt, yes?” He fished his house keys out of his shorts pocket as he bounded up the steps to his door. “You will see. Promise.”

The animal hissed and sulked as they crossed the threshold. Ilya, shivering from the cold, toed out of his shoes and stepped into the kitchen. He glanced around the open space, then down at the animal.

“Ah.” He pursed his lips. “This is too much space. If you get the whole house, then I will never find you again.” He scratched behind the kitten’s ears with two fingers. “You, I think, are sneaky. I am sneaky too, so I understand this.”

He glanced around, walking further into the house. He’d never had a kitten before, or any pet to speak of. He’d always wanted one, yes, but daydreaming didn’t translate to research or being prepared for reality. Ilya wandered through his kitchen, then the living room, looped back down the hall to go upstairs into his bedroom. He surveyed each room, and pushed them aside one by one for varying reasons. 

“Okay,” Ilya said to himself, shutting his bedroom door. “I need a shower. You need to stay put.” His eyes landed on a laundry basket left next to the hamper by the house keeper. “Maybe?”

He placed it on the bed, studying the holes in the sides of it, then grabbed a throw blanket on the end of the mattress before unswaddling the kitten. It batted little paws at him, tail curling and uncurling in displeasure. Ilya held it by the scruff again, draping the blanket inside the basket with one hand. 

“Okay, so. Nest.” He gently placed the kitten into the bottom of the basket. While it was distracted by the texture under its paws, he ran a finger down its back and scratched behind its ears again. It peered up at him, a little snarly but not with so much hatred any more. “I do not care if you scratch or yell or piss on this, okay? But you stay here, this is yours until…” Ilya frowned. “Until we have something else.”

The bed was too high up, so he moved the basket to the ground and left it close to the bathroom door. He left the bathroom door open as he stripped out of his workout gear and determined not to take his time showering. Every few seconds, he stole glances at the door, watching the green knit blanket shiver and twitch around the sides of the laundry basket as – he guessed – the little animal scuttled about, tried climbing, tried digging to escape. 

When he was finished, toweled off, and pulling on a fresh pair of boxers, he wandered back over to the basket, phone in hand. He snapped a picture and sent it to Svetlana. 

Found underneath a car. Keep or no?

Her answer was near-immediate: take it to the vet first!

Ilya looked at the phone, then back at the kitten. “Changed plan, kotenok. We are not going to take the little lion back to the zoo.” He dangled his hand at the edge of the basket again, pleased that the kitten took a few sniffs of his fingers before trying an experimental pretend-bite. “I think we will go to the doctor. Do you know this one? I will have to find one. And maybe another way to take you there.”

Thirty minutes later, Ilya Rozanov was dressed and in the back of an Uber headed in the direction of the nearest veterinarian’s office. The small grey kitten was once again pressed against his chest, swaddled in a kitchen towel and zipped into the front of his jacket. Big eyes stared up at him as he pet the soft top of her head, murmuring in his mother tongue. It needed a name, he realized as the car turned a corner. The receptionist would ask for a name.

“Kitty,” Ilya mused to himself. “That will be good enough for now.”

The little cat chirped in response. Good enough.

December 2013

“What are you going to do when you go back home?” Svetlana asked, sounding almost bored. Ilya knew she wasn’t, because otherwise her nose would be in her phone and she would be ignoring him rather than talking. That, or she would find a reason to leave his house altogether.

“For summer, you mean?” Ilya rolled his head on the pillow to look up at her. An old San Jose-Seattle game played on the television in front of the bed, though he couldn’t see it for the tufts of fur and flickering tail curled up on his chest.

Svetlana hummed and nodded, eyes on the television screen. “Yes. When you go to Russia, what will you do with her?”

Ilya frowned. “I’ll take her with me?”

 It was a stupid question, and he almost said so. He hadn’t intended to keep the kitten he’d pulled from underneath a car the month before, but Ilya wasn’t looking to give the animal up any time soon. That first appointment had revealed Kitty to be a girl, around four or five months old, and a little skinny but healthy. The tech guessed something had happened to her mother, or she’d gotten separated from the litter, but stressed it was only a guess.

I can put you in touch with some local fosters and adoption groups if you’d like, the vet had offered with a kind smile.

Ilya had stood there, petting her soft head, and trying to will himself to agree. He hadn’t been able to. He’d gone home with a week’s worth of proper food, a soft-sided cat carrier, and a few more appointments in the future. Kitty – the name had stuck – had gotten fitted with a collar and temporary tags that jangled when she shook out her fur.

“Are you sure you can?” Svetlana pressed. Real feeling had seeped into her voice, even as she kept her gaze straight ahead.

“Does it matter?” Ilya asked. His hand found Kitty, two fingers scratching along her neck and back. “It’s months from now. I’m sure a nice check would solve it, even if it was a problem.”

As if on cue, the cat tumbled and rolled off Ilya’s chest onto the comforter. She wriggled on her back, white dipped paws batting playfully at her own tail as her breathing went huffy and funny with the effort. Ilya snickered and rolled onto his stomach to watch her. He was probably a little too indulgent, probably not being the most logical, but he’d learned in the last few years how easily money smoothed the way forward.

It hadn’t been so hard of an adjustment. He paid his housekeeper a little more to check the litter box and water bowl. Svetlana had been bribed easily enough to come watch her when Boston had been gone for a handful of away games. Money hardly smoothed things over with his friend, but she had never turned down a more material bribe. A pair of cashmere-lined leather gloves and a new scarf had been the price for Ilya’s most recent overnight trip to Dallas.

Ilya curled a finger to scratch underneath Kitty’s jaw, chuckling to himself as she leaned into it, her paws wrapping around his hand to hold it in place. Or, at least, he told himself that was what she was doing. Svetlana had told him he was making her too human in his mind. Ilya didn’t have it in him to disagree.

“What?” he picked up, turning his eyes back to Svetlana. “Are you offering to keep her for me?”

Her brows pinched together and she spared him a half-second glance. “No. I can’t. Not for the whole summer.”

“Okay, then no problem,” Ilya replied with a shrug. “She comes with me, sees Moscow. It will be fine.”

Svetlana didn’t say anything for a long time. She stared at the game, making faces whenever passes two weeks in the past went wide or missed their target entirely. Eventually, she sighed and crossed her arms. “I hope you are planning to keep her, if you are going to do all this.”

Ilya squinted at her. “What are you saying?”

“You get bored.” Svetlana’s gaze finally landed on him, meeting his eyes for a whole second before turning back to the television screen. “When you get bored of something, you put it away. Put it aside. Forget about it.” Another pointed look Ilya felt in the center of his chest. “Don’t do that to this cat.”

Any retort or argument Ilya might have had died in his throat. He pressed the tip of his tongue to the edge of his top teeth, leaning his cheek against his fist. Kitty flopped over onto her stomach, creeping close to curl up in the space between his bicep and his chest. The press of her nuzzling her head into his body drew his attention away from the sour thoughts curling up in the back of his skull. Ilya sighed, scooped her closer to himself, and settled more comfortably on the duvet.

“I will not get bored of you, Katusha,” Ilya murmured. The cat kept nuzzling, and started purring. Ilya petted her more, soaking in the vibrations.

When he looked back to Svetlana, her face wasn’t so tight. It hadn’t softened, but there was something fond among the flintiness of her stare.

“Maybe she will be good for me,” he said. He meant it.

His friend rolled her eyes, shaking her head. “Maybe you’ll just spoil her rotten, like a little princess.” Svetlana rolled onto her side, extending a hand for Kitty to sniff until she rubbed her furry face against Svetlana’s fingers. “Katusha?”

Ilya hummed. “Problem?”

Svetlana shook her head. “No problem.” A small smile crossed her face as the cat began to headbutt her palm. “Yekaterina Ilynichna, malenkaya printessa.”

“You said it, not me.”

February 2014

The return trip was a slog. Trudging through airport terminals, presenting passport and boarding pass, and hefting bags into the overhead rack as petite flight attendants thanked him in Russian, in Italian, in English. By the time his final flight touched down at Boston Logan, Ilya was ready to drop. Thirty-six hours in a seat, in the air, left to his own devices, meant Ilya was too familiar with his own brain by the time he jammed his key into the lock on his front door.

It was just past eight at night. Street lights and door lights were the only illumination against the winter dark. It was a steady march towards spring, towards longer days and the annual fuckery that was daylight savings. Not even that could put a dent in Ilya’s dragging mood.

Bags were dropped unceremoniously at the front door. Shoes were kicked off with no care as to wear they landed. Ilya managed to shuck his coat before he dropped into a crouch and began digging through his backpack. 

Phone, check.

Passport, check.

Headphones, check.

Belya Mishka plush—

His thoughts, stagnant as they were, were blown apart by a loud, insistent yowl. Growing closer and closer with the patter of padded feet, and a skitter of claws sliding out at a turn. Ilya turned to stare into the darkness of the house, just in time to see a small shape rushing towards him. For the first time in days, he managed a smile.

“Katusha,” Ilya greeted, voice raspy and low. He rolled down onto the floor and crossed his legs, back pressed against the door. “Privet, moya lyubimaya.”

Kitty bounded up to him and into his lap. Standing on her hind legs, she pawed at his chest and chirruped at him. Indignant and suffering, but only because she was fantastically dramatic – the same as Ilya. Her long tail swished back and forth. Her whiskers twitched with each new noise.

“Did you miss me? Hmm?”

Ilya raised both hands to run them down her fur. He scratched behind her ears, under her collar, smoothed the long silvery grey fur down her back all the way to her tail, curling happily around his fingers and wrist. 

After two years, she was a fully grown cat, no matter how Ilya wanted to deny it in his head. At almost three years old, Kitty was no longer a dust-clump that made up its mind to be an animal. She was bigger, sleeker, often perched on the counters like a queen holding court or draped over Ilya’s shoulders like an expensive furry accessory. Her eyes were still large, but less moth-like and bewildered. Her fur had turned long, sleek and silky as she trotted along behind him. He’d had to get her two new collars and a harness to pounce around on leaves while he smoked outside. He had her chipped at the vet’s office just in case. Svetlana no longer looked at him like he was going to change his mind between breaths.

Ilya bent forward and kissed the top of her small head. “Don’t worry. I missed you most.”

He was hungry. He was tired. The wood floor and a heavy wooden door did not make the most pleasant bed, but Ilya couldn’t be arsed to move. Not before, and certainly not now that he was under an affectionate assault by a chatty feline. Kitty continued to purr and chirp, headbutting his chest and stretching her body up to nuzzle at his jaw. Her paws pressed in rhythm like she was kneading bread until Ilya scooped her up to nuzzle her right back. She arched and purred, curling up like a baby in his arms.

“What do you think?” he asked. “Should we turn on lights? Pretend like we are home?” He kissed her head again. “Maybe we eat something and go to bed, pretending we are not here. What do you think?”

“Mrrr,” was her answer. His stomach growled a moment later.

“Okay, okay. We eat. Maybe there is some bacon for you. We will see.” Ilya steadied her in his arms and pushed up to standing. It was harder without pushing off with a hand, but he managed it well enough. Not that Kitty would have anything to say about it. 

After weeks of commentary, derision, disappointment; of gritting his teeth and holding his face still in front of cameras, ministers, and his own father. Finally, Ilya was back home. Where it was quiet, where it was just his. Where the only disapproval he earned was a stiff snort when the wet food wasn’t mixed in with the dry.

At the kitchen counter, Kitty squirmed out of his hands to land primly on the granite. She shook herself out, then bounced back up to land on Ilya’s shoulders. He laughed as she landed, sure-footed like a mountain goat even without using her claws. In the light of the refrigerator, he reached up to scratch under her chin. There was a pre-portioned meal for him, left that afternoon for his return. Just to the right was a small plastic bag filled with fried half-strips of turkey bacon.

She had earned the treat, he decided. Just for being happy to see him.

November 2014

Rozanov’s phone buzzed as they were redressing. Shane noted his smile as he tugged his own sweatshirt over his head, feeling warmth twist through his chest. It was a bright, almost toothy smile; bigger than the pressed-lip look he usually had. Not that Shane was one to judge when he had to remind himself to smile at all, lest someone say for the umpteenth time how he wasn’t the most social.

“What are you smiling about?” Shane drawled. He leaned back onto his hands, letting his legs dangle off the sides. “Am I just that good?”

Rozanov glanced at him as he typed out his answer. “You are very good, Hollander,” he answered. “If only your team could score.” He pocketed his phone and walked back over to the bed. Joggers on, shirtless, he flopped down onto his back next to Shane. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” Shane said.

“I did. I said you were good.”

“My first question.” Shane rolled his eyes. “It’s okay if it’s private. You know. You don’t have to tell me.”

“No, you will like this, mister real estate,” Rozanov answered. He rolled his head on the comforter, grinning up at Shane. “I bought a house. I will be moving.”

Shane’s eyebrows raised. “No shit? I thought you liked, um, your neighborhood.” Rozanov snickered at him and he huffed. “I forgot the name. Sue me.”

“No, no, no suing,” Rozanov chuckled. “But I will laugh.”

“Are you excited about it?”

“Not all of us are sluts for architecture, Hollander.” Rozanov rolled his shoulders and stretched in place. “Yes, I am. It will be better, I think.”

“Oh yeah?”

“The house is closer to the practice facility, but I will miss downtown.” Rozanov hummed, lips pursing in consideration. “I will have to drive her though.” He exhaled and clicked his tongue. “She hates the car, Hollander. It is unbelievable. You would think I was kidnapping her the way she makes mad faces at me.”

Her. The word struck Shane across the head like a baseball bat. “Um?”

Rozanov hadn’t heard him, or if he had it didn’t stop him from talking. “She never makes a mad face at me on airplanes. Only in the car.”

Shane nodded, thinking he could feign it. He soon gave up. “I’m sorry. Who?”

Rozanov blinked at him. “Kitty, Hollander.”

“Oh.” That didn’t land in the post code of an answer, but Shane shrugged it off. 

They didn’t have much time together and he wasn’t going to fuck it up by asking too many questions. What did he care if Rozanov talked about someone he didn’t know? Maybe it was his housekeeper, or a team trainer who made house calls – Rozanov had landed weirdly on his shoulder going over the boards a few weeks ago. It didn’t matter, Shane told himself. Just another person the way his cousins or private chef were.

“I take her back to Russia every summer and she is fine,” Rozanov continued breezily. “Hours of staying in one place and she is just fine. But ten minutes in the car for an appointment? I am the world’s worst monster. Should sleep with one eye open for the next month.”

So not a housekeeper or a trainer. Probably not a private chef either. Shane cleared his throat and swallowed. “Maybe her, um, issue is with your car, Rozanov.”

“Anyone would be lucky to be in an Evora, Hollander.”

“Oh sure, especially with you driving like a bat out of hell.”

Rozanov scoffed in protest. “I am a perfect driver.”

“I’m so sure.”

“I am. Ask the police. I have never had one ticket.”

Shane couldn’t help laughing. “Right, and I’m the king of England.” Their laughter trailed off. Time was ticking down, and Shane could feel it in his pulse. Rozanov didn’t seem in any rush to go, “So, she, um. She goes to Russia with you?”

“Yes, she does. I cannot just leave her alone for three months, Hollander.” Rozanov’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out to read and type a response. He found Shane’s eyes again over the top of the phone. “She is very cute, Hollander. Do you want to see a picture?”

Shane stiffened up at the question. “No, thanks. I’m good.”

Rozanov stopped typing, a funny look crossing his features. Sly, curious, a little too feline to be completely innocent. He tucked away his phone, then rolled up to sitting. A moment later, his hand is on the back of Shane’s head, holding him steady as Rozanov kisses him. Slow, steady, slick slides of his tongue and nips at his lower lip that had Shane’s head going cottony all over again.

 “Hmm, I think you would like her, Hollander,” Rozanov said as he pulled away. He leaned in again, then nipped at the curve of Shane’s jaw. “You make mad faces at me also.”

When Rozanov was gone and Shane was showered a second time, his head was still reeling on all that new. So much new. Mad faces and new houses. Someone named Kitty that Rozanov had to drive to his new place, but who also came with him to Russia and hated cars – or, at the very least, hated how Rozanov drove his collection of ridiculous sports cars. His brain hummed and reeled, distracting enough he decided not to drive back to his own home.

Kitty. The name bounced around Shane’s skull like a pinball in a machine. He frowned at the ceiling, fidgeted under the sheets, tipped his face back and forth on the pillow that still smelled like Rozanov’s cologne and warm skin.

Personal assistant, Shane decided just before his head turned to active revolt. Kitty had to be Rozanov’s assistant, or maybe his agent. That made the most sense. Someone who was around him enough to know where he lived both in the US and in Moscow, but who didn’t live with him. Not a girlfriend, not another hook up, a team member. Professional, cordial.

Yeah, Shane thought, stomach clenching and unclenching. That makes the most sense.

April 2015

“Last game of the roadtrip,” Shane said, skin still cooling in the afterglow. The sweat had dried, but neither of them had gotten up to shower yet. Shane had a good feeling they might have a little bit longer this time. Or, he hoped they did.

“Yes, thank god,” Rozanov sighed. He was sprawled out on top of the comforter, bronze in the low lamplight. His curls were a wreck, his arms propping up his head as he stared at the ceiling.

“Homesick?” Shane slouched down against the headboard a little lower; his foot brushing against Rozanov’s thigh.

Rozanov nodded, arching his back as he inhaled. “Sick of hotels.” He dropped back against the mattress. “I miss my bed, not sharing a bathroom with Connors, and my little Katushka.”

Shane blinked. Rozanov pulled out enough Russian around him that Shane could recognize some words, even if he didn’t know what they all meant. That was a new one, however. Close to a few of the others – konechno, kotenok, chainika – but not quite right.

He took one breath, then another. “What’s a katushka?”

“Kitty,” Rozanov said brightly. “It’s a, um, a small name –?”

“Nickname?” Shane supplied.

“Yes. It’s a nickname for her, from me.” A goofy, crooked smile crossed Rozanov’s face and a stone settled heavy in Shane’s stomach. “She acts like she does not miss me too, but I know she does.” He laughed lightly, boyish and intoxicating. “I come home and she is in the middle of the bed. Like she owns it, looks at me like I have abandoned her.”

“Oh.”

“Then, I make dinner and she loves me again. Easy.”

Love, Shane’s brain came to a hard stop at the word. His fingers shook and his pulse was making itself known in his wrists. This Kitty person loved Ilya, slept in his bed, and Ilya had just said so. Out loud, easy-as-anything, the simplest thing to ever leave his mouth in either of his two languages.

His throat felt tight. He managed a nod, a hum like he was listening, but his brain had stopped taking anything in. His ears had turned themselves off. His head was consumed. He only just registered Rozanov getting up to go shower before he left for his hotel; only just remembered that he was across town from his own place and would have to, eventually, clean up too. 

Shane slid down onto the pillows, crossing his arms underneath the one under his head. He kept his breathing even, steady, not giving in to the stinging feeling worming its way up his throat. 

He wasn’t jealous. He couldn’t be jealous. Jealousy, envy, meant this whole arrangement had gravity, had weight. That it meant something to Shane, and it couldn’t. It couldn’t mean anything before, and certainly not now. They had never defined anything – purposefully never. Boundaries were fine until the rug was yanked out from underneath them, and the boundaries got tighter, narrower, until they were close enough to strangle. No labels, more deniability, better odds at a thread of safety for them both.

This person, this Kitty, whoever the fuck she was. Ilya talked about her like Shane should just know, like Shane knew her. He had never explained, never filled in blanks. How long had she been around? How had they met? Surely it was serious, if she was telling Ilya she loved him, which meant there had to be pictures floating around out there somewhere. 

But, even still, how serious could it be if Ilya was still texting him. Coming to find him. Fucking him into the mattress every chance he got, and the last chance had been in Ilya’s own bed in Boston, so they couldn’t be living together. So what did she have on him? 

Other than everything? Shane’s nose curled up in a snarl. 

A woman was easier to explain. It’s why he was Jane and Ilya was Lily. No one questioned a woman’s name. No one questioned a woman on their arms, in their beds or cars. A woman was expected, predictable, the usual. There was no reason to hide.

Shane wasn’t an idiot. He didn’t live under a rock. He was aware of Ilya’s persona, the playboy-partyboy swagger he carried off perfectly. Enviably charming, someone on his arm whenever he wanted.

He has you whenever he wants too, a small bitter voice in his head reminded him. 

Shane squeezed the pillow harder and turned his face down into the fabric. Face pressed to cotton, breathing in and out. If a little dampness leaked out the corner of his eyes, so be it. The fabric wicked it away in a second, never to be seen. As if it hadn’t been there to start.

October 2016

Ilya sagged against the door frame, swallowed hard around the stubborn lump in his throat. “Katushka, please.”

Kitty blinked at him, slow and pleased with herself. Her body wriggled as she pulled her legs in to loaf better on the crumpled fabric on Ilya’s floor.

“Katushka, that is not yours,” Ilya sighed. “You can’t sleep on it. That is–.”

His voice broke off. Humiliation slapped him for a second time, followed by a vicious bite of anger. They were Shane’s, the clothes his stupid cat was making a fresh bed out of. Shane’s shirt. Shane’s jacket. Shane’s fucking pants–.

Ilya moved forward before he could think. He snagged a corner of the brown leather jacket and yanked it. 

“Mrow!” 

Kitty bolted under the bed, far enough that Ilya lost sight of her. Suddenly, he was back in his right mind. Suddenly, he could feel worry wrapping itself around his throat. Suddenly, he was just a man standing in the middle of his bedroom. A stupid man, he thought, holding someone’s forgotten clothes. A stupid man who had succeeded in nothing except scaring the shit out of his cat.

He dropped the jacket back into the heap. He turned his back on it. He knelt down at the side of the bed, bending to peer under the frame for any sight of stung green eyes or protectively-wrapped tail. His eyes adjusted and he saw her. Her back was to him. Her body still and pulled into a tight ball.

“Katushka,” Ilya said. He felt heavy. His throat was tight and his voice was wet, and he hated the sound of it. “Kitty, mne zhal, lyubimaya.”

Nothing. Not a flicker, or a twitch, or a curious turn of an ear. 

Of course not, Ilyusha, she’s a cat! Svetlana’s voice echoed in his head. She doesn’t speak English. She doesn’t speak Russian. And you don’t speak cat!

It had been a joke when she said it, months and months ago. Now, he very dearly wished he did speak cat because maybe then the last other living thing in the house wouldn’t hate him.

“Please.” Ilya inhaled. It sounded suspiciously like sniffling and, once again, humiliation invaded. Pleading for the second time in so many hours, on his knees no less. “Please.”

Nothing. Still nothing.

Ilya pulled himself upright, the blood in his head making him dizzy for a moment. He clutched the duvet as he rose back to his feet. He held onto it without looking at the bed for a long time. He couldn’t look at the bed. He couldn’t look at the clothes. He couldn’t look at the plates in the sink, or the bar stool still pulled out just enough, or the throw pillow set back wrong from where Shane–.

Ilya swabbed a hand over his face. He pulled a sweatshirt off the floor as he walked back to the bedroom door. He nearly walked into the wall yanking it over his head, but the flush of embarrassment paled in comparison to the rest of what was running roughshod through his system.

There were cigarettes in his backpack. A lighter in the kitchen. No one was around to stop him until every last one was burnt down to the filters. Until the smoke burned his lungs and a haze lingered in the house. Ilya slammed the kitchen drawer shut, turning the lighter through his fingers with practiced ease. His phone was somewhere, and he had no reason to find it. He didn’t even know what time it was.

No one was around. No one was going to stop him. No one cared. 

Ilya’s fingers shook as he struck the wheel over and over. As the end caught and smoldered.

No one cared. Not even his cat.

All Stars, February 2017

Shane felt warm, but it wasn’t all due to the Florida sun or the beers he’d been drinking. Victory still sang in his blood and nerves, feeling as giddy as he did when he was a kid. Rose had asked him when it stopped being fun once; he wanted to text her and say he knew what she meant now. But that could wait.

It would wait. Because Ilya’s shoulder was pressed against his, their whole team crammed around the table, strategizing with looser and looser tongues for the game the next day. Shane felt the urge to be serious, to really talk shop. Every time his brain almost got the upper hand, Ilya’s knee would bump his, or his shoulder would jostle Shane’s, or his foot would slide against his own under the table.

Eventually the conversation slid into more casual topics. Eventually, there was a bit more food on the table to soak up the alcohol. Eventually, Shane leaned forward onto the table as Rozanov sprawled in his chair behind him, and he would never admit to the curling happy warmth in his chest.

“Hey, Roz,” a defenseman called from down the table — Vicks or something, Boston had traded him two years ago. “How’s the old lady?”

“I’ll tell Kitty you said that, called her old. So much disrespect,” Ilya shot back, teasing smile well in place. “She just had fifth birthday check up, and the vet said only things I already know.”

Vet? Shane’s head buzzed. Five?

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“That she is beautiful, very sweet, and in very good health,” Ilya answered. “Never say I do not take very good care of my girl.”

The defenseman put his hands up in mock surrender. “Never in a million years, bro. You give her a treat or something from my girls, okay? They keep asking me for a cat because of you.”

Shane waited until the conversation turned to someone else’s kids, family, recent trades. Then, he turned to Ilya. “Cat?”

Ilya looked at him oddly. “You know about Kitty, Hollander.” 

“Yeah, I do, sure, but um.” Shane pauses for another drink .“I’ve never seen pictures of her.”

“I will show you.” Ilya brightened and dug his phone out of his pocket. A few flicks of the thumb later, Shane was holding a cellphone and staring at a very elegant looking housecat. Ilya was staring at him, assessing him. Sort of preening, if Shane was honest, but it didn’t make his skin prickle like it might have once upon a time.

“Rozanov,” Shane said evenly.

“Hollander,” Ilya parroted with a smirk.

Shane turned the phone screen to him. “Rozanov.”

“Hollander.” Ilya’s brows furrowed, confusion evident on his face. “What?”

Shane pointed at the screen. “That’s a cat.”

Ilya nodded. “Yes. She’s a cat.” He coughed into his fist. “She is my cat. Are you new here, Hollander?”

Shane turned the phone screen off, handing it  back to him. He exhaled softly, then leaned in closer and dropped his voice. “I thought she was another girl,” he admitted. “Like Svetlana, I thought–. Fucking hell, Roz.”

“Hollander.”

“Shut up.”

“Are you saying you were jealous of my cat?”

“You never said she was a cat,” Shane argued, a pink flush burning up the back of his neck.

“I did.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did too.”

“You wicked did not, never, not once,” Shane protested. “Say you had a cat, Rozanov.” Shane stopped himself. He sucked in a breath with a rueful little smirk. He exhaled: “Jesus fucking Christ."

Ilya snorted a laugh, playing with the label on the beer bottle. “I will tell kitty the moment I get home. She will be so proud. The great Shane Hollander thought she was stealing his man.”

“Shut up, someone will–.”

“No one will hear.” Ilya took a pull off of his bottle, the golden liquid sloshing up against the glass like a wave. It took everything for Shane not to watch the man’s throat work. “I found her when she was a kitten. She was hiding under a car. I got her to trust me with bacon.”

“That can’t be good for cats,” Shane said.

Ilya shrugged. “Better than being squished by a car tire.”

“Touche…” Shane held his breath for a long moment. “How long have you had her?”

“Twenty-twelve.”

Shane frowned. “But I’ve been to your house at least dozen times since then.”

“Yes, but you are not special.” Ilya pulled himself upright in his chair. “She is not so friendly with new people. She does not cuddle just anyone, Hollander. Only me, Svetlana, and sometimes the cleaners. None of my team mates. She hides in the bathroom during parties.”

“Oh.” Shane pulled in another breath. That made sense. It made all the sense in the world. The next words out of his mouth felt dangerously on the line between too little and too much. “Can I, um. Can I meet her?”

Ilya’s brows raised in surprise. “You are going to come over again?”

“I–.” Shane fumbled with his bottle, forcing himself to look Ilya in the eyes. “I’m sorry, y’know, about the last time. That wasn’t fair, I shouldn’t have–.”

“Panicked. Yes, you said.” Ilya took another drink.

Shane bit the tip of his tongue. He was out of words. This wasn’t the best place for apologies or pleas, anything that might give their tipsy compatriots reason to suspect them once they’d gone to their rooms. He thought hard about his breathing, about the peeled label under the pad of his thumb. Anything other than, Ilya’s eyes resting on the skin of his neck from the next chair over. 

“But. Maybe.” Ilya slouched in his chair again. “Maybe, next game in Boston, you can come over.” He cleared his throat. “I could give you bacon, and we will see if she comes out.”

“You–.” The invitation pulled Shane up short. He looked at Ilya in disbelief, heart beating rabbit fast under his skin where no one else could see it or hear it. “I wouldn’t blame you if you never want to open your door for me again.”

Ilya shrugged, as nonchalant as ever. No one would suspect it, but Shane could see the barest flicker of warmth around the edges of his eyes, of something just like hope pinched in the corner of his mouth. “Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. But, maybe, you knock first. It’s only fair, Hollander”

March 2017

Shane fidgeted at the front door, trying to keep himself from glancing through the windows every thirty seconds. He was failing, more or less, but he knew he had every reason in the world to. It had only been a scant few weeks since he and Rozanov – Ilya, he reminded himself; he wasn’t going to be afraid of saying a name anymore – had seen each other. Not enough time to get cold again, not enough time to lose his nerve entirely. 

Even still, Shane could feel Ilya’s arms tight around him from the hotel room, like an imprint. He would have been lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to feeling it again.

The deadbolt slid out of place and the front door swung open. Ilya stood in the center, fully dressed this time in Adidas sportswear that Shane could hardly imagine him without. Behind him, the house hadn’t obviously changed much since Shane had run from it months before, but Ilya had. There was something softer in his face; something guarded in the square of his shoulders. Shane felt guilty as hell over it, but Ilya still let him over the threshold anyway.

Small victories. Good enough.

As soon as the door was closed and locked, Ilya had him pressed against it, kissing him. Shane fisted a hand in the front of his shirt, embracing the languid, open-mouthed movements; letting them stoke the feeling he’d been craving, been missing, for half a year.

“Hi,” Ilya said as they pulled apart.

“Hey,” Shane said back. “Thanks for having me.”

Thanks for opening the door. Thanks for letting me back in. I’m not sure if I deserve it yet–.

“Thank you for coming.” Ilya pushed off the door, putting some space between them, but not much. “Come in. Let’s see if moya oblaka will come out from wherever she’s hiding.”

“Your…” Shane’s brows knit as he thought. “You’re still talking about the cat, right?”

Ilya laughed. “Yes, I am still talking about the cat.” He nodded towards the kitchen and they walked together, shoes off. “Her name is Kitty. Very original, yes, but I thought I would come up with a better one. Svetlana, my friend, she calls her Yekaterina Ilynichna, because she decides to be proper with a cat.”

“And you give her all the silly nicknames?” Shane supplied with a wry smile. Ilya flashed a smile his way. “Some of the guys have dogs, and I swear they call them every name but the one on the collar.”

“It is the same here.” Ilya paused at the refrigerator. For a moment, Shane was mildly overwhelmed by a case of deja vu, but he pushed past it when he saw a strip of bacon in Ilya’s hand. “Kitty, Katusha, Katushka, moya prakh, moya oblaka. My girl, my shadow. Whichever one comes out first.”

“Makes sense.” Shane watched as Ilya pulled a chunk of bacon from the strip and handed it to him. “Thanks.”

“Okay, so now, you sit and we wait.”

Shane glanced around, then sank to the floor in front of the cabinets. He pulled his knees up, holding the bacon lazily in his fingers and pressing his back to the wood. Ilya joined him, shoulder to shoulder as the conversation fizzled between them. For a few minutes, they sat just like that, in silence. After a bit, Ilya clicked his tongue and made a small hissing noise.

A moment later, Shane catches the sound of nails on floor. Lighter than Mitty’s dog, but no less animal. Coming closer and closer. He blinked. He took a breath. Suddenly, Shane had an armful of cat. Silky, almost glamorous, silver-grey cat, chomping at the bacon precariously close to Shane’s fingertips.

“Wow,” he laughed. “You weren’t kidding, Ilya.”

In the corner of his eye, Ilya looked satisfied, pleased. “See? My most beautiful girl.”

“I see, I do.” Shane released the strip of bacon, but Kitty stayed where she was. Purring as loud as Shane had ever heard, chewing on the treat like it was her life’s work. When she was done, she flopped around like a fish on a line until she was on her hind legs. Her front paws felt like they held all her weight against Shane’s chest as she made funny noises like a bird, tail flickering and head nudging up against Shane’s chin.

Ilya reached for her, an apologetic glint in his eye. “Okay, okay, Katushka, you are too– hey!”

Shane’s head knocked back against the cabinets as Kitty swatted her owner’s hand. Another puffed up little chirrup at Ilya, and she had turned back to Shane for more attention. He grinned at Ilya. “Gosh. Do you give her any love at all? She’s starved for it, Roz.”

Ilya rolled his eyes. “Shut up, Hollander.”

“Make me.”

A few minutes rolled by. The bacon-driven frenzy ended and Kitty hopped off Shane’s lap to trot towards a convenient bit of sunbeam by the front door. Ilya watched her go, then held out a hand to help Shane off the floor. 

He held his hand tight as he smiled. “So. Hollander. Now that you have the girl’s approval–.”

“Ilya.” Shane couldn’t hide his laughter.

Ilya leaned in for a soft press of lips, nearly chaste but brimming with promise. “I think I have time to fuck you.”

Shane exhaled. “Yeah?”

“Yes, I think so.”