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***
Shane Hollander is the most boring person in the world.
He looks boring, he talks boring, he wears boring clothes.
Everything about Shane Hollander is so fucking boring…
Ilya is so fucking in love with every little boring thing.
1 – July 2010 – Toronto – a pair of black sweatpants
***
The t-shirt is soft under his hands. Ilya can feel the burning hot skin through the soft material as he slides his hands up Hollander’s torso.
Boring black well-worn t-shirt on a boring shy Canadian boy. It’s ridiculous that the boy almost makes Ilya – who’s used to hooking up in clubs with girls dressed up to the nines – almost come the moment he swallows his cock.
“Not fair” he says later while taking off his own clothes “I want to see you too”
“You saw me in the showers” Hollander replies like he’s only allocated a certain amount of time that he can spend naked.
“I want to see more” Ilya demands. He wants to see everything. He’s fucked dozens of people, but nobody fucking made him more curios than Shane Hollander
He watches hungrily as Hollander methodically takes over his sweatpants.
And then folds them.
Ilya can’t help grinning. It’s…Curious doesn’t even cover it. He’s so fucking fascinated by this guy. The crazy juxtaposition of killer hockey skills and shy nature, not being able to look him in the eyes and dropping to his knees and swallowing Ilya’s cock down in one go; beautiful face and kind warm eyes.
Ilya watches as Hollander takes off and folds his underwear in the same methodical way and then turns around.
“Well” now that he’s naked, there is no shyness in him suddenly.
Ilya’s breath catches in his throat.
He likes trouble. But it occurs to him briefly through the haze of desire and fascination that Shane Hollander is the most trouble he’s ever been in.
***
He gets used – definitely not fond of – Shane Hollander’s clothes. Soft hoodies and plain t-shirts. Brand deals sponsored athletic wear.
So very boring.
Making Hollander look so very cosy and familiar. Making him feel like (home).
2 – June 2016 – NHL awards in Vegas – a grey hoodie
***
It happens by mistake.
It’s been an altogether good season. Ilya had a strange loss strike in March but recovered quickly. Raiders played well and made it far in the playoffs, but in the end Montreal smashed them and skated to the fucking 2nd cup in as many years.
It should have smarted and of course it did. Ilya hates losing. But somehow he couldn’t make himself hate the outcome. He’ll fucking destroy Montreal next season, but today... Today he’ll just watch the proud smile on Sh… Hollander’s face.
He’s been looking forward to the Awards since the playoffs finished. He hasn’t seen Hollander since their last game in May and he’s feeling like an addict itching for another doze.
He just really wants to see him before he has to go back to Moscow and deal with all the shit that is his fucking family. The thought itself puts him on edge as he dresses up for the event but he stomps it out. For the last couple of years, he’s been making a conscious effort to not allow the ugliness of his life to spill over his time with Hollander, so rare and…
He books a late afternoon flight out of Vegas, no rush to get anywhere. And just to spite Hollander he rents a penthouse.
“Did you win some imaginary cup that I don’t know about?” Hollander says instead of greeting the moment the door gets shut behind him.
“It’s for the one I’m going to win next year” Ilya replies casually leaning back against the doorframe as he watches Hollander take a few steps inside and turn around. The Canadian has switched his tuxedo jacket for a grey hoodie.
“You know what they say - don’t count your chickens before they hatch”
“What?” Ilya snorts “What kind of stupid saying is that? Why do you count chickens?”
“Well, what do you say in Russian when somebody is being obnoxious?”
“Don’t split the fur of the bear you haven’t killed yet” Ilya says automatically and then does his best to translate.
“And that’s better?” Hollander scowls
“Yes” Ilya claims resolutely and steps forward “What are you wearing, Hollander? Got something spilled on your tux?”
The Canadian grimaces “JJ is really drunk. He spilled a whole glass of red wine on my shirt”
Ilya can’t help the smile that spreads on his face. He doesn’t know why knowing Shane brings him such a sense of satisfaction but it does.
“How tragic” Ilya stalks towards Hollander until he’s pressed against one of the doorframe of the bedroom “Do you plan on salvaging it or can you afford a new one?”
“You are such an asshole” Hollander murmurs and crushes their mouths together.
*
Two orgasms a piece later - a rigorous fuck and slow blowjobs in the shower after - Ilya sits on the bed and watches Hollander dress.
He hates this part. It scares the shit out of him how much he hates the moment one of them has to leave. He doesn’t know what alternative to leaving would look like, but with every meeting he wants to find out more and more.
Shane doesn’t seem to be in a hurry. He’s got that blissed out, dazed expression on his face that makes Ilya so deeply proud. He moves absentmindedly, none of his usual smooth precision.
Ilya could get up and help him find the clothes scattered all over the hotel room, but he doesn’t. It’d bring the end to this evening even faster. He just watches and tries to soak up every last bit of Shane to tie him over the long summer.
Finally, Hollander pulls on the last item – his grey hoodie.
And immediately looks down at himself confused. The material is too bulky on him, sleeves hanging too low.
“It’s mine” Ilya says. They are hockey players. The each probably own a dozen of neutrally colored sportswear.
“Ah right” Hollander blinks a few times and looks around “Mine’s over there”
“I must have fucked you so good is you can’t recognise your own clothes” He makes himself sound nonchalant, but in truth his heart is suddenly beating 150 an hour and he feels the blood rushing to his cock.
The idea that Shane Hollander in his clothes is doing something strange to his mental state.
“Shut up” Hollander throws back without any venom and pulls the wrong item over his head. Ilya jumps of the bed and crosses the distance separating them in three strides.
“What are you doing?” Hollander stares at him with those dark warm eyes that fucking….
“I decided to give you a - what do you call it? - conciliatory blowjob. For the cup you are going to lose next year”
He drops to his knees.
*
It’s almost three am when Hollander finally leaves - in correct clothes this time. Ilya sees him to the door and then falls into bed and sleeps for 12 hours straight.
He wears the grey hoodie for his flight home. Every time his brain goes dark with anticipation of seeing his father, arguing with Alexey, a million things he’ll have to sort out over the summer… He presses his nose into the fabric and remembers Shane’s moans last night, the glossy look in his eyes and his hands on Ilya’s skin.
***
3 – September 2016 – Montreal – a Boston Raiders Jersey
It’s towards the end of that long miserable summer that the idea comes to him.
It should probably worry him that instead of finding a beautiful woman to sleep with tonight - most of the nights - he’s busy planning the next rendezvous with his hockey rival. It’s not that he’s not enjoying Moscow’s nightlife. He still likes the clubs and dancing with Sveta and great alcohol.
It’s just that…he finds himself thinking about the Canadian. He doesn’t examine it too closely
Lilly: I got an idea
Jane: What idea
Should it feel so good that it takes Sha… Hollander less than 5 minutes to reply?
Lily: First game of the season. In Montreal. Let’s make a bet
Jane: Bet? About what?
Lilly: Who scores more points in the game.
He watches with bated breath as the dots appear and disappear on the screen.
Jane: What does the winner get?
Ilya grins. There is no one in the world more competitive than Shane Hollander. He pretends to think.
Lilly: Hmm. I don’t want to make it too hard for you. How about - if you lose you wear Raider’s jersey. With my number
Jane: Fuck off!!!
Ilya can picture Shane’s exact impression right now. Indignant angry kitten face. He smirks.
Lilly: I thought of asking for a blowjob but then you’d enjoy it more than I do.
Jane: You are an asshole
Lilly: Come on! Are you afraid of losing? You are slacking off this summer, yes? Losing your form?”
Jane: Fuck off
Lilly: Even your swearing is boring
He watches with the bated breath as the dots appear and disappear. Then…
Jane: What do I get if you lose?
His first instinct is to write “Whatever you want. Anytime. Anywhere”.
Lilly Same. I wear terribly Montreal jersey. I make ugly colors look good
Jane: Deal
He doesn’t realise how hard he’s grinning until he raises his head and sees Svetlana giving him a suspicious look. She’s been giving him the looks all summer, clearly surprised by his strange behavior. He gives her a raised eyebrow and she backs down.
He stares back at the exchange, stupid grin returning to his face. He can’t wait for September.
***
Ilya has never played harder than the first Boston Montreal game of the season.
He loves playing against Hollander. He loves beating Hollander. Sometimes he wonders what it’d feel like to play with Hollander.
But today he’s on fire. His game has always been fueled by feelings, good, bad and anything in between. He can’t wait to have Sha… Hollander again tonight - it’s been so many fucking months. And there is an added incentive of their bet.
“Are you ready to deliver?” He texts the moment he’s back in the locker room.
Jane: It was one fucking point!
Lilly: “The bet is the bet. Or are you too chicken?
He gets a middle finger in reply.
***
“So?” Ilya says the moment the door of Hollanders apartment closes behind him “Where is my prize?”
“Oops, they run out of Boston Raiders merchandise in Montreal. Got all burned alongside your mannequin”
One of Ilya’s favourite secret things about Shane Hollander is that he’s salty as fuck. Ilya likes to think he’s one of the few people private to this fact. It makes him want to kiss the Canadian silly. It’s been 5 minutes already since his arrival and they still haven’t kissed.
“Excuses, excuses” Ilya drawls “So, you are a chicken after all?”
Hollander scowls “I managed to salvage one after all” Ilya looks expectantly
“So, what, you want me to just wear it?” Hollander asks, shuffling on his feet like a schoolboy.
“Yep”
Something comes over Hollanders face, a kind of look he gets when he is about to rock Ilya’s world with his little freaky sex brain.
“Go wait in the bedroom” he says calmly before turning around and disappearing in the downstairs bathroom.
The order throws Ilya slightly off balance. It’s not their usual dynamic and he’s got a suspicion that he walked himself into something bigger than he can handle.
Just to be annoying and restore the balance he drops his clothes as he goes up the stairs.
He drops his underwear somewhere by the fake fireplace and climbs onto the immaculately made bed. The sheets feel amazing on his naked skin. It’s Egyptian cotton 1000 - whatever the hell it means. A year ago, he discreetly checked out the label when Hollander wasn’t looking and bought the same brand for his new house. For absolutely no reason.
He leans back against the myriad of pillows and waits.
A few minutes later Hollander appears on top of the stairs. Wearing number 81 Boston Raiders jersey.
And nothing else.
Ilya’s brain short-circuits and his cock jumps from half-mast to hard as a rock in a matter of seconds.
Shane slowly walks towards the end and stops at the end of it, spreading his arms slightly.
“Satisfied?” His eyes move slowly from Ilya’s face to his cock.
It’s not the right word to describe how Ilya feels. He doesn’t actually know if there is a word. Definitely, not in English. Probably, not in Russian either. He thought he wanted to see Hollander wearing his brand. But there is no fucking way to describe in any language he knows, what the actual sight of black and golden jersey against the freckled skin does to his insides.
“You are mine” rushes through his brain.
Ilya’s mouth feels dry as a desert, but he manages to squeeze out “Come here”
Slowly, Hollander climbs on the bed, dark eyes fixed on Ilya’s face. Ilya can see the outline of his hard cock under the jersey. It’s the most erotic thing he’s ever experienced in his fucking life.
Finally, Hollander crawls over Ilya’s legs and settles over his thighs, their dicks brushing together through the thin material. They both inhale sharply.
Ilya’s fingers tremble slightly as he reaches out to grab the beautiful face, thumb brushing against the freckles.
“Fuck” he doesn’t know which one of them says it and it doesn’t matter. In the next second there are kissing, devouring each other.
Something inside Ilya suddenly lets go, relaxes. He feels the stress of the summer, the calls from his father, Alexey’s constant demands fade away. There is only Shane and this room and this terrible need for this moment to never end.
They kiss for what feels like forever. After a while, Shane’s hands move to pull the jersey off
“No” Ilya stops him “this stays on. The entire time”
Shane obeys immediately, easily, like he always does here. Like Ilya can just ask and get whatever he wants too.
Ilya watches the powerful shoulders flexing under the dark jersey as Shane’s lips make it down his chest to his crotch.
Just stay in this moment. Forever.
4 – October 2016 – Boston – a …
***
The sound of the closing door resonates through the empty house. It’s not a slam. Shane Hollander doesn’t slam doors. He closes them quietly and firmly, turning what felt a moment ago like the best afternoon of Ilya’s life into …
Things were going so well.
They had phenomenal sex and then they napped, Shane’s so pliant and warm in his arms.
Ilya thought he nailed the ginger ale and the food. It took him forever to figure out what he might be able to feed Hollander.
And they just… hang out. Talked. About hockey and endless travel that makes up a hockey player lives. Ok, maybe the girl talk didn’t exactly go as planned but he thought Shane got it in the end, what Ilya wanted to say. That he liked Shane. That there was no one else special in his life.
The call from his father rattled the hell out of him, like it always did but he tried not to let it spoil the afternoon. Tried to let Shane’s presence sooth his irritation. And Shane’s been so gentle and warm cuddling up against him. It was so fucking hot too, just jerking off like that, their cocks pressed against each other, their lips touching all the time.
And then Ilya had to open his fucking mouth and ruin it.
***
He doesn’t know how long he sits on the sofa, staring into nothing, trying to make himself…process what happened.
What was he thinking? Why the fuck he asked Sha… Hollander to stay. What the hell did he want. It’s not like he and the Canadian can ever be anything more than fuckbuddies and hockey rivals.
When he finally gets up, the room has grown dark with the early setting autumn sun.
He moves around the house, feeling not quite there in his own body.
Bathroom, to wash off their combined release from his stomach.
“Are you gonna come for me, Rozanov?” the memory of Hollander’s voice comes to him and he has to grab onto the sink to keep himself from breaking a fucking mirror.
Kitchen to put away dirty dishes and an empty can of ginger ale.
Shane’s jacket, t-shirt and sneakers are gone. He remembers pulling them off slowly, unhurriedly just a few hours ago; thinking that he’s had all afternoon at least to enjoy it.
The black t-shirt that Shane’s borrowed lies in a heap on the kitchen counter. Ilya spend ridiculous amount of time this morning picking our the one he thought would work; the softest materials, made extra sift through multiple washes, just like he noticed Shane liked.
He thinks of Shane, sitting at the counter, looking cosy and relaxed (at home, his traitorous brain supplies) wearing Ilya’s clothes.
He turns around abruptly and walks into the bedroom. Stops at the entrance. Shane’s jeans are thrown over the chair by the bed. Ilya remembers taking them off too.
Hollander was in such a hurry to get as far away as possible he left his pants behind.
Ilya picks them up and then drops them back down. He turns around and stalks back to the living room.
He just wanted a day. Fucking 12 hours where they could just have each other without looking at the clock. He just wanted to spend a night together, eat breakfast, fuck in the morning light.
Stupid. He should have remembered that he doesn’t get to have what he wants. Not from the people he lo…
He doesn’t get to have what he wants.
He ends up sleeping on the sofa that night, unable to face the pieces of Shane scattered around his apartment.
5 – February 2017 – Tampa – a White Suit
***
The fucking white suit is killing him.
Hollander looks good in it. He looks so fucking good that Ilya has to make a tremendous effort to keep his traitorous body from just bending his hockey rival over the bar counter and kiss him senseless right here, in front of hundreds of their league mates.
The problem is that Hollander doesn’t exactly look like Sha… like himself in it.
Ilya’s used to him in hockey gear, an occasional formal tux but mostly – something simple cozy and athletic.
This polished ensemble doesn’t look like something that the Canadian would shop for himself. Which begs the question about who is he being dressed by? Who is he dressing for?
“You look very pretty today” he chirps “Different maybe?”
Are you? Are you different?
“Somebody take you shopping?” He thinks he manages casual, despite the fact that his insides are clenching in nervous anticipation.
Please, say it was your mother. Or your publicist. Or your model agency. Just not…
Hollander moves awkwardly “If I tell you something, can you promise to tell anyone or make fun or me?”
Ilya’s heart drops to the bottom of his stomach.
Tell anyone? Tell anyone what? That you’ve been fucking a Hollywood star? That’s hardly a fucking secret!
“Well, it depends” he shrugs.
“Seriously”
A serious secret… Like “I’m very serious about Rose Landry. I decided to change my entire personality to make her happy. I go to clubs now and I dress fancy and I don’t fuck my sworn rival anymore”.
Ilya feels like vomiting.
“Sure” he manages and tries to school his face into something that’d not… into something that wouldn’t fucking show how much he cares.
Hollander gives him a tiny smile, opens his pretty mouth that Ilya hasn’t kissed in fucking months and utters the last thing that Ilya expected to hear.
“I hired a stylist”
The relief slams into him like a kamaz truck.
Suddenly the suit turns from the least Hollander thing in the world to the most Hollander thing.
Ilya finds himself grinning like an idiot.
“I know I shouldn’t have told you” Hollander shakes his head, but his impression is almost fond.
“No, no” Ilya feels the tension flow from him as if Shane’s confession broke a dam “I love it, I love it. What you got tired of looking like shit?”
For a moment, all the shit he’s been getting heartbroken about dissapears and it’s just the two of them, chirping and laughing. It’s not though, and in the end Ilya gathers enough guts to ask directly.
“So, this has nothing to do with Rose Landry?”
If Hollander says it does, that it was all for her in the end, he’s going to fucking lose it right here and now.
“No” Shane says and Ilya feels like taking the first full breath in fucking months.
He says other things too. Like “not together”, which Ilya understand, and “not compatible”, which he hopes he does.
Ilya watches the bright Miami sun reflect on Shane’s freckles, white collar of the suit offsetting dark olive skin.
And that terrible, miserable empty space inside of him starts filling up with light.
6 –July 2017 - The Cottage - A plaid shirt
***
Shane owns a plaid shirt - клетчатая рубашка.
Which, of course, he does. How Canadian of him.
Ilya watches him dress from his own spot in bed - dark hair slightly wet, skin still slightly pink from the shower he just took.
Shane went to take a shower first. Usually, Ilya’s the first out of the bed after sex. He always had to make sure he was; otherwise – he can be honest with himself now - he wouldn’t have been able to get out of it at all.
But not today, not here. He’s got two weeks and they’ve just spent 2 hours taking each other part for the first time in fucking months. Ilya is so relaxed and happy he could lounge on this bed forever. It’s Shane - being a boring host – who insists on getting up and making food.
So now he watches curiously as Hollander switches his fancy blue button down for a plaid shirt. It’s a whole new look and it gives Shane a completely different aura. He does suddenly look like the guy who spent his summers in nature at his parents cottage (10 minutes away), having a barbecue on the weekends, hiking forest trails in the morning, swimming in the lake.
Ilya - who’s spent years hungry to learn every single thing that makes up Shane Hollander - is utterly fascinated to observe this new, previously inexperienced facet of his personality. He wonders what it was like for Shane, if he liked it or found it boring. If his dad taught him how to light up the barbecue and fix things; if his mom used to bug him about covering his head in the summer heat (Ilya’s mom did…)
“Are you planning to spend the whole afternoon in bed?” Shane’s voice pulls him out of his head.
“Yes” Ilya drawls and stretches on his back, thin sheet sliding below the sharp bones of his hips. Shane’s gaze grows slightly heated and he comes closer to Ilya’s side of the bed “You can bring me food in bed”
“Yeah, no” Shane says sternly “We are not eating burgers in bed”
Ilya’s heart flutters a little because Shane doesn’t say “my bed”. The way he says it almost sounds like “our…”. He stomps the thought out.
“We are having burgers?” He asks instead “You - Shane Hollander - are going to eat a burger?”
“It’s the off season, asshole” Shane frowns and contradictory leans down to peck Ilya on the lips.
“It’ll take a while to hit up the grill. Take your time, ok?” He gives him another peck which Ilya turns into a few more. Then Shane turns around and leaves the room with a purposeful stride.
Something warm settles in Ilya’s stomach. He’s not used to being someone who gets … he’s not used to this – that quiet, steady care from somebody, being allowed to be a little lazy while somebody cooks.
Ilya lounges in the bed for a little while, soaking up the light, the sun, the smell of sex and Shane on the sheets. He feels loose limbed and boneless. He’s so fucking happy right now.
He’s not exactly sure what pivots him out of bed in the end - the smell of grilled meat or the strange feeling of missing Shane despite him being gone for less than 20 minutes. He takes a long hot shower, throws on the first shorts and t-shirts he is able to dig out of his suitcase and heads outside.
Shane is standing at the grill, a look of deep concentration on his face. It’s familiar, a kind of a look Ilya’s seen hundreds of times - Shane on the bench watching the game and analyzing every move. Shane across the ice from him, eyes fixed on the puck.
It’s the look Ilya loves. Just like he likes hundreds of other small stupid boring things that are Shane.
The instinct to chirp Hollander is so ingrained by now it’s not even a conscious thought.
“What you can’t do math?” A recipe! For burgers! Is there anything more Shane-like our there?
“Leave me alone” Shane throws, eyes not leaving the grill even for a mile second, mouth turning in another familiar shape - exasperated annoyance.
And this, of course, is the last thing that Ilya wants to do. Instead, he wraps his arms around the strong waist and presses against the plaid covered back.
“No” He presses his nose into the soft cotton; kisses freckles that sit behind Shane’s ear, enjoying the way his lover melts against him a little bit.
He wants to stay here forever. In this magical place in the middle of nowhere, holding Shane Hollander and watching him grill ridiculous number of burgers because the recipe called for it.
***
Objectively speaking, he probably hasn’t packed enough for the cottage.
He’s never been much of a packer. Besides, he’s pretty much spent the last couple of weeks texting with Shane 24/7, jerking off and feeling restless.
How many clothes do you need in the middle of the summer, anyway?
You need a lot, as he discovers. He’s used to air-conditioned rinks and hotel rooms and decisive Moscow summers - either hot and dry or cold and wet for weeks on end. Canada is different. The mornings are cold, the days are hot, the evenings are cold again and an occasional rain can come at any time. Ilya watches in fascination as Shane rotates through endless change of layers. Plaid shirt gets replaced by a hoodie and hoodie by a long sleeve and then a t-shirt.
Ilya puts on the only long sleeve he brought along but mostly decides just to brave the cold. He’s a hockey player and he’s Russian. He can withstand a bit of chill
Which goes great for exactly one day before Hollander starts fussing.
It’s… a strange feeling.
It blooms in Ilya’s chest every time he sees a dozen cans of sodas in the fridge or enormous stash of his favourite snacks on the counter. Every time Shane cooks something or checks what he wants to do or forces sunscreen in his hands.
It blooms the first time Shane catches sight of his thin tank top in the morning and frowns.
“It’s 15 degrees right now”
“It’ll get warm soon enough” Ilya shrugs and immediately follows when Hollander looks like he’s going to argue “or we can go do some warm up activities?”
Anyway, by the time they roll out of the bed the 2nd time, it’s pleasantly warm.
The fussing should be irritating - Ilya is a grown ass man - but the feeling is too novel for him to feel anything but warmth. He doesn’t … he hasn’t had anybody show him care in such an everyday mundane way for a long-long time. Sveta cares but she’s not a fussier and nobody else has given a shit since…
They spend a beautiful day together, playing, laughing, talking. Ilya wants every day to be like that. By the time the sunset comes, and the temperature starts dropping he’s too relaxed to move from the outdoor chair. He ignores the chill penetrating the thin cotton of his tank top and sending shivers up his arms.
“Here” Soft flannel settles around his shoulders “If you catch pneumonia, I’ll have nobody to compete with for a cup next year”
Ilya looks up. Hollander’s standing above him, smiling in a fond slightly exasperated way. He watches carefully as Ilya slides his arms through the sleeves of the plaid shirt. Than he drops a kiss on top of Ilya’s head.
Maybe it’s that last piece, the warmth of the shirt that holds Shane’s lingering smell and the warmth of his care that propels Ilya into starting the conversation that night.
***
He extends his stay at the cottage three times. It’s only when the second week of August rolls and Ilya absolutely must be back in Boston on Monday that he relents and buys the return ticket. Even then he postpones packing until the very last day.
Which is probably not the wisest decision he’s made either.
It’s bizzare how… domesticated they’ve grown over the last few weeks. His things are scattered all over the place. Ok, not exactly scattered because he lives with the most organised man in the whole of Canada but carefully folded and placed all over the cottage.
So, it takes him awhile to collect all of his clothes. It takes even longer to squeeze them in his small suitcase. It’s only when he feels the soft flannel in his hands he realises he might have appropriated a few items that weren’t technically his.
Or are they? There are certain items from Shane’s wardrobe that Ilya’s worn more than Shane did in the last few weeks. He’s pretty much lived in this shirt, the soft plaid surprisingly comfortable. He feels like he’s grown more attached to it than to any of his beloved Addidas…
He’s still standing like an idiot, the shirt clutched in his hands, when Shane enters the bedroom carrying a fresh stack of towels.
“Are you taking it with you?” He asks. He doesn’t sound upset about Ilya potentially stealing his clothes “You’ve worn it a few times. If you don’t need it in Boston, just throw it in the laundry downstairs. Oh, and anything clean you want to leave here, I’ve emptied the 2nd shelf in the wardrobe”
Ilya looks up at him dumbfounded “Keep here?”
“Yeah” Shane confirms in the same casual tone “Depending on how the season schedule works out, we might have time to come here around Christmas. Or maybe Easter. Worst case, we’ll definitely be here in the summer so…”
He disappears in the bathroom.
“Okay” Ilya says simply as if his boyfriend hasn’t just turned his heart into mush with a simple gesture.
Ilya knows that Shane loves him. He’s lost count of how many times they declared their love for each other during their time here. He lost count of the number of times they branded this love into each other’s skin.
But... He hasn’t belonged anywhere since he was 12 years old; people who are supposed to have been his family, pushing him out and away save for when they needed something from him.
Every time Shane talks about the future that has Ilya in it or makes a simple accommodation to fit Ilya seamlessly into his life, his heart soars helplessly.
He turns back to his overflowing suitcase and starts sorting out things he wants to keep here.
Until next year.
7 –October 2017 - Boston – an Addidas tracksuit
The first time Shane comes over to Boston after the summer at the cottage, it’s just short of a year since their disastrous first attempt at a sleepover.
Ilya isn’t nervous.
There is no reason to be. He and Shane are boyfriends. They text and call every day. They try to see each other every month. Shane is coming over and he’s staying for… whole 36 hours!
He’s not nervous. He just wants to treat his boyfriend right. He has Shane’s favourite yogurt and ginger ale in the fridge, his preferred brand of protein powder in the cupboard. The salmon and the veggies are all prepped to go into the oven.
He no longer has to play a guessing game about what Shane would like. He has an endless supply of summer memories and his visit to Montreal last month to draw upon.
He thinks about preparing some clothes for Shane to change into but realizes it’s stupid. This is a planned visit, Shane’s going to bring his own clothes. He’d have loved to see Hollander in… There is a thought, a desire on the top of his mind that he can’t quite voice over.
The bell rings and for the next few hours Ilya doesn’t think about anything but the feel of Shane in his arms.
***
He wakes up the next morning to an empty bed. It’s not ideal, but it’s not distressing either.
Gone are the days of the summer when he and Shane could enjoy slow mornings bathed in light. It’s the season now and Shane has routines in place. He’s a morning person and Ilya is not.
Ilya is safe in the hazy memory of Shane’s hand caressing his hair and a kiss on his forehead that Shane gave him before climbing out of bed to undoubtfully do some yoga.
Lazily, still half asleep he stumbles through a bathroom routine and makes his way into the kitchen.
And freezes for a moment.
Shane’s standing at the stove, a look of concentration on his face.
He’s wearing a pair of Addidas trackpants and a black t-shirt that Ilya knows for sure are his. Hollander has never owned an Addidas item in his life.
The material hangs loosey over his slightly leaner frame. He looks cosy and soft and relaxed.
He looks like he’s… Ilya’s.
Overwhelmed, Ilya walks up to his boyfriend and drapes himself over his back.
“Morning” Shane greets him brightly, melting into Ilya’s chest like he always does.
“Morning” he presses closer, trying to eliminate every single millimeter of spance between them.
He’s missed Shane so much. Even with the calls and texts…he can’t fucking wait for the next year.
“What are you making?” He looks into pan
“Ehh…breakfast? Are you ok with scrambled eggs?”
Ilya’s brain short-circuits when he realises that Shane is cooking for him. There is butter in the pan that Shane wouldn’t touch during the season. His boyfriend’s own protein smoothie is already made and sitting on the counter.
The realisation both delights him and causes a tendril of shame in his stomach, a handover of old habits. He should be the one…
Shane half turns his head, slightly puzzled expression on his face, hands frozen over the pan.
“Do you want something else, instead?”
What Ilya wants is to take him back to bed and not let him out for the next 24 hours. He wants to crawl inside Shane’s ribcage and stay there forever. He wants…
He slides his hand under the hem of the t-shirt and pushes his open palm against the warm skin of Shane’s stomach. He presses his nose into Shane’s neck and breathes him in.
“Eggs are perfect” he murmurs.
*
Inevitably, Monday morning comes and Shane has to leave. They kiss long and slow in the hall before finally detangling.
“See you in a month?” Shane whispers shyly against his lips. Ilya just nods. A month is so fucking long.
He stands behind the door for a long time watching through the glass panel as Shane gets in a taxi and drives off. He shuffles through the house that suddenly feels empty and cold. He’s got practice in three hours - he might as well go back to bed.
The sweatpants and t-shirt that Shane borrowed are lying in a neat pile in the edge of the bed. Ilya smirks, remembering for a moment the first time he saw Shane Hollander fold his clothes. He wonders if that’s the moment he’s lost his heart to the freckled face.
Carefully he picks up the items and puts them away on the second shelf of the wardrobe, strategically emptied for his boyfriend. He doesn’t wash them until up to Shane’s next visit.
Every once in a while, when missing his boyfriend hurts more than usual, an empty burning hole in the middle of his chest, he pulls the clothes out and breathes them in.