Chapter Text
Ottawa, November 2024.
The cold had arrived earlier than expected that year. When Shane left the house that morning for Toronto, he felt the icy air slip under his coat collar and looked up at the sky, low, uniform, and gray, with that milky light that announced snow even before it started falling. Small piles of the first snowfall remained on the edges of the sidewalks, already dirty with mud and salt.
Ilya had walked him to the door, still sleepy, his hair messy and a cup of black coffee in hand, with definitely too much sugar.
"I'll miss you."
Shane smiled as he slipped on his coat.
"It's just a commercial."
"A commercial for YSL."
"Yeah."
"So you'll spend all day getting your picture taken while very sexy people tell you how handsome you are."
"It's my job."
"A hard life."
Shane laughed and adjusted the collar of Ilya's hoodie.
"You'll miss me."
"Don't flatter yourself."
"You'll miss me so much."
Ilya rolled his eyes, but Shane saw the smile he was trying to hide.
"Go, Hollander."
Shane kissed him.
"Two days."
"Two days is a long time."
Shane smiled.
"I knew it."
He left the house with the promise to return soon, never imagining that, upon his return, nothing would ever mean the same again.
The commercial was only supposed to last a few hours. Naturally, it didn't. When Shane arrived on set, Toronto was still immersed in the cold morning light, but by the time they finally removed his last layer of makeup, it was past nine in the evening. For twelve hours he had done practically the same thing: stand in front of a camera, smile, turn his face slightly, change his expression, hold a pose, wait for someone to adjust a light, and start over.
"Perfect."
"One more."
"This time look slightly higher."
"Gorgeous."
"Again."
Shane was good at these things. He knew how to turn an instruction into a precise movement and repeat it without complaining. When he worked, the world became a sequence of simple tasks, each with a beginning and an end. What he liked least was what came after. The hotel room. The silence. The empty bed.
At nine-twenty, he finally closed the bedroom door behind him, took off his jacket, and left it on the armchair. He still smelled of the cologne they had sprayed on him during the last photo session, far too intense for his liking. He washed his face, put on a T-shirt and sweatpants, and sat on the edge of the bed. He grabbed his phone.
Shane: Are you awake?
The reply came almost immediately.
Ilya: No.
Shane smiled.
Shane: Are you texting while asleep?
Ilya: I'm talented.
Shane: I miss you.
This time, a few seconds passed.
Ilya: I miss you too.
Shane stared at those words. Three years. They had been married for three years and, despite all the time that had passed, he still got that little knot in his stomach every time Ilya told him he missed him.
Shane: I'm coming back tomorrow.
Ilya: Good.
Shane: Hey! Just "good"?
Ilya: What do you want me to say?
Shane: "I can't wait to hold you again, my beautiful and brilliant husband."
Ilya: I will never say that.
Shane: Asshole.
Ilya: Go to sleep.
Shane: Tell me you love me.
This time, Ilya took longer.
Ilya: I love you so much. Shane smiled.
Shane: Me too.
He was about to put his phone away when he remembered something.
Shane: Did you eat?
No answer. Shane waited.
Then Ilya: No.
Shane: Why?
Ilya: I don't feel very well.
The smile vanished from Shane's face.
Shane: What's wrong?
Ilya: Nothing serious.
Shane: Ilya.
Ilya: I have a fever.
Shane sat up straighter.
Shane: How high?
Ilya: 38.5.
Shane: Did you take some Tylenol?
The answer came almost immediately.
Ilya: No.
Shane: Take some.
A few seconds passed.
Ilya: I don't want to.
Shane: Take something for the fever.
Ilya: No.
Shane: Ilya.
Ilya: I said no.
Shane stared at the screen. He knew that tone. There was something behind that refusal, something that didn't need to be explained because Shane knew Ilya's history well enough to understand that medication was a complicated topic. His mother had used pills to take her own life, and ever since, Ilya had developed an almost irrational distrust of any medication that wasn't necessary.
Shane: Okay.
Shane: But at least drink something.
Ilya: Yes, mama.
Shane: Very funny.
Ilya: I might have caught a cold.
Shane: Are you cold?
Ilya: A little.
Then another message arrived.
Ilya: Which is stupid. Russians don't get sick.
Shane smiled despite his worry.
Ilya: Evidently my immune system has decided to betray me. A conspiracy against my body.
Shane: You're an idiot.
Ilya: I know.
Shane: Are you in bed?
Ilya: Yes.
Shane: Good. Stay there.
Ilya: Sounds like an order.
Shane: It is моя любовь.
Ilya: You're in Toronto, Shanya.
Shane: And you're in Ottawa with a 38.5 fever.
Ilya: I'll survive.
Shane checked the time. It was late. He should have been sleeping and, the following morning, hitting the road or catching a flight to Ottawa. The reasonable thing would have been to let him rest. But he kept picturing him alone in their house, under the covers, with a fever and no one beside him.
Shane: Try to sleep.
Ilya: I will.
Shane: If you get worse, text me.
Ilya: Yes, doctor.
Shane: I'm not kidding.
Ilya: I know.
Shane: Goodnight, моя любовь.
Ilya: Goodnight, котёнок.
Shane turned off his screen. He lay down. Closed his eyes. Tried to sleep. He couldn't.
At eleven-thirty, he was still awake. At midnight, he was still staring at the ceiling. At twelve-twenty, he grabbed his phone and checked their conversation. No new messages.
He got up, turned on the light, and stood in the middle of the room, wondering if he was doing something stupid. Probably yes, actually, definitely. But Shane knew that feeling. When something felt wrong to him, it was hard to ignore it. His brain kept going back to it, repeating the same question until it found a solution. Ilya had a fever; he was alone, and Shane was in Toronto. The solution seemed obvious. Go back. He grabbed his phone and looked for a way to get to Ottawa during the night. He didn't text him; he didn't want to wake him up.
By twelve-forty, he was already in the elevator with a small suitcase.
The city was now far behind him, and ahead of him was only a stretch of black highway, illuminated by the headlights of his car and the occasional lights of trucks heading in the opposite direction. Shane drove with the heater on and his phone plugged into the charger. Ilya didn't know he was coming. Now and then, Shane would text him.
Shane: Are you asleep?
No answer. Better that way. He wanted to get there before he woke up. At one point, he saw the sign for a small diner along the road. The parking lot was almost empty, but a warm, yellow light still shone through the windows. Shane checked his watch. It was late, very late. And he was hungry. More importantly, he realized Ilya probably wouldn't eat anything if he arrived empty-handed. The place was small, with just a few tables, a counter along the wall, and an old coffee machine humming continuously. Behind the counter stood a woman in her sixties, with her hair tied back and a dark apron. She looked up when Shane walked in.
"We're still open."
"Thank God."
The woman studied him for a few seconds.
"Do you need something?"
"Takeout."
"The kitchen is almost closed."
"I just need something hot. Some soup, if you have any."
The woman glanced toward the kitchen.
"We have chicken soup with carrots and tomatoes."
Shane hesitated.
"Is it good?"
The woman looked offended.
"Of course, I made it myself."
Shane smiled for the first time in hours.
"Then yes."
"One portion?"
"Two."
The woman looked at him.
"You're very hungry."
"One is for my husband."
The woman paused for a moment.
"Is he sick?"
Shane nodded.
"A fever."
"Three, then."
Shane looked at her.
"Three?"
"One for him, one for you, and one just in case you're still hungry tomorrow."
Shane laughed softly.
"Alright. Three."
While the woman filled the containers, Shane looked at the beverage fridge.
"Do you have Diet Coke?"
"Sure."
"One."
Shane took the ice-cold bottle she handed him.
"Thanks."
"Do you work around here?"
"Toronto. A commercial."
"Ah."
The woman took a closer look at him.
"Are you Shane Hollander?"
"Um, yeah."
"My son watches hockey; he roots for the Metros."
Ever since Shane left Montreal, they hadn't even made the playoffs.
"I'm sorry, then."
They both smiled.
"He always told me you're good."
"Tell that to my husband."
"Is he a player too?"
Shane nodded.
"Yes."
"Then I understand why you're driving in the middle of the night to bring him soup."
Shane looked down at the bag.
"He has a fever."
The woman handed him the containers.
"Then get back to him."
Shane paid.
Before he left, the woman added: "And drive safe."
Shane turned around. "I will."
The roads grew increasingly deserted the closer he got to Ottawa. The bag was on the passenger seat. The warm smell of soup slowly filled the cabin, and Shane kept picturing Ilya's face when he opened the door and found him there. He would probably be angry. He would probably say Shane was completely crazy. He would probably ask why he had driven for hours instead of sleeping. Shane already had his answer ready. Because I love you (and because you're a grump when you're not feeling well, but he wasn't going to tell him that), he looked at the bag. Smiled. Then kept driving.
When he got home, it was around three-thirty in the morning; the neighborhood was pitch black. Shane parked in front of the house and sat in the car for a few seconds, his hands on the steering wheel and his head resting against the headrest. He was exhausted. His eyes felt heavy and his body was stiff from the many hours spent driving. But he was happy. He was home. He grabbed the bag with the soup and the bottle of Diet Coke, got out of the car, and walked up the driveway. The house was completely dark. Shane slid his key into the lock. He opened it slowly.
"Ilya?"
No answer. He stepped inside. The house was softly silent. He set the bag down on the entryway table and took off his coat.
"Ilya?"
Still nothing.
He was probably sleeping. Shane gave a faint smile. It was better this way. He walked up the stairs. Halfway up the flight, he heard a noise. He stopped. At first, he couldn't figure out what it was. Then he heard a voice. A woman's voice. Shane froze. His heart skipped a beat.
His mind instantly searched for an explanation.
The television.
A movie.
Svetlana.
Something.
Anything.
The sound was coming from their bedroom. Shane continued climbing. Slower now. When he reached the door, he stood still. His hand was trembling. He didn't know why. He hadn't formulated a clear thought yet, and still, a part of his body had already grasped something his mind refused to accept. He rested his hand on the handle. Pushed it open. And the world shifted.
Ilya was in their bed. With a woman. Ilya was fucking a woman. Shane stood in the doorway. He couldn't move. She turned toward him. Ilya looked up. Their eyes met.
Shane stared at Ilya. He couldn't look at anything else. The face of the man he had married, the face he had learned to love, the face that suddenly seemed to belong to a stranger. His mind refused to accept it.
No. It couldn't be Ilya. Not after the text message just hours ago. Not after the I love you. Ilya's face had turned to stone, his blue irises blown wide, filled with a terror and sadness that Shane had never seen before.