Chapter Text
Ilya saves his contact as: “Hollander $700/mo furnished.”
Svetlana looks over his shoulder as he’s coordinating the apartment tour. Her voice deepens as it always does in Russian. “Fucking prostitutes already?”
Ilya rolls his eyes. “This is rent.”
“No, it’s not.” Svetlana squints at the screen. “No rent is that cheap in the city. Are you prostituting yourself?”
Ilya sticks his tongue out at her. He sighs, a sound that seems to come from somewhere deeper. “I might have to. If he’s not scamming me, it’s the nicest listing I’ve seen within my budget.”
Svetlana nods in approval. “So it’s a ‘he.’”
“Of course. I can’t live with a woman,” Ilya points out.
“Because…?”
“We’d end up fucking.” He shrugs.
Svetlana opens her mouth to disagree. Blush rises to her face. “Right.”
Ilya grins at her and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Right.”
——
Shane Hollander answers his front door in a Montreal Metros jersey.
“Oh. This won’t work,” Ilya says.
Shane has a freckled face and it drops when Ilya says it.
“Kidding,” Ilya backtracks. He smiles, wider than appropriate, because if he doesn’t leave today with his name on a lease, he might actually resort to prostituting himself. “I am a Raiders fan. That’s why I said that.”
Shane’s tanned face breaks into a small smile. “Oh. Okay.” His silhouette fills the doorway: broad shoulders and a narrow waist. “You do realize you’re apartment hunting in Montreal?”
Ilya forces his eyes to blow comically wide. “I am?”
Shane laughs. “I’m Shane, by the way.”
“Ilya.” Ilya straightens up, as if he can sneak a glance at the apartment over Shane’s head.
“Right.” Shane’s cheeks go red. “Come in.” He steps aside, opening the door wide enough for Ilya to walk in.
The apartment is homey and clean. The radiator rattles. Plants abound on the coffee table. The couch has an obscene number of throw pillows on it, and if Ilya were to lay down on it, his calves would hang right off the armrest.
It is hardly enough space for one grown man. Here are two of them: Ilya scanning the room, and Shane scanning Ilya’s face for his reaction.
“Looks great,” Ilya says. He smiles, again.
“I’ll show you the bedroom.”
Shane begins walking down a narrow hallway that forks off into two rooms. He reaches for the doorknob, but hesitates with his fingers around the metal.
“It’s pretty small,” Shane says, his voice low.
“That’s fine,” Ilya replies, immediately. The numbers float in his head, tantalizing: Seven hundred dollars. Seven hundred dollars.
“But there’s a big window. Lots of natural light.” Shane chews on his lip. “The closet’s not the biggest.”
It is not lost on Ilya that they are standing outside the bedroom, rather than entering it. “I am a visual learner.”
Shane blushes again. “Yeah. Sorry.” He props the door open, letting Ilya walk in first.
The room is small, exaggeratedly so. The bed is a full-size, but there is hardly room for a desk. It is clean, though, and smells of a sickly sweet lemon disinfectant. Sunshine pools onto the bedsheets. When Ilya turns around to face Shane, it lights his black hair up like a matchstick.
“Looks great,” Ilya repeats.
Shane nods. “Alright. Okay.”
“When are you looking to fill it?”
“As soon as possible, really.” Shane scratches the back of his neck. “But you’d only start paying next month.”
It’s only the first week of the month. That’s awfully generous. Ilya winces at his own bluntness, but doesn’t know how to frame it any other way: “I will take it.”
Shane doesn’t really react. “Sure. The only other thing I wanted to mention is a guest policy, things like that.”
Ilya nods. “I am okay not bringing people over.”
“No, no.” Shane shakes his head. “That’s totally fine. I just mean, we would let each other know ahead of time. And if it’s really late, be quieter, if possible, just because the walls are pretty thin.”
“Yes. Makes sense.”
Shane fiddles with his fingers. His eyes dart around the room, not quite meeting Ilya’s gaze. “There might be some weekends my boyfriend comes to stay.” His voice is measured. “It won’t be a regular thing. He lives in Toronto.”
Shane looks at Ilya, then, and Ilya gets a sense of why Shane’s face is carefully blank.
“Is that fine?” Shane asks.
Ilya takes a moment to picture what Shane sees: A six-foot something burly Russian, barreling into his apartment with strong opinions of sports - and maybe, strong opinions about other things too.
Ilya is a bit surprised that Shane is gay. He thought he had a good radar for these things. Maybe the muscles and the sports tee threw Ilya off. But if Shane mentioned his boyfriend as a test, it is one that Ilya is going to ace. And he’s not in a position to be choosy about his roommates anyway.
So he smirks. “Of course. A Maple Leaf beats a Metro any day.”
Shane’s face splits open into a smile. Ilya feels like he’s won a game he hadn’t realized he was playing.
----
Ilya’s belongings take up one measly suitcase, and a carry-on at that. He can tell Shane was expecting more, seeing as he rescheduled a work meeting to help Ilya settle in.
“You did not need to do that,” Ilya says.
Shane shrugs. “It’s no problem.”
“What do you do for work anyway?”
“Software engineer.” Shane scratches the back of his neck. “For a fintech startup. Boring stuff, but it’s remote, so.”
Ilya furrows his brow and pretends to know what “fintech” is aside from something obscenely lucrative. He steps in front of his suitcase, embarrassed of how little it holds. He looks around the tiny apartment they now share in a neighborhood where sirens fill the night. “If you are in major gambling debt,” he says slowly, “I think I have the right to know.”
Shane grins. “I’m a big saver. That’s all.” He reaches behind Ilya to roll Ilya’s suitcase over to his bedroom. Ilya gets a whiff of honey as Shane passes. “What do you do for work?”
It is suddenly funny to Ilya that Shane never asked before. “Oh, you know. Porn.”
The scrape of Ilya’s banged up suitcase wheels ceases. Shane freezes up.
“Kidding,” Ilya announces, because Shane’s eyebrows are up by his hairline.
“I didn’t mean - that’s fine if - if you were.” Shane’s nose scrunches. “I’d just ask that you not film out here.”
“Shane,” Ilya says pointedly. “I am not a pornstar.”
Shane’s face flushes. “Right. You are?”
“Camera operator.”
Shane’s eyes widen. “For porn?”
“No, no.” Ilya shakes his head. “For CityNews Montreal.”
“So you’re on TV?”
Shane still looks so dumbfounded that Ilya chuckles. “I am just the guy behind the camera, so no. Is not that cool. Pretty sure I am the only person alive in this city willing to follow a police chase with thirty kilos on my shoulder.”
Shane’s eyes light up. Ilya’s suitcase reaches only up to his bare knees, a pair of gym shorts covering his thighs. “Man. So you lift, right? I mean, you must.”
Ilya takes this to mean Shane is looking at his arms. He nods. “I feel like shit when I don’t exercise.”
Shane doesn’t need to know exactly how true that is. And he’s on new medication, anyway. So it’s hardly relevant.
“Well. You ever need a spotter for your lifts, let me know.”
Seeing as Ilya’s only friend is spending the foreseeable future living in Russia - and weighs about half of what Ilya can bench anyways - it’s not a bad offer. “I do, actually. Saturday?”
Shane takes out his phone, presumably to check his calendar. “I can do all morning. Any time before noon.”
Ilya tsks. “Why so early?”
Shane blinks a few times. “You think noon is early?”
Ilya nods. “I work out at 10 pm most nights.”
“Jeez. I’m usually asleep by then.”
A shrill ringing sounds, interrupting them both: the sound of the in-unit washing machine finishing its load. It was about half the reason Ilya was so desperate to sign this lease in the first place. His gym clothes became a biohazard in his last apartment back in Boston, in part because he couldn’t afford to go to the laundromat more than twice a month. Now, Shane walks over to the machine and pulls out a bundle of clothes that is entirely white.
“I just have two more cycles, by the way,” Shane says, maneuvering the clothes into the dryer. “Just my reds and my blues.”
Ilya scratches his nose. “You separate laundry. By color.”
Shane turns to him, his arms so full of white socks that one plops onto the floor. Ilya walks over, leans down, and picks it up for him. “Thanks,” Shane says. He pushes the remaining clothes into the machine. “And, yeah. Don’t you?”
Of course he now lives with an early bird harboring neurotic laundry habits. Ilya just smiles at him. “I don’t think you’re going to like me very much.”
Shane presses START on the machine. “I’ll like you as long as you pay rent by the 30th.”
Ilya walks back to his shabby bedroom door. He likes it when people are straightforward: Here, he imagines Shane saying, this is what’s expected of you. Whereas it’s Ilya’s job, as a son, to predict what his father expects of him. And he’s never been intelligent enough to get it right.
He swings open his bedroom door. It nearly snags on the corner of his bedframe. He turns around and calls out to Shane: “That I can do.”
——
They do end up going to the gym together. It’s the weekend, yet Ilya sets an alarm so they can go in the morning like Shane wants. He shudders to think of what his old self might think of this. He’s used to sleeping in until 1.
They scan in at the front desk, where a guy about their age with a mullet and colored tattoo sleeve greets them. Shane does abs first, which Ilya finds genuinely insane and tells him so. Shane laughs and, in turn, questions Ilya’s music choice.
On the train back, both of them sweaty and sidled in the last empty seats in the traincar, Ilya offers Shane an earbud and educates him on the musicality of Skryptonite.
They finish up a song and Shane hands the earbud back. “It’s good,” he says finally.
Ilya grins, pleased.
“For workouts, though, I still prefer my stuff.”
“Sure,” Ilya says. “Your white noise.”
Shane nods. “Right.”
“There’s -” Ilya stutters and his eyes bulge. “You don’t actually listen to white noise.”
Shane shrugs defensively. “It helps me focus on my reps.”
Ilya leans his head back until it bangs against the glass window of the traincar. He sighs, dramatized for his audience of one. “I live with a psychopath.”
----
It’s a Tuesday. Ilya got sent out with a reporter to cover a car pileup in Longueuil. Four deaths, and his hand trembled as he tried to keep the camera steady as it focused on a grieving widow mid-interview.
He arrives home at 8 pm. Even if he had the energy to make something, he doesn’t have much appetite. He figures he’ll have sleep for dinner.
Shane sits up from their comically small couch. A game is on, Admirals versus Metros. “Going into overtime,” Shane tells him.
Ilya’s feet veer away from the hallway and towards the couch instead. He squeezes in next to Shane a respectful distance away, which is tough to do with how big they both are.
“Don’t tell me you're rooting for the Admirals,” Shane says.
“God no.” Ilya kicks his feet up onto the coffee table. He wonders if Shane minds, because it feels like it’s his table and not theirs. The whole apartment does, actually. But maybe that feeling will go away soon. “Scott Hunter is five hundred years old.”
Shane laughs. “I like him. He came to speak to my team back when I was in the minors.”
Ilya jerks his head to the side to look at Shane better. His nose is perfectly straight. It could be used as a ruler. “You played?”
Shane turns to look at him, so Ilya faces the TV instead. “Yeah. In college, too.”
“Did you like it?”
“Loved it,” Shane says, then clears his throat. “I grilled some salmon and potatoes, by the way. It’s in the fridge if you want some.”
Ilya’s stomach knots. “No, that’s alright. That’s your food.”
“I made a lot. And I sometimes get weird about leftovers. Like, thinking about the bacteria and - yeah. So, anyway.”
“I couldn’t.” In the next breath, Ilya asks, “You sure?”
Shane nods.
Ilya doesn’t poke fun at Shane’s comment about leftovers, because this particular neurotic trait of his works in Ilya’s favor tonight. “Thank you.”
He walks over to the fridge, plates a hunk of salmon and sliced, crispy potatoes speckled in rosemary. When the microwave beeps, he removes the plate and sits back down onto the couch to eat.
He scoops the first bite into his mouth. “It’s really good,” he manages through a mouthful of food, and while he wants to say more about the depth of flavor he notices his throat has gotten a bit tight. It’s just, he was really hungry. And really tired. And the home cooked meal is about a thousand times better than the frozen ones he buys on sale at Costco.
“Great. I’m glad.” Shane opens his mouth to say more, but then the Metros score in overtime and he’s up off the couch and clapping.
Jeez, Ilya thinks. This guy loves his hockey.
He spears a potato wedge and chews maybe twice before swallowing.
----
It’s weeks later and they’re at the gym again, this time spotting each other so they can catch up.
Because yes, while they’re roommates, Ilya hasn’t been home the last two evenings. His Tinder date went particularly well: a Lebanese woman in tech sales, tall with curly hair, recovering from a breakup. They got drinks the first night, went back to hers, fucked twice and then he fell asleep with his arm dangling off her bed. The next night, they went to their respective workplaces and met up for dinner. She ordered a falafel wrap and and he chicken shawarma, and they fucked on her couch.
If Ilya ever had sex on his and Shane’s couch, he’s fairly sure Shane would spear him like a fish and roast him on an open flame. Shane, on the other hand, doesn’t seem the type to have sex on a couch - or at all, if Ilya is being honest.
But he does have a boyfriend, the mystery one Ilya has yet to meet. So maybe Ilya is wrong.
“Could you see yourself with her?” Shane asks, pushing himself up off the bench.
“Having sex again?” Ilya clarifies, then answers his own question. “Yes, I mean. It was great.”
“No, but.” Shane continues talking as Ilya lays himself down onto the bench again, his sweat intermingling with Shane’s. “Dating her.”
“Oh.” Ilya grunts through his reps and only responds once he’s no longer gasping for air and has reracked the weights. “She’s not looking for anything serious. Got out of a breakup.”
Shane tilts his head, considering. His shirt sticks to his chest like cling wrap. “Hm. Are you bummed?”
Ilya smiles a little. “I prefer it that way.”
“Ah. Casual?”
Ilya nods. “You’re not gonna ask about the gory details?”
Shane shakes his head. “That’s between you and God.”
Ilya laughs. He’s laughing so much, these days.
Shane’s phone begins to ring. FaceTime request from someone named Mike Murphy. He swipes and answers, muttering into the phone: “Hey. I’m at the gym. Can I call you back?”
Ilya perks up. “Is this mystery man?”
“Oh.” Shane cranes the phone in Ilya’s direction. “This is Mike.”
Ilya waves as the screen slowly depixelates, revealing a man’s round, pale face. Mike has a Bieber-swoop of straight brown hair over his forehead and brown eyes spaced slightly far apart. He looks perfectly average. “Ilya!” He chirps. “Great to finally meet you.”
“You too.” Ilya tugs his earbuds out and wipes some of the sweat off his chin with the back of his hand.
“You’re Russian, right?”
“Guilty.”
“Nice. I’m, like, obsessed with the KGB.” Before Ilya can reply, he adds: “My boyfriend’s awesome. Isn’t he?”
“Yes.” Ilya’s eyes flicker from the phone to Shane, his freckled face rosy from exertion. “Awesome.”
Shane winces, which he usually does when complimented. He turns his phone so it’s facing him again. “That’s nice. Um. Can I call you back in, like, thirty?”
Ilya shoots Shane a look. Shane cranes the phone away from his face and mouths to him: What?
“Today’s the day you said we’d race on the treadmill, no?” Ilya whispers.
Shane’s eyes alight in recognition. He turns the phone back to face him. “Um, sorry. Make that an hour.”
“An hour? But I miss you,” Mike whines. “And I need to tell you who I met today. God, you’re not gonna believe it.”
Shane makes a vague gesture to Ilya that Ilya takes to mean to skip to their next muscle group without him. As Shane switches his phone audio to his earbuds, Ilya watches Shane nod along to Mike’s monologue, asking quick follow-ups every now and again. It gives Ilya time to do his bicep curls, and for his mind to wander.
He’s not sure what he expected Mike to look like. Shane’s features are quite unique: jet black hair, almond-shaped eyes with spokes of long eyelashes like a pinwheel, and - perhaps most notably - the smattering of freckles across his cheekbones, a constellation that blankets the straight cut of his nose.
And look: Ilya has seen many straight relationships where the woman is more beautiful than the man. Statistically, what with the proliferation of ugly men, it’s bound to happen.
But in a relationship with two men, Ilya supposes it can function the same. It is rare to find two men who are equally attractive, and on top of that equally attracted to each other.
Mike is perfectly average-looking. At least he also seems quite nice. Ilya ponders this all as he switches the dumbbell from one hand to the other. Then Shane ends the call and those brown eyes are back on Ilya.
“Is that your type?” Ilya asks, his bicep flexing. “White?”
Shane chuckles awkwardly. “Uh. I don’t have a type.”
“Really,” Ilya deadpans. “I don’t believe it.”
Shane flounders. “I don’t! Do you?”
If you pool together every woman Ilya has fucked in his life, it would look like the United Nations. He settles on the one common denominator. “I prefer tall women.”
“How tall?”
“Like, tall.” He thinks back to the South Sudanese woman he saw on and off in Boston: six feet of soft curves and smooth skin. God, she was beautiful. “If she’s wearing heels, she’d be taller than me. That tall.”
“Whoa,” Shane says. “That is tall.”
Ilya shrugs. “A woman like that sometimes tries to make herself smaller. I want to, you know. Throw her around a bit. Make her feel appreciated.”
And, selfishly, he loves long legs: thick legs, thin legs, legs that poke out of dresses and legs that grow out from skirts.
Shane opens and closes his mouth in turn. He’s slightly less red, having taken a break from their exercises. “That’s… nice.”
Ilya chuckles, all of a sudden. “Sorry. I keep forgetting you don’t swing that way.”
“You just met my boyfriend,” Shane says, amused.
“Yes, but.” Ilya gestures vaguely around them. “He’s not here much.”
Shane looks crestfallen at that. Ilya wishes suddenly he could take it back. “Yeah.”
They finish up in the weight area and move to cardio. They race on the last two treadmills, right above a TV broadcasting Food Network. Ilya beats Shane by four seconds on kilometer one of five.
“Work on your speed, Hollander,” Ilya teases between pants.
By kilometer five, when they’ve agreed to stop, Shane beats his time overall by twenty seconds. He shuts his treadmill off and, breathless, bumps Ilya with his sweaty arm. He’s smiling, wide and proud. “Work on your endurance, Rozanov.”
----
On a Saturday afternoon, Ilya is spooning soggy cereal into his mouth when Shane approaches him looking vaguely sick.
Ilya sets his spoon down into the ceramic bowl with a plop. A drop of milk ricochets upwards and clings to his chin.
“So,” Shane starts. “How’d you sleep?”
“Fine,” Ilya says slowly. Shane shifts his weight foot to foot while Ilya rushes to blink the sleepiness out of his eyes. Half of him wonders if he’s being evicted. Can a roommate evict him, or does it have to be the landlord? This and other legal questions he has to research, including renewing his visa.
“Great. Good.” Shane sits down at the dining table. “So, next weekend is my birthday. And -”
“What? When?” Ilya interjects.
“Friday.”
“Friday,” Ilya echoes. He makes a mental note.
“Yes. And Mike’s wanting to fly in for the weekend. Thursday through Sunday, because his job is remote on Fridays.”
“O-kay.” Ilya is struggling to see the point.
“Is it fine if he stays here?”
Ilya’s eyebrows draw in. This is Shane’s apartment, practically. “Of course it’s fine.”
“Great,” Shane replies. He scratches his temple, his fingers shaky. Ilya begins to freak out, just a little. “We’d stay out of your hair during the day. We’d have to be here at night, obviously. But I’ll try -”
“Shane,” Ilya interrupts.
Shane cringes, but Ilya barrels on, because he’s new to this too: having a gay roommate. A gay friend, even. Ilya injects an artificial calm into his voice he doesn’t feel.
“Is there anything I’ve said to you, or - or done, that makes you think I would not be okay with that?”
Suddenly Shane plops his head into his hands. He stays in that pose for only a second before straightening up in his chair and taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”
Ilya gulps. “I am sorry if I made you feel -”
“No. No.” Shane shakes his head. “It’s not you. I just have some, like, stuff in my head.”
“‘Stuff in your head,’” Ilya repeats dumbly.
“From hockey.” Shane brings his thumbnail to his mouth, chewing it before he remembers he has company and drops his hand. “They, um, weren’t a fan of the gay thing. That much. My teammates.”
Ilya processes the information too slowly. “Oh,” he says finally. God. He’s the worst. “They gave you trouble?”
“Not all of them,” Shane whispers. “But enough.”
The most empathetic thing Ilya can think to do is shove his cereal bowl and box to the side so there’s nothing between them except the expanse of chipped wooden table. “Is that why you quit?”
“Part of it,” Shane says, rather miserably. He fiddles with his fingers. “I think I just worry, you know, that I’m shoving the - that aspect of me - in people’s faces. Or, your face, in this case.”
“Shane,” Ilya says. Every time Ilya says his name, he perks up like a puppy. “He is your boyfriend. Your partner. He is welcome.”
Shane gulps and his Adam’s apple bobs. His eyes look huge, a warm brown in the sun. “Thank you,” he manages.
Ilya considers Shane for a moment. He takes a calculated risk. “Plus, you see how long I take to do my hair. If anything, I am more gay than you are.”
Ilya wonders after he says it if it’s mildly offensive. But Shane’s expression transforms, and he throws his head back and laughs, this deep and rich sound that makes Ilya think: worth it.
----
Ilya is in the control room at work when he gets a call from an unknown number. He wonders if it’s Svetlana, back inexplicably early from her stint in Russia with a new Canadian number, so he answers.
“Ilya, hey!”
The voice is so chipper that Ilya rules out Svetlana immediately. “Is this Doctor Gaffouri?”
That’s Ilya’s dentist, of course. He practically bounced off the walls with giddiness as he told Ilya he is grinding his teeth too much when he sleeps, which in turn is the likely cause of his migraines. Time and place, dude.
There’s a laugh on the other end. “You’re funny. No. It’s Mike.”
Ilya blinks. “Shane’s Mike?”
“The one and only.” There’s some rustling on the other end. “I’m calling because I want to do something fun for Shane on his birthday. A bit of a surprise. And I’d love your help planning.”
Ilya switches the phone from one hand to the other. “What do you have in mind?”
“Right now he thinks we’re all just going out to dinner. You, me, his friend Rose. But I was thinking. What if we booked him a table at Unity?”
“At what?”
“Oh my god. I thought even straight guys know this place. Club Unity.”
“Club Unity,” Ilya repeats, unsure.
“It’s the largest gay nightclub in Montreal. We could get our own table. Bottle service. The whole shebang.”
“Well,” Ilya begins. Approaching this respectfully feels like dodging landmines. “I’m sure you know Shane likes to go to bed early.”
“Yeah, duh,” Mike says, though not unkindly. “But on his birthday? This is the one day of the year it’s all about him.”
Ilya barrels on. “He likes going to the gym on Saturday mornings. Early morning.”
Mike’s voice is a little more stilted. “I know.”
“So a late night on Friday throws that off. And he likes his routine.”
“I think he’ll just like seeing his boyfriend after two months.”
Ilya squeezes his eyes shut. “Yes. Okay. You know him best.” He tries to picture Shane at a nightclub and the image gets blurry. He just can’t help himself. “How about a sports bar?”
“That…” Mike trails off. “That’s not a bad idea. You have one in mind?”
“No. But I can look into it.”
Mike hums. “That would be great. If there are any gay sports bars, that’d be even better.”
Ilya wonders to himself: Is it homophobic to laugh at that question? And anyway, it’s the twenty-first century, so maybe Ilya is the one who’s out of the loop. What the hell. “Do you want me to check?”
“Yes. That’d be great. Let me know what you find.”
“Okay. Sure.” One of the News Assistants, Isaac, waves Ilya over and gestures frantically to the camera equipment. “I have to go.”
“Alright. You’re a lifesaver. See you Friday.”
----
On Wednesday, Ilya excuses himself from the dinner table. Shane cooked enough tofu lasagna for the two of them. Ilya pretended to hate it on the principle of containing tofu for exactly one minute before he dropped the guise because he wanted seconds.
Unbeknownst to Shane, the reason Ilya is leaving the living room is so he can call Shane’s boyfriend in private. He thinks to himself how fucked up that would be if they were two straight dudes. Yo, Marly. Be back in a sec. I’m gonna call your girlfriend.
Ilya laughs to himself. Yes, this is simpler.
He props his computer open onto the bar’s website before hitting the call button. He had entered a rabbit hole of sorts the night prior, during which he discovered that gay sports bars do, in fact, exist. He found the perfect one on St-Laurent, a longstanding sports bar with new lesbian co-owners, and is oddly giddy to share.
Mike picks up on the first ring.
“Champs,” Ilya says, without preamble. “The bar. It is perfect for Shane. There is some dancing, if he wants, but pool tables too. And even better is they’re showing the game. Puck drop is at 7:15. Might be too close to dinner. But we could catch the second half.”
“Sorry, what?”
Ilya blinks a few times. “The sports bar. That you asked me to find.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry, Ilya.”
Some people fuck up the pronunciation of his name so much he’d rather they not even attempt it. This is one of those cases. “Why sorry?”
“I forgot I asked you to do that. I ended up putting the deposit down at Unity.”
Ilya runs his tongue over his front teeth. “Okay.”
“I should have said.”
“It’s fine. What time do you have it?”
“What, the table?”
Ilya hums.
“Midnight to three.”
Ilya could laugh. This is Shane they’re talking about. “You might want to push back dinner.”
“I already did.”
Ilya nods, considering. “Should I tell Shane to have a late lunch?”
“I can tell him,” Mike replies coolly. “I’ll be with him the entire day.”
“Right.” The silence lingers for a few beats. “Well. See you Friday.”
“I really am looking forward to meeting you,” Mike says. “Sorry for the trouble.”
“No, no.” Ilya forces a smile in case it bleeds into his voice. “It’s no trouble. Have a safe flight.”
----
Ilya shoots off a happy birthday text to Shane before he goes to work. When Ilya leaves for the office, Shane is already on his way to pick Mike up from the airport. At least Ilya won’t be home for their reunion sex. The walls in the apartment are crazily thin as is.
Ilya doesn’t actually see the birthday boy in question until dinner at this medium-nice Japanese fusion restaurant.
“What is this fused with?” Ilya moans around a spicy tuna hand roll. “The hand of God?”
Shane is sitting directly across from Ilya, his legs crossed on the booth side with Mike, who looks exactly how Ilya expected except slightly shorter. Next to Ilya, Rose is consumed by taking overly obvious candid photos of the couple when she thinks they aren’t looking.
Shane laughs. “It’s a French-Japanese fusion.”
Ilya speaks through a mouthful of rice. “Like you?”
Shane goes red in record time. “Um. I guess you could say that.”
Mike pinches Shane’s cheek with hands slick with soy sauce. “The perfect combination.”
As Shane wipes his cheek off with a napkin, Ilya asks Mike about his flight.
“Oh, fine. Bogged down by work stuff, as usual.”
“Mike moved from Montreal to Toronto for work,” Shane supplies.
Mike nods. “I’m a personal stylist for a high-profile actress.”
“Oh, nice,” Ilya replies. He looks to Rose to include her in the conversation, but she is busy snapping her photos, so he keeps talking. “Which actor?”
“Actress,” Mike corrects.
“Sorry,” Ilya says, automatically. English isn’t his first language. He is good, but he slips up sometimes. “Which actress?”
“Oh, I probably shouldn’t say.”
Mike’s arm is sprawled across Shane’s shoulders, but it drops as Shane turns to face Mike more head-on. “I mean, it’s not a secret,” Shane says. “Is it?”
“Well.” Mike shrugs. “More and more fashion houses are expressing interest in her, so I just want to be cognizant.”
“That’s okay.” Ilya pokes at the seaweed salad on his plate. “I don’t mean to...” What the fuck is the word? Pry?
Shane is persistent. “It’s on your LinkedIn, though. And you always tell people.”
Mike sighs. “Alright. Simone D’Bon.”
Ilya catches Shane’s eye across the table. He hopes his stare conveys what he’s thinking, which is: who the fuck is that?
Shane flashes Ilya a small smile. It energizes Ilya enough to react enthusiastically for someone he’s never heard of in his life. “Wow! That is super cool.”
Shane comes to his rescue. “She was on this hospital show, Saving Hope.”
Ilya, again, tries to be supportive. “I love hospital shows.”
Shane grins at him again, and only Ilya knows why. Just a few days prior, they were scrolling through Netflix together sprawled on the couch and Ilya went on a tirade lambasting unrealistic workplace television.
“Yes, so.” Mike snags a piece of sushi from Shane’s plate, leaving one left. “I’ve been pretty busy.”
Rose joins in the conversation after her phone alerts her she has low storage and retells the story of how she first met Shane in McGill’s freshman dorms. Shane was holding a moving box the size of a boulder and it nearly crushed Rose’s head when they collided.
When the check comes, Shane fights to put his card down and Ilya wrangles his hand back like they’re arm wrestling until he gives up.
“I need to stop going to the gym with you,” Shane grumbles. “I’m creating a monster.”
“I was already a monster,” Ilya politely informs him.
Mike turns to Shane, an excitable look on his face. “Baby. The night isn’t over yet.”
Shane blinks. “Oh.” He worries his lip. “Did you want to watch a movie?”
Ilya steels himself. “No,” Mike says. “Even better.”
----
‘Even better’ is debatable. It is past midnight at Club Unity and Shane is three cocktails behind the pace with which Mike is buying them for him. The table is dressed in ice buckets and soft gold light, cordoned off with velvet rope.
Mike has gone off to the restroom. Ilya doesn’t lean over and ask Shane if he’s having fun, because Shane can’t lie for the life of him and it hurts to see him try.
Instead, Ilya says, “Want help with those?”
He points to Shane’s growing army of margaritas. Shane strains to make himself heard over the music. “Sure.” He nudges one in Ilya’s direction.
Ilya takes it happily and sips. “It is very strong.”
Shane plays with his fingers, these slender creatures that catch in the strobe lights. His eyes are like disco balls, reflecting everything, including Ilya’s own silhouette. “I’m not a big drinker.”
Ilya hums. “I thought so.”
Rose has decided to take candid photos of Shane and Ilya this time, since they’re on one side of the table and her the other. “Does anyone want to dance?” She calls out.
Ilya reads Shane’s face easily, deciphering his unease with surgical precision. It is such an odd feeling. With Ilya’s own family, he is always left guessing. “What if we play a game instead?” Ilya suggests.
Shane sits up straighter, his competitive flame ignited. “A game?”
Ilya finishes off the margarita. “Count the number of dudes here with their flies down.”
Wordlessly, Shane slides a second cocktail from his arsenal Ilya’s direction. Ilya picks it up and brings it to his mouth without looking. “There’s no way there are that many -”
Ilya smirks. “Found one.”
Shane turns to Ilya, affronted. “What the hell? New rule. You have to describe who, so I know you’re not cheating.”
Ilya points to the dancefloor and whispers into Shane’s ear. “Short guy, no hair, red shirt.”
Shane’s eyes alight in recognition. “Fine. That’s one point.”
Rose chimes in. “New new rule, girls count too. Look at the girl with the ponytail one table over.”
Ilya hums in approval. Shane whines. “How come I’m losing my own birthday game?”
Ilya pats Shane’s knee in sympathy. “Open your eyes, zaychik.”
Ilya watches as Shane’s careful gaze scans the room. “Okay,” he mutters, grin spreading across his face. “New new new rule is it’s double points if the fly is down and unbuttoned.”
“I’ll allow it. Tell me who.”
Shane takes on that smug celebratory look he only gets on nights the Metros win or the Raiders lose. “The dude dancing with red shirt guy.”
“Holy shit,” Rose says.
Ilya smiles to himself. “They’re made for each other.”
Mike returns to the table with a cocktail in each hand. “Sorry, baby. Bathroom line took forever.”
Shane accepts the cocktail pushed in his direction, albeit warily. “I might pawn this one off to Ilya.”
Ilya jumps in his seat. “Found another!”
Shane whips his head around. “Who?”
“Your boyfriend.”
They drop their eyes to Mike’s crotch in unison. Shane giggles, throwing a hand over his mouth.
Mike takes a sip of his own cocktail. “What’s going on?”
“We’re playing a game,” Shane explains, smiling. “You get a point if you catch someone with their fly down.”
“Oh.” Mike zips his pants and sits down on Shane’s other side, he and Ilya flanking him like guard dogs. He wraps an arm tight around Shane’s waist and raises a suggestive eyebrow, meeting Ilya’s gaze. “Just giving the birthday boy easy access for later.”
Ilya shudders. “You ruined the game,” he slurs, because he is too drunk to remind himself to zip it. “Is okay. I’ll think of another.”
“Dancing?” Rose chimes in.
Ilya tries to work out a way to make Shane feel included without forcing him to dance. He stands up and motions for Rose to join in. “The birthday boy will now rate our dance moves.”
Shane grins. “Alright, but I’m a harsh critic.”
“The harshest,” Ilya agrees.
Mike raises a hand. “What should I do?”
Ilya outstretches a hand. Mike doesn’t take it, but it makes Shane smile nonetheless. “Dance with us.”
Ilya goes first, performing a move he dubs the “Russian sprinkler” because he gyrates his hips as he moves his arms.
Rose does elaborate body rolls she defines as The Worm, only standing up.
Mike finishes them off with some off-beat shuffling.
Shane claps his hands together, pleased. “What is my criteria for judging?”
Mike rolls his eyes. “You don’t need criteria.”
“Half creativity, half execution,” Ilya says.
Shane hums. “Alright. First is Rose.”
Rose whoops. Ilya clutches his chest, faking a heartbreak.
“Second Ilya, third Mike.”
Mike scoffs. “The hell? Why am I last?”
“Well, based on the criteria,” Shane explains. Ilya thinks Shane should be in charge of their judiciary system, the dude is so fair. “Come on. If I was ranking based on love, you’d be first.”
Mike crosses his arms, unconvinced. Ilya reaches for another abandoned margarita, more sheepishly this time. “I can pay you back for these,” he offers.
Mike considers Ilya briefly. “It’s whatever.”
A tall, tanned woman with a French bob approaches their table. “Those were some moves you got there,” she tells Ilya, blinking her catlike eyes.
Ilya turns to Shane, only briefly. They share a knowing look.
Ilya thinks: Thank God for gay guys and the beautiful female friends they bring to the club.
He outstretches his hand in her direction. “Can I show you my favorite?”
She takes it. Score.
They end the night on the dance floor, Ilya kissing this woman - Francesca, is her name - while only a few paces away, Shane kisses Mike.
Maybe it’s odd, that mid-kiss Ilya cracks his eyes open. But he has never seen Shane kiss anyone. It’s like watching a nature documentary. Shane cords his slender fingers through Mike’s hair and kisses him with his dark eyebrows furrowed.
Rose calls a separate taxi across town, so they leave together, the four of them, because Francesca wants to go home with him.
That night, Ilya has just thrust himself inside of her, her gorgeous lengthy limbs spread-eagled on his tiny bed, when she says, “Is that your roommate?”
“What?” Ilya asks, dizzy from all the drinks.
“Those sounds.”
Ilya listens. There are moans sounding out from the other room.
“Yeah,” Ilya settles on. “The walls are thin. Sorry.”
“No, I mean.” She shrugs. Her golden skin moves with the motion. “It sounds like they’re in here, is all. It’s a bit weird.”
It is weird. Ilya spends only a second trying to parse out Shane’s sounds from the combinatory moans across the hall before he realizes that is an odd thing to do.
Instead he leans down and wraps his lips around her pert nipple. She cries out.
“How about,” he murmurs against her skin, “we get so fucking loud we can’t hear them anymore?”
She nods, once and then more frantically when he strokes her clit.
By the time they tire themselves out and fall asleep, the entire apartment is quiet.
----
Shane finds Ilya bent over a bowl of cereal the following morning, Mike trailing behind him.
The second Ilya makes eye contact with Shane, they bust out laughing.
“What?” Mike says. “What is it?”
“Nothing, just,” and Ilya can’t even finish the sentence.
“What?” Mike repeats.
“Just, last night,” Ilya wheezes. “It sounded like fucking Jurassic Park in here.”
Shane cringes, but he’s smiling. “You were way worse than us.”
“We were trying to drown you out.”
“Speaking of ‘we,’” Shane says, “where is the lucky lady?”
Ilya shrugs. “She left. Did not want Cheerios.”
Shane opens the fridge. “Ilya,” he chastises. “How many times have I told you you can use my eggs?”
“I can’t just take your food.”
Shane raises an eyebrow.
“Okay,” Ilya defends, “but that’s because you hate leftovers.”
That’s the thing, isn’t it? Shane hates leftovers and Ilya survives off them. Shane hates drinking and Ilya drinks like a fish.
“You two have a lot of inside jokes,” Mike comments.
What is Mike’s equivalent? Shane is attractive and Mike is unattractive? That’s not compatibility, Ilya thinks. That’s settling.
“I would not say a lot,” Ilya says after a moment.
“We do have a lot,” Shane acquiesces. Ilya gulps. His eyes follow the lines of Shane’s throat. Shane pinches Mike’s cheek, overly fond. “Not as much as we do. Obviously.”
Mike kisses Shane hard, more on his chin than his lips.
Ilya stares down at his cereal bowl and keeps eating.
----
Mike leaves, and weeks pass in their usual fashion. Shane and Ilya go to the gym together most weekdays until Ilya gets assigned to work the evening news show. At least then, Ilya is free in the mornings, and after Shane has his first client call they might go on a run or deep clean the apartment together.
This is all to say, they’ve built up a routine.
Said routine does not involve Ilya coming home bone-tired to Shane’s wet, blotchy face buried in the couch cushions.
Ilya drops his work bag on the floor with a thump. He all but runs over.
Shane takes a tissue and rubs his face like the entire thing is one big stain. “Sorry.”
There is no room on the couch next to Shane, given how he’s sprawled, so Ilya kneels on the floor in front of it. “Hey. Hey,” Ilya coos. “What happened?”
Shane blinks his red-rimmed eyes. Ilya watches the muscles in Shane’s face twitch as he works himself up to speak. As he does, Ilya begs to whichever God is clocked in at the moment: Don’t let it be his mother.
“Mike broke up with me.”
“Oh,” Ilya says. It’s a reflex, to buy himself time. Shane curls in on himself, burrowing his nose in a hoodie so loose Ilya assumes it must not be his own.
Ilya is probably the least qualified person imaginable to deal with emotions. Still, he spreads his arms the width of Shane’s torso, giving him the option of opting in or out like a used car salesman. “Can I give you a hug?”
Shane nods miserably. Ilya climbs onto the couch, personal space be damned, and gathers Shane into his arms with all the heft he uses to pick up his camera rig.
It’s so much force that he lifts Shane off the cushion. Shane lets out a small yelp but otherwise leans into it, his wet nose brushing Ilya’s neck like a puppy’s. Ilya deposits him back onto the couch with much less grace than intended. He wobbles and Ilya steadies him with a hand on his lower back.
Leaning away, so they’re eye level now, Ilya can’t help it. “Is he stupid? Did he hit his head?”
Shane chokes out a wet laugh in Ilya’s arms. “He said he can’t take the long distance anymore. It makes sense, it’s just. I dunno.” He gestures to his splotchy face. His eyes are so red they look vampiric. “I’m sorry. I’m a mess.”
“Shane,” Ilya murmurs. “Have you seen my room? I like mess.”
Shane smiles as best he can. “I think it’s just hitting hard because, um, he was my first boyfriend.”
The last time Ilya helped someone through a breakup was his old co-worker Marlow, who got so hammered that night he could hardly walk to the train. Ilya’s form of solidarity was knocking back the same number of drinks so they were both as sick the next day.
Ilya knows that strategy won’t work for Shane. Instead, he nods sympathetically.
“He was really good about a lot of my… things.”
“Things?”
“I know some things about me are, like, odd. And could be seen as annoying, to a partner.”
Ilya plucks another tissue for Shane when he sees the current one in his hand is soiled. “What is odd?”
“I’m a hypochondriac. I’m a neat freak. I’m -“
“What is that?”
“What, hypochondriac?”
Ilya nods.
“I’m always worried I’m sick. Or that others are. Which, by the way, not to freak you out but I do have a great dermatologist referral in case you want to get your moles checked out. Just to be -” and he cuts himself off as tears fill his eyes again. “Oh God.” Shane wipes his eyes with the collar of the hoodie. “I’m hard to be around.”
“You are not,” Ilya says firmly, and before he has determined what comes after it. It was a reflex, to refute it.
“I won’t find anyone else.”
“Of course you will.” He has a thought like a lightbulb switching on. “There is a guy at my work, Isaac. He is very nice, and smart too. He likes men. I could ask him about you.”
Shane considers him for a moment. “Well, thanks. I'm not ready, and, uh, won’t be for a while, but thank you.”
Ilya nods. He gets that. Out of nowhere, he says, “Fuck Simone D’Bon.”
That tears a startled laugh out of Shane. “What did she do?”
“Guilty by association.”
Shane’s gaze suddenly turns steely. “I just need to power through this feeling. Distract myself.”
Ilya is about to suggest Champs, that sports bar Mike shot down. Fucking Mike. Stupidest motherfucker in existence. But he is interrupted by a suggestion from Shane.
“Gym tonight?”
Ilya is so tired he could collapse. Also, they ran this morning. What the hell. “Always.”
——
Ilya initially puts Shane on something of a suicide watch, considering his job is remote and he has nothing to do except wallow at home all day. That following morning, Ilya texts Shane hourly while he is at work and panics when he doesn’t respond right away.
But this is Shane Hollander he’s talking about. Ilya realizes very quickly that Shane’s sadness is much more efficient than Ilya’s own.
He is less lazy, basically.
Ilya comes home to an apple pie fresh out of the oven.
“Have some,” Shane insists.
His hair is stuck up in odd places and there are bags under his eyes. Ilya takes a bite and just about melts.
After Ilya is sufficiently bloated from the pie, Shane reveals offhandedly: “Mike was allergic to apples.”
“Okay,” Ilya replies, delicately, after wiping the whipped cream off his lips.
The day after, Ilya comes home to find Shane has bought himself a walking pad.
Ilya picks up the remarkably light device and sets it back down onto their carpeted floor. “Don’t you need… what is it… standing desk, for this?”
Shane’s eyes blow wide. “You’re right.”
The next day, Shane buys himself a standing desk.
It is only when Ilya comes home to Shane crying again, only this time they’re silent tears dripping mindlessly down his face as he scrubs the dishes, that Ilya resolves himself to buck up and do something about it.
He texts Shane the next week. Will you be home tonight?
Shane replies after an hour. Yes. Metros home game - can’t miss it
When Ilya comes home, Shane is already in his Metros jersey. It’s a superstition thing. His favorite player is, inexplicably, Hayden Pike, which Ilya finds fucking astounding since he is average at best.
“Perfect,” Ilya says as he walks in. “You won’t even have to change.”
Shane tilts his head like a puppy. “Sorry?”
Ilya fishes into his work bag and pulls out two shiny tickets. He can’t keep the grin off his face as he waves them in Shane's direction.
Shane shoots up off the couch. “No fucking way.”
Ilya hands Shane the tickets. “Way.”
Shane’s grip on the flimsy cuts of paper is white-knuckled, as if sincerely worried they might grow legs and run from him. His voice comes out choked. “This is tonight’s game.”
“Do not go polite Canadian on me now,” Ilya warns. “We are going.”
“Of course we’re fucking going, are you kidding me?” Shane’s eyes are wild and giddy. “But I’m paying you back.”
“Nope,” Ilya says, popping the “P.”
“These cost an arm and a leg. Of course I am.”
Ilya tsks. “These cost nothing. The ticket fairy gave me these. You’ve heard of it? It’s like tooth fairy.”
“Ilya, come on.” Ilya perks up at his name on Shane’s lips, as if he were casting a spell. “How much was it?”
“Zero,” Ilya enunciates, as if said tickets didn’t burn a hole in his wallet. Whatever, he rationalizes; he just won’t buy fresh produce next month. Or the month after. Worth it. “Let’s go.”
Shane gives him an assessing look. “You don’t even like the Metros.”
Ilya shrugs innocently. “Since when?”
Shane smiles at Ilya in a way that lights up Ilya’s insides like a lantern. “Thank you. Oh my God, thank you.”
“Can I borrow a jersey? If I wear my Raiders shit I will get jumped.”
“Duh.” Shane skitters to his bedroom with a hand motion like Ilya should follow, so he does. Shane has navy bedsheets arranged impeccably on his bed and an abundance of throw pillows that puts Ilya’s measly one to shame. “I have another Pike and one for Drapeau.”
“Drapeau,” Ilya replies. Shane tosses the jersey to him, which smells faintly of honey like Shane does. Ilya shrugs his shirt off. Shane’s gaze averts respectfully. When the jersey is on, it is tight around Ilya’s biceps in a way they both notice and neither comment on.
“Really, thank you,” Shane whispers.
Ilya tamps down his grin to something more appropriately sized. “Stop thanking me, okay? The seats are shit.”
Shane laughs with his head thrown back, his neck bared like an offering.
——
The Bell Centre is so packed when they arrive that Ilya nearly loses Shane in the crowd. He searches for a crown of brown hair that bobs up and down with excitement and relocates Shane with some difficulty.
“I need to put a chip in you like they do to fancy dogs,” Ilya says when they reunite.
“At this point, I’ll let you.” Shane stares back at him, his brown eyes blinking ferociously. “I can’t believe we’re here.”
“Well, believe it, and fast. Puck drop is in five and I need to piss.”
They decide Ilya will navigate to the bathroom to relieve himself while Shane finds their seats. Ilya returns with two hot dogs and poutine from the food stand. He attempts to place the hot dog onto Shane’s lap without him noticing, which Ilya wagers might actually work because Shane’s eyes have shuttered with the laser-focus he only gets when he watches hockey.
But he also has reflexes like a cat. So of course he notices.
“Ilya,” Shane whines. Ilya almost drops the poutine. “I wanted to buy the food. How much was it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ilya fills his smirking mouth with a forkful of fries.
Shane rolls his eyes, which is so at odds with the tender way he says what comes next, which is: “Thank you.” He shifts around in his seat. “I may just go grab -“
With an air finality, Ilya procures his final purchase, a Canada Dry, from his back pocket. The condensation mars both his fingers and Shane’s when he reaches over Ilya’s lap to grab it.
“What are you, a mind reader?” Shane mutters, smiling.
Ilya shovels more fries into his mouth. “You should be offended, Hollander, that you are so easy to read.”
“I’ll take offense if it stops working in my favor. And anyways - oh!” Shane is up and out of his seat, clapping, as Pike scores. The conversation dissolves somewhere between their seats and the ice.
Tonight’s game is against Toronto, which Ilya finds almost poetic. He worried initially it might make Shane spiral, but it’s only making him more invested. The Metros lead in the first period, but not by nearly as much as they should, and Shane says as much.
Ilya scans the ice while the Zamboni trudges along like a sleepy caterpillar. When the Metros take the ice again, he clears his throat.
“So. Who is your favorite?”
Shane’s eyes don’t leave the ice. “Pike. But his backhand has been absolutely shot all season.”
“No, I mean. Are there any… what would you call them? Cute guys?”
Shane’s eyes drift off the ice to give Ilya a sideways look. “What, on the team?”
Ilya shrugs. “Celebrity crush is healthy, you know.”
“Yeah right.” Shane rests his elbows on his knees to get a better view. “I’ll find it ‘cute’ if Boiziau gets a hatty before the third.”
Ilya just chuckles. “Your brain is all hockey, huh.”
Shane nods once, a confirmation. “You know I’m not attracted to every man I see,” he says after a moment. “That’s not how it works.”
“I know.”
“I mean, are you?”
Ilya squints. “What?”
“With women, I mean. Are you attracted to every woman you meet?”
Ilya grins. “Pretty much.”
Shane shakes his head, a smile on his lips he tries to conceal with his knuckles. “I should’ve known you’d say that.”
Abruptly, Ilya takes his phone out and swipes the camera on. “For memories,” he says, and outstretches an arm across Shane’s shoulders for the photo.
Ilya keeps his arm there after the picture, because it’s comfortable and because Shane has goosebumps on the back of his neck. It is the kind of cold in the stadium that seeps past the skin and nestles under Ilya’s ribs.
“You just need to put yourself out there,” Ilya tells him, drumming his fingers along Shane’s shoulder.
Shane takes a final sip of his ginger ale and crushes the can. “If you say so.”
——