This sick bleach shirt I made. Something to showcase my undying love for prehistoric cave art.

It’s surprisingly easy, natural even, to crawl into Rozanov’s lap. To cradle his blonde head between his palms and weave his fingers through Rozanov’s thick curls; to rub his thumb over Rozanov’s earlobe and gently rock them back and forth at the edge of the mattress.

The shape of Rozanov--Ilya, he reminds himself, Ilya--is solid beneath him, warm and sniffly, his face pressed into Shane’s pec right by his armpit. There are tears soaking through the fabric of his nice, new shirt but Shane finds he doesn’t mind. Doesn’t mind even a little bit when Ilya breathes shakily and rubs his nose over the sleeve of Shane’s shirt, probably leaving behind a trail of snot. In fact, something in him warms and unfurls and spreads all throughout his body at the action. At the vulnerability in it. He wants to tuck Ilya into his chest and keep him there. Maybe forever.

That particular thought makes Shane’s stomach twist itself into an uncomfortable knot.

I would never be able to go back home again. Do you get that?

Shane pulls back, just a fraction, his palm still cupping the back of Ilya’s head as he slides his thumb along Ilya’s temple, catching stray tears on the pad then smudging them into Ilya’s hairline. Not burying the evidence of Ilya’s vulnerability but carefully, tenderly, tucking it somewhere safe. Between the press of their bodies.

You don’t like me.

Rozanov--Ilya--shudders through a snotty inhale then blinks up at Shane, his eyes wet and dark in the low lamplight. Involuntarily, like he just can’t help himself--he can’t, he really can’t--Shane’s forehead drops and then their noses are bumping together, breaths mingling in the space between them. The tip of his nose catches on the bump of Ilya’s bridge--the bone broken and healed and broken again--before sliding down further, dragging over the curve of Ilya’s cupid’s bow.

He closes his eyes. Ilya shifts and presses his lips to the corner of Shane’s mouth and then just lingers there. Lingers, and lingers, and lingers. His nose tucking into Shane’s cheek, fingers grasping at Shane’s shirt. Somehow it’s the closest they’ve ever been.

“Do you feel better?” Shane breathes, and it’s muffled where his mouth is smeared against Ilya’s damp cheek, but he knows Ilya hears it because he tenses and sucks in a ragged breath. His shoulders rolling back like he’s preparing to push away. Shane holds him tighter, clamps his thighs around Ilya’s hips. He doesn’t want him to pull away. “Don’t,” Shane says and Ilya pauses, fingers flexing against Shane’s hip. A nervous twitch perhaps.

“I’m not--” he starts and Shane shakes his head, dipping down and brushing their mouths together. He tastes tears on Rozanov’s lips and he licks away the salt.

“You are,” Shane insists and finally settles when he feels Ilya relent, spine slumping as Shane slides his fingers through his hair. “Stay,” he murmurs and Ilya shivers, tilting his head, mouth smudging against Shane’s chin. Shane soothes his thumb in circles over Ilya’s earlobe, something he’s seen Rozanov do a dozen times to himself before. The effect is immediate. Ilya’s head tilts into the touch and his lashes flutter. “Stay,” Shane repeats.

“Is my room,” Ilya retorts, tone bordering on bitchy. Shane huffs a laugh and pulls back to look down at Ilya again. Ilya is watching him warily, eyes darting around Shane’s face like he doesn’t quite trust anything he’s seeing. Like he’s the one that’s asking stay and Shane is the one pulling away.

Shane thinks of Ilya asking him to stay in Boston. Lips pressed to the pinched corner of Shane’s mouth as he whispered stay into the quiet afternoon. In the months since then he has wondered what would have happened if he had stayed.

Is simple for me.

Nothing about any of this has ever been simple. They both knew that. Any attempt at pretending otherwise was, as Shane had said, bullshit.

“You are staring at me,” Ilya mumbles then. It sounds self-conscious in a way that Shane is unfamiliar with coming from Rozanov’s mouth. And he wants to say something witty or flirty or teasing in retort but he comes up short. He's too busy fixating on the shifting colours in Ilya’s eyes, clearer to him now that he is sitting in his lap. Blue and green and hazel flicker behind the curtain of Ilya’s thick lashes and Shane presses his thumbs to the apples of his cheeks. Shane is most certainly staring. Trying to figure Ilya out. “Hollander.”

Shane. He thinks. Call me Shane.

Instead of replying to Ilya, he ducks his head and presses their brows together. Between them their breaths shudder and mingle. Ilya’s breath smells like mint and cigarettes and Shane wants to want to reprimand him but instead finds he’s missed the smell.

When he’d been with Rose a few of her Hollywood friends would chain smoke after dinner. One in particular had smoked Ilya’s brand of cigarettes -- Newports -- and Shane had shivered when the smoke had wafted over him outside the restaurant in the freezing Montreal air. Something within him had churned hot and nauseating at the sense memory. Almost like he could taste Rozanov’s lips on his -- taste his tongue licking into his mouth, hear himself complaining about Rozanov’s smoking, see Rozanov rolling his eyes in response. An attack on all his senses. His whole body overcome by Rozanov.

Maybe it wasn’t that he’d missed the smell in general. But that he’d missed it on Ilya. The way the menthol scent mixed with Ilya’s cologne. Bergamot and vetiver. Rich and masculine and warm. Beneath that the smell of Ilya’s skin, his hair, the salt of his sweat. The sharp scent of peppermint on Ilya’s breath, attempting to cover up the cigarettes.

Shane presses his mouth to Ilya’s then and sighs, moans, gasps, as Ilya’s tongue slips between his teeth. His fingers grasp, on instinct, tugging at Ilya’s hair, trying to bring them closer together. Not that they possibly could be closer. Shane still heavy in Ilya’s lap, pinning him at the edge of the mattress with his thighs. Ilya beneath him and gripping back, his fingers digging into Shane’s flesh through the soft material of his shirt.

They kiss for a while like that. Gripping and grasping at each other. Mouths dragging, lingering. Each kiss getting deeper, hotter, wetter. Until Shane’s jaw is aching and his head is spinning and his chest is shivering, desperate for a full gulp of air.

When they drag apart Shane is breathing heavily. Ilya’s pupils are wide and black, almost entirely encompassing the blue of his irises. His breathing is unsteady too. Puffing over Shane’s cheeks in damp gasps as he licks his bottom lip and nudges their noses together.

“Hollander,” Ilya calls and Shane shakes his head.

“Don’t,” he answers.

“Don’t?” Ilya asks, head tilting, mouth smudging against the corner of Shane’s lips.

“Ilya,” Shane murmurs. And in those two short syllables he feels so hopelessly exposed.

I think I like you a bit too much.

Ilya is quiet for a beat. Then two. Shane doesn’t dare look at him.

Then, he says, “Shane.”

And Shane shivers. The sound of his name on Rozanov’s--Ilya’s tongue rolls right through him. From the hairs on his scalp to the tips of his toes. He feels warmed by it. He feels overwhelmed by it. He wants to hear Ilya say it again. And again. And again.

So, he repeats, “Ilya.”

Two matching original pieces painted on thrifted wooden book ends.

Greg: came highly recommended by Jackie and Hayden; both shane & ilya think he's absolutely fucking ridiculous and make fun of him behind his back; he suggests sleeping in separate bedrooms, solo hikes, differentiated hobbies, and other bullshit shane and ilya absolutely aren't doing; the final straw is when greg, clearly misunderstanding the situation, suggests that one of them retires while looking directly at shane.

Cole: they go to one (1) therapy session with Cole where Cole recommends they separate to "find themselves"; shane floats suing him but ilya doubts they'd have a case so they never go through with it.

Richard: usually an independent therapist who works with athletes, but has taken on couples therapy before; things are going okay until richard asks if they have a prenup in place and thereby steps on a huge fucking landmine; shane and ilya have such an awful fight after this session that they break up with Richard via email and agree to never bring up the prenup again. (neither shane nor ilya wanted one, but shane caved to yuna's insistence, and the whole thing is the one (1) pressure valve they allow themselves for arguing about yuna's place in their marriage.) they also decide to stop seeing men because clearly something there isn't fucking working.

Julia: very sweet but so young it's jarring for both of them; LOTS of fan-girling over shane, which makes ilya jealous, which makes shane feel like maybe he wasn't doing enough to show his affection, which makes shane clingy, which triggers ilya's avoidant attachment, which makes ilya feel like shit, which makes ilya bring up julia more often because he was trying to do her homework, which makes shane briefly believe ilya is attracted to julia, which makes ilya furious because he would never cheat on shane. they fuck about it. ilya breaks up with julia over email, then shane has to send an apology email because ilya's email was... perhaps not the best.

Michelle: goes by chelle (which shane remembers by saying: like celly but chuh); specializes in couples therapy for couples who work high stress jobs / careers; the absolute GOAT; gives them permission to bring play into their relationship again through check-ins, conversation starters, challenges, and other relationship rebuilding and strengthening strategies; also wants them to practice independence but knows a bonded pair when she sees one and tempers her expectations accordingly; ilya gets really into home pickling and shane takes up jazzercise and chelle will take what she can get; she closes her private practice so they go their separate ways.

Executive dysfunction comes from a lack of available dopamine. Common advice is wrong. You need to provide your own dopamine before you can start. Otherwise you're trying to run your car on empty.

"But what if I still don't do it" well you already weren't getting it done anyway. Now you have a little treat. Try again later.

You deserve kindness and care even when you aren't being productive.

I usually suggest this technique as a "Reverse Pomodoro." In the original Pomodoro, you work for 25 minutes and then take a break for 5 minutes (the times vary, but that's the essential ratio). People with executive dysfunction often find this insurmountable, and they get even more frustrated, and then the task seems even more difficult. So instead, flip those times.

FIRST, spend 25 minutes doing something energizing and engaging that you like to do. Not scrolling social media passively, not watching tv, not napping. Try something like colouring, doing yoga, running/walking around the block, talking about your favourite tv show with someone in real time, playing with the dog or cat, making and eating a lovely sandwich, hula hooping, something active. Having a little treat absolutely falls in this category!

(on the subject of little treats: refusing yourself food until you do work is for fucking Puritans and you can be kinder to yourself)

Then, after 25 minutes (or however long it takes to eat the sandwich or finish the yoga routine, it doesn't have to be exact), spend 5 minutes writing (or doing whatever you're struggling to start). Most people can coax themselves into doing something they find difficult for five minutes, if they have already filled up the joy/energy/engagement bucket. You can put a timer on for the 5 minutes if you want, or if you find that annoying, just work for as long as you like.

The other key is: don't push yourself to keep going when you're frustrated or tired—that will just reinforce the negative belief that you already have, which tells you that this task is painful to do, and needs to be avoided. If you've commonly had to force yourself to do this kind of task, that's likely part of why you think of it as painful and have trouble starting it now. Also, you should just, at a basic level, try not to put yourself in pain for the sake of productivity. So just do it till the good feelings run out. Then start hula hooping or colouring again for another 25 minutes. When the tank's refilled, try another 5 minutes of work, if you can. Adjust times to taste.