Ginkgo & Moonflower

There's a light, wavering. Shane doesn't even have to open his eyes to sense the change. Ilya must have turned his phone on.

"Sleep," Shane grumbles.

The light changes as Ilya hides the phone under the blanket.

"No, Ilya, all the way off," says Shane.

Ilya draws out a long groan, but eventually the light goes out.

"Better," Shane sighs.

"How can you even see that? Stupid, Canadian, super power eyes," Ilya mutters.

Shane snorts and kisses Ilya's arm sleepily. Ilya keeps fidgeting until Shane puts his arms around him and pulls him close.

"Sleep," Shane says. "Have you even tried closing your eyes?"

"Oh, asshole," Ilya tuts. But when Shane peppers his back with kisses, he finally settles. Shane drifts off again with his lips still pressed to Ilya's warm skin.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

The next time it happens, Shane is more annoyed. Again that flickering light through his eyelids, pulling him back into consciousness.

"It's late, Ilya. Sleep time," he says firmly. "No more phone."

"Sorry, Shányechka," Ilya says. "I didn't mean to wake you. I'll watch downstairs."

"No."

"Yes, my little пульт дистанционного управления. Sorry. I can't sleep."

"No. Stay," Shane grasps at him, but Ilya leans away.

"I can't, I'm too awake."

"Your phone won't help."

"It does. I have the eye protection, night light filter on. It’s one video. I have watched many times and I'm always sleeping before the end."

Shane tries to sit up, peering at the phone. "What video is it?"

Immediately, Ilya clicks his screen off with such flustered clumsiness that he nearly drops the phone.

"Ilya?” Shane snorts. “What are you watching?"

Ilya taps his fingers on the phone and shrugs. "Nothing."

He's so funny. Shane tilts his head to keep looking at him. The moonlight, so soft on his skin. The curve of his lips. His hair, all rumpled and messed up, sticking out on one side. He's not meeting Shane's eyes, which is very unusual. If Shane didn't know better, he'd be worried. Jealous.

"Is it porn?" Shane asks. "Porn helps you sleep?"

Ilya opens his mouth and then closes it. He nods tightly. "Yes. Sorry."

Shane laughs at him. "I don't mind." It's funny that Ilya has been watching it right next to Shane, with the sound off. "Did I not tire you out enough?"

Ilya's eyes gleam. "No. No, you did not."

"Greedy." Shane yawns. He stretches, shakes out his legs then arches his back like he does during his morning yoga. Ilya watches him very intently. Shane smiles; Ilya smiles back. Shane smiles wider, then creeps forward and slowly lowers his mouth.

Ilya falls asleep afterwards in less than 3 minutes. Shane curls himself around him and lets Ilya's soft snores lull him back into dreams.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Shane has been breathing evenly for a while, but sleep hasn't found him yet. He's content just to lie here in the warmth, cocooned in Ilya's arms.

Ilya clearly thinks Shane is fast asleep because he has started to carefully untangle himself. Shane makes a soft noise and Ilya pauses, then continues to wriggle away once Shane's breathing has evened out again. Shane hears him pad downstairs. 

Shane is not sure exactly why he's still pretending to snooze, except he's so comfortable, he doesn't want to move. And, it's a good chance to catch Ilya in his late night, insomniac, porn habit and tease him about it.

Ilya comes back to the same video every few weeks. Shane's pretty sure it's always the same file from the quality of the vague shapes and light, which are all he can make out from the brief glimpses he manages before Ilya switches the screen off or hurries away to the sofa. 

Shane wants Ilya to know it's ok, Shane can sleep through it now. The light is very soft and there’s no sound. He doesn't want Ilya feeling ashamed of having found something soothing. It's no different from Shane liking the bedroom a certain temperature, or his blankets a certain fabric. 

And Shane has noticed the pattern now. Ilya always watches this mystery file on the harder days. Days when he's too exhausted to sleep easy, when he's been up extra early checking on new rookies or staying late to field tricky questions from overzealous journalists. Days when he's achey, playing with a mild injury or a cold. Or days when he is withdrawn, more laden with sadness, like the harder anniversaries - death days, lost birthdays. Or, any time his brother has called. 

Most nights, Ilya's happy enough to leave his phone charging downstairs with Shane's. So Shane is willing to compromise for the nights when he's tossing and turning without it. Shane sees him trying. He has also noted that whatever Ilya watches does help, usually lulling him to sleep within half an hour.  

Shane tip-toes down, bringing the big blanket with him - it can be cold in the cottage downstairs, even in summer. He's glad he did when he sees Ilya is shivering slightly on the sofa, even wrapped up in a quilt. 

Shane has waited too long to catch him watching; Ilya is already snoring softly with his mouth open. Shane tucks the blanket over him, then brushes a kiss against his curls. Ilya sighs in his sleep and mutters something incomprehensible. 

Ilya's phone is propped up on the coffee table. Shane leans forward to turn it off then blinks as he recognises himself on screen gesturing vaguely. Even without sound he knows - he is talking about the well. Later he will explain the history of the local area, point out some of his favourite wildlife, including the loons, then show off his indoor rink and his neatly stacked larder. Shane had forgotten the documentary about the cottage. How does Ilya even have this?

Shane pauses the file and discovers its name: Boring.mp4 is the only file in the folder saved in Rewatch_2016. Ilya has kept it for nearly a decade. Shane clicks it and the documentary restarts with a pretty shot of light glittering over the lake. 

Shane snorts and then looks quickly at his love, still asleep on the couch. The same couch which is also now on the phone screen as Shane explains to the interviewer the original plans he discussed with the architect. 

A vague memory resurfaces of their first summer together.

"Wait, you saw that?"

"Yeah. Is very good. I needed help sleeping, so."

"You're an asshole."

Shane is a terrible liar; his pulse is racing, his hands are sweaty, he has to bite the inside of his mouth to not give it away. But Ilya is so good! His eyes are so wide and innocent, his tone just the right side of hopeful and earnest as he weaves his tale. Shane has to look away; it'll be too obvious if he keeps staring. Be cool, Hollander.

He watches his parents instead. Yuna and David look stricken, but they're too polite to outright stomp over Ilya's happy chattering. They keep listening, occasionally making the smallest noises of stifled pain. Out of the two of them, Yuna seems less convinced; she looks closely at Shane, narrowing her eyes. He manages to maintain his calm smile; Yuna's face falls. She takes a sip of wine, her eyes flitting to David and back. When Ilya trails off and no one else says anything, she puts her wine glass down and clears her throat.

"So this is… you're sure?” Yuna asks. “You've definitely made up your minds?"

"Oh, yes," Ilya smiles beatifically, a saint bestowing blessing.

"That's right," Shane agrees. "We wanted to name her after a special meal. Commemorate the first time Ilya ever cooked for us.”

“In fact, the first meal we ever shared,” says Ilya, solemnly.

Shane nods. “And it's for you too, Mom. Because it sounds like your name."

In the quiet that follows, Shane can hear the lake splashing gently. There’s soft birdsong in the distance. It’s a gorgeous, sunny day and one he knows will be remembered for years and years to come. They will tell the story of this day, it will be new family lore. He tops up Yuna’s wine. Ilya squeezes his knee.

"So..." Yuna says, slowly. "So. You’ve decided… you’re truly choosing to call your daughter 'Tuna Hollander?' "

"Is perfect, yes?" Ilya's smile is so bright and carefree. Shane has to look away. ‘Tuna’ means a lovely thing in Russian."

"Oh?" says Yuna.

"What does it mean?" David asks.

"It's like... how do you say? Big fish." Ilya beams. "From old Russian myth."

Shane has to breathe out very slowly and carefully. Don't laugh. Don't. Ilya grips his hand, seemingly overcome with paternal pride.

Their daughter won't be born for another couple of months. Lisa, their surrogate, has been doing a brilliant job keeping them updated with every step of the pregnancy.

But Yuna has been calling them every day, non-stop, with name suggestions. It would be sweet, except they've told her over and over again that they already have their shortlist. They want to keep it secret, for now, then see their daughter before making any final decisions. They don't need anyone getting attached to a name that ultimately won't fit. But no matter how many times they've said this, Yuna always has just one more suggestion. She keeps prodding them for feedback, hunting for hints of which names they’re leaning toward.

So Yuna can handle a little pranking. Shane's pretty sure the only reason his parents haven't seen through it immediately is because Shane was too boring, too serious as a child - he never even thought to pull their leg like this. They've never had to deal with anything like it before.

But their grandchildren will be Ilya's. They're going to have to learn some healthy, playful scepticism.

"Tuna Hollander," repeats David. He takes a deep breath. "I like it."

Yuna opens her mouth and then closes it again. She swallows and then clearly forces herself to smile.

"You’re not sure?" Ilya sounds so heartbroken, Shane instinctively reaches out for him.

"No, no, I love it!" Yuna says. "I love it. It's so... I love it. I'm touched it was partly in honour of me. We'll be best pals together. Granny Yuna and Baby Tuna."

Ilya cackles in delight. Shane kicks him.

They've been talking names a long time, much earlier than they were actually ready to have a child. Lilly-Jane was tempting, but a little on the nose. They liked Lynne for lake or Nikita for winner. Victoria for champion.

Then, Ilya started claiming ‘Holly Hollander’ would be perfect. Shane declared for ‘Rosy Rozanov.’ It was war. The imaginary competition between two imaginary children became so tense, Ilya started to worry they would pit their real children against each other and Shane had to talk him down from a mild panic attack.

So, a truce. No Holly, No Rosy. Raising competitive children, yes, but never having favourites, never making them earn affection. They went back to basics, names made of love. Recently, they've been leaning towards Lisa, after the lady doing such incredible work carrying their precious daughter.

Lisa’s labour is long and exhausting. Both Ilya and Shane are well prepared; they’ve been training for this day in pre-natal classes. They can assist: stockpiling water and snacks and Lisa’s favourite playlists, learning massage for her back and neck. They take turns letting her squeeze their hands as she screams through her agony. They breathe with her. They hold her.

And finally, when Lisa has won, the room is full of the sound of the most extraordinary, holy wailing. Ilya is first to hold their beautiful, little mite and for a while Shane forgets she even needs a name. It's just cooing and crying and skin to skin cuddles. Later, when Lisa is sleeping and Yuna and David have gone to fetch everyone dinner, Ilya and Shane whisper between themselves.

"So you agree?"

"It's perfect."

"You're sure it's safe?" Ilya frowns at the dark, green-blue ice. "Lakes can be tricky."

"I'm sure," says Shane. "I've skated here the last few winters. I've drilled all over; it’s 7 inches thick, minimum. Just don't go past my markers, it gets thinner to the South."

"Hmmm," Ilya considers, still inspecting. He stamps his skate and the ice makes a laser-like whoop, an ethereal sound. Ilya shivers and then laughs. "Ok. Should be fine.” He pushes off, his skates scratching white lines across the dark depths. His gliding strides are measured, calm. “It's very nice here. So quiet."

"Yeah." It's one of the things Shane first loved about the cottage. Skating here feels like skating on the moon.

Of course with Ilya, it's not peaceful for long. He’s a chirper. So, Shane has to chase him. They race forwards and back, again and again, sliding past one another, catching back up. The ice is butter smooth. There are frozen plants curled deep beneath them and when the leaves thin out, you can see all the way down to fathomless water, like flying over a cliff. The ice chirps and warbles, calling to them.

When Shane is tiring, he nearly trips. He swears, his legs trembling. Ilya laughs and holds out his hand. Shane can't resist reaching for it, but Ilya speeds up, making him work for it. Shane pushes forward and grabs it; Ilya pulls him faster, almost too fast and then they're skating side by side, gliding together, hand in hand.

"We could be figure skaters," Shane jokes.

Ilya gives him a look Shane doesn't understand.

"What?" Shane asks.

Ilya lets go. Shane slows, but Ilya speeds up. He starts to skate differently. Tenderly. It's like all the snapping, crackling fire in him has turned to water. He undulates over the ice, leaning into his turns like a ballet dancer.

Shane stumbles, then manages to halt himself. He stares. Ilya winks at him as he sweeps past, swaying across the ice with the grace of a bird, dipping and rising like sun on the ocean. He lets himself lean way over to one side, so far Shane's sure he will fall, but he doesn't. He spirals softly into a spin, raising his arms above his head.

Shane has never seen him move like this on the ice. It's a bit like the way he sways and rocks when he gives his whole body to Shane, when he is pressing all his rolling rhythm and affection into him. Shane coughs and feels his cheeks warm. He tries to clear his throat and only manages to splutter.

Ilya beams at Shane as he circles back round again, languid, leisurely, somehow sliding into complex, fiddly moves, jumps and hops and criss-crossing changes of direction, making them all look as easy as silk over skin. Shane can't move, can't speak; he's scared to breathe in case he breaks this spell.

Then Ilya flings himself forward, sprints across the ice with all his usual racing, hurricane energy, and throws himself into a somersault. He lands a little awkwardly on one foot but doesn't fall. He laughs at himself and skates back to Shane, his face red.

"Fucking hell," breathes Shane. "When? How? What?"

Ilya shrugs. "My mother skated very well. It was our secret. She taught me. There was a lake not far from our house. Very quiet. Just us two."

"Oh," says Shane. "Oh." He is struggling to keep a hold of his voice. He breathes slowly until he thinks he can control it and then says, "it was beautiful. You skate... so beautifully." Despite his effort, his voice still hitches, cracking on the last word.

Ilya's face snaps up to look at him. "Are you crying, Hollander?"

"No," Shane lies. Then gives it away by sniffling and having to swipe at his eyes.

Ilya snorts then presses himself all along Shane's chest, closing in on him to rub his cold nose against Shane's wet cheek. Shane can't hold it in longer, his whole chest shudders and he lets out a sob.

"Why are you crying?" Ilya laughs, all astonishment. "Милый? It was not that bad, was it?"

"It was so beautiful," Shane whispers. "You looked like... God, I don't know."

"I looked like God?" Ilya smirks.

"No! I mean... well, yeah. Pretty much. A Greek god, maybe. You were unreal. If I didn't already love you, I would have fallen in love all over again. So beautiful."

"Silly," Ilya shushes him. "You say too many silly things."

Shane shakes his head. "No, Ilya. It was the nicest thing I've ever seen," he insists. "I can't believe you can skate like that. Please, never stop skating like that."

Ilya's heart is pounding hard, as though he's just smashed through a defense line. He can be brave, just like dinosaur Scott Hunter. He grips his phone tight to his ear, so tight his fingers are aching. "I am coming to the cottage," he declares.

There is silence on the other end. And then, "uh... how do you know about my cottage?" Shane asks.

Ilya pauses, thrown. He kneads his fist into his chest where it is starting to hurt. "You asked me," he says. "You said 'come to my cottage.' "

"No, I didn't."

Ilya stares at his phone. His fingers are trembling. He doesn't gasp, or cry or flinch but he feels almost light-headed and can't think of a single thing to say. He considers hanging up.

"I wanted to ask you," Shane clarifies. "But then I got knocked out."

Ilya closes his eyes, relief whooshing through him so fast he feels wobbly. A smile creeps over his face. "Hollander," he says. "You did ask. You were fucking high, at the hospital. You don't remember?"

"No? What did I say?"

“You said, ‘Come to my cottage this summer. Don't go to Russia. Come to my house. It will be fun. I will suck your cock every morning for two weeks.’ "

"I did not!"

"I'm pretty sure you did, actually. You promised. You said, 'we will do yoga outside with you in my mouth. You will get to see all my pretty arching up close.' "

"No way I said that," Shane scoffs.

"You're going to break your promises?"

"Ok, the first bit I can believe because that's pretty much what I wrote down to say but the rest... no."

"Shane! You were high. Clearly this is deepest desire of your heart, can only be revealed while on drugs. You said 'come to the cottage, make me tuna melts every day and I will let you fuck me in the lake.' "

"No, Ilya," Shane wheezes with laughter.

"Oh very nice, he invites me to his cottage then un-invites me! Famous American hosting not so good now, is it?"

"Asshole. I'm Canadian. And you're still invited. Please come."

"Oh, I will."

"Good," says Shane.

"Good," says Ilya.

"I'm looking forward to it. I'll make up the guest bedroom," Shane adds.

Ilya splutters.

"Oh," says Shane. "You want the couch instead? You want to camp in the garden?"

"No."

"Hmmm. Well, maybe I can share. I don't want you doubting Canadian hospitality."

"Ok, Hollander. I will sleep where you tell me."

"You will sleep where I sleep."

"Then we will not be sleeping."

"For two weeks?"

"You did not know? Russians do not sleep in summer."

"Sure. Russians do not sleep, do not blush, do not cuddle."

"This is what you think of me? Russians cuddle. We would win gold medal in cuddle."

"Prove it."

Ilya can hear Shane's breathlessness. "Hmm. Ok." He taps his finger against his lip. "I will prove this. Give me the time and the address. I'll come. Goodbye, Hollander. Don't ring any more bells. Clearly not much brain left, so the rest is precious."

"Shut up! I won't. Goodbye. See you soon."

Ok, Shane spoke too soon. He hates it. He hates it so much. Why did he never see that Yuna and Ilya are the same? At their core, they are both agents of chaos. They both get some weird kick out of messing with the media. Yuna has hidden that side of herself so well, it's only looking back that Shane now realises management has always been a bit of a game to her. A serious game, in the same way that hockey is a game. But she has been living for the thrill of it. She plays to conquer.

And now, the speculation has gone wild. It's completely ridiculous! Yuna and Ilya smirk at one another and it makes headlines. When she waves from the crowd, Ilya waves back and there are hour long debates about it on Youtube. David has now also been caught attending matches; he was photographed staring at Ilya so fondly, several papers published exposés debating whether it’s a triangle or a threesome.

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