lesbianalumni

It would be a travesty to leave without learning about ancient Italy or trying every pasta shape on the menu. Swallowing the contents of his little mint tin would mean losing his access to all of this — this big world that feels right at his fingertips right now. He’d never have a glass of wine again. 

It’s all too easy to forget about these things when he’s alone. He takes pictures of them all now, collecting a little album in the hopes that it can serve as a reminder two months from now when the sharpness of reality starts chiseling away at this beautiful new mindset he’s found. 

He and Paula walk back to the ship together in the late afternoon, satiated by the tasting menu and the peek into Italian history. Their arms are hooked together and the golden hour sunlight softens their hair. He’s sure they look like little blonde twins. Ilya is giddy, full of rich food and love for her. 

“Italy is my favorite, and this is just barely a taste of all we’re going to see,” Paula sighs happily. “You’ll love it.” 

“I want to stay here forever,” he says. Though it’s meant to be like a turn of phrase, the words come out like a child begging for something on Santa’s lap. There is a deep, genuine desire underneath.

“Same here,” Paula says. “Let’s keep an eye out for ‘For Sale’ signs on the houses, okay?” It’s a joke, but Ilya wishes it wasn’t. 

— 

The next morning, Shane is irrationally nervous to tell Ilya his plans. They’ve already docked in Corfu, a Greek island in the Ionian sea, and Shane is going to break the news as they pack for the day. He’s been sitting on the foot of the bed for probably ten minutes now, waiting for the right moment. 

“I, um…” he starts as Ilya grabs the water filter from the refrigerator and fills up his black metal water bottle. “Have a surprise.” 

“Uh oh,” Ilya says, looking up at him. God, he loves when Ilya looks at him. Loves being on the receiving end of this man’s attention. “Good surprise or bad surprise? You look scared.” 

“Good surprise, I hope,” Shane laughs. 

Ilya moves so that he’s standing between Shane’s legs. He looks down at Shane, and this position — the hierarchy Ilya has over him in this moment — makes Shane’s heart speed up. “Tell me, then,” Ilya says playfully, resting both hands on Shane’s shoulders. 

“So, I was looking at the schedule a while ago, and it was missing something I really want to do,” Shane says. He grabs the laminated schedule, not the one he’s marked up (Ilya can’t see that one just yet.) He points to today’s date. “We go from this Greek island straight to Croatia for two days there. And don’t see other parts of Greece. But I’m dying to see Athens, and we came all this way, so…” 

“So?” Ilya asks, a little urgently as Shane stalls around the point. 

“I booked us tickets to fly from here to Athens, and then from there to Dubrovnik, where we will meet the ship. And I have a hotel for us in Athens for the night in between,” Shane gets out. 

A million emotions find their way to Ilya’s face, at least from what Shane can see. But mostly, he thinks, there’s excitement. Joy, even. 

“You did not,” Ilya says, smiling. 

“I did.” 

“We will see the - how do you say it. Old building,” Ilya’s eyes are wide and hopeful. 

“The Parthenon, yes. And the original Olympics stadium.” 

“You are not making prank?” 

“No,” Shane laughs. “This isn’t a prank.” 

“What do we do? Go there right now?” Ilya’s pacing around the room, trying to decide what he needs to pack. 

“Well, we’re both on walking tours this morning around old town Corfu. It’ll only take a couple hours, then we’ll have a car take us to the airport and we’ll be in Athens before sunset.” 

“And we will pack night bags. For a trip,” Ilya says, excited. 

“Yeah, a mini vacation from the vacation, just for us.” 

“I could fuck you right now,” Ilya comes back over between Shane’s legs and bends down to kiss him. 

“Fuck me in Athens,” Shane says as they pull away. 

“Deal.” 

—-

It is perfect, it is just enough, until it is way, way too much. 

None of it is “too much” when they get off in Corfu, leaving one of Shane’s suitcases at the front desk to be loaded into the car later. They walk around the old town square and Ilya is surprised at how colorful the buildings are. Most of the photos he’s seen of Greece have bright white buildings with blue accents, but these ones are all pastel, oranges and pinks and reds, squished together in the way old European villages always seem to be. The island of Corfu sits in the Ionian Sea as though it just burst up yesterday: light gray rock jutting out of the cool blue ocean so seamlessly. 

None of it is “too much” when they catch their cheap flight from the island into Athens, sharing a row to themselves at the back of the plane. Ilya insists that he likes the aisle seat more, but really he wants Shane to have the privilege of seeing this beautiful country from above, and he wants to see Shane seeing it. 

It’s not “too much” when they walk around the Parthenon at sunset. Ilya thinks of Ancient Greece the same way he thought of Ancient Rome yesterday: a treasure chest of history that he could spend years exploring, if he were to allow himself to have those years. The stony columns hold up the rectangular frame of the building, as has been their job since before his calendar even existed, and Ilya marvels at it all. 

It’s not “too much” when they visit the Panthathenaic Stadium at sunset, the carved marble taking on a golden hue as it reflects the dimming light in the sky. It’s one large oval, framing a central track for ancient sporting events. They read about how the original Olympics began here, and the modern Olympics had an opening and closing ceremony in the venue in 1894. He takes a picture of Shane in the stadium and they debate whether it’d be a good post for the cruise social media agreement. Shane ends up agreeing with Ilya that he shouldn’t admit he’d strayed off course from the original plans. Ilya revels in the idea that this little trip is just for them, like a secret. 

It is, however, “too much” when Ilya sees their hotel. The building itself could be a tourist site: it is large and ornate, with statues of lions lining the garden as they enter. Shane points out olive and eucalyptus trees along the path, stopping to pick a fallen leaf and break it into two so the potent eucalyptus oil fills the air with a calming aroma. Their room is just as grand as the rest of the building would lead Ilya to expect: it’s about the same size as Shane’s suite, but the balcony is even larger and gives them a perfect view of the Acropolis. A welcome bottle of wine  is bathing in an ice tub on the balcony’s table, beckoning them to sit and enjoy the view. 

Ilya cannot enjoy anything, because his brain is screaming about how all of this is way, way too much. Shane has spent hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars making this bonus excursion for him, and Ilya has nothing but three fifty-dollar bills crumpled in his day bag to offer in return. 

Although Shane couldn’t have meant for this to happen, the trip is also reminding Ilya of a life he will never have. He’s seeing the world from the lens of a wealthy hockey player who can make last-minute decisions without needing to make sure he’ll have enough money for groceries the next week. This is how life would have been for Ilya, if only. 

It makes no sense, he knows, but a small part of him resents Hollander for it. For getting the life Ilya wanted so desperately, worked endless nights on the rink for.  

“Are you okay?” Shane asks. He’s unpacking his things into the small dresser, a task Ilya finds adorably silly considering they’re here for one night. 

Ilya leans into the smile that silly quirk brings up for him and forces himself to make it even bigger. “Yes, fine, just have a headache, I think. Long day.” Seeing Shane’s face fall a bit at this, he adds: “Good day, just long.” 

Under the covers, their bodies find each other as they always do. Ilya’s brain unlocks the dominant parts of him, but he’s subtle about it at first. It starts as a simple way to disconnect from their typical intimacy, just because the resentment and the fear and the sadness demand some kind of space between them. He rolls on top of Hollander and savors the feeling of the warm, muscular body succumbing underneath him. 

After only minutes of making out, pressing his body into Hollander’s, he grabs the condoms and lube from the table and gets to work. He had promised to fuck Shane in Athens, after all, and it might be cathartic for Ilya to embody his dominant personality that always escorted him out of his own brain. 

“That was fast,” Shane teases. 

“Is okay?” Ilya asks, checking himself. He is starting to treat Hollander like a hookup again, and maybe it’s for the best, as long as he doesn’t cross any lines. 

“Yes,” Hollander nods into his chest. “Fucking take me.” 

And so Ilya does. He flips Hollander over, a pose they don’t do much. The words come spilling out of him naturally. “So good for me,” he says, working Hollander’s hole open. “A slut for it.” This earns him a gasp and more desperate pleas. 

“Need you so badly,” Hollander gasps underneath him. 

When Ilya finally lets himself slide in, he groans as though he hasn’t experienced this sensation plenty of times over the last week. “Such a good hole,” he says, thrusting in and out. He’s pushing Hollander down into the bed, and the boy’s moans are muffled by the pillows, his hands clutched in the blankets. 

Ilya thinks that if he could see Shane’s face, he might be met with a look of surprise. These are words he hasn’t said to him, not in four years. 

“Want to fucking fill you up,” he continues. It’s so much easier to access this primal part of him, to fuck from a place of horny desperation and not from the emotional longing he’s now tucked away. 

The words are still clearly working. Hollander moans and moves his hips back, taking Ilya in more. 

“Touch yourself for me,” Ilya commands. “But don’t cum until I tell you to.” 

Hollander nods, or at least seems like he’s trying to, and reaches down to grasp his own hard cock. He pumps himself as Ilya fills him. 

“Good boy,” Ilya praises. “Good little hole, desperate for cum. I should have skipped the condom, yeah? You wish you could be leaking me.” 

Hollander’s hand moves faster, his body rocking harder onto Ilya. “Gonna -” he says, voice low and desperate. 

“No, wait,” Ilya demands. He grabs Hollander’s elbow and pulls it to the side, forcing his hands away. “No more touching. You cum from my dick or you do not cum at all.” 

“Please,” Hollander groans beneath him. 

“Da, beg for it.” Ilya goes harder, faster, pumping Hollander like a fleshlight, as emotionless and physical as a morning workout. He grabs both of Hollander’s arms, just to be able to reach his hands and hold them together on the boy’s back so that no extra touching can happen. If he had his full toolbox, he’d get out the cuffs, but luckily Hollander doesn’t try to fight him on it so one hand is enough to hold them in place. 

“I need to cum,” Hollander whines. Ilya can feel him pulsing, tightening, can see sweat beads forming on his toned back. 

“You cum after me.” 

“Please cum, then,” he begs. “Please.” 

A few more impossibly deep thrusts and Ilya stills, his cock releasing into the condom, filling it with a warm wetness as he twitches in the tight hole. He doesn’t know when Shane comes, too, just that the bed is soaked in it when he pulls away. This is normally the part when he would kiss Shane’s salty, sweaty shoulders and hold him, but instead, Ilya stands up. 

“I need shower, am too sweaty,” he says, a sorry excuse for avoiding the post-sex intimacy that would be too impossible for him right now. 

Shane has heard of them before, of course. He's even been offered them at parties when his team alludes to their usual drug stash, but he says no to all of it.

"You do poppers?" Shane asks, wondering what it'll take to convince Ilya to stop the habit immediately.

"Sometimes, a little bit," Ilya shrugs. "Cliff loves them. And they are very fun for sex."

Shane is unfamiliar with that part. "Just because they get you high?"

"No, sweetheart," Ilya says like he's explaining this to a child. "They open you up."

It takes a second for Shane to understand what that might mean. He's sure he makes a face at the realization, a mix of intrigue and shock and "ohhh," because Ilya laughs.

"You do not have to try it," Ilya says. "Ever. Of course not. But... it could be fun."

"Would you do some with me?"

"Yes, kotik, it's kind of hard to be in a room with someone doing them and not do it too. Is in the air," Ilya tells him.

After a bit more explanation, Shane feels comfortable enough to allow Ilya to hover the poppers under his nose. He inhales just a little bit and immediately feels a lightness coming over him. Another inhale and it's like his whole body is a wet noodle.

"Good boy," Ilya coos. He sniffs some himself, puts the cap back on, and quickly moves so he's between Shane's legs. His tongue finds Shane's hole immediately, lapping at it while Shane gasps at the enhanced sensation. Ilya squirts lube on his fingers and traces them around Shane's rim, which is already looser and more open than usual. "See? Is so easy," he says, sliding a finger in.

Shane moans as he feels himself open more. Any kind of pain or friction that's normally part of the process is completely gone, replaced by the desire to keep opening more and more. Ilya obeys Shane's silent pleas and adds two more fingers, opening him with no resistance at all.

"Need you," Shane moans. He's in awe of how fast they can go because of this, at how little time he has to wait before Ilya can finally be inside of him. This is probably what it would be like if he used a butt plug, he thinks, and it convinces him to try that next time.

"I know, baby," Ilya says in a low voice. He sits up and then lines his cock up and pushes in, gentle as always.

"Faster," Shane begs. There's no need to be gentle, he just needs to be full.

"Mmm, you are so good like this," Ilya smiles. Shane can see how big his pupils are, reminding him of the high, the fuzziness in his own brain. Everything feels simultaneously softer and more electric. Every thrust from Ilya is so much, so perfect, just pure pleasure with none of the achy stretch.

Shane feels almost challenged to find some kind of pain. He misses it, weirdly. "Harder, Ilya," he groans. "Want it to hurt," he says a little quieter.

Ilya slams against him, moving his entire body against the mattress and eliciting a large thump as the bed frame crashes into the wall. Shane gasps at the sudden switch and feels Ilya's cock hit the very deepest point within him.

Ilya digs his fingers into Shane's hips and Shane hopes it's enough to bruise.

Shane kisses Ilya roughly then bites at his lower lip, hoping he'll reciprocate. And he does. He takes Shane's puffy lip into his mouth and sucks on it, then bites so hard it stings. He takes a fistful of Shane's hair and pulls it, earning a deep groan. He moves down and bites at Shane's neck, so hard that Shane cums as the pain hits him, as Ilya's cock moves so seamlessly in and out of him.

—-

Ilya, Shane, and Benny are all at breakfast, fueling up for the day’s plans, when the loudspeaker chimes through the dining room. 

After a few musical notes, Al’s voice comes on. “Welcome to the Canary Islands, cruisers! Since we are officially docked in Europe, we have reached our final of five continents. Enjoy your day and we’ll see you back here at 5pm.” 

Ilya’s stomach wants to cough up the word “final” and spit it out like a piece of plastic accidentally hidden in a meal. It feels like a terribly rude awakening from this nice dream he’s been living in; a reminder of the looming ending. They still have a full month of this, but reaching the “last” of a category makes him desperate to find the giant clock of time and hurl his entire body in front of it, even if the minute hand bruises him in the battle to slow it down. 

Shane is looking upset, too, not touching his lavender goat cheese scone. 

“It’s so funny when he calls us ‘cruisers’ because he’s a straight man and has no clue about the double entendre,” Benny laughs, taking a small sip of his espresso, unaware of the fact that the energy has been sucked out of the room. 

Ilya looks at him, confused. 

“What double entendre?” Shane asks, and Ilya is glad he didn’t have to be the one to. 

“You know, ‘cruising’?” Benny says, scanning between their two faces, waiting for it to click. 

“I do not know. I also do not know what double onton— whatever, means,” Ilya shrugs. 

“A double entendre is something with two meanings,” Shane explains. 

“Usually it’s used in a sexual context,” Benny adds. “Like, ‘I’m coming’ could be a double entendre.” 

“Ah,” Ilya nods. “And ‘cruising’ means something… sexual?” 

“Neither of you have heard of cruising? Seriously?” Benny is almost being annoying about it, in Ilya’s opinion. 

“Yes, we do not know, please explain,” he says, showing a tiny bit of his frustration. He hates not knowing things, and after so many weeks without speaking Russian, some of the “alien” feelings are wearing on him a bit.  

Benny explains that “cruising” is the practice of looking for hookups in a public place, usually referring to gay men. He says that there are some “cruising grounds” where you’d expect to be able to walk around and be hit on, like at a park at night or a gay bar. “Grindr is kind of a modern form of cruising,” he says, and Ilya looks at Shane with a devious smirk. 

Benny pulls up a screenshot on his phone. “Hanky Guide” it says at the top, with lots of colorful rows beneath it. 

“Sometimes, when you’re cruising, you wear a handkerchief in one of your back pockets to show what you’re looking for. And the side you wear it in matters a lot, too.” He holds out the photo and Ilya and Shane study it. 

A light blue handkerchief worn on the left side means someone wants a blowjob, but on the right side it means wanting to give one. That’s about the tamest of all of them. Other preferences on the list range from size kinks and public sex to water sports and fisting. It gives Ilya a few ideas that he tucks away in his head. He doesn’t have to look up to know Shane is blushing. 

“What are you guys looking at?” Paula asks as she sets her tray down on the table and sits in the empty chair next to Benny. “Oh, Hanky Code?” she squints at the screen.

Ilya loses it in a laugh. Shane’s face is, as expected, bright red and his eyes are wide like he’s just been caught in some illegal act. Ilya wants to tell him that simply reading about a daddy kink doesn’t mean he’s guilty of it. 

“How do you know about this? You are more gay than I am,” Ilya says, still chuckling at how nonchalant Paula was being about it all.

“Nope, just straight and obsessed with romance,” she says like it’s nothing. “I read a book about two gay guys living in San Francisco in the 1990s. They meet because of their handkerchiefs. I’ll lend it to you, I have it in our room.”

Ilya had not known that there were straight people in America who loved queerness so much they were willing to read about it, to celebrate it, to consider gay love as just as good a love story as any of the straight ones. 

He thinks about this the rest of the day, while also ignoring the thoughts about Europe as their “final” continent. It’s a fine thing to have on the backburner while the four of them — and just about every young person on the cruise — go to the Siam Park, which claims to be the number one water park in the world. 

—-

There is only one attraction at the park that Shane is not approved for, and it’s a giant treehouse made mostly for kids. Doug had watched videos of all of the rides and expressed concern only when he saw children climbing around a large net hanging above water. “An accident waiting to happen,” he’d called it, something straight from Yuna’s vernacular. 

And so, he can spend the day as he pleases, floating in inner tubes and sailing down the winding plastic slides to fill his body up with adrenaline. 

He and Ilya climb what must be six stories of stairs (only a little more slowly than he’d normally go, another sign of successful healing) and wait for the lifeguard to wave them onto the tallest water slide in the park. 

“You first,” Ilya says, motioning Shane to the flat area where riders lie down before the lifeguard pushes them forward. From there, the slide dips directly down and then into some kind of structure he can’t make out. There’s a sign next to the entrypoint that shows a cartoon rider crossing their legs, and then another one with uncrossed legs and a giant “X” written on it. 

“Can rip your asshole open if you do not cross legs. I read about it on the internet last night,” Ilya whispers and Shane glares at him. “Save that job for me.” 

Shane audibly gasps at the audacity of it, but the lifeguard waves him forward before he can think of a response. 

He loads onto the slide, squeezing his legs extra tight, and immediately shoots down, almost completely vertical on the drop. It feels like he’s going to fly into the trees around him, but then just as his body seems to be lifting away from the structure, it slams down and he’s propelled through a transparent cylinder within a shark tank. 

It’s fast enough that he can’t make out the sharks completely, but not so fast that he avoids the jolt of fear upon realizing he’s traveling right through live sharks. He lets out a scream as his body enters the pool at the very end, sending water directly into his lungs. He sputters and laughs, moving quickly to get out of the way. 

Seconds later, Ilya is descending with a much more carefree scream. He, too, coughs at the sudden influx of water from the pool and laughs so hard he hunches over. 

“Again!” Ilya yells. They complete the slide three more times before the line starts getting annoyingly long, as it turns late enough in the day that the park starts to fill up. 

They link up with Paula and Benny at the hot dog stand and, after a quick bite to eat, the four of them find the line for a slide with huge, circular rafts that will seat all of them as a group. In that slide, they spin around and slowly descend around a light brown bowl structure, almost like circling a drain. The wind still spikes up Shane’s hair and dries his cheeks, his stomach still flips during faster drops, but it’s not the same. 

Ilya must feel the same way, because he asks to go back to the first slide and they do two more rounds before finally retreating to the wave pool and floating in it like they’re on a beach. 

“I liked hearing you scream like that,” Ilya says when they’re in a more private corner of the pool. 

“Fuck off,” Shane scoffs behind a smile. 

“Wish I could have been the one making you do it,” he shrugs. 

It’s probably not what he’s referencing, but Shane thinks back to the handkerchief code from this morning, full of preferences and kinks, some that he’d never known existed. He makes a mental note to look back on it later. He’d like to Google the words he doesn’t recognize without it being a whole thing. He could be open to those kind of thrills, too, he thinks. 

—-

The next port is Gibraltar, a small British territory at the southernmost tip of Spain. The first time they’ve docked on a bigger landmass since Namibia. 

The day goes by in the same fashion as their Canary Islands stop, in the way that vacation days always do, Ilya’s learned. They feel so long, like the sun will never go down, until night falls and the energy seeps out of your body, leaving only the small warmth of a light sunburn on your skin. 

Gibraltar is a whirlwind of biking around the coast, stopping for vistas where their guide points out they can see Northern Africa despite standing in Europe. Shane has an E-Bike, per his physical therapist’s recommendation, and he makes a habit of zooming past Ilya to show off the speed. Ilya, in turn, cycles even faster until he finally passes Shane and makes sure his entire ass is off the seat, bobbing up and down as he climbs the hills, knowing that each muscle in his legs is on full display. 

They catch their breath on a sandy beach with glasses of Spanish sparkling wine called cava. Ilya is not usually one for prosecco, but the bubbles in the cold liquid match the sparkliness already coursing through his body at how perfect this day is, how perfect the two of them are on the beach with the afternoon sun kissing the teal ocean. 

“Take my picture?” Shane asks. “Just make sure the ship is in it.” He poses with his drink. Their boat is in the background and Ilya moves the camera to get everything in one frame. He’d been informed about Shane’s need to post photos from the trip, and received a short lesson on how to get the angles right when Shane had him take photos of him on the balcony of their room. Shane always looked adorably nerdy, smiling directly to the camera in a fake way and not knowing what to do with his hands except put them in his pockets or on his hips. 

Ilya snaps a couple dozen, wanting to give him plenty of options, then turns himself and the camera around, taking a selfie with Shane in the background. He looks at it and smiles. 

“I think that’s our first photo together,” Shane says.

“Oh, wow,” Ilya hadn’t considered that. “It is.” Why does that make him sad? 

“We should take more,” Shane concludes immediately. He takes Ilya’s phone and presses it into the wet sand, tilting it up so that the camera can see their full bodies. He sets it to “photo blast” to take a bunch at once, along with a five-second timer. 

Once they’re lined up in frame, Ilya puts an arm around Shane, who in turn tilts his head toward Ilya. As the timer goes off, though, a large wave creeps up and knocks the phone over. It slides down the sand before Ilya grabs it. 

“Oh fuck,” Shane gasps. 

“It’s okay, I have waterproof case,” Ilya pulls it out from the water and shows him the thick box his phone is kept in. “I kept breaking phones while on runs and whatever.” He wipes the sand off on his shirt and opens the photo app. 

They look through the slideshow together and laugh. You can see their faces drop into fear when the water creeps into the frame, and then it’s nothing but the sky and a corner of Shane’s head as they run toward the phone. 

Oh, that. They can talk about that. “So much,” Shane admits. He doesn’t realize how true it is until the words come out. He’s pushed hockey to the back of his mind lately; he hasn’t wanted to hear about it from his parents or keep up with the league too much, and he certainly wasn’t going to bring it up with Ilya. It’s not even that he’s upset to be missing the competition aspect (although that’s of course part of it), he more so misses the way the ice sounds under his skates, the way his muscle memory takes him down the rink and slams a puck into a goal before he even has time to overthink it.

He misses his jerseys and skating out in front of the crowd while they applaud. He misses the Metros’ pre-game ritual, where Coach goes over strategy and then they stand in a big circle, arms around each other and chanting about winning. He misses how it feels to peel his sweaty pads off after a hard game, unlacing his skates and sinking into a warm shower. 

“I can’t even imagine,” Paula says. “I’m missing it just because we barely get ESPN on these TVs, I’m sure it’s a million times worse for you.”

Shane hasn’t tried to access ESPN since the first week of the trip. “Do you normally watch every game?”

“Oh, yeah,” Paula chuckles. “We keep a schedule on our refrigerator. Al usually tries to be out of the house when they’re on because I can get pretty aggressive.”

Shane laughs, too, at the image of this sweet, friendly Southern woman screaming at her television the way his mom does when the Metros are playing. He’d grown up almost afraid of Metros games because of the way she’d yell when they were losing. One time, when he was eight, he awoke from a nap thinking the house was burning down, just to find out that her screams were about a power play. She never yelled at anyone except for the referees through the television. 

“Have you been keeping up with the games, though?” he asks. 

“Yeah, I have an app on my phone that shows me the scores.” She pulls it up to show him, as though he doesn’t have the same one tucked away on his own screen. He winces at the results of last night’s game: Montreal had lost to Colorado 1-2. She puts the phone back in her little handbag, realizing he might not want to see it. 

“We shouldn’t be losing to Colorado,” Shane says, looking down at his yogurt bowl. 

“The Avs have actually been doing great this season,” Paula informs him. “And Pike has been really stepping up, from what I’m reading online. That score isn’t terrible. But I’m sure everyone will be happy to have you back once you’re completely healed.” 

“That’s nice of you to say,” Shane says. 

“Beyond the games, do you miss being on the ice? Playing?”

“Desperately,” he nods. 

“So, like, let’s say,” Paula looks down, as if trying to piece together the right words. “If you had the opportunity to skate again soon, would you want to?” 

“Absolutely,” he says. “I think my knee is doing well enough that I would be doing a little skating if I had access to ice. My PT even said so.” 

Paula smiles. Shane doesn’t quite understand the line of questioning, but he’s used to not understanding new people. 

“I’m excited to watch you play again next season,” she says. “I think the Metros will be unstoppable. You’ve basically forced everyone else on the team to step up a bit more, so when you go back, you’ll all be a shoo-in for the cup. I can’t fucking wait.” 

“You’ll have to come in person for one of the games,” Shane says. His heart sinks a bit at the reference to the future, to a time when they won’t all be here together on this ship. Paula will come to the game and Ilya will be so unbearably far away. 

“Seriously?” Paula’s eyes go wide at the suggestion.

“Yeah, of course, any time you’re in Montreal or we’re playing near you,” he assures her. 

—-

Benny looks anxious when he joins them in the hot tub the following night. Ilya has an arm around Shane, who was gabbing on about The Bachelorette and Rose’s terrible decision making until he heard footsteps and realized they weren’t completely alone anymore. 

“Um, your room is ready,” Benny says to Ilya, stepping into the tub. “The old one. We’ve cleaned it and aired it out.” 

“Oh,” Ilya says, considering this. He looks up at Shane, who seems just as taken aback by the news. The visual of his old room comes up in his head like a terrible dream, so dark and tiny compared to the haven he and Shane have together. And now that there’s an option for leaving, it would probably be rude to keep sleeping in Shane’s room. He doesn’t want to overstay his welcome or anything. 

“Well, you don’t have to go back to it, right?” Shane asks, eyeing both Ilya and Benny. Ilya releases a breath. 

Benny shakes his head. “Of course not.” 

They sit in silence for a bit while Ilya wonders if Shane’s question means he’s wanting Ilya to stay. He wonders if he should offer to move back into his room or something, at least just to be polite. He wishes they could talk about it alone. 

“I do think Chris was the right choice for Rose, by the way,” Benny says, saving Ilya from more of his own thoughts. 

Ilya laughs. “You watch this stupid show, too?” 

“Hey!” Shane says. “You’re the one who made sure we set an alarm for it last night!” 

“Wowww,” Benny says, shaking his head. “And now you’re trying to act like you’re so much better than reality TV.” 

“Is barely reality,” Ilya shrugs. 

Benny dips his head under the water and then wipes his curly brown hair back as he rises up. Ilya doesn’t want to look at Shane’s reaction to the man’s large biceps and chiseled chest, or the way his jawline gleams under the droplets. Things have always felt platonic with Benny, and he thinks it’s the same for Shane, but they’ve never actually talked about it. And “platonic” only goes so far when someone is shirtless and wet in front of you. 

“Rose needs someone a little more dominating, I think,” Benny says, settling back into a seated position. “Alex was too nice. You can’t have two nice people in a relationship, they’ll just ‘people please’ all over each other.” 

“I think it’s sweet,” Shane says. “Alex had so much in common with her. And he seemed to genuinely like her, not just the fact that she’s famous.” 

“You probably have a better read on that than I do,” Benny concedes. “I can’t imagine how hard it would be, not knowing if someone’s only in it for the fame and money.” 

Ilya feels a jolt of dread. By no means is Benny accusing him of such a thing, but he still feels like he needs to prove himself, prove that his feelings for Shane have nothing to do with any of that. Shane grabs his knee under the water as though he can sense Ilya spiraling out. 

Later, after a heated discussion about who Rose should kick off next and what kind of temperament her future husband should have, Ilya stops Shane from picking something out on the TV. “Can we just talk tonight? Be together?” 

Shane looks anxious at this, so Ilya clarifies. “I think we should figure out the room. And stuff.” 

“Is there something to figure out?” Shane responds. 

“If I stay here or go back to my old one,” Ilya says bluntly. “I don’t want to put you out.” 

“Oh,” Shane looks down. “Do you… want to go back?” 

“Not really, but if you want your room to yourself…” 

Shane sighs. He turns from his position on the bed so he can look at Ilya directly. “Are you going to make me beg for you to stay here?” 

“Not beg,” Ilya says. Even though, yes, that would be hot, but he doesn’t want to go there right now. He’s actually genuinely concerned about taking up so much space now that it’s optional again. It’s scary. “I think I need you to tell me that you want me here. I need you to have the option and make the choice. It’s a lot that you are doing for me.” 

Shane grabs Ilya’s hands and pulls him up to a seated position so that they’re able to make eye contact. “Hey. I want you here,” he says. “For me.”

It’s enough. Ilya lets his shoulders relax so that his trap muscles aren’t practically hitting his jawline. 

“However…” Shane says, looking around. Ilya gets nervous for a split second before noticing a smirk on the other man’s face. “It would be nice to store some dirty clothes in your old room. Especially after hiking days.” 

Ilya laughs. “Oh, so you think I’m smelly?”

“I think you get sweaty when you hike five miles, yes. Is that so bad?” Shane smiles, too, his hands squeezing Ilya’s. “Plus, maybe if we want alone time, or if you’re snoring too loudly, it’ll be nice to have another space.”

“I do not snore,” Ilya retorts. 

They turn Ilya’s duffel bag into a makeshift second hamper and fill it with sweaty clothing (mostly Ilya’s.) When he opens the door to the tiny room, Shane gasps. 

“Okay, if I wasn’t sure about the decision, I am now. Jesus Christ,” he says at the view, which Ilya can admit looks even smaller than he remembered it. 

—

When they return to the suite, it feels even more like “theirs” than it had before. There’s something so comforting to Shane about the fact that they are both now choosing this, that Ilya wants to be with him in close quarters for the rest of the cruise. 

Sure, he’ll need to be intentional about alone time. The research he’s done about PTSD and depression indicates that it could be a problem to go from a lot of time alone to suddenly having so little of it, and he doesn’t want to shock Ilya’s (or his) system. Plus, Shane’s seen plenty of his teammates get lost in toxic relationships where they’re attached at the hip and then, boom, everything explodes and they show up to practices late with giant bags under their sad eyes. 

And then there’s the fact that this will all end soon, and they’ll go from this beautiful intimacy back to strangers. But Shane doesn’t think about that for more than a few seconds before stuffing it back down like a dirty sock at the bottom of Ilya’s duffel bag. 

Instead, taking a page from Ilya’s book of philosophy, he decides to enjoy this night together. 

“Let’s go be on the patio,” Shane suggests as Ilya slips out of his shoes and into the white terry cloth slippers with the cruise line’s logo on them. 

Ilya grabs two bottles of juice from their mini fridge. It’s fresh pineapple guava in little glass bottles, which they hadn’t discovered until Benny pointed it out on the pool bar menu and rocked Shane’s world. He’s hoarded them ever since. 

Ilya shows Shane an app on his phone that allows them to label the stars in the night sky, explaining that it’s another thing Benny had taught him. They stand against the railing for a while, comparing the constellations on the phone to what they see in front of them and then eventually just looking at the soft waves of the ocean. 

“Benny’s the best,” Shane says, grateful. “I’m glad he showed you that app.” 

“You think he is hot,” Ilya replies matter-of-factly. 

“Well, he is,” Shane shrugs. 

Ilya takes a long sip of his drink. 

Shane looks at him and furrows his brow. “Are you… jealous? Again?” 

“Maybe,” Ilya says. 

Shane hides a smile. He likes seeing Ilya like this, all coy about his feelings. He likes the idea that Ilya might want something more than whatever friends with benefits thing they have going on. He turns so his back is on the railing, a nice reprieve from having all of his weight on his knees. And this way, he can see Ilya. 

“We could be… exclusive,” Shane offers. His heart is pounding because his nervous system clearly hasn’t gotten the memo that Ilya is actively choosing him already. 

“What is that?” Ilya asks, and for the very first and only time Shane resents having to explain a word to him. It was already so vulnerable to suggest in the first place. 

“For the rest of the cruise, I would only be with you. Romantically,” Shane tells him. “And vice versa, of course.” 

Ilya makes eye contact. His hair is so golden under the soft lighting of the patio, his eyes picking up the orange hue too and reflecting it back alongside a smattering of hopefulness. “That would be nice.” He leans in and kisses Shane softly. “Vice versa,” he mimics, speaking the words into the tiny space between their lips. 

——

The safety of Shane is immense and powerful as Ilya lets himself melt into the kiss. Their agreement to be “exclusive” (he will look this up later to get an even clearer definition) and to keep staying in the same room takes away so much of his fear. 

And that’s why it’s easy to put a hand on Shane’s neck and pull him closer, first in a soft way but then, eventually, in a desperate and hungry way. His other hand finds Shane’s waist and digs into it, feeling Shane grind a bit to press his hips closer in search of Ilya. He bites Shane’s lower lip ever so slightly and elicits a tiny whimper that seals the deal. 

“Bed,” Ilya says. 

Shane all but flies to the bed, stripping most of his clothing in the process. Ilya smirks at how needy he is, how needy he’s always been. 

Then he’s covering Shane entirely, the boy’s body writhing below him in an attempt to be touched more. Their mouths are working together effortlessly, tongues masterfully sliding against each other in a craft they’ve become so insanely talented at after all of these lazy evenings together. Ilya read once that it takes ten thousand hours of practice to become a true expert at something, and he pledges to hit that mark with the art of kissing Shane Hollander. He doesn’t do the math to figure out it’d be impossible to complete in under two months. 

He takes off their remaining clothes and spins Shane to the side, so they’re lying parallel on the bed, facing each other. He grinds their hips together so their cocks just barely touch and moans at the wetness already leaking from Shane. He can’t help but to wrap a hand around Shane’s dick and use the pre-cum to move his fist up and down, a few long pumps. 

“Oh… my God,” Shane moans, moving his hips to get more of it. 

Ilya cannot handle it any longer. Every ounce of restriction has been burned away like someone took a blowtorch to his willpower. In its wake is a giant fire of desperation for everything he’s wanted to do to Shane since that night in 2009. 

“Can I fuck you?” he asks. 

“God, fuck, please,” Shane whines. “Please.” 

Ilya grabs a bottle of lube from the side of the bed and puts some on his own fingers, then moves them down to find Shane, who is positioning himself perfectly for it. Ilya wonders how many times Shane has done this before. He wonders if Shane thinks of him when he does this alone, if he replays their first night together. 

He kisses Shane gently while pressing the pad of his index finger into the ring of muscle. Shane works with him in a way that answers one of Ilya’s questions: he’s done this plenty of times since 2009. 

Ilya is two fingers in when he says it, without thinking. “Fucking missed this.” He’d taken the man in plenty of ways over the past few weeks, but never like this. Being inside of Shane felt off-limits for him until tonight. 

Shane nods, his face scrunched in a combination of pleasure and pain. “Need you right now,” he demands. 

It’s all Ilya needs to hear. He stretches a condom onto his painfully erect dick, adds on some extra lube, and thrusts into Shane, finally taking him for the first time. It’s everything he imagined it to be. 

They’re kissing each other softly, their moans so in sync it’s hard to tell who each individual noise comes from. Shane wraps his legs around Ilya to bring them even closer, and Ilya in turn runs his fingers through Shane’s hair, tugging gently at it and eliciting an even deeper moan. 

Ilya is moving so slowly, not wanting to hurt him by going too quickly, and not wanting this to be over too soon. Shane moves his hips to speed them up and groans. “Faster.” 

Ilya obeys and slams his hips forward, watching Shane fall apart as he does. He repeats the motion over and over, savoring every sound that comes out of the boy’s mouth like it’s a symphony he paid thousands to see. 

They are the closest two people can be, and it still isn’t even enough for Ilya. He clutches at Shane’s hip with his other hand, pulling him in more. He kisses those freckly cheeks and neck and ears, sometimes twirling his tongue around the various points as he moves before crashing their mouths back together again. He sucks Shane’s tongue and pinches one of his nipples. 

That final act is what sends Shane over the edge, causing him to tighten around Ilya and bite down on Ilya’s neck to prevent himself from screaming too loudly. Ilya hopes it fucking leaves a mark. He can’t help it when, second later, his own orgasm thrashes through him and he calls out “Fuck, Shane. Bozhe moy.” 

“That was…” Shane whispers as they both catch their breaths. “Holy shit.” He pulls Ilya back up so they’re parallel again, their heads sharing a pillow. 

Ilya laughs lightly, his chest hitting up against Shane’s as he does. “Da. Suicidal people can have hot sex.”

The woman performing at the piano has a convincing Gaga impression, her voice both deep and gritty as well as high enough to hit the right notes in the slower songs. 

If Shane had wondered if Russia had Lady Gaga fans, that mystery was quickly snuffed out by Ilya’s enthusiastic recognition of nearly every song played. 

At one point, Shane goes to the bar to refill his drink and watches from the sidelines. Ilya looks happier than Shane’s seen him. He and Benny are dancing so hard to “Born This Way” that a group of younger girls capture videos of them.

That snaps Shane out of it immediately. 

—

Ilya has only ever listened to Lady Gaga music while working out, never around other people. The bold, pro-LGBTQ themes in her newest album, Born This Way, plummeted her reputation in Russia and he had to commit a minor crime just to get her songs onto his iPod.

It’s therefore doubly magical to get to dance to her music with Benny and Shane. It makes the lyrics of the album’s title song ring that much harder in his heart. Being around Benny, who is so unabashedly queer and unafraid to show it, provides something for Ilya that he never knew he was missing. 

He feels at once connected to every other queer person in this world, and in the history of this world, like he’s a small part of the ongoing (seemingly eternal) battle for acceptance, fighting on the frontlines with millions of comrades instead of all alone. Images of Stonewall from the 1960s and the AIDS crisis and the brave protests he’s seen on Russian television of queer people demanding change flash in front of his brain. He is here, looking visibly queer, unafraid for once in his life to be seen like this. He is part of something so much bigger than himself. 

During the lyric “No matter gay, straight, or bi,” Benny points to himself for “gay” and to Ilya for “bi” and they both laugh. Ilya wants to find every single queer club in the world and dance to this song over and over again with his people. He wants to buy the faggiest clothes he can find and strut all over Europe in them, a cigarette in his mouth and Shane on his arm. 

How had he not known it could be like this? 

The music ends and Ilya wipes tears from his cheeks. 

“I wish we were stopping in Berlin,” Benny groans. “I need to be there with you ASAP. You’d be so much fun. And things don’t end at 10pm like they do here” 

Ilya shrugs. “I may have time for an extra stop after.” 

He looks around the room for Shane, realizing it’s taken way longer than expected to refill his drink. But the bar is empty, already closed for the night. 

Shane’s not in their room, either, so Ilya checks the only other feasible place and finds the man dipping his feet into the pool. 

“Not having fun?” Ilya asks. He takes his own shoes off, rolls up his pant legs, and puts his sweaty feet into the water next to Shane. The cold ocean air helps dry his damp hair and forehead. 

“I was definitely having fun,” Shane smiles and Ilya can tell it’s fake. 

“So much fun you left?” he says gently. 

“I don’t want to make you upset,” Shane looks down at the water and swirls his ankle around, creating a tiny ripple. 

“Please don’t treat me like I’m fragile,” Ilya says, gentle again. 

“These girls were taking photos of you. Not to, like, mock you guys or anything. I’m sure it was just Snapchats of the dancing. But, then I realized…” 

“... That someone could recognize you,” Ilya finishes for him, moving his own toes in the water to savor the cold sensation and distract his brain a tiny bit. 

Shane nods. “I’ve been so lucky on this trip that no one has been weird. We’ve mostly been in tropical places, so it’s no surprise the locals don’t recognize a hockey player. I have no clue what it’ll be like in Europe, I doubt I’ll be famous there, either. I hope not. God, I sound like a snob.” 

“Why would you be a snob?” Ilya looks at Shane and reads only shame and sadness on his face. 

“I’m whining like it’s so hard to be famous,” Shane shrugs. 

“Well, it sounds like it is hard to be famous. Is not a whine,” Ilya says. “Just the truth.” 

Shane looks up at him, as if to make sure he’s being serious. “I feel like it’s shitty to talk about how much it sucks. I know that I’m so lucky. There are a million guys who would happily switch places with me. And I never have to worry about money. I have such a great life, it’d be so fucked up to act like I don’t.” 

“Nothing is perfect, though,” Ilya counters. 

“Right. Nothing is perfect,” Shane nods. “I can’t go on a walk anymore without having to be ready to interact with strangers all the time. I have to take so many selfies with all of these people, or worse, they record me like I’m a zoo animal. I’m terrified of doing something wrong and having it go viral or something. Like, what if I don’t tip enough and someone posts about it on Facebook? What if I say no to a fan who wants a hug and they make it sound like I’m an asshole? I already hated social interaction, and now I have to do it all the time and be the very best at it, too.” 

“That sounds awful,” Ilya says, really meaning it. He can’t imagine how many negative social media posts there’d be about him if he’d stayed in the league and been seen swearing all the time, fucking random people, and getting drunk in the middle of the day. 

“Not to mention all of this,” Shane gestures between them. “The one time I dated someone for real, I had to sneak around. And now I’m realizing that as much as I want to galavant around Europe with you, I still have to be so careful.” 

“You want to galavant around Europe with me?” Ilya smiles. 

“Do you even know what galavant means?” Shane counters, getting a little of his humor back. 

“No, but it sounds fun.” 

Shane smiles. He looks back down at the pool. “I just want to be us and I wanted to be us in that lounge before I realized it could all blow up at any moment.” 

“Well, we can be us right here, right now,” Ilya says. He moves his hand to cover Shane’s. “And in your room. And around Paula and Benny.” 

“Our room,” Shane corrects. A ray of warmth hits Ilya’s heart at the amendment to his words. 

“We have such little time together, when you think about it,” Ilya says, naming the unspoken layer of sadness he knows they both feel. “We should treat every single moment as its own universe. All that matters is the moment. And even if I am not holding your hand and kissing you, I’m still sharing a moment with you, and that is enough.” 

Shane brightens at this. He leans in and kisses Ilya. “Whatever is in those books Paula keeps giving you is making you so romantic,” he jokes when they finally pull apart.

——

The next day, the cruise docks in Walvis Bay, Namibia and Paula leads Shane and Ilya to the line of big, white Jeeps. They are all signed up for the same excursion, not even by Shane’s doing but because it was a no-brainer: a Jeep tour of sand dunes ending with wildlife viewing. 

All that Shane can see is sand, like the country of Namibia does not exist beyond the giant golden dunes along the shore. It looks like they’ve pulled up on Mars. 

He and Ilya load into the back row of the vehicle. There are no windows, just giant black bars, the skeleton of the car, for them to hold onto. Immediately, the driver zooms forward and Shane yelps as they soar off into the sand. 

Ilya’s face is beaming as they zig zags over the dunes. His blond curls are flying all over and he’s holding his hands up in the air like they’re on a roller coaster. Shane, alternatively, is holding on for dear life, one hand grasping the side of the car and the other fixed on his expensive sunglasses that are blocking the grains of sand from getting in his eyes. 

The chaotic driving goes on for far too long, and Shane doesn’t even understand the point. He can barely see around them at all because of the large clouds of sand and dust coming up, so the “sightseeing” is rendered pretty useless. 

They finally slow as they cross over one more dune before entering the nature preserve promised at the end of the ride. 

Shane’s legs are shaking as he walks on the sand toward Flamingo Lagoon, but it doesn’t matter because he sees what must be hundreds of light pink birds gathered around a shallow pond. 

“Wow,” he whispers. 

Ilya wraps his arm around Shane’s waist, using his muscles to help Shane take some weight off of his bad knee. Doug had warned him that walking on sand could be detrimental, due to how it can twist and turn your joints, and he’d passed that along to Ilya the night before. 

They get close enough that they can see the patterns of pink along the flamingoes — their feathers get darker at the center of their wings and under the flaps, almost like the sun is bleaching the more exposed ones. Their bright pink legs wade through the water as they dip their beaks into the sand, looking for food. 

“Did you know that a group of flamingoes is called a flamboyance?” Shane says. 

Ilya looks at him, his eyes moving up and down to scan Shane’s face, as if waiting for him to say “just kidding.” When he doesn’t, Ilya laughs and shakes his head. “Somehow that feels homophobic.” 

Shane laughs, too. “Also, they’re pink from eating shrimp. And even their milk is pink.” 

Ilya nods like he knows this. “Is strawberry.” 

“Is not,” Shane elbows him. 

Ilya takes in the full scene in front of them, looking around at the wet sand of the lagoon, the flock of exotic birds, and the sprawling blue sky above them. “I can’t believe we are in a place that looks like a desert and we just took a boat here,” he says. “We are so lucky.” 

Paula walks over from the car and stands in awe next to them. “If I were a bird, I’d definitely be a flamingo,” she announces after a few moments of peaceful silence. 

“Tell us why,” Ilya demands, poking his head out to get in front of Shane’s face to look at her. He's heard enough of her little personality question games to know there must be a thoughtful explanation for the comparison. 

“I love the color pink,” she shrugs. 

“Nyet, not good enough reasoning,” he retorts. 

“You’d be a penguin,” Shane says to Ilya, smiling up at him.  

“And why is that?” Ilya asks. 

“I don’t know, you just kind of walk like one when you’re in a silly mood.” 

“That’s so true,” Paula laughs. 

He almost can’t enjoy it because of how badly he wants Ilya to be here with him. 

Afterward, they stop for a brief photo opp at the “Cape of Good Hope” sign, which boasts that it’s the southernmost point of the continent. Shane is glad he knew to expect this. He wore a Metros shirt with his navy swim trunks that could pass as regular shorts, and he poses with the sign while a semi-professional photographer takes plenty of pictures on a nice camera as well as Shane’s phone. 

He sends them to his mother, who approves them for one of the three social media posts. 

When he gets back to the room, it’s empty as he expected. He quickly grabs the excursions pamphlet and runs down to the front desk. 

—

That afternoon, Ilya and Paula retreat to the pool, stomachs still filled to the brim from their high tea. 

“Have I thanked you for today?” Ilya asks as he settles onto his chair. Paula adjusts the umbrella between them so they each get some shade. 

“Only one million times,” Paula jokes. “Have I thanked you for coming with me? Al can be such a downer about that adventure. He doesn’t like tea and doesn’t appreciate the finer things in life,” she says the last bit with a dramatic flair. “Not the way you and I do.” 

“I am so lucky for that,” Ilya smiles. “And he is so weird.” 

Paula shrugs. “He’s worked in hospitality for so long that all of the luxury stuff doesn’t really do it for him anymore.” 

“He’s been a captain for a long time?” Ilya asks, realizing he doesn’t know much about their history. 

“No, only a few years, actually,” Paula says. “We both worked in hotels before that. We have degrees in hospitality, it’s a whole thing. Al grew up sailing with his family and got his captain’s license about a decade ago. He was doing short-term cruises in his paid time off from our hotel work, then we decided to make the full switch.” 

“Ah,” Ilya says, nodding. “And do you miss it?” 

“Hotels? God, no. I miss the people watching, though. It’s much more limited on a cruise ship, but the fancy hotels meant we were meeting celebrities regularly,” she says, a little excitement in her voice. “Anyway, enough about me, I need you to finish that book so we can discuss it. And I’m excited for you to read the next one.” 

They both start reading, inhabiting a comfortable silence together that is one of Ilya’s favorite parts of her companionship. They’re only interrupted by the delivery of iced teas — sweetened for Paula, unsweetened with lemon for Ilya — and the occasional splash from the pool that garners their attention. 

Margot and Hugo, the French bakers in Ilya’s book, have finally professed their love for one another and are having sex so graphic it makes Ilya chuckle to himself. 

“I cannot believe you have been reading this kind of stuff right next to me all trip,” Ilya whispers, looking up from a paragraph that uses the word “pussy” three times. 

“Nothing like ocean air and reading about kinky shit,” Paula shrugs, taking a sip of tea. 

“You are so weird,” Ilya shakes his head and returns to the sex scene, definitely not taking mental notes about the sex talk they’re using with each other that he thinks would really do something to Shane. 

As if on cue, Shane appears and taps Paula on the shoulder. “Can I bother you for a minute? I need help with something,” he says. 

Ilya looks up. “Excuse me, hello,” he says snarkily, acknowledging that Shane didn’t greet him first. 

“Hi, Ilya,” Shane says. “Sorry.” 

Ilya reaches next to him and grabs a small, white box of pastries, holding them out for Shane. “We brought these for you,” he dangles it to make a sound. 

“That’s amazing, can we try them together later? We’ll be back soon,” Shane says, clearly on a mission. 

Paula stands and looks back at Ilya with a shrug. He tries to keep reading, but his head is swimming with all of the things Shane might be talking to Paula about. It’s uncomfortable, feeling like they might be talking about him. 

——

“I’ve spent all afternoon at the excursions office with Noah,” Shane explains as he and Paula sit down at a small table in the dining room. “He’s really nice, by the way.” 

Shane spreads out a few pieces of paper between them, his makeshift schedule for the rest of the cruise. They have a day at sea tomorrow before a stop in Namibia, then an entire week at sea as they navigate toward southern Europe and northern Africa. That long segment will bring them through coastal cities in France, Spain, Italy, Greece, and more, and he’s excited to see that part of the world for the first time. 

He’s sure that his schedule, featuring his own handwriting that his mom so lovingly calls “chicken scratch,” is overwhelming to Paula. She looks confused. 

“Oh, I should explain,” Shane says. “So, Ilya has been… sad.” 

Paula nods. “Yeah, he’s talked to me about it.” 

“So you know?” Shane asks hesitantly. He isn’t sure how much he can share. 

“I probably don’t know the full extent, and probably not as much as you. But, yes, I know,” she says warmly. 

Shane lets out a breath. “Okay, good. Well, I wanted to work together to make the rest of the cruise as perfect as possible for him. Noah had some ideas, but I also know you have a lot of experience and clearly know what makes Ilya happy.” 

Paula is beaming at him. “I love this. Show me what you’ve got so far.” 

He outlines his plans. Some of them are as simple as getting Ilya (or both of them) on better excursions, especially now that Shane’s knee makes longer walks possible. His boldest idea is for Greece: he wants to take Ilya to Athens, which will mean a flight from the port city and another flight two days later to meet the rest of the ship in Dubrovnik, Croatia. Aside from that, he’s found a handful of museums and cool restaurants that are off the beaten path thanks to Noah’s expertise. He also wants to make sure there are some stops for just Ilya and Paula, or Ilya alone: he doesn’t want to monopolize the guy’s time. 

“This is amazing,” Paula says cheerfully. “I only have a few more plans up my sleeve. The big one is in Barcelona.”

“What is it?” Shane asks. 

“A surprise. For both of you.” 

“I was thinking we would do the Sagrada Familia, Noah said it’s amazing,” Shane says. 

“We have two days there, so you can do that the second day,” Paula says. “I think you’ll like what I have planned.” 

Shane eyes her, unsure. She’s never let him down before, though. “Okay, second day it is.” 

“I also have some plans for Tangier,” she continues. “For me, you, Al, Benny, and Ilya. Unless you were really excited about the street markets there.” 

Shane shrugs. “Not particularly. Noah didn’t have a lot to say about that stop.” 

“Perfect,” Paula smiles. She helps him plan out more of the other excursions, choosing between options Noah had laid out and giving her insight on what’s overrated versus worth it. She also fills in the stops that Ilya has already mentioned his excitement about, making sure Shane doesn’t take him away from adventures he’d planned for himself. 

By the end of their conversation, Shane’s head is spinning with a million visions for the next few weeks. 

They both return to the pool area.

“Finally,” Ilya says. As they settle in, Ilya opens the box of pastries and offers them to everyone, explaining to Shane that they’re called “Koeksisters” and are “the best thing ever of all time.”  

Shane bites into one and moans at the taste. He’s slowly letting sugar and bread back into his diet, now that he spends so much time with someone who can’t get enough of them, and this is further proof that changing his limitations was the right idea. 

—

“When did you know?” Shane asks Ilya as they lay in bed together that night. His hand is on Ilya’s ass in a non-sexual way, just resting and pulling him in closer. 

“Know what?” Ilya says, pressing a kiss to Shane’s forehead. 

“That it was me on Grindr.” 

Ilya laughs and it moves Shane’s head around as his chest rises and falls. Shane pulls up onto his elbow to look Ilya in the face. “Ah yes, Daniel. How did you pick that name anyway?” 

“It’s my dad’s middle name,” Shane says, looking a little embarrassed. 

“What is his first name?” Ilya asks. He turns a bit to look more fully at Shane and loses a breath when dark brown, sparkly eyes meet his own. 

“...David.” 

“That is not weird? David Daniel? So many D sounds,” he teases.

“You’re asking me if my dad’s name is weird?” Shane raises an eyebrow. 

“Imagine if my middle name started with I. So much I,” Ilya says. 

“Well, ‘I’ is a rarer sound…” he trails off and looks at Ilya angrily. “You’re getting me off track on purpose,” Shane jabs Ilya lightly in the pec. 

Ilya laughs, his motive discovered. 

“When,” Shane presses a kiss to Ilya’s neck. “Did,” he kisses Ilya’s chin. “You,” kisses his cheek. “Know?” and finally kisses him on the lips, slow and sweet, before pulling back for his answer. 

Ilya sighs. “I will need to check.” He reaches for his phone and scrolls back through their chat history. “Mmmm, video was so hot, by the way. You should remake it right in front of me,” Ilya says, clicking into it and pressing play. 

“Stop distracting!” Shane says. 

“Fiiiine,” Ilya huffs. He scrolls up more, then points at the screen. “Was this message.” 

In the old conversation, they’re talking about the welcome meeting on the first day of the cruise. Ilya is pointing at the one where Shane had replied, “Kinda rude to the staff to say that, don’t you think?” in response to Ilya saying the event was boring. 

“There is no way you figured it out that early,” Shane protests. “The first day? Really?” 

“Well, not right when you sent it, no. But then when I saw you on the ship later on, I went back and re-read everything and figured it out. Only Shane Hollander would worry about being rude to staff on a sex app,” he laughs and squeezes Shane’s bicep. 

“It was mostly a joke,” Shane retorts softly.  

“Da, but most jokes have some truth to them.” 

“Fuck you,” Shane replies. 

“See? That is a joke with a lot of truth. You do want to fuck me, and you are joking that you hate me. Both at once.” Ilya smiles and kisses Shane’s jaw. “And also I would recognize that dick anywhere,” he whispers into his ear. 

“There’s nothing recognizable about it!” Shane protests, sitting up more. 

“Hollanderrrr your dick is so pretty,” Ilya teases as he flips over on the bed and straddles Shane. 

“You wouldn’t be able to pick it out in a lineup,” Shane challenges, kissing Ilya on the collarbone and moving their bodies together. 

That’s how their evening plans are decided. Shane and Ilya each create a photo album of five dick pics, all collected from old conversations on Grindr or semi-embarrassing Google searches. Ilya finds one that he took of himself a few months ago to send to one of his longer-term hookups. The only thing in the background is a white comforter, not enough to give it away as his own apartment. Not that Shane has seen the place anyway. 

“You first,” Shane says, handing his phone to Ilya with the album pulled up. After careful scrutiny, Ilya lands on the third one in the lineup. He thinks Shane would put his own right in the center, as a way to reverse-psychology Ilya out of picking it since that’s the obvious placement. Plus, there is something so Shane about the cock, something he cannot explain. 

“This,” Ilya says, holding it up. 

Shane frowns, confirming that Ilya’s answer is right. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” 

Ilya beams. His smile pulls his cheeks so high he can barely see Shane’s angry face because they blur his vision. “I told you!” he brags. 

“Let me try,” Shane grabs Ilya’s phone. He carefully deliberates, swiping between the photos over and over again. 

“This is less fun,” Ilya says. “You are looking at so many hard cocks.” 

“Jealous?” Shane looks up and meets his eyes, clearly excited at the idea. 

“No, of course not. Look at all the hard cocks you want. I do not care,” Ilya puts his hands up. He slowly makes his way to Shane and pulls the other man’s pants down, then moves his mouth over his half-hard dick through his boxers. 

“Cheater,” Shane says, not pulling away. “Trying to distract me.” 

“Maybe you need a reminder of what you’re looking for,” Ilya says, standing up and taking his own clothing off. 

Shane’s jaw drops. “Come here,” he says, putting the phone on the nightstand. 

Ilya straddles him and pushes their hardening cocks together. He pulls Shane’s boxers down and off so both of them are naked on the bed together, then starts kissing Shane hungrily, opening his entire mouth to take Shane’s in. 

“You still haven’t fucked me, you know,” Shane whispers into Ilya’s ear before gently biting it. 

This sends shivers down Ilya’s spine. He had known the information, of course, and had been doing so intentionally. He’s scared of crossing yet another big milestone with Shane and getting ever closer than they already are. He’s scared that it will send his brain on a spiral he can’t pull it back from quickly enough. 

Shane must notice the fear on Ilya’s face because he stops moving and runs a thumb along Ilya’s cheek. “Hey, I didn’t mean to pressure you,” he says. “I’m not in a rush.” 

“I want to be ready,” Ilya tells him. “I think I will be soon.” 

Shane nods and kisses Ilya gently. Then, with a hint of mischief behind his eyes, he says, “I should probably get a closer look at the dick I can’t pick out of a lineup anyway.” 

Ilya teaches him how to use the small, pink bong he keeps at the cottage. He lights the bowl and pulls the stem out for his husband, watching as Shane inhales then coughs. Ilya takes a few rips himself, then leads them back inside and presses play on Finding Nemo. Ilya gets so lost in his own high bliss and the budding relationship between Dory and Marlin that he almost doesn't notice how quiet Shane is being. For the first half hour of the movie, Shane is staring blankly at the screen, not reacting to jokes or important plot lines. Eventually he pulls out his phone and switches to staring at the smaller device with undivided attention.

When Ilya looks over at the phone screen, he sees that Shane just Googled "symptoms of allergic reaction." He watches his husband swipe through the results for a second, then Google "symptoms of anaphylactic shock."

"Malysh, are you okay?" Ilya asks, concerned.

Shane looks up at him through puffy, red eyes. "I'm worried I'm allergic to these carrots."

"You ate them yesterday, my love" Ilya smiles.

"But what if I developed an allergy? It's hard to swallow all of the sudden." Shane frowns and starts typing "can you become aller..." before Ilya takes the phone.

"Sweetheart, you are not allergic to carrots. Your mouth is feeling a little weird because you are high. Let's do some breaths together, yeah?" Ilya puts his fingers in Shane's hair, pushing it gently back around his temples. He kisses Shane on the cheek. He ignores a tiny flame in his lower abdomen at the sound of his own voice caring for Shane like this.

Shane nods and fills his lungs up, this time with simple oxygen. Ilya feels a weird sense of pride watching his husband's stomach rise and fall. "Make your exhale longer than the inhale," Ilya commands, and Shane does so. After a few breaths, Ilya overhears a serious line of dialogue as Marlin mourns the disappearance of his only son.

"I think this movie is too sad for us," Ilya says. "And it's too light in here. Come on, we are going to the bed."

Shane gets up and follows him through the house. Ilya closes all of the blinds in their bedroom and turns on the vintage lamp they'd found at a yard sale last year, which fills the room with a soft orange glow. He puts Shane's favorite classical music playlist on — soft piano covers of Beethoven and Vivaldi that soothe him — and he pats the bed for Shane to sit down. He grabs their largest hoodie (which just so happens to have Ilya's last name and number on the back) and throws it to his husband. Shane takes the cue to put it on.

Immediately, he can see Shane coming back into himself. Ilya smiles and grabs the hood of the sweatshirt, pulling it up so it engulfs Shane's head, earning him a soft smile that sends electricity through his spine. There is something... interesting about seeing Shane all bundled up and soft and needy.

"Better?" Ilya asks. He sits on the bed and runs a hand along Shane's back.

"Much," Shane nods.

"My poor baby," Ilya coos. "I didn't know you'd get so anxious."

A twinkle in Shane's eye tells Ilya that he is enjoying this kind of doting. "Being high is kind of scary," he says.

"I know, malysh," Ilya kisses him on the cheek. "What would be helpful?"

Shane shrugs. He leans over and rests his head on Ilya's shoulder. "I kind of want my whole body to be run through a spaghetti flattener machine thing," he says with a sigh.

Ilya chuckles. "Yeah, it can make your muscles feel weird."

"Mmhmm," Shane nods. "And I'm so hungry. Isn't that a thing too?"

"The munchies," Ilya smiles. "I have idea."

He stands up to leave and Shane whines — actually fucking whines — at the loss of contact.

"I will be right back, malysh."

"Hurryyyyyy."

Ilya sprints as fast as he can, grabbing a giant box of Reese's Puffs, a carton of vanilla ice cream, and two spoons.

"Oooooh," Shane smiles as Ilya puts the items on the duvet. "But wait." He lifts up one of the spoons and examines it. It's a perfectly normal utensil, one they'd picked out last year because Shane had grown sick of the cottage's previous set.

"Can we use the small spoons?" Shane asks through a slight pout.

Ilya laughs. God, he fucking loves this man. "Yeah, baby, we can," he runs back to the kitchen and swaps the utensils. He would run a marathon to the grocery store to get Shane whatever he needed right now. That thought definitely, certainly doesn't make his cock twitch.

"Thank you," Shane beams up at him. And, okay, fine, the reaction makes more blood flow down Ilya's body.

"This is the best when you are high," Ilya says, settling back into his spot on the bed. He demonstrates taking a small spoonful of ice cream, then dipping it into the cereal bag, coating it with the sugary puffs. He's about to bring the spoon to his own mouth when he makes eye contact with Shane.

He lifts the spoon to his husband instead. "Open," he commands. Shane obeys and licks it clean. "Good baby," Ilya tells him.

Their eyes meet. Shane looks as shocked as he is intrigued.

Ilya makes another spoonful. "More," he says, and Shane takes the spoon into his mouth again, this time using a bit of fanfare as he laps the metal clean.

Ilya can't help it. He puts his thumb in Shane's mouth and groans when his husband immediately sucks on it, lapping his thumb around. He lets out a low "fuuuck" and adjusts his pants.

Shane pulls away from Ilya's thumb, a small strain of saliva keeping them connected until it breaks. "Need you," he whispers.

"I know you do, baby," Ilya says.

He helps Shane lay back on the bed and kisses his neck, cheeks, and finally his lips. He slowly moves his tongue against Shane's and they both sigh together, their bodies settling into the familiar position on their pillows.

Shane is more pliant than normal, all soft and loose in Ilya's arms. He's not making any moves to take his own clothing off. Ilya likes the idea of being completely in charge, of taking care of Shane's every need before the boy even spots it coming.

He takes Shane's pajama pants and boxers off in one fell swoop, then positions himself between his husband's legs. He uses one hand to pull up Shane's shirt and the hoodie, exposing his taut abdomen for Ilya to lick until his mouth finds its way to Shane's cock. The other hand moves to Shane's balls and lightly cradles them.

"Ilya," Shane gasps. He moves his hips up in search of more.

"I know, baby," Ilya says just before putting his mouth around the head of Shane's cock. He licks a circle around it, lapping up the familiar taste. Shane whines a little too much for the simple action.

Ilya pulls his mouth off and uses one hand to pump Shane's saliva-coated dick lightly. "It feels different, yeah?" Ilya asks. "Is okay?"

Shane is looking at him with a tinge of helplessness. He nods. "I can feel it more intensely."

"Yes, exactly." Ilya places his other hand on Shane's hip. "Just relax. And we can stop if it's too much, malysh."

"Not too much," Shane shakes his head. "Keep going."

Ilya brings his mouth back down to another "Fuck, Ilya," and more pre-come leaking from Shane. He works his tongue up and down his husband's shaft and sucks each testicle into his mouth, one at a time, licking and savoring the weight of them on his tongue. He takes Shane's entire length into his throat and hums around it.

Expectedly, Shane is completely losing his mind. He's writhing in the sheets, biting the skin on his own right hand for comfort.

"Good baby, doing so good for me," Ilya says when he briefly pulls his mouth away. He returns it and then uses one finger to begin opening Shane's hole.

Shane muffles his own gasp.

"I know, honey," Ilya coos. "Is okay. I've got you."

He goes so slowly, tracing his finger around and then covering it with his own saliva. Shane never needs coaching for this part anymore, not after years and years of perfecting it, but there is something impossibly hot about pretending like Ilya knows Shane's body better than Shane does.

"Push out a tiny bit, malysh," Ilya says gently. He feels Shane immediately open for him, and fills the tiny gap with the first few centimeters of his pointer finger. "Good, baby."

Shane whimpers and mumbles, "Need more." He moves his hip again, sinking on Ilya's finger.

"We need to go slow, sweetheart," Ilya tells him. "I don't want to hurt you."

Shane nods helplessly, holding eye contact as Ilya very slowly inches his finger in more. He licks up the bead of pre-come that leaks out. He crooks the finger a tiny bit and sends Shane to the next plane of existence.

"Taking it so good for me, baby," Ilya coos. He removes his fingers. "Hand me the lube from the table, okay? You need another before you're ready for me."

Shane quickly reaches for the bottle and passes it over. Ilya squirts enough on his first two fingers, then circles it around Shane, before slowly reentering him.

"God," Shane gasps.

"So sensitive," Ilya tells him. He presses on Shane's prostate. "Especially here."

Shane cries out in pleasure that seems like it's almost too much. Ilya slows down and scissors his fingers gently, opening his husband more.

"Need... need," Shane whines.

"I know, I know, baby," Ilya whispers. He pulls his fingers out and finally, finally, puts lube on his own cock and lets himself slowly push into Shane. It's almost too much — he's achingly hard from everything that led up to this, and the thrill of discovering a new side of their relationship neither of them have seen before.

"Always need to be so full, moy malysh," he says when his breath returns.

Shane nods and uses his fingers to pull Ilya closer, closer, impossibly close. Ilya feels him tighten around his cock, sees his breath start to grow shallow.

"Let it happen," he coaches. "Let yourself come, sweetheart. Your body needs to."

Right as he finishes speaking, Shane's cock pulses against Ilya's abdomen and releases long lines of come between them. Ilya follows soon after, filling Shane as he mutters completely unintelligible syllables that are something like yes, God, fuck, take it baby in his own head.

He lets himself fall onto Shane, their chests rising and falling together. He keeps his cock inside until it's completely flaccid, and even then Shane whines at the loss of it.

"My needy baby," Ilya smiles. He kisses Shane long and slow.

He slides off and then moves Shane's still pliant body so that he's completely engulfed in Ilya. "My baby, my baby, moy malysh," Ilya whispers, kissing Shane's neck and then his warm cheek.

When they’re situated on the couch, each in their respective corner with not much room between them, Shane with a fresh ginger ale to get the taste out of his mouth, Ilya takes a loaded breath. 

“That was oxycontin,” Ilya explains. 

Shane scrunches his face, trying to understand. “Why would you bring that on a cruise? Are you…” something clicks for him. His voice is lower as he says, “Are you addicted?” 

Ilya shakes his head. “No. They were my dad’s pills, when he was dying. I kept them. I…” he takes another breath. He’s been ready to say this for days, and he’s less afraid of it now, but it’s still hard to look Shane in the face and tell him. He tries anyway. 

“My brain hates me sometimes,” he says. “It becomes a self-destructive machine. I’ve been through a lot of… trauma. And the memories all kind of swish around in there and haunt me,” he points to his head. 

“The guys on the Bachelorette talk about trauma like it’s a way to get to know someone,” Ilya continues. “Or it’s what makes you interesting. But it is not like this to me. It makes me feel… apart from everyone else. Different. And when my brain is acting up, it’s not something that can go away so easily. It’s big. Scary. It tells me that nothing will ever feel good ever again and that I need to stop trying. It tells me I am only ever a burden to the people around me. It scares me and it scares other people, too. And it is okay if it scares you.” 

Shane’s puppy dog eyes are tilted downward, paired with a genuine frown. It’s not pity, but instead seems to be a deep sadness for Ilya’s pain, like he’s experiencing it alongside him. “I don’t think it scares me,” Shane whispers. 

“My mom died this way. I think I got what she has, like it’s…” he stumbles on the word. 

“Genetic?” Shane suggests. 

“Yes. Genetic. Yes,” Ilya nods. “A therapist told me it is possible.” 

“Is that how she died?” Shane’s face is curious and open, like he genuinely wants to know anything Ilya tells him. 

He nods. “Pills. When I was twelve I found her.” 

Shane reaches a hand out and grabs Ilya’s. He moves his thumb along the back of Ilya’s palm, gently caressing it. 

“Between that and leaving hockey and everything with my dad,” Ilya trails off. 

“He died, too, right?” 

“Alzheimer’s,” Ilya nods. “Last year. Is how I got the money for this cruise. But I think something happens when all of this trauma adds up. It makes the world feel… Do you know the word beige?” Ilya pronounces it as best he can, but it sounds wrong coming out of his mouth, he can never get the “g” sound quite right. 

“Beige?” Shane makes sure he heard right. It’s not at all condescending, even though he has every opportunity to be.

“Yes, that,” Ilya says. “When I first heard the word for it in English I loved it. In Russian it is ‘bezhevyy’ but that is not a good enough way to say it, you know? Beige is exactly what that color is. Lifeless, dull, sad. And this is how the whole world feels to me some days. Even if I know there is beauty out there, I forget about it. It feels like anything good is too far away to ever come back.” 

——

Shane will find every single thing that is beige in this world and set it on fire just so that Ilya can watch the dance of the red and orange flames and see how colorful life can be. 

Holding Ilya’s hand is not enough, he needs to lick the salty tears off the man’s face and kiss his cheeks. But maybe it’s wrong to want to fix it. Maybe he’s supposed to let Ilya be sad. If he tries to make him smile, it could seem like Shane is trying to avoid these emotions, maybe sending a signal that they’re not okay. He wishes he listened more during his psychology class in high school. 

“Can I hold you?” he asks, deciding that physical affection is an easier way to express what he’s feeling at this moment. 

Ilya nods. Shane stands up and takes Ilya’s hand, leading him to the bed on the other side of the room. They fall back into their normal positions, but this time it’s Shane’s arm underneath Ilya as they curl together. He uses his free hand to run fingers through Ilya’s hair and presses a kiss to his forehead. This elicits a choked sob from Ilya, who has until then been only quietly, gently crying. 

“So much for you to hold,” Shane whispers. An observation more than anything. 

“I’m sorry,” Ilya says into Shane’s shirt. 

“For what?” 

Ilya shrugs and lets a deep breath out. “I wish I could be more simple. Easier.” 

It’s not at all what Shane thought he’d hear in response. He thought maybe “sorry” meant “sorry for getting a little puddle of tears on your Nike workout shirt” or “sorry I didn’t tell you the mints in our room are oxycontin that’s probably expired, even though it’s weird you ate a mint without asking me anyway.” 

Shane doesn’t know what to say. He never expects anything to be easy, that’s not exactly something he aspires for his life to be. Sure, he likes to keep a strict routine and diet, but that’s never been about ease or simplicity. He prefers the hockey games that require strategy and challenge over the ones that are obvious wins. He likes people who are a little bit rough around the edges, who encourage him to take himself a little less seriously but at the same time introduce him to new philosophies and ways of seeing the world he’s never considered. People like Ilya. 

“I don’t want easy,” he shrugs. “I just want you.” 

Ilya lets his tears fall freely until his breath starts evening back out. Shane feels a few hot tears roll down his own cheeks, too, especially when he allows himself to picture Ilya at age twelve going through something like that. He decides he’ll build a time machine or find some kind of black hole that lets him send his own twelve year-old self to be friends with Ilya, so that some version of him could have been there to help. 

And then the thought of changing the past spirals into more. He imagines Ilya actually playing for Boston, living out the rookie year as it should have happened. From his old stats alone, Shane knows Ilya would have made that season — and all of the seasons after, for that matter — so much harder for him. His chest aches at what could have been, both for himself and for Ilya. 

He aches for their connection, too, for the years they lost that they might have spent together in some way or another. 

In the comfortable silence, Shane puts on a movie for them to watch: Planet Earth. They stay in bed all day, cuddling and taking turns mindlessly stroking the other’s hair or back, depending on the position. 

“This is not too scary for you?” Ilya asks when a manatee swims across the screen. 

“Fuck off,” Shane laughs. 

When Ilya falls asleep that night, Shane goes down a rabbit hole of Google searches, starting with “how to care for someone who is suicidal” and ending with a PDF he’d found of the Diagnostic and Statistic Manual’s formal definition of PTSD as well as five peer-reviewed articles about the best types of social supports for someone who has experienced trauma. 

——

“They are taking forever to admit they love each other,” Ilya groans to Paula the next morning. He slams the book onto the small table next to his pool seat, angry at it. 

Paula snickers. “It’s kind of fun, though, isn’t it? The build-up?” 

“NO!” Ilya replies. 

“Fine, I’ll make sure the next one isn’t a slow burn, then. I have a few where they get to it right away, don’t worry,” Paula assures him. She takes another sip of sweet tea. 

“Thank God,” Ilya sighs. 

“You know they say that what you hate about other people is really what you hate about yourself,” Benny interjects. 

“Yes… and?” Ilya asks. 

Benny and Paula just look at each other and laugh. 

“Anyway, I’m glad we could convince you to come out of your little love bubble and hang out. I’ve missed you,” Benny says. 

“It is not a love bubble,” Ilya replies, feigning disgust. “It is very nice suite with a lot of video games.” 

“And a hot man,” Paula says. 

“And a hot man,” Ilya nods. 

Paula beams. “Just don’t get too caught up in one man, okay? I mean, I want this for you more than anyone, but I also want you to remember how big the world is. There are a million other beautiful things about being alive,” she tells him. He can hear the genuine concern in her voice, can hear what she’s getting at. 

“I know,” he agrees. “You are right. And I’m excited to do tea time in South Africa with you.” 

“Wait, you guys are doing the high tea? The premium excursion?!” Benny says, teeming with jealousy. 

“Al gave his spot to Ilya,” Paula explains. “He didn’t want to do it this year. He mostly goes because I make him.” 

“You’re gonna love it,” Benny sighs. 

And the next day proves Benny correct. Ilya and Paula are picked up from the dock by a chic white sports car and taken across Cape Town. The doors open upward and Ilya fantasizes about driving it around the city, blasting music and taking the speed from 0 to 60 in two seconds while his stomach lurches at the intensity. He’d whirl around the southern tip of Africa and leave a trail of dust in his wake. 

They arrive at a large, fancy hotel, which is painted a light pink color, making it stand out against the green mountains all around. Ilya imagines this is the kind of lodging he’d be used to staying in if he were in the NHL. He imagines Shane having long nights alone in the large rooms, drinking a non-alcoholic beverage on a patio overlooking awe-inspiring scenery. 

A hostess leads them across the lobby — which is decorated with white, plush furniture and large crystal chandeliers — into the garden area. Planted on lush grass under the shade of dozens of large trees are small white tea tables. Each table has an intricate teapot on top of it and four matching tea settings, all with little pink and blue flowers painted in repeating patterns. 

Ilya pulls out one of the chairs. Cold, light silver makes up the entire frame, crafted elegantly into vines and little swirls, and there’s a checkered white and pink cushion on top of it. He gestures for Paula to step in front of it, then pushes it in like a true gentleman. 

“Ugh, chivalry isn’t dead,” Paula sighs dramatically. 

He sits down next to her and Paula launches into an explanation about what to expect. The servers bring them tea options — together the two of them choose a rose and peach white tea to split — and a large, three-tier structure full of food. 

The years of attending his father’s work events and over-the-top parties come rushing back into Ilya’s muscle memory. 

“You have great tea time manners,” Paula praises as he taps his small spoon lightly, shaking off the tea and milk, then places it at the correct angle on his saucer. Ilya thinks of telling her that this is because his father beat them into him, but he decides not to ruin the moment. 

“Okay, so these are the petit fours,” she says, her pronunciation perfect as she points to the smallest tier on the top. “Lavender pound cake,” she reads off, and Ilya finds small white squares with purple dots scattered among them and tiny sprigs of lavender on top. “Lemon and strawberry cake,” he eyes the little pink ones, which have a lemon piped on them in icing. “And, ooooh, chocolate espresso, yummy,” Paula reads. That must be the third variety, which is dark brown with a coffee bean on top. 

Ilya bites into a lemon strawberry one as Paula reaches for the chocolate. He pulls the treat back, examining the perfect layers underneath the icing: cake, then lemon curd, more cake, then strawberry jam and a final layer of cake, all wrapped up in a not-too-sweet coating of frosting. 

They move onto the next layer, which is dedicated to South African specialties. Paula explains the Koeksisters — braided, golden dough covered in crunchy sugar, about the length of a finger — and tells Ilya that she dreams about them all year in between visits. 

“The crunchiness of the sugar mixed with the softness of dough is just divine,” she gushes. “Al and I tried to make them once and it was a colossal fail, though.” 

Ilya bites into one and decides that “divine” is an understatement. “We will need to try harder. Or get recipe for the cruise chefs.” 

“I love the way your mind works,” Paula smiles, taking a bite of a milk tart, the other South African pastry made specially for the tier. Ilya tries one, too, but doesn’t like the texture of the dense, moist, semi-sweet custard or the overwhelming spice from the cinnamon. If he’s going to be eating pastries, he wants to do it correctly and get the most sugar-y, dough-y confections he can possibly find. He eats another Koeksister to make up for it and starts wondering how they would hold up in a to-go box if he tried to take one back for Shane. 

The tea arrives, offering a perfectly warm palate cleanser between their sweet treats and the savory tier still left untouched. 

Beneath the Koeksisters and milk tarts is a wide platter of sandwiches: cucumber dill, tomato basil, egg salad, and ham and cheese. Ilya tries one of each, balking at the way the taste of the dill brings him back to memories of his childhood home in Russia, where the herb was sprinkled onto borschts and salads like it was going out of style. 

Ilya returns to the sweet tiers quickly, making serious work of trying to decide his favorite petit four. He sips his tea between each bite to make sure it’s a fair competition for each confection, then proudly decides on the lavender. He didn’t realize a flower could taste so sweet, and when it combines with the rose in the tea, it makes him feel like he’s living inside a bouquet. 

He sits back, savoring the floral hues on his tongue, and admires the view. The mid-day sunlight is filtering in through a canopy of leaves above them, silhouetting the trees in a bright yellow light. His white button-up shirt (the nicest he owns) and the golden aviator sunglasses he’d found at a stand in Fiji help him actually fit into this place. For a moment, he feels like he belongs in these types of spaces, like he’s allowed to have nice things. 

He spent the entire night adrift in an old conversation with his father, who was blaming him for not coming home from school quickly enough before the pills had set in. His father had spent months after the funeral repeating the words “if only” with different variables every time, rewriting that fateful day and telling Ilya what the 12 year-old could have done to save her. It was easier to take when the “ifs” are impossible things, anyway, like skipping school or something. But when they were feasible — “if only you’d been a better kid” or “if only you hadn’t fought with her over schoolwork two weeks before her death” — they stung. 

A knock on the door jolts Ilya out of the rush of memories. Shane groans and opens one eye to assess the situation. 

“One second,” Ilya calls out. He throws the blanket up to cover the other man’s naked body and pulls his own shorts on. He opens the door ever so slightly, trying to maintain some privacy for Shane, who hasn’t yet moved. 

“The suite is ready for you,” Benny announces. “And you too, Shane,” he calls out. He’s clearly trying to hide a smile. He winks and walks away. 

Without a word, Ilya walks to the top deck to get some air. He finds the bow of the ship completely empty and pulls out one of his nine remaining cigarettes that he’s rationing out until the European leg of the trip. 

The nicotine soothes his system as he commits to figuring out how to move forward. He can’t slide away from Hollander again, not so obviously. He can’t be this wishy-washy version of himself who gives a little and then leaves, because the whiplash he’s inflicting is too painful for either of them. But right now, his heart feels like it’s been thrown to the bottom of a dark well without a ladder or pulley system to help him retrieve it. The bright sun feels harsh and unloving. He wants a fucking break. 

He looks around for Paula, hoping to get her advice. When he doesn’t find her in any of the usual spots — it’s still before 8am, so he can’t blame the woman for being scarce — he thinks of what she would say to him. He assumes she would want him to be honest and forthcoming. She’d remind him that his vulnerability has only ever brought them closer, that he’s so easy to be friends with when he’s an open book and giving her enough to work with. She’d hug him and tell him that if Shane is scared off by a little mental health battle, he’s an asshole anyway. 

The advice from the fake Paula in his head is enough to sustain him, for now. 

Ilya rejoins Shane to take apart their temporary room and pack for the suite. It takes all of five minutes, given how little space there is anyway, and they do it mostly in silence. Ilya is used to hiding his discontent and he can tell that Hollander isn’t picking up on anything but morning dreariness. 

“Voilà,” Shane says later, opening the door to the suite. 

Ilya can’t stop his eyes from widening at the view in front of him. The place is bigger than his apartment in Russia, for god’s sake. There’s a giant bathroom with jade walls and nice, white marble counters and two sinks with golden faucets. The shower has a rainfall showerhead and a normal one, making it so two people could feasibly shower at the same time. A great idea. The lounge area has a velvet navy couch that looks like it’s a million times more expensive than the one in the staff room. And the patio is about the side of Ilya’s old room on the boat, enough for two reclining chairs and a large table. 

“I see why you offered it,” he says. “Would be so lonely here without me.” 

Shane smiles. “Why do you think I was on Grindr every night?” 

This makes Ilya laugh, which is no small feat right now. “Should have asked me over faster, Daniel.” 

Shane closes the small gap between them, throwing Ilya’s bag on the floor so he can instead pull him in for a kiss. Ilya wraps his arms around Shane’s chest and lets himself melt into the contact. His jaw loosens and his stomach unclenches. He pulls their lips apart and rests his head on Shane’s shoulder, feeling the other man wrap his arms tightly around him then run a finger through his hair. It is somehow the most intimate pose they’ve ever been in, and he wonders if Shane thinks so, too. Something between them shifts a tiny bit as they linger here. 

“Are you okay?” Shane asks into Ilya’s neck, barely a whisper. “Something seems off. But I’m not good at telling.” 

“Sorry,” Ilya lets out. He feels a pang of guilt that his grief was not as neatly tucked away as he’d hoped. “You’re right. But it’s just…. A bad dream.” 

“You can talk to me, you know?” Shane still doesn’t pull back to meet Ilya’s eyes. Ilya appreciates the ability to have this conversation without his face being visible to the other man. He simply nods and deepens the hug. 

“I will try. I want to,” he whispers. 

They stand like that a little longer, then Ilya pulls his head back so his eyes can meet Shane’s. “For now, all I can say is that I can get very sad sometimes,” he says. “It has nothing to do with you, okay? Bad things have happened to me. And the memories hit me when I do not expect it.” 

Shane accepts this with a gentle nod. “Come on, let’s unpack,” he whispers, gently. “Get it over with.” 

Ilya pulls out of their embrace, even though he wasn’t quite ready for it to be over. He quickly fills up two small drawers with all of his clothing. He places everything else in the bathroom, following Shane’s lead on where the toothbrushes, soaps, and medicine bottles go. 

A few minutes later, he’s lying on the bed waiting for Shane to finish showering and organizing the bathroom. Ilya’s wondering if he should say more about his dream last night, in accordance with what he’s learned about honesty and vulnerability and all of the sappy American stuff his dad never taught him. He doesn’t want to keep Shane guessing. 

But then Shane rounds the corner, nothing but boxers on, his hair spiked a bit from being towel dried but not yet styled. His arms glisten under the soft sunlight that’s pouring into the room from the patio. Everything smells clean and piney and their belongings are both here in this room they get to share — he gets to come back to Shane every single night for weeks on end if he keeps playing his cards right. And Ilya has gotten so good at swallowing his feelings, anyway, so why not one more day of this? Why not a few more days of this?

Ilya presses the metaphorical snooze button on his emotions — something that always ends up biting him in the ass, but he doesn’t fucking care because Shane is walking toward him and looking at him with glittering desire behind his eyes. 

“Come here,” Ilya says, more like a question than a demand. Shane smiles at the invitation and gets onto the bed.

Once they’re situated side by side, facing each other, Ilya kisses Shane. This time it’s deep and intentional, maybe even chaste. He uses a hand to cup Shane’s face and only slides his tongue in after a few minutes of slow, long kisses. Their lips are moving together so harmoniously, making soft sounds every time they pull apart for a brief breath. The same release of tension that happened in Shane’s embrace is even more powerful in this position. 

Eventually, their bodies are closer together, close enough that he can feel through layers of fabric what he’s doing to Shane. Ilya takes his own shirt and jeans off to correct the imbalance. There are a million things he could do right now, he thinks. He has lived out every single iteration of what two horny men could possibly do with each other, and then some. 

But what he hasn’t done is lie like this for hours, melting into someone’s kisses and only pausing to make tender eye contact and exchange shy smiles, silent confirmation that this is still okay. And so he lets himself. 

For the first time in a very long time, Ilya’s brain goes completely quiet. No longer is he calculating and grieving and avoiding and overthinking. No longer is he chasing an orgasm just to get reprieve.

Each moment here with Shane is instead filled to the brim with the awe: awe over how good it feels when Shane’s hands play with his hair; awe over how beautiful and warm Shane’s brown eyes look when they catch his; awe over the fact that the world brought Shane Hollander back into his arms after all these years. 

——

If this is what edging is, Shane is apparently very interested in being edged every day for the rest of his life, he decides. The simplicity of kissing Ilya on the bed, both of them still in (quite tented) boxers is unlike anything he’s experienced. He didn’t know sex was allowed to be this soft. 

Well, if “sex” is even the right label. Shane decides he doesn’t care if he gets off or not: he might even prefer not to, since it could create an abrupt ending that forces them out of this magical spell they’re under together. 

He’d tried marijuana once in high school. A senior on his hockey team had hosted a house party the first night of spring break, and Shane felt pressured to take a hit of the bong that was passed around. He remembers his head feeling light and everything in the room taking on a soft glow. His face had hurt all night because he kept not realizing he was smiling. A deep belly laugh was always just a single word away. 

That is so close to how he feels now in Ilya’s arms. Sometimes his smiles get too big for him to kiss properly, and he pulls back to remind himself what shade of blue Ilya’s eyes are. It gets to the point, after a while, where he can’t even choose between kissing Ilya and just looking at him, marveling.

“This is okay?” Ilya asks eventually, breaking their silence. Instead of asking for consent for sex, Shane can tell that Ilya is really trying to see if it’s okay to not have sex right now. 

“It’s better than okay,” Shane says in a low voice. “Can we get under the covers though? It’s kinda cold in here.” 

Ilya laughs and nods. They stand and each pull down their end of the duvet then climb in. Situating back together is like slinking into a warm bath: his body buzzes with the joy of returning to Ilya’s arms. Their lips find each other again and they stay like that until they’re too hungry for breakfast to put it off any longer. 

— 

Ilya begrudgingly gets off the ship at the Mauritius port, despite wanting to crawl back into bed next to Shane for the rest of the day. But to miss an island off the coast of Madagascar would be a shame and a crime against his original mission on the cruise. He quickly fixes his attitude when he takes in the grandeur of the fact that he’s stepping onto a new continent, somewhere he’d never imagined he’d end up. 

The day’s excursion is a simple walk around the beach because the small island does not host as many people as the bigger ports do. Ilya is immediately struck by how similar the land is to everything he’s seen in places like Hawaii and Fiji, despite the fact that all three spots are on three different continents. “Africa” has always been described to him as a big dessert with straw huts, but Mauritius looks just like the other tropical islands they’ve seen. 

There is something comforting, to Ilya, about the idea that nature can look similar in drastically different parts of the world. It makes things feel less big and unknown. 

Their stop at Réunion Island the next day confirms much of the same philosophy: that humans are connected by their familiar landscapes, and not everything needs to feel so “foreign” to him. Réunion, like Hawaii, has massive lava flows that burn through the land and eventually turn into black sand beaches. It strikes Ilya as beautiful that something so destructive simultaneously creates more land and therefore more room for nature to expand into: it’s as life-giving as it is life-taking. 

Shane spends the night after Réunion detailing his time at the port’s Marine Turtle Farm, where he’d seen dozens of types of turtles and just as many species of plants and trees. They’re both lying on their backs in bed looking at photos he took on his phone. 

Ilya follows along with piqued interest. He likes listening to Shane’s voice get louder as the boy gets lost in his own descriptions just as much as he enjoys following along with the stories and learning more about the planet. 

When Shane is finished showing off his turtle photos, Ilya decides he cannot stand the distance between them any longer. He places a hand on Shane’s chin and presses their lips together. 

“Turtles really did something for you, huh?” Shane laughs, breaking apart from Ilya’s kiss to readjust their position, lying on his side to face Ilya and bring their bodies closer together. 

“Turns out I am into dorks,” Ilya jokes. 

“I'm an award-winning professional athlete, I don’t think I qualify for that label,” Shane scoffs. 

“Fine. Nerd, then.” Ilya starts working at Shane’s belt buckle. 

“Asshole,” Shane retorts, taking his own shirt off and then reaching for the hem of Ilya’s. 

It’s Ilya who makes the first move, taking them from their familiar kissing (which he would gladly keep doing for days or weeks longer) to finally touching Shane’s hard cock between them. Shane moans, equally surprised and aroused. 

“God, you feel so good,” Ilya whispers. Shane bucks deeper into his open fist at the words. Once a praise slut, always a praise slut, Ilya thinks. 

It doesn’t take much before Shane is spilling into his hand. The days of making out have basically edged both of them to the point where their orgasms are mere seconds away, and there’s something so hot about that, about the waiting. 

“Can I taste you?” Shane asks once he collects his breath. Ilya’s only hesitancy is that they won’t be able to look each other in the eyes, but he nods. There isn’t much he wouldn’t let Shane do right now. 

An embarrassingly short amount of time goes by before Ilya is moaning “Shane” and coming so hard his ears start to ring. 

“You got so good at that,” Ilya hums as Shane returns to his rightful place next to him.