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Or he can give into the pills in the mint box. A choice that is way more likely if he has to experience losing Hollander once it’s too late to reel his feelings in. Right now, the loss would be a cut that could heal with stitches and a year of applying scar cream. But, a week from now? A month from now? 

He commits to a new outlook as though it’s some kind of mission. He will enjoy his time with Hollander, but from a distance. He’ll keep focusing on the other things bringing him joy on this cruise, things that will still be available to him after all of this ends. 

—

Shane is almost too preoccupied with the final day in New Zealand — this time at a port in Wellington — to mourn the fact that his next excursion will be without Ilya. 

Ilya and Paula go over their plans at breakfast as all three of them apply sunscreen and fuel up on protein. The two are scheduled for a hike through a mountainous region next to the ocean, which was marked as “strenuous” due to the steep incline, long mileage, and multiple rope bridges. Shane is jealous for a million and one reasons, but he’s also excited to see a place called “Zealandia Te Mara a Tane”, a nature sanctuary. 

The short bus ride escorts Shane and his familiar elderly companions from the dock — which is along a gorgeous, rocky coast — and into the lush greenery next to them. They are each given a “Zealandia” branded set of binoculars and bucket hats, which makes Shane feel ridiculous, but he wears them anyway. 

Their tour guide, a young woman named Ana with a thick Kiwi accent (Shane had learned this word yesterday) opens the glass door to the nature space and escorts them forward.

The birds are one thing: dozens of species make themselves known to him within just the first ten minutes of entering the sanctuary. Ana identifies a Tūī by their unique melodic whistles and points one out to the group. It’s metallic blue, with two large puffs of white at the front of its neck, almost like a bowtie. There’s a Takahē bird, which has a red beak that looks almost like a penguin’s, and Ana explains that the beaks are prehistoric. There are plenty of tiny cuckoo birds and robins chirping between the trees. 

Shane once read that bird sounds are calming to human nervous systems, and he feels the truth of it.  

But the plants — the plants are something else entirely. Shane abandons the group quickly to buy a “Plants of New Zealand” book he’d spotted at the gift shop just so he can start identifying them on his own. Everything looks like it was invented by aliens, or like God handed markers to a bunch of five year olds and asked them to draw what they think flowers should look like. Pink and green and white chaotic flora decorate the entire area. Large, citrus-scented trees (Taratas, Shane recognizes) line the space and offer tons of light green and yellow foliage. More fungi than he could ever count seems to pop up everywhere, in shades of white and red and pink. 

His phone yells at him for being out of storage from how many photos he’s taking. He deletes a few old videos of locker room debauchery to make more room. He deletes the Grindr app to make space, too. 

On the ride back to the ship, and for the first hour after returning to his suite, Shane reviews the photos meticulously and places his favorites into a separate album to show Ilya. He calls his parents before he remembers he has no idea what time it is in Ottawa. 

“Hello?” Yuna says, her voice groggy and confused. 

“Shoot, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up,” Shane apologizes. 

“No, no, it’s okay. Are you okay” Then, more muffled: “David, it’s Shane.” 

“Hi Shane!” David says in a lively voice in the background. 

“Your father was still up reading. It’s not that late. I’m glad you called,” she affirms. 

“We miss you, kid!” he yells. 

“I miss you, too. And I can hear you fine without yelling,” Shane smiles. 

“Send us photos from New Zealand today, I’m tired of looking at the same five pictures from the Hobbit world,” Yuna requests.  

“The Shire,” David corrects, still yelling a little. 

“Okay,” Shane says. It was part of why he called anyway. He selects a bunch from his album and sends them to his group chat with his parents. “There.” 

“I got ‘em!” David announces proudly. “Oh wow, so beautiful!” 

“These are amazing, Shaney,” Yuna says. 

 “Do you think I can use them as one of the posts we promised the cruise line?” Shane asks her. 

“No,” she replies without hesitation. “We need you to be in them.” 

“What about the selfie from yesterday?” 

“No selfies. That’s not really professional enough. We need a full body photo of you on the ship, and another few of you on excursions,” she explains. 

“Well, that’s not exactly easy to accomplish on my own,” Shane says. 

“I thought you said you’ve been making some friends?” Yuna asks. 

“Yeah, but not, like, photographer friends,” he explains. His face burns a little the vague reference to Ilya. He worries his mom — who’s a professional at reading his mind — can pick up on something. 

“They don’t need photography skills,” Yuna laughs, as though this is a ridiculous suggestion. “Just the ability to hold a camera and press a button. You should wear your Metros shirt for the one on the ship, okay?” 

“‘Kay,” Shane agrees. 

He recaps more of the past few days for them, leaving out the hue of romance that had lingered over them like a beautiful fog and instead focusing on the specific excursions and sights. They say their goodnights and Shane heads to his PT appointment. At dinner that night, he looks for Ilya but can’t find him anywhere. The photo album is practically burning a hole in his pocket with anticipation, but he assumes the other man is too exhausted from nine miles around the coast. 

— 

The next two days, Ilya makes himself scarce again. There’s one day at sea and then one at the port in Sydney, Australia. He works out with Paula and eats his normal meals, but spends most of his time sleeping in his room, using melatonin to make the day go by like he’s used to doing. He curses himself for slipping back into the habit, but not enough to make him actually stop it. 

He’s quickly forced back out of his shell in Sydney, where he and Paula do a hike in Blue Mountain National Park. The terrain reminds him of Hawaii: there are so many clusters of trees with rust-colored rock faces poking out. The guide takes them to a waterfall, which of course takes Ilya’s breath away all over again. 

He feels himself coming back into his body with every deep breath of the piney mountain air. He feels his sarcasm returning every time Paula strikes conversation. They allow themselves to fall to the back of the pack of hikers so they can chat more. 

“If you were an ice cream flavor, what would you be?” she asks him. It’s just one of a seemingly endless list of questions she has up her sleeve. She’s a professional at talking to people, Ilya has learned. Which makes sense considering how much of her life is spent cruising around the world with strangers. 

“I am not ice cream,” Ilya retorts. 

“We’ve been over this. You’re not a type of shoe or pasta noodle either, but you definitely do have a Doc Marten and Cavatappi vibes. Now play along or I’m finding a new friend and you’ll be bored for the last two hours of this hike. I’m too sore and tired and need a distraction.” 

“Fine,” he huffs. It at least takes his mind off of the blister in his right shoe and the dull pain in both knees from two strenuous hikes in three days. 

“I can go first, as an example,” Paula tells him. “I’m..” she thinks for a second, “a coffee ice cream base, because I have a lot of energy. With chunks of caramel. Not like a caramel swirl — actual chunks, like they’re chocolate chips. Oh, and I want chocolate chips, too. And also something colorful, so probably gummy bears.” 

“Gross,” Ilya says, imagining cold and wet gummy bears mixed with a coffee flavor. 

“You’d still eat it,” she laughs. “I’ve seen how much ice cream you eat.” 

Ilya shrugs and thinks about all of the flavors and toppings he’s seen. The endless desserts on the cruise have given him plenty to draw from. “I would be strawberry base,” he announces matter-of-factly. “And fudge swirls but the fudge has bourbon. And big sea salt flakes like what they put on the cake last night.” 

“That’s perfect,” Paula gasps. “You’re sweet but maybe a little outside of the norm like strawberry, you have a bite like the bourbon does. Unexpected like salt in ice cream. Only, it’s missing something.” She thinks for a beat, then says confidently: “You have a hard chocolate shell on the outside. One of those magic shells you need to break with a spoon.” 

Ilya nods, completely agreeing with her. He feels quite seen by her read on him. 

He can’t help but think of how Hollander would answer this question, just like he’s filled in the boy’s answers for every other one of Paula’s strange little riddles. Macaroni noodles, white Adidas slides, and now cookie dough ice cream with chocolate sprinkles, served over a warm brownie. Always something comfortable, reasonable, logical, sweet. 

That night, at the hot tub, he sees Hollander for the first time in over 48 hours. 

—

Seeing Ilya for the first time in a while is akin to how Shane felt when they first met. The man’s beauty is absolutely striking, especially when you aren’t expecting it. His hair is curlier, eyes bluer, chest fuller than Shane’s memory could ever paint them. The eye contact as Ilya sees him disrobe and get into the hot tub makes Shane’s stomach flip over. 

He feels sadness bubbling up at how unfamiliar Ilya’s presence feels despite how much he’s relived their last kiss over the past two days. He couldn’t walk five steps in the Sydney Opera House without getting a flashback of Ilya’s lips on his or his hand on Shane’s knee. 

Now, sliding into the hot tub, Shane is more anxious than he wants to be. He wonders how one person could elicit this level of disarray from him. He wonders if he affects Ilya even a fraction of the amount that Ilya affects him. 

“How was the Opera House tour?” Benny asks him, and Shane realizes that there are other people in the space. It’s not that he couldn’t have spotted the five blurry bodies lingering around him and Ilya, just that he didn’t even register them. 

“Really nice,” Shane says, taking in the group. Benny and Ilya are in the corner next to the entryway steps that Shane finds himself perched upon. In another corner, there’s a middle aged couple speaking a foreign language to each other that he thinks is Portuguese. There’s an older man along the other wall of the tub, about a meter away, drinking whiskey or scotch on the rocks and reading a newspaper despite the fact that it’s 9pm. 

“How was the hike?” Shane asks Ilya. 

“Really good,” Ilya responds before taking a sip of what must be a piña colada. Shane looks at the frost coating the outside of the fancy cocktail glass. It’s quiet for a second, and he wishes it was just him and Ilya here, but also worries about what they’d talk about if they were alone. There’s something about Ilya right now that feels off. 

“What kind of ice cream would you be?” Ilya asks both Benny and Shane. 

“...What?” Shane thinks maybe Ilya meant to ask what kind of ice cream they’d like to order, or something. An ice cream and piña colada is a lot of sugary coldness at once, but who is he to judge? 

“Let me guess, Paula asked you that?” Benny laughs. 

Ilya nods. “She has asked you this before?” 

“Yep. Every year, like clockwork. And it’s the same answer every time. Mint chocolate chip,” Benny says. “An unexpected favorite that everyone loves, with a minty freshness that keeps you coming back for more.”

“Hmm,” Ilya considers this then nods. “Hollander?” 

Shane is struck by the use of his last name, like a slap across the face, but tries not to show it. He gathers from context clues that the flavor should have something to do with his personality. He supposes he’s somewhat straightforward and palatable. He goes with his own favorite, a safe bet: “Chocolate chip cookie dough, probably.” 

Ilya smiles at this. “Da, I can see that.” 

Shane sinks deeper into the water and Ilya’s body language opens a little. Eventually, their legs make contact below the surface and Ilya doesn’t pull his away. Just the soft scratchiness of his hairy shins is enough for Shane to get lost in for now. 

Eventually the other guests excuse themselves from the hot tub. Benny leaves a while later, announcing that he's calling it a night because there are five days at sea where he'll have to be "on" for activities and other "fun management." Once he's gone, it's just Shane and Ilya. Shane is sweating from the hot water but refuses to give up the opportunity for alone time. He turns his body more and makes eye contact, almost afraid to break the comfortable but loaded silence between them. He can tell that Ilya has been waiting for the alone time, too. Or maybe it's just wishful thinking. 

Ilya looks down at his lips, then back into his eyes. "Hi," he says, and it makes sense to say because he's finally really seeing Shane for the first time in a few days. Shane sees him breathing faster just as his own breath catches. 

Without a word, Shane presses his lips to Ilya’s, not overthinking the fact that he’s initiated every kiss they’ve had lately. Ilya’s lips open, almost immediately, almost (almost, Shane thinks) desperately. He deepens the kiss and moves his body closer to Shane’s so their chests are touching. Their hot, wet skin slides together and creates more of a stir in Shane’s swim trunks. He puts a hand on the back of Ilya’s neck and runs his fingers through the wet curls.

They stay in that somewhat chaste pose for a minute, moving their tongues together as Shane tugs lightly at Ilya's hair, until Ilya’s hands find Shane’s hips underwater and pulls him closer. The touch is ecstatic. Shane feels his head spin. Ilya guides his hips until Shane is straddling him on the bench. 

They’re both breathless, just two warm and electric bodies trying desperately to be closer, closer. Shane’s knees are getting scraped by the cement surface of the bench and he doesn’t care. He shouldn’t be kneeling in any way, but the buoyancy of the water and weight of Ilya underneath him protects the joints just fine. 

Ilya moves his mouth down to kiss and nip at Shane’s neck. Shane automatically grinds his hips down, his hard cock rutting against Ilya’s. He could fucking come just from this, he thinks, repeating the motion. 

“So hard for me,” Ilya whispers as he pulls Shane down against him more. Shane kisses him again and moans into his mouth at the words and the friction between them. 

The ship tips a bit, hitting some kind of wave below them, and the movement causes Ilya’s empty cocktail glass to fall off the ledge and onto the wooden deck by the tub. The sound of it breaking shatters whatever is happening between them and Ilya comes back to himself all at once: Shane can see it happening, can see Ilya realize that they’re in public and getting ahead of themselves. 

“Come to my room,” Shane says, hoping to get back to the Ilya of ten seconds ago before he slips away completely.