So Ilya is helping Shane pack up his house in Montreal that summer, that fucking whirlwind summer after they are outed and after their lives end and restart like a fucking heart attack victim being resuscitated and after Ilya finds himself standing in his own backyard and realizing he has a family again, has a husband and parents and brothers. A fucking embarrassment of riches, actually, when the worse parts of his brain can be convinced to look at it straight on.
He's helping Shane, right, because Shane is engaging in the herculean task of cleaning the last decade out of his Montreal condo. So that he can put it on the market, yes, but also so that he can move every single crumb of his life, the one he lived separate from Ilya, into Ilya's house because they are married now--they are a family now--they are starting their lives together in the place where Shane came into the world and it's--
It's been a hard day. Ilya has been doing a lot of lifting and moving, a lot of going up and down stairs. Also a lot of remembering. Here is the couch, which is coming with them to Ottawa but won't ever again be in this exact position where the sun hits it in just this way at three o'clock in the afternoon, and Ilya knows that because he's seen the angle of it on Shane's forehead a million times. Here are the stairs to the lofted second floor, the glass divider against which a younger Ilya Rozanov pressed a younger Shane Hollander and pretended that the words I Love You weren't trying to burst out of his mouth with every feverish kiss. They slid against the divider as they'd clumsily stumbled up the stairs and Shane's bare skin had squeaked against the glass and they'd laughed.
And here is the kitchen, first place aside from the cottage where they'd cooked together. And here is the front closet, where Shane had hidden Ilya's birthday present three years ago only to have it fall on Ilya's head some time in April. And here is the bedroom, where on a night many Octobers ago Shane had looked at Ilya from across the room with a smirk and said No you come here and then he'd let Ilya--
It's been an emotional day.
"Okay," Shane said, standing in the middle of the bedroom with his arms akimbo and his eyes wet. They've been wet off and on for hours now. Ilya has been carting a box of tissues around for the last little while, mostly for himself as he keeps looking up and realizing that his cheeks are wet. His eyelids feel like sandpaper. Shane, as usual, doesn't have wet cheeks--but his voice is soft and nasally, shuddery at times, words slurring very gently on certain syllables. He's saying a lot of okays and yeses in Ilya's accent, which Ilya doesn't even know if Shane realizes he does when words are hard for him to produce and he needs to reach for the comfort of some familiar, easy verbal stim. Ilya has never pointed it out for fear he'll stop.
"Okay," Shane says again, in his fake Russian accent. "Um. Last room tonight, I guess. I'll do the closet. Will you--baby?"
"Huh?" Ilya realizes a moment too late that he's just staring at the empty, made bed. Tonight will be the last night they sleep in it together. There are already enough beds in Ilya's house. Their house. "What?"
Shane pokes his own cheek. "You're...crying again."
Ilya points to the bed. "I fucked you there, Shane Hollander."
"Yeah, you did." Shane looks at the bed, grins, and then wobbles.
"Fuck," Shane sighs. "Jesus Christ. Okay." He closes his eyes and breaths and waves his hands in front of himself and for a minute, he is utterly possessed by Yuna Hollander. "Okay, enough."
Ilya flaps his arms once, briefly, hard at his sides. Shane echoes the movement.
"We're good," Shane says firmly. "Can you go through the nightstands? Just throw it all into a box, we'll look through it in Ottawa. At this point I just want everything empty for the movers in the morning."
Ilya goes into the hall, where a stack of folded boxes and a roll of tape are ready for the last push of the day. He puts one together, which is something he'll probably dream about tonight with how many times he's done it today, and then he puts together a few more before carting them all back into the bedroom. He stacks them against the wall outside the closet, where Shane is rummaging, and takes one to the bedside.
The nightstands have two drawers each, and a compartment directly below the table top that is intended to house books or remotes, things that a person might want easy access to but might not want to leave on the table top if they are, for instance, a Shane Hollander type who doesn't like to let people know he does human things like watch television in bed or read the occasional true crime book.
Shane's nightstand is full of little insights into his life. His spare phone charger, a copy of the key to the safe in the closet, his glasses case, a foil blister pack containing a pair of his single-use contacts, a half-empty bottle of ibuprofen. Odd little knick knacks like a slide puzzle that Ilya knows he used to take on flights just to fidget the tiles back and forth (when complete, it's a picture of the Montreal skyline) and a stress ball with the Metros logo on it. There are condoms here--an almost full box that, if Ilya had to guess, is probably reaching its expiration date soon. Two different kinds of lube, one of which was bought because it does, in fact, taste significantly better than their preferred brand. A bottle of linen spray that Shane uses if he's worried the bed smells like sex even after it's been remade.
Ilya sits on the bed with the box between his feet and systematically loads everything from the drawer into it, resisting the urge to pause and reminisce about every single item. When the drawer is empty--and there go the tears again, a pair of them racing down Ilya's face; this drawer probably hasn't been empty since Shane was nineteen--he hunches down and opens the second drawer.
This is a more eclectic collection of things. It doesn't get opened nearly as much and Ilya thinks it's possible that most of these things got put here on accident. A pair of tiny stud earrings that Ilya wore one singular time and then never saw again--when he finds them, he has the weirdest sense of deja vu and a very very vague memory of tipsily removing them and putting them in Shane's outstretched palm. They are atop the manual for the PlayStation. Here is the remote that Ilya thinks belonged to the television that used to be in the living room back in 2014ish. Here is the dimmer for the overhead light in the kitchen, which every single person in the world is forbidden from even thinking about turning on because even at its lowest setting it makes Shane feel like he's being interrogated. Here is a very small plush bear filled with tiny beads that, for reasons only Ilya and Shane know, has the words I Love Vermont embroidered onto its belly.
Here, in the very back, is a little notebook closed with a piece of elastic.
Ilya has seen these notebooks before. Yuna buys them a half dozen at a time from some Japanese stationary company and divides them between herself and Shane, sliding the stack of them across the kitchen island at the cottage or the house in Ottawa. Yuna and Shane are both prolific note-takers and habitually maintain a collection of these little notebooks to track various aspects of life. Shane has one that serves as a journal of sorts, which Ilya has seen and will sometimes watch Shane write in but doesn't go out of his way to read, because Shane is allowed his private thoughts. There is another where he tracks his workouts and diet (and part of the negotiations with Shane's new therapist is that Ilya is allowed to ask to see that one, but Shane gets to explain) and still another where he keeps track of his own game stats. When he fills one of these notebooks, he always replaces it with the same color.
This one is a different color, looks older. Ilya imagines that it's some version of the workout notebook that has been laying forgotten in this drawer for several years. He doesn't think much of flipping it open, because whatever is in there is several years old at least and it's unlikely that Shane will care about Ilya seeing the record of a workout Shane did on October sixteenth of 2013--
But that is not a workout. It quickly becomes clear that it's not a workout when Ilya sees the word 'anal' and then double-triple takes at the top of the page.
October 16th 2013
Montreal
Post-game
2-3 Metros
Hollander one goal, one assist
Rozanov one assist
Sex:
Mouth stuff (Look up: ass job? Is that a thing? Google this?) 8/10
Anal 10/10 (Wow.)
- On my back 8/10 (Liked seeing his face. Liked kissing.)
- On my knees 10/10 (More comfortable. Wow.)
Orgasms - Hollander 1 Rozanov 1
Things to remember:
Doggy style goes deeper than missionary (Still called missionary if anal? Missionaries don't have anal sex. Google this?)
Came untouched.
Neck kisses, shoulder kisses 10/10
He stayed inside me after 10/10 (Is this normal? Google?)
Feels important to note that Ilya Rozanov took my virginity. Mixed feelings. Mostly good.
"Are you okay" so many times. Liked this but also why?
Ilya snaps the notebook reflexively closed, glances into the closet where Shane is loading pre-folded armfuls of clothes into boxes, and then looks back down at the notebook. He opens it, reads the first page again, breathes through his mouth for a second like an asthmatic dog and flips, randomly, to another page.
April 24th 2015
Boston (Rozanov penthouse)
Post-game
1-0 Boston
Rozanov one goal
Bad game
Sex:
Round 1: Mutual blowjobs
Round 2: Anal sex
Round 3?: Rozanov fingered me in the shower
- Didn't cum but it felt really good
Orgasms - Hollander 2 Rozanov 1
Things to remember:
Rozanov doesn't like to cum before fucking but he likes it when I do. Asked about equity/fairness regarding number of orgasms. He laughed?
He's fucking rude. Why is this hot? Google?
Rozanov stood at the end of the bed with one foot up like Captain Morgan. Very hot.
Called me his slut. Came right after. How to make him do this again?
Fingering in the shower worth mentioning again. Intimate.
Russian words (Known): Slut, pretty, bunny (Worth mentioning I know this one? Maybe he'll stop? Do I want him to stop?)
Russian words (Unkown): Idiallen (If this means idiot I will end him), youbimy, tibia (Need to figure out how these are spelled. Typing tibia into Google is useless.)
"Oh, you found that."
Ilya reflexively drops the notebook into the box at his feet. Shane is standing in the closet doorway, looking flushed but not in any way that couldn't be caused by bending over several dozen times over the course of the last twenty minutes. His hair is a lost cause, sweeping down around his ears and cheeks and completely free of the product he put in it this morning.
"Sorry," Ilya says. "Didn't know what it was. I was just--"
"It's fine," Shane says. He leans against the doorway and Ilya wants him to come over here, wants him to bring himself closer so that he can touch him a little, wants him--wants him. "I knew that it was somewhere around here, I figured it would turn up."
Ilya looks back down at it, innocuously sitting on top of Vermont Beany-Baby. "How long were you...?"
"Writing it all down?" Shane chuckles. "Um, I mean, I sort of never stopped? But it goes in the calendar now, the--"
"Yes, yes." Ilya waves a hand. "I know." The calendar is a synced app in both of their phones. It keeps track of appointments and, until recently, meet-ups. Mutual days off. The stolen moments of time they carved out and into which they attempted to shove entire weeks' worth of kisses, touches, rough sex and lounging together naked and lovemaking and sleeping together and counting freckles and laughter and Shane's sweet begging and say it say it and I love you ya tebya lyublyu je t'aime.
Never enough time. Never again.
Ilya gestures to the notebook. "Most of this doesn't go in the calendar. Those notes are, um. When you write everything...?"
"No, I know thorough. It is that, but it's also, eh, dotoshnyy."
Shane pulls out his phone, types, smirks. "Meticulous, pedantic, fussy."
"Meticulous, yes. You wrote down--everything." He laughs. "You wrote down the game scores."
Ilya enjoys one of his favorite sights--Shane's pink blush creeping across his freckles--as Shane says, "I think at some point I was trying to figure out if sex felt better after winning, but then I realized that it wasn't about whether it felt better."
"Oh?" Ilya mumbles, feeling like he's staring over the edge of a cliff and the only thing keeping him there is Shane Hollander's hand. Which is big and strong and iron-like in its grasp and Ilya feels safe. He knows, now, that Shane won't let him fall.
"No, it was..." Shane sighs, choosing his words as he finally comes close. He sits beside Ilya on the bed and butts their feet together. "I was trying to wrap my mind around why I felt what I did when I was with you. And I thought it was sex because--I mean, we were always having sex when we were together back then. So I was writing it all down because I couldn't let myself think that I loved you, so I was just...circling. Like, oh, maybe I feel this way because...I don't know, this position was really hot. Or because you slammed me into the boards that night. Or because--"
"Because I put my fingers in your open hole after I fucked you." Ilya raises an eyebrow. "You really liked that. Maybe I do this tonight."
Shane tilts his head. "Yeah, that'd be nice."
"I used to like things like that because it was the only time--" Shane sighs, and mutters fuck under his breath (because fuck will always, always be his favorite vocal stim) and says, "The only time it felt like i wasn't crazy. Like you were going through it too."
Ilya picks up the notebook, finds the page from April 2015 again and pokes a particular word in Shane's chicken-scratch fucking penmanship. Idiallen, Shane had written, because he'd been leading himself blindly through a language he'd only heard gasped into the side of his own neck. Youbimy. Tibia.
"Lyubimyy," he says. "Tebya. Ideal'nyy. Beloved. You are perfect."
"Oh," Shane whispers. He puts his forehead against Ilya's shoulder, puts his mouth against his bicep, says, "Even then?"
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