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It always came down to his freckles.
They seemed to represent what Ilya wanted out of his life: more time, more permission, more freedom.
He wanted to count every single one of those brown spots, keep a tally of them, know exactly where each of them fell on Shane's face.
He wanted to see them fading and becoming more prominent with each season's passing.
He wanted to kiss all of them.
He wanted, and he wanted.
That is the thing with Ilya, he had always been incredible at wanting things he can't have.
He got to touch them now; with time, permission and freedom. Even if it was a fleeting moment, he would have what he could.
He knew they might not have another one.
They had to end this, and he was trying to be the responsible one, for once. For his sake and more importantly, for Shane's.
He deserved to be loved; with time, permission and freedom. All things Ilya can't have or do.
But he tried to get his fill, even for just a split second.
He touched the freckles on Shane's left cheek, his bruises covering some of them.
Once again, Ilya realized he was so fucked.
There would be no one for him, he was becoming more acutely aware of this fact by the hour. He would maybe fall in love again but not like this, nothing ever close to this.
He would always watch Shane from far away; on a bench, on a screen, within reasonable distance in person.
His eyes would always wonder around his face, his body; trying to figure out what had change since he last saw of him. If his smile was a little less sincere than usual, was is it because of the conversation, the people or whatever he had going on in his life? If he was guarding his right, did he get injured on the ice or was it something else?
If his body was more lax, his expression filled with more warmth; did it mean he had found that person, the person who could love him with unrushed time, grand permission and lasting freedom.
If his freckles became more prominent, was it because he had more time to spend under the sun or was it just Ilya's imagination?
He was so very, royally fucked.
His soul had entangled so deeply with Hollander's, Shane's, that he had no way of untying it, the knots had became too sturdy.
Ilya decided he would get whatever he could.
His hand moved to the side of his face, his fingers Aing him lighter than a feather's touch but Shane smiled, melt into it.
God, why did he have to look like everything Ilya had ever dreamt of.
As the conversation moved on, Ilya said what he had to but he couldn't bring himself to do what he was set out to do. He didn't remember a time where Shane had looked so disarming. His face so relaxed, his expression so sweet, his already mesmerising brown eyes shining with mirth.
Ilya would love him, if he could, so loud and so bold that no one could ever doubt his feelings nor his intentions. Shane Hollander would be his, and Ilya would belong to him.
As reality came to rear its ugly head back again, Ilya took whatever he could.
He looked at his freckles, tried to count them as best as he could, memorize their placements, the colour. If he could, he would etched them into his eyelids, in case his mind would ever start to fade away like his father's.
He couldn't keep Shane.
Maybe whoever was up in the sky would be so kind to let Ilya keep the memory of his freckles.