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“Tell me about him.” Shane asks suddenly. They are lying on the couch, Shane on top of Ilya, his leg tightening around Ilya’s hips. Their hands roam slowly over each other’s bodies, slipping under T-shirts, tracing warm skin wherever they can reach. They speak to each other in that low, intimate tone people use only in those rare conversations that catch them in the deep hours of hot summer nights before sunrise.
“Whom?”
“Who. It’s who, not *whom,” Shane corrects. Ilya waves his hand vaguely, frowning a little. He still feels embarrassed sometimes when he makes mistakes. Shane corrects him only because he can’t help himself, bad grammar always bugs him. And maybe because he likes to annoy Ilya a little, get on his nerves. Just a matter of habit.
“Tell me about that man, your coach’s son.”
“Oh. His name is Sasha,” Ilya says after a pause. Shane realizes he doesn’t like to hear it. He instantly regrets asking. When this man was just some random guy far away on another continent, everything was so much easier. He wasn’t even real, he hadn’t had a name.
“What you want to know?”
“Everything.” It’s a lie, actually. Shane doesn’t want to know everything; he wants to know only one thing. He wants to scream from the top of his lungs: did you love him? Was he your first love? Because you are mine. You are my first love. I’ve never loved anyone before you, not a single soul. I was made for you, my body was made for your touches, your kisses, your loving words. I was waiting for you my whole life. Were you waiting for me?
Ilya looks at his boyfriend, eyebrows raised, a little irritated. Shane needs some time to realize he is waiting for a push. He always does. He can’t just start talking, just open up. He needs to be guided, needs to hear directed questions. So Shane clears his throat and asks nervously, like he’s scared of any answer. He knows there are no good answers to questions like that.
“How did it start?” Ilya looks at the ceiling absently, trying to decide whether he wants this conversation to go on or if he still can back out until it’s too late.
“We were teenagers. Fifteen, maybe around sixteen,” he starts after taking a deep breath. “I mean, I knew him since we were kids. Our families were close. We would spend every summer together at the dacha.” He pauses, seeing Shane’s confusion. “It’s like… like here, a cottage. We call it dacha.” Shane nods, showing that he gets it, and Ilya goes on. “Was nice. Fun. Felt natural. We spent so much time together. The first kiss felt just like another step we should have taken.”
“Weren’t you scared? When you realized… that you are… you know…” Shane trails off, still struggling to say it out loud, when you realized you might be into men.
“I actually wasn’t. Maybe because I wasn’t alone in it.” He looks at Shane with eyes that say I get you, I know you were scared, and I know why. “Growing up in such a homophobic environment, hearing all these terrible words. I don’t want to repeat them, but you know what I mean.”
“Oh, I know, believe me.” Shane tries to sound calm, but there’s tension in his voice, even anger. How many times he heard those insults in the locker room, on the rink. It wasn’t helpful for his self-acceptance at all.
“Yes. Right.” Ilya nods. “So I wasn’t scared because I probably knew who I am since I was a kid. My first real crush was on a girl. She was a figure skater. I liked her a lot. But we were kids — I was rude with her, didn’t know how to show what I felt.”
“Sounds a lot like you.”
“Shut up, Hollander,” Ilya says, slightly irritated, though a small smile appears at the corner of his mouth. “And with him, with Sasha..", Shane wants to yell at Ilya to stop saying his name, but he’s too nosy, too curious right now. He needs more information, more details, so he keeps it to himself, biting his lip impatiently. “We were growing up together. Had a lot in common. Except, he could do whatever he wanted, and I couldn’t. I was jealous probably, I wanted that too. I wanted to play in the school theater. Take piano classes. Draw. Whatever. But I had to play this stupid game because my dad brought me to this stupid rink just to see what would come out of it. Turned out I was good. Dad was proud.” He exhales heavily. “Not really proud, just less angry, less disappointed.”
He turns away, like he always does when tears start forming in his eyes. Shane knows he shouldn’t push further, but he also wants to listen, to understand. This is one of those rare moments when Ilya talks about his past, and God, how much Shane wants to know all of it.
“I’m sorry you felt that way,” he whispers, covering Ilya’s hand with his own.
“Never mind,” Ilya says, his voice raspy; he swallows loudly, then continues. “I felt… joy looking at him, living this life I would never have. I liked it. He was wild, fearless, maybe a little crazy.” Ilya chuckles darkly. “My coach — his father — would let him do whatever he wanted, but he was still harsh on him. And on everyone on the team. On me especially. Because I was promising. I had a future.”
Ilya stops himself, his eyes drifting somewhere past Shane as if weighing whether it’s worth going on, whether he should say the really hard things, the things that hurt the most, that shaped him into who he is now. He hesitates, his jaw tightening.
He thinks: what if Shane will see him, for real? What if he finds out that Ilya is… weak? Broken. Scared.
Always scared of everything. Scared of walking through dark alleys. Scared of strange, unknown noises — even scared of some fucking loon, or whatever that bird is. What if Shane finds out that during practice, Ilya still flinches every time his coach leans too close and raises his hands while gesticulating? Would he look at him differently?
“What does it mean that he was harsh on you?” Shane forces himself to speak again, concern heavy in his voice. He feels it in his gut — this isn’t what he wants to know, but he has to know.
“I mean…” Ilya clears his throat. He reminds himself they made a promise to be honest with each other. To say what’s really on their minds. He feels it’s now or never — he either opens up now or carries this burden alone forever. “He could… hit us. All of us. Slap us across the face. In front of everyone. Me especially."
Shane covers his mouth in disbelief, his eyes filling with tears. He freezes, looking at Ilya with existential fear in his eyes. He wants to embrace his boyfriend, to hug him so tightly it would hurt — to hold Ilya in his arms and never let go. But he stays silent, studying Rozanov’s face, trying to comprehend how someone so cocky, fearless could have gone through something like that and still be so.. strong, brave. He would’ve never guessed.
“I had no room for mistakes. I had to be the best. If we lost, it was my problem. After every loss, he would summon me to the stadium, no matter if it was freezing cold or unbearably hot. He would make me run until I passed out.” Ilya laughs bitterly. There is something almost maniacal in this laughter that makes Shane flinch, though he tries not to show it.
“I mean it, Shane. Until I lost consciousness and fell on the ground. He would say I had no stamina. That I was whiny. That we lost because I was too soft with myself.” A tear falls down his sharp cheekbone. Shane rushes to wipe it away, covering Ilya’s face with his palm, caressing him gently as if he’s afraid to spook him.
“I… I have no words, Roz— Ilya. I can’t believe it,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry, baby.” It slips out of his mouth without a second thought — he didn’t mean to say it. They never call each other that. But in the heat of the moment, it feels just right.
Ilya clings to Shane, moving closer, arching his body so every centimeter of their skin touches. He tightens his hands around Shane’s waist, gripping the fabric of his T-shirt as hard as he can. He is trembling; Shane can hear his barely audible sobs.
“I’m so sorry, my love, I’m so, so sorry,” Shane keeps repeating, kissing Ilya’s face messily. He kisses Rozanov’s cheeks, his eyelids, his forehead, the tip of his nose — every spot he can reach.
He kisses the exposed skin of his collarbone where it peeks out from his T-shirt, then covers his neck with wet kisses. Finally, he kisses his lips — too hard, almost aggressively; it’s an I-am-sorry-I-wasn’t-there-I-wish-I-could-have-protected-you kiss. It’s messy, almost painful, salty with their tears. They kiss until they’re both out of breath.
“I didn’t want you to know,” Ilya says, almost in a whisper. “I thought you would judge me. For… I don’t know. Being weak? For not standing up for myself.”
“What are you talking about?” Shane says, trying desperately not to snap. Anger hits him suddenly. He feels so helpless — he wants to protect that little boy Ilya was years ago. He can’t believe someone could treat a child that way. He never experienced anything even remotely close to this. Practices could be hard, sure; there was pressure, tension, arguments — but no one ever hit him, especially not an adult.
“It wasn’t your fault. You were just a kid, you hear me?” He grips Ilya’s shoulders, shaking him slightly. “Not your fault. It’s a crime, for crying out loud. To do something like that to children is a crime.´ He hears Ilya’s shallow, humorless laugh.
“Yes. In Canada, probably. Not where I’m from. I mean, it is a crime, on paper. In reality, you have no idea how cruel our coaches were. And that girl I told you about, the figure skater… her coach was the worst. She would hit them, humiliate them. She screamed at them so loudly that my… my heart was breaking for them every time. And I never… never stopped that woman. Never tried to protect that girl. Gospodi… I couldn’t even protect myself.”
“Where is she now? Is she safe?” Shane asks, suddenly worried about a girl he didn’t even know existed five minutes ago.
“Safe. Probably. She’s still performing. Won all those Olympic medals. But at what price?” Ilya shakes his head slightly, almost in disbelief. “Enough. I’ve said too much. I don’t think you have any story that could be more terrifying than just another Tuesday from my childhood.” He stops, looking at Shane with concern in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say that. I know it wasn’t easy for you either, being different and all that. I just… I want you to know, I get you. And I know you get me.”
He kisses Shane softly and guides his head so it rests calmly on Ilya’s broad chest. It feels so safe, feels like peace. Shane doesn’t say anything. He realizes they will never be able to understand each other completely — there will always be a language barrier, different backgrounds, cultures so distant from one another. But there will always be their bodies, moving next to each other, speaking their own silent language they’ve developed over the years. For a moment, they just lie there in complete silence, breathing in and out in the same steady rhythm.
“Just one last question,” Shane whispers, hiding in the curve of Ilya’s neck. “Did you love him?” This time Ilya doesn’t ask who(m)
He just states simply, “I did not.”
Shane feels a rush of relief, a jolt of pleasure moving through his whole body. He wants to melt into Ilya’s skin, to become a part of him, to be one with him.
“Wow. That was fast,” he says, nonchalant, jokingly. But it’s only an act — in reality, everything inside him feels like a turmoil, his heart is racing, his cheeks are flushing with heat. It feels amazing, feels like being high, knowing that Ilya didn’t even hesitate, didn’t have a second thought. Shane thinks that dialogue will be engraved forever in his memory. He thinks he will replay it in his head on any bad day: “Did you love him? No, I did not.” Feels like heaven.
He. Did. Not.
“I thought I did, maybe, when I was young,” Ilya continues quietly. “Then I realized it wasn’t love. It was fear. Desperation. Rebellion. Co… co-dependence. That thing. Not love. Once… never mind.” He finishes abruptly, moving his body slightly under Shane’s so they can be even closer, if that’s still possible.
“No, tell me. I want to know,” Shane pleads, cupping Ilya’s jaw with his hand and nuzzling softly into his cheek.
And oh boy, he means it; for years he was obsessed with this man, digging for every piece of information he could find to understand him just a little bit more, yet he never had full access to what’s going on in Ilya’s head. And this night, it just feels perfect to find out more, to get all the missing pieces.
“It’s embarrassing,” Ilya hums to himself, but Shane can tell he wants to share; he wants to let Shane in. His voice sounds like it did a few days ago, when he told Shane about his mother. The pauses between his sentences are long, exhausting, but then precious memories, painful, heartbreaking memories follow. Shane freezes, realizes he even stops breathing for a moment, tensing with anticipation.
“You know how it all stopped?” Ilya says, finally. He never told this story to anyone; years passed, and he still felt humiliated. “He started doing drugs. Okay, not just him — maybe me too. Occasionally, not often. I realized quickly it was affecting my playing and all that. And I knew, I always knew, hockey was my only way out. I wanted to leave Russia, my coach, all that was left from my family after mom died.” He pauses again, breathing shakily.
Shane’s eyes are widened, his temples are pulsing. Drugs, huh? he thinks to himself. His first instinct is to start judging immediately, yet he stops himself. He knows Ilya doesn’t have a perfect, flawless past with no skeletons buried there; still, Shane accepts him — all the trauma he carries is part of who he is, who Shane fell in love with.
“I stopped using quite fast. I knew I had to. But Sasha —” again that stupid name, Shane thinks, but tries to brush away the thought — “he kept doing it. He changed a lot. I was trying to save him, influence him somehow. Nothing worked. And then… his dad found out. He cut him off, took all his credit cards and stuff.” Ilya chuckles; this time it’s not maniacal or dark — nostalgic, maybe. “God, these rich kids,” he mumbles. Shane wonders for a second if it was a jab at him, but he’s sure it was not.
“So, one day, right before I found out I was going to America, he had a really bad withdrawal. He was staying at our house since his dad kicked him out, and my dad was out of town for a month or so.” Pause again. Shane feels a shiver down his spine. He can sense it in the air — something is coming next, something maybe close to “I found my mom’s dead body when I was twelve”.
“I left for a game, took off my mom’s crucifix, I was always afraid to lose it on the ice.” Ilya touches the chain on his neck for emphasis. “I put it in the drawer in my room. When I came back, it wasn’t there.”
“Nooo. Just… no,” Shane yelps unexpectedly, even for himself.
“Yes. Yes, Shane. I was looking for it everywhere, started to think I lost it or something, tried to convince myself he couldn’t do that.” He smiles to himself suddenly, like he’s smiling at that soft, naïve version of himself that ceased to exist after all that he went through. “Turned out, he brought it to this place… how do you call it? Where you bring stuff, and they give you money, and then you can buy it back with a fee or something.”
“Pawnshop?” Shane offers hesitantly, not quite believing he’s even saying this word; he has a strong feeling he’s never used it in a sentence before. There just wasn’t any occasion for it. Until today.
“Yeah, right, that thing. Svetlana made him confess, and she went to that place to buy my chain back. God bless her soul.” Rozanov has tears in his eyes again, and Shane doesn’t even feel the familiar hit of jealousy in his gut that he usually notices hearing that name. “He swore he was going to pay his debt and bring it back to me eventually, but it didn’t matter. For me, that was it. So this is how it stopped. And how I learned my lesson: don’t take this chain off and don’t trust anyone.” He exhales heavily and looks away, fighting back tears. Shane feels something tighten in his throat, making him feel like he’s going to choke. He thinks he can’t breathe.
“Don’t say that, Ilya,” he forces himself to say, voice cracked. “You can trust me. Always. Since day one, you could trust me.”
“I know, Hollander. I know.” Ilya whispers, kissing Shane softly; it’s a chaste kiss, an innocent one, a grateful one. “Before you… I’ve never been with someone I knew would never hurt me… on purpose.”
Shane shuts his eyes, brings his hand to his throat, pinching the tender skin unconsciously. It’s getting hard to breathe. He can’t tell — is he freaking out, or is this just how the highest level of love feels?
Something heavy falls on his shoulders; someone could say it’s a burden, but it resembles more the weighted blanket his mom bought him when he started having sleeping problems. It’s heavy, for sure, but somehow it makes you relax.
It’s a weight of responsibility, a weight of a promise: “I will never hurt you on purpose.” It’s a lot, it’s scary, but oh god, it feels so good. Shane’s body is trembling slightly, craving contact, craving reassurance.
He gets on top of Ilya, straddling him with his muscled hips, leaning closer to him. He’s searching for Rozanov’s mouth, frantically kissing every inch of bare skin that he can reach on his way. The kiss is hot, greedy, suffocating. It makes them both desperate for more closeness. It’s the moment when they’ve spoken too much and return to their non-verbal language, back to their favorite type of conversation — a conversation where they shut the fuck up and let their heated bodies speak for them; let their fingers tangle in each other’s hair, leave red marks on each other’s hips, let their tongues explore the warmth of each other’s mouths, their crotches grinding against each other, chasing every trace of friction.
Ilya props himself against the back of the sofa and freezes for a moment. They are both struck by a flash of sudden memory. They were in exactly the same position back there at Ilya’s house when Shane freaked out.
He moves first; this time he’s not going to run away. He gets rid of Ilya’s briefs that are in his way to that gorgeous, heavy cock, lingers for a second, waits for Ilya to start taking his underwear off too — but the man doesn’t move. He just looks at Shane with eyes full of tears mixed with desire, fear, and a silent plea: don’t break me again. His hand caresses softly Shane’s slim waist. It gives Holander the confidence that he so badly needed. He takes his own cock out and presses himself against Ilya, letting out a moan.
Their movements are uneven, fanatical, desperate; their hands and lips are all over the place, thin fingers stumbling over each other around their hard cocks; saliva, precum, sweat, tears — everything is mixed together. Their teeth clack as they lean in for a kiss at the same time.
Their breath quickens; they whisper fragments of words of love in all the languages they know, they moan and whimper, no longer able to tell which voice belongs to whom — straining to trace each sound back to its owner and losing it again in the blur.
They come almost simultaneously, whispering each other’s names repeatedly, as if trying to prove a point, to remind themselves that this time it will be different.
They lay in silence for a while; the first light is seeping into the room. Usually, this means the end of the most beautiful, sincere, precious conversation between two lovers on a hot summer night. What comes next is slightly anxious dreams, in which they would sometimes wake breathing heavily to make sure their beloved is still there, as close as possible, asleep, not going anywhere
“Wait, Holander,” Ilya says suddenly, making Shane, who had almost drifted off, flinch. “Did you drag me through all of this just to find out if I ever loved someone else?”
“Maybe. Well — when you put it like that…” Shane answers sheepishly.
“You’re such an asshole,” Ilya chuckles, kissing Shane’s temple.
“I just want to know more about you. I want to know everything.” This time it’s actually true.
“No,” Ilya says, dead serious. Shane looks at him, confused. “I’ve never loved anyone except you. It’s always you. Only you.”
“Good,” Shane states flatly — sleep gone in an instant — his whole body burning, feeling dizzy with a strange mixture of desire and gratitude.
“Good,” Ilya repeats after him. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask Shane to confirm they are on the same page as these pretentious English speakers say. He already knows it. Probably knew it since day one.