Chapter Text
Moscow, Spring 2016
“Hi, I’m Rose.” She extends her hand straight and firm.
Ilya looks at it for a moment, surprised. He takes it out of instinct and shakes it the way he’s seen Americans do. They are too friendly, these people, this crew. Even in the outskirts of Moscow, they think they need to greet everyone with a big smile.
He doesn’t know this Rose, except that she is an actor in the next scene, getting kidnapped in a black SUV. Ilya is one of the goons who will drag her off. Later he will have a brief hand-to-hand fight with the hero ending in a very tricky death roll off a catwalk. It’s his biggest role yet, after mostly doing doubles work in falls.
“Ilya,” he says, giving her fingers an extra squeeze. “Ilya Rozanov. Nice to meet you.” He’s proud of himself for even remembering that English phrase, drilled into every school child.
She smiles wider and there is a sparkle in her eyes that makes him smile back. Rose is pretty, with shiny skin and golden brown hair. Dimples. She is not gorgeous, like the magazine photo of Amanda Siegfried circa 2005 that Ilya used to jerk off to regularly as a 14 year old. But Rose is very pretty and very interested in him, if he is interpreting her gaze correctly.
“I watched your last scene…” she says something else that he doesn’t understand, but he hears the word, “amazing,” so he assumes it is a compliment.
“Thank you.” He takes a moment to compose a sentence. “I look forward to your action.”
“Same,” she says, and winks before turning away, and fuck if that isn’t his usual come-on. Woman is stealing his moves.
After their shot together, where he pulled her struggling into the moving vehicle and threw her onto the cushioned seat, they laugh about how her hair whipped him in the eye and how he tossed her like a sack of potatoes.
She asks him about good places to visit and talks about how nice her hotel room is, how pleasantly surprised she was, after all the warnings about Russia.
“You have big bed?” Ilya asks with just a little smirk.
“Big enough,” Rose returns. “But I get a little lonely some nights, so far from home.”
“Lonely? So sad.” They are grinning at each other now. He likes how direct she is, and decides to return the favor. “What is your room number?”
---
Her call time is early the next morning, so he only has time to fuck her twice before they settle in to sleep. Rose has a great body, a perfect ass, smooth and plump as a dumpling. He can tell by the way she looks at him that she expects a tough, powerful workman who will pick her up and do her against the wall, or hold her down and rail her good. He tries to fulfill these expectations and last as long as possible.
Later, she tells him, giggling, that he is a “fucking Russian love machine.” He understands enough to be flattered, and tries to maintain his reputation by eating her out with a ferocious energy before she leaves for set. Which is a little frustrating because then he has to beat off in the shower before he can leave, while she is still getting dressed.
Despite the seeming success of their encounter, Ilya is still a little surprised when Rose finds him later and asks him out for drinks. The crew is wrapping up the shoot at the warehouse and will be heading to a studio location. Ilya’s few scenes are all done, but he might get a call if they need another double for the last fights.
“Surprise me,” Rose tells him. But Ilya doesn’t know any nice places that a pretty American girl would like, so he just looks up reviews on his phone and takes her to a mid-range establishment where they try different cocktails and talk about the film.
“Have you ever thought of auditioning for speaking roles?” Rose asks him.
Ilya tries to translate. Thought is past tense of think. He doesn’t know what auditioning means but he can figure out speaking roles. “Think of speaking?”
“Do you want to do more acting with lines?” Rose clarifies. “Talking roles, not just action roles.”
“Da, yes, of course.”
“With your looks, your stunt skills, and your charisma, you could really go places. Be successful, I mean.”
“Yes,” Ilya agrees.
Rose laughs at that. Her earrings, shaped like strings of tiny golden bells, shimmer and shake. “I love your confidence.”
Ilya smiles and tries to remember what that word means. “I need to learn more English.”
“I’ll help.” She winks again. “After we film at the Kremlin, I have a day off in the city. We should meet up and you can show me around. My friend Shane is coming to visit and we’d love a local guide.”
“She is sexy girl like you?” Ilya tilts his head.
“No, Shane is a guy.” Rose turns and signals for another drink. “But yeah, he is hot.”
“Your friend is man?” Maybe things are different in America. But then, Ilya probably considers Sveta to be his best friend, in a way, even though they fuck. Does Rose fuck her friend?
“We used to date,” Rose admits, sliding another glass his way. “But it didn’t work out. So we decided to be friends. He’s really great. I think you’ll like him.”
“Why didn’t work out? He is with someone?” The main reason Sveta and Ilya aren’t exclusive is the fact that neither of them wants to be tied down. They like their freedom and they like sleeping with other people. And Sveta has been spending more and more time in the states with her mother, so it wouldn't work out anyway.
“No.” Rose shrugs. “Actually, I’ve never seen him getting with anyone. I think he just isn’t that interested in romance or sex. Some people are like that.”
“Boring,” Ilya trills. He catches her hand and plays with her fingers, stroking her wrist. “I can see that is problem for you, my little one.”
“Hey,” Rose pretends to pout. “Are you calling me a slut?”
“Is not bad thing to enjoy,” Ilya says. He lifts her hand to his mouth and kisses her thumb. It is damp and cool from holding her drink. Her finger nails are perfect pink ovals. Her lips part and her shoulders rise with a quick breath. They do not stay long after that.
---
As it turns out, Shane Hollander is not great.
When they are introduced, he nods at Ilya and shakes his hand and barely looks at Ilya after that. Rose doesn’t seem to notice. She takes Ilya’s arm and walks with him as he brings them to the metro and shows them around Red Square. She oohs at grand architecture, the colors and curves of St. Basil's Cathedral. Shane trails behind, a green stocking cap crammed over his head, dark hair peeking out over dark eyes. When the three of them take pictures together, he musters up a flat smile that makes Ilya want to snort.
But when they all sit down for coffee and Ilya comes back from the restroom, he sees Rose and Shane talking and laughing together. The light in their eyes when they look at each other…they definitely look like a couple, American tourists here on a holiday, totally in love. Ilya frowns. Is this man his rival for Rose’s attention? How could anyone not want to have sex with Rose?
Ilya goes back to the table, noting the wariness in Shane’s expression as he approaches.
“Shane, you are actor too?” He doesn’t look like one. Too stiff and not particularly attractive.
“No,” Shane looks down at his coffee instead of at Ilya. “I used to play hockey. I coach and consult now.”
“Shane works on a hockey show in Canada,” Rose supplies. “He was in the MLH before, but he won’t brag about it, so I have to. He was the number one draft pick!”
Ilya doesn’t know consult, but he knows MLH and number one. He sits up a little straighter. “Oh yes? What team?”
“Boston,” Shane says. “Three years, before an injury took me out.” He looks like he might say more, but doesn’t. He takes another gulp of coffee and the steam floats over his eyes.
“I like hockey,” Ilya announces. “I played many years as child. But my mama doesn’t like so many teeth fall out. And break bones.”
“It’s a rough sport,” Rose agrees. “How does she feel about you doing stunts?”
Ilya shrugs. “We fall on soft pads, I tell her. We only pretend to hurt. Is acting. Maybe little bruise, not full hit." He demonstrates a pulled punch on his own shoulder, feigning the impact. "I like danger, she knows. Small me always play fighting and jumping off things.”
Rose giggles. “Sounds like all little boys, actually.”
“And girls,” Shane says, “Tyler’s girls anyway.” And then he and Rose have a whole conversation about some family and how they are doing, which Ilya can’t follow much of and soon gets bored of trying to translate.
He used to watch MLH hockey highlights as a teen, but doesn’t remember any Shane Hollander and doesn’t recognize his face. Of course, Ilya was always more interested in the Russian players and how they were doing. He had a fantasy of himself there, on the screen, winning cups and piling up glory. Kid dreams. He might as well dream of becoming a movie star.
“Ilya, do you know any good clubs?” Rose says, bringing him back to the conversation.
“Club for dancing?”
Shane makes a face. “Do we have to?”
“Yes! We’re in Moscow. There are so many hot Russians.” She points to Ilya. “Case in point. You should find someone to make out with. Or at least dance with me!”
Ilya has a sneaking suspicion that Shane will be miserable in a flashy Russian disco, and he is sadistically ready to see that.
But it’s a weekday night, and few establishments are open. The one they do visit is mostly empty. They have a few drinks and try to talk over the thumping music. Shane without his stocking cap looks like a high schooler with spiky hair. Rose reaches over and tries to smooth it down for him, but the static electricity makes it stand up again and again, much to her delight. Shane endures the evening in relative silence, drinking very slowly and staring off into the distance.
They end up at another place with pool tables and dart boards. Rose is tipsy enough to start a mini tournament with a few locals. The entire time, Shane stares at the dart board with the intensity of a man avenging his murdered family. The snap of his wrist sends darts like heat-seeking missiles with terrifying accuracy.
Oh, he is showing off for Rose. Ilya cannot let it go. He takes off his jacket and measures the distance. He’ll split Hollander’s darts in half if he has to. The room goes quiet, then erupts in cheers as they take turns silently sniping the board. Ilya curses under his breath in Russian when he can’t quite match Shane’s score.
“Billiards,” he tells Hollander. “We play.”
“Uh oh.” Rose claps Shane’s shoulder. “I think we might have found someone even more competitive than you.”
Ilya isn’t competitive, he’s just used to being good at most things he tries. He wants to be good--the best, even. His father said, if he wasn’t so lazy, he could be a star in any field. But his father is dead, so fuck him.
“Look out, Hollander. I show you how it’s done.”
And maybe Ilya has had a few too many drinks to demonstrate his best use of hand-eye coordination, or at least that’s the excuse he will give for how handily Shane dominates the game. It’s definitely the excuse he will use for how hot his face feels when Shane sinks a tricky shot and looks across the green felt of the table to smirk at Ilya. That triumphant little smile, those dark, playful eyes… Maybe not such a bland bastard after all.
He grins back at Shane without thinking, pulse picking up.
Shane immediately turns away and goes to Rose. He hands her the pool queue. “You should play a round. I’m going to get another drink.” He hasn’t even finished his first one. And he spends the rest of the night avoiding coming anywhere near Ilya.
---
“Can you stay another night?” Rose asks, when they are back in her hotel room, having left Shane at his own room down the hall.
Ilya nods. “I do not have job tomorrow. I will go back to agency and find work.”
“Can I pay you to be a guide for another day?” Rose takes off her coat and hangs it in the boxy wardrobe. “I have to go to the studio for a reshoot and I feel bad leaving Shane by himself. I know he wants to see more sights. I think he has a list.”
Ilya frowns. “Is this good? He does not like me. He will not look at my eyes.”
“He has social anxiety,” Rose explains. She unwinds her scarf slowly. “I think he may be on the spectrum.”
Ilya doesn’t know what any of those words mean. Shane has some kind of disease?
“He’s actually very sweet once you get to know him.”
Maybe if you are a pretty girl, Ilya thinks. Not the current fuckbuddy of his ex-girlfriend.
But he is curious about this strange pairing: this bubbly, funny woman with an ice sculpture of a man. “How did you meet?”
Rose looks a little wistful, still folding and unfolding the scarf in her hands. “I watched his team play in Detroit. I was there to root for the hometown boys, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Shane. He had just turned twenty-one and he was already making these incredible plays. It took my breath away. Then I saw him in an interview after and he was so cute and polite and handsome. I had a friend who knew the Boston media manager and I got an invitation to an event with the team. I was so excited to meet him, I didn’t even say my name for the first ten minutes I was talking to him. I just babbled on and on. But he had seen some of my movies and he wanted to talk to me.”
Ilya sits on the bed to untie his boots. “How long did you date?” How long did it take for her to figure out Hollander couldn’t get it up?
“Just a few months. It seemed like a lot longer. It really felt like we’d known each other for years. You know when you meet someone and you just click? I really thought he might be the one. We could hang out and talk for hours and never get bored.” She loops the scarf over the hanger with her coat, gently stroking the knitted braiding. “But I guess we were just meant to be best friends. Like, platonic soulmates.”
“Okay,” Ilya says. What else is there to say? There is a prickling feeling in the back of his head. He wonders if he is jealous, or just confused. He doesn’t feel angry. He puts his boots at the foot of the bed and stretches out his toes.
Rose crosses the space between them and sits next to him, a shifting of weight. “The thing is… two days after we broke up, he got hurt in that game, checked so hard his helmet came off. He was in a coma for thirty hours. Traumatic brain injury. He couldn’t speak complete sentences. He had to learn to walk and talk again. Sixteen months of recovery and physical therapy.” She’s blinking as she looks at the faded gray-blue rug under their feet. “It was a nightmare. But he’s so strong.”
It’s a lot to digest and Ilya can’t understand all of it, but he gets the gist. Funny, Hollander looks fine now. No visible scarring. But maybe that’s why he’s so weird. His brain got knocked around.
“And the worst part is…” Rose takes a deep breath. “I still wonder if the break up distracted him somehow, like it’s my fault. When we talked, he was kind of upset at first, but I thought he understood. We agreed to be friends. He seemed okay. But what if he wasn’t?”
Naturally, Ilya wraps his arms around Rose. He can’t really respond to that question, but he knows she needs comfort.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” Rose mumbles into his shoulder. “I barely know you.”
“You need to say things,” Ilya reassures her. “You cannot hold them inside. It’s okay.” Probably he and Rose are just friends with benefits, but they are still friends. He wants her to be okay.
---
That night, as Rose sleeps, Ilya gets up, sits in the armchair, does what he should have done already: searching up Rose Landry and Shane Hollander on his phone. Rose, it turns out, has a long career in film and television, starting when she was a child. Some of her work has been well-reviewed by critics, but she’s never had a major role in a big hit. She’s a C-tier actor, maybe B-tier if you are generous. He finds some interviews with her, but they are all in English and the computer translation is not very good.
Shane Hollander is the bigger star, or was three years ago. Ilya had seen him in video clips then, but the Russian commentators pronounced his name OH-len-dar, which was confusing. In the videos, looks very small and young on the ice, with a tight mouth and stringy black hair stuck to his forehead. But the way he plays… Ilya watches clip after clip, restarts some to watch the impossible goals again, stares at the clean lines of his passes, his beautiful edges, the snap of his stick as he shoots the puck like an assassin. Hours pass. Ilya’s eyes burn but he doesn’t feel tired. He wants to lace up his skates again and chase after Hollander, until his lungs hurt, until he catches him and makes him look back.
Okay, Ilya misses hockey. Maybe Hollander does too. What must it be like to be on top of the world and lose everything? Fuck.
There are a few sites with pictures of Shane and Rose together when they were dating, but neither gave a comment to the press, as far as Ilya can tell.
He puts his phone away and gets back in bed with Rose. She murmurs a little and curls toward him. Ilya touches her smooth hair and the slope of her shoulder. He closes his eyes and tries to relax, but his feet are twitching. Behind his eyes, he sees the white scar-like tracks of skates cutting hard ice.
---
When Ilya shows up at Shane’s door that morning after Rose leaves, he doesn’t expect a warm welcome. But the look on Shane’s face when he opens the door is a mixture of surprise and resentment. He’s fully dressed in a gray long-sleeved shirt and expensive-looking track pants. There's a blue parka flung over his arm.
“Good morning!” Ilya chirps, darkly pleased to be a thorn in Hollander’s side.
“Morning,” Shane mutters. “Thank you, but I don’t need a guide.”
“I come in?” Ilya says pointedly, feigning innocence.
Grudgingly, Shane opens the door and Ilya strides in. The room is spotless without any accessories or clothing draping the surfaces, unlike Rose’s. His bed looks so pristine, Ilya wonders if he even slept in it. Even the suitcase is closed and zipped as though he’d just arrived. Maybe Shane is a vampire.
“I really don’t need you,” Shane says again. He picks up a book from the little desk and waves it at Ilya: a Lonely Planet guide with a fan of colored page markers protruding from the edges. Because, of course Shane Hollander has bookmarked every key piece of detail and probably carefully annotated all the margins as well.
“Oh nice,” Ilya says pretending to be pleased. “You have thing to read. Good for long metro ride.”
“I can handle it on my own.”
“Yes,” Ilya agrees. He nods toward the door. “Shall we go?” And he leads a grumbling, irritated foreigner out of the hotel and into the cool spring air.
The ten minute walk from the hotel to the nearest metro station passes mostly in silence. Shane only speaks to ask Ilya about an ornate building where he stops to take a photo with his phone (just another orthodox church). Their first stop is the park of fallen Soviet monuments, sculptures, and statues. Moscow is sometimes nice in this season as the green starts to come back to the trees in the parks. But most days it’s still pretty miserable, with the threat of wet snow or freezing rain at any moment. As they walk down the rolling paths of the park with its boring stone faces, the breeze cuts right through Ilya’s jacket. Shane looks a little warmer in his tourist-grade parka and familiar ugly green stocking cap, but the tip of his nose and the ridges of his cheekbones turn bright red. He keeps his fingers shoved in his pockets and doesn’t protest much when Ilya takes them back to the metro.
In the wide Aviapark shopping mall, Shane is momentarily impressed by the towering column of the aquarium in its central pillar. But he has little interest in the shining rows of luxury shops. So they are back on the metro, going to some stupid museum. It’s not as though Ilya has any insights into the tourist attractions. When he goes out for fun, it’s to drink with friends, or attend a sports event or live show, or bring his mother to the theater or ballet or hold her bag as she shops. He doesn’t know the places in Shane’s guidebook beyond passing crowds of tourists in the summer.
The stupid museum is closed. Shane sighs and Ilya, hungry, buys them both meat pies from the nearby shop--not particularly Russian, but hot--and they sit on a bench in the nearby park and eat them in silence. Steam rises off the hot crust into the chill air. At least here, the towering black locust trees block the wind somewhat.
On the neon-green of the fresh grass, a troupe of four boys and two girls are kicking around a battered football, yelping encouragement and threats at each other. Shane watches them with an almost-smile, relaxed against the back of the bench, folding up the paper wrapper of the pie into a neat square.
“They are so bad,” Ilya scoffs. “No skills.”
Shane makes a face at him. “Come on, they’re children.”
“Oh, so you look like that when child? Slow and stupid?”
“Fuck off,” Shane grumbles. “I was skating laps when I was three.”
Ilya nods, satisfied. “We show them.” He gets up, ignoring Shane’s confused exclamation, and goes to join the kids. They look at him warily, but he does a few tricks with the ball, passing it behind him and bouncing it on his knee, and they are mostly charmed, except for one girl who scowls at him from afar.
“Hollander, come. We make it fair. You with these three, me with others.” Shane snorts, but gets up and joins the game. It takes him a few minutes to warm up, but then they’re playing, really playing, trying not to trip over the kids as they aim for the makeshift goals between the trees. Hollander is not as fast as he looked on the ice, but he still has his reflexes. And he’s nice enough to gently pass to the stupid children, who quickly lose the ball anyway.
Eventually, Ilya gets bored and derails the game by demonstrating a back flip with the ball held between his shoes. The kids are astounded. Howls of delight feed his ego. He looks at Hollander and drinks up his surprise. “What? So simple.” But of course he has to spend the next fifteen minutes showing off different stunt moves, and “teaching” the kids how to do them.
Rain starts to fall from the encroaching gray clouds--little drips, then faster patter against Ilya’s hair and scalp. The children scatter to the winds, only remembering to snatch up their ball at the last minute. Ilya and Shane dash down the path together, but by the time they reach the nearest building on the street, they’re both soaked through. The wind feels like it’s turning Ilya’s clothes into ice.
Still breathing hard from the run, Shane starts to snicker, as he looks at Ilya.
“What is funny?” Ilya asks, starting to shiver.
“You look like a drowned poodle,” Shane says, grinning, gesturing at Ilya’s hair, presumably.
Ilya knows this is some kind of insult, but he struggles to return it. “Oh? You look like wet…fish.”
“A wet fish?” Shane repeats, snorting with laughter. His eyes crinkle up and he drops his head, laughing and laughing.
“Idiot,” Ilya grumbles in Russian. He feels a strange kind of thrill, like he wants to race up and up a flight of stairs. He must be losing his mind to hypothermia. “We go to my home. Is close.” Closer than the hotel, anyway.
“Your home? Why?”
“Change clothes,” Ilya shakes his arms in his dripping jacket. “Stay alive.”
“I can buy clothes,” Shane offers.
Ilya gives him a look and takes off for the nearest metro station.
It’s a cold, miserable trip, but mercifully short. Ilya’s family apartment sits on the fourth floor in one of the older Soviet blocks with ornate residences for the former party officials. His grandparents owned it, passed it on to Ilya’s father, and now it is just Ilya and his mother there, at least when Ilya is not out on different locations or crashing with friends to be closer to the studio.
Thankfully, his mother is out at the moment, and Ilya is saved from the lengthy explanations. He leads Shane into his room and hastily pulls sweaters and pants out of his bureau.
“This fit you, I think.” He dumps a change of clothes into Shane’s hands, and without waiting for Shane to answer, Ilya strips off his jacket and shirt. He really wants to take a hot shower, but he doesn’t want to leave Shane alone to wander around the apartment. Instead, he grabs his towel off the hook on the back of his door and scrubs his upper body dry.
When Ilya looks back, Shane is just standing there, holding the clothes, looking, then quickly looking away. “Um, should I change…?”
Ilya huffs a breath. “Do what you want.” He peels off his pants and underwear, dries himself off, and starts to yank on dry clothes. He can hear the wet rustling of Hollander undressing and can’t help but glance back, curious.
Hollander’s back is to him, broad shoulders and muscular arms, a slick shine to his skin. His hair sticks to his cheek and the back of his neck. He loosens the drawstring on his pants, hesitates, and looks over his shoulder at Ilya, still standing there in his underwear. They stare at each other for a split second and then turn their heads away. Ilya pulls on his dry slacks and fastens the fly with tingling fingers. He thought of doing a silly strip tease move but lost the idea when he met Shane’s startled gaze. It makes him feel weirdly predatory. But Ilya changes clothes around other men all the time, at the gym, at the studio, wherever. It’s no big deal. He pulls the long-sleeved shirt over his head and runs the towel over his wet hair, giving Shane time to finish dressing.
When he finally turns, Shane is standing there, in Ilya’s jeans and black V-neck sweater, pulling at the ends of his sleeves. His face is pink and his eyes downcast.
“Come,” Ilya commands, going for the door. “I get bag for wet clothes.”
In the kitchen, Shane’s clothes, his little backpack, and half-empty water bottle all go into a plastic shopping bag. Frowning, Shane flips through the warped pages of his ill-fated guidebook as though that will dry it out. Ilya tries not to scoff.
It's then that he hears the click of the apartment opening and his mother’s voice calling his name.
“Mama,” Ilya goes to greet her in Russian. “Did you go out without me?”
“I had an eye appointment.” She stands there just inside the door, looking between Ilya and Shane, who is peeking out of the kitchen clutching the bag with his belongings. Ilya wonders what Shane thinks of her: a slender fair-haired woman in an old-fashioned blue skirt suit with ruffled hems. Her sense of style is firmly rooted in 1963, which Ilya likes to tease her about. But she always looks strikingly modern even still.
“This is Hollander, an American,” he tells her, not really sure how to make the introduction. “I’m showing him around the city. He’s an actor from the set I’m working.” It’s easier than trying to explain Rose and her unhealthy attachment to her ex. Actually, he doesn’t really know what Hollander does. “We got caught in the rain and came back to change.”
Shane approaches uncertainly and Ilya’s mother holds out a hand with equal trepidation. She doesn’t converse with many foreigners. “Nice to meet you. I am Irina.” Her stilted English is even worse than Ilya’s.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Shane.” He shakes her hand gently. “I’m sorry to intrude on your home like this.”
“He is apologizing,” Ilya tells his mother in Russian. “So boring.”
“Ilyusha, be good. Tell him he is welcome.” She gestures toward the kitchen. "There is cake in the icebox and biscuits in the pantry. I’ll make tea. Or maybe he wants coffee. Ask him.”
“Mama,” Ilya groans. “We have to go.”
“Where do you have to go?” she asks tartly. “There is always time for tea when we have a guest.”
Ilya suppresses the urge to roll his eyes and nods his head toward the dining room. He switches to English for Shane. “You will stay. Have cake. You like tea or coffee?”
It’s one of the strangest visits Ilya has ever facilitated, sitting at a table with lemon sponge cake and milky coffee, trying to translate his mother’s flurries of conversation with an overly polite and confused Shane Hollander. She wants to know all about his impressions of Moscow and how it compares to American cities.
“I’m Canadian,” Shane tells Ilya. He’s sitting at the table with Mama’s overly familiar cat, Mati, in his lap as he pokes at the corner of the cake with his fork.
“But you go to American cities?”
“Well, yes.”
Ilya shrugs. “So?”
Shane gives him an irritated look, but eventually tells Ilya’s mother something about palm trees and spicy food in Los Angeles.
When it’s finally time to go, Shane deposits the cat carefully on the carpet and brushes off his sweater. “Bol'shoye spasibo,” he thanks Ilya’s mother. “Do svidaniya.” His pronunciation is clumsy but understandable. And he gives a little bow, arms against his sides.
Ilya’s mother beams. “Thank you for visiting!” She turns to Ilya, who is trying to hold in his laughter. “Such a good boy, and very handsome. I’m glad you made an American friend.”
“Yes,” Ilya agrees. He kisses his mother’s cheek in farewell. It’s true Shane does look better like this, in Ilya’s sweater with his hair slicked back from the rain, since he is usually obscured under loose athletic clothes and a messy fringe.
They take the stairs down, zipping up their coats.
“You can speak Russian, ah?” Ilya teases Shane. “You hide it from me.”
“No, I just try to learn how to say hello, goodbye, please, and thank you in the language of every country I visit,” Shane explains. “It doesn’t take much effort to be polite.”
Ilya is tickled by the idea of good boy Shane Hollander carefully pronouncing simple greetings to please every barista and taxi driver in his vicinity. “So very polite. Did you bow to my mother, Hollander?”
Shane ducked his head. “I mean, I bow to my mom’s family when we visit Japan. It’s just automatic. I wasn’t thinking.”
Ilya bumps Shane’s shoulder playfully. “You are so nice to Mama, she does not know what a rude boy you are to me”
“She’s nice to me,” Shane counters.
“When am I not nice?” Ilya smirks at him and Shane makes a scoffing sound.
Outside, the rain has stopped and the city is shining in the sun.
“Is it just you and your mom?” Shane asks, cautious. “Your father…”
“Dead,” Ilya supplies, without hesitation. “Heart attack. Ten years.” Actually, more like twleve now.
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
Ilya sniffs. “No problem.” It was the best thing to happen to his family. It forced Alexei to stop partying and step up. It brought their mother out of the deep shadows. She started going out to see her friends again, and got a job working part time at a daycare. Yes, she still cries quietly some days, but she doesn’t hide it from Ilya anymore. She lets him hold her and comfort her.
After Ilya’s first concussion, his mother asked him to quit hockey so he started trying other things: parkour, gymnastics, martial arts, and wrestling. On a lark with some friends, he started recording fake fight club videos that gained traction on social media and he eventually signed with a talent agency and got real stage combat training. Unfortunately, stunt work didn’t supply steady employment, so Ilya couldn’t give his mother the life she deserved, but with their combined pay and his father’s moderate savings, they could get by. Alexei didn’t really provide much, since he’d started his own family, but Ilya couldn’t begrudge him that. He just ignored his older brother most days
“I’ll get your clothes back to you,” Shane says, after a long silence. They are walking under a web of hanging lights strung between lamp posts on the sidewalk. Countless little bulbs shimmer with lingering rain water.
“Sure.”
“We’re leaving tomorrow night, but I can request that the hotel clean them tonight and hold them there for you, if you don’t mind coming to pick them up. Or I can have them shipped to your house, probably.”
“Hollander, is okay.” In his head, he knew that Rose and Shane were only in Moscow for a short time, but somehow it seems startlingly brief. One more night. “You may keep my clothes, for gift to you. Improve your style.” He gives a sly smile. “When you are lonely, smell my clothes and remember me.”
“Fuck off,” Shane sputters, looking away. “You are such an asshole.”
---
They meet Rose at a seafood restaurant with huge windows looking out on the main street. The curtains are striped blue and white and faded from the sun. Rose has already started on a bottle of wine and she looks up in surprise when they take off their coats.
“Nice sweater, Shane.”
Ilya chuckles and Shane gives him a look. They sit on either side of Rose and pick up the menus.
Rose leans toward Shane. "What did you see today?"
Sitting near her, Shane is a different person: relaxed, friendly. He talks about the statues, the aquarium, and the park and he and Rose quip back and forth with comfortable ease. Ilya can't understand everything they're saying, especially at their rapid pace, but he can feel the warm energy crackling between them. It itches at the back of his throat, wanting to join in, but also wanting to sink back into the cushioned chair and fade into the rhythm of their banter. They know each other. He's the outsider. But they're gone tomorrow anyway. What does it matter?
After dinner, Rose wants to dance, so Ilya takes them to a bar where his friend’s band is performing, rock with folk music, electric violins and big drums. It’s not great, but it’s fun, and he dances with Rose for half an hour while Shane stands by the wall with a drink that he barely touches, looking flustered every time someone tries to talk to him. After a while, Ilya loses track of him as more and more young people fill the dance space.
When Rose goes back to the bar, Ilya steps outside to smoke. He finds Shane there, looking at his phone, but Shane barely gives him a glance when Ilya says, “Hey.”
Ilya huffs to himself and lights his cigarette. He sees two blonde girls in jewel-toned mini dresses also smoking, casting glances at him. They look back at each other and whisper and giggle.
When they turn their heads to him again, he winks boldly, which sends them into another fit of hushed laughter.
Smirking, Ilya looks at Shane, who is standing there glaring at him. Jealous of Ilya’s appeal?
“Where’s Rose?” Shane says.
“Getting a drink.” Ilya takes a drag. “Why are you out here?”
“I needed some air.” He glowers at Ilya’s cigarette like it personally insulted him.
Sighing, Ilya stubs it out. “Fine. We go back now?”
“Oh, you didn’t want to get their phone numbers?” Shane jerks his head toward the smoking blondes.
“No,” Ilya raises an eyebrow. “Did you want them?”
“So, you just flirt with anything that moves.”
Ilya doesn’t know exactly what that means, but he can guess. He shrugs. “Women love me.”
“No shit,” Shane grumbles, and turns to go back inside.
---
Back at the hotel, Rose doesn’t mind that they are both sweaty and Ilya smells like cigarettes. She undresses him slowly, slinky, loose, and sweet. She sucks him briefly before pulling off her knit dress and tugging him to the bed. He covers her with his body and fucks her with deep, deliberate strokes until she gets impatient. It’s easy to find the pace that makes her gasp and tighten around him.
The condom goes in the wastebasket and Ilya flops back on the bed.
“Come with us to Ibiza,” Rose says. Her cheeks are flushed and her hair is tangled.
Ilya cocks his head. “Ibiza? When?”
“Tomorrow evening,” she curls her arm up over the pillow. “If you don’t have work. I’ll pay for the airfare and hotel. My treat.”
When Ilya called into the agency a few hours ago, the only upcoming jobs were assisting at training workshops, shit pay.
“You treat me?” he says. “You buy my body? How many days?”
She snickers. “Three days, two nights. A quick vacation. Then I have to fly back to LA for a little press junket. The indie film I did a year ago is finally coming out. So many fucking edits. It’s going to sink like a rock.”
“It is job,” Ilya says. “Sometimes we make rocks.”
“But the script was so good!” She complains, rolling over. “And the director, I loved her last project. Seemed like she was on roll. But that’s the industry for you.”
“How was reshoot today?”
“Fine. Awful. You know.”
Ilya loves filming fights, trying different angles, finding the best performance. He knows he is good at giving the camera different takes, repeating the moves like a dance, and acting with his entire body. But he hates waiting around, waiting and waiting for his turn to perform. Someday he’ll be in every scene and never have to play games on his phone until the lead shows up.
“How does Hollander think?” Ilya asks.
“About what?”
“Me going to Ibiza with you two.”
Rose presses her lips together in a guilty smile. “He’ll be fine. We had separate rooms booked anyway. You’ll stay in mine.”
“Not just friend trip?”
“It is a friend trip,” she counters. “I’m just bringing along an extra friend. For entertainment.”
Ilya sighs and pretends to look weary. “Ah, beautiful woman pays me to go to beach and make love to her. So terrible, I must do this for airfare.”
“And free drinks,” Rose says, grinning.
---
Sometime in the dark, half asleep, Ilya hears his phone chirp and he reaches for it, stretching out of Rose's embrace. It's Sveta, responding to his idle inquiry.
Ilya: You know some Shane Hollander hockey guy? He played for Boston when you were there.
Sveta: Yes? You would know him too if you ever paid attention.
Ilya: MLH is boring.
Sveta: Hollander was going to be the next superstar. He took us to the playoffs twice in three years.
Sveta: Then he got fucking pulverized by Chicago's goons. A complete tragedy.
Ilya: He's here now. I just took him around the city
Sveta: What?! You actually met THE Shane Hollander?
Ilya: I was his tour guide.
Sveta: Fuck my luck.
Sveta: If I were there, he would not be safe from me.
Ilya: Too bad for him. Should I give him a message from you?
Sveta: Give him a deep kiss from me.
Ilya: I'm fucking his ex-girlfriend. She probably wouldn't take it well.
Sveta: That never stopped you before.