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The house hates him for coming home alone.

It is a silly way to feel. There is, of course, no way the house hates him. It is a house. It is a structure made of brick and wood. Houses cannot feel malice.

Nonetheless, Ilya feels it. It settles around his shoulders, like a heavy winter coat. It presses him into something small and afraid, something that wants to peer around corners, that expects a nameless scary thing to come jumping out of the shadows. He is a rabbit in the jaws of a predator. His heart beats in his ear. The house knows he is not Shane Hollander. Like a petulant toddler, it wants to know where he is, stamping its’ foot and crying out into the night. It wants to know why Ilya would dare enter without Shane Hollander, or without Shane Hollander due to arrive shortly.

The place is dark, shadowed caked over every surface like foundation on a womans’ face. The silence is deafening. Every step Ilya takes echoes like a gunshot, the wooden floor creaking like they're trying to crawl out from under Ilyas' foot.

The place Ilya so loved is gone. He cannot remember ever feeling happiness here. He, perhaps, has never felt happiness at all.

Get it together, Rozanov.

Here are the facts: two hours ago, Ilyas’ boyfriend lay crumpled on the ice. Blood had been pouring from his nose, diluted with clear liquid. Blood had been pouring from his leg. Blood covered Marleys skate. The game had died into horrified silence as it spread out around Shanes’ head, like an angels’ halo. Pike would’ve thrown himself merrily at Marleau any other day, but Pike had thrown himself to the ground instead, skidding across the ice on both knees, hands reaching out. A superstar fall, or whatever they called it. Rockstar? It did not matter. He had jammed both of his hands over Shanes’ severed artery, which had still been pumping red out onto the ice. When it had happened, his leg had kicked out once, twice, thrice with the force of the spray.

Medics had swarmed like ants, saying things about anterial tibial and cerebrospinal fluid leak, which were words Ilya did not know, but he knew the fear on their faces, and knew the way they had sworn, unprofessional, and had known it had been serious. When the medics were ready, they’d had Pike ease his hands out of his gloves, but kept them tight against Shanes' skin, so it looked like a ghostly hockey player was still kneeling beside him.

Ilya had been pushed aside, not-too-gently, helpless, frozen, sliding backwards across the ice. A ref had been following him, arm out to block him from interfering, but in his memories, they’d had no face, just a blur of black and white stripes in the periphery. They could’ve been a fucking zebra, for all Ilya paid attention to anything other than Shanes’ slack face. The sticks, tap-tap-tapping, as he’d had been rolled off the ice.

Here are the facts: Ilya Rozanov, allegedly, played the rest of the game. He has no memory of this. He’s sure they returned to the locker rooms while the Zamboni cleared the blood, and that Ilya spoke to people then, and then they played, but he does not know if it’s true. He blinked, and his eyes were gritty, his key was in the lock, already turning in his hands, the door opening. He does not know if he drove here. He does not know if he got an Uber. He does not know whether they won, or lost, or if hockey even fucking matters anymore. He would burn the cup into molten slag, if it would change the outcome of tonight.

Here are the facts: Six months ago, Ilya and Shane sat on Ilyas’ couch, in Boston, and said, we want to be more, even if it has to be in secret.

Here are the facts: Four months ago, Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander bought new houses. If asked, they would both say it was a complete coincidence. They were not asked, because most people do not browse Zillow for fun in their free time (Shane-) and the real estate of hockey players was of very limited interest to even the most hardcore fan. The houses were very similar- both boasted large windows, with tons of natural light, hardwood floors and lots of wood, black countertops in the kitchen, plush carpet that was not too thick but not too thin, in a dark brown-grey that was “classic, but hid stains”, according to Shane, walk-in closets fit for two, a spacious bathroom with a bath to rival a hot tub. It was all things Shane had many, many opinions on, except the bath- that had been Ilya. It was difficult to find a bathtub big enough to fit two athletes, but not impossible.

If the real estate agent had thought anything of the fact Ilya had gone to viewings with someone else on Facebook Messenger video call, then she’d wisely taken his money and kept her mouth shut.

Here are the facts: in the months since, Ilya has colonized what is allegedly Shanes’ house like a kudzu vine. The moment Shanes’ parents step through the door, they will know Shane does not live alone. There are Adidas sweatpants abandoned on the couch, because last night Shane did not wait for them to get to the bedroom, and this morning Ilya had returned the favour before Shane could tidy them away. Shane does not wear Adidas, because he is fucking sponsored by Reeboks. His mom was the one who clenched the deal. His mom is just as detail oriented as Shane is. If his mom sees Adidas in her sons’ house, she will know.

Here is the most important fact Ilya knows right now: Shane would not want to come out to his parents like this.

Yuna and David Hollander live in Ottawa, and Shane only lives only half an hour from Montreal General Hospital. They will come here, to the spare bedroom that has been always open to their use, after they have seen Shane. Factor in time for getting ready, packing an overnight bag, any traffic, talking to doctors and seeing Shane; they would’ve been at least three hours away, when Shane left the rink on a stretcher. Probably more, but Ilya cannot count on being lucky, not tonight.

There is a voice in his head that says- if he is very, very unlucky, Shanes’ parents will not come to the house at all. Because Shane might be deteriorating, or already bled out, dead, cold in a morgue. Ilya might never see his smile again.

Ilya cannot think these thoughts. Ilya has a job to do.

Ilya has one hour to wipe his existence from his boyfriends’ house.

-

1. The Living Room.

Shane does not like the main lights. He prefers his collection of lamps, which cast the room in a soft glow. His favourite is a behemoth of a thing, a half-circle of metal, curling over the couch, a massive base of marble tucked under the couch. It used to have an elegant glass lampshade, eggshell-like in shape, colour and texture.

It had been beautiful and had broken beautifully in a thousand beautiful shards when Ilya had stood up and smashed his head directly into it. Ilya was taller than Shane, and the lamp had been the perfect height to just skim Shanes’ head. How it had survived long enough for Ilya to fuck it up, Ilya didn’t know, because surely Shane had his team over, many of whom were even taller than Ilya. But then again, Shane did not let people into his space easily.

Shane had cried, when it had happened. Or, rather, he hadn’t, because Shane very rarely cried, but his eyes watered alarmingly and he looked like he was contemplating killing himself and burning the house down, which was the Shane equivalent of breaking into sobs. Ilya thought it was mostly over the lamp, which was Shanes’ child, but also a little bit over the blood that had been running rivers down Ilyas’ face. He’d had to lie to his team about the cuts all over his face, said a jealous boyfriend had smashed a bottle over his head. They all believed it. Classic Rozanov, dumb for pussy.

Now, the lamp had one of those shitty paper lampshades, the ones that cost $5 at Home Depot. Shane was taking buying a new lampshade about as seriously as he took everything else in life, and he would rather suffer a shitty interim shade than choose the wrong one for the rest of the lamps’ life. There was a Pinterest board.

Ilya realises he’s been staring at the white orb, shining in the darkness. He turns on the main light and has to blink against the sudden brightness. Shane is not here to object, but it really is like a miniature sun beamed directly into Ilyas’ retina.

The house bursts into life, and the scary feeling fades, a sigh escaping Ilyas’ lips. It’s okay. It is just their house. It is just their home. There is no evil lurking here.

He lays his suitcase down on its’ side, kneeling down to flip it open on the cowskin rug, which is not the typical black and white but a mottled grey. Everyone else hates the rug- Rose is a squeamish flexitarian, Hayden is a squeamish carnivore. Jackie, his parents, even Svetlana the one time they met; nobody likes it except for Shane, and they tend to dance around it to cross the lounge. Ilya is indifferent to it, and the rug in the Boston house is very boring, a bunch of coloured squares. Still, he pats the cow rug like it is a living animal for Shanes’ sake before he stands up.

The adidas pants are carelessly chucked in, as is the underwear that’s stuffed down the side of the couch, and the socks he fishes out from underneath.

-

Ilya had never gone souvenir shopping before, not really. He got his niece earrings from Claires and wasn’t even sure what a traditional American souvenir would look like. Alexei and Ekaterina and Papa got money, money, endless money from him, but never items chosen with care. That last awful, everlasting-but-too-short visit in fall, he had gone shopping, leaving the corpse lying in the spare room to duck in and out of stalls searching for the perfect things to bring to Shane, like a penguin presenting his chosen mate with the best stones for their nest. He’d read about penguins- they could be gay too. He’d brought Svetlana and Zoya along, and they made a game of it, holding up their chosen trinkets for his scrutiny, but nothing was good enough for his “Jane”. Svetlana had known Jane was a man. Zoya would too, one day. Ilya could only hope his brother was not too gleefully hateful, when he told her Uncle Ilya was a horrible faggot.

Dymkovo toys were, as the name suggested, technically toys, but Ilya had always liked their colours, their clay simplicity, the rough feeling under his thumb, and he’d hoped Shane would prefer them too, better than a matryoshka or a painted box.

”The horse is you” he’d said, presenting it to Shane like a vassal presenting a tithe to a king, bowing over his outstretched hand, “because you ride my dick like a cowboy. And the rooster is me because I have a huge coc-“

Shane had hit him, laughing “shut up, oh my god Ilya”, but he’d caught the horse before it could fall from Ilyas’ hand, cradling it to his chest, and he’d been blushing, so Ilya counted it as a win.

They sat now on Shanes’ bookshelf, pride of place. Ilya took them down, along with his few Russian books that had wriggled their way in between Shanes’ many, many books about hockey.

-

When Shane lied, said he had a meeting, got to go, he thought- fine. This was his answer. He would let Shane- Hollander, it would be Hollander now. He’d only said Shane once, but already it wanted to trip off his tongue again and again and again. He wrestled it down. He would let Hollander slip away, and when they fucked next it would be stilted.

They would fuck again, he knew that. If Hollander had been able to find someone good enough to fuck him who wasn't Ilya Rozanov, then he would've dropped Ilya in a heartbeat, ergo: there was nobody else. It usually stroked his ego to think about how Ilya was the best Shane would ever have, but now it felt cold. Hollander would come crawling back because Ilya was his only good option, and Ilya would let him in because he was weak, and it would be miserable, and he would hate it. Fuck that. Fuck him. If Hollander didn't want him, didn't want to be more, then Ilya wanted to make him fucking say it to his face.

"Liar" he said.

"What?" Said Hollander. Mouth open, eyes open, caught like a rabbit in the trap, except rabbits did not usually look so angry. Maybe a hare. They always looked a bit demented, and Hollander looked a bit demented now.

"Liar. You are liar."

"No I'm fucking not." He said it in one breath, noimfuckingnot. He was lucky Ilya spent so much time listening to him, otherwise it would’ve been unintelligible.

"Yes. You do not forget meeting, ever." Ilya shrugged, like it was easy, like it meant nothing to him. "I am not your jailer, Hollander. If you do not want to stay, you do not have to. But I want you to say it to my face. I want honesty. Say you don't want to stay." say you don't want me.

"You want honesty" said Hollander blankly.

"Yes. Here: I will go first." Fuck. Like ripping off a band-aid, he told himself. A little truth never hurt anybody, except that was a lie, because the truth hurt every day. "I asked you to stay because I want to be more."

"We can't be boyfriends, Rozanov" replied Hollander immediately. Interestingly, he did not say he didn't want to be boyfriends, but Ilya still scoffed.

"If I meant that, I would say that, Hollander." He had said honesty. He did not think he could manage it. The best he could say was- "I know we cannot, is not even an option for us. But I am tired of hotels and having to rush back and having to think about eating before or afterwards. Can we not linger? Eat a meal together, talk? We are almost 25, wham bam thank you ma'am is not cute anymore. I would like to be friendly, if you can’t manage friends."

Hollander frowned, mouth set in an upset little moue. Ilya wanted to gently kiss it off him, cast his thumb over his cheek, which was part of the fucking problem. He was still standing by the door though, which made Ilya- nervous.

He patted the couch, startling Hollander, but he gingerly edged back into the room and sat down on the opposite end. Ilya cursed God, himself, Svetlana and Julie The Interior Designer that his couch was so fucking massive. Next time he'd get a tiny loveseat, so he could force Hollander to sit next to him. If there was still a Hollander to force, next time he bought a couch.

"What happens if I say no?" He said. Ilya shrugged again. Easy, easy, easy. He did not care at all.

"Then we are over, Hollander". He did not know whether he was lying or not. Mostly he wanted to see how Hollander would react, but. He did not think he could continue, if Hollander said no. But he also did not know how to deny him anything, even if the cost was Ilyas' unhappiness.

He waited for Shane to reply, but he did not. He seemed to be going through every single stage of grief simultaneously. Ilya was impressed. He hadn't thought his dick had been that good.

Ilya wanted tea. He was suddenly desperate for something warm to wrap his hands around, something to distract him, something to comfort him, but he was scared Hollander would do a runner the moment he turned his back. Well, maybe Hollander would do a runner anyway, and maybe it did not matter if he did it while Ilya was in this room to witness it.

"Where are you going?" Said Hollander, head shooting up, alarmed, when he got up. Spooked like a horse.

"I am making tea, Hollander" said Ilya, and did not ask if Shane wanted a cup, because if he did then Shane would politely say oh, no thank you, and Ilya could not be bothered with that bullshit. Hollander would be getting a mug of tea whether he wanted it or not. He made proper Russian tea too, black and strong, with jam stirred in, in his two favourite mugs, which were stupid tourist ones, that Svetlana had bought him. One had a Moscow skyline on it, and one had a Moscow, Idaho, skyline on it, because she thought she was funny.

Hollander did not run, was still in the lounge when he came back.

He handed the mug from Idaho off to Hollander. Their hands brushed against one another as he did. The contact sparked like electricity and Ilya tried to be so so normal about it. He sat back down.

Hollander looked at the tea like it might have all the answers. He still looked like he was processing every emotion known to man. God. Ilya did not want to say it, because it wasn't true, not to him, but-

"It is still just hooking up, Hollander. It does not have to be that complicated."

Hollander looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed and watery, like he'd been crying, or like he was trying hard not to cry. Perhaps the latter, although why Ilya making him tea would make him cry, he did not know. Ilya wanted his tears to spill over, so he could lick them off his cheeks. Shanes’ jaw was set.

"What if I want the impossible?" He said, so quietly it was almost a whisper, and hope burst into being in Ilyas' chest.

-

2. The Kitchen.

The mug is larger than your regular mug, squat, with a small handle, shaped like a camping mug. It is red, splashed with white specks. It has a massive red lobster on the front. It used to say BOSTON on the front, but the black letters have long since worn off. It is chipped in two places. It’s Ilyas’ favourite thing in the entire world, bar Shane.

It’s also the ugliest thing Shane has ever seen. He knows this, because when he saw it, Shane said “Ilya, this is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”.

”You see Hayden Pike every day?”

”Shut up about my best friend, Jesus. Do you actually like that thing?”

”Da” said Ilya, “I like it very much. I saw it in the airport, and I thought to myself, Ilyushenka, it is time to forget Shane, this beautiful lobster will be your life partner.”

”Well, I hope you’ll be very happy together. The chips harbour bacteria, you know.”

”Makes me stronger. Is why I can smash you hard into the boards.”

”I don’t- that’s not how it works. How have you not gotten food poisoning yet.”

”Food poisoning isn’t real, Hollander, grow up.”

”Ilya-”

When he flies home, he buys himself a new one from the shop in Boston airport. He leaves his original love at the Montreal house, with his other original love.

It’s since been joined by a mug from the Montreal airport. It’s even more hideous than the lobster mug. It’s tall, and thin, with a handle that’s really too thick for the mug. It is painted to look like a Metros’ jumper. It’s even got 3d details, so the jumper really stands out. Running down the handle, it says CANADIENS de MONTREAL. Despite allegedly being in French, there is no apostrophe on the e in Montreal. It insults everyone.

It’s so, so horrible. Every time Ilya makes tea, he gives the mug to Shane. Every time Shane makes tea, he uses his beautiful ceramic mugs from a local artisan, the jumper mug mysteriously disappears, and Ilya finds it stuffed in the back of the pantry, or in the pot cabinet, or, once, in the fridge. But Shane doesn’t even “accidentally” break it, so Ilya knows he secretly loves it too.

He wraps both mugs in a hand towel, to protect them on the journey back to Boston. The tea jars, containing Ilyas’ Russian tea, and Shanes’ green tea, usually sit neatly and politely on a bamboo tray by the kettle. Ilya climbs onto a chair, and puts the whole tray above the fridge, pushed to the very back so if you’re standing on the ground, you can’t see it. He hopes it’s enough, because if Shanes’ parents find it up there, it’ll raise even more questions.

Ilyas’ Russian cookies, his pryaniki and his korovka, which live in the pantry, go straight into the rubbish. Shane would never buy sweets, Russian or otherwise. So does the jam in the fridge, that’s only used for tea, the full-carb, full-gluten, regular protein bread in the pantry and the real butter to spread on it, all things that Shane would never touch. The pasta can probably stay- Shane uses it for the Pike kids when he babysits. The small carton of milk (bought two days ago specifically for Ilyas’ coffee, because Shane can’t handle dairy and Ilya can’t handle almond milk) goes down the drain.

He takes the rubbish bag out too, ties it up, leaves it by the door to take out when he leaves. He’ll chuck it in the neighbours’ bin. Is it suspicious to have an empty rubbish bin? He considers making some trash but- Shanes’ parents probably won’t even notice. Or hopefully they’ll just be impressed that Shane is so on top of his chores.

Ilyas’ phone buzzes in his pocket, while he’s getting a new bag, and he fumbles it in his urgency to get it out. It bounces on the floor, once, twice, landing by the rubbish can with a clatter. He freezes at the sound, comically posed, like a stupid robber from a movie.

It’s not Shane, obviously, even though Ilya desperately hopes for it to be him. It’s one of the dumb games that Ilya has on his phone, cheerily telling him that it’s “time to train your brain!”. He doesn’t think it’ll keep his brain healthy, not really, but he worries, a lot. He knows Alzheimer’s is not genetically inherited, but there’s also CTE to be aware of. He plans on killing himself if he ever catches his brain slipping down the drain. He’s thought about it a lot- a bullet to the chest like Dave Duerson, so they can study his fucked-up brain post-mortem. There are easier ways, but he’d prefer a violent end to a violent life. But Shane would kill himself if Ilya killed himself, so. He wears his helmet, prays to a God he doesn’t believe in, and does what he can to prevent it. And the games are fun.

He checks his notifications. He’s pleasantly unsurprised to find the Raiders won the game. Apparently, he scored the winning goal. Yippee. There is a video of a man on the ice, who looks everything and nothing like Ilya. There’s very little behind his eyes, just a loud, prolonged scream. There’s nothing about Shane, or rather- a lot about Shane, and nothing about his prognosis. No updates. He puts his phone back into his pocket, and moves on, mugs tucked under his arm until he reaches his suitcase. He nestles them in-between his clothes, just to make sure they’ll be safe.

-

3. The Bedroom.

When Shane suggested buying houses together, Ilya thought of course. Of course real estate is how Shane Hollander expresses his love. It’s not something he’d seen before but now it’s so simple, like his eyes opening for the first time. Shane Hollander loves through houses. There is a property in Montreal, still, that Shane rents out, even though he does not make much money off it and he would be better off selling. They only used it a few times, but it was theirs, wasn’t it? A birds first clumsy attempt at a nest, but it was a place where they could steal time for themselves, in a world where their privacy is limited and precious.

The famous cottage, too, Shanes’ love made manifest, his love for the lake he’d grown up beside, and for his parents ten minutes down the road. Ilya has not seen it yet, which felt strange- he was a different person than he was six months ago, living a different life. And yet, it had still only been six months. He would see it over summer, but in-between they had to face the rest of the playoffs. It's the first and only time in his life that he vaguely hoped they'll both get kicked out early. Only vaguely though. He's sure the cottage will feel all the sweeter with a cup in tow.

”It wouldn’t be much” said Shane, when he brought up the idea, “fuck, I know it isn’t enough. But we’d- we’d choose two houses, together, and furnish them together, and then it doesn’t matter whether we’re in Montreal or Boston, because we’ll be home, right?” and Ilya could do nothing more than tackle him.

”Yes” he said, muffled into Shanes’ shirt, “yes, I want this.”

-

In his head, Ilya thinks of the bed as their marital bed, and feels very lucky that his thoughts are exclusively in Russian, and he does not know the English equivalent. If he ever let the phrase упружеское ложе slip to Shane, then Shane would be none the wiser. Shane, bless his heart and his duolingo streak, is up to phrases like “где супермаркет?”, and Ilyas’ extracurricular lessons are very firmly filthy, and don’t contain semi-formal references to marriage.

It was very embarrassing for very obvious reasons. Nobody in Boston would ever accuse Roz of being a lover boy, and yet a lover boy Ilya longs to be. Whenever he passed a florist, his hands itched to pluck a rose, get it wrapped with paper and string, and present it Shane, watch his lover press his nose into the petals. He picks daisies from the sidewalk, plays he loves me, he loves me not. If he counts the petals beforehand and cheats to make sure he always ends up being loved, then that is Ilyas’ business and Ilyas’ business only. He has not been a child for a very long time, and yet he is childishly delighted in the life he leads, where Shane Hollander sleeps in his bed and kisses him sweetly in the morning.

To let Shane know- to tell Shane that he wanted to marry him, that in Ilyas’ heart they were already married, it would be too much. Ilyas’ heart belongs to Shane, yes, but that does not mean he is ready to show his hand. They have only been together, properly together, six months. Ilya has already learnt his lesson about going too hard and too fast, and he knows now to ease Shane into things as gently as easing a baby into a bassinet of warm water.

Their marital bed is a king. Ilya had argued for a California king, or an Alaska-Texas-Wyoming king, or whatever dumb name the biggest bed possible had. Shane had raised his eyebrows, though and said “Are we sharing this bed with our entire teams? I don’t want to wake up and have to cross the province to find you”, and Ilya had been charmed into a smaller bed.

It has dark green sheets, because neither of them could decide on another colour (most shades of blue, red, yellow or black were all firmly out, and Ilya did not like purple.). The bedsheets were some kind of complicated flannelette, which Ilya did not fully understand, because Shane did not like flannelette, but this one was different, according to him. It was very soft. When the company has discontinued the line, Shane had bought their entire stock of king sheets out, and the linen closet was overflowing.

The sheets are rumpled. Much like the clothing flung across the lounge, Ilya had convinced Shane to leave it unmade this morning. He tidies it now, plumping the pillows and flinging discarded blankets back onto the bed. He retrieves the bottle of lube from the floor, tucks it into the back of the bedside drawer. If Shanes’ parents go snooping and find it, then that’s their own damn fault. His hand hovers over Shanes’ glasses. He wants to take them. If this is it, then he wants something. But Shane is not dead. Shane cannot be dead. He’ll need his glasses. He clenches his fist to stop himself from grabbing them.

There is nothing to be done about the sex toy collection. They live in a plastic box under the bed, and it’s too big to fit into the suitcase, which would make Ilya very proud any other day, but now just sends anxiety shooting through his stomach. He just kicks it further under the bed and just has to hope that Shanes’ parents never, ever, ever duck their heads under the bed.

The majority of the toys live in Montreal, because Shane tends to be shy about them, and only uses them when he’s alone. When he’s with Ilya, he wants flesh and blood, not silicone. Sometimes he shows Ilya what he enjoys most, like a grown-up show and tell. Sometimes, very rarely, Ilya gets home and there is a discrete package that he did not order waiting for him on the steps, which is how he knows Shane really enjoys something, because it means next time Shanes’ in Boston, Ilya gets to use it on him.

4. The Bathroom.

His mama had not died in the bathroom, but the bathroom cabinet had been where she had found her death, nonetheless. Sometimes Ilya lies in bed and tries to piece together her final hours. He wondered- had she brought the bottles to her room, one by one? Or tried to take them all in one go, dropping pill bottles behind her like Hansel and Gretel dropping breadcrumbs in the woods. Had she been furtive, hunched over her prizes like a starved dog guarding its’ meal, or had she been bold, head held high? It did not matter now. Ilya will never be able to look a bathroom cabinet face on ever again. When he needs pills he approaches them sideways, like a skittering crab.

He catches sight of himself in the mirror. He looks terrible. Wane and pale, curls limp and plastered to his skull with sweat. His eyes look bruised. He didn’t shower before coming here, then. Strange. You’d think habit would’ve carried him through, like a recently decapitated chicken still running away from the hatchet.

He holds his toothbrush in his hand and thinks, what if Shane really is dying? What if he’s dead? Fuck. He thought that maybe he would know, if Shane died. He would feel it, somewhere deep in his gut. Or, he’d just plummet to the ground, like a marionette with its’ strings cut, dead as a doornail. His heart would give out, if Shane Hollander was dead.

He thought this until roughly two and a half hours ago. He’s not so sure now. The press would not announce it for days, if he were gone. They would let the family grieve, and Ilya is not family. Once, Shane and him had said boyfriends, but they would let a boyfriend know. Ilya is nothing and nobody.

They’d never talked about what to do if the other got hurt. They thought themselves immortal. The classic athletes’ ego- the boys who got hurt just weren’t good enough. Shane and Ilya were good enough, and so they would never, ever get hurt. Hockey would love them and the hits would be as sweet as kisses and milk and honey. What stupidity. Look where it had gotten them. Ilya was sneaking in the dark, crying over a toothbrush, and Shane was also somewhere, dark and unknown to Ilya.

If he- if he was dead, what would Shane want him to do? No, really, he needed someone to tell him. He knew 50 different ways to make Shane cum and had no fucking idea whether Shane would want his closet torn down if he died. If Shane Hollander is dead, what should Ilya do?

He’ll kill himself, obviously, but before that- should he stand in front of a million reporters and say earnestly, “Shane Hollander really loved sucking my dick. No really, it was an oral fixation or something. His favourite chew toy.”. They’d laugh, nervously, eyes darting to one another, is this a fucking joke? Twitter would have his head on a pike, and Pike would probably punch him in the face. Rose Landry knew Shane was gay, which had been such a hilarious turn of events that Ilya had forgotten to be mad at Shane for coming out to someone he’d known for all of five minutes. So maybe she’d back Ilya up. Yuna Hollander would probably eat him alive, for saying such a horrible thing about her son. He did not know Shanes’ father, but if he was anything like Ilyas’- Yunas’ wrath would be a mercy in comparison.

But the other option- keeping his mouth shut, and slinking off to die like a wounded animal, curling into a ball on his bed, leaving his molding corpse for his cleaning service to find, a mystery for the ages, why did Rozanov follow Hollander to the grave- that was wrong too. He didn’t like the idea of Shane passing into memory without anyone ever knowing he’d been loved and had loved in return. Maybe he’d write a suicide note, let his heart bleed out onto paper, and let people debate forevermore about whether he’d had a psychotic break or whether Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander had really, truly, been in love.

He sweeps his hair care products into the suitcase. He moves on. He will jump off that bridge when he gets to it.

5. The Closet.

And here is the place where Ilya and Shane live. Metaphorically, of course. They live in the whole house.

”Doesn’t it kill you, too?” Shane had said, one night. Ilya had traced the shell of his ear and hummed. He did not ask what “it” was- the want? The longing? The love? Of course it did. Every day Ilya wanted to pry Shanes ribs apart, crawl into his chest and make his home in there. He wanted to tear Shanes’ heart out, because Ilya should be Shanes’ heart.

But he was scared what Shane actually meant was the hiding. The short answer was no. The list of people Ilya actually cared about was very, very small. Svetlana. Shane. That was it. They were the only people who mattered.

The long answer was yes, of course, of course it killed him. He wanted everyone to know Shane Hollander was his, and he was Shanes’. He wanted Shane in his jersey, in the stands, while Boston crushed their opponents. He wanted to wear Shanes’ number in return. He wanted to score against Montreal on the ice and blow semi-mocking kisses to Shane after. He wanted to win and still kiss Shane when everyone else was doing handshakes. On family skate days, he wanted Shane to help him chase him all the toddlers, crush all the teens when they challenged the elders to a game, skate in leisurely circles with babies strapped to their chests like the moms did. He wanted to brag to his teammates, standing around the grill with their beers- their wives were pretty, but Ilyas’ boy was prettiest. He wanted to brush glitter over Shanes’ eyelids and take him dancing. He wanted to find a restaurant where Shane would eat (not begrudgingly, but actually eat, with enjoyment) and take him to it, show off the man on his arm. He wanted to hold hands over the table, gaze into each others’ eyes. There were a great many things Ilya wanted. He was a very greedy person.

”Sometimes” said Ilya, instead of- yes, but I don’t mind. Yes, but I always expected to die young. Yes, but I would die over and over again for you. Yes, but it’s worth it.

”Does it hurt you?” he asked Shane.

”No.” said Shane. “Not anymore”. So maybe it was alright. Maybe they’d make it.

There is many ways in which the way they live is horrible and lonely. Ilya purposefully does not ask what happens when Shanes’ friends and family visit his house, but he suspects that if Shane were here, he would be doing the very exact thing as Ilya is doing right now.

Ilya does it, when Marley or one of the boys come over. Hides his love. There is a collection of netsuke on Ilyas’ living room shelves. Some are erotic, because Ilya thinks they are funny in a juvenile, haha-sex way, but most are animals that Shane likes. There are many on eBay, but Shane tells him that’s cheating. He hunts them down the old-fashioned way, sneezing in dusty antique stores and trekking to car boot sales, brings them to Boston tucked in his pockets, and presses them into Ilyas’ palm. There is a dragon, smaller than Ilyas’ thumbnail, a tiger, a monkey, a rabbit, a goldfish, a rat. There is a three-legged toad, facing away from the door, even though that’s not a netsuke- it’s a Chinese carving, not a Japanese button. An antiques salesman had given it to Shane for free, since nobody had wanted it, and Shane had been charmed by his unlovable ugliness.

“He looks just like you” he told Ilya, faux earnestly.

They go into a shoe box when Ilya has guests over, and the shoe box goes under the couch. There are a lot of strange substitutes and mysterious powders in Ilyas’ kitchen cupboards. A blender lives on his counter, even though he buys the pre-made protein shakes and dislikes smoothies. There are two mugs. There are five million pillows, and ten thousand blankets, and two weighted blankets, even though Ilya runs hot and usually sleeps with only one blanket. These are all things Ilya will return to, tomorrow night, and he thinks as long as he lives, he will never get rid of them, even as the blankets grow dusty in the cupboards and the powders pass their best before date and go lumpy and weird. Shane has burrowed into Ilyas’ heart and home, carving a space out. Even if Shane left him, the hole would remain for the rest of Ilyas’ days.

-

Shane calls the corner where Ilya leaves his clothes the boyfriend corner. Ilya knows this, because Shane had let it slip once, said “just chuck it over in the boyfriend corner-“ before his face had gone red, flush drowning out his freckles. He had not meant to let it out, but Ilya had delighted in it. He was aware he was a hypocrite, making fun of Shane when Ilya had his marital bed secret, but all was fair in love and war.

”What was that?” he’d said, crowding into Shanes’ space.

”I said, just chuck it in that corner” said Shane, avoiding his eyes. Of course, Shane did not like eye contact anyway, but Ilya knew the difference between avoiding his eyes (normal) and avoiding his eyes (horny shame). It was in the little crease of skin between his eyes and the bridge of his nose.

”Hmm, no, that is not what you said.” He said, leaning down, gently taking Shanes’ bottom lip in-between his teeth. It made it hard to Shane to answer, but Ilya did not mind. Shane followed him as he drew back, Ilya worrying his lip gently until it left his mouth. He did not whine, only a puff of air, but Ilya could tell he was holding back.

”What did you call that corner, утенок?” said Ilya.

”I didn’t call it anything” said Shane stubbornly. What a filthy little liar his boyfriend was. His eyes kept flicking to Ilyas’ mouth.

”So” said Ilya, leaning in until his breath ghosted over Shanes’ lips, “you did not call it the boyfriend corner?”

”No.” said Shane.

”Ah” said Ilya, pulling away, “that’s a shame. I’d very much like to be your boyfriend, with a boyfriend corner. But if that is not the case, I will go.”. Shane didn’t even try to call his bluff, just grabbed Ilyas’ arm and pulled him back in.

They did not so much kiss as fell into one another, and then they fell backwards onto the bed, Ilya slamming into Shane. Ilya was a big fan of the boyfriend corner.

There are soft things, in there- sweatpants that sit low on his hips because the elastic has worn out, and t-shirts with holes in the armpits, and a big Boston Raiders hoodie, XXXL, that swamps Ilya so much that he can pull the arms down, tucking his hands into the sleeves. No underwear, because Shane squirrels them away for his own use when Ilya leaves them behind and then denies all knowledge of their existence. Ilya lets him, because going commando suits him too. A pair of boots, a pair of jeans that show off his ass, the raincoat that Ilya always forgets to bring back with him, and then curses when he’s in Boston, being rained on yet again. He could just buy another one, but he doesn’t.

He pulls them all off the hangers, gathers them in his arms as one messy pile, arms of the long sleeves hanging down, trailing behind him like streamers.

He returns to the suitcase, chucks the clothes in, zips it up, sits down on top of it. Prisyest’ na dorozhku. It’s a silly ritual, but his mother had liked rituals, had dragged him and Alexei to church every Sunday. She had burnt special candles and prayed every morning and night. She would be horrified if she could see how he lived now.

Once, curled up on the couch, he had told Shane that she would’ve liked him, and it was true- she lived a life flinching, in a house full of very loud men, Ilya included. She would’ve enjoyed Shanes’ stillness, his shy intellect, his smile. Shane could be loud too, of course, and Ilya loved wringing noises out of him (sexually, yes, but also through baiting him until his voice rose with rage), but for Ilyas’ mama, he would’ve taken tea quietly.

It was not a lie that Irina would’ve liked Shane, but she would’ve liked Ilyas’ friend Shane very much and would’ve hated Ilyas’ male lover. She had been a very religious woman. Her faith had predated Ilya, and it lived on in the necklace he wore around his neck; he did not think he could’ve ever competed against it, and he did not blame her for that.

Even in his most indulgent daydream, she did not know about him and Shane. In his dream, she lives in Canada, in a beautiful house Ilya bought for her, one near a lake that froze every winter, with a ballet studio in the basement. She had a divorce he’d bribed officials for, and a dog who kept her company, and a circle of friends who visited every day for tea. She had a job at a local bookstore, or at a florist, or a tea parlour, because she hadn’t been allowed one after she’d married, but it was just for fun, not money. She wanted for nothing, and every summer they would go back to Moscow together, and the city was a place of happiness, instead of grief. He introduced her to his good friend Shane Hollander, his best friend, and she loved that her son was not alone, but she never suspected Ilya loved Shane more than any man has ever loved a woman.

It did not matter anyway. She was dead, and the beautiful house in Canada belonged to someone far luckier than him.

But she’d once said, sitting on a suitcase before a trip to visit his grandparents, “in the old days, journeys were hard and people didn’t know if they’d ever come back. This is why we must pray, Ilyushenka”, and so now Ilya sits on his suitcase, and brings his palms together, little cross tucked between them, bowing his head over golden chain. He does not pray to God, or to anyone or anything in particular. He just sends his thoughts out into the world- please, please, please help him. Please help me. Please let me come back home.

But perhaps Ilya never will. He has said goodbye to many homes, his mama and Moscow and his first house, but he still does not know how to do it properly. He could walk around again, touch every spot where Shane and he fucked and kissed and loved, but he would be there all day. He could raise his glass in a toast, but he has no glass to raise, nor vodka to toast. He thinks thank you to the house and hopes it’s enough. He thinks the hatred Ilya imagined has eased into silent grief.

Gently, gingerly, he stands up. He feels quiet, inside and out. He could not speak even if there was someone here to speak to- the words have dried up in his mouth, going fuzzy and soft. His tongue is a leaden weight. It would drag him down the floor if it could, leave him prone in the hallway, laid out for the Hollanders to find. His throat hurts and his eyes are tired and gritty. Still, he probably will not sleep tonight.

He carries the suitcase down the stairs, socked feet careful on the carpet, because he doesn’t want to make noise, even if there is nobody else here to hear the suitcase thump-thump-thumping down the stairs. He stands on the porch step, suitcase in one hand, trash bag at the other, and looks up at the few stars that are brave enough to pierce through Montreals’ light pollution. The moon is hidden behind cloud. It’s cold. His hands ache as they clench reflexively around handle and plastic. His breath huffs out in little clouds, and when he breathes in, he feels it, sharp, like needles in his lungs.

If there are tears in his eyes, then it is just that same prickly chill.

He knows he will have a joyless, sleepless night, staring at the ceiling, praying to a God he does not believe in. And then tomorrow he will get up bright and early, and he will try to visit Shane.

There is nothing else he can do.

He locks the door behind him as he leaves.