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Svetlana very politely declines an invitation from Ilya to visit the cottage in July. She has already braved Ottawa this summer to watch the Centaurs win the Cup and participate in all the celebrations. She was not shocked to find that Ottawa’s night life scene was limited but she had an excellent time in spite of that. Lovely though the cottage looked (she remembered the documentary Ilya had watched a million times) she was, at heart, a city girl. She did not think she would be able to tolerate the middle of nowhere Quebec for a weekend, much less a week. So she counters their invitation with her own, to visit Boston for the weekend in between hockey camps and before the boys leave for their vacation.
She has been planning this weekend very carefully. She knows Shane isn’t like her and Ilya; he won’t appreciate a noisy, crowded nightclub, even with a VIP area. Luckily for him, Svetlana is a consummate hostess and has planned a weekend with plenty of downtime for Ilyusha’s sweet husband. Plus she has convinced Cliff Marlow to join them on Saturday, partly to reunite with his buddy and partly because she could use a little male attention. Being around Shane and Ilya’s love is like standing next to the sun sometimes. She loves it but she also needs to shine a little. And judging by how often Cliff makes it a point to stop by her office in the Raiders practice rink with increasingly random excuses, she assumes he’ll be thrilled by the invitation.
The boys arrive on Friday night. The three of them spend a quiet evening together, ordering in and drinking the good wine that Ilya brought her. They tease Shane in Russian and he does his best to respond, though after a couple of glasses he’s less coherent. She and Ilya stay up late to gossip like two old ladies. Shane falls asleep with his head on his husband’s lap. Sveta is happy. She likes having them in her home. More than that, she loves to see Ilya so comfortable and relaxed and genuinely content.
When Svetlana ventures out of her room on Saturday morning, Shane is already up and about. Fortunately for her, he has figured out how to make espresso from the fancy machine she keeps on the counter. She seldom uses it herself, preferring to have someone else make her coffee every day. Another reason to keep Marlow coming around: he knows her coffee order by heart and frequently brings it to her.
“Shanya,” she says sweetly. She loves calling Hollander by a diminutive. It makes him blush every time. He is an easy target but so far she hasn’t gotten tired of messing with him. She also loves to see how far his Russian had progressed, so she often switches into her mother tongue with him. She slows it down for his benefit, of course; she isn’t mean. “Thank you for making coffee. You know I am not good with mornings.”
Hollander smiles at her. “Like my husband. This is a Russian… thing?”
She offers the word he had not been able to find, “Veshch’,” waits as he repeats it quietly a few times and then continues, in English now. “I think we are just late night people. Not like you, ready to face every day and win it.”
He laughs at that (admittedly accurate) take. “You guys are going to gang up on me all weekend, aren’t you?”
“Probably.”
They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, Svetlana idly scrolling through her phone, mentally working out her outfits for the weekend. Shane is a decidedly better dresser these days with the combined influence of Rose Landry and Ilya. Sveta wishes Rose had come this weekend, too. They hadn’t spent a lot of time together but they were fast friends whenever the chance arose. She would have to settle for teasing Marlow and Hollander on her own all weekend.
Since she and Shane are alone for the moment, she decides it’s a perfect time to check in about her Ilyusha. She has seen him at his worst and she can see that he is nowhere near that now. In fact, she would even venture to say he is perfectly happy. Still, she can’t quite let go of the fear she will probably always have, that the sadness will take over one day. No matter how happy he seems now, a part of her always worries that his demons will grow too big for him and take him away from her. They never talk about it but she knows he fears it too. Some things are better left unsaid.
“Shanya,” she says quietly. He looks up from his phone, startled for a second. He is ridiculously beautiful. She sees why Ilya couldn’t stay away from him, even when their relationship hurt him. “How is he? Really.”
Shane does not offend her by pretending he doesn’t know what she means. He puts his phone down on the counter, glancing at the doorway to make sure Ilya hasn’t suddenly decided to appear. “Good. Honestly. He takes his medication and he sees Galina, though not every week. But he’s good, really.”
Svetlana nods, more relieved than she wants to let on. She wants to tell Shane how much it means to her, that Ilya is safe and happy, perhaps for the first time in their lives. She wants to tell him that she knows that he sees Ilya, really sees him, and what a rare gift that is, to be allowed to get so close to him. She wants to tell him that she is a little jealous–not because she wants Ilya for herself but because she has never experienced a love like this before. It lights up whole rooms. It radiates off them. She is thrilled they have found it with each other; she wants the same for herself. She wants to tell Shane that Ilya is her family so now he is too. Not wanting to embarrass them both, she keeps those sentimental thoughts to herself. “I know you take good care of him,” she says instead. Shane smiles, a real smile. She doesn’t know him as well as she knows Ilya (obviously) but she knows he saves his genuine smiles for people he loves and trusts. She is grateful to be a part of that circle now.
As if he’s been summoned, Ilya appears in the kitchen, smiling. He loves when his husband and his best friend are in the same place. “Practicing your Russian, my love?”
“Always,” Shane answers easily.
“He is doing so well, Ilyusha, you must be proud.”
Ilya grins. “She does not give out compliments like this usually. What did you do to make her so nice to you this morning?”
Shane blushes; both Russians laugh.
***
Svetlana takes them to the Russian bakery she likes, where the owner comes out from the back to kiss Ilya and chastise him for not visiting more often. They speak in rapidfire Russian for ten minutes while Shane looks on, only able to catch a word here and there. He is grateful that Ilya has opportunities to speak his own language. Shane's doing his best, but he has to imagine conversing with him in Russian is similar to chatting with a particularly bright toddler. It’s nice to see Ilya speak in his mother tongue without having to slow it down for Shane’s benefit.
Later Marlow meets them for wine tasting, which is a nice surprise; Shane knows he and Ilya miss each other, despite neither one admitting it out loud. Also it’s clear that Marlow is obsessed with Svetlana. There is no other word for it. Shane isn’t usually great at picking up on other people’s feelings but Marlow is falling all over himself in front of her in a way that is impossible to miss. He pulls out her chair; he asks what her favorite wine is; he even floats the idea of taking her to Napa sometime. Shane is starting to feel second-hand embarrassment for the defenseman. When Sveta excuses herself to the washroom, Ilya punches Marly on the shoulder.
“Ow!” Marlow says. “What the fuck?”
“This is not the way, Marly.”
“What do you mean?” He looks between Ilya and Shane, as if they’re in on a secret he doesn't know.
Ilya sighs. “You can’t let her see how much you want her. You will never get her that way.”
Marlow grimaces. “Roz, I can’t help it! She’s so fucking beautiful, I forget how to fucking act when I’m around her.”
Ilya rolls his eyes but Shane is sympathetic. “I know what you mean,” he says kindly. His husband and Marlow both stare at him. “When Ilya and I were first… whatever,” he says, a flush spreading over his freckles, “I didn’t know how to act sometimes. It’s like, you can’t breathe right or something.”
“Yes!” Marlow agrees. “Like, I know how to talk to girls. You’ve seen me talk to girls, Roz. Why the fuck is this so hard?”
Ilya is still looking fondly at his husband. He is planning to discuss this little confession more thoroughly later on. He turns his attention back to his clueless friend. “I don’t know, Marly, maybe because she is not some 22 year old in a club. Neither are you. She is not impressed that you are tall, hot hockey star. ”
Marlow snorts. “Just cause you’re married–”
“Fuck off, I thought you wanted my advice.” Marlow stops talking, gesturing with his wine glass for Ilya to continue. “Ask her a question. Start with hockey, even you can handle that. Stop throwing your money around like it will impress her. It will not. Tell her about someone you’re casually seeing–”
“I’m not seeing anyone. That’s part of the problem, I can’t fucking think about anyone else. I’m losing it, Roz.”
Ilya chuckles. “I have never seen you like this,” he agrees. “But listen. She likes competition, even though she pretends she does not care. Let it slip that you are seeing someone but you aren’t sure about her. Then change the subject, ask her something, let her talk. She hasn’t rejected you yet, that’s as good a sign as any from Sveta.”
She reappears at this moment and, hearing her name, raises an eyebrow. “Talking about me to your friend, Ilyusha? Giving him tips?”
“You are torturing him.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You are existing, apparently that is torture to him.”
Svetlana smiles, like a hungry wolf. “Maybe I like that.”
Ilya laughs. He stands and holds out a hand to his husband. “Come, I want to see the vineyard.” Shane stands, interlacing their fingers easily. Svetlana trains her gaze on Marlow and waits.
“Svetlana,” he says.
“Clifford.”
He smiles, his face relaxing a fraction. “Cliff.”
“Sveta, then.”
“What does your name mean? In Russian.”
She considers him for a moment. This may be the most substantive question he’s ever asked her. Perhaps there is more to Cliff Marlow than beauty and hockey. “Light,” she answers. “Does Clifford mean something?”
“Fucked if I know. It’s my uncle’s name. He’s my godfather. Marlow means driftwood, though.” She frowns. Bilingual or not, there are sometimes words that don’t easily translate. “Like the wood that washes up on the beach?”
She smiles. “Funny. Is that what you are, Cliff Marlow? Washed up on the beach?”
He laughs (his real laugh, not the nervous one that comes out usually around Svetlana–Sveta). “I grew up in Pittsburgh, not a lot of beach around. Though I am feeling more like driftwood these days. I’m getting old.”
“In hockey years, yes,” she agrees. “What will you do in your retirement?”
“Shit, I have no idea. I try not to think about it. I’ve been playing for so long, it’s kind of impossible to imagine doing something else.”
She nods, thoughtful. “You would be a good coach, I think. Not head but defensive, maybe. You have a good eye for defensive line.”
“That may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he says, grinning.
She shrugs. “I do not lie to be polite. I am not American.”
He laughs at that and leans forward. Time to take a chance and hopefully put his misery to rest. “Listen. Roz tried to give me advice about you and I know he’s known you a long time but I don’t lie either. I’m kind of crazy about you. I think about you all the time. I know I’m just a big dumb hockey player and you’re like, gorgeous and brilliant and you speak different languages–” His rambling is interrupted when Svetlana also leans forward. They stare at each other for a minute. Cliff is afraid to say anything to break the spell. He prays that Roz and Hollander are making out in a corner somewhere and not about to interrupt whatever amazing thing is happening to him right now.
“All these words, Cliff. Why have you not just tried to kiss me?” she breathes.
“Fuck me,” he whispers back and she giggles. She actually fucking giggles. She would be embarrassed if she wasn’t so deeply charmed by this man. She waits while he finds his courage and finally, finally presses his lips to hers. It is almost chaste at first; she can feel his hesitation. She loves when a man cannot believe his luck. Ilya thinks she likes playing hard to get but really she likes this better: to be worshipped, treasured, desired. She slides her tongue along his lips until he opens his mouth and they are kissing for real. She pulls back, reluctantly, after a minute. They are in public, after all. She smiles at him. “Later,” she whispers, watching with glee the way he blinks in return.
This is going to be fun.
Outside, peering in the window of the tasting room, Ilya and Shane are giggling together. “She is going to eat him alive,” Ilya says.
“He doesn’t look like he minds,” Shane replies.
Ilya snorts. “No, he does not.” He turns his attention to his husband, who looks golden in the late afternoon sunlight. “You couldn’t breathe around me?”
Shane smiles, rarely shy with his husband anymore. “Still can’t, sometimes.”
Ilya pulls him closer, arms looped around his waist. Shane’s arms fall easily around his shoulders. “Mmm, tell me.”
“Not here, Ilya.” He leans forward to whisper in his husband’s ear, in Russian, “Later. I will show you.”
Ilya groans. “You will kill me, Hollander.”
“Hollander-Rozanov.” This earns him another groan. “Come on, let’s go rescue your friend from death by Sveta.”
“He would be so lucky.” Shane raises an eyebrow. “Jealous?” Ilya says, grinning like a wolf. He and Sveta have known each other for so long, their facial expressions are sometimes perfect imitations of each other.
“No. I know what’s mine.” Ilya looks at Shane like he could eat him. Shane just grins and pulls him along, back to the tasting room and their waiting friends.
***
Pleasantly wine drunk and fed with some excellent Italian food in the North End, Shane is easily convinced to go to some bar that has live music. He is promised that it’s an older crowd, not the kind of club that he historically despises. He doesn’t mind. It’s summertime with his husband. They are Stanley Cup champions. He is lightly buzzed on both alcohol and friendship. He would agree to almost anything.
They go to a dark, small room in some out of the way bar that of course Sveta knows about. A local band is playing. They're actually fairly good (not that Shane has a lot of opinions about music). This is not a surprise: Svetlana has impeccable taste. Privately, Shane thinks that anyone who is lucky enough to love Ilya does. He leans against his husband, secured by the other man’s arms around his waist and looks around the semi-crowded room.
He’s generally not in the habit of watching other people, especially other people making out next to him. But he finds he can’t bring himself to look away from Sveta and Marlow, who are pressed together next to them, alternating between kissing and staring into each other’s eyes like they just found each other. Shane can’t help but smile. He used to be afraid of Svetlana. Jealous, too. Not just because she and Ilya were fuck buddies, that he could live with (if he didn't think about it that much). It was more because she knew parts of Ilya that Shane would never know. She had known him since they were children. There is an easy intimacy between them. Ilya had thought about marrying her once, for God’s sake.
When Shane finally met her and they became friends, he found that he liked her very much. Not just in the ways that she cared about and for his husband, but also just her. He loved the way she loved hockey and her sharp wit and how silly she could be, especially when Rose was in town with them. He had not realized all the things he was missing when he and Ilya were hiding their relationship: being with friends, holding hands in public, just living their lives like normal people. He is beyond grateful to have what he has now, which is more than he ever thought was possible.
He leans his head back to murmur in Ilya’s ear: “I think we’re witnessing the start of something serious.” He nods his head towards their friends.
“We should get going before they get charged with public indecency,” Ilya responds. He taps Sveta’s shoulder and nods toward the door. She nods back, pulling Cliff behind her into the summer night. Ilya calls them a car. Sveta is whispering to Marlow; Shane and Ilya are pretending not to notice. The four of them pile in the car, Shane jumping into the front seat to avoid joining the sexual tension oozing around in the backseat.
When they arrive at Sveta’s condo, Ilya makes a show of pushing his husband toward their bedroom. “I have kept him out too late,” he says over his shoulder to Cliff and Sveta. “Goodnight!”
When they are alone, with the door closed, Ilya starts giggling.
“What?” his husband asks, already smiling, wanting to be let in on the joke.
“I am just thinking of a threesome Marly and I had in Vegas once.” Shane stares at him, mouth agape. “Don’t look so shocked, Hollander. We were very drunk, Marly could barely get it up. The poor girl thought she had won the lottery with two hot hockey players and then she was disappointed. Well. In some ways. Not in others.” Shane is making his angry kitten face. Ilya loves this face. “Something wrong, moy lyubov?”
In answer, Shane bites the side of Ilya’s neck and growls. “Take off your clothes.”
Ilya feigns shock. “You are so bossy tonight!”
“Yeah well, I don’t want to hear any more about your sexcapades with Marly. You won’t be able to talk with my dick in your mouth.”
Ilya feels himself get hard. He loves when Shane talks dirty to him; it is a rare treat. “Only if you tell me more about not being able to breathe around me. Is that how you said it?”
Shane pushes his husband’s shoulders until Ilya is kneeling in front of him. “Maybe,” he allows. “Remind me.”
***
Svetlana wakes up earlier than she normally would on a Sunday. She isn’t used to sharing a bed, especially not with a 6’2” snoring hockey player. Still, she had a lovely time. Marlow may not be good with words but lucky for them both, he is good with his hands and his tongue. She was satisfied this morning at least, if not a little tired.
She has come to the living room with the latte Shane has generously made her, content to post the photos she took last night to her Instagram. She and Cliff make a striking couple, she thinks. This could really go somewhere if she wants it to. She is considering this when Shane clears his throat. She looks up at him, taking in his nervous expression.
“I want to ask you something.” He looks around, as if someone is going to jump out at him any moment and prevent him from asking what he wants to know. “It’s kind of… can you not tell Ilya?”
This gives her pause. She loves a secret as much as the next girl but she does not love the idea of Ilya’s husband keeping things from him. On the other hand, Shane Hollander doesn’t have a deceitful bone in his body. “That depends, Hollander,” she warns him.
“It’s nothing bad!” he insists. “I just want… do you remember his mom at all?”
Svetlana tries not to look surprised at this. Of course she remembers Irina, at least in pieces. She does not think of her often because thinking of her leads to thinking about the worst parts of the story: Ilyusha during the weeks after the funeral, lying in bed next to her like a zombie. Neither of them had the words to describe how they were feeling so they did not speak. Ilya’s father kept insisting that it was an accident, which Sveta had wanted to believe but knew, even at twelve, was not true. In between Irina’s death and the rushed funeral, she had mostly laid in Ilya’s bed with him, both of them silent and unmoving. Sometimes she woke up to the sound of him crying; she would pretend not to notice. During those horrible first few days she just held him as tightly as she could. She only cried while he slept. When he was awake, she was his anchor.
They never talked about what happened, not even as adults. She wondered if he was as afraid as she was that he had inherited Irina’s pain. Svetlana watched him closely for years, barely admitting to herself that she was always on alert for warning signs that he would fall into the depths that took his mother. Mostly when she thought of Irina, she thought about how horrible someone would have to feel to leave two young sons behind like that. It was too sad. She tried not to think about her at all.
She hedges at first. “Why?”
“You know how Ilya is,” Shane says slowly. “I don’t want to ask him a lot of questions but–there’s like this huge part of his life I barely know anything about. I just wish I had a little more information. You know?”
Svetlana considers this. She thinks Hollander knows Ilya better than anyone at this point, even her. But she also knows what he means. He wants all the pieces of Ilya, even the ones that are difficult to hold onto.
“I remember some things,” she says. She glances toward the doorway of the kitchen, afraid that Ilya is lurking, even though it’s early for him yet. “She was very beautiful. When we were young, she would sing to us.” Shane is smiling. He is so hungry for these little details, Svetlana wishes she had more of them to offer. “Children’s songs, you know, and we would dance around the kitchen. Even Alexei sometimes, until he decided he was too old to play.” Neither of them care to dwell on Ilya’s brother so she moves on. “I know she loved them.” She shrugs. “It’s easier to understand now, what happened, but then it was… it was very shameful. The adults did not want to talk about her after.”
“Jesus,” Shane whispers, looking down. Sveta thinks she can see tears on the ends of his lashes.
“I wish I could only tell you happy things. It’s hard to remember.”
“Thank you for giving me anything. Really.”
She nods. “You could ask him, Shanya. He loves you. He will not be angry if you want to hear more about her.”
Shane shakes his head. “I guess. I just don’t want to say the wrong thing. I’m afraid I’ll hurt him by accident, you know? He’s been hurt enough.”
Svetlana reaches over and rests her hand on his arm. She switches back to Russian, to underline the importance of what she is about to say. “You cannot hurt him by loving him this way. Let him see.”
They both look up when Cliff appears, clad only in boxers, stretching his arms over his head, hooking his fingertips on top of the woodwork in the doorway to the living room. His body stretched out that way is a sight to behold. Shane is pretending not to look; Sveta winks at him conspiratorially. He blushes and moves to stand. “Marly, how about an espresso.”
“Man, you really are the nicest guy in hockey, Hollander. Make it a latte and I’ll love you forever.”
“Thought you already did, I’m your best friend’s husband.”
Marlow snorts. “As if Roz would admit I’m his best friend.” Shane leaves them in the living room. Cliff smiles at Sveta. “Hey. You left.”
“You were snoring.”
“Oh shit, I’m sorry. You shoulda rolled me over.”
“I don’t mind, it was time for me to get moving. The boys leave late this afternoon. I want to spend some time with them.”
Cliff nods, carefully looking around. “I’ll bounce after my coffee then, leave you to it.”
She hesitates, but only for a moment, before surprising herself. “No need to rush. I have been third wheel enough with them.”
He grins, clearly delighted. “Can’t have that.” Slowly, he walks towards her, keeping an eye on her reaction. She gives him very little to go on but she is still smiling, so he takes that as an invitation and sits. He kisses her shoulder. “Great night,” he tries. Sveta hums, which he takes as a good sign. He remembers Roz’s advice and keeps quiet for a minute, enjoying his proximity to her in silence.
Hollander returns with coffee, as promised. “Thanks, man,” Cliff says. “Roz still sleeping?”
Shane nods. “He’s not a morning person.”
Marlow laughs. “I am aware. I was his roommate on roadies most of the time, remember, before he fucked off to Ottawa and left me.”
The three of them sit in companionable silence for a few minutes. Shane smiles to himself, thinking what a funny little group they make. He thinks of them as Ilya’s original three people: Russian best friend with benefits; goofy, loyal teammate; and decade long situationship-turned-husband. He’s grateful that Ilya’s circle has expanded. He thinks those first few years in North America must have been lonely at times.
Cliff is whispering to Svetlana, which Shane decides is his cue to wake his husband. He drifts into the guest room and climbs on top of Ilya, nuzzling him awake. “Hi,” he whispers. Ilya rolls over to smile at him and gives him a chaste kiss (no tongue until teeth are brushed was basically part of their wedding vows). “Time to get up, sleepyhead.”
In response, Ilya pulls him closer and flips them around so Shane is pinned underneath him. “Five more minutes,” he suggests and Shane laughs.
“As if I have a choice,” he answers. He listens to his husband breathe, running his hands up and down his back mindlessly. How lucky he is, to have a love like this.
“Marly still here?”
“Yeah.” Shane blushes, remembering accidentally checking him out a few minutes ago. “They’re snuggled up on the couch, I was definitely the third wheel.”
Ilya snorts. “I can’t believe it.”
“Why not? She loves hockey, he plays hockey. They’re both beautiful–”
“What!”
“Fuck off. I’m just saying, it makes sense, right? Do you feel weird about it?”
Ilya considers this for a moment. “No. I am happy if they are happy. Just surprised that Sveta is ready to settle down with Marlow of all people. I once saw him forget his own phone number in a club.”
Shane laughs. “All those concussions.”
“He was wasted. I guess he has grown out of that now.” He sighs dramatically. “We are old,” he laments.
“Speak for yourself, I feel great.”
Ilya grins. “I think you could feel even better.”
“Ilya! They’re in the other room, this apartment is not that big.”
“So be quiet,” Ilya advises as he kisses his way down his husband’s chest.