Archive of Our Own

As he sits on a crumbling leather barstool that never quite lands on all four legs at once, Ilya Rozanov understands why they call places “old haunts.” As he looks around, there’s a ghost in every corner of Moby Dick’s Bar & Grille, the place where he once spent a significant part of his youth. Owned by his aunt and uncle, it had been the hang out place for Ilya and his friends for most of high school.

Over by the ancient jukebox that still works mostly out of spite and doesn’t have a song in it that was written after 1986, Ilya sees the apparitions of his friends arguing over which song is worse: “Footloose” by Kenny Loggins or “Sunglasses at Night” by Corey Hart. It’s a heated debate, despite both songs being older than any of them. He doesn’t remember which song won. Or, lost?  

At a high top table behind the other end of the bar, he sees the spirit of his 17-year-old self sipping on his fourth Coke, impatiently waiting for Shane’s shift to end. He remembers it like it was yesterday: the way he’d track Shane throughout the space as he moved seamlessly from table to table, his face always breaking into a wide grin at the approach, dialing up the charm that always seemed to come so easily to him.

On the make-shift stage by the front door, Ilya is visited by the Ghost of Bad Decisions Past. Or, that one month they thought it was a good idea to start a band. They proceeded to practice half-heartedly for two weeks before making their disastrous debut on a Tuesday afternoon with an abysmal set that even Shane’s saint of a mother couldn’t bring herself to compliment. It was The Ghost of Herman Melville’s first and last gig.

The place hasn’t changed much over the years, save for a few cosmetic upgrades here and there that Ilya can point out immediately. There aren’t a lot of dining options in a small-ish coastal town like this, so it’s always had a steady stream of regulars who make it a point to come enough for them to get by in the slower months, while the slight influx of tourists passing through in the summer makes up the difference. Because that’s the thing about coastal Massachusetts towns and the people who inhabit them: they are loyal to a fucking fault and will tell you to your face when you’ve disappointed them. Ilya knows this better than most.

He leans back carefully on the rickety stool, nursing whatever seasonal Sam Adams the unfamiliar-to-him-bartender has poured. He arrived early because he wanted to secure this seat in particular. It’s the one furthest into the building and has a straight-shot eyeline to the door and a clear view of almost every inch of the space. From this vantage point, Ilya will see him first. He needs to maintain some level of control tonight and, from experience, he knows the things he can control this weekend will be limited. 

Once he takes the last sip of his first beer, he gives a short nod to the bartender that signals he’s ready for round two, then he takes out his phone to quickly check his emails.  It’s Thanksgiving Eve and most of Los Angeles has also gone home to wherever they come from because almost no one actually comes from L.A., so his emails have been mostly quiet. Still, he feels the compulsion to check, a habit borne from the understanding that there is no real “time off” in Hollywood. Time off could mean missing an email with a quick turnaround time for a script edit, or a last minute re-write offer that will go to the next person on the list without an immediate answer. Things move fast and Ilya has learned to adapt. And so he checks, finds his business inbox still at 0, then closes out of the mail app and slips his phone back into his pocket.  It felt like he’d only been distracted for a minute, two at most, but it had to have been longer because when his head finally pops back up, Moby Dick’s has begun to fill up significantly.

Fuck, he thinks.  So much for control.

He scans the room as more people begin filtering in at a rate that raises Ilya’s hackles.  He sees people he went to high school with, most of whom he’d rather eat rocks than talk to, but who would sidle up to him and act as if they’d been such good friends. In reality, they had picked on him for being “from Russia” despite having lived in Massachusetts since he was five years old.

Ilya continues to scan the bar because there’s only one person he’s looking for.  The only reason he is in Moby Dick’s right now. The only reason he was back in this fucking town right now, again, despite the fact that his immediate family still lives here too. Instead, he only sees the aging faces of more idiots he went to school with and so he keeps his eyes moving, never lingering long enough to notice if any of them are noticing him. He’s not here for them.

Then his eyes go instinctively to the door at the exact right moment because there, walking through it like he’s done it a million times (because he has done it a million times), is Shane Hollander. He’s wearing a white t-shirt with a motorcycle logo that Ilya knows he’s had since high school. Even from this distance, Ilya can see how the years have worn and stretched the shirt, along with the muscles that have developed and can now barely be contained by its material. His hair is a little longer than last year, but other than that, he is exactly as Ilya has pictured him in his mind every single day since they last saw each other a year ago.

Except…is that a fucking cigarette tucked behind his ear? Illya thinks. That’s new. Christ. 

He resists the urge to bite down on his knuckle, instead taking another long gulp of beer because he needs to put something, anything in his mouth right now to combat the feral thoughts already raging in his head. He watches as an easy smile spreads across Shane’s face as he greets person after person. They offer themselves up to him like he’s the leader of the We’re All Stuck in this Fucking Town Too Cult and they are his adoring followers.  He kisses women on their cheeks, wraps men up unapologetic two-armed hugs and they don’t even flinch. It’s wholly unsurprising and absolutely mesmerizing to watch. Ilya knows how far that immeasurable amount of charisma could have carried him in L.A. He would have been unstoppable. If only.

Shane is mid hug when Ilya sees him freeze for just a second.  It would be imperceptible to anyone else but Ilya because at the same time that Shane freezes, Ilya feels a swooping sensation in his stomach.  And then Shane’s eyes are up and they are on Ilya immediately, no scanning or glancing around necessary.  They are like a heat-seeking missile spotting their target.  He just knows. They both just know. It’s a skill they both acquired without practice or permission.  One day it just was and now it always just is.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t make it any of it any easier, and Ilya feels his heart racing and he wonders why he decided to wear the stupid fucking black leather jacket he’d found at a thrift store in L.A. He’d worn it almost every day since, even on days when the heat from the California sunshine sent rivulets of sweat pouring down his back, because he thought it made him look like he belonged there. Here, now, it could not have made him look more out of place. Shane is definitely going to make fun of him for it but there’s nothing he can do about it now. Their eyes are still on each other as he continues to make his way over.  It feels like he’s walking in slow motion, like a scene from a movie that Ilya might write into a script someday.  Ilya feels the heat climbing up his neck, through his cheeks, up to the tips of his ears as Shane’s eyes are still fixed on him. Ilya doesn’t know what it’s like to look at him and feel nothing. Sometimes he wishes he did, it might be easier that way. But then Shane is there, next to him, and Ilya feels everything.

“Do you remember The Ghost of Herman Melville?” Shane asks.

This is what they do. It’s their thing: a well-established pattern developed over time of tossing out a random memory as an ice breaker because what else can you say as an opening line to the person you’ve been in love with since you were sixteen but a series of unfortunate events has kept you apart and probably will continue to do so until the end of time?

Ilya smiles because he’d just been visited by that particular ghost so the memory is fresh in his mind.

“Why the fuck did we think we could learn to play “Modern Love” by David Bowie in two weeks? We sounded like shit.”

Shane gives a short laugh. “We could have practiced every day from that day until today and we’d still sound like shit.”

Ilya nods his head in agreement. “We were young and dumb.”

“And now we’re old and dumb.”

“Speak for yourself, Hollander. I am not old.”

“We’re the same age, Rozanov,” he reminds him.

“I know, Shane.”

And that’s how it starts. Or something like it, anyway. Every time, every year.

Shane takes a seat on the stool next to him and they wait in silence for the bartender to approach.  Once he does, Shane orders a beer, and Ilya learns the Sam Seasonal he’s been drinking is Oktoberfest and on a normal night, he probably could have guessed that. The bartender places the glass in front of him with a wry, too-familiar smile that Ilya clocks immediately.

“Here you go, Shane,” he says with a wink.

“Thanks, Caleb,” Shane says, smiling back before pulling the glass in closer.

“Caleb, huh,” comments Ilya, taking a sip of his own beer as Caleb turns to his next patron.

“Yes, Caleb. That’s his name, Ilya.”

Ilya just nods, once. This is the other thing they do: dance around information they want or need instead of simply asking direct questions.  By now it’s an old, tired dance but they know the steps by heart and it feels too late to learn any new ones.

“Okay,” is all Ilya can muster as a reply.

They sip their beers in companionable silence and now they are both surveying the growing crowd around them.

“Why did we decide to meet here again?” Ilya wants to know.

“It’s Thanksgiving Eve,” Shane responds. “This is where everyone is tonight.  You know this.” 

“I do know this,” Ilya agrees.  “And I also know this is the last place I want to be right now and I know that you also know this.”

“I thought we could try something different this year,” he replies with a shrug before taking another sip of his beer.

“Ah yes, hanging out with all the shitheads who made fun of us in high school.  What a great idea, Hollander.” 

“They made fun of you in high school.” 

“Yes, I was there. I remember. And fuck you.” He says it without malice, though Shane’s words sting.

“Hey, I always stuck up for you,” Shane reminds him. “And they eventually gave up.”

“And I appreciated it very much,” Ilya concedes. “But they only gave up because they found a new target so forgive me if I don’t want to shoot the shit with them while I am here.” 

Shane sighs. 

“Well, that’s the difference between us. Come Monday, you won’t be here.  But I will be, so I have to be civil.”

Ilya nods again, looking at his watch to determine how long it took for Shane to bring up the fact that he would be leaving because it feels like this time could be a record-breaker. Shane grabs Ilya’s wrist and holds it up.  Ilya swears his heart stops at their first point of contact and he panics because the fucking watch is going to give him away.

“You’re wearing a fucking Apple watch!” Shane says, incredulous. “I can’t believe it, Ilya.  You picked on me for so fucking long for wearing one of these. I believe you said ‘Apple watch is for fucking dorks with no taste.’”

“Yes, and I still think that’s true and still have my real watch collection, but my stupid writer’s room is doing an exercise challenge this season and I have to pretend to be a team player, so it was either this or a FitBit and I would rather die than wear one of those,” Ilya laments.

“You are so dramatic,” Shane points out.

“Says the man who was the lead in every play and musical all four years of high school.” 

“Still less dramatic than you.” Shane knocks his knee against Ilya’s under the bar.

“You’re probably right,” Ilya concedes again, and this is yet another one of their things.  The banter, and letting Shane win because Ilya cares more about Shane’s happiness and satisfaction more than he cares about being right.

“Are you ready to go yet?” Ilya asks after a few moments of silence.

“We just got here,” Shane reminds him.

“No, you just got here,” amends Ilya. “I have been here for a while.” 

“And how many people have you talked to?”

“I talked to your friend, Caleb, when I ordered my beer.” 

“Doesn’t count.”

“Sure it does.”

Does. Not.”

“Okay.”

And then a small group of former jocks now sporting beer guts and dressed like their wives all spent their Kohls’ cash at the same time approach Shane to say hello. He stands up, shaking their hands and reminding them all to say hello to Ilya because otherwise this particular group would pretend he doesn’t exist. The fact that Ilya is now an Emmy-award winning writer on one of the most buzzed about streaming shows of the last three years means nothing to them. Even if it did, even if they watched every episode religiously, none of them would ever admit it, especially not to his face.

Ilya shifts on the barstool, forgetting about its instability and it wobbles. His eyes go wide with momentary panic as he thinks for a second he might fall, but then Shane’s hand shoots out to his shoulder to steady him. Ilya flushes with embarrassment. He can’t believe that happened in front of the Kohls’ Krew. He sulks as Shane talks to them for a few more minutes, and Ilya overhears something about upcoming renovations Shane’s construction company will be doing for one of them before they finally wander away.

Shane turns back to Ilya, who has annoyance written all over his face.

Shane just rolls his eyes. “I know, they are assholes.”

“Then why do you talk to them?”

“Job security?”

Ilya rolls his eyes back. 

“Ok. Clearly it was not a good idea to meet here,” Shane concedes. “I just thought…” he trails off, rubbing his thumb up and down over the condensation of his beer.

“You thought what?” Ilya prods, leaning into Shane, this time also leaning into the stool’s wobbling.

“That it would be nice to see you somewhere that wasn’t my bedroom or the backseat of your mom’s car.”

The honesty hits Ilya square in the chest.

“Oh.”

“It was a dumb idea,” he concedes.  “Let’s go.” 

Shane stands, pulling bills out of his wallet and placing them on the bar. He starts to make the long journey to the front door, not looking behind him.  Ilya scrambles to his feet and trots to catch up with Shane like a puppy following at the heels of his owner. 

Sitting so far away from the door was a miscalculation when Ilya realizes they now must weave through the entire crowd to the exit. Not that the two of them are a secret. They’d come out the summer before their junior year: Shane as gay, Ilya as bisexual, and they did nothing to hide their relationship after that.  Maybe they should have because being so open also meant that everyone was now keenly aware of exactly when, where, why, and how it had all gone so wrong ten years ago.  And now their new…dynamic has become a poorly kept secret that leaves Ilya feeling exposed as he tails Shane out of the bar, holding his breath and keeping his head down.

It’s not until they step out into the night that Ilya finally lets out a sharp breath.  He’s struck by how cold it’s gotten, forgetting the sharp downturn in temperature at the disappearance of the sun that this time of year always brings. He zips up his leather jacket and sees Shane open his mouth to speak.

“Whatever you’re going to say about the jacket, don’t.”

He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and taps one out and then goes fumbling for his lighter. He clicks it several times with no success, muttering under his breath.  And then Shane is there with his own lighter, cupping the flame and bringing it to Ilya’s cigarette, lighting it with an ease that’s both satisfying and infuriating.  

Ilya then watches with fascination as Shane pulls the cigarette from behind his ear, places it between the two soft pillows that form his lips and lights it.

“I can’t believe you’re smoking,” he says out loud, the words coming out weird with the cigarette hanging out of the side of his mouth.

“You literally have a cigarette in your mouth,” Shane points out. 

“Everyone smokes in L.A.”

“Oh okay, well if everyone in L.A is doing it…” Shane emphasizes “L.A.” in a way that’s only perceptible to Ilya and it is loaded. He doesn’t take the bait though. Not yet. They haven’t reached that particular sequence of moves in the routine yet.

“You said smoking was a bad habit,” Ilya reminds him.

“Yeah, well maybe I thought it was time to pick up a new bad habit.”

“As opposed to me, your old bad habit?” 

Shane just shrugs as he blows a puff of smoke from between his lips.

“Aren’t you cold?” Ilya asks, staring with concern, among other emotions, at his mostly bare arms.

“It’s New England in November. No, I’m not cold. L.A is making you soft.” 

It’s maybe the most townie thing Ilya’s ever heard him say and it hurts, both because it’s a reminder of how much Ilya is now considered an outsider in his own hometown and because it’s the second passive-aggressive L.A. mention in as many minutes.  Shane is freestyling now and it’s teetering on collapsing this whole thing they’ve so haphazardly built with twigs and tape.  The slightest breeze could bring it all tumbling down and Ilya’s not ready.  He’ll never be ready. He has to do something, now.

He grabs Shane by his massive fucking biceps in one swift, practiced move, and starts to pull him the exactly fifteen backwards steps he knows will lead them around the building and into the narrow alley where deliveries are made.  It’s an alley they are both very familiar with. So familiar it should be named after them at this point, or at the very least feature some sort of commemorative plaque on the wall. Shane drops the cigarette, stubs it out with his boot as he lets Ilya pull him. Both men’s eyes are dark and filled with lust. As soon as they are out of the spotlight of the street lamps and into the darkness of the alley, Shane pushes Ilya firmly against the brick wall.

Their lips crash together and Ilya lets out an immediate low moan, the strong taste of nicotine still in Shane’s mouth a welcome fresh sensation.  He’s totally fucking powerless now and he doesn’t even care. His hands move to Shane’s hips and he pulls them into himself at the same time he presses his tongue into Shane’s more than willing open mouth. They make out for what could be five minutes or twenty because Ilya loses all sense of time when they are together.  Eventually, though, they come up for air, Shane pressing his forehead to Ilya’s to take a few breaths of cold air.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

“Yep,” Ilya agrees and they both chuckle.

“Do you want to go back inside?” Shane asks.

“I definitely do not.”

“I kind of do want to,” Shane admits, pulling back to search Ilya’s face for annoyance or disappointment.

“It’s okay,” Ilya assures him.  “I get it. You go back inside to your friends, to your life.  I’ll go back to my mom’s.”

“And I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Same as always, Shane,” Ilya assures again.

They lean in again, only this time the kissing is softer, sweeter, but still intentional.  The kind of kissing you do when you know there’s a finite number of them.

* * *

Ilya sits in the living room he grew up in and wonders how long it took after he left for this house to stop feeling like his home. He can’t pinpoint the moment it happened and it feels like he missed something important.  His mother, Irina, has brought out a pot of coffee and the Medovik. They’d embraced all the Thanksgiving traditions over the years, having stuffed themselves full of turkey and more sides than Ilya could fit on his plate just a few short hours ago. Despite having fled Moscow, leaving behind Ilya’s rotten father and the terrifying life he would have no doubt inflicted on Ilya, his mother, and brother, Alexei, they still tried to preserve some of the good memories from Russia. Medovik was one of the best of them.

Alexei’s daughter, Eva, squeals at the mere sight of it, squirming from her spot on the floor, ready to pounce on the cake.

“Calm body,” her mother and Alexei’s wife, Sarah, reminds her.

Eva stills for the most part, and Ilya marvels at how effective those two words are.  

In comparison, his cousin Sveta’s children are running around like feral racoons, sticky fingers landing on every surface within their reach. Her wife, Rose, tries to wrangle them with the promise of a movie they’ve seen and loved a million times, but that only seems to fuel their need for chaos and destruction.

Ilya takes in the scene. It’s madness, but it’s nice and he thinks for a moment about what it would look like right now if he had stayed.  He pictures Shane sitting by his side on the couch, one arm around Ilya’s shoulder while he sips slowly on a beer. Or maybe he’d be rolling around on the floor with Sveta’s gremlins and letting them jump all over him.

His momentary mirage is interrupted by his phone vibrating in his pocket.  He doesn’t really need to look to know who it is, but he does anyway. 

Shane: fifteen?

Ilya types out a response, hits send.

Ilya: See you then.

He stands up, stretches out, then tries to decide which lie to tell before he slips out, which is always the tricky part.  He comes home for the holiday, then leaves to spend most of it with Shane.  He knows he’s probably hurting their feelings every year at least a little, but the idea of not spending as much time as possible with Shane is still unbearable and he’ll be a selfish asshole if it means filling that particular hole in his heart even for just a few days because it’s the only way he survives the rest of them.

Before he can decide which lie to tell, his mother is by his side, slipping her car keys into his pocket.

“I’m going Black Friday shopping with Sarah tomorrow,” she whispers to him.  “And then everyone will be at Uncle Milo’s on Saturday for lunch. Sveta will give me a ride. I don’t need the car at all this weekend.”

“How did you–,” Ilya starts, but she shushes him.

“You are not subtle, my love.  You have a duffle bag by the door.  And you do the same thing every year.” 

Ilya’s face flushes. He knows he’s not the best liar in the world, but being called out by his mother is a low blow.

“Sorry, Mama,” he says, hanging his head.

She rubs his back.  “Don’t be sorry.  Be careful.”

Ilya makes a face. “It’s a little late for a sex talk, Mama.”

She laughs, shoving him playfully.

“I meant with your heart, моё солнышко. You come home every year, and every year you go to him and every year, you leave and he stays.”

“I know this.” 

“Please take care of your heart. It's my favorite thing about you.”

He kisses the top of her head, then slips out the side door that leads to the garage after grabbing his duffle.

Ilya takes the main road in town to the pier. The sky above is still grey and it’s cold. A particular New England cold that feels so much worse at the start of it.  By March, this same cold will feel like a spring day.  Ilya keeps adjusting the car’s heat settings, trying to de-fog the windshield glass but he never remembers the right settings. 

The drive is short and quiet; there are few cars on the road because most people are already at their destination for the holiday. Ilya arrives at the pier and parks in the long term ferry parking lot.  The ferry service to the Vineyard is closed for the holiday, but there are enough cars that his mom’s car won’t stand out.  It’s so ridiculous, taking his mother’s car only to leave it in a parking lot two blocks from where Shane lives. He could, he should, just drive to Shane’s apartment building, but those aren’t the steps and the steps have to be followed.

He’s staring out over the pier, past the fishing boats that line it.  It’s still one of the busiest commercial fishing ports in the United States, though you can’t tell by looking at it now. Ilya’s always been fascinated by it all. He would come down on seafood auction days and watch scallops, cod, and more being sold off. He was even offered a job on his uncle’s friend's boat just before he turned 18.  He and Shane had a plan at that point, so he had said no easily.  And then their plans changed.

Ilya sees Shane’s black GMC Sierra pull up.  He quickly grabs his duffle bag, makes sure his mom’s car is locked tight and then climbs into the truck.  He closes the door, immediately greeted by the scent of Shane’s woodsy-scented body wash and a pre-warmed passenger seat. He swears he can actually feel his heart flip flop behind his ribs. 

“Remember when we used Axe body spray?” 

Shane grimaces as if the horrifically artificial scent has permeated his nose at its mention alone.

“I was a Phoenix guy,” he recalls with a wistful shudder.

“Ah yes,” Ilya says.  “I used Kilo.”

“How anyone could stand to be around us both dripping with those cross-mingling scents is beyond me.”

Ilya nods in agreement.  “I remember that year Alexei bought us both that Armani cologne for Christmas."

“Yeah, a gift for us and everyone around us.” 

They are both laughing easily now as Shane drives the short distance to his apartment building.  Ice breaker mission: accomplished.

Shane parks in his allotted space under the large apartment building, which was once a textile factory that overlooks the ocean. He has one of the larger units on the upper floor, with vaulted ceilings and exposed beams. It’s an open concept unit with industrial bones, but Shane has made it homey with his choice of art and mix of vintage and custom-built furniture. It’s the polar opposite of Ilya’s non-descript generic apartment that he’s grateful Shane has never seen.

Ilya walks into Shane’s bedroom and drops his duffle just inside the door. He returns to find Shane in the kitchen, pulling out two cans of soda: a Coke for Ilya and a Canada Dry for himself. He slides the Coke to Ilya, who takes a seat in a chair at the island.

“I know you’re probably not hungry, but my mom sent me home with a ton of leftovers.”

“Maybe later. How is Mama Yuna?” he asks, wincing as soon as the moniker leaves his lips.  He really needs to stop calling her that.

“She’s good. Still working at the library.”

“And your dad?”

Shane sighs.  It’s a natural next question and Ilya knows he is perfectly in line to ask it, but the answer carries the weight of…everything.

“He’s okay.  He’s been doing some admin work here and there, from home. The doctors have finally admitted he will never get full use of his left-side again after the stroke. It’s been a lot.  But I think he finally feels a bit useful again.”

“That’s good news,” Ilya says with a nod.

Ten years ago, David Hollander suffered a massive stroke. It happened 10 days before Shane and Ilya were set to move across the country to L.A.  Ilya to attend UCLA, and Shane to try to break into acting.  They had saved every penny from Shane’s job at Moby Dick’s and Ilya’s job at the local AMC. They had put a deposit down sight unseen on what was very likely a rat infested shithole of an apartment because Ilya had no desire to be away from Shane in a fucking dorm. They were so excited.  Their futures seemed limitless.  And then. And then. And then.

Ilya hates himself for being mad at David Hollander. David was more of a father to Ilya than his own father ever was. Ilya loved David, still loves David.  David taught him about good music. David taught him how to change a tire. David took him to soccer practice that one year he thought he might be a team sport kid. David accepted him, accepted him and Shane, with open arms and an open heart.  Then he suffered a catastrophic stroke and the construction business he’d built from the ground up for 25 years was in jeopardy because David had never really trusted anyone to show them the ropes. So Shane stayed.  First for a few weeks.  And then for a few months. And then for 10 years.

Now they are here, in Shane’s apartment in the Massachusetts town they grew up in.  And Ilya lives across the country.  And for the next 2 days they will play house, they will pretend.

“My mom made Medovik,” Ilya says.  “I wanted to bring you a slice but she hadn’t done the first cut yet.”

It’s his favorite and, despite Ilya consistently relaying messages that Irina is still more than happy to let Shane know whenever she makes it, he always refuses.

“No worries,” Shane says.  “Want to watch a movie?”

“Sure.” 

They bicker back and forth for a long time about which movie to watch before finally agreeing on Arrival. As the movie starts they take their usual positions on the couch, a full cushion between them.  They get progressively closer as the minutes tick by until Ilya is leaning all the way back on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table. He has one hand on the arm of the couch and the other around Shane, who is now pressed to his side.

Ilya’s hand sits on Shane’s hip and he starts rubbing it absentmindedly while on screen, Amy Adams is trying to communicate with aliens. Shane nuzzles his head into Ilya, sliding down inch by inch until his head is in Ilya’s lap. They stay like that for another few scenes before Shane starts tracing lines up and down Ilya’s thigh with his fingers. Ilya puts a hand in Shane’s hair, gently running his fingers through it at first, then adding pressure to massage his scalp, delighting at the content little whimpers Shane lets out as a result.

They’ve long stopped paying attention to the movie, which is fine because they’ve seen it multiple times. Shane sits up and swings his legs off the couch so that they are seated side by side. He rubs circles around Ilya’s thighs again, before bringing his hand higher to undo the button of Ilya’s pants. He reaches in and finds what he was looking for.  Ilya lets out a deep moan. 

“Fuck,” he groans out. “Bedroom?”

They abandon the movie, they abandon the pretense that every second since they first laid eyes on each other last night hasn't been leading to this. They rush to the bedroom and soon they are a tangle of discarded clothing and complicated emotions but they don’t let either of those things stop them.  There’s no fumbling, no wondering if a touch is the right pressure point or worrying that a tongue might graze the wrong place. They know each other’s likes and dislikes, they know every inch of each other’s bodies. The only need for stopping might be to quickly map a new wrinkle, mark, or scar. They unwind and unravel each other with practiced expertise.

After, their satiated and spent bodies are pressed against each other, there are sheets and pillows strewn about the room, and evening has officially transitioned into night and a quiet calm has settled in.  And then Ilya’s stomach makes a low but audible gurgle.

“Hungry?” Shane asks, one eyebrow raised.

“Well, I did just burn many, many calories,” he says, turning his mild embarrassment into a joke. 

“Alright, up! Let’s go!” Shane commands.  

He stands up, throwing on a pair of gym shorts he pulls from an ever-present pile of folded laundry that just lives on a chair in the corner and never truly gets put away. Ilya’s smile is fond because Shane likes to keep things neat and orderly and  there is always a place for everything.  But even he is not immune to the leaning pile of folded clothes. He pulls a pair of pants and shirt from the pile and tosses it over Ilya’s face.  There’s a change of clothes in  Ilya’s duffle by the door, but Ilya knows that Shane enjoys seeing him in his clothes so he obliges, like always. 

Shane makes his way to the kitchen and Ilya isn't far behind, now dressed in Shane’s black joggers and a Boston Bruins t-shirt.  On the kitchen island are several glass containers of leftovers. He hands Ilya a plate and he takes it, filling it with his favorites: Yuna’s mac and cheese, Yuna’s sweet potato casserole, Yuna’s honey corn bread bake.

After he sets the microwave to reheat his plate, he leans against the counter. 

“How was your Thanksgiving?” Ilya asks carefully.

“Mostly quiet,” Shane replies.  “Lots of leftovers, as you can see.  My aunt and uncle were supposed to come but they both have the flu so it was just me, my parents, and Sam.”

“How is Sam?”

“An impossible, asshole teenager,” Shane says with an eyeroll.

Ilya sucks in a breath. Sam is Shane’s little brother, born when he was 15. For the first four years of Sam’s life, Ilya had been an integral part of it. Wherever Shane was, Ilya followed and, as soon as he could walk, Sam was right behind them both. Shane used to joke that Sam liked Ilya better, which was both funny and accurate. He was just shy of turning five when David’s stroke happened, another reason for Shane to stay.

“I can’t believe he’s 15,” Ilya marvels. 

“I know, right. He’s the same age we were when he was born.  It’s wild. But he is such an asshole right now.”

“We were assholes, too, at 15.”

“Not like him.”

“Hmm…remember how mad you were at your mom when she told you she was pregnant? You made her cry. I had to buy her flowers.”

“Fuck, I forgot about that. I was a selfish asshole.”

“You grew out of it,” Ilya reassures him.  “Sam will too.”

The microwave beeps and Ilya takes his plate out, replacing it with Shane’s and setting the timer.

They make small talk as they eat, sticking mostly to family stories, occasionally peppering in a tale from their youth.  They do not talk about Ilya’s current job, his career, or anything L.A.-related. It’s the elephant in the room and they have tossed a blanket over it and are pretending it’s part of the decor.

“Do you want to finish the movie?” Ilya asks after they have finished eating.

“I want to finish in the bedroom,” Shane says darkly.

“Oh I’m pretty sure you finished earlier.  Twice.”

“Why not go for three?”

Ilya is already up and pulling his shirt–Shane’s shirt–over his head and racing to the bedroom. Shane is at his heels.

Hours later, after the total orgasm count between them has doubled, Shane is sleeping soundly in Ilya’s arms.  The heavy clouds in the night sky have parted just enough in the right spot to let a small stream of moonlight into the bedroom.  It allows Ilya the perfect view of Shane’s peaceful sleeping face right below him. In this moment, Ilya feels a calm that he has not felt since the year prior, in more or less the same position. Behind the calm, though, is the sobering realization that Ilya will keep doing this forever.  If it means he can have this moment, this weekend, he will do it for the rest of his life. Even with the pain he knows will follow when he leaves on Sunday.  The agonizing plane ride back to California where he’ll dream that Shane is sitting in the seat next to him, having performed some Grand Romantic Gesture of running to the airport last minute, throwing himself at Ilya’s feet, and asking if it was too late.  It will never be too late. Ilya closes his eyes and tries to fall asleep and hopes it will be dreamless.

He wakes in the morning to find the space beside him empty.  He burrows himself further under the blankets, inhaling the familiar lavender scent of Shane’s laundry detergent. A few years ago, Ilya had bought it for himself in California and washed his own sheets with it, thinking it would make him feel closer to Shane. It ended up being an exercise in torture, the presence of the smell met with the absence of Shane was unbearable. He never used that detergent again.

He gets up and walks out of the bedroom to find Shane leaning over the kitchen island, coffee in one hand, his phone in the other.

“Morning, babe,” he says when Ilya catches his eye. “There’s coffee,” he continues, nodding to the pot on the counter.

Ilya pours a cup, opens the fridge to find his very specific coffee creamer preference in the door. He gives it a shake, pops the top, removes the foil seal and pours in a more than generous amount.

“Is that even coffee anymore?” Shane asks, mostly teasing.

“I’m sorry I’m not a masochist who drinks their coffee black.” Ilya retorts, scrunching his face in disgust.

“Do you want to go for a run?” Shane asks.

“That sounds worse than black coffee.” 

“I figured as much. I’m going to go for a quick one, down the pier.  Probably just a few miles, maybe a little more.”

“Okay.” He takes his coffee over to the couch, grabs the TV remote and flops lazily onto the couch. “Have fun!”

By the time Shane returns an hour later, Ilya has made them bacon and egg sandwiches and they eat them standing in the kitchen with their shoulders touching, Shane reaching over to wipe the runny egg off of Ilya’s chin.

They shower together, and are so thorough with each other’s bodies that the water has long gone cold but neither of them offer up a complaint. After, Shane dresses in grey sweats and Ilya puts on another pair of Shane’s black joggers and a blue hoodie. They settle back on the couch, tangling their limbs together.  Shane scrolls through the endless options on the TV while they start another heated debate about which is the best season of Lost. 

They are in the middle of arguing about the Smoke Monster when Shane scrolls to the show that Ilya works on.  There is a dip in the conversation, like a record scratch, as Shane scrambles to get the remote to move past it.

“Have you ever watched it?” Ilya whispers, eyes fixed on the TV.

“No,” Shane whispers back.

“Okay.”

Shane scrolls past Lost, then goes back, and presses play on the pilot.  They watch it like it’s the first time, though it is not, marveling at how well executed it was for “the time” and agreeing that it’s one of the best TV pilots of all-time.

They end up watching a handful of episodes in between short naps and long make-outs.  The light moves across the apartment as the day goes on and, before they know it, the sun has set again. 

“You’re staying again tonight?” Shane asks, though they both already know the answer.

“Yes.” 

They eat more leftovers, this time straight from the containers.  Ilya tries to do the dishes, until Shane interrupts him by putting his hand down Ilya’s pants. They fuck on the rug on the kitchen floor despite Ilya’s half-hearted attempts to move them to a softer surface.

Eventually they do finish cleaning up and end up back in the bedroom where they make every effort to bend, stretch, even stop time. But the clock insists on ticking on and so they make the most of it. Again. And Again. It’s all they can do.

After, when they are blissed out, bodies still slick with sweat, they stare silently at each other. Ilya’s not sure how much time has gone by but it feels like they are wasting precious time lost in the staring, but neither of them can look away. There’s so much to say—there’s always so much to say— but neither of them will. There is shared blame in the leaving and the staying ten years ago, and now neither of them wants to be responsible for the end of it, now.

They end up falling asleep in silence, wrapped tightly in each other’s arms.  Shane falls asleep first, and Ilya listens happily to the sound of his breath evening out, the tiny snore emitting from one nostril on the exhales. He memorizes the sound like it’s a song, one he can replay to hold on to this memory. He falls asleep.

When he wakes up Saturday morning, Shane is still asleep next to him.  They had untangled for the most part during the night, but their legs are still touching and Ilya increases the pressure of the touch, just enough to not wake him. He cups his hand over Shane’s cheek, rubbing his thumb softly over the freckles he memorized so many years ago.  He does it gently, as if applying too much pressure could rub them off. He wonders for a second if that would be better. If Shane didn’t have those stupid incredible fucking mesmerizing freckles spread across his cheeks he thinks he could probably walk away.  But he sees them everywhere: in the stars on a clear night, on the cinnamon sprinkled on his overpriced lattes. Those freckles fucking haunt him. And they are permanently attached to Shane’s pretty face and it all makes Ilya weak in the knees. He doesn’t really believe in God or subscribe to any religion but he would build an altar, get on his knees, and pray to Shane Hollander’s freckles.

“You’re thinking about my freckles,” mumbles Shane, eyes still closed.

“I’m always always thinking about your freckles.”

Shane laughs and opens his eyes, leaning into Ilya’s touch.

“Can your Apple watch tell us what time it is?” Shane asks, moving his hand to try to tickle Ilya’s stomach. Ilya is too fast and grabs his hand, moving it due south.  They don’t look at the time again for a while.

It’s almost afternoon when they finally do care to check the time and an unease starts to settle in Ilya’s stomach.

“What time do you have to go?”

“Not for a little while,” Ilya says, a slight hitch in his voice.

“You should spend more time with your mom before you go,” Shane points out.

“I know,” Ilya agrees, then he pulls Shane in tighter instead of making any effort to get up.

“Come on,” Shane says.  “Let’s get up.  There’s a new coffee place that opened up on the boulevard, close to the beach. They have so many sugary coffees you can pick from.  And then I want to show you something before you go.”

This is not part of the dance, Ilya thinks to himself nervously.

“Okay,” he says out loud. 

And so they get up and get dressed and this time Ilya puts on his own clothes, which is a sobering reality he doesn’t have a choice but to accept. Once they are ready, Ilya does a quick check to make sure he hasn’t left anything behind.  He’s tried that trick twice before: once with a hair brush and once with a hoodie.  Both items were returned the next year and he hasn’t tried again, too embarrassed by the possibility that Shane wants no trace of Ilya left behind.

He grabs his bag and they head back down to Shane’s truck.  Once inside, Shane puts on a mix of music from their high school years.  They drive in silence, one or both of them humming along to one of the songs.  Ilya notices the addition of new light posts along the road that leads to the stretch of beach in the town. They reach their destination: an industrial themed coffee spot, which is not a stretch considering it’s located in an industrial building that rents out space to businesses.

Ilya orders a salted caramel iced latte for himself and an Americano for Shane, and then watches as Shane chats animatedly with the barista, who is allegedly the brother of one of the guys that works for Shane. Ilya stands off to the side, sipping on his drink with its dome-lid filled with whipped cream and drizzled caramel sauce. He looks at a selection of magazines spread out on a nearby coffee table.  One of them features the lead of the show he writes for on the cover, a fairly famous person he knows and who knows him by name and yet here he is, off to the side, again.

He doesn’t take it personally for too long because, in a matter of minutes, Shane is back at his side, guiding them back to his truck.  By the time he puts in drive, Ilya can tell something different is happening. He is bouncy, nervous. Ilya wants to ask where they are going, but doesn’t want to make waves during the last precious moments of their otherwise good weekend.

Shane drives for a few minutes, turning onto one of the streets that separates the two sides of the beach that surrounds the peninsula. He stops in front of a fairly large, two-story home.  It’s painted ocean blue and looks a little rough around the edges. 

“Did you pull over here so we can neck with no one watching?” Ilya asks while waggling his eyebrows exaggeratedly. 

“Neck? Jesus Christ, Ilya, are you 100 years old?”

Before Ilya can answer, Shane is out of the car and Ilya scrambles out to follow him.  He walks right up to the house and uses a key from his keyring to let them in.

“Are you working on this house?” 

“I am.” 

“Who owns it?”

“I do.” 

Those two words land like a sucker punch. 

“Are you going to flip it?” Ilya asks, his voice sounding unfamiliar in his own ears.

“Nope.  I’m going to live here when it’s done.”

Ilya nods. He lets Shane show him the kitchen and detail every upgrade he has planned.  He lets Shane lead him up to the second floor, Shane pausing to point out a loose step that needs to be fixed.  Shane shows him the primary bedroom with a future ensuite bathroom and planned walk-in closet. Throughout the tour Shane is  all “I” and “me” and it’s clear he has no plans to ask Ilya to live here with him.  And why would he? The idea is insane.  Ilya has an apartment, a life. In fucking L.A. He chased his dream and is actively achieving it. So why does every “I” and “me” that escapes Shane’s lips feel like a slap in the face? 

“So what do you think?” he asks when they are back at the front door.

“It’s so nice, Shane. You’ll make it incredible,” he replies, his body going on autopilot as his brain does a bunch of quick calculations in his head, wondering how long ago Shane bought this house and how long this has been his plan. Somewhere along the line, while Ilya was in L.A., hoping for Shane to finally join him to start their shared life, Shane had been here building one without him.

It’s all getting to be a bit too much, so Ilya takes a probably obviously long look at his dumb Apple watch.

“We should probably get going.  Drive me back to mom’s car?”

“Of course,” Shane says, ushering them out the door then stopping to check that it was locked up tight before they left.  Ilya is lost in thought on the ride back, whatever song playing on the  high school playlist has faded into the background.  

He didn’t know anything about this house until now. There will always be things he doesn’t get to know about Shane.  Like how he smokes now.  What’s next? “I do yoga now” or “I’m in love with someone else now.”  That particular thought causes the iced latte currently sitting in his stomach to threaten a reappearance. He leans his head on the cold passenger window. They are now just minutes from the parking lot where Ilay’s mom’s car has been sitting.

“Are you okay?” Shane asks as hits pause on the music. 

“Yeah, fine. Just mentally gearing up for the week ahead when I get back.  A lot of script stuff happening, meeting with the showrunner. I’m on a short list for an indie feature.” 

Ilya doesn’t talk about L.A., but Shane has a fucking house now and so Ilya feels the need to remind Shane that he has stuff happening and things to do too. Very busy. Very important.

They reach the parking lot and Ilya is both glad and devastated.  Shane puts the car in park so he can turn to face Ilya.  For about 30 seconds, neither of them says anything and Ilya thinks for a few solitary seconds that Shane is about to say something life-altering, something that will keep him here.  All Shane has to do is ask.

“You know I kind of wanted to ask you to fuck me in just that leather jacket,” Shane says, seemingly out of fucking nowhere.

And just like that, Ilya’s thoughts go from outright spiraling to downright obscene.

“Fuck Hollander, why are you just telling me this now?” 

“You told me not to say anything about the jacket,” he replies with a smug satisfaction that tells Ilya he’s been holding on to this for days just to have this exact moment and make Ilya crazy.

“You know, I think I'm going to get out of this car and storm off without so much as kissing you,” Ilya threatens. 

“No you’re not.”

“No I’m not.”

They go back to staring.  They go back to not talking directly about anything that needs talking about.  Ilya  goes back to thinking about the impossibility of the expectation of this moment. The final kiss of the weekend, anticipated and dreaded in equal measure. He thinks about going off-script again, but then doesn’t.  Enough has changed, he cant handle anymore. So he doesn't. If this was a movie, the music would be swelling right now. 

This is how it ends, hopefully until next year but maybe for forever:  

“What if this is the last time I get to kiss you, Hollander?”

“Then you’d better make it count, Rozanov.”