Archive of Our Own

The movie had been Max's choice, which meant it was loud and Shane had lost the plot about twenty minutes in. He didn't care. He was on the couch with his legs stretched out, a glass of wine in his hand, and Ilya beside him. The boys were on the other couch, Max sitting forward like the movie owed him something, Nik sideways with his feet tucked under a cushion, half watching, half sketching something in the margins of a notebook.

It was Friday night. The best two words in the English language when you had two kids in hockey and a husband who still didn't understand the concept of an indoor voice.

Shane took a sip of his wine. It was his second glass and he was warm. Ilya's hand was on his thigh, the way it always ended up when they were on a couch together. Shane could feel the weight of it through his sweatpants.

On screen, something exploded. Max said "oh shit" under his breath. Nik didn't look up.

"Language," Shane said.

"You didn't hear that."

"I always hear that."

Ilya's thumb started moving. Just his thumb, tracing a slow circle on the inside of Shane's thigh. He wasn't looking at Shane. He was looking at the screen. He did that sometimes, absentminded touching, his hands always finding Shane without the rest of him seeming to notice.

Shane shifted and Ilya's thumb pressed harder. The warmth from the wine was spreading through Shane's chest and into his limbs. He sank deeper into the couch.

On the other couch, Max was leaning forward. "This is the best part."

"You've seen this before?" Shane asked.

"Three times."

"Then why are we watching it?"

"Because the best part is the best part every time." Max gestured at the screen. "Watch."

Shane watched. He had no idea what he was watching. Ilya's hand had left his thigh, his fingers sliding up into the hair at the back of Shane's head and gently pulling him closer until Shane's shoulder gave way, leaning heavily against Ilya’s chest. Shane's eyes were losing focus. He took another sip of wine to give his hands something to do. 

The best part happened and Max flopped back against the couch. Nik continued drawing. Shane heard the noise and saw the TV flash, but none of it actually made it past the feeling of Ilya's fingers in his hair.

Ilya turned his head and kissed Shane's temple. Soft and easy. So habitual it barely counted, except that Ilya's mouth stayed close after, his breath warm against Shane's skin.

"Good movie," Ilya murmured.

"You're not watching the movie."

"I am watching something."

Ilya kissed him again. The corner of his jaw. Shane felt his skin prickle. Ilya's hand was still on his neck, thumb still moving, and now Ilya's mouth was moving too and Shane was not going to do this on the couch with his children four feet away.

"Ilya," Shane said, quietly to warn him.

Ilya leaned back. His hand slid down to the cushion, but he didn't look over. He just picked up his own wine and took a sip, eyes on the screen, like nothing had happened.

Shane stared at the TV. His skin was still tingling where Ilya's fingers had just been. His face was warm and it wasn't the wine. He was extremely aware of Ilya beside him and Ilya's cologne, which Ilya didn't wear at home, which meant Ilya had put cologne on tonight, which meant—

Shane took another sip of wine.

The movie ended and the credits rolled. Max stretched both arms over his head and cracked his neck in a way that made Shane wince.

"Don't do that."

"It feels good."

"It sounds like you're breaking."

"I'm loosening."

Max grabbed the remote and turned the TV off. He looked at the two of them. Shane was suddenly aware that he was leaning into Ilya's side, Ilya's arm around him, and that he was holding a nearly empty glass of wine, and that all of this probably looked exactly like what it was.

"Get a room," Max said, standing up.

"This is a room," Ilya said. "We own all the rooms. This is our house."

"Sure." Max was already moving. "Nik, you want to play?"

Nik closed his notebook and stood. "What?"

"Whatever. Come on."

They went downstairs. Shane heard them on the stairs,then the media room door closed and he could hear the muffled start-up sound of whatever console they were playing. Then it was quiet.

Ilya's hand moved from Shane's neck to his jaw. He turned Shane's face toward him and kissed him.

It was slow and deliberate. Ilya's mouth was warm from the wine, his hand holding Shane exactly where he wanted him. Shane opened for him, and when Ilya's tongue slid against his, Shane heard himself make a sound he never would have made thirty seconds ago with his children in the room. 

Ilya pulled back. His eyes were dark. "Hi."

"Hi."

"Boys are downstairs."

"I know."

"Media room."

"I know."

"Is very far away." Ilya kissed the corner of Shane's mouth. "Very thick walls."

"The walls are not thick."

"Thick enough."

Shane laughed and Ilya kissed him again, harder, pressing him back into the couch cushions. Shane's wine glass was still in his hand and he reached blindly for the coffee table to set it down. Then both of his hands were free and he threaded his fingers through Ilya's curls.

Ilya's weight shifted over him, pushing Shane flat against the cushions. He crowded over him, his body completely covering Shane's. Shane was on his back with Ilya heavy over him, and when Ilya's thigh pushed between his legs, Shane's hips moved. 

"Upstairs," Shane said.

"Here is good."

"Here is the living room."

"Living room is good."

"Ilya. The boys are downstairs."

"They are busy. They will be busy for hours."

"I don't care. We are not doing this on the couch."

Ilya pulled back and looked at him. Shane was flushed, breathing fast, his hair pushed off his forehead from Ilya's hands. Shane could see the exact second Ilya weighed his options, the briefest flicker of a smirk crossing his face before he accepted defeat and let out a short breath. 

"Upstairs," Ilya agreed. He stood and held out his hand.

Shane took it. They went upstairs. Ilya's hand was on the small of Shane's back as they climbed, warm through his t-shirt. Shane's brain was already doing the math. The boys were two floors down in the basement, the media room door was heavy, and Max always turned the volume up too loud anyway. They were fine. 

They got to the bedroom, Ilya closing the door behind them so Shane could turn the lock. He didn't even have time to drop his hand from the knob before Ilya was right there, standing so close that the heat of his chest pressed against Shane's back without quite touching yet. Then Ilya’s hands found Shane’s hips, his mouth dropping to the back of Shane’s neck, and Shane finally let go, leaning all his weight back into him.

"You smell good," Shane said.

"I put cologne on."

"I noticed."

Ilya's mouth moved to the side of Shane's neck. He kissed the spot below Shane's ear and Shane's eyes closed. Ilya's hands slid under the hem of Shane's shirt, palms flat on his stomach, and Shane felt the ring. Ilya's wedding ring, cool against his skin, the metal warming as Ilya's hands moved higher.

"Take this off," Ilya said, pulling at Shane's shirt. Shane lifted his arms and Ilya pulled it over his head, dropping it. Ilya didn't even wait for it to land before he reached down, grabbed the hem of his own shirt, and yanked it over his head in one fluid motion. Then Ilya's chest was against his bare back, skin to skin, and his arms came around Shane, holding him there.

"We don't have to be quiet," Shane said, his breath hitching as he leaned back.

"No," Ilya agreed, his lips brushing the curve of Shane's ear. "We do not."

Shane turned around. He reached out, pulling Ilya against him until they were completely chest to chest. Shane’s hands slid right up to Ilya's jaw as he kissed him, and Ilya caught him around the waist, walking him backward toward the bed.

Shane's legs hit the mattress and he sat down. Ilya stood over him for a fraction of a second, looking down at him with an expression that had been exactly the same since Shane was nineteen. Hungry and patient, absolutely certain.

"Lie down," Ilya said.

Shane lay back. Ilya followed him down, settling between Shane's legs, his weight pressing Shane into the mattress. He kissed Shane's mouth, then his jaw, then his neck, then lower. Shane's hand found the back of Ilya's head. Ilya's mouth moved across his chest, slow, biting the muscle above his hip, and Shane's breath stuttered.

Ilya looked up at him. "You are very relaxed tonight."

"Wine."

"Not just wine." Ilya kissed his stomach. "You are different. Soft."

"I'm not soft."

"Your body is soft. Your brain is off." Ilya's fingers hooked in the waistband of Shane's sweatpants. "I like when your brain is off."

He pulled Shane's sweats down. Shane lifted his hips to help. Ilya dropped them off the side of the bed and then his mouth was on Shane's hip, the crease of his thigh, everywhere except where Shane wanted him.

"Ilya."

"Hm?"

"Stop teasing."

"Am not teasing. Am appreciating."

"Appreciate faster."

Ilya laughed, low, his breath warm against Shane's skin. Then his mouth was on Shane's cock, no warning, and Shane's hand fisted in the sheets.

Ilya pressed his hip back down with one hand, pinning him to the mattress as his tongue dragged over him again. Slow. Ilya only went this slow when he knew they had hours. Shane dropped his head back against the pillow, his eyes tracking the dark shadows on the ceiling. The comfortable, lazy hum of the wine dissolved, leaving his mind completely blank under his husband’s mouth. 

Ilya pulled off. Kissed the inside of his thigh. Went back down. He was taking his time and Shane let him because the wine had loosened every hinge in his body and he couldn't remember why he usually rushed this. He couldn't remember anything. The house was quiet and Ilya's mouth was—

"Fuck," Shane said. Not quietly.

Ilya hummed around him and Shane's back arched. He was loud. Louder than he ever let himself be at home. It was the kind of noise he usually saved for hotels in Toronto or Philadelphia or Boston. In all the rooms where the walls were thick and nobody was listening.

He knew better. He knew exactly who was downstairs, but with the wine heavy in his veins and Ilya's mouth on him, he couldn't bring himself to care.

Ilya pulled off before Shane got close. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and crawled up Shane's body, kissing him deep and wet, tasting like Shane. Shane grabbed his hips and pulled them against his own. The friction of Ilya's sweatpants against his cock made him groan into Ilya's mouth.

"Off," Shane said, tugging at Ilya's waistband. "Take these off."

Ilya shoved his sweats down and kicked them off so there was nothing left between them. Shane's legs wrapped tight around Ilya's waist, and the second Ilya rolled his hips, the sudden, hard press of skin against skin pulled a sharp, loud sound out of both of them. 

"I want you," Shane said. "Please."

"Tell me."

"Fuck me. I want you to fuck me."

Ilya reached for the nightstand drawer. The lube was in same place it had lived for years. Shane heard the cap and then Ilya's slick fingers were between his legs, one finger was pressing inside him. Shane exhaled slow, letting his body open.

"More," Shane said, almost immediately.

Ilya paired his fingers and pushed inside. Shane's breath hitched, his hips chasing the contact, and the second Ilya curled his fingers, Shane's entire body went rigid, his hands clawing into the sheets. 

"There," Shane said. "Right there. Don't stop."

"I know where." Ilya kissed his knee. "I always know where."

He worked Shane open with patience that Shane didn't share, adding a third finger when Shane started begging for it. Shane's hand was in Ilya's hair, gripping, and his legs were shaking and he was making sounds he didn't hear because the wine and Ilya's fingers had dismantled every filter he had.

Ilya pulled his fingers out and Shane heard the lube again. Then Ilya's hand was on his hip, turning him.

"Over," Ilya said. "On your stomach."

Shane rolled over. He settled on his stomach, arms in front of him, his face turned to the side on the pillow. He felt exposed and warm and loose and he didn't care about any of it.

Ilya covered him. All of him. His chest against Shane's back, his thighs against Shane's thighs, his weight pressing Shane flat into the mattress. Shane couldn't move. He didn't want to move. Ilya's mouth was at his ear and Ilya's cock was pressing between his legs, slick and hard, not inside him yet, just there.

"Good?" Ilya asked.

"Yeah. Good. Please."

Ilya pulled back enough to push inside him. Shane felt every inch of it, the stretch and the fullness. Ilya's breath was ragged against his ear. His hands were flat on the mattress in front of him and Ilya's hands covered them, lacing their fingers together, pinning Shane's hands to the bed.

"Ilya," Shane breathed.

"Mmm Shane." Ilya's mouth was against his ear.

He started to move. Slow at first, a rhythm that was all patience, the exact kind of slow they never allowed themselves anymore. Shane pushed back against him, but Ilya just pressed him down, his weight anchoring Shane flat against the sheets. Shane stopped trying to calculate the time or the distance to the stairs. He just stopped fighting and let himself be taken under.

Ilya picked up the pace. Shane locked his fingers tight around Ilya's. He could hear himself—he was being loud, way louder than he should have been in this house—but his internal radar just short-circuited. With Ilya driving hard against him, he couldn't find the willpower to care.

"You sound so good," Ilya said against his ear, his hips snapping harder. Shane cried out, a sharp, unchecked sound, and the bed moved violently under them. "So good, Shane. Let me hear you."

Shane gave up trying to smother it. His face was turned to the side, mouth open, every deep thrust catching in his throat. Ilya unlaced one hand from Shane's and reached down between their bodies, gripping him tight, and Shane's forehead dropped against the headboard.

"Fuck— fuck, Ilya, I'm—"

"Not yet." Ilya's stroke slowed on his front, but his hips didn't. "Not yet, Shane."

Shane swore, pressing his face into the pillows. Ilya’s weight pinned him flat, his free hand shifting to anchor Shane's hip as his cock hit him exactly right. Shane was going to die on this bed on a Friday night in October.

Ilya shifted his angle, driving deep, and Shane's grip on the sheets ripped loose. He yelled Ilya's name.

"That's it," Ilya said. "That's it, Shenya."

Ilya drove harder, moving his hand fast and relentless. Shane came with his face buried in his arms, shouting Ilya's name into the fabric as his entire body went rigid. Ilya held him through the release, keeping his pace until his own rhythm finally broke. He pressed his face deep into the back of Shane’s neck and came, his hips stuttering, a low sound in Russian that Shane felt vibration-deep against his spine.

They lay there. Ilya pinned him flat, both of them breathing hard, the sheets pulled halfway off the bed. Shane could feel Ilya's heartbeat knocking against his back, fast at first, then slowly dropping.

"Get off me," Shane said with no force behind it.

"No."

"You're heavy."

"You like it."

Shane did like it. He lay there under his husband and breathed. He felt the warm, boneless looseness spread through him. His brain was still off. His body was still buzzing. The room was quiet and the house was quiet. Everything was good.

Ilya eventually rolled off him. They cleaned up. Ilya did it because Ilya always did it when Shane was too far gone to move. He tugged the tangled duvet out from under Shane’s legs, throwing the ruined mess to the foot of the bed before disappearing into the bathroom. He came back with a warm washcloth that he ran across Shane's back and between his legs, then tossed it in the direction of the hamper. He pulled the clean top sheet up over both of them and settled against Shane's side, arm across his chest, mouth against his shoulder. 

"You good?" Ilya asked.

"Yeah." Shane was already drifting. "Really good."

"Mm." Ilya kissed his shoulder. "Wine sex."

"Don't call it that."

"Is what it is. Wine sex. Very good. We should do this every Friday."

"Go to sleep, Ilya."

Ilya laughed against his skin. Shane closed his eyes and fell asleep in his arms.

✦

Shane woke up feeling relaxed.

It was worth noting because Shane did not always wake up feeling that way. He woke up most mornings already running a list of things to do: school lunches, after school activities, the thing Nik had mentioned needing for art class, whether Ilya had a media obligation he'd forgotten about. Shane's brain started before his eyes opened. It had been doing that for forty-five years.

But his brain was quiet. His body was still loose. Ilya was asleep beside him, one arm flung across Shane's waist, breathing with his mouth open because Ilya slept like a man who had never once worried about how he looked unconscious. Shane lay there for a minute and let himself feel it, the rare, warm blankness of a Saturday morning with nowhere to be.

Except they had places to be. The boys had practice at nine. Which meant Shane had to be downstairs by eight. Which meant this blankness had about four minutes left.

He got up, pulled on sweatpants and a t-shirt, and went downstairs.

The kitchen was bright with the sun through the back windows. Shane started the coffee. He stood at the counter and watched the backyard while the machine ran.

Nik came down first. He was dressed, hair still damp, hockey bag already by the front door because Nik packed his bag the night before every practice, the same way Shane had at his age. He went to the fridge and got the orange juice, pouring a glass without saying anything. Nik at eight on a Saturday was a person who existed near you without requiring interaction. Shane had always appreciated that about his son.

"Morning," Shane said.

"Morning." Nik sat down at the island and put his headphones on.

Shane looked at him. The headphones were on. At the kitchen island. Before food.

"You okay?"

Nik didn't hear him. Or didn't respond if he did. He was drinking his orange juice and looking at his phone. Shane filed it away as teenage behavior and reached for a second mug.

Max came down six minutes later. Shane knew it was six minutes because he'd glanced at the clock when Nik sat down and he glanced at it again when Max appeared in the doorway. His brain was resuming its normal operations.

Max was not dressed for practice. He was wearing basketball shorts and a t-shirt he'd slept in, his dark hair doing something that defied gravity. He walked to the pantry, got the cereal, a bowl, and the mikl before sitting down next to Nik without looking at Shane.

Without looking at Shane.

Max always looked at Shane. Max came into every room like he was checking who was in it, a full-body scan, and then he picked someone to talk to. In the morning that person was almost always Shane because Ilya wasn't awake yet and Nik wasn't available yet and Max needed an audience the way other people needed coffee.

But Max was looking at his cereal. He was eating his cereal with focus. With an intensity that Shane associated with Max doing homework he'd left until the last minute, or Max pretending he hadn't broken something.

"Morning," Shane said.

"Yep," Max said, into his bowl.

"You need to get dressed. Practice is at nine."

"I know what time practice is."

Shane stood at the counter with his coffee and looked at his two sons. Nik with headphones on. Max with his face in his cereal. Neither of them looking at him. Something was wrong.

"Did something happen?" Shane asked.

Max's spoon paused. Then he kept eating.

"Max."

"Hm?"

"Did something happen last night? Did you two fight about something?"

“Nope. We’re good.”

“Maxim.”

Max put his spoon down. He still wasn't looking at Shane. He was looking at a spot on the counter somewhere to the left of his bowl, and his jaw was working the way it did when he was deciding whether to say something. Shane's brain, which had been so pleasantly blank twenty minutes ago, started running scenarios. Fight with a friend. Something online. School. A girl. A boy.

"Can you guys get the walls insulated or something?" Max finally asked

Shane's coffee mug stopped halfway to his mouth.

The kitchen was very quiet. The coffee machine clicked off. Somewhere outside a neighbor was starting a leaf blower.

"What?" Shane said.

Max picked up his spoon and took another bite of cereal. He chewed slowly then swallowed. "The walls. They're thin."

Shane heard it, then. Not the words. The meaning behind the words. The meaning hit him the way a puck hit the boards, fast and total, and his entire morning recontextualized in one horrible second. The good sleep. The loose body. The quiet brain. Nik's headphones. Nik's headphones at the kitchen island on a Saturday morning, which was not normal for him.

Oh no.

Oh no.

Shane put his mug down on the counter very carefully, the way you put things down when you were trying not to shatter them.

Nik was looking at his phone. Headphones on. Volume, Shane was certain, at maximum. Nik had known the whole time and had chosen to handle it by not being present, which was the most Nik solution to any problem Shane had ever encountered.

"Max," Shane said. His voice was doing something he couldn't control.

"I'm just saying," Max said, still eating, still not looking up, "it's a shared wall. My room is right there."

"I know where your room is."

"Cool. So you know about the wall thing."

Shane was going to die. He was going to die in his own kitchen on a Saturday morning in October while his fifteen-year-old son ate Cheerios and discussed the acoustic properties of their shared wall.

"We were not—" Shane started, and then stopped, because he genuinely did not know how to finish that sentence. They were not what. They were not loud. They were not that loud. They were adults in their own bedroom. All of these were terrible options.

Max went back to his cereal. He was done. He had delivered the message and now he was eating Cheerios and the message was just sitting there on the counter between them like a grenade with the pin out.

Shane stood there. His sons were not looking at him. His husband was upstairs sleeping the sleep of a man who had done nothing wrong, which was infuriating because Ilya had done several things wrong, loudly, and Shane had participated in all of them.

He needed to say something. He was the parent. He was the responsible one. He should address this calmly and maturely.

He had absolutely no idea what to say.

"How much did you hear?" Shane asked, and his voice cracked on the word hear, which was the worst possible word for his voice to crack on.

"Dad." Max finally looked at him. His face was perfectly composed. It was Shane's own face. Same jaw, same coloring, the face he shaved every morning, except the composure on it was all Ilya's. "I don't want to answer that question. You don't want me to answer that question. Nobody in this room wants me to answer that question." 

Nik pulled his headphones down around his neck. He looked at Shane with an expression that was somehow both sympathetic and devastating. "Dad."

That was it. That was all he said.

Nik put his headphones back on.

Shane looked at the clock. 8:21. He had to drive them to practice in twenty-nine minutes. He had to sit in a car with both of them and operate a vehicle and not drive into the river.

He was still standing there when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Heavy, easy, the sound of a man who had never once come downstairs with any urgency on a weekend. Ilya appeared in the kitchen in sweatpants and bare feet, hair in every direction, looking like a person who had also slept very well.

"Good morning," Ilya said. He went straight for the coffee. He kissed the side of Shane's head on the way past, the way he did every morning.

Shane didn't move. He watched Ilya pour coffee, take a sip, then turn and lean against the counter. Watched him look at his sons and not yet understand what had happened in the kitchen in the last ten minutes. 

"Why is it so quiet?" Ilya asked.

Nobody answered. Nik still had his headphones on. Max was eating a second bowl of cereal. Shane was standing with both hands flat on the counter trying to figure out how to signal to his husband that they had a situation without using any words that would make the situation worse.

Ilya looked at Shane. Then at Max and Nik. 

"What is happening?" Ilya said. "Did someone die?"

Nobody answered.

"Shane."

Shane pressed his lips together in a tight line. His eyes went to the ceiling. He could not figure out how to say any version of it to his husband in front of his children.

"Did I do something?" Ilya asked. He was starting to look concerned, which was worse, because Ilya being genuinely worried meant he had no idea and Shane was going to have to watch him find out.

"Sure sounded like it," Max said, into his cereal.

The kitchen went still. Shane saw it happen on Ilya's face. Sounded landing. Ilya's eyes moving from Max to Shane. The concern becoming confusion becoming understanding becoming something Ilya was trying very hard to keep off his face.

He failed.

Ilya bit down on his bottom lip. His shoulders moved. He turned around and faced the counter, and Shane could see his back shaking. Ilya Rozanov put both hands flat on the granite and dropped his head and laughed.

He laughed silently for about five seconds and then not silently at all.

"It's not funny," Shane said.

Ilya turned around. His face was red. He was grinning with his entire body. "It is very funny."

"It is not—"

"Is the funniest thing that has happened in this house."

"Ilya."

"Maybe in any house."

"Max," Shane said, turning to his son with the voice he used when he needed to be a parent, a responsible parent, a parent who could handle this. "I'm sorry. That's—we should have been more—"

"Please don't," Max said. "I'm asking you, as your son, please do not finish that sentence."

"He's right," Nik said, without taking his headphones off, which meant the headphones were not playing anything and had never been playing anything. The meant Nik had been listening to this entire conversation while wearing what amounted to earmuffs for symbolic purposes.

"You are not helping," Shane told Ilya.

"I am enjoying."

"That's what I said. Not helping."

"Shane." Ilya put his coffee down and walked over to him, putting both hands on Shane's shoulders. "They are fine. We are fine. Everyone is fine."

"We're not fine," Max said. "We're traumatized."

"You are not traumatized."

"I know what my father sounds like now."

Ilya looked at Shane. Shane wanted the floor to open.

"Which father?" Ilya asked, and his voice had the sound of a man who already knew the answer and was going to enjoy it.

"I'm going to need you to pretend you never asked me that," Max said.

Shane looked at the clock. 8:34. Sixteen minutes.

"Go get dressed," Shane said to Max. "Practice."

Max picked up his bowl and put it in the sink. He never did that without being asked. He wanted out of the kitchen as badly as Shane did. He walked past Shane without making eye contact. Nik followed, headphones still on, juice glass left behind on the counter.

Shane listened to them go upstairs. Two sets of footsteps, one heavy and one quiet. A door closed. Then another door closed.

Ilya was leaning against the counter with his coffee back in hand, watching Shane with an expression of pure, undiluted delight.

"Stop," Shane said.

"I am not doing anything."

"You're looking at me."

"I am drinking coffee and looking at my husband. These are normal morning activities."

"Ilya."

Ilya put his mug down. He crossed the kitchen and put his mouth close to Shane's ear. "If it helps," he murmured, "I thought you sounded incredible."

"I'm going to kill you."

"You were not saying that last night."

"I am never having sex with you again."

"Okay." Ilya kissed his jaw. "We will see."

Shane pulled away from him and went to find his keys.

✦

The car was worse.

Shane had expected silence. Silence he could have handled. Silence was the absence of something. What he got instead was Max in the passenger seat with his knees against the dashboard, scrolling his phone, acting normal so aggressively that it filled the entire car. Nik was in the back seat with his headphones on again, looking out the window, existing in his own atmosphere, except today the atmosphere had a specific cause and everyone in the vehicle knew it.

Shane drove. Both hands on the wheel. Eyes on the road. The radio was off because he'd reached for it and then pulled his hand back because he didn't trust whatever song might come on.

Three blocks from the house, Max said, "Can you turn left on Pemberton? There's construction on Rideau."

"I know," Shane said even though he didn’t. He'd been driving the same route for two years and had not noticed construction. He turned left on Pemberton.

That was it. That was the conversation. One navigational correction in an eight-minute drive.

Shane pulled into the rink parking lot. Both boys grabbed their bags from the trunk. They walked toward the doors without looking back, two boys with hockey bags, one of them already talking to a teammate in the parking lot, the other one walking beside him in silence. Normal. They looked completely normal.

Max turned around at the door. "10:30," he called.

"Yep," Shane said.

They went inside and the door closed behind them.

Shane sat in the car. He put both hands on the steering wheel and stared at the entrance to the rink, taking deep breaths.

His phone buzzed. Ilya.

I told Hayden.

Shane put his phone facedown on the passenger seat. He sat in the parking lot for another two minutes. Then he drove home to deal with his husband.

✦

Shane walked into the house and closed the door harder than necessary.

Ilya was on the couch. Coffee in hand, feet on the table, phone on his chest. He looked like a man who had been having a very pleasant morning and intended to continue.

"You told Hayden," Shane said.

"Good morning to you too."

"You told Hayden Pike that our children heard us having sex."

"I told my friend a funny story. He laughed. It was a nice moment."

"My friend. He's my best friend."

"He is my friend too."

"He was my friend first."

"Twenty years ago. Now he is also my friend. People can share." 

"And it was not a nice moment. It was a violation of our family's privacy."

"Shane. Hayden has five children. You think his children have never heard him?"

"That's not the point."

"That is exactly the point. He said Ruby walked in on them once. Walked in. Into the room. While they were—"

"I don't need the details."

"She was eleven. She did not speak to Hayden for two days." Ilya took a sip of his coffee. "See? Our situation is much better. Nobody walked in."

"Our situation is that you are texting people about it before I've left the parking lot."

"I texted one person."

"You texted Hayden."

"Hayden is one person."

"Hayden is the least discreet person on the planet. By Monday every retired player we know will know—"

"Will know what? That two married men have sex in their own home? Shane. This is not a scandal. This is a Tuesday."

"It's a Saturday."

"Is an expression."

Shane put his keys on the counter. He stood there with his hands flat on the granite, the same position he'd been in two hours ago when Max had said the thing about the walls. He stared at the backsplash and tried to figure out why he was still this angry when nothing that had happened was actually that bad.

"They came upstairs," Shane said.

Ilya was quiet for a moment. "What?"

"The boys. They came upstairs. They were in the media room and at some point they came upstairs to their bedrooms, and we didn't hear them, and they—" Shane stopped. "Max's room shares a wall with ours. He was right there. And we didn't—I didn't—"

"Shane."

"I should have heard them. I always hear them. I hear everything in this house. I hear Nik get up for water at two in the morning. I hear Max's phone buzz from down the hall. I hear every single thing that happens under this roof and last night I didn't hear my own kids come upstairs because I was—"

He stopped again. His jaw was tight.

"Because you were having a good night," Ilya said. His voice was different. The joke was gone.

"Because I wasn't paying attention."

"Because you were with me. In our bedroom. On a Friday night." Ilya set his cup down on the coffee table. Shane heard him stand up and cross the room. "Shane. Look at me."

Shane didn't look at him.

"Hollander." Ilya's voice was right next to him. "You are having panic attack."

"I'm not having a panic attack."

"You are standing in our kitchen telling me you are a bad father because you did not hear footsteps. This is panic attack."

"It's not—"

"You are not bad father because you had sex with your husband and didn't hear your kids come upstairs."

"I should have—"

"What? Kept one ear on the hallway? Set an alarm? Put baby monitor back in their rooms? They are fifteen, Shane. They do not need you to hear them walk to their bedrooms."

"They needed me to not be—"

"To not be what? Loud? Happy? Having a life that is not only about them?" Ilya was beside him now. Shane could feel him but still wouldn’t look at him. "You have spent fifteen years being quiet for those boys. Fifteen years. You have been the most careful, the most considerate, the most—" He stopped and Shane felt his fingers on his wrist. "You are good father. The best father I know. And you are allowed to have one night where you forget to be quiet."

Shane's jaw was still tight. His eyes were burning and he was furious about it because this was not a thing worth crying over. His kids had heard him having sex. It was embarrassing. It was not a tragedy. He knew that. He knew that and he could not make his body stop treating it like one.

"They're fine," Ilya said, his voice quiet and close. "They will make fun of us for a week and then they will forget."

"They're not going to forget."

"They will not forget. But they will stop caring. Because they are teenagers and they have their own lives. In two days this will be story Max tells his friends and Nik will never mention again. That is how this works."

Shane blew out a breath. Ilya's hand found the small of his back, warm and firm, the same place it always ended up.

"Come here," Ilya said.

"I'm still mad at you for telling Hayden."

"I know. Come here."

Shane turned and Ilya pulled him in with both arms. Shane put his forehead against Ilya's shoulder and stood there in his kitchen at nine-fifteen on a Saturday morning while his husband held him. He could smell coffee and laundry detergent from the t-shirt Ilya had put on. He closed his eyes and let himself be held. He hadn't let himself be held all morning. He'd been too busy surviving it.

"For the record," Ilya said, into Shane's hair, "you did sound incredible."

Shane laughed. It came out shaky and raw and not entirely voluntary.

"I hate you," Shane said, into Ilya's shoulder.

"You do not."

"I do. I hate you and I'm never having sex with you again and I'm getting the walls insulated on Monday."

"Okay."

"I mean it."

"I know you do." Ilya's arms tightened around him. "I will call the contractor."

Shane stood there for another minute. Then he pulled back and wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. Ilya was right there. The same face he always had after the hard part was over. A warm smile that said he was not going anywhere.

"Don't tell anyone else," Shane said.

"I will not tell anyone else."

"Ilya."

"I will not. I promise." He raised his eyebrows. "But Hayden might tell people. This I cannot control."

"I'm going to kill Hayden."

"You are not going to kill Hayden."

"I might kill Hayden."

Ilya kissed his forehead. "I will make you breakfast."

"I already had coffee."

"Coffee is not breakfast. Sit down. I am making eggs."

Shane sat down at the island, in the same seat Max had been sitting in an hour earlier, and watched his husband crack eggs into a pan while humming something Russian like it was a normal Saturday morning.

Ilya slid a plate in front of him. Eggs, toast, and a glass of water Shane hadn't asked for.

"Eat," Ilya said.

Shane ate. The eggs were good. They were always good. Ilya made the same eggs every Saturday and Shane ate them every Saturday. The boys would come home from practice at 10:30 and the house would be loud again. None of them would mention the walls.

Or Max would mention the walls. Max would absolutely mention the walls. But that was a problem for 10:30.

Shane ate his breakfast and drank his water. He looked at his husband across the kitchen island and thought, fine. We survived. 

They always survived.