Thank God, its Christmas

(1) Christmas had always been the day in Ilya Rozanov’s life that reminded him of what he didn’t have. Objectively speaking, he had more than most. Not long ago he’d bought a sleek BMW and his first piece of real estate, a spacious apartment in Beacon Hill. The neighborhood was quiet, decidedly un-hipster, but the apartment had a wide windowsill, the kind you could sit on and stare outside for hours. From up there, the view opened onto a park with a small Anglican church built of dark, modest brick, and a pond that reflected the winter sky. And of course there was his career. A brilliant one. He was on television now, regularly. Glossy magazines printed his photographs. Wherever he appeared, he was accompanied by girls straight off magazine covers. And yet, at Christmas, when everyone scattered back to their homes, Ilya felt the absence of something else. Something simple. Something that seemed available to everyone else. Warmth. A place you wanted to return to. Someone who would be waiting for you that evening. So the Christmas holidays inevitably turned into days of inventory, counting all the good things that remained out of reach. This year, he hadn’t prepared at all. There was nothing to eat, unless you counted protein shakes and the chicken he’d shoved into the freezer because he had absolutely no intention of cooking. On December twenty-third, he was sprawled on the living room couch when a message from “Jane” lit up his phone. Ilya’s heart stuttered. “Jane” said she was in a nearby city and asked if he wanted to meet. Hollander had a habit of doing that. Just dropping things like that out of nowhere. God. Yes. Ilya wanted it badly. Of course, he had never said anything like that to him. On principle. Even now he didn’t reply with words, just sent his location pin. A second later he opened Google Maps and sank back against the cushions. He checked the weather app, frowned, and typed quickly: Be careful. The highway is icy. After that, Ilya lay on the bed, eyes fixed on the clock. The earliest Hollander could arrive was an hour. More likely fifty minutes, if he drove fast. The engine of an Audi A6 rumbled outside exactly forty-two minutes later. Apparently Hollander hadn’t waited for the elevator, because he came up the stairs at a run, breathless, standing there with his jacket unzipped, trying to catch his breath. His cheeks were flushed, snow clinging to his dark hair, his eyes shining so brightly it felt like you could power a lightbulb off them. “What the hell were you speeding for?” Ilya said instead of hello. “Do you realize that if you’d gone off the road, I would’ve found out from the news?” “I was careful,” Shane said earnestly, completely missing the weight of the accusation. “Did you read my message?” “I did.” “And what did it say?” “‘The highway is icy. Be careful,’” Shane recited. “Which word didn’t you understand, Hollander?” It finally sank in that Ilya was angry. Shane’s smile faded. “I just… I thought you were waiting,” he said, confused. “Ilya, why are you mad?” That was the problem. The moment Ilya heard that voice, the way Shane never quite managed to pronounce his name right, always stretching the vowel, stubbornly stressing the first syllable, despite trying so hard, Ilya simply couldn’t stay angry for long. The sharp words vanished. Something else slipped out instead. “Did you miss me?” “Very much.” Hollander was terrible at pretending, and flirting wasn’t his strength either. He just stood there on the top step, looking at Ilya like he was starving, smiling openly. Ilya let him inside. He barely had time to close the door before Hollander was there, arms wrapping around him, pulling him close, kissing him eagerly. The soft cashmere scarf brushed against Ilya’s bare forearms. It smelled like shampoo, or like Shane, or maybe both. It smelled good. Too good. “I missed you,” Shane whispered between kisses, breath hitching. “So much.” Shane was wild. Hungry. Perfect. And without realizing it, he frightened Ilya every single time. Those eyes, shining with happiness. That warmth in the way he looked at him. That whispered missed you, missed you. It all hit straight in the chest. Ilya turned away abruptly and shut the window tight, sealing out the cold. “Get undressed,” he said shortly. He was still a little angry. Shane complied immediately. Ilya watched as he took off his boots, placing them neatly beside Ilya’s sneakers, perfectly aligned. He shrugged off his jacket, unwound his scarf, hung the jacket up, folded the scarf into a careful square. He pulled his sweater over his head without taking his darkened gaze off Ilya, then his pants. Sweater and pants came off faster now, a touch impatient, but still folded neatly along the seam, stacked like in a store. Finally his underwear. Socks and briefs, added right on top. Now he stood there. Naked. Aroused. Glowing. Looking straight at Ilya with those impossibly beautiful Japanese eyes. Ilya wanted to say something fitting. Something sharp. Something about how speeding on icy roads usually ended. But it was impossible. “Come here.” As soon as Shane reached the bed, Ilya caught his wrist, pulled him down, pressed him under his weight, kissed him. Shane’s breathing quickened. Ilya pulled back suddenly, caught his gaze, traced his thumb over Shane’s lips. “What do you want?” he whispered. “I want… to be closer,” Shane said, dazed. He was already hard enough that his cock pressed firmly against his stomach. “That much is obvious. I’m asking how,” Ilya said, undressing. He was just as aroused, but he had control. And he knew pauses like this sharpened everything. Blunt questions embarrassed Hollander. And for reasons Ilya refused to analyze, Shane’s embarrassment drove him wild. Sure enough, Shane glanced at him and immediately looked away, dark lashes dropping. The picture of modesty. With a rock-hard cock. Enough. This was unbearable. Without breaking eye contact, Ilya reached out blindly, found the tube. He kissed Shane’s flushed, freckled cheeks quickly and murmured, “Okay?” Shane nodded, breathless, eyes still shut. Ilya braced himself and entered him, careful but firm, relentless. He loved that first moment. The helpless moan. The way Shane gave under him. He set a pace they both loved. No hesitation, straight into a steady rhythm. Shane adjusted as always, but his breathing faltered. He was trying to endure it quietly. Ilya noticed and stopped immediately. “Does it hurt? Out of practice with me? Easy. We’ll remember.” A quick kiss to Shane’s nose, almost playful, strangely gentle. Then Ilya shifted, sat on the edge of the bed, pulling Shane onto his lap, facing him. Hands under his thighs, lifting him slightly, kissing the firm muscles of his chest. Shane was hot, smooth, solid, trained. Incredible to touch. He always smelled wonderful. Of something light, something foolish. Green apple shampoo and something warm and uniquely his. Something Ilya loved more than anything. Ilya lowered him slowly, seating him onto himself. He found himself kissing him everywhere, indiscriminately, because everything about Shane was beautiful. The precise lips. The perfect straight nose Ilya loved kissing most. The clean, tanned skin. The jawline. The dark, neat nipples. The tight stomach. God, he got hard so fast. Ilya held him close, moved steadily, easing him open. Shane squeezed his eyes shut, kissed Ilya wherever he could reach. “Ilya, Ilya, Ilya,” he whispered, stressing the first syllable as always. “Harder. Stronger. Yes. I like it.” “Ready? Then hold on.” Ilya pushed him down into the mattress and drove into him deeply, relentlessly, building the pace. Shane moaned openly now, no restraint left. “Too rough?” Ilya said. “What did you expect? This isn’t a girl’s bed.” “I know,” Shane gasped, clinging tighter, kissing his lips, his chin. “And don’t try to charm me,” Ilya said hoarsely. “I’m going to fuck you properly. I’m going to take you there.” “I’m not… I just… Ilya… I’m already…” “Too soon. Not allowed. I said so.” Shane tried to speak, failed, pressed his face into Ilya’s shoulder with a broken sound. “What are you even doing?” Ilya muttered into his hair. “Who does that?” “Don’t be mad,” Shane whispered. “I tried. I just…” “Hollander. Do you have any control at all? Fine. Just look at me. Learn.” “I really was waiting for you,” Shane said softly, shyly, into his shoulder. The words hit Ilya like a blow. The orgasm tore through him, sudden and overwhelming. The lesson ended before it ever truly began. Something flickered in Shane’s eyes. “So… what exactly am I supposed to learn?” he asked innocently. Bastard. Absolute bastard. (2) Shane lived from date to date. He had never fallen in love like this before. In fact, he hadn’t even known it was possible for something this reckless, this overwhelming, to happen to him. Shane had always been level-headed, calm by nature. Which made it all the more inexplicable that he had fallen for someone as uncontrollable, unbearable, and infuriating as Rozanov. Everything about Ilya fascinated him and set his nerves alight. The rough Eastern European accent that hacked English words apart, turning everything he said into something brutally magnetic, almost obscenely sexy. His audacity. His humor. His voice. But more than anything else, Shane was captivated by that wild, unyielding look in his eyes. A look that refused obedience, refused compromise. Rozanov was sharp and unreachable. And at the same time, the brightest, most desired thing that had ever entered Shane’s life. Shane often didn’t understand him. Like today, for instance. Today Ilya had been angry with him. Ilya never explained himself, but Shane had learned to observe, to read the signs. When Ilya was angry, his gaze lost its softness. A dark shadow settled between his brows, and the melody of English grew even harsher, cut into pieces more mercilessly than usual. Despite all his rough edges, Ilya was intensely attentive in bed. He could be passionate, even rough, when they were playing, but it was always play. The moment Shane felt uncertain or overwhelmed, Ilya sensed it instantly and stopped without hesitation. He always knew exactly how to touch him, how to move, how to make Shane feel not just safe, but wanted, desired, deeply satisfied. Shane knew he was inexperienced. That he lacked skill, finesse, confidence. But he sincerely wanted to give Ilya pleasure, because it mattered to him more than anything that Ilya felt good with him. That Ilya was happy with him. After intimacy, Ilya always pulled away. It was as if he withdrew into himself, grew colder, more distant, even less reachable. This time was no different. Ilya simply got up and went to take a shower. When he came back, he silently tossed Shane a clean towel warmed with hot water. Shane dried himself automatically. And then he waited. He didn’t know what for. A look. A word. A touch. Some small gesture of tenderness. Anything that would remind him that just five minutes ago they had been close. That they had made love here, on these rumpled sheets. Ilya lay down beside him without touching him and put a cigarette between his lips. For a while they lay there, staring out the window. Dusk was settling over the city. Snow was falling. The room was lit by the blinking lights of the large Christmas tree in the park. At its top spun a massive golden ornament, somewhere between a comet and a star. Its reflections drifted across Ilya’s face and hair like floating gold dust. “Why aren’t you home?” Ilya asked. “What are you doing here?” “I wanted to see you,” Shane said simply. It seemed to him that Ilya didn’t like that answer. His brow creased, barely noticeably. “But your parents are waiting for you, aren’t they?” “I’m going tomorrow morning,” Shane said. “Mom puts the duck in the oven when we get back from church. We don’t sit down before seven anyway.” “Church?” Ilya glanced sideways. “Your family religious?” “No. We only go on Christmas. Half the neighbors come just to say hello. It’s more of a tradition. Evening service and that’s it.” “And that doesn’t… shake you?” Ilya asked. “No,” Shane said, genuinely surprised. “Should it?” Ilya shrugged. “Well, you’re gay. Don’t you have to confess?” he asked carelessly. “Oh. That.” Shane smiled faintly. “Only if you want to. And you only say what you choose to say.” Ilya looked at him skeptically, eyes narrowed, as if he didn’t quite believe it. “Honestly, it’s mostly just… boring. The sermon’s about thirty minutes long, but it’s once a year. You can endure it. Our priest’s a good man. He just invents his own parables, and sometimes no one understands what he means. But we’re used to it. He tries.” “I see,” Ilya said quietly, thinking. “And then?” “What do you mean?” “What do you do? Tell me.” “Tell you what?” “The duck. Everything.” “Well, Mom makes the duck,” Shane said. “That duck is basically a ritual. The load-bearing structure of our family. Mom goes into the kitchen, puts on Paul McCartney, and we sort of help while she marinates it. In reality, she does everything herself, and Dad and I just keep her company. Then we decorate the tree together. Every year we cut out one paper garland, the three of us. Mom loves cutting them out. Dad hates it. Says he’s terrible at it and that he only puts up with it for Mom.” Shane laughed. Ilya lay there with his eyes closed. “Go on,” he said. “Then I go pick up Mrs. Barringer. She’s our neighbor. She’s over eighty and barely leaves the house. I take her arm so she doesn’t fall. On the way she tells me everything that happened while I was gone. She walks very slowly, so by the time we reach our house, I already know absolutely everything. At dinner she tells my parents the same stories again, and I listen for the second time and pretend I’m still interested.” “And then?” Ilya asked, still not opening his eyes. He lay completely still, listening with a strange tension. “Then we exchange presents. Everyone loves that. It’s always exciting to see what you get,” Shane said. Then, after a moment, he added thoughtfully, “Though for some reason I enjoy giving gifts even more than opening my own.” Ilya opened his eyes and looked at him. His gaze was no longer just skeptical. It was hard. “And what if you don’t like the gift?” he asked flatly. “I don’t know,” Shane shrugged. “I don’t think that’s ever happened. Or maybe I just didn’t notice.” “And if the gift isn’t expensive enough?” Shane thought Ilya’s accent grew thicker. “What do you mean?” “Well, you’re a hockey star,” Ilya said, that strange look still fixed on him. “People expect a certain level from you. You can’t give something cheap.” “But that’s exactly what I give,” Shane said calmly. “Everyone does. We usually give books. Last year I gave my dad a notebook. He used to write on scraps of paper.” “And your father?” Ilya asked very softly. “Nothing. He showed that notebook to everyone. Carries it with him everywhere now.” Something darkened in Ilya’s expression. Shane didn’t understand what he’d said wrong, but with his natural tact he immediately changed the subject. “I just remembered something funny,” he said. “Want to hear it?” “Go on.” “One time at school we were making punch,” Shane said. “Some of the older kids brought alcohol, and I kept trying it, over and over… and then I showed up at church completely drunk. I must have been fourteen or fifteen. I don’t remember anything myself, but later people told me I kept interrupting the priest, making comments, saying complete nonsense. My parents were mortified.” Ilya opened his eyes and looked at him without moving. “Then I spent the whole night throwing up,” Shane went on. “And in the morning my parents woke me up and sent me straight to talk to the priest. He was trying so hard, and I’d ruined everything, can you imagine?” “Did they beat you badly?” Ilya asked suddenly. “What?” Shane blinked. “No. They told me to offer him help. So I spent the whole winter clearing snow in the churchyard, helping in the garden, things like that. I’ve done it ever since. Whenever I visit, I stop by and ask what needs doing. He’s quite old now.” For a while Ilya lay there, watching the snow fall outside the window. In the glow of the streetlights, his face looked beautiful, closed-off, and quietly sad. Then he shook a cigarette out of the pack and lit it. Shane gently ran his fingers over the dark shadow between Ilya’s brows, as if trying to smooth it away. “And how do you celebrate Christmas in Moscow?” he asked. Ilya’s eyes turned icy. “Normally,” he said. “Nothing special.” (3) He lay there listening to Shane talk. If someone had asked Ilya at that moment what he thought about all of it, he probably wouldn’t have been able to answer. The closest thing to his state of mind was the sudden, disbelieving realization that something he had never considered possible… apparently was. Ilya tried to imagine the feeling. Imagine not being alone. Being inside a family, and relaxed. Relaxed because you lived in a constant sense of safety. Ilya understood what being part of a family meant. What being safe meant, he understood only in fragments. Brief moments. Isolated flashes he remembered precisely because they were rare. But both together? As a permanent state? Nonsense. Complete nonsense. He tried to imagine the rest and couldn’t. They unwrap a gift, and inside there’s a book. That’s where his mind stalled. He tried to picture his brother’s face if he gave him a book. A book. And failed. And his father? Or his father’s wife? A simple writing pad. A notebook for notes. Wait. They don’t even ask Shane how much it cost? So what, they just want you to show up, bring some meaningless thing, no one even knows why you came, and simply sit there with them? Absurd. As for the church, Ilya didn’t believe him. That oppressive place heavy with incense, ritual, and silent judgment, where everything pressed down on you in the name of something higher, was the same everywhere. Hollander had clearly embellished it. Probably wanted it to sound cinematic. Ilya didn’t care. But the stories about the family he listened to with clenched teeth. Something in them unsettled him, and he didn’t understand why. Everything Shane said about Ottawa, and especially about his family, sounded like a fairy tale. Ilya felt it. A little more, and he wouldn’t be able to stand it. He didn’t know how to stop it. He stubbed out his cigarette before finishing it and, abruptly, without any preamble, pulled Shane toward him. “Enough,” he said. “Come here.” He kissed Shane without breaking eye contact, and it came out far too intimate. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered. “Hollander, are you hard again?” “That’s your fault,” Shane murmured. Ilya slid lower, covering his body with hot, light kisses. He knew how to touch, how to find the rhythm. Shane clenched his teeth and tipped his head back. Ilya shifted easily, settling crosswise, wrapping his arms around Shane’s hips and knees, pulling him closer. “Do it, Hollander,” Ilya said quietly. Shane parted his warm, beautiful lips and took him, shuddering with arousal. He wasn’t very skilled, but he tried, and each time it got better. Ilya moaned encouragingly, never losing the rhythm, stroking Shane’s hair. In moments like this, he was always very gentle. It was like a dance. Ilya led, slowing every time he felt Shane nearing the edge. They finished almost at the same time. “Nicely done, Hollander,” Ilya murmured, stretching out more comfortably and kissing Shane’s knees. “Absolutely perfect. Good job.” “Did I pass the exam, sir?” Shane asked. He’d learned that kind of humor from Ilya. Ilya laughed, lifted himself, then lay back down beside him. He liked it when Shane spoke like that. He liked kissing Shane’s sharply defined lips, tasting himself there, then generously returning Shane’s own taste, blending their flavors together with his tongue. It was wonderful. Intimate. Hot. The kind of thing that burned itself into memory. A perfect finishing touch to great sex. What he didn’t like was the look in Shane’s eyes. Or rather, he liked it far too much. Those beautiful eyes, too open now. The joy in the way Shane looked at him. It all set his nerves on edge, stirred anxiety. Shane was good. Honest. His life had less brutality in it. That was why Ilya lowered the temperature. With Shane, it was especially hard. Maybe because Ilya was his first man. Shane trusted him, openly and without hesitation, from their very first night. What had happened between them was unspoken, singular, precious. Something Ilya had never had, something he’d been afraid even to dream of. Shane was silent now. He never pushed for conversation when Ilya wasn’t in the mood. He just lay there and touched him. Shoulders. Chest. Stomach. Then lifted himself and kissed somewhere near Ilya’s collarbone. Ilya closed his eyes. Shane touched him very well, and Ilya loved it when he did. But this was dangerous. This wasn’t about sex anymore. This was tenderness. And that was exactly what Ilya tried not to allow. This was already too much. Shane wrapped his arms around him, cradling Ilya’s head with both hands, slowly kissing his forehead and hair. Shane, what are you doing… Christ, are you ever going to calm down today? Logically, Ilya should have grabbed his wrists and held them until he settled. The problem was that Ilya could lie like this with him for hours. Fine. Shane was just affectionate. That was his nature. If there were no words, it was safe. Just a little longer. Just a little more. And then Shane said something that made Ilya completely lose it. “Come with me, Ilya,” he whispered, kissing his hair, his forehead, his temples. “Come. Right now.” “Where?” Ilya didn’t understand. “With me,” Shane said. “Where are we going?” Ilya repeated lazily. Shane had touched him so well, he didn’t want to talk. “What are you talking about?” “Ottawa,” Shane said. “I’ll say that—” He faltered. His face turned fiercely stubborn, the same way it did on the ice when he played against Ilya. “I’ll say we just came together. I want to spend Christmas with you.” In the very next second, Ilya came to his senses. He caught Shane’s wrists, gently moved them away, shifted Shane back to his side of the bed and moved himself to the other. “That’s impossible,” he said shortly. “Don’t make things up.” “Why?” “Because—” Ilya felt anger rise. Shane lay there on the pillow, looking at him with hope, with wide, happy eyes, and that had to be stopped. “We just had sex,” Ilya said coldly. “Do you really think that’s a reason to go meet someone’s parents?” “I’m not inviting you to my parents,” Shane said stubbornly. “I’m inviting you with me.” Ilya gave nothing away. Only his jaw tightened slightly. “So what,” he asked, “you drag every guy you sleep with to Ottawa for Christmas?” Shane looked like he’d been doused with ice water. Yes. Wake up, Ilya thought harshly. Shane fell silent. He turned to the window, and his eyes grew so painfully sad that Ilya had to look away. He simply couldn’t watch that. Better he hates me now than suffers later. Ilya knew he’d done the right thing. And he knew what should come next. No one could hear something like that and not lose their temper. He knew he would have. But Shane stayed quiet. “I don’t have other guys,” he said at last. Snow fell outside, flakes glittering in the streetlight. Then Shane said softly, barely above a whisper: “But when you talk like that, it hurts me.” (4) Shane was not self-absorbed by nature. Beside Ilya, he constantly felt too ordinary, too calm, somehow insufficient. At times he caught himself thinking that someone entirely different should be next to Ilya. Someone brighter. Riskier. Wilder. Someone just like Ilya himself. I’m too normal for him, Shane thought. Could Ilya really be interested in someone like him? But Shane didn’t know how to lie. So he simply said that Ilya’s words had hurt him. The snow kept falling. The light stayed the same. But the silence changed. Because Ilya froze. He lay there with his eyes closed. A few seconds passed before he spoke. “Forget it, Hollander,” he said finally. “If we keep going like this, I’ll do something stupid. Let’s go out somewhere. I need a drink.” When they stepped outside, the trees were already heavy with snow. Snowflakes glittered in the golden glow of the streetlights. The silhouettes of the trees and the small church stood out against the sky as if they had been cut out or drawn, like an illustration from a children’s book. And there was no one around. “I know a place in the suburbs,” Ilya said. “Mostly immigrants. Dark, people already half drunk, nobody looks at anyone. We’ll feed you, too. My place is empty, and they actually cook properly there.” “Thanks. I’m not hungry,” Shane replied. Ilya hated riding in the passenger seat, so they took his BMW. On the way, he talked about the car. How he never let anyone else drive it. How it handled on the highway. He tried to make Shane laugh, and a few times he glanced at him sideways, as if checking whether it was working. It wasn’t. What was happening between them had long stopped being just “bed” for Shane. And Ilya kept pretending that all they shared was sex. Joking it off, or cutting everything else short, hard and final. Shane had never confronted him before. Today, he’d broken their unspoken agreement when he invited Ilya to come with him. He’d wanted so badly to spend Christmas together that he’d risked it, blurted it out without thinking, and heard the same thing he’d heard before. Only harsher. Shane suddenly wondered what he would have told his parents if Ilya had agreed and they’d gone to Ottawa together. This is Ilya Rozanov. Captain of the Boston Raiders. My direct rival. Mom, this is the Rozanov you call “that enemy of our household, that thug on skates,” the one who made you throw the remote at the wall last time and shout, “That’s not a referee, that’s a blind idiot!” Dad, this is the Rozanov you usually refer to as “that goddamn Boston star,” and then add that he “should’ve been in the penalty box since the first period.” I thought it might be nice if we all sat under the tree together tonight. Why? Take a guess. And Rozanov will be sleeping in my room. Shane tried to imagine his mother’s face. And couldn’t. The sign Back in the U.S.S.R. glowed through the snowy haze, stylized sickles, hammers, and stars burning far too brightly, almost aggressively. Neon light smeared red across the snow. A short flight of steps led down into a half-dark, noisy space. The smell hit immediately. Strong alcohol. Cigarette smoke. Body heat. Music thundered, something vaguely Russian or Serbian, with a hoarse voice and a guitar that sounded as if it might tear itself apart at any moment. No one paid any attention to the little signs about smoking only in the courtyard. Everyone smoked. The air hung in layers, and Shane’s eyes watered until they adjusted. People spoke with Eastern European accents. Loud, sharp, as if they were arguing even when they laughed. Some were already drunk, some were just getting there. Ilya had been right. No one noticed them. “Let’s sit right here,” Ilya said, smirking. “What do you think of the name, Hollander?” Shane shrugged. Back in the U.S.S.R. was a Beatles song. He liked the Beatles. They sat at the bar, backs to the tables. A young, unsmiling bartender silently poured beer into glasses. “What are you drinking?” Ilya asked. “The same as you.” “I’m drinking vodka tonight. You’ve got training and a diet. I wouldn’t recommend it.” “Tonight I don’t care.” “Hollander, I really wouldn’t,” Ilya repeated. He said something to the bartender. A second ago she’d looked tired and irritated; now she smiled at him. People always smiled at Ilya. The first shot burned down Shane’s throat like boiling water. Ilya called the bartender back and she set a glass of ice water with a lemon slice in front of Shane. He drank greedily and finally managed to breathe. “Hollander,” Ilya said. “What is it with you, huh?” Shane coughed and shook his head. Ilya watched him with warm amusement. “Vodka is for hard people. People like me. Vodka isn’t for people like you.” “What kind of people?” Shane asked very quietly, very distinctly. “What kind am I, in your opinion?” Suddenly, he was furious. “Easy, easy,” Ilya shook his head. “Hollander, I didn’t say anything offensive. I’m just stating facts. There are things you’re good at that I can’t do at all. You’re good at warmth. At romance. I can’t handle that. I never had it, and it freaks me out. It works the other way around, too. If you get beaten often enough, you learn to take a hit. Or not feel it at all. I learned that. Normal people react differently. And you’re normal. That’s all.” He shrugged, as if he were talking about something simple, smiled warmly at the bartender, and she filled his glass again. “Watch how I drink,” Ilya said. He balanced the shot on his elbow and flipped it into his mouth in one smooth motion. “Cool, right? Want me to teach you?” He winked at Shane and smiled that stunning, boyish smile of his. Shane fell silent for a second. Just sat there and looked at him. Ilya. Tall. Lean. Sharp-edged. In a stylish leather jacket, slightly worn, too short. Ilya always looked incredible and always dressed too lightly for the weather. He was so beautiful it made something clench low in Shane’s stomach. “I’ve known bars like this since I was young,” Ilya said. “I like it loud. In silence, I start thinking… things.” From the speakers burst some reckless melody. Half the already drunk crowd began to sing along. “What’s the song about?” Shane asked. “What are they singing?” “They’re singing about Petersburg,” Ilya replied reluctantly. “And really it’s about fucking up your life and pretending it was all part of the plan.” “Tell me about yourself, Ilya,” Shane asked. “I told you about me.” The music behind them grew louder. At the next table, people were either laughing or fighting. “I was taught early not to expect anything good from life, Hollander,” Ilya said, snapping a cigarette out of the pack with a practiced flick. He clicked the lighter, then stopped. “That’s how I live. And the most important thing is this: don’t fall in love with me. I know exactly how that ends.” Shane was quiet for a moment. “I think it’s already too late,” he said calmly. For a split second, Ilya’s face looked strangely bright, almost childlike. He didn’t light the cigarette. He just sat there, holding it between his fingers, the lighter dead in his other hand, as if he’d forgotten why he’d taken it out at all. Ilya didn’t answer. He just let out a short breath. “There won’t be anything good with me,” he said with barely moving lips, not taking his eyes off Shane. “You don’t need that.” “I don’t care how it turns out. I just want to be where you are,” Shane said simply. Somewhere behind them, a fist slammed into a table, someone swore, and shards of a shattered glass clinked across the floor. Shane suddenly wanted to kiss Ilya. But they weren’t alone. So he only placed his hand gently on Ilya’s wrist. (5) Only later, looking back, Ilya would think that he alone was to blame for everything that happened that evening. First of all, he should have sensed the danger. How had he missed it? He must have gone dull. Maybe that’s what happens to people in love. Second, he had dragged Shane into that place himself, and that meant he was responsible for both of them. Of course he had felt the background danger the moment they walked in. It wasn’t direct. No one was threatening them outright. It was simply the kind of place where you didn’t relax. And he hadn’t, not really. He listened automatically to the conversations around them, filtered the noise without thinking, kept track of everything while Shane was talking. Probably too much had happened that day, enough to overload his nervous system. Like a computer freezing when you open every program at once. That was why he’d wanted to leave the apartment, just to get a little distance, to come back to himself. First, it weighed on him that instead of sitting with his fairy-tale, magical family, Shane had raced down an icy highway to him. To Ilya. Second, it was that very evening, lying in his bed, that Ilya had understood this had gone too far. Much farther than it ever should have. And still, he hadn’t found the strength to stop in time. He loved looking into those serious dark eyes with their unusual shape. Loved listening to that voice. Loved even the smallest things, like watching Shane carefully fold his underwear into a neat stack before they made love. Ilya was always provoking him, teasing him, nudging him on, simply because he liked him so much and wanted to see how he’d react. It looked like mockery, but in truth he listened very carefully to everything Shane said, remembered all of it, and later turned it over in his mind again and again. Third, lately Ilya had begun to dream about things that were completely impossible. About Shane loving him. About them being together. And every time afterward, when they parted and Ilya fell back down from the sky into reality, a deadly longing crashed over him. The better it was when they were together, the worse it became afterward. Ilya believed it was his responsibility to stop it. Shane was too honest. He didn’t understand where all this was leading. Today, Ilya hadn’t hit the brakes in time. He’d allowed too much. And in the end Shane had lost his head and asked him to spend Christmas together. If you accelerate for too long with the pedal pressed all the way down, braking afterward has to be brutal. That was exactly what Ilya had done. And fourth, which was to say, most important of all. When they walked into that bar, Shane’s words were still ringing in his ears: when you talk like that, it hurts me. For some reason that sentence had shaken him completely. He couldn’t digest it, couldn’t process it, and it made it hard to focus on anything else. Ilya was used to people hitting back with words when he turned cold. Devaluing him. Telling him to fuck off. Talking about their other guys in response. That would have been normal. He was prepared for that. But no one, in his entire life, had ever said to him: It hurts me. Shane was… not from his life at all. Shane was everything Ilya himself was not. Open. Honest. Good. When the speakers blasted “Drink in Petersburg” and people around them started singing along, off-key, with that familiar vicious enthusiasm, it was such a well-known hell that Ilya felt the danger on his skin. But when Shane confessed his love, all of that receded and collapsed into some dark, wild, furious mass in the background. And against it there was only Shane’s face. Ilya saw only that. Ilya didn’t believe in God. But if he had, he would have asked for one thing: let this stay exactly as it is. Let them always sit like this, shoulders touching. Let him always look into those serious eyes, and let Shane say, I want to be where you are. Let everything be taken from him, from Ilya. Just let this never end. And it was exactly at that moment, in that very second, that he heard a voice behind him: “Kolyan,” a voice said behind him, slow and curious, “am I seeing this right?” (6) The words were spoken in Russian. Ilya went cold all the way through. All at once he realized they were sitting too close. He knew those intonations. He had heard them before. More than once. And not for a single second did the thought maybe it’ll pass cross his mind. Ilya didn’t have time to fully process what had happened, but he knew one thing with absolute certainty: Shane shouldn’t be here. Not now. Shane was sitting close to the entrance. Ilya was between him and the bar. Shane didn’t understand Russian. He hadn’t noticed anything. They were behind them. Ilya couldn’t see them, didn’t know how many there were. But turning around was not an option. Everything would start the moment he did. All the adrenaline must have hit at once, because the bar suddenly snapped into sharp focus, high-contrast, like overtime in a decisive game. The same way he saw the puck and the formation on the ice in moments like that, he now saw the door, saw Shane, and didn’t see but felt the others behind him. And he understood: if this started now, Shane wouldn’t make it out in time. Ilya had to get Shane out. That was their only chance. The moment Shane was gone, Ilya would place himself between the door and the bar. “That’s really sweet, Hollander, I’m very touched and all that,” Ilya said, “but I’ve got a date with another guy tomorrow, so there’s no way we’re spending Christmas together.” He didn’t think about what he was saying. He didn’t think about how it sounded. He thought about one thing only: Shane leaving. Shane not becoming part of this nightmare. Shane went pale, as if he’d been struck. Go, Shane. Please, go now. Just go. “Hey. You lost your mind or what? Hey. Slant-eye. You hear me?” God. If you exist. Let him leave. Let him walk out of here right now. And this time, it seemed Ilya was heard. Because Shane looked at him, said nothing, put on his jacket, and walked out of the bar. Then Ilya slowly stood up and turned around, blocking the door that had just closed behind Shane. (7) There were three of them. Solid men in their thirties or forties. Thick necks. Gold crosses hanging heavy against their chests. Ilya had seen men like this often enough in church. He hadn’t done anything to them. It was enough that he existed. That alone shattered their picture of the world—and that was something they would never forgive. One of them, probably Kolyan, stepped closer. “Go away,” he said through his teeth, trying to shove Ilya aside. “Understand?” Ilya didn’t move. Talking to them was a mistake. Looking them in the eye was a mistake too. But staying silent wasn’t an option. They needed to focus on him. Forget that there had been two of them. Forget Shane. “Is there a problem, guys?” Ilya asked calmly, in Russian. The one with the cigarette froze. “You’re… Russian?” He held the cigarette between his fingers. His shirt had shifted, and beneath the cross on his chest a tattoo showed: Strength is in truth. A heavy hand landed on Ilya’s shoulder. He flinched, barely. Ilya couldn’t stand being touched without permission. “Are you stupid or something?” someone said quietly from the side. “Let’s go talk,” another added flatly. They began pushing him toward the back exit, toward the courtyard. Before the door closed behind them, Ilya glanced back. The bartender was washing glasses, her eyes lowered. Look at me. Please. Look at me. At the last second, she lifted her gaze. (8) The man with the tattoo smiled, warm and almost friendly. “So,” he said, “athlete. Let’s have a little chat.” Five minutes, Ilya calculated. Five minutes is all he needs to get away. “Sure,” Ilya said. “Why not.” “So you don’t respect us,” Tolyan said slowly, suspicious. “I was having a drink with a friend,” Ilya said evenly. “With that… slant-eyed one?” There was a pause. “Go on,” Kolyan said, still friendly. “Tell us. How’d you end up like this?” “Didn’t get beaten enough as a kid,” Viktor suggested. Ilya noted it automatically: Viktor and Kolyan, he could take them. The third one stood by the door, silent. He hadn’t said a word yet. That was the real danger. “Enough,” the third man said at last. “We talked.” He stepped forward—and in that exact second, Ilya moved, sharp and fast, like on the ice. That was when they learned that strength wasn’t only in truth—but in reaction. Ilya was strong. Very fast. Professionally coordinated. Used to pain. But the courtyard was cramped. There were three of them. And they had hatred. Someone struck him from behind, hard, across the back of the head. For one second, the world went quiet. And that second was enough. While they were beating him, they said the things he had heard hundreds of times in his life. In minibuses. In kitchens. At school. On television. Everywhere. That he deserved it. That it would be better if he were dead. That they were being kind to him, and he— And the whole time, one single thought kept him conscious. Otherwise he wouldn’t have made it. Thank God he left, he thought, choking on blood. It’s all right. He’s not here. He’s gone. (9) Shane almost ran out of the bar. The insult had landed so hard that for a moment he didn’t even understand what had happened. He just walked fast, faster and faster, squinting against the snow flying into his face, not feeling the cold at all. The snow blinded him, melted on his lashes. His hands were freezing. He walked with his parka unzipped, soaked through, and didn’t even think to close it. He walked without paying attention to where he was going. He didn’t understand why he had been hurt like that. They had been sitting there, talking. He had only said what he could no longer keep inside. He hadn’t expected an answer. And he certainly hadn’t expected that. Ilya hadn’t looked angry. More stunned, if anything. But then he had looked at Shane in a way that took his breath away. Shane had never seen that look on his face before. For a moment, it felt as if time had stopped. And then Ilya had struck him. With words. And it hurt no less for that. Before that evening, Ilya had never been like this with him. He knew how to be sharp. But this had been cruel. If Ilya simply hadn’t wanted him, he would have said so. Calmly. Honestly. Shane’s heart was pounding so hard it felt as if it were trying to break out of his chest. Something was wrong. Just moments ago they had been sitting there, shoulders touching. Shane had felt the warmth of his body. And Ilya had been looking at him like that… and then what? There had been a glass shattering. That song. Shane stopped abruptly. He had gone quite far from the bar by now. The sign glowed at the end of the street, like a flickering light in the swirl of snow. Shane took a step back toward the bar. Then stopped, biting his lip so hard it hurt. And in that moment, the snowy haze was torn apart by flashing lights, the night split by a siren. A police car drove past him, heading toward the bar. That was when Shane broke into a run. (10) He lay there, staring up at the dark sky, from which white flakes drifted down slowly. He was in pain. And he was very tired. “Sir, can you hear me?” someone asked insistently. “We’re calling an ambulance. This is the police. We’re here to help you.” Ilya cracked his eyes open and saw a resolute male face above him. “Could you… turn off the light show?” Ilya asked. “My head is splitting.” “I’m sorry?” the officer didn’t understand. “Sir, can you tell me what happened?” He spoke politely, patiently, and waited for an answer. Probably for the report, or whatever they called it. Ilya tried to gather his thoughts. “Head-on collision,” he said indistinctly. “Collision… with what, sir?” Ilya thought for a second. “…with so-called traditional values,” he murmured, deciding that was sufficient for the record, and closed his eyes. And then he heard a voice. The only one in the world. The one he needed most. Calling his name and, as always, stressing the first syllable wrong. “Ilya, can you hear me? Ilya, look at me. I’m here.” Ilya looked. And saw Shane’s face. Against the sky, the snow, lit by the flashing lights of the courtyard. He saw the worry in Shane’s eyes, and everything else fell away at once. The yard. The police. The blue and red lights. None of it mattered. Shane was breathing hard, as if he’d just finished a game. “I hear you, Hollander,” Ilya muttered. “Easy.” Shane let out a sharp breath, then hurriedly pulled off his jacket and started wrapping Ilya in it. It was warm and smelled like Hollander. Something fresh. Something simple. Apples, maybe. It smelled like the thing Ilya loved most in the world. Hollander tucked the jacket around him carefully, patiently, the same way he folded his underwear into neat stacks. “Why are you always so out of breath, Hollander?” Ilya asked. “Did you run again? Will you ever learn to walk like a normal person?” Shane unwound his scarf and gently slid it under Ilya’s head so he wouldn’t be lying on the asphalt. “I don’t want an ambulance,” Ilya whispered indistinctly. Shane shook his head. “You need a doctor,” he said firmly. “I don’t want one,” Ilya said just as firmly. “Take me home.” His head hurt terribly, and all this talking exhausted him. “And tell them to turn off the light show,” he added. “It’s killing my head.” He lay there listening to Shane’s voice as he explained something to the police in his calm, restrained tone. They turned off the flashing lights, and it became good, dark. After that there was a gap in his memory. Ilya had no recollection at all of how they reached the car. “All right then, Hollander,” Ilya muttered as Shane searched his pockets for the keys while holding him up so he wouldn’t fall. “You can drive my car. Just this once. And it will never happen again. Like a Christmas miracle.” “And keep in mind,” he added anxiously, “I’ve been a top my whole life. And just because I let you drive my car doesn’t mean you’re allowed everything now…” “Rozanov,” Shane said. “Could you please shut up. Just once in your life?” He settled Ilya into the car with incredible care, sat down himself, and turned the key in the ignition. Up to that point, Ilya had felt the pain only in the background. He’d been constantly distracted. The flashing lights. The police voices. Then the keys, the car. All of it required enormous effort, and right now Ilya could only focus on one thing at a time. Only once they started driving did he realize how much pain he was in. He didn’t really understand what was happening, and it frightened him. Shane drove with one hand, holding Ilya with the other. In the glare of oncoming headlights, Ilya saw his face, lips pressed tightly together. Shane kept holding him and kept talking. Calmly. Evenly. Telling him to hang on. Just a little longer. Telling him where they were. Where they were going. Explaining that everything would be all right now. They would get to emergency, and Ilya would get painkillers right away. “Why emergency?” Ilya panicked. “No. I don’t want that.” The word itself scared him. He started explaining in a rush that they would keep him there, touch him without permission, that they wouldn’t let Shane stay with him, and he couldn’t handle that alone right now. Not that. Anywhere but that. Shane listened calmly. Then he held him a little tighter and said he would stay with Ilya and wouldn’t let anyone do anything Ilya didn’t want. Ilya still repeated that he didn’t want emergency. Anywhere else, just not there. And Shane agreed. Said they’d just stop briefly at intake, where they handled head injuries, that was all. And Ilya immediately calmed down. They drove on and on. Shane knew where they were going. And why. And what needed to be done. He kept all of it in his head. That night, he always knew what to do. Shane looked very grown-up. Ilya had never really noticed that before. Only Shane’s fingers trembled, almost imperceptibly. A fine, barely visible tremor. The entire way. (11) All the rest of that evening came back to Ilya in freeze-frames. They arrive somewhere, and for some reason there are only ambulances around. Blue and red lights flashing everywhere, bouncing off glass. Does no other transport even come here? They go through some glass door. The light is cold, it cuts into his eyes, everything is too loud. Ilya gets lost right away. He doesn’t understand what he’s supposed to do. For some reason, this place scares him. Good thing Shane is talking to the woman at the window. “Mr. Hollander? And this is…” she looks at Ilya. “Yes, of course. We’ll ensure maximum privacy.” They’re led somewhere, and a white curtain is pulled closed behind them. Of course they’ve both been recognized, but no photos. And no autographs either. Probably because he has a concussion. “Hey, it’s good we skipped the line,” Ilya mutters. “And no autographs and all that… Guess having a concussion really paid off.” “Yes,” Shane says, in a very strange voice. “Extremely lucky.” “What’s your name, sir? What’s today’s date? Where are you?” “My name?” Ilya frowns. “You’ve got my ID, it’s all written there. Doesn’t matter anyway, everyone says it wrong. Hollander’s been practicing for three years now, really trying, and he still stresses the first syllable wrong every single time. The date? I don’t remember, but Hollander needs to be in Ottawa by seven at the latest, even earlier, you still have to pick up Mrs. Barringer, and I don’t want you speeding. You hear me? Promise you won’t speed. Where are we? Intake. We came in my car. What are we doing here? I don’t know. Visiting someone, maybe?” Something is wrapped around his arm. Something presses tight, squeezes his forearm, then lets go. Then something cold and hard is pressed against his forehead. But the worst part is the light. Ilya absolutely cannot stand the light right now, and they keep shining it into his eyes. Strangers’ hands touch him, and he’s scared. “Mr. Rozanov, can you hear me? Where does it hurt? Where does it hurt the most?” a voice he doesn’t know asks. Ilya can’t talk to strangers right now. He tries not to show it, but he’s panicking. He doesn’t understand where they’ve taken Shane. Instead of Shane there are these frightening strangers, and Ilya can’t handle any of this right now. Not the light. Not the gurney, hard and cold. Not the pain. Everything hurts too much. “Hollander…” he whispers. “I’m here, Ilya.” Ilya can’t see him. He’s closed his eyes because the light is literally killing him. But he knows Hollander is there. He can smell the familiar green apples. Someone is holding his hand. Firmly. Gently. With both hands. Only Hollander does that. No one else ever does it like that. Ilya breathes in the smell and calms down a little. He clutches Shane’s hand and holds on with all his strength. “Ilya, where does it hurt?” Hollander asks softly. “Tell me where it hurts the most.” He can tell him. It’s safe with him. And Ilya tells him everything. In a whisper, because he doesn’t have the strength to speak louder. His stomach is the worst. His head. It hurts a lot to breathe. His stomach hurts really bad. Why does Hollander keep repeating everything? Who is he talking to? Someone else’s voice reaches Ilya like an echo. “Mr. Rozanov, did you lose consciousness?” the echo rolls around the room, bouncing off the ceiling. Ilya stays quiet. “He was unconscious when they found him,” Hollander says to someone. “Hollander…” Ilya calls, and Hollander immediately leans down. His hair brushes against Ilya’s lips. “When you told me at the bar that you wanted to be with me,” Ilya whispers into his ear, barely audible, “I was so happy I thought I was definitely going to pass out.” Something is injected into him. Warmth spreads through his body. The pain slowly lets go. That’s nice. That’s really good. Ilya floats. He desperately wants to sleep, but they start talking to him again. “What day is it today, Mr. Rozanov? What year is it? Where are we?” “The day was actually amazing,” Ilya says slowly, “but I’m not telling them that, that’s just for us. The end of the day turned out pretty shitty. That’s what they want to know, right? No? Not that? Hollander, I don’t remember the date. Can’t they just look at a calendar? Why are they so obsessed with the date? And what do you mean, where are we? We’re with them. They can see where we are. Why are they asking? Listen, Hollander, can you tell them what year it is? They don’t remember, and I don’t either, but I honestly don’t care at all, and for some reason they really, really need to know what year it is. Right now.” (12) By the time they reached Beacon Hill, the snow had stopped. The sky had cleared, and a cold moon lit the sleeping city, already waiting for Christmas. Ilya’s head started to hurt whenever he lowered it, so Shane leaned back against the pillows, half-sitting, and Ilya wrapped an arm around his waist, pressed his nose into Shane’s chest—and went still, already asleep. All this time Shane had been holding it together. Holding it together the way you do during a shift in a decisive game. And only now, when everything had gone quiet, when he no longer had to answer doctors’ questions or calm Ilya down, did fear finally hit him. The doctors had said: the next few hours are critical. He can’t be left alone. The CT is clean, but that doesn’t mean much yet. Check him constantly. Ask where they are and who you are. Watch his breathing. If he becomes different. If he stops recognizing you. If it becomes hard for him to breathe. Mr. Hollander, then call an ambulance immediately. Shane nodded. He remembered all of it. Ilya slept. Shane stayed beside him, sitting very still, jaw clenched, holding him. He barely changed position, afraid to move and disturb Ilya. Only sometimes did he gently stroke his shoulders and his back. Shane listened to Ilya’s breathing, counted every inhale. And then he started waking him—by the clock, just like they’d told him to. Each time, Shane woke him softly, carefully, as if they were simply waking up together. “Three. Still three. Four,” Ilya murmured. “We’re at my place. Who are you? You’re a Canadian with an anxiety disorder. No? Then what do you have?” Ilya turned his head and kissed him just below the collarbone, lingered there, lips still, as if listening. “And why is your heart pounding like it’s trying to escape? Sleep now, Hollander. You have to get up early tomorrow.” “Four fingers. Two. Five. We’re still at my place. Who are you?” Ilya smiled. “You’re a guy who races down icy highways. If you ever do that again, we’ll fight so badly you can’t even imagine it. All right, guessing again. The world’s neatest folder of underwear. No. Then the keeper of secrets. Shy, but with an erection. What? You want me to say your name? Or are you ever going to tell me what you actually want in bed, or are you planning to guard those secrets for the rest of your life…” He went quiet, then pulled Shane close and whispered into his ear: “If I say your name is Shane, will you stop trembling?” “Three. Four,” Ilya answered obediently a little later, eyes barely open, and added before Shane could ask, “And before you ask where we are, I’ll tell you—we’re at my place. I’m not going anywhere today. I’m staying here and sleeping… Now you want to ask me who you are, right? That’s what I’m wondering too, what exactly this is in my bed.” He thought for a moment. “Warm. Smells like apples. Restless. Always checking who it is and where it is. I don’t know what it is either. But it’s good. Let it stay.” Ilya’s answers grew clearer. He tried to joke, tried to steady Shane with his voice, to calm him down. And still Shane kept waking him again and again—he desperately needed to hear Ilya speak, to know he was there, that he was talking. And at some point Ilya wrapped his arms around him and asked: “Shane. Who do you want to be to me?” Toward morning, Ilya woke on his own and murmured half-asleep: “What the hell… I’ve got blood in my mouth. Did something happen?” “We’re home, Ilya. It’s all right,” Shane said softly, dabbing his lips with a tissue, then bringing a glass of water to his mouth. Ilya took a sip. “Ilya, do you… remember what happened?” “Yes,” Ilya said after a short pause. His voice was hoarse, tired, but completely normal—just like always. “Listen, I have a favor to ask. Let’s not talk about it. We’re good, yeah?” He kissed Shane on the cheek and fell asleep again—deeply, peacefully. For the first time that night, Shane let out a breath. Ilya was going to be fine. Everything was fine. The exhaustion hit all at once, but sleep wouldn’t come. One thought wouldn’t let Shane go. He needed to remember something… something connected to that bar. A shattered glass. A song about Petersburg. People singing. Someone laughing. And then—Ilya’s cruelty. The realization flickered at the very edge of his consciousness, and Shane froze. The next second, he understood. Shane didn’t move. He knew he couldn’t wake Ilya. He only held him tighter. He kept staring straight ahead, not even realizing that he was crying. (13) Ilya dreamed of a soft ringing, coming from somewhere near the park. When he woke up, it was already dark outside. Snow was falling again, and the park lamps had been lit. The sound came from the small Anglican church. The bell rang one last time—and then the note dissolved, thinning out in the air. Ilya was half-reclined in the living room, carefully tucked under a blanket up to his chin. On the pillow beside him lay Shane’s scarf, folded into a neat square. A strip of light glowed under the kitchen door. He had slept well. His head felt much clearer than it had the night before. Music drifted in from the kitchen. Ilya pushed the door open—and froze. Shane was standing there, wearing Ilya’s sweater. Black, high at the neck, a little loose in the shoulders. On Shane, it fit in a way that made Ilya think, very distinctly, that he had never seen anyone more beautiful in his life. Shane was carefully tasting something hot from a pot. Ilya stayed in the doorway. “What time is it?” he asked, disoriented. “Why aren’t you with your parents? What are you doing here?” “A little after five,” Shane said, as always answering everything in order, which somehow did not make it clearer. “I couldn’t leave. I’m making broth.” He glanced at the speaker. “Nice playlist. You made it yourself? It’s perfect for Christmas Eve.” “There’s not a single Christmas song on there,” Ilya said automatically. “I hate them.” Then it hit him. “What did you say? Five? It’s already after five?” “Yeah. How are you feeling?” “That late?” Ilya was horrified. “There’s one evening flight to Ottawa. Through Toronto. It’s thirty minutes to the airport from here, I can check—” “Try this,” Shane cut in, focused. “Is it okay? I always undersalt things. Be careful, it’s hot. And don’t look at flights—why would you?” He blew on the spoon again and carefully brought it to Ilya’s lips. Ilya opened his mouth and tasted it without thinking. “Well?” Shane asked. “Not too little?” “Not too little,” Ilya said. “There’s just… none.” “That can’t be right,” Shane said seriously. “I definitely added salt. Let me stir it again, and you’ll try once more.” “Hollander… then what about… dinner?” “Soup first. The chicken’s already cooked. Then toast with butter. And then tea. And you can put jam on the toast.” “What jam, Hollander? What are you even talking about?” “I found jam in your fridge. It’ll be like a dessert,” Shane explained. Ilya watched him, growing darker by the second. Shane looked up. “Ilya, are you not okay? Your head? I’ll bring ibuprofen—” And that was when Ilya snapped. His head did hurt—especially from this conversation, from the rising panic that time was slipping away while Shane talked about everything except the point. “Hollander, stop this,” he barked. “I’m not made of glass. This drives me insane. You were on me all night—tea, fingers, pills, now soup. Enough, do you hear me? I’m a grown man. I can handle myself. What does soup even have to do with anything? It’s after five, and you’re still here doing God knows what. Did you think about your mother? She was cooking, she was trying—she made the duck!” Shane set the spoon down and turned toward him. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said. “The doctors said you had to be checked every two hours. And I… I was worried.” Only then did Ilya really see him. How pale he was. How drawn. The dark circles under his eyes. And suddenly Ilya understood just how exhausted Shane was. “You don’t have to eat the soup if you don’t want to,” Shane continued quietly. “I know I can’t cook. But you need to eat. We can order something. And don’t yell at me.” Ilya flinched—then froze. Shane shook his head. “I’m not going to my parents’. I already told them. But if you want, I’ll leave. I promised the doctors you wouldn’t be alone…” His lips trembled—but he caught himself almost at once. “So if someone comes by, tell them what they need to check every—” Ilya didn’t let him finish. He couldn’t find the words. He just stepped forward, grabbed Shane, and pulled him tight against himself—hard, desperate, not letting him move. Just to make him stop saying those terrible things. Ilya held him there, not knowing where to start. Then the words came. Simple ones. Words he had never said before. “Shane. I’m sorry. Please.” Shane didn’t pull away. He stayed there, still a little tense, listening. That gave Ilya courage, so the next thought came out clearer. “I’m just… a complete idiot.” “You never annoy me,” Ilya went on. “Never. Anyone else—maybe. But not you. I don’t even know how to be angry at you.” He spoke unevenly, stopping to catch his breath. “I was angry at myself last night. Because you were worried because of me. Because I didn’t let you sleep properly… look at you. Your eyes are so tired. I always want to be great when you’re around. And then this fucking concussion. I hate it when people take care of me. I’ve never had that. And it’s terrifying. I feel guilty.” He went quiet, then added more softly: “And the worst part—we ruined Christmas Eve for your parents. They were waiting for you. They’ll be upset. And all of it is because of me.” He took a breath. “I don’t have a date,” he said suddenly. “I never did. I lied to you because—” He broke off. Shane suddenly clutched him, hard—desperate, almost crushing. Ilya stroked his hair, kissed his eyelids, his cheekbones, his freckles, the shadows under his eyes. Shane didn’t rush him. He just stood there and listened. And Ilya realized how incredible it felt—to be listened to like that. So he managed to say almost everything. Except one thing. The hardest one. He fell silent because he couldn’t find the words. “You said there were no Christmas tracks here,” Shane said suddenly, smiling. “But listen. This one’s playing.” “That’s Queen,” Ilya said. “And anyway, it’s just because of Mercury. His voice.” “I like it.” And then Ilya could say it. “Shane… I didn’t mean to yell at you. I just hate it when people yell. It makes me shake. You should never be yelled at. Ever.” “Okay,” Shane nodded. Then he took Ilya’s face in his hands and kissed him gently. “I told my parents I wanted to spend this evening with someone close to me,” Shane said. “They understood. So we didn’t ruin anything.” “What… what did you tell them?” Ilya asked. He felt slow, like the meaning of Shane’s words was too unreal to land all at once. “I didn’t say your name,” Shane said. “I didn’t know how. I thought if you wanted, it would be better to introduce you properly, in person, instead of explaining everything over the phone. I just said I have someone very close to me. And that today it mattered to me to be with him.” He paused, then added quietly: “So they know I’m okay. Because I’m with you.” (14) Later they sat on the wide windowsill—the one that had made Ilya rent this apartment in the first place. They dragged a blanket and a couple of couch pillows over and settled in, surprisingly comfortable. Shane said the Queen song felt like it was about today, that he wouldn’t mind hearing it again—and Ilya simply put it on repeat. That evening, Ilya learned what warmth without so-called traditional values felt like. In short—it felt incredible. It was this: Shane sitting beside him, bands of streetlight falling across his face, turning his skin warm and golden. Shane smiling over a steaming bowl of soup, nudging the toast closer so Ilya wouldn’t have to reach, looking at him with those impossible eyes. It was being able to talk—or not. Whatever you wanted. It was a body no longer clenched into a fist. Because no one was going to slam a door. Because there was nothing to brace for. No need to run. It was being touched—and not flinching. And no one shouting. At all. Not even inside. “Why did you talk about other guys, Ilya?” Shane asked suddenly. “Why did you say that to me?” “I thought you were too good for me,” Ilya said. “I didn’t want you getting tied up with me. There’s always some kind of disaster around me.” “That’s not how it works,” Shane said calmly. “You don’t get to decide for someone else what’s better for them.” “What do you think your parents would say if they saw you with me… right now?” Ilya asked. “They’d worry at first. You’ve got a pretty terrible reputation, Rozanov.” Then Shane smiled. “But then they’d get to know you—and they’d be happy for me. And… your family?” “In my family, the most important thing is not standing out and not embarrassing anyone,” Ilya shrugged. “So they definitely wouldn’t be happy. In my family, nobody’s happy for anyone. On principle. It’s not our thing. We believe that if you’re happy, you’ll pay for it later.” “And you believe that too?” And then Ilya did something no one in his family had ever done. He pulled Shane close, ran a hand through his hair, and pressed his lips to Shane’s forehead. “You can see it,” he said. “I’m already breaking the rules. I’m staying where it feels good—and I’m not expecting to be punished for it.” “You’ll stay?” Shane asked very quietly. “With me? Really?” “Really,” Ilya said. “I want you to teach me how not to ruin the things that shouldn’t be ruined. And I’ll teach you how to salt food properly.” Shane laughed. He was alive and warm and beautiful—and Ilya drew him closer. Then they stood at the window for a long time, listening to the music, and Ilya breathed in the scent of his hair. Outside, the city was slowly being covered in snow, and Christmas evening was settling over the streets.