Archive of Our Own

Ilya was antsy. Sitting in his window seat, bouncing his knee. He needed the flight to take off.

He was heading to the NFL draft and as excited as he was to be drafted first - and he was going to be drafted first - he really wasn’t looking forward to enduring the 12 hour plane trip from Moscow to LA. Even though the league had sprung for first class tickets (as they should have), it’s still 12 hours confined to a small space within a big metal tube hurtling through the air.

He leaned forward and tugged his backpack out towards him, unzipped the middle pocket and plunged his hand inside. He felt around for the cool slippery metal and pulled it out. The headphones came pouring out, still attached, in a tangled heap.

He sighed wearily and set about the task of untangling the thin white wires.

He had gotten this iPod six months ago and it quickly became something like a security blanket to Ilya. He listened to it on long bus trips, on flights, during workouts, while laying in bed staring at the ceiling and pretending he doesn’t live in his father’s home.

So, of course he had it for this flight.

He had spent several hours the night before making sure it was fully charged, which should last him several international flights. He continued his attempts at disentangling the headphones, internally grumbling about the unrequested Gordian Knot.

How does this always.fucking.happen.every.time. And why? Why does his backpack hate him, too? Everyone else wasn’t enough?

Finally, freeing the majority of the headphones, he decided to give up on the last small tangle, making the left headphone slightly shorter than the right.

Fuck it he thinks, I don’t care, I just need to not be here.

He preferred vodka and sex and fast cars to getting him out of his current reality, but those were more difficult to obtain on an international flight. Well, vodka wasn’t, but he couldn’t ask the flight attendant for any as they began to pull away from the gate. So, music would have to do.

He hastily plopped the headphones into his ears, causing both to promptly fall out into his lap.

Grumbling, he put them back in, wedging them in at a particular angle that felt more secure.

He clicked the center button and began scrolling the wheel, navigating to what he wanted to listen to. Usually he had on EDM or hip hop, something with a heavy low beat his brain can anchor onto that causes the rest of the world to fall away just a little bit.

But that’s not the only thing the likes. Ilya has other music tastes, he just doesn’t like to broadcast them.

When he’s alone, he likes music that makes him feel something. Not just emotionally, but physically.

It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes he’ll listen to a song and there’s something about it that makes him shiver. And then he’ll listen to it on repeat.

Nothing usually happens again, after that first time hearing a song, unless it’s been many years between listens and a specific vibe is curated to give it impact. But there’s something in that first listen that tells him to keep listening, to keep coming back, like a matryoshka doll, nesting meaning with each further listen.

He clicked playlists and scrolled down to ‘Sad white boy music’. The tracks were listed alphabetically, paired with tiny icons of the album cover. Ilya scrolled through, stopping on a track with an orange-pink album cover that wasn’t familiar.

Then he remembered his music dump from the night before.

While charging, Ilya had added a bunch of new music to listen to on the long flight, and had completely forgotten about adding the new Grizzly Bear album to this playlist. He clicked out of playlists and went to the album instead, pressing play on the first track, then pausing it quickly.

He hadn’t heard of them before, but when he read somewhere that they were in the same vein as Fleet Foxes, he figured he would give them a try.

Also they had bears in the name, so Ilya was already interested. He just refused to engage with any discussion referring to it as ‘chamber pop’ though, because what the fuck is that?

Ilya settled in, adjusting the angle of his neck rest and elongating the legs of the seat. Once comfy, he pressed the middle button of his iPod and closed his eyes, as the opening notes of the album began to crawl out of his earbuds.

He has a specific way to listen to a new record, which is to say, in order the first time.

He doesn’t have a lot that he believes in besides hockey and that his mother deserved better, but Ilya firmly believes that an artist intentionally puts an album together in a specific way. We may never know why they put it in that order, but he respects that this is how the album is *supposed* to be heard, and he will honor that on first listen.

After that, he can shuffle, though it’s rare for him to actually make it through an entire album after the first listen. Normally, he just plucks out the songs he liked from it into one of his many playlists, unless it’s an album that’s particularly impactful as a whole.

Like Boxer by the National. That’s an album Ilya has listened to many times over in the confines of his bedroom. But you’d be hard-pressed for him to be able to tell you more than 1 or 2 songs on a given Strokes album.

He listens as the singer begins, with a voice that is somehow harmonious and also sounds like he’s singing with a mouth full of rocks.

If this is what the whole album is going to be like, I am not gonna have the patience to sit through it, he thinks.

As the plane begins to taxi for takeoff, quickly gaining speed, the song shifts, getting better as it goes along. He’ll need a lot more to be convinced about the album, but 45 seconds in might be judging a bit too prematurely.

The wheels of the plane are no longer touching the ground as song comes to a close. Ilya sits forward slightly, peering out the window at the world beneath growing smaller and smaller, and feels a small pang of longing.

Being on a plane always makes him think of her. It’s the closest he can get to heaven without actually joining her.

If only Irina could be here now, to witness, to watch, to sit beside, to hold, to behold Ilya and what he’s grown into. What he would give for her to just be right now.

What would his life look like if he had grown up with Irina as his only parent?

What would it look like to be going to the NFL draft with her by Ilya’s side?

Grigori wasn’t even on this flight, citing a vague business meeting he had to attend, and would be flying out later that evening.

No doubt Irina would have been on this flight with him.

As he gazed off into the skyline, the second song started with a bouncing piano refrain, a reverb-heavy guitar riff soon following. The first vocals come as a surprise-

* oh ohh OHHhhhh *

A thrumming bass line is woven in, followed by the crashing of cymbals. The harmonizing of voices as they fold into the beginning of the first verse make Ilya shiver slightly, hair on his forearms beginning to raise.

The feeling of his skin standing at attention makes him focus harder on dissecting out the English words.

* Save up all the days *

* A routine malaise *

He catches some here and there, though not quite sure if he doesn’t know the word or just can’t understand the singer.

* Just like yesterday *

* I told you I would stay *

He catches the word ‘stay’ and feels a familiar deep tug inside.

He wished Irina had stayed. He knows it was hard. She was so kind and his father was so cruel. He knows it’s selfish to wish, but he knows her actions were selfish too. He’s just not sure which of the two got the better end of the bargain out of the deal.

* Would you always? *

* Maybe sometimes? *

* Make it easy? *

* Take your time *

The song feels loose and floaty, with one part almost tumbling into the next. He’s not sure if its the song thats making him sad, or thinking about his mother, but the growing well of feelings is now threatening to spill and he really wasn’t looking for cry-in-public type of indie experience.

As the song ended, he quickly navigated back to his playlists and found ‘Ilya Rozanov’s Driving/Fucking Playlist’. He hastily scrolled and pressed the center button without looking, a Russian rap song beginning with a horn intro before transitioning into a trap beat.

At least this wouldn’t threaten to undue his sanity with a single word. Feeling uneasy, he settled in for the long flight.

Ilya was drafted first, of course. And he got to see Shane again. Remembering the moment in the gym that night, the way the air in the room felt… charged. Not necessarily tense, but definitely some kind of tension. The way Shane looked at him, with fire in eyes, fear and adrenaline coursing through him, causing his fingers to twitch as if he was restraining himself and nearly failing. It was so electric and Ilya couldn’t wait to feel it again.

He was back home, once again stuck in Russia. He was laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. So, in the safety of his bedroom at 2 in the morning, with no one to witness any potential tears, he gave the Grizzly Bear album another shot.

He started on the third track. He had already heard the first two, and while he does think a whole album should be consumed altogether for the first time - like a meal - he already heard them and doesn’t want to know if the feelings they brought up will be duplicated.

When the album finishes, he cycles it over again, listening from the beginning. When the second song comes on, it doesn’t make him shiver and it also doesn’t make him want to cry.

But he does keep thinking about his mother, and just how desperately he wished she had stayed.

A memory is resurrected as the song continues: Ilya as a child, maybe 4 years old, with a mess of white blonde curls, holding hands and dancing with his mother in their kitchen, a pot of borscht boiling on the stove.

He had forgotten that she used to put records on while cooking; dancing and laughing with Ilya on her hip, at her side, on the counter. Twirling him, her crouching down so Ilya could twirl her back.

The memory feels like sunshine, warm and bright. At least for as long as it lasts. It rapidly fades, making Ilya’s throat feel thick, eyes brimming with tears threatening to break the dam.

He’s not even sure when his father got rid of the record player. He can’t remember seeing one at his father’s house since before Irina died.

He turns off the music, rolls onto his side, eventually falling asleep with tear-stained cheeks.

Over the course of the next few weeks, the song comes up on shuffle intermittently. Ilya typically skips it when he’s listening in the presence of other people.

But when he’s alone - on the balcony smoking a cigarette or walking home from a night out - he’ll let the song play and his mind wander about thoughts of what it might be like if his mom hadn’t had her accident.

If both his parents were alive.

Or if his dad had one instead, which makes him feel slightly relieved, almost. Ilya immediately feels guilty for it.

When the song ends, he quickly stuffs his mourning of a life he never even got the chance to have, deep into the back of his emotional closet and quickly shuts the door before anything can fall out.

They’d been texting sporadically for a few months. If 3 messages total were sent, Ilya considered it having a conversation.

Mostly they talked about nothing. It had been a couple weeks since they last had a riveting conversation.

[21:17] Lily: What are you up to

[21:33] Jane: Reading about the 1972 Summer Series

[21:34] Lily: Hollander, you are so boring

And he didn’t want to bother Shane, didn’t want him to get weirded out that Ilya wanted to talk to him. Because they didn’t talk, not when they were together at least. Their mouths were far too busy with other things than speaking.

But he was desperate for Shane’s attention, desperate for him to yield more about himself.

Shane kept his inner world so secretly tucked away. It was like pulling teeth trying to get anything out of him. Ilya had learned this the hard way, seeing as he was almost always the first (and the last) to text.

Considering they might get to see each other alone for only a handful of hours a year, Ilya was willing to grapple with the embarrassment of being eager on main.

It didn’t help that every time a text from Jane popped up on his phone screen, Ilya couldn’t help but immediately conjure up THAT image.

Shane in that hotel room - separated only by a thin hotel wall from Scott Hunter - dropping to his knees, desperate to get Ilya in his mouth.

Those fucking eyes, a warm rich brown streaked with flecks of gold that you can only see in just the right light, wide and peering up at him.

Shane’s face always betrayed him, his deepening blush revealing his lust, his brow furrowed in concentration to suck Ilya’s dick *perfectly* the way he does everything else even though Ilya could tell he was actively trying to relax.

God, Ilya loved his face. It was truly becoming a problem.

Because while it was one thing to reminisce about secretly counting your rival’s freckles after you’ve (almost) fucked. It’s another to actively engage in … whatever the fuck he was doing.He pulled out his phone and began typing.

[18:47] Lily: Hollander, what music you like

[18:53] Jane: I don’t know? I don’t listen to a lot of music

[18:56] Lily: ???

[18:56] Lily: What you mean you ‘don’t listen to a lot of music’

[18:56] Lily: Who doesn’t listen to music? Psychopath?

[19:33] Jane: I’m not a psychopath! I just find it really distracting most of the time. There are some times where I like music but those are in specific instances

[19:37] Lily: Like what

[19:37] Jane: Ummm let me think.

[19:37] Jane: Ok there’s this one but I feel like you’re going to make fun of me

[19:38] Lily: Hollander.

[19:39] Lily: Is fine, I won’t make fun

[19:48] Jane: So, my parents cottage is my favorite place on earth and so summer mornings while we cook breakfast together after having gotten up late we’ll listen to old jazz or blues records and I like those. I don’t know their names or anything but it’s one of the few times I can think of where music completes the memory.

[19:52] Lily: That sounds really beautiful

[19:54] Jane: It is. We’ll do puzzles or read after, it’s really relaxing

[19:56] Lily: This is how you relax, Hollander? Like you are 80 years old?

[19:56] Jane: Fuck off, you said you wouldn’t make fun!

[19:57] Lily: I did not make fun of music, I made fun of your relaxation activities

[19:58] Jane: Ugh whatever. Goodnight Rozanov

[19:59] Lily: Goodnight Hollander

This made absolutely no sense to Ilya. How does someone not like music??? It’s like saying you don’t like food. But then again, he had no idea what Shane ate. He supposed the same as all other athletes, protein, carbs, more protein. For all he knew, Shane was on some weird diet.

Ilya felt a deep urge to rectify Shane’s (terrible) opinion, however he knew his efforts would fall on, perhaps not deaf ears, but imperceptible ones.

Ilya was laying on the couch, scrolling Youtube for something to watch while he waited for Svetlana to finish getting ready. He paused on a Recommended For You video from Architectural Digest - not typically a channel that popped up on his feed, considering he watches almost exclusively hockey clips. It was titled ‘The Cottage with Shane Hollander.”

He clicked on it. The video opened with a wide shot of the front of the house, a sleek timber and glass house that reflected the lake back onto itself. It began to slowly zoom out panning to show the granite steps down to the grass of the yard.

‘This is Shane Hollander’s fortress of solitude,’ announced the narrator.

‘Here in Eastern Quebec is the house he had built on a private lake.’

“It’s my favorite place on Earth,” Shane says, sitting in an Adirondack chair on the lawn in front of the house. The camera cuts to a close up of his profile as he continues, “And my parents’ cottage, the one I grew up spending my summers at is ten minutes away.”

It cuts to Shane doing a vinyasa flow in the yard, overlooking the lake at sunset.

Ilya then spends the next 10 minutes taking an extensive virtual tour of Shane’s cottage.

“Right this way,” Shane says politely, as he opens the door for the host and camera crew. He walks them down the hallway and turns left into the open concept kitchen/dining/living room.

As Shane and the host continue chatting at the kitchen island, the camera pans over to the living room. Ilya spots a mid-century modern wooden cabinet … with a record player sitting on top.

Why would Shane have a record player if he doesn’t listen to music?

Ilya glances over to his own record player, a recent acquisition, and shoves down the urge to text Hollander that they somehow bought the same Audio Technica model. He *wants* to tell Shane, desperately so, but feels like it will inevitably open a can of worms about his mother that he is NOT ready for.

Ilya doesn’t have many records, just a handful of old Russian ones he was able to find on Ebay. Some orchestral, some folk singers. He’s not actually sure what kind of music Irina liked, but he likes to think she would have liked the ones he has.

Ilya realizes he had zoned out thinking about Shane and his mother when the video ends. He clicks it off and stands up, stretching out his back. He walks over to the sparse record collection his armoire houses and picks out one at random, an Ekaterina Shavrina album from the 90’s, Понарошку.

He presses a button, flips a switch, and then carefully begins extracting the record from its sleeve. He places it down gently on the turntable and moves the arm over to the edge of the record.

This part wasn’t something Ilya had expected when he got his record player - how much he would love the ritual of it all.

Each time he played a record, there was a specific set of steps required to be done with precision and care; it reminded him a little bit of going to church and receiving communion with his mother. The way you approach the chalice, folding arms in a specific way, how the spoon dipped into the bread and wine mixture to be tipped into your mouth, the kiss to the base of the cup after. The act of putting on records felt reverent to Ilya in a way that religion never quite seemed to.

As the singer’s voice began to croon over the speakers, Ilya flopped back onto the couch, wondering what records Shane had hidden in his cabinet.

“Hollander. Stay,” he pleaded.

“I’m sorry, I just … can’t.” Still holding Ilya’s shirt, Shane turned and walked out of the room. Out of the apartment. Out of Ilya’s life.

He keeps replaying the whole day over and over in his head, wondering where he went wrong. He knows the name was the tipping point, but it wasn’t the name alone. It was the everything all at once.

It was the wanting him to stay.

And as soon as that thought popped into Ilya’s head, his brain tortured himself by playing the song, hearing * I told you I would stay *.

Every time he thinks about the moment, with his hand outstretched, pleading like a goddamn fool for some idiot with a weak fucking backhand, that goddamn Grizzly Bear song starts up in his head.

Except the fucking ear worm is stuck on * I told you I would stay *, looping over and over and over. And he needs to NOT hear that looping on repeat right now.

He stands up off the couch, vaguely aware he should probably clean the cum off his chest, and caring not at all, goes to find his iPod in his backpack. He pulls it out, headphones tangled in their usual mess, and Ilya nearly screams.

He rips the headphones out of the jack and storms over to his docking station in the living room on his mantle. He rapidly flips to the song and plunges the device onto the charging port with more force than really necessary, and roughly thumbs the play button.

The familiar piano beat begins to cut through the air, calling out from speakers cleverly hidden around the room. He listened to the words, having looked them up several years ago when his English was better.

He allowed the emotional torture to take hold as the song enveloped him in daydreams turned sour, thinking his * maybe sometimes * that he wanted * always * was now his never again.

The first few weeks after were rough.

Nothing felt good. Not hockey or sex or vodka. Fast cars were always nice but just… made him feel more sad than anything.

Like no matter how fast he drove, he couldn’t leave himself behind.

Perhaps to no one’s (or everyone’s if they actually knew) surprise, ’Sad white boy music’ was now on constant rotation. Ilya wasn’t listening to much else, actually.
Perhaps it was the emotional turmoil brewing inside that seemed almost too loud for EDM or rap, and actually needed quieter, calmer music to bring it under control.

Every time the song came up, Shane would flash in Ilya’s mind. On the couch straddling Ilya and holding them both, with his head tipped back in pleasure and lips slightly parted. How he looked wearing Ilya’s clothes, eating food Ilya cooked for him, on Ilya’s couch. How serene he looked when he had just woken up from their nap.

Slowly and then all at once, the meaning of the song had shifted without ever choosing to let Ilya be conscious of it.

The Admirals won the Cup and ageless (/derogatory) dinosaur Scott Hunter came out in the most obnoxious way possible for Ilya - in that he had to keep watching everyone talk about it.

But it did lead to one thing: he promised Shane he would spend time with him at his cottage this summer. He didn’t want to go to Russia anyway, and he could easily make the excuse of going hard during off-season training. He didn’t have his father’s approval to avoid anymore and like hell did he want to spend time with Alexei after the shit he pulled at the funeral.

But still. It was an impulsive decision to make. Hollander had already asked him, albeit while high in the hospital after Marly smashed him into the boards, breaking his collarbone and his brain (but only a little).

Ilya wanted so desperately in that moment to say ‘yes', because OF COURSE he wants to spend unrestricted time with Shane in a private location. But that was also exactly the reason why Ilya so desperately needed to say no in the moment.

Where was there to go after that? They couldn’t be together, not with the league as it was.

He had bought himself time with that ‘Maybe’, but it lasted all of a few weeks, his resolve bursting like a dam as soon as he saw Scott fuckin’ Hunter’s old mouth on his hot hunky boyfriend.

He was calling Shane before his brain could catch up with him. It was like a fever dream, Ilya a puppet to its plot.

The dream rapidly turned into an interesting new reality, with Shane turning into Mr. Travel Agent and taking care of all of Ilya’s logistics. Which, he was not sure just what all that consisted of.

How much can you really plan when you’re just going to fuck for a week at a cottage? He could buy a flight day of, throw a few clothes in a bag (not that he would really need any), buy a toothbrush there.

He did not understand the need for a travel agenda. And yet, when he got the notification on his phone that

had shared a Google doc with him (‘Cottage Itinerary’), Ilya opened it with curious amusement.

The ‘itinerary’ mostly just consisted of lists: groceries (which included assigned comments like ‘Add anything you want me to get for you!’), meals they could cook (it was a lot of variations on pasta and burgers), activities they could do (mostly aquatic and/or puzzle-related). He also included the boring stuff, like Ilya’s flight information and the address of the cottage, because 'These are essential pieces of information, Ilya.'

He found it incredibly endearing.

While he was bored by the planning involved to get him to Shane’s cottage, his mind was racing with ideas for what to do with - to - Shane once he got there.

He’d had years to think of dirty things to do to Shane when they were alone and had time together. And it was something Ilya highly looked forward to, going through his mental rolodex of ideas.

But he knew going to the cottage meant something. To Shane. To each other. To their… relationship, whatever it was. He wanted to Shane to know just how seriously he took him, how much he wanted to fall asleep next to him every night, and wake up to him in the morning.

He just wasn’t sure how to actually … say that. Sure he could say those words in theory, but in reality, his brain short circuited, telling him there’s no way the other man could feel the same way about him.

Words were hard. Actions were easier for Ilya to show his love through. It was why he loved sex so much. But he loved Shane for so much more than the (incredible) sex they had together. And he needed to figure out a way to show those feelings to him, too.

How do you tell someone you’ve loved for a decade just how much they mean to you, when the grand total amount of time you’ve spent together doesn’t even add up to a full 24 hours?

How is Ilya supposed to look into those beautiful brown shining eyes and simply… tell him how he feels? When he can’t even find the words in his mother tongue, let alone his adopted language?

Shane, I’ve loved you for ten years, since you told me I wasn’t allowed to smoke, you are the most important thing in my life, I want you in it however I can get it, I want forever with you, I want you to stay, please stay Shane, I want to build a life together and have kids and-

Ilya cut his future tripping off there. This is why he needed to SHOW him! Telling would only end up imploding, either in Ilya’s embarrassment, Shane misunderstanding, or a combination of both.

He paused his pacing - how long had he been pacing for? - and sat at the edge of the sofa, hovering as if he was about to jump back up at any moment. He chewed his thumb lazily in his mouth, eyes unfocused looking straight ahead as he racked his brain for something - anything - that meant something to him to share with Shane, to show how he felt.

He paused his gnawing and began blinking, an idea rapidly coming to form. He sprang off the couch and hurriedly walked down the hallway to his bedroom. He wasn’t sure why he felt like he was in a rush, just that he was excited about this idea and about sharing it with the man he loved.

He paused at the doorframe and quickly scanned the room, eyes bouncing off every surface searching for his laptop. He spots the corner of it, a curved matte black hunk of metal, scattered amongst the discarded clothes, somewhat-folded linens, pens, and random pieces of paper that crowd the top of his dresser. He slides it out from under the messy pile, careful to avoid toppling any of it, and walks out back to the living room.

He tucks himself into one end of the couch and opens up his internet browser. He types in discogs.com and begins searching for a vinyl copy of the album. He refines his search to mint condition and begins to browse through the hundreds of listings.

He pauses when he sees a title, clicking on it.

They released a pressing of a pink and orange pair of records? Ilya couldn’t care less about the pink record, but the orange one in the set was the exact color match to his Porsche 718 Cayman.

It felt like kismet.

He bought the most expensive mint condition, unopened listing of the limited edition set, expediting shipping, even though it was bound to get here before he had to leave in a month.

He smiled and exhaled shakily, not realizing he had been holding his breath in. He closed his laptop and lightly tossed it on the couch beside him.

He closed his eyes, picturing those fucking freckles. He couldn’t wait.

The first day at the cottage was better than Ilya imagined it could have been. Not the sex, it was just as incredible as he thought it would be, but the moments when they weren’t fucking. The in-between of just existing together. Cooking, sitting by the fire. Moments of stillness usually made Ilya panic, but here with Shane, the stillness felt… calming.

They woke up late, sleeping in well past Shane’s typical morning alarm. They languidly got out of bed, moving together and constantly touching, as if one required the other to remain attached at all times in order to stay awake. Ilya watched as Shane made coffee, teasing him about how strong he made it, how he took it without cream or sugar.

“Do you hate joy, Hollander?”

As they drank their coffee standing around the kitchen island and staving off any formal planning of the day, Ilya turned to look at Shane.

“I have a song I want to show you.”

“What? What song?” Shane asks.

“Come.”

Ilya extended his hand and Shane allowed himself to be led out of the kitchen and down the few steps into his sunken living room.

“Sit. I’ll be right back,” Ilya instructed.

“Where would I go?” Shane huffed, as he plopped on the middle of the couch, annoyed that he was being made to wait to find out what the hell Ilya wanted to show him.

Ilya padded off, disappearing through the doorway of the bedroom. He returned holding a square, thin cardboard box. Shane watched him open the box - well, it wasn’t really a box per se more of a cardboard folder (?) - and pull out a record, his eyes bright and aimed at Shane. Ilya held it up delicately with the edges resting on the pads of his fingers, as if presenting it for inspection.

Looking over the abstract block shapes of orange, green, pink, and black on the record jacket, Shane’s face scrunched in concentration, as if he couldn’t figure out what he was supposed to be looking at. His head tilted side to side slightly as he fidgeted in his seat, struggling to figure out what the clearly English letters in the column of text actually meant. Annoyance began to slip over his expression; he DOES know how to read thankyouverymuch - yet the hockey stereotype is ringing too close to the truth for his comfort right now.

“Ummm… Griz.. Grizzly Bear?” Shane hesitated, still confused.

Ilya smiled wide, “Da.”

“But what is… Veck… atim… est?”

“Who knows? Who cares, doesn’t matter, Hollander. Here -” Ilya stated plainly, shifting the record to his left hand.

He walked over to the record player, gently lifted the dust cover and pressed the power button on the preamp, navigating his lover’s setup as if it was a nightly ritual.

He returned his attention to the record, digging his thumbnail into the lower right edge and dragging it up the side of the record, tearing into the thin plastic wrapping that encased the jacket. Once the slit was opened, Ilya tipped his left hand down, slowly allowing the record sleeve to slip out of the jacket into his other hand, cupped to catch it.

Shane watched, mesmerized as his Adonis worked to get the record on the turntable.

In a similar motion, Ilya smoothly slipped the record out of its sleeve and cradled the edge with the pads of his fingertips, careful to not touch the ridges.

Shane couldn’t help but notice the quick flicker of muscles tensing in Ilya’s forearms as he worked. He found it embarrassingly erotic to watch this man unwrap and place a bright orange circle of plastic on his turntable. A faint blush began to slowly creep up his neck, unable to tear his gaze away.

Hearing the faint click of the preamp indicating it was ready, Ilya gently lifted the tonearm out of its cradle, hovering the stylus at the outer edge of the record.

He stole a quick glance over at Shane who sat on the edge of the couch with a look of both infatuation and curiosity. Ilya’s mouth gently curved into a lopsided grin as his fingers blindly fumbled for a hidden switch, flipping it to begin the lazy turning of the record.

He lowered the lever in a fluid, measured motion, and watched the slow descent of the tonearm until a faint crackle drifted through the speakers, indicating the stylus had made contact.

He spun around to face Shane as the melodic guitar notes of the first song began to strum. Walking towards the couch, he noted that Shane looked … surprised? confused? horny?

“How did you know that I had a record player?” Shane asked.

“Your documentary was very… illuminating,” said Ilya.

“You watched that??” Shane asked incredulously.

“Of course, and miss chance to watch you do yoga in slutty little shorts? Never.” Ilya grinned menacingly.

Shane rolled his eyes, the blush now beginning to bloom on the apples of his cheeks, as well.

“Don’t you usually listen to like, rap? I wasn’t expecting you to put on… indie music…” Shane said with a slight hesitation in his voice, his eyebrow quirked upward, shoulder slightly shrugged.

Ilya stopped in front of the couch to stare at - no loom over him.

“Shane. You don’t know this about me? I am full of mysteries.”

Shane sharply exhaled a huff through his nose and gave a faint grin to Ilya.

“Right, mysteries. Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

“What? Is mysterious, that I like sad white boy music sometimes. Unexpected!” Ilya said, gesturing broadly as he tucked one leg under himself to sit on the couch.

“But also you must not tell anyone, Hollander, no one can know that Russians do this,” he added quickly, giving Shane a comically stern look as he brought his other leg up onto the couch and settled in to Shane’s side.

As the song continued, Shane looked up and around at the ceiling, seemingly tracking the air in the room.

“I’m not sure I like this?” he asked, brow furrowed.

“Yes, I know, is not their best. Is not song I want to show you. But we cannot skip because is record. My song is next one, you will just have to learn how to be patient, Hollander,” Ilya said in a gently condescending tone, accompanied by a light pat on the side of Shane’s leg.

Shane narrowed his eyes.

“Fuck you,” he said without any heat behind it, hiding a smirk.

Ilya grinned and leaned forward, planting a soft kiss to the freckled apple of Shane’s cheek. His blush turned crimson in response, ears now matching the shade of red on his neck.

As the first song of the album began to fade, Ilya’s heart began to speed up in anticipation.

He turned his body on the couch to fully direct his attention towards Shane, legs crossed. He leaned forward slightly to taptaptap on the other man’s knee rapidly, slightly bouncing in his seat and excitedly murmuring,

“Okie, this is it, this is it!” as the crackling silence hummed on.

“I can’t listen if you’re gonna talk the whole time-“

Shane was interrupted by a hand clamping down over his mouth, as Ilya glared at him with wide eyes. His mouth shushed silently, head nodding slightly left to right to say ‘no’, and pulled his hand away to bring his forefinger to his lips, raising his eyebrows high for emphasis.

Shane rolled his eyes, exasperated, and looked back up at where the wall and ceiling met, squinting slightly at nothing in order to listen closely, as the staccato lull of the piano began to sharply bounce off the walls.

* oh ohh OHHhhhh *

The guitar lilt and grounding drum beat began to weave together melodically into the piano chords, and Shane stiffened ever-so-slightly, eyes growing larger.

‘Woah,’ he whispered as he slowly turned his head to look at Ilya.

He was grinning widely, beaming at Shane and slowly nodding his head - up and down this time, as if to say yes I know. His deep blue eyes were glinting in the late morning sun, a faint reflection of the lake blending in to the corner of his irises, reminding Shane just how right it felt to be here, together.

The steady beat of the piano continued to rhythmically pulse around them.

Ilya knew what he meant. The eyes, the slow turn, going stiff - not quite like when he got nervous, but more like when something unexpected had caught his attention and intrigued him- the barely whispered admission of awe.

Shane was having a reaction to the music. As the voices harmonized in a way that made Ilya’s skin prickle the first time he had heard it all those years ago, he quietly scanned Shane’s forearm, searching for confirmation of his theory.

* Save up all the days *

Ilya watched as the other’s tan toned arm became pebbled, hair slowly beginning to stand up straight. He couldn’t explain why this song had this effect on him, just that it did. And he could explain even less of why he just… knew… that it would have the same effect on Shane.

It doesn’t change the amount of sheer satisfaction it brought Ilya that his theory was correct - that it would have the same effect on the man he loved so dearly.

He quietly smirked to himself, having once again been able to induce a response - any response - in Shane.

“Right?” he quietly said, not wanting to interrupt the aural ballet they were sharing.

“I mean, it’s… different, than what I’d normally go for, bffft-“ Shane said at his normal level of speaking voice and was once again interrupted, this time with Ilya’s finger on his lips.

“Shut the fuck up and listennnnn,” Ilya whispered in a sweet hiss.

He watched Shane follow his command and return to his far-away look of intent listening, basking in the reverence of a moment he never dared dream might actually come to exist.

* Just like yesterday *

* I told you I would stay *

Shane snapped back to Ilya, eyes still wide but sharpened slightly, as the questioning of the chorus began to lilt through the room.

* Would you always? *

He opens his mouth to speak and begins stuttering, “You- I- sta-“

“Da. I show you for reason, yes? It’s beautiful.”

“Its.. is it..-“ Shane hesitated, eyes boring holes into the floor to avoid Ilya’s intense scrutiny.

He opened his mouth only to close it again, clearly wanting to say something. As if he was unsure whether he’s allowed to. As if trying to decide whether he wants to know the answer.

Ilya watched the line of Shane’s throat as he swallowed and turned to face Ilya on the couch, meeting his gaze.

“Is it about us?”

Ilya grinned again, the boyish smile Shane had only seen a handful of times - all within the last 24 hours, reserved for those he called home.

“Something like that,” Ilya replied, eyes shifting to gaze softly at Shane.

He watched as Shane leaned in close to kiss him adoringly, keeping his eyes open a second longer than he should to watch his freckles up close, dancing under his lashes. Closing his eyes, Ilya kissed him back, sweetly without adding any heat to it.

* Just like yesterday *

* I told you I would stay *

* Would you always? *

* Maybe sometimes? *

A languid, lazy morning listening to records with your lover, with no place to be, no urgency to rush off under cover. They could take their time here.

So they did, mapping each others mouths with probing tongues, tugging lips between teeth, the song continuing to play in the background enveloping them in a sensory cocoon of splendor.

Eventually, Ilya realized the next song had started and he pulled back to look at Shane. He brought one hand up to cradle his cheek.

“Мой помидор,” he crooned, searching for Shane’s reciprocal gaze. When he caught it, he gently whispered “Я тебя люблю.”

Shanes eyes fluttered closed gently as he received Ilya’s affection, embarrassed to be perceived and forever craving more of the man’s attention.

“I love you, too,” he murmured faintly against Ilya’s cheek, as he nuzzled into him.

“Fuck, I can’t believe you’re actually here. And that you bought me a record. And that you’re… staying.” Shane gulped down the last word, as if he realized too late that he had unintentionally quoted the song.

Ilya knew that he meant staying at the cottage for a week. But what Shane was saying wasn’t wrong. He was staying. He had no plans of ever going anywhere else than right beside Shane Hollander.

“I told you I would stay,” Ilya said simply, shrugging his shoulders, peering at Shane expressionless.

Shane bit his lip, seeing an opportunity he could have neither described nor understood ten minutes prior.

“Would you always?”

Ilya’s face softened in recognition, before a glint flashed in his eye.

“Maybe sometimes?”

Shane’s face fell in what seemed to be a mixture of confusion and sadness, when Ilya knocked into his shoulder saying,

“Shane. Is joke. I’m staying - maybe sometimes in person, when we can, but I’m staying.”

He pulled Shane by the shoulders into him, cradling him and leaning down to plant a kiss on his fine silken black hair. Shane turned his face to look up at Ilya’s.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”