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Shane woke.
Light drifted through the windows, thin and gray, too faint to illuminate the room. It was early. It wasn’t yet dawn.
He was alone in the bed, but he didn’t feel alone, and he wasn’t worried.
If he’d found himself alone yesterday morning — even after everything, everything said and unsaid, and the reality of being here, and now, and them — yesterday, waking alone might have worried him. The ingrained, reflexive pang that came with years of being left, alone in a bed, and lonely.
He didn’t feel alone, or lonely, or worried, and the absence of those feelings was a pleasurable ache, a body relieved of a long-carried burden. The absence of those feelings had a presence, and the presence had a name, and its name was joy.
Ilya hadn’t left.
Ilya wasn’t leaving.
Shane got out of the bed that smelled like Ilya, and him. Like Ilya and him. He stood at the bedroom window, eyes seeking out Ilya’s shape.
He was sitting on a rock, looking out over the water. His back was bare, and beautiful. The whole shape of him was beautiful. Shane could look for as long as he wanted.
He made his way to the kitchen, put the coffee on, pulled a blanket from the couch. The sun crept slowly above the horizon. The sky was turning colors, hazy and pale. Ilya sat on a rock, watching the water. His body was still, in a way that seemed new. New to Shane, at least. Maybe it felt new to Ilya, too.
He had coffee, and a blanket, because Ilya’s back was bare and beautiful, but mornings here were cold. And this was a gift — that Shane could bring Ilya coffee, and a blanket, so he wouldn’t be cold. His throat went tight for a second, thinking about the enormity of it, the enormity of coffee, and a blanket.
Yesterday, Shane might have worried about intruding, though even then, it had been clear that Ilya wanted him near. Touching him, kissing him. Eyes fixed on Shane if he left Ilya’s side, even for a moment. Still, Shane might have worried. Worried that Ilya had sought out this small piece of solitude; that it was presumptuous of Shane to disturb it.
But he wasn’t worried now. Not anymore. He knew that he would be welcome. Because Ilya was waiting. Because Ilya was waiting for him. He’d been sitting on a rock, looking at the water, waiting for Shane, as the dark of early morning receded, and the light came in. He’d been waiting for years.
Shane walked to the rock, to Ilya, carrying coffee, and a blanket. The sky had gone orange, and the sun hung between the clouds and the trees and the lake. Its reflection stretched out like a path, across the water to Ilya, sitting on a rock, his back bare.
Shane could see the outline of a cigarette in Ilya’s long fingers, the fluid movement of his hand. He could see the smoke, curling upward, floating dimly above his head.
Ilya had been smoking the first time they’d met; and Shane had told him to stop; and he’d kept telling him; and would keep telling him, because he wanted Ilya here in the world, safe and healthy and Shane’s. But he didn’t feel the need to say it now.
Shane reached the rock, and Ilya turned toward him. He was lit up by the sun, glowing, incandescent. His mouth didn’t change, but Shane could feel the smile in it. He passed Ilya the coffee, and Ilya set it aside. Shane draped the blanket across his shoulders, and Ilya draped the blanket around Shane, too, drawing him in.
He loved Ilya. Ilya loved him.
They sat together on a rock, drinking coffee, a blanket over their shoulders. Shane felt something settle inside him. He was where he was meant to be.
The world was hushed. The only sound was the water, lapping against the shore.
“Good morning,” Shane said.
“Good morning,” said Ilya.
The sun was rising. It was almost a new day. They sat together on a rock, waiting for it to begin.