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1. a fire starts to burn—June 2009
New York is better.
Ilya doesn’t even bother responding. He just deletes the text thread altogether.
Alexei Rozanov, everyone. He who amounts to nothing. Their father’s favorite who still lets Daddy dress him because men raised on pedestals never learn to stand on their own—and here he is. Judging Ilya’s new team like he has some kind of right.
Frankly, Ilya’s surprised he bothered to reach out at all.
Between this and Father, Ilya’s wired. One bad conversation away from ripping his own hair out. Seriously, he got drafted first. What’s it gonna take for them to show him a modicum of warmth? World peace? Becoming a billionaire? Probably the latter. More coke for his freeloading brother to rub into his gums.
Fuck it.
The minute there’s a gap in the monotonous conversation, Ilya excuses himself to the restroom. Father looks like he wants to kill him for it, but what else is new. Ilya needs out of here. He needs to have a little fun.
As he walks, hands buried in his pockets, he finds himself searching for Hollander.
And just as quickly shakes it off. Hell, no. Guy looks like he wouldn’t know what fun was if it ran him over. Ilya sighs, absently rolling his wrist in his pocket—and brushing up on something.
Frowning, he pulls out a slip of paper.
It’s—oh. Right. Gabrielle, from the club this weekend. That works.
Punching her number into his phone, he types some bullshit:
He puts his phone away and ducks into the upstairs restroom, not really expecting or caring for a response. Truth is, Saturday was not that hot, but he hasn’t had a girl’s number since Russia. Maybe it’ll—
Bzzt.
He glances down at the screen.
Ouch. What’d he say?
You have the wrong number. Shane rolls his eyes while he types. “What’s up?” Yuna asks, catching it in the rearview. They’re finally done with the exhausting shake hands/photo op scrum, on their way to the hotel for the night. “Already getting hounded about the draft?”
“Something like that,” he mutters, dismayed as another reply rolls in.
Shane braces one of his elbows on the doorframe. Trust me, I can tell. Hoping it’ll scare them off, he adds, I’m also a guy. Just FYI.
But all they come back with is:
To his horror, Shane almost smiles. Definitely hotter than you.
Alright. He needs to fucking—
Shane sighs. Naturally he gets a wrong number from the weirdest, cockiest man on planet Earth.
I’m 18, he replies. Perv.
“You good, Shane?” David asks, eyeing him curiously as they wait for a stoplight. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you type that much into your phone.”
“Yeah.” Ding. Oh, come on. “I’m already making friends,” Shane tries to joke.
More like nightmares.
Once his parents are sufficiently distracted again, Shane peeks at his screen. Mystery Pervert says, whats ur name?
This from a newly turned eighteen year old? Who just happened to text a wrong number? Riiiight.
Mystery Pervert replies with an emphatic ((.
Whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean.
Shane’s entertained this long enough, anyway. He moves his thumb over the top of the screen, prepared to block the number when another text pops up: if u really believed that then youd stop responding. Then another, as Shane is in the process of typing a (in his humble opinion) very snappy “I’m about to”.
Dumbfounded, Shane just kind of stares at it.
Shane writes—
What. The hell. Is he. Doing.
Yeah?, Shane writes, feeling oddly territorial over his (frankly, terrible) fake name. I’m not the one who typed “saturday was hot as fuck”. Pot meet kettle.
Shane mashes his lips together in a thin line. Unfortunately, Mystery Pervert is extremely funny. In an offputting, borderline invasive way, but…
It’s fine. Shane’s just lonely, and this guy doesn’t even know his real name.
At least, that’s what Shane tells himself.
Just then, Shane feels the car slow; they roll up to the hotel, and he finally has a decent exit ramp from the conversation. But, after his parents offload the keys to valet and they all go inside to check in, the most unsettling thing yet happens.
Shane finds himself kinda…missing it?
But—it’s not his fault! After the day he had, he’s absolutely wiped, and his annoyingly extroverted parents just have to start shooting the shit with the front desk staff, further elongating Shane’s much-needed journey to a bed. Who cares if the weirdo on his phone is probably some 30-something basement dweller who shames him for using perfectly normal turns of phrase? It’s the first real conversation Shane’s had all day that’s not about hockey. The first real moment he’s had in ages where he doesn’t have to mask or smile or shake yet another stranger’s clammy hand. He can be himself in those texts—for better or for fucking worse.
Regrettably, by the time his parents leave him alone in his room for the night, it’s been well over an hour. His notifications are dauntingly empty when he finally unlocks his phone screen.
Shane clicks into the conversation. Hey, sorry. Got caught up talking to someone. Are you still up?
He flips his phone facedown, waiting five minutes. Ten.
Nothing.
With a huff, he lays back across the oversized hotel bed. Fuck, whatever. Obviously it wasn’t meant to—
Ding!
Something too close to relief swells behind Shane’s ribs.
You did, he answers. But I’m bored and stupid, I guess. So here I am.
Shane smiles. That’s not how you spell that word.
blow me, is the uncouth reply.
And Shane? Shane nearly chucks his phone across the room.
Ilya. Ilya. Ilya.
Ilya!???
There’s absolutely no fucking way. It—no. No! What are even the chances? That would explain the speech patterns, and maybe the “((“ thing earlier, but Shane simply refuses to believe it. Someone’s messing with him. Found his number and, after seeing how much they hate each other, decided to have a little fun.
And for a moment, silence.
He thinks he lost them. He thinks the jig is up.
Then, the photo arrives.
Shane blinks rapidly, almost like he’s clearing something from his vision. There’s no mistaking it, though. That's…Ilya. Rozanov. Sitting in a hotel room very much like Shane’s, reclined on the bed with the matte wood headboard and eggshell wall behind him. His curls are slightly deflated, splayed out across one of the overstuffed pillows, and he fixes the camera with a blank frown.
He’s also definitely shirtless.
Shane writes, Oh.
not screwing around, Ilya (how the fuck is this Shane’s life) responds. i had a crazy day too.
Yeah. Shane can fucking imagine.
He almost types “Do you play hockey?” before rapidly deleting it. They got drafted this morning. And sure, he could play it off, say he’s a superfan who went to the viewing party or something—but it just feels like showing his hand. So instead, he says something houghtful, sane, and overall well-rounded:
prove it, Ilya taunts.
So you can touch yourself to it later? (WHAT THE FUCK IS HE DOING.) Nah, Shane says. Solid 7/10 BTW.
Ilya texts him another pic. Shirtless chest fully included this time.
Heat flares across Shane’s face.
Oh, Jesus?? Hastily, Shane types, Knock it off. I’m still not entirely sure how old you are.
…Wow. Just like that, huh?
Actually—as he learned a few years ago after getting curious about it himself—Shane’s real name means “gift from God”. Which is, somehow, just as bad.
Shane can’t help himself: Or Ilya.
Shane nearly chokes on his spit.
jk, Ilya is quick to add while Shane is dying. i dont think u could handle me.
He’s fucking got that right.
I already can’t handle you, Shane says once he's able to breathe. And I’m not into assholes.
Okay. Shane’s hands quake. His heart is doing little somersaults as he types out, I’m going to bed now. Goodnight, Ilya.
After much consideration, Shane powers off his phone altogether, stuffing it into the nightstand drawer.
Ilya’s just kidding. Playing around, like he does so well on the ice, right?
Right.
A few hours of tossing and turning later, Shane decides to head to the hotel gym.
The minute Shane’s gone, Ilya hoofs it back to his room so fast he nearly eats shit on an untied shoelace.
Holy fucking God. He’s never been this hard in his goddamn life.
Not even earlier, with that guy. Dane. Ilya meant it—douchebag name—and while that bit about touching himself was hyperbole…there’s no denying that the dude is fun. Hyperliteral and a bit reactive, sure, but endearing, too. Ilya likes him. He likes him a lot.
Problem is, he also likes Hollander.
Which is just bullshit. They’ve exchanged what, a dozen sentences total? Hollander’s a stunner, no doubt about it, but probably straight. Or at least so deeply closeted that Ilya would have better luck breaking into Fort Knox.
At least when he flirted with Dane, the only pushback Ilya got was about age. Not about them both being guys.
After jerking off to the mental image of Hollander getting fucked senseless, Ilya whips out his phone.
To his surprise, the response is near-immediate.
That’s how Ilya eventually nods off. Smiling stupidly over some random boy on his phone.
And Shane Hollander. Honestly, “what a fucking day” indeed. Ilya got drafted and met the guy of his dreams—twice. Their names even sound similar.
Go figure.
- Aulus
- its official, ur now "dane boring" in my phone
- Numerius
- Very mature. Dare I ask what my contact photo is?
- Aulus
- Numerius
- OMG.
- Aulus
- means mine has to be a pot 😈
- Numerius
- No, it's already this.
- Numerius
- Aulus
- ?
- Numerius
- Because I have your number saved as "Random Asshole".
- Aulus
- ...
- dane i think i have a crush on u
- Numerius
- Please, God no.
Dane Boring
Wed, Jul 16 at 11:39
Delivered
Every time is the last. Every time Ilya texts him, Shane makes a vow: this is it. He’s blocking the number. He’s moving on with his life. He’s done smiling at his phone, texting Ilya when it’s quiet, spending minutes at a time thinking of a clever reply.
And so on and so forth.
2. warm to the touch—June 2010
Rozanov wants him.
That much is fucking clear.
Shane knew it even before they found themselves here, in the showers with only a narrowing chasm of steamy air between their bodies. The way Rozanov smiled at him. The too-casual tone as he said, “It was my idea”. That night in the gym wasn’t a fluke, wasn’t all in Shane’s eager little head. Ilya Rozanov, a Slavic dreamboat of the highest order, wants him. Bad.
But… But, it should be offensive, shouldn’t it? He and Ilya have been texting for a year, and Ilya flirts with him—Dane—nearly nonstop. They’re not something. But they’re also not nothing, either.
So when Rozanov meanders into the shower, eyes so sultry they could stamp brands into Shane’s skin…what's supposed to be the hottest moment of Shane’s life just feels off.
He’s the other man.
To himself.
It doesn’t have to be that way, though. He could end this, now. Meet Rozanov directly, on the proverbial ballroom floor, so to speak, and accept the dance. There’s no hindrance. No misinterpreting signals or thinking Shane’s seeing something that’s not there. As they pretend to clean themselves under the pressurized spray of the showerheads, Rozanov’s gaze is lazy and hungry and, most of all, deliberate. Yeah. They could. They fucking could.
Without a word, Shane turns away. A door slamming shut.
But they won’t.
Ilya, who’s spent months going a little soft and stupid every time Dane’s name lights up his phone, just deflates now at the sight of it. Figures. That text conversation is the only place he feels comfortable anymore, and he can’t even rely on it when he needs it most.
Hollander took one look at him and whipped away like he’d been burned. Like he was almost sick.
And, look; Ilya knew it was a longshot. Hours later, though, and he’s still stung, so raw that everything prickles like thorns.
im ngl, he types as he settles on the armchair in his hotel room. It’s one of those ultramodern ones, made for looking pretty and causing back pain. it was p bad.
Because I like someone who’s not you, Ilya thinks. Because I’m a stereotype and thought a straight guy making eye contact with me meant I had a chance.
It’s the first time he’s ever asked. The first they’ve breached the boundary between screen and reality.
But then a few painful minutes scrape by with no answer.
Miserably, Ilya slams his phone down and drapes a tired arm over his eyes. Stupid. So goddamn stupid. And how like him to screw it up not once, but twice with—
His phone starts buzzing.
Dane Boring is calling.
“H—” Ilya moves so eagerly that he nearly drops the damn thing on the floor. “Hey,” he clips. “Hello?”
A low voice answers. “Ilya?”
It’s like an arrow to the fucking heart.
“Hi,” Ilya breathes, his phone screen mashed up against his cheek. Is he gonna crack it or what? And does he really care? “How are you?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” Dane speaks softly, words scratching rough at the edges. Maybe he’s getting over being sick, or maybe that’s just how he sounds. Either way, Ilya wants to drown in it. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling good. What happened today?”
“Is dumb. I had…” A crush. “There was this guy,” Ilya admits, “but he was not interested. Probably straight. You know how that goes.”
Then he holds his fucking breath, eagerly awaiting Dane’s response.
After a long moment: “Yeah. I do.”
Ilya closes his eyes. Tips his head back. Thank God.
Thank fucking God.
“Are you okay?” he asks, shifting and trying to find comfort on something designed to be the very antithesis of it. “You sound quiet.”
“Yeah,” Dane repeats. “Sorry. I…had an accident as a kid. It can be hard for me to talk sometimes.”
“Oh.” And Ilya asked him to call? Shit. “We don’t have to do this.”
“No. I—” Dane’s soft exhale makes static flare on the speaker. He smells cool and sweet, Ilya decides then. Like spearmint. A rose sprouting through snow.
“I want to,” Dane whispers. “I want to talk to you.”
Ilya’s heart skips a beat. “I do, too.”
And for a second, they just sit there, as if on opposite sides of a door. Both of their ears pressed to the wood.
“You know,” Ilya continues, “you do sound very American.”
“Why does that feel like an insult?”
Ilya smiles at the emptiness of the room. “Because it is.”
Dane sighs. “I was raised in and around Europe, but I’ve never had an accent. Even as a child.”
“Mmhm, okay. Perhaps I change your name in my phone to ‘Dane American’. Man from Denmark is actually from…” Fuck. What’s a state name he can actually pronounce? “Tex-ass,” Ilya drawls out.
To his delight, Dane laughs. Something is off, though. It sounds too hoarse, too gritty. Like it’s hurting him somehow.
“Are you sure you can talk?” Ilya asks, feeling that familiar dread knot his stomach. He’s already fucked up so much today. “I do not want to bother you.”
With startling sincerity, Dane says, “You could never do that, Ilya.”
Ilya shutters his eyes, but it’s too late. His vision flickers dangerously.
He thinks about his mother—dead six years as of November—and how he’s slowly forgetting her voice. He thinks about Sasha and years’ worth of unrequited calls. He thinks of his brother who doesn’t love him, his father who’s never loved anyone, and Svetlana, who does, but how it’s getting harder to feel with an ocean gaping like an insurmountable void between them now.
“Dane?”
On the other line, Dane’s breath seems to catch. “Yes?”
Ilya swallows. When he lays his head down on top of his phone, pinning it between his face and the cushion of the chair—he tries to imagine it’s Dane’s chest. A place where Ilya can just close his eyes.
He whispers, “Sometimes I think you’re my only friend.”
Briefly, there’s an interlude. The AC suddenly kicks on, sending out a chilly blast that descends onto his bare arms.
“Yeah,” Dane says at last. “Someimes I think you're mine."
3. fragments—2010 and 2011
I had an accident as a kid.
I was raised in and around Europe.
Soon, Dane has a whole backstory. The only son of diplomat parents, he was raised bouncing between cities—Paris, Vienna, Prague—but never anywhere long enough to settle. A shy kid who grew into a slightly less shy adult. After going to school to study political science, Dane’s now a photographer, covering junior and minor leagues across North America because, even in fantasyland, Shane still can’t keep hockey out of it. He even works out the details of the “accident”: a car crash in childhood. A TBI that left Dane’s speech halting and effortful, easier to ration than to risk.
Soon, one white lie grows into two grows into ten grows into dozens.
Soon, Shane’s writing flashcards. Quizzing himself. Researching Europe. Following minor league schedules. Practicing Dane’s thin, raspy voice in front of mirrors.
Soon, Shane is so deep in it that he’s not sure he’ll ever get out.
When they do meet in person for games, he’s careful not to speak or even exist too much in front of Rozanov. Not that that’s hard to do, considering Ilya looks like he swallowed glass anytime they so much as make eye contact. It kind of hurts, but it’s okay. Shane’s used to this part. Adjusting and hiding himself and playing whatever role people want to see. It’s why he’s so addicted to being Dane. He’s been lying about who he is his entire life.
At least, this way, he finally gets to choose how.
October 2011
One night, Ilya says, “You are going to be in New York next week, yes?”
“Hm?” Shane shuts the fridge door with his hip, phone cradled against his shoulder while he cooks. “What do you mean?”
“The Milwaukee Breakers will be there,” Ilya replies, sounding a little confused himself.
Right. One of the minor leagues Dane “follows”. “Yeah,” Shane says, forcing a playful tone. “Ilya. You said you’d try not to stalk me, remember?”
“I lied,” Ilya says outright. Shane smiles, setting his phone down as he cracks an egg on the side of the skillet. “I ask because we are facing the Admirals on Thursday.”
Shane’s hand freezes in midair.
“We should meet up,” Ilya continues, ever nonchalant. “If you want.”
“Um.” Shane glances at his subway tiles. The skillet sizzles, almost insistently, as silence fills the kitchen like a choking fog.
By now, Dane and Ilya have been talking for over two years.
And Ilya’s been patient. Understanding. He stopped asking for selfies or FaceTime months ago, after Shane said that Dane simply doesn’t feel comfortable. Honestly, Shane has to give credit where it’s due. He definitely couldn’t be friends with someone without at least knowing what they looked like.
The phone is a guard rail. The phone is safe. He can be Dane through the phone.
But in person?
After a six second eternity, he manages: “Where?”
“Not sure.” It’s impossible to decipher Ilya’s tone right now. As if Shane’s heart isn’t beating fast enough already. “You like haunted houses?”
Haunted houses…
Try not at all. They’re a menagerie of everything Shane hates: surprises, noise, and dark corners.
People in masks and costumes, covering their—
Wait.
“And if I did?”
“Well.” Ilya exhales. Nerves, if Shane had to guess (he’s such a piece of shit). “There is a pretty famous one near the hotel I’ll be staying in. And with Halloween coming up…”
Shane swears he hears himself breathing.
“Could be fun,” Ilya says finally, and his voice carries no hint of its usual playfulness. Shane can almost picture Ilya's face right now. The severe slant to his brows, jaw ticked tight. This is Ilya with his heart in his hand. Ilya putting himself out there, seemingly for the first time.
Okay.
Let’s say Shane does this, and he’s not saying he will (he’s actually going to be in Philly, playing a game of his own against the Flyers). What options does he have? Ilya’s not stupid; he knows Shane. Has seen him, admittedly, more than most people. Shane will not only have to cover his face, but completely transform his body, as well. His posture, his mannerisms, the fucking way he holds himself. This is so much bigger than doing a voice over the phone. One slip and it’s over. One slip and, best case scenario, Ilya will hate him forever.
Inhaling, Shane says:
“Let’s do it.”
4. and when did you realize the window was actually a mirror?—One Week Later
Shivering, Ilya tucks his phone back into his pocket. He’s waiting outside the attraction, called “Dead End District”, but it’s not just the subzero temperatures that have him shaking out of his mind. He’s been so anxious all day that he’s surprised he even managed to play—and win—earlier.
For Chrissake. What’s his fucking deal? It’s Dane. They talk all day, everyday. They’re best friends. Even so, when Ilya offered to meet last week, he fully expected to be shot down. Dane's secretive as fuck, probably because of that diplomatic background of his; the most Ilya’s seen of him is the occasional arm or hand in a photo (memorably, one time Ilya saw a blurry, jean-clad leg). But…Dane said yes. Almost without hesitation.
Maybe that’s why Ilya’s flipping out. After two years of no shots above the neck, they’re meeting face to face, just like that. It was almost too easy. Too simple. So what’s the catch?
Because, in Ilya’s experience, there is always a catch.
As he stands there, nearly rocking in place from jitters, another throng of people in costumes materialize under the streetlights. Dead End District is a so-called masked haunt, where anonymity is part of the experience. Not Ilya’s brightest idea, setting up their first (platonic, he has to remind himself) date at a venue where everyone’s face is covered, but he figured that’d make it easier for Dane. And himself.
Just then, one of the guys pulling up at the rear of the group stops to gawk at him. Ilya has to suppress an eyeroll. He’s got a helmet and visor on, but he’s been getting recognized more and more these days. Most of the time, it’s fine. But he’s also not an exposed nerve most of the time, either.
When the dude doesn’t fuck off after his friends, Ilya snips, “Yes?”
“Ilya?”
And that voice—the low, rasping syllables of it…
Dane. This is Dane.
Ilya freezes, instantly drinking in details he didn’t bother to notice before. Not that there’s much to see; Dane is dressed as some kind of grim reaper figure, complete with a scythe, long robe, and a massive hood over his head that transforms his entire face into a black hole. In it, he’s almost featureless. Unknowable.
Ilya has never seen someone so hot in his entire life.
“H…i,” he manages. “Yes. Hello.”
And Dane just stands there, staring as much as Ilya’s sure he is. Even under the robe, Ilya can tell the guy’s big. Same height and build as Ilya, with long legs, a trim torso, and athletic shoulders that strain the fabric of the costume. Good grief. If this is what Dane looks like covered up, what the fuck does he look like in normal clothes? Naked??
Ilya blurts out, “Can I hug you?”
Dane visibly tenses.
Shit. “Sorry—forget it. I know you do not like—”
“Come here.”
Ilya’s eyebrows jump with surprise.
Huffily, Dane gestures with one arm. “Come on, dude. Before I come to my senses and change my mind.”
“Oh, you’ll come alright,” Ilya retorts, pure reflex. Dane exaggerates a groan.
Then Ilya’s on him, hugging so tight it’s sure to be crushing.
Wonders never sense, however. Because—after seeming to take a moment to recover—Dane thoroughly hugs him back.
“Jesus,” Ilya murmurs, mouth full of cheap nylon. He was wrong. Dane doesn’t smell cool. He smells warm and full, like cinnamon. Like a kitchen in childhood. Like somewhere Ilya swears he’s been before.
“Jesus,” he repeats. “It is so good to see you.”
“You, too.” After a long moment, they separate, holding one another at arm’s length. “And what the hell are you wearing?”
“Oh—you like?” Ilya grins, begrudgingly separating from Dane to do a theatrical little twirl. In his white and blue jersey, shin wraps, and cardboard ASK ME ABOUT MY STANLEY CUP sign taped to his chest, he’s— “A Montreal Metro. The scariest creature known to man.”
“Oh, my God,” Dane mutters, slightly muffled under the hood’s face covering. “You are fucking ridiculous.”
“And terrifying!” Ilya taps his sign. “Zero wins in the last forty years, by the way.”
“Isn’t it basically false valor for you to wear that? Or sacrilege, at least?”
Cheerfully, Ilya says, “I don’t know what those words mean.”
Dane laughs in response. God, Ilya’s hooked on that sound. All soft and husky, like it’s all in Dane’s chest. Like it’s just for Ilya and no one else. Man—Ilya needs to get a fucking grip before he does something truly stupid, but how can he? It’s been two years. Two long years and four agonizing months. When was the last time he was excited, anyway? For anything?
“Have you ever been to this place?” Ilya asks as they mosey inside. The lobby of the attraction is smoky and dark, with organ music booming from hidden speakers. “Apparently, it is pretty cheesy.”
Dane falls in stride alongside him. “That’s honestly fine with me. I actually kind of hate this shit.”
“For real?” Ilya eyes him dubiously. “You said you loved it.”
Dane shrugs. “I, uh…” Briefly, his gloved hands fidget together. “I just wanted to be with you,” he admits. “I didn’t care where it was.”
Ilya stops walking altogether.
Dane does the same, mirroring him. People continue to flow in behind them, then around them, like river water around rocks.
“I see.” When Ilya tries to swallow, his throat is bone dry. “God,” he says quietly. “I am really glad you’re here, Dane.”
And he can’t see Dane’s face. But when Dane speaks, whispering, “I am, too, Ilya”—Ilya can just tell.
He’s smiling.
Shane’s honestly not sure what he’s expecting. Of course, he looked the place up beforehand, and what Ilya classifies as “cheesy”, Shane classifies as “overstimulation”. The haunt is split into several different themed sections, and their first stop—a ghost town—was a lot even in the pictures online. Tonnes of fake blood, meat hooks, derelict buildings, and actors in makeup lunging at scared, shiny-eyed guests. Shane walks in expecting to crawl out of his skin within a minute (or however long it takes to stop being so panicked/thrilled to actually hang out with Ilya).
Unfortunately, a full ten minutes into the experience, he only has one thing to say:
“This is fucking lame.”
Ilya groans quietly beside him. “So fucking lame.” As if to prove it, another—what is that now? Eight?—animatronic lunges at them, moving woodenly as it resettles into its hiding spot in the wall. Neither one of them reacts as Ilya says, “I’m sorry. You are out thirty bucks because of me.”
“It’s alright.” And it is. Shane’s just happy to be here, spending real time with Ilya at long last. But… “Not your fault you have shitty taste.”
“Too right! I am friends with you, after all.”
“Hmm.” Shane pretends to think about it. Presses one of those cheap Party City gloves to his mouth through the face mesh and everything. “Ilya Rozanov, being self-aware? Alert the fucking media.”
Ilya just grins, checking Shane with his hip. He’s been doing that since they entered: touching Shane. Walking too close to him. Putting hands on him for every scare, even when it became clear that no one was particularly moved. But—Shane forces himself to remember—Ilya’s not doing this to him. He’s doing it to Dane. If Ilya really knew who’s under this hood, he’d…
Hellfire.
To put it fucking lightly.
After passing through the “town’s” main square, a cragged entrance looms ahead: MINE OF MALICE. At first, it looks like it’s gonna be another cheap shitshow—but then, as they enter, the lights snap out.
Shane nearly jumps. Around them, other attendees scream and laugh, and he thinks he hears Ilya say, “What the fuck?”
What happens next can only be described as some kind of hellish cascade of senses: first, fog rapidly fills the confined space, completely obfuscating what little they can still see. Then, a canned scream rings out as a red glow illuminates the minecart track in the center of the floor. Shane squints against the flare of fake flames along the walls—intercut with the dark shapes of waiting actors. Ones who definitely weren't there a second ago.
“Dane,” Ilya shouts above the din. “I think we need to—”
“RUN!” a prerecorded voice booms.
“Ahhh!” The actors lunge, and everyone scatters like ants. Shane feels Ilya catch his hand, and he tries—desperately—to lock onto that as they move. When Shane was a kid, his mom used to call it “finding the floor”. Something concrete he could stand on when the whole world felt like it was tilting.
But it’s too late.
Focusing on anything right now is like picking out a single crack in an endless stretch of concrete. A raindrop in the ocean. Bodies crash around them, people shriek, and everything is suddenly too loud, too sharp, too—
No.
Please, please not now.
“Come on!” Ilya shouts.
He doesn’t let go, even once they’ve rounded a corner and the chaos has long faded behind them. He keeps tugging Shane through twisting hallways painted in peeling neon, past blasts of cold air and crude mannequins jerking to life when they pass. By the time they stop, Shane doesn’t even know where they are.
“Holy shit.” Ilya laughs breathlessly, swiping the helmet off. His ash blond curls are dark with sweat. “So much for lame.”
“Yeah.” Shane fists a hand into his stomach. Nope. There’s still glass lodged there, shredding up his insides.
“You okay?”
“I think so.” There’s nowhere to go. Nothing safe to latch onto. Even in this quiet stretch, Shane can’t find a place to land. “Just…give me a minute.”
“Alright.” Ilya sounds bemused. Probably not realizing, given the darkness and Shane’s unfortunate state of dress. “You are not actually scared, are you?”
“No,” Shane whispers.
That’s true at least. But how can Shane explain that he’s overflowing right now, like a balloon about to burst? How does he even begin?
He can’t, and it just leaves them standing there. Shrouded in awkward silence.
“Hey.” After a long moment, Ilya’s tone softens. “What’s going on?”
Shane shakes his head. It’s all he has right now.
“Okay. Alright.” Ilya pauses, gazing off. At what, Shane can’t even fathom. God, he’s such a mess. They were having fun, and he…he— “Follow me.”
“Where,” Shane chokes out.
“I have idea,” Ilya responds cryptically. Then he slips his hand in Shane’s again and starts to pull. Toward a door, furtively tucked behind a nearby display.
Shane, baffled, can only follow.
Inside is a dark, nondescript hallway. A way for employees to get around the haunt, if Shane had to guess. He and Ilya creep along the narrow passages for a minute or so, until encountering another door. Clearly marked ROOF ACCESS.
“Come on,” Ilya insists when Shane, dislodging their hands, stares at him in disbelief (as much as he can muster with his face hidden, that is). “Unless you are actually scared?”
“Dude,” Shane says. “I am not going up there.”
A minute of scrambling up a ladder later, they emerge into the frosty night air.
“Okay.” The roof is long and flat, composed of corrugated metal to match the theming. “Okay,” Ilya repeats, hazarding a glance off the side. People swarm the entrance below, totally oblivious—for now. “Lie flat. So no one sees us.”
“Oh, my God, Ilya.” Shane claps his hands to his face. “How did you even know that was there?”
Ilya’s eyes gleam. “I didn’t.”
“You’re crazy.” Shane laughs breathlessly. His robe is paper thin, though, and he hisses when he lays back on the cold tin. “Fuck!”
“Shhh,” Ilya urges—but he’s smiling, too. They both are. “You are going to get us in trouble.”
“You brought us up here!”
“I did. So keep it down before we get arrested, yes?”
“We’ll die from hypothermia first,” Shane grumbles, hugging himself when a frigid wind rakes across their bodies. “Brilliant plan, Ilya.”
“It worked, didn’t it?” Ilya smirks, completely unapologetic. “Can’t panic when you are freezing to death.”
“Great.”
“And,” he continues breezily, “we could always cuddle. Do…what is it? Conserve body heat?”
Suddenly, Shane’s not cold anymore. “I knew you were a pervert.”
Ilya winks, settling in with a minute shift of his shoulders. Unlike Shane, he’s perfectly comfortable in his jersey and padding. Bastard.
Something heavy sinks in Shane’s chest, like a stone plunging through water.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I ruined our night.”
“What?” Ilya’s brows form a quizzical knot. “What are you talking about?”
But Shane’s silent, too mortified to continue. He can’t remember the last time he got sensory overload. And while tonight wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been—if he was ten years younger, he would’ve shut down for hours—it’s still embarrassing. Not to mention disastrously out of character; Dane might be shy, but he’s got a handle on things. Cool, calm, collected. A natural role for him, and a fucking caricature Shane can only force himself to play.
Fuck.
“Dane.” Ilya’s voice is a lantern in the cold night. Something warm and comforting that Shane’s dying to turn toward. “You did not ruin anything. Understand?”
When Shane glances over, his costume drags along the metal.
Facing each other, they’re close enough to share oxygen. To kiss. Their collective breath mists heavily in the frigid air.
“I’m sorry,” Shane repeats, quieter. “I wanted it to be perfect.”
But Ilya just gazes on, his eyes too soft and too bright.
“It is,” he breathes.
And Shane…he doesn’t blink. He’s never been this close to Ilya before. Maybe for half a second at the dot, hunched over for a faceoff, but that’s not intimate. Or at least not like this is.
“Still cold?” Ilya murmurs.
“N…o.” Roughly, Shane clears his throat. “No. Thank you, though.”
Ilya smiles, turning his face to the frozen night above. Every dip and curve of his sharp profile glows with the city lights.
“It’s funny. Nights like this make me think about dying.”
“That’s not very funny, Ilya.”
Ilya’s huff turns white. “You know what I mean. Not funny ha-ha. Funny…sad.”
“Ironic,” Shane supplies.
“Да, дa.” Ilya dismisses him with a succinct hand-wave. “Is as I say. Dictionary in your pocket.”
“This robe doesn’t have po—”
Ilya smacks him square in the chest. Safe to do so under the mesh, Shane grins. But the hilarity is short-lived.
“My mother—she died in the winter. So maybe that is why.”
“Yeah.” Shane still remembers when he found out. How the numbness clung to Ilya’s words like frost, twisting knife-deep in Shane’s chest. “It’s coming up, right? Next month.”
“Yes,” Ilya says softly. “Three weeks.”
“I’m sorry.”
But Ilya waves him off. “I like the summer better. In Moscow, the sun does not go down for long. It feels like it is light out for months on end.”
“Really?” Shane turns his head, too, the tin of the roof kissing his cheek. Sirens emerge from below, echoing long and hollow along the skyline as he says, “Isn’t it hard to sleep?”
“Sometimes.” Ilya smiles again. His real smile, not the nasty one he conjures up when he chirps another player or checks someone just a bit too roughly. Shane realizes then that, because 99% of this farce has taken place over the phone, he’s never really seen Ilya’s actual smile before. And what a goddamn travesty that is.
“But it’s nice,” Ilya continues softly. “When you normally never see the sun.”
Yeah.
Shane knows what that’s like.
“I wonder what they’ll say about us,” he muses. “When we die.”
“Some bullshit, probably,” Ilya says, and Shane laughs, knowing it’s true.
“I could die right now,” he admits. “I could die right now and I’d be happy, I think.”
“Yeah.” Wordless, Ilya reaches over, and Shane is waiting, his palm facing up. They lace their fingers together as Ilya says, “Me, too.”
Shane squeezes Ilya’s hand. “Sorry. That’s kind of a dark thing to say, huh?”
“Not at all. Why?”
“I dunno.” Shane licks his lips, studying the stars. The cold slice of the moon. “I’m only twenty, but I’ve never really felt…”
Down in the parking lot, people abruptly break out into laughter. Wind ruffles his cheap costume again, and the sirens continue, receding farther and farther like a tide. But, for Shane, none of that can even penetrate.
It’s just Ilya.
“Alive,” Shane finishes in a whisper. “I’ve never felt alive.”
By now, Ilya’s staring again and has been for some time. His gaze is like a spot of heat on Shane’s face as he says, “Dane.”
“God.” Shane laughs breathily. “I sound ridiculous.”
“No, you don’t.” Ilya’s tone hardens. “Who is telling you that?”
“Me, Ilya.” Shane damn well feels it, too. He has the life of Riley—playing the sport he loves and being the best at it. How selfish and ungrateful is he that he can’t even enjoy it? That he has to sneak around and deceive the only person who’s ever really understood him, because he’s been playing a role for so long that he doesn’t think anyone could even want the real Shane Hollander?
Whoever the fuck that even is anymore.
“I’m an actor,” Shane whispers. “Riding shotgun to my own fucking life.”
Except…
“Except,” he admits, breathless, “when I’m with you.”
Beside him, an unbearable tenderness has flooded Ilya’s face.
Shane, who wants to run from it, forces himself to stay put, a gentle silence blanketing their bodies like snow. It should hardly be comfortable. They’re exposed in the freezing cold, somewhere they shouldn’t be and totally out of reach above the churn of lights and noise. The roof is almost a raft, bobbing along a bright surf, and it should feel familiar in the worst way. Compounding that sense of separation Shane’s felt his entire life, of otherness—but it doesn’t.
Because up here, and maybe for the first time, he doesn’t feel alone. As Ilya adjusts beside him, absently stroking the back of Shane’s hand with his thumb, the air between them has never felt fuller, like it’s something they’re sharing. Even the silence is mutual. Something that could be theirs.
Their own little world on a rooftop.
“I think you are like me, Dane,” Ilya says softly. “You have never owned anything.”
“No,” Shane agrees, voice faint.
“Then…let’s have this.” Ilya looks so vulnerable right now. So different that he could be someone else, but Shane knows that’s not true. Ilya is more himself than he’s ever been when he says, “This moment. It’s ours.”
Shane inhales. Cigarettes, winter, sweat. The brimming, ceaseless dark.
NYC oscillates beneath them, like the wash of an ocean swell over glass.
“But I do have something,” Shane says, almost dreamlike. “I have you. And you have me.”
Ilya’s breath seems to stall.
“Come here,” he whispers. “I want to tell you something.”
“What?” Shane tries to summon a playful frown, before remembering the mesh. Not that it matters.
Ilya cranes his neck over, breathing in Shane’s ear:
“I have been dreaming about your fat cock from the moment we said hello.”
And Shane…Shane kind of stares off. Almost locks up, really. Maybe because, right here on this cold as fuck tin roof, he’s so turned on that it honestly scares him.
“Ilya,” he breathes out.
“I just know it’s big,” Ilya continues, voice tight like he’s in pain. “I can tell.” Pulling back, he presses his forehead to Shane’s, and he looks so tortured and desperate that it makes Shane lose his fucking breath. “And I want it to fucking tear me apart.”
Then Ilya angles his chin, tracing the panting shape of Shane’s mouth through the mesh.
“Please,” Ilya begs, breathless and hot. His tongue strokes Shane’s upper lip. “Please, Dane.”
Dane.
Uneasiness shifts in Shane’s stomach like a toppled pile of bricks. Quickly, he turns away, wracked with an abrupt wave of guilt.
Behind him, Ilya whispers, “Can I see you?”
Shane can barely speak. “That’s not a good idea, Ilya.”
“Why?”
Oh, God, this is wrong. So fucking wrong.
But what did Shane think was gonna happen? Honestly? That Ilya, after getting a taste, would go back to being fine with the faceless texts and phone calls? Ilya likes Dane. Shane knows that and, still, he agreed to come—dangling Dane over Ilya’s head like some kind of demented bait on a hook.
He’s a monster. He’s sick.
But there’s nowhere to go.
“Why, Dane?” Ilya presses when Shane just lies there, breathing hard and heavy through his nose. “Do I know you?”
“No,” Shane croaks. “No one knows me.”
“That’s not true.” Ilya sounds hurt. Which only makes things a thousand times worse. “I know you.”
No, you don’t.
“And what do you want?” When Shane turns back, Ilya’s stare is so intense that it could make the very air tremble. “What do you want from me, Ilya?”
It’s like every city light lives and breathes in the pools of Ilya’s eyes.
“Everything,” he rasps.
“You can’t.”
“But I do.” Ilya sounds broken. “I love you. I’m in love with you.”
No, he’s not. He’s in love with a ghost.
“Look—if you do not feel the same way—”
“That’s not it,” Shane whispers. “Not at all.”
“Then?” When Shane doesn’t answer, arms wrapped tightly around himself, Ilya utters a frustrated noise and sits up. There’s a rustle, then a muted whisk; Shane glances up, and a cigarette bobs on Ilya’s scowling lower lip. His eyes are like fragments of ice from the side.
And Shane’s not sure why. If it’s anxiety or falling back on old habits or what when he says—
“I don’t think you’re supposed to smoke up here.”
Ilya immediately goes still, the words seeming to run through him like a shockwave.
Fuck. Oh, no—
“What?” Shane ventures, taking a stab at ignorance. Though it’s a little hard to know what he’s saying or how he sounds over the roar in his ears. If he’s still doing Dane’s voice, or if his brain, resigned to the fact that he’s blown his cover, has subconsciously reinvited Shane Hollander to the conversation. “Are you okay?”
The tensest three seconds of Shane’s life pass as Ilya sits there, cigarette smoldering between his fingers.
Then he says, “Yeah. Sorry. You just reminded me of someone.”
“Oh…yeah. Oh, yeah? Who?”
“Some guy.” Ilya sniffs. “I told you about him. After the commercial last year.”
“Right.” Some guy? Why does that hurt so fucking much? “The one you liked, right?”
Ilya makes a face, somewhere between laughter and pain. “Yeah—liked. Is way over. How you say, ship sailed. Every time he looks at me now, it’s like he is trying not to be sick or something.”
More like he’s trying not to give anything away. More like he’s scared to be himself in your presence for too long and have you realize that your best friend is actually a fucking liar and a snake.
“Straight guys,” Shane says, “am I right?”
Ilya just scoffs, ashing his cigarette out on the roof like it’s someone’s face. Like it’s Shane, maybe.
Wait—
“Yes, well.” Ilya’s eyes snap up. Twin missiles that slam into Shane with devastating force. “Something tells me you are not all that straight, Hollander.”
5. to light a candle is to cast a shadow—After
For a moment, there’s only the city, and silence.
“Wh…what?” That stupid robe ripples in the arctic breeze. “What?”
Ilya sets his jaw. Just wow.
Even confronted, he still can’t admit it.
“You must think I am pretty fucking stupid,” Ilya whispers, “don’t you?”
“Ilya—please. What are you saying—?”
“Then again, I guess I am. Given how I believed you.” Dane—Shane—tries to come closer, and that’s how Ilya knows he’s truly fucked. Because he has to force himself to lean away. “Fucking Dane,” he spits like a bad taste. “Really strained your creative muscles coming up with that one.”
“Let me explain,” Shane says weakly.
“No.” Not giving Shane time to react, Ilya briskly grips the hood’s mesh in his fist and pulls. The fabric strains, then snaps. Exposing one very guilty-looking Shane Hollander underneath.
And just…seeing it. Being faced with the true depth of Shane’s deceit for the first time.
How can things feel so good one minute then so fucking miserable the next?
“Good God.” Ilya breathes out a rueful laugh. “I’m an idiot.”
“Ilya, I swear—”
“Even doing that stupid voice…” Ilya can’t look at him. “You know, I thought I was hearing things? Like my lovesick little brain was just imagining you were him.” Ilya falters, smiling meanly. “Excuse me. That you were yourself.”
He figured Dane was lying about something, but this? Not only being someone Ilya knows in real life, but the same guy he agonized over for months? The same fucking guy Ilya wanted, bad, only to get shot down? Shane clearly likes him, to some capacity, so what the fuck was that all about? Why would he—just—
Ilya narrows his eyes against the rising onslaught of heat.
“Was any of it real?” he growls.
Shane’s expression cracks. “Yes. All of it.”
Ilya scoffs. “Clearly not.”
“Ilya.”
“Shut up.” The sound of his own name burns him like acid. Ilya stumbles back, blind, and he doesn’t even care if he falls off the roof right now. For God’s sake—he’s vented about Shane with Shane! Listened to Shane disparage himself like he was talking about a different person altogether! They could’ve been together by now. They’ve could’ve.
“Don’t fucking talk to me,” Ilya says hoarsely. “Understand? We are done.”
“Okay.” Shane’s eyes waver. “Alright. I’m sorry.”
And Ilya, loving and hating him more than he ever has, does the only thing he can do.
He gets the hell out of there.
“Hey! How was New Y—Shane?”
He beelines it for the bathroom, ignoring Hayden’s concerned voice as he locks himself in.
“Hey.” Moments later, a knock explodes in the small space. “Are you okay?”
“Sorry,” Shane calls through the wood. He’s not even sure what he’s saying. His mouth flaps, about as lively as a screen door. “I think I got sick.”
“Aw, I’m sorry, man. You gonna be okay to play tomorrow?”
In response, Shane stares at himself in the backlit mirror. Sad, sunken eyes. Hair all ruffled and flat from the hood. He’s back in his so-called civilian clothes—an unremarkable windbreaker and jeans—after ripping the robe off and stuffing it in some Dumpster.
The entire ride back to the hotel, his phone sat silent in his pocket. Heavy as a loaded gun.
“Yeah,” he says at last. “I’ll be fine.”
November? what difference does it make anymore
“You hear about Rozanov?”
“No. What’d he do now?”
Shane, standing at the sinks, blinks long and slow.
“Dude’s on the warpath,” Hayden continues. Around them, the locker room thrums with post-game racket. Doors slamming and water dripping and empty chatter that floats high along the ceiling, smokelike. “Apparently? It was Sydnee Cooper’s daughter.”
“Yo,” J.J. booms in that way of his. “The fucking senator?”
“For real.”
“He tryna get suspended?” a third voice chimes in. Could be Miitka. Shane scrubs under his nails even though there’s nothing there. “Last week I heard it was some pop star. The girl who did ‘Running Wild’?”
“Damn, Sorrie,” J.J. drawls. “Didn’t know you were obsessed with Rozanov like that.”
“Pike brought him up!”
“It’s cool, Miitka.” Hayden plops his gear bag down on a bench. “Go to any shithole club after a game. He’ll do you as long as you’re breathing.”
“Shut up, man.”
As the ribbing continues, Shane doesn’t turn around. Instead, he cranks the faucet all the way until it scalds. Until he’s sure he’s burnt his hands.
The Raiders play the Metros in December.
It’s almost impressive, how much Ilya manages to avoid him. Minimal checks, no chirping, an obstinate lack of eye contact during the dozen or so faceoffs…Shane doesn’t recall a time, even after he turned Ilya down, that they just kind of existed in the same space together. Flat. Separate. Wholly unrelated.
In the end, the score is 3-2 Metros, but Shane knows it’s sure as hell no thanks to him. He’s never played so poorly in his entire life.
“Hey.” At last, they meet in the handshake line. “You were amazing,” Shane whispers—quick, because he only has a second. “I missed you.”
(please forgive me i’m sorry do you hate me have i lost you for good am i losing you ilya? am i losing you am i am i)
Ilya just stares at him, through him. A museumgoer’s eyes glazing over yet another vase.
“Thanks, Hollander.”
Hours later, Shane’s sternum still aches like someone kicked him there. It would’ve hurt less if Ilya had just ignored him completely.
Thanks, Hollander. Thanks.
(you already have)
7. strangling you with our red string of fate—May 2012
“Ah, shit.”
Hayden laughs as beer sloshes over the rim of the table. Shane just barely manages to dance back out of the splash zone.
“My bad, dude,” Hayden intones while Shane hastily mops the mess up. Around them, the dim bar continues to buzz, lively with a Saturday night crowd. “Forgot you were a lightweight. Next time we’ll hit Denny’s.”
“Fuck off,” Shane says without heat. “I’m not drunk.”
“Just a mess? I play with you, I know.” Shane smacks him with the wet clump of napkins. “Yo?” Hayden squawks. “This is silk!”
Shane gives Hayden a onceover. They’re knee-deep in the playoffs, with a breakneck game against Dallas only hours behind them—but you’d never know it based on Hayden’s appearance. Combed hair, stupid ass chinos, and that glossy, overwrought V-neck.
Shane asks him, “Is it supposed to look greasy?”
Hayden sniffs, affronted. “It’s Jackie’s favorite shirt.”
“She’ll thank me, then. Stains give it character.” Wadding the napkins up, Shane makes a solid three pointer into a nearby trash can. When he wheels back around to the table, though, Hayden’s got an unreadable expression that wasn’t there before.
“What?” Shane says.
“Nothing. I’m just glad you’re doing better.”
“As opposed to…?”
“I dunno.” Hayden affects a cool, disinterested shrug, sipping his beer. “You just seemed down these past few months. Especially at the end of last year.”
Shane looks away, pretending to take a keen interest in the band of his watch.
“I’m good,” he forces. “Think I was just reeling after that awful game I had.”
Hayden smirks. “Yeah, it was pretty fucking terrible.” Shane kicks him noncommittally. “Again with the assault? That's twice in a row!"
"Would you like to make it three?"
"Look—all I’m saying is, it’s nice to see you smile again.”
“I smile.” Yeah. When he’s feeling gassy, maybe. “Step outside with me? I could use a break.”
“For sure.” Hayden pushes back from the high top. On the way out, several people try to flag them down, but Shane’s immune to it all. He moves without once breaking stride.
He hasn’t thought about Ilya all week.
Which is a lot more impressive than it sounds. Even if Shane wasn’t painfully hung up on him, Rozanov’s everywhere these days. Ads and billboards and TV…the Raiders just got knocked out of the playoffs, and the talk is that Ilya resurrected the team from the dead. It’s pretty remarkable. Two years in and he’s already on track to superstardom.
Just like Shane.
With a driving shove, he opens the bar doors into the balmy night.
“Shane, wait up!” Hayden laughs, straggling behind. “What’s the hurry?”
“Sorry.” Pushing a sigh between his lips, Shane faces the dirty, claustrophobic alley. Cigarettes and beer bottles decorate the dusty ground, and old graffiti sags along the brick of the bar’s exterior. Not exactly the most calming scene, but at least it’s open to the air. “It’s hot as fuck in there.”
“Bro, it’s hot as fuck out here,” Hayden contends. “But I get you…”
Which is about the time Shane, looking toward the mouth of the alleyway, stops listening.
Ilya’s standing there.
Just beyond the orange pool of the streetlight, but Shane would know that silhouette anywhere. In his dreams. With a single, backward glance.
For a long, tense moment, they just kinda stare at each other.
“Hayd.”
“Hmm?” Hayden’s voice takes on that abrupt edge that suggests he was interrupted. Whoops. “What’s up, buddy?”
“I just remembered.” Shane compels himself to wrench his eyes away. It kills him—Ilya could just…leave—but Shane will take that over Hayden potentially spotting him. “I need to make a phone call. Can you wait for me inside?”
“Uh, sure.” Hayden hesitates. With good reason. Shane can only imagine how this looks when it was his idea to come out here. “I’ll see you in a minute?”
Shane smiles rigidly. “Sounds good.”
The minute the bar doors are shut again, he turns back. Thank Christ. Ilya’s very much still there, like a slash of black with the light at his back. Shane wants to run to him. He also wants to turn tail in the opposite direction and never stop.
His voice quivers. “How did you find me?”
To Shane’s ceaseless surprise, Ilya actually responds.
By pulling out his phone and presenting the screen.
Shane, standing a good three meters away, makes out what’s on it just fine: Facebook. A blurry picture of himself and Hayden glows bright against the muted night.
“Tell your friend he should get off the Internet,” Ilya says coldly.
Then his voice changes, narrowing to a miserable whisper:
“Why can’t I stop thinking about you?”
Shane’s chest hurts. His entire fucking body.
Ilya ghosting him was painful, but at least it was earned. This, though? Hearing Ilya’s pain so clearly?
Quickly, Shane twists on his heel.
And a firm hand falls on his shoulder.
Ilya’s voice is sharp, like a blade pressed across Shane’s perspiring throat. “Don’t you fucking run from me.”
Breathing hard, Shane stares stubbornly ahead, eyes locked to the grimy glass of the bar doors. But it’s useless. The point where Ilya touches him is an explosion, sending out aftershocks. Like touching a live wire. Like something crawling out of cryosleep, blinking lazily in the first strokes of sunlight.
He has no right. No right to enjoy this.
“I’m walking away,” Shane says as steadily as he can. “The way we both need.”
“You are doing it again.” Harshly, Ilya spins him. “Speaking for me,” he growls in Shane’s face. “Assuming you know what’s best.”
“I…” Shane feels weak. God, how can he not? Being this close to Ilya again is intoxicating—especially after months of floating around like the walking dead.
“And this?” Shane whispers. “This is better?”
Ilya doesn’t blink. “You owe me.”
Doesn’t Shane fucking know it.
“Fine,” he acquiesces. “But not here.” Sorry, Hayden. “Let’s go somewhere private. I rented a car.”
“Fine,” Ilya echoes, his mouth stiff and unyielding. Not that it matters. His eyes give him away.
Things have never been so goddamn far from fine.
“Fuck.” Shane can’t take this. “I’m so sorry, Ilya. None of this is fair to you.”
At that, Ilya just laughs. And it is not a happy sound.
After they pile into Shane’s rental—a Nissan with remarkably poor suspension—he does a quick Google search of nearby parks. There’s the one downtown, probably rife with teenagers and riffraff at this hour, and one called “Sunrise Ridge” in the hills.
Shane chooses the latter and puts them in gear.
It’s close to midnight, but also May in Texas, so Shane lowers his window as he drives. In the passenger seat, Ilya is utterly silent, spending the majority of the ride staring at nothing. Even at stop signs, Shane doesn’t dare peek. He just follows the car’s GPS until they reach some dead end road up on the bluffs.
The minute they’re in park, Ilya hops out.
Shane’s heart jolts until he feels one of the rear doors open and shut. Quickly, he cuts the engine and follows, climbing into the backseat opposite Ilya.
“Thank you,” he says, sliding across the cloth upholstery. “For seeing me.”
Ilya leans against the C pillar, silent. He’s sitting as far away from Shane as the space physically allows.
Shane sighs.
“How are you?” he asks. Everything feels so horribly frail, but he can do that, he ventures. Check in. Make small talk. “I saw your game against Edmonton. You guys were fucking incredible.”
Ilya just grunts. “Not sleeping.”
“I’m—”
“Don’t.” Blue eyes snap like a whip. Shane immediately shuts his mouth. “You want to explain yourself? Explain.”
Shane glances out his window. Just beyond the nearby guardrail, the city unfurls in a glowing spread, lights wavering like millions of distant candles.
He doesn’t even know where to start.
“You know, I really did think you were a scammer,” he says. “At first.”
“Paranoid.”
Probably. “Hey,” Shane argues, “you can never be too careful. We were kids, and we just got drafted. I wasn’t sure what to think.”
“Sure. So you gave a fake name.”
Shane keeps his eyes on Dallas. Letting his vision muddle into a giant, orangeish blur. “Yeah.”
“Mmhm.” Ilya’s tone goes icy. “And when you realized it was me?”
Oh, God. This is so hard.
“I didn’t believe it,” Shane admits.
“Why.”
Jesus. That he has to ask… “Ilya, come on.” When Shane finally musters up the will to look, Ilya’s glowering. Made of pure steel. “The odds were insane. What were the fucking chances?”
Ilya, however, is unmoved. “You have never heard of fate?”
Shane’s throat flexes with a swallow.
“Fine.” Ilya blows out an unamused breath. “Keep going.”
To be quite honest, Shane would rather not. Everything he can think to say right now makes him look downright awful, but he dug this hole. Made this shitty fucking bed.
“I meant what I said on the roof,” he tells Ilya. “About always playing a role. Being Dane…it was kind of addicting. Getting to be someone else for a while.”
“You are so full of shit.”
Shane suppresses a startled cough. “Excuse me?”
“Shane.” Ilya almost looks disappointed. “With Dane, you said everything was real. Multiple times, you said this. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Then how were you pretending?” Ilya demands. “You are speaking in riddles. If it was real, how were you ‘being someone else’?”
In turn, Shane just sits there. Blinking vacuously.
Ilya rubs the spot above one of his eyebrows. “Oh, Hollander,” he whispers.
And he’s not mad anymore. He’s not even betrayed.
He just sounds sad.
Sickened, Shane stares down at his hands. Being seen is so much worse than being hated. At least when he thought he and Ilya were done, he could mourn. But now…
“What do you want, Ilya?” he asks quietly.
“The truth.”
What truth? That Shane, so terrified at the possibility of being known, built an entire other person just to cope?
“In the beginning, fine,” Ilya continues. “Maybe I understand. But after the commercial? After I made it clear that I liked you?”
Briefly, he looks away, jaw working. And, just—liked. Past tense.
“I don’t understand,” he says at last, sounding so fucking weak. “How could you?”
The edges of Shane’s vision blacken. “How could I?” he echoes. “How could you, ever? Want me?”
Ilya, who’s been gradually hunching over this entire time—almost stricken by some invisible weight—all at once straightens his spine. And shoots Shane a look of complete bewilderment.
“What the fuck are you talking about, Hollander?”
Shane just grimaces. Of course Ilya doesn’t get it. He moves through this world like it was built for him.
“Shane.” For the first time, Ilya says his name, and Shane feels so ill that it doesn’t even land. Just glances off of him like a stray shot. “What? You are saying you hate yourself?”
“No.” Of that, Shane’s absolutely certain. “I just don’t know him very well.”
He blinks, stunned by his own admission.
Ilya clearly is, too, because he just stares at Shane now. The windows are starting to fog, and it’s almost like a barrier, completely sealing them off from the outside world.
“You had a chance with me,” Ilya whispers. “I could have been good to you.”
What, like Shane’s not fully aware of that? Like he hasn’t lost sleep over the fact that he fumbled Ilya so goddamn hard it belongs in the record books?
“I could have given you everything—fuck.” Ilya cards an angry hand through his hair, destroying the pretty curls in an instant. “I fucking loved you!”
Shane flinches. It’s an accusation. A knife slotted between ribs. In tandem, they look away from one another, and silence stretches until it could honestly break.
“What was your plan?” Ilya asks quietly. “Did you even have one?”
To his window, Shane says, “I just wanted to be close to you.”
“You were,” Ilya hisses, almost as if burned. “Goddamnit.”
Man—fuck this.
Groping for the door handle, Shane tumbles out into the temperate air.
Behind him, Ilya’s voice hones to a point. “Hollander?”
Ignoring that, Shane lurches over to the guardrail and hangs onto it, his head bowed. He hears Ilya’s door open, but doesn’t react. Even as rapid footsteps crunch across the gravel.
“Hollander,” Ilya repeats. “What are you doing?”
Is he serious? “Getting air.” Frazzled, Shane blurts the words over his shoulder. “Give me a minute, okay?”
After a beat, Ilya just sighs and settles in beside him. As they stare out at the lights without really seeing them, it reminds Shane of that night on top of the haunt. Only a few dozen meters up, but it really felt like it was just them, alone together in the universe.
Things were so easy back then. When Ilya couldn’t really see him.
At last, Ilya says, “I just need to know one thing.”
“Yeah,” Shane responds tiredly. “Anything.”
“Did you…” Ilya inhales. And of all the goddamn things to come out of his mouth right now— “Practice the voice?”
Shane blinks in his version of incredulity.
“Yeah,” he admits. “Pretty much daily.”
“Jesus Christ,” Ilya mutters. Then he’s laughing.
Shane resists the urge to smile. Fails rather spectacularly. “What?”
“Nothing.” Ilya’s head shake is pure fondness. “That’s just so like you.”
And he would know, wouldn’t he?
“I took notes, too,” Shane says, emboldened by it. “Like, pages’ worth.”
“Yeah?” Their eyes meet, and Ilya’s spark with slight warmth, like something could be building there. “In a little folder? Or a notebook?”
“A folder. I don’t think I even used half of it.”
Ilya grins. If someone were to walk by now, they’d think the two of them were a completely normal couple. And—for a moment—they could be.
Something inside of Shane cracks.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “We have to stop.”
“What?” Immediately, Ilya recoils, so at odds with the suggestion that it’s like he’s trying to run from it. “Why?”
Why? Why? A disbelieving laugh escapes Shane.
Ilya’s face immediately screws up in anger. “Hollander, I swear to God—”
“You deserve someone better.” Like…isn’t that obvious? “Someone who doesn’t lie to you for years on end.”
“Yeah, no shit. You think I haven’t tried?”
Shane feels his eye twitch. He knows Ilya tried, and it makes him want to throw up.
“Jesus, Shane,” Ilya suddenly chokes out. “What is not clicking? I don’t want better, and I never wanted Dane. It was just you. All I have ever wanted is you.”
It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, and it’s a hand. Something Shane can grab to keep from slipping.
But he doesn’t move.
“Let me go,” he whispers. “Please, Ilya.”
“No,” Ilya whispers back.
“It’s not too late.” Shane continues. “It’ll take time, but you will move on from this.”
“No, Shane.”
“Promise me you will.” They are having two different conversations. They are talking to brick walls. “Promise me you’ll forget everything.”
“I can’t.” Without warning, Ilya sobs. “Please don’t make me.”
When Shane turns back to Dallas, he’s shaking. Quickly, he swings his legs over the guard rail and sits, like that’ll actually do shit. Like he can stop the spinning.
He already lost Ilya once, and he was almost happy. He can do it again. It’ll destroy him, but if this is what it takes to help Ilya, then he will. He has to.
“Stand up.”
Shane lifts his head.
Beside him, Ilya is suddenly all sharp angles, rendered gold in the city’s lights. He looks like he’s facing a fire. Like he’s standing at the mouth of a towering inferno.
Very soft, he says, “Stand the fuck up.”
And Shane does not like his tone.
“Why?” he asks cautiously.
“Who are you?” Ilya demands in reply. “Are you Shane Hollander?”
“What—?”
“Because I am not so sure.” Ilya scowls at Shane down the length of his nose. “The Shane I know wouldn’t do this. He does not give up when something is hard.”
Anger flowers in Shane’s chest. “I’m not—
“No?” Ilya interrupts again. “The Shane I know is stubborn to the point of insanity. He fights for people. He would not run from me and call it mercy.”
Abruptly, his eyes go unfocused.
“He’s my best friend,” Ilya whispers. “I love him, you know?”
The words hit like a body check.
“And I miss him,” Ilya continues, voice catching slightly. “He thinks he’s not good enough. He thinks, if people see too much of him, they will leave. He thinks that things only worked when I was never really looking at him, but he doesn’t understand. I was always looking at him—he’s the only one I look for.”
“Ilya.”
“I don’t want the version of him that always knows what to say,” Ilya croaks. “I don’t want someone crafted to please everybody else. I want the real him. The one who thinks too much and gets overwhelmed and tells terrible jokes. Do you get it? I want Shane Hollander. My Shane.”
Shane hunches over, but he can’t breathe. Can’t get air no matter how much he tries.
“Oh, my God,” he whispers.
He’s a fucking idiot.
Years of an identity crisis. Years of scheming and planning and hiding behind some ridiculous pantomime of himself. Years of thinking that what happened in the showers was skin-deep—that Ilya wanted his body, maybe, but would never want the difficult, complicated person living inside it.
Meanwhile, Ilya’s been all in from the start. He took one look at Shane in all of his repressed, neurotic glory and went yes. That one, please.
Frankly, Shane’s not sure who’s more insane: Ilya, or his own dumbass self.
“Shane.” A muggy summer breeze kicks up as Ilya bends down, slotting his hands under Shane’s arms. When Ilya pulls him off the rail, Shane doesn’t resist. He hangs onto Ilya’s waist and goes along for the ride.
“Shane,” Ilya repeats—softly, like he’s handling something precious he worked so hard to get. And isn’t he? “Are you here?”
“Yes.” Forever. “Fuck,” Shane breathes. “I’m so stupid.”
Ilya smiles, even as his gaze goes so unbearably soft (apology accepted). “You really are.”
Shane laughs—and realizes he’s halfway crying, too. “I’m sorry.”
“Is okay.” At last, Ilya’s voice takes on that teasing lilt Shane adores. “I know I am so handsome it can be intimidating—”
“No.” They’re moving, and Shane stops Ilya with an abrupt hand to the chest. They halt about a meter or two away from the car, Ilya cocking his head in silent question. “I mean,” Shane clarifies, “I’m sorry for you. I’m a handful.”
Ilya’s eyes glimmer. “Believe me, I know.” And Shane smiles—able to do so about the whole situation for seemingly the first time. “But do not worry, Hollander. I have two hands.”
“You stole that from Tumblr.”
“Who?”
“It’s a—”
“Is he hotter than me?”
When Shane answers, he finally understands the meaning of makes your heart sing. “Yeah. Taller, too.”
“No—”
“And his ass is way fatter.”
Ilya pitches his head forward, uttering a noise of unadulterated despair. Shane laughs. Ilya laughs, too. They both laugh like maniacs.
Then, fisting the front of Shane’s shirt, Ilya kisses him fully on the mouth.
Shane’s responding moan is more surprise than anything. Because it’s not smooth. Not planned. Their teeth click together, and it feels less like a kiss and more like the pressure mounting inside of Ilya has spiked and needs a place to go.
When they separate, there’s this moment where they both kind of sway together. Trying to remember which side is up.
“Shane?” Ilya whispers.
“Yes?” Shane whispers back.
“Be my boyfriend? Please?”
“O-okay.”
The final syllable barely wraps up before they’re kissing again.
Something shifts, and Shane makes an excited noise when Ilya crowds into him, hands sliding up Shane’s neck to his jaw. The kiss turns heavy, messy—years of restrained want collapsing in on itself. Reality loses shape as a result. Like one moment, they’re standing, then they’re moving. Shane sits on the hood of the car, he thinks. His shirt comes off.
Ilya’s, too.
“Fuck,” Shane moans. “Wait—stay here.”
“What?” Ilya’s pretty mouth, swollen from Shane’s, twists into a frown. “Shane.”
“Two seconds!” Shane jogs around the Nissan, popping the trunk and quickly shifting through his backpack. Ilya does as he’s told and doesn’t move—likely out of sheer confusion.
When Shane comes back and tries to kiss him again, he stops at the sight of Ilya’s eyes damn near bugging out of his head. “What?”
“What is that.”
Shane glances down at the bottle. “Lube? I brought some with me.”
Ilya’s gaze pierces his suspiciously.
Realizing how it sounds, Shane sighs (and tries to ignore his little tingle of pleasure at Ilya’s jealousy). “I have a toy,” he explains, too worked up to give a shit about feeling embarrassed. “A dildo.”
“And you brought it with you.”
…Okay, never mind.
The embarrassment is, in fact, here.
“Yes,” Shane admits.
For a moment, Ilya looks murderous. Targeting some invisible opp in his mind. Or so Shane thinks.
“So when I fuck you,” Ilya whispers raggedly, “you’ll be ready for me?”
Oh.
“Yes,” Shane whispers back. “That was the plan.”
“Yeah?” Ilya closes in. Until their chests collide, hearts beating a frantic drum together. “Makes sense,” he continues softly. “You always knew I would come back to you, didn’t you?”
Yes. Even in the darkest depths of his self-loathing, Shane knew who he belongs to.
Shakily, he sinks to his knees.
Above him, Ilya’s eyes are like deep pools. As Shane undoes Ilya’s fly and frees his cock, he has no idea what the fuck he’s doing. Just that he wants it. That everything in his life has, and always was, structured perfectly around Ilya.
“Hollander.” Ilya gasps, head lulling back at the first touch of Shane’s mouth. “Oh, my God. Stick out your tongue.” Shane does, and Ilya snarls at the sight of the captain of the Montreal Metros—so desperate for cock that it’s staining his face red. “Perfection.”
Holding Shane’s head in place, Ilya thrusts his cock into Shane’s mouth.
Shane’s responding moan is muffled. Ilya fills him up, hitting the back of Shane’s throat before easing a little.
“Relax your jaw,” Ilya breathes, and Shane eagerly complies, taking every inch. “Fuck, you are good at that. Have you done this before?”
Shane makes a dissenting noise.
“Good.” Dark possession laces Ilya’s words. “You are mine, Shane Hollander,” he states, almost taunting Shane with it. “Until we fucking die.”
Mouth full, Shane can only growl. It’s all for show, though. Pure reflex. As Ilya starts a deep, steady rhythm, Shane’s completely relaxed, stanced with his knees wide. Enjoying it. Trusting Ilya. His own cock is hard enough to hurt, and when Shane slips a hand in his shorts, the head is all slick and wet with precum.
“What are you doing?” Ilya whispers, voice wrecked.
But Shane can’t answer, or even stop to think. Fuck, he’s already close. How is that even possible?
Desperate, he closes a fist around his cock, chasing relief.
“Are you—oh fuck, Hollander—” The sight of Shane touching himself seems to break Ilya, because he’s suddenly threading his fingers in Shane’s hair and shoving his cock all the way down Shane’s throat.
Shane gags briefly but forces himself to take it. Ilya moves his hips slowly at first, watching Shane’s cheeks fill and hollow—it’s honestly a lot, but with each thrust, Shane eases a bit more, adjusting. Before long, his eyes fall shut, and he can feel tears forming in the corners of his eyes when Ilya moves faster. They slide down his cheeks to his neck, leaving two cool trails on his scorching skin.
Without warning, Ilya withdraws and leaves Shane panting.
“Fuck,” Ilya whispers, squeezing himself at the base. “Good fucking God, Shane.”
Panic lances Shane’s heart. What? Did he hurt—
Ilya yanks him up by his arm.
When they kiss, tongues flashing wetly in the space between their lips, it’s like Ilya can barely hold himself upright. “Jesus,” he breathes. “I almost didn’t pull out in time.”
“I wanted it,” Shane says, pleading.
Ilya lets out a subdued moan. “I know. But the only place I am cumming is inside of you.”
“You could have.” Shane licks Ilya’s top lip, tugging it softly with his teeth. “Please, Ilya,” he whispers. “Give it to me.”
Ilya’s teeth glint with a growl. “Cock-hungry whore.” Shane smiles sweetly. “Bend over.”
Oh, God. Yes, please.
Shane faces the car, laying down across the hood.
“Beautiful,” Ilya whispers. “The most beautiful man in the fucking world is mine.”
As he strips Shane, kicking his legs apart, Shane’s entire body is a match held above a strikepoint. He can see them in the reflection on the windshield. Vague silhouettes, parsing through the sea of city lights.
Coating his fingers in lube, Ilya easily sinks the first digit in.
“Ah!” Shane shoves his face into his arm. Pleasure rockets through him like the tail end of a firework. “God fuck—”
“Good?” Not waiting for an answer, Ilya adds another, his free hand stroking the small of Shane’s back. “Look at you,” he says softly, right as he hits something—a good spot that nearly has Shane crying. “Could you cum?”
Desperately Shane scrabbles for purchase, but the car is too smooth. There’s nothing to hold.
“Ilya,” he whimpers.
“Hm.” Ilya fingers him almost lazily, like he’s in no rush, like he was born knowing all the ways to take Shane apart. “I think I want you to. I think I want you to cum right now, on my fingers, then again when I’m fucking you. You can do this, yes?”
“I don’t know.” Shane leans his forehead on the cool metal. Two fingers is a hell of a lot smaller than the dildo, but still. He’s never been so stuffed in his life. For too long, it feels like he’s had this void inside of him, perfectly carved for Ilya. Designed for him and no one else to occupy, to own… “I just—I’ve never…”
Ilya simply hums, undeterred. “Okay. You will.”
Sliding his free hand down, he easily locates the pulsing line of Shane’s cock.
And Shane’s done. He cums right there, glazing Ilya’s fingers as the orgasm fills him up then empties him right back out. For a moment, he’s gone entirely. Off in the fucking clouds somewhere.
Until Ilya suddenly crowns him.
Shane chokes on a breath. It feels like it’s happening so fast, but not fast enough. “Yes,” he gasps, in case it wasn’t clear that he’s drowning for it. “Yes, yes.”
And as he guides his cock in, Ilya makes almost no noise. Shane can see him in the glass, though. How Ilya’s staring down at him, laser sight-focused, like this is the most important thing he’s ever done and it has to be perfect. God. Shane’s heart twinges.
“Ilya.” When he begs, his voice is an absolute mess. “More.”
“Shane. It is your first time.”
“I need you.”
“Baby…”
“Please—” And Shane backs up, his ass slapping against Ilya’s hips. All of the air seems to escape them, both of them, in tandem, and who can say what came over Shane. Panic? Desire? After playing the game with Ilya for two and a half years, can he even tell the difference anymore?
Ilya’s seated. He’s in.
It’s all Shane fucking wants anymore.
“Jesus Christ,” Ilya whispers, words fizzing out at the edges. Fastening a hand to Shane’s nape, he starts to thrust, deep and long, and Shane presses his knuckles to his mouth and barely restrains a cry. “Tell me. Say if it is too much.”
Shane moans, delirious with want and need and fuck all. He won’t be able to—speak, that is. Everything that isn’t Ilya has left him, as urgent as a tide before a tsunami.
Around them, the tepid wind scratches at their feverish skin.
And as Ilya sets an absolutely brutal pace that makes Shane’s knees quake, he feels his eyes start to droop—growing half-lidded. Yeah, he’s gonna fucking cum again. Each thrust sends streaks of pure bliss through him, an indomitable wave of pleasure. He’s amazed his feet are even still touching the ground.
“Oh, God—” Ilya gasps loud when Shane, parking his hands on the hood, starts to fuck himself on Ilya’s cock as best he can. “Fuck,” Ilya blurts, incoherent, “look up. Look at us, sweetheart”
Through tears and sweat, Shane does.
Their reflection again, smeared across the glass like some kind of abstract art. Shane stares, raptly fascinated, while Ilya wrecks him. How his own cock rocks with the motion of it.
Ilya’s eyes are nuclear hot behind the curve of Shane’s shoulder. “Who’s fucking me right now?”
“Me,” Shane whispers.
“Who?”
“Me—Shane Hollander.”
Ilya jerks him back. Almost shakes him as he demands, “Who do I love?”
“Me.” Shane’s voice splits with a small gasp. He’s watching himself lay back across Ilya, mouth an obscene little slit of gasping breaths. Watching himself get fucked so good that he will cum a second time, maybe even a third— “Shane Hollander.”
Ilya touches his cock. Just kind of idly thumbs the head, toying with Shane as he breathes, “Who?”
“Shane,” Shane sobs, and it’s weird, being about to cum with the sound of his own name on his tongue. Reminds him of that text Ilya sent way back when— “Me, Ilya,” he rushes out. “You love me.”
“Good.” In response, Ilya fucks him harder, almost rewarding him for it. Shane grips the arm Ilya has splayed across his throat with both hands and hangs on for dear life. “Mine,” Ilya whispers, sounding utterly lost. Then, like he’s been found— “Shane.”
True to his word, Ilya cums deep inside of Shane, pressing a despairing moan into the skin of Shane’s upper back. The whole time, he’s a bit incoherent, chanting things like “Never leave” and “never leave my body again” and, most of all, “fuck.” Shane kisses him through the aftershocks. Through the comedown and the beautiful little tremors after.
And a minute later, when Ilya’s kneeling between Shane’s legs and sucking him to his second orgasm, Ilya says softly, “Love you.” Shane doesn’t hesitate as he chokes out, “I love you a whole fucking lot” in reply, because, God—
He really does.
Some ten minutes into their backseat postcoital makeout, Shane announces:
“I think I got cum on the hood.”
“Oh, my God,” Ilya mutters. Shane, perched happily in his lap, pecks him on the jaw. “Glad I am so good at kissing that your mind doesn’t wander at all.”
“You’re a great kisser. But my mind is always wandering.”
“I know.” Somehow, Ilya manages to pump an abundance of fondness, of familiarity, into two simple words. Shane smiles. “How are you feeling?”
“Amazing.” Emotionally, anyway. Truth is, Shane’s back is kinda tweaked, his ass hurts, and he’s gonna be picking gravel out of his knees for a week. It’s hardly most people’s idea of romance.
But it’s his.
“God.” As he stares up at Shane, with that starstruck look of someone witnessing a miracle, Ilya’s voice suddenly softens. “I think I knew—that you were Dane. A part of me did, anyway.”
Shane’s not even surprised. “Really?”
“Yeah.” And when Ilya cups his jaw, Shane never realized he could speak so softly. Like they’re both waking up from the same dream.
“No one else has ever sounded like home the way you do.”
- Aulus
- totally random question but which ring cut do you like best? mine is either cushion or emerald
- Numerius
- Ilya. It's been two weeks.
- Numerius
- what? i am not allowed to be curious?
- Numerius
- No.
- I like emerald cut.
- Numerius
- perfect. you were born in may, so emerald is also your birthstone
- Numerius
- Oh, no. You've been Googling again, haven't you?
- Numerius
- not at all
- what size ring btw? since we are on the subject haha
- Numerius
- Omfg. I JUST turned 21! We're a little young, don't you think?
- Numerius
- no? i would have done this when we were 18 if you let me
- not that i am doing anything
- ofc
- Numerius
- Fine. Size 10.
- Numerius
- thank you shane
- love you sm mwah mwah!!
- Numerius
- I love you, too, Ilya.
- Numerius
- kiss me back (
- Numerius
- How about I come over and do it in person?
- Numerius
- deal
Shane 🧡✨
Today, 14:12
Read 14:20