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“We are very good at pretending to not be in love. Maybe we are bad at showing it when we are allowed.”
“What am I even supposed to wear to this thing?” Shane called from his walk-in closet. “Do you have a leather, um. What is it? Like, for a horse...?” “A harness. And shut up.”
Kiss me, Ilya wanted to say. Kiss me and hold me in front of all these people. Pull me onstage and do it. I don’t care anymore. Please. I’m dying. “Nothing,” Ilya said, and stepped away. “Nothing.”
“You should quit hockey,” Ilya murmured. “Send them a text. Say you quit. Stay here with me.”
Shane: Fuck. Where? Ilya: Montreal? I don’t fucking know. Shane: Hurry up. Ilya: Ok. I will ask the driver to make the car fly.
Literally laughing.
“When you watch it, this is what you will see. Me saying nothing. I wanted to say you are fucking everything to me. Everything. Okay?”
“How many dogs exactly?” “Some. Maybe one, to start. And then he needs a friend, so two. Maybe they don’t like each other so we get number three to be, um...” “A mediator?” “Okay. Maybe, yes.”
“Thank you, moya gazonokosilka.” This was a game Ilya liked to play where he used random Russian words as pet names, to test Shane. Shane thought hard for a moment, trying to guess the word’s meaning, but ultimately surrendered. “No idea what that one means.” “Is, um...for cutting the grass.” “Lawnmower?” “Yes.” “Weird.”
He imagined Shane would be similarly unforgiving if Ilya took his own life. Not that Ilya ever would. Unless he couldn’t help it.
How could Shane have doubted for a second how fiercely Ilya loved him?
I am thinking only about you right now. A million memories. Thank you for those. Whatever happens, I am with you. Safe in your heart. I believe it.
“Sweetheart. I am so sorry.”
“I will be very proud to be your husband.”
“I need too much from you tonight.” “You can have it. Anything.” A soft sound escaped Ilya’s lips, close to a whimper. “Take me apart, Hollander.”
“Roger Rozander. Terrible name.”
“We’re not naming our kid Roger, you sack of shit!”
“I feel like I am fucking a king right now.” “Ilya—” He grabbed a handful of Shane’s hair and tugged his head back. “Do you know how powerful this feels, fucking a king in his throne room?” “Fu—fucking hell, Rozanov.”
“You are Shane fucking Hollander,” Ilya growled. “If you ever forget that, I will drag you back in here and fuck you until you remember.”
Then Shane stood and said, “I choose him. Come on, Ilya.”
And he knew Ilya would be effortlessly spectacular in Ibiza.
