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For the record, Ilya always has been and always will be a club kid. Pubs and bars are fine, especially when you’re looking for a lowkey kind of night. But clubs will always be Ilya’s home. There’s just something about the dark atmosphere, the striking counterpoint of bright flashing lights, the heavy bass, the pulsing beat of the music, and the surging crowd of dancers getting lost in each other and celebrating each other’s bodies. Even when it’s non-sexual. It’s just good to feel your body, let loose and move with the rhythm, be a part of a crowd.
But bars are nice.
Ilya enjoys pool. Likes the big pint glasses of beer that he can sip without worrying he’s going to pour it down the dress of a woman because he got jostled by the crowd.
And most of all, Shane prefers pubs and bars over clubs. They’re less busy, less performative (or, at least, they’re performative in a way that Shane is more comfortable with, playing pool or darts and nursing a drink all night instead of dancing and hooking up and getting wasted). They’re also, usually, less noisy.
Though, that ‘usually’ is pulling a lot of weight at the moment.
The bar had been quiet. When Ilya had gotten up to piss there had been some generic dad rock playing through the bar, and it was mostly drowned out by the low hum of everyone talking. More than half the team was there, celebrating the last night of freedom before buckling down into pre-training. And beyond that, it was a pretty busy night; men and women were crowded around the tables with the tall stools, and leaning up against the bar like they’re scared it’s going to tip over if they’re not there to hold it in place. Every once in a while, a shout would go out from the pool tables where the team and some of their SAPs (spouses and partners) were playing. And there was a group of girls in the corner whose conversation would randomly burst with a cheer or a howl of laughter.
Typical bar noises.
And Ilya was doing typical bar things. He’d gotten up to piss. He stopped on the way back for another pint for himself and a ginger ale for his loving husband. And he is walking them carefully back across the room, just lifting his pint to his lips, when it happens.
All at once, everyone in the bar starts shouting.
All with the same pitch and rhythm.
“HOW I WISH I WAS IN SHERBROOKE NOW!”
Ilya nearly dumps his whole beer down his shirt. (Which wouldn’t have been a complete loss, because maybe Shane could be convinced to clean it up with his tongue – but what a waste of a beer!)
The shouting doesn’t stop there with the one big outburst. It keeps going.
Though, the next line is fractionally quieter. Quiet enough for Ilya to hear the voice on the stereo singing the same words.
So, they’re singing. Shouting. Sing-shouting.
But it’s everyone in the bar.
Like, everyone.
Except for Ilya and Luca, who is looking around the room with the same terror and confusion as Ilya.
The next bit is louder again.
“GOD DAMN THEM ALL! I WAS TOLD WE’D CRUISE THE SEAS FOR AMERICAN GOLD, WE’D FIRE NO GUNS, SHED NO TEARRRRRRRRS! NOW I’M A BROKEN MAN ON A HALIFAX PIER, THE LAST OF BARRETT’S PRIVATEERS.”
Ilya scurries his way back to his seat at Shane’s side, feeling suddenly unsafe in this Ottawa bar. Canadians are never this loud outside of the rink or a riot. And never so organized as it is right now. Literally everyone has stopped their conversations to sing-shout this song.
Shane, at least, is immune to whatever mass psychosis is happening right now. Though he doesn’t seem shocked or even bewildered by what’s going on around them.
“What the fuck is this?” Ilya asks, putting Shane’s ginger ale down in front of him. He’s momentarily distracted from his terror by a drop of spilled ginger ale running down his finger; he holds it to Shane’s mouth to lick clean. Shane rolls his eyes at Ilya, then, tragically, wipes the finger clean with a napkin. “Spoilsport,” Ilya pouts.
“It’s Barrett’s Privateers,” Shane says, as if that in any way explains what the fuck is happening in this bar right now.
They’re like pod people. Or like a hive mind from a scary alien invasion movie.
“What about Barrett’s dick?”
Shane shoves him with a shoulder and otherwise ignores the question. “It’s a Canadian song, and it’s not about a dick. It’s about Privateers. They’re…” Shane frowns. “They’re like soldiers on boats, I think. And this guy signs up to get American gold – ”
Ilya snorts, “So I’ve heard.” The bar has literally shouted “cruise the seas for American gold” like three times now.
“Shut up.”
Ilya is about to taunt with a ‘make me’ and see about pulling Shane into a kiss (and whether he can turn that kiss into making out in the dark corner by the bathrooms), when Luca leans in, cutting him off.
“So, what happens?” Luca asks. Cockblocking by virtue of being a decent person who’s interested in the conversation. How dare he.
“Well, the ship’s a piece of shit, and they fight an American ship and get blown apart. And buddy loses his legs, and it takes him, like, six years to get back home.”
“Ouf,” Luca says, “That’s rough, buddy.”
“It’s not great,” Shane agrees.
“And then what?” Ilya asks, back to eyeing the room to make sure none of the sing-shouters start to act aggressive. Or bitey. He doesn’t want to catch whatever it is that makes them act this way. (Infectious Canadianism?) “He finds a woman who loves him with no legs and marries her?”
Shane frowns again. “No, it ends with him getting back to Halifax. ‘A broken man on a Halifax pier, the last of Barrett’s Privateers.’” He just so happens to say the line as it’s being shouted around them. And that’s enough to make Ilya subtly move his hand away from where it was creeping onto Shane’s thigh. If Shane is not immune to this, Ilya might be next. “It ends there.”
“What? No happy ending?”
Shane shakes his head. “No. It’s not about happy endings. It’s about falling for lies and propaganda and getting taken advantage of. He left to get rich and came back with nothing.”
“Not even his own legs, yeesh,” Ilya says unsympathetically. “I thought your Canadian music was all happy endings. Sunshine and roses. You know, ‘Here’s my number, so call me maybe,’ and feeling like a woman.”
That makes Shane laugh. Bright and sparkling. He’s beautiful enough for Ilya to risk exposure, so he kicks his chair and little closer and puts his hand over Shane’s knee (for now).
“Not all of it. And not the old stuff. A lot of the folk music is about hard times. Especially if it has boats.”
“Why boats?” Luca asks, still leaning forward like he’s incurably interested.
“Well…” Shane says, in his ‘I’m about to do a fun lecture’ voice, and Ilya clocks out.
The song is eventually finishes and the trance over the room breaks up. The pool players return to their game instead of shouting into their pool cues. The girls in the corner all laugh and shout about how fun that was. And Ilya finally fucking unclenches as the room goes back to normal.
Shane is still lecturing Luca on common themes of Canadian folk music, and Ilya is a little bit bored out of his mind.
There’s movement at the door, and Ilya checks it on instinct. It’s Troy and Harris coming to join in the fun. Though, from the looks of their messy hair, it looks like they’ve already been having fun of their own.
On a sudden inspiration, Ilya gets up and runs over excitedly.
“Troy, Troy! You missed it! The whole bar was singing about your dick, and you weren’t here!” He doesn’t even try to keep the shit-eating grin from his face. At least now he can turn his trauma into someone else’s confusion.
Troy’s eyebrows crease for a second as he looks at Ilya, then widen with understanding. “Barrett’s Privateers?” he asks, not even missing a beat. He chuckles. “You know I’m Canadian, right? I’ve literally heard that joke like a hundred times.”
Ilya sulks. How is he supposed to know it’s not an original joke?? He’s Russian!!! “Boo, you whore.” And he turns on his heels to go ease his woes in the crook of Shane’s neck.
2: Don’t You Put It In Your Mouth
It’s the end of a relaxed practice. They’re still early in the season, and they’ve been off to a good start; and while Wiebe didn’t go easy on them at practice, there was an air of joviality that persisted through all their drills and skates and practice games. It’s always pretty light and fun at the beginning of a new season, coming back after weeks of rest, and none of the pressures of playoff season looming over them.
What’s different about the Centaurs is that they’re really good at keeping this lightness through to the end of the season. Even into the playoffs, if you can believe it. Obviously, it’s not exactly the same, because by round three or four they’re basically zombies off the ice. But it’s lighter than it ever was in Boston. And WAY lighter than Montreal was for Shane. His first playoff run with Ottawa had really shocked him.
They’re in the locker room now, after practice, and it’s mostly quiet. Everyone’s just kind of in their own zone. Bood walks across the room in a towel to throw his clothes in the laundry bin. Troy is leaning back against his locker, chugging from his water bottle like he hasn’t had a drink all practice. Luca and the gaggle of rookies who have already attached themselves to him are headed into the showers. Dykstra, Chouinard, Dillon, and most of the others are hanging around their lockers stripping down for the showers. A few of them are chatting about their plans for later.
Shane is at his locker, meticulously organizing his gear. As each piece comes off his body it is immediately placed in its designated spot before the next one comes off. It makes him a bit slow to undress, which used to be frustrating when Ilya was waiting in Shane’s Montreal apartment for Shane to get back from practice, literally counting the minutes before he could see Shane again. But now that they share a locker room, Ilya is smitten by Shane’s fussiness. He likes that it takes Shane so long. It gives Ilya more time to sit on his bench and just admire his husband.
Ilya himself isn’t even half undressed yet. He’s been too distracted watching Shane carefully place his gloves, first the right one, then the left one, along the right wall of his locker. Neatly stacked, with the fingers pointing out. Then his helmet. Placed perfectly center. Then he moves on to his skates, and this time he goes left skate, then right skate. Just because he’s the cutest.
Wyatt is also here in the locker room. Ilya hasn’t been paying him much attention, but his locker is on the other side of Shane, so Ilya can see him in his periphery, slowly unlatching himself from his layers of pads, and bopping his head in time to a beat only he can hear.
It’s not weird. In the realm of goalies in general and Wyatt in particular, bopping to the music in your head is wildly normal.
But then he opens his mouth.
“Don’t you put it in your mouth,” he sings, then softer, like an echo, “(Don’t you put it in your mouth.)”
As one, the whole room turns to look at Wyatt. But where Ilya is looking confused and vaguely concerned – what the fuck is he wanting to put in his mouth and why – is this like a sex thing or something – or is he just making up this weird little song on the fly – everyone else lights up.
“Don’t you stuff it in your face,” Wyatt continues.
“(Don’t stuff it in your face,)” comes the echo, this time sung by Wyatt, Dykstra, and Troy.
Ok, so this is probably another stupid Canadian thing, yes?
More around the locker room join in as it goes. “Though it might look good to eat, (Though it might look good to eat), and it might look good to taste, (and it might look good to taste.)”
Bood comes over to stand in front of Wyatt and sing. Chouinard and Dillon stand up and throw arms around Troy, creating a chorus line that sways to the beat of this weird ass song.
There’s a pause, and Ilya uses the moment to ask the very topical question of: “What the fuck is this?” when they all burst into the chorus.
“You could get sick, (Ick!), real quick (Ick!), real sick real ICK!” They get loud at this part, the whole song echoing through the locker room. And it’s because of their volume that Ilya realizes, to his utmost horror, that Shane has joined in this demented little sing-along.
Shane!
Ilya’s own husband.
Love of his life, and man who could not carry a tune in a bucket.
Who would rather do bag-skates for a year than sing publicly.
Shane. Hollander-Rozanov. (The -Rozanov is silent.)
The song continues, and turns into a call and response, orchestrated by Wyatt, who points at people around the locker room to sing a line.
“Don’t you put it in your mouth,” they all sing.
Wyatt points to Troy. “(Uh-uh,)” Troy says proudly.
“Till you ask someone you love.”
Point to Bood, “(That’s right sis!)”
Seriously, what the fuck is this song?
“If it’s okay to eat.”
Shane now, “(If it’s okay to eat.)”
“Like a muffin or a beet.”
Wyatt points to Dykstra, who falls to one knee, arms spread dramatically, “(Like a muffin or a beeeet!)”
He sings the line almost operatically, which is a choice. But the rest of the guys love it, grinning and giving him a pat on the back as he gets back to his feet. Dillon even gives a little fist bump.
At the center of the weirdness, Wyatt now raises both hands, swinging them back and forth like he’s conducting the grande finale.
“If you don’t know just what it is!” they all sing together. “(Remember boys and girls,)” they say, “Don’t Put. It. In. Your. Mouth!”
And then, with one final flourish of Wyatt’s arms, they all shout: “ICK!”
Laughter and cheering fill the locker room, and everyone gives Hazy a friendly pat on the back before going back about their business as if nothing weird happened at all. All the while, Ilya is just standing there feeling like he’s lost his mind.
Why do Canadians do this? Where do they get this?
Is it programmed in them? Do they go to school and learn to stand up and sing whenever someone asks them to?
And why is it always weirdly sexual? First the song about Barrett’s privates, and now this song about putting things in mouths.
“Okay, but what the fuck was that?” Ilya asks again once everyone has seemed to calm down from their hysteria.
Shane blinks up at him for a second, then brightens like Ilya has just handed him a present.
“Oh my god, you don’t know the commercial!”
Great, now all the heads are swung around, looking at Ilya.
“That was a commercial?” North Americans and their capitalism, am I right? No one does it better.
Shane doesn’t answer the question; he’s too busy riffling through his bag to find his phone. Which means Ilya is about to be shown the commercial. As the team realizes what’s happening, they close in ranks around Ilya, blocking any escape. Shane pulls Ilya down to sit on the bench beside him, and Troy leans across Ilya’s shoulders, ostensibly to watch the screen, but it also serves to pin Ilya in place and keep him from running.
“Here.” Shane is so proud as he holds the phone out for Ilya to watch.
And what he sees are two horrifying blue cotton-candy monstrosities. They sing the same weird song at him, joined by an actual fucking beet for some reason. And also a bunch of weird puppet animals.
Why does the boy creature’s eyes move but the girl creature’s eyes are fixed in place like a death stare?
Why is any of this happening? And why does Ilya’s loving husband think it’s okay to share a waking nightmare with him?
“Isn’t it great?” Wyatt asks when the video ends.
Ilya can feel every single pair of eyes on him, waiting for his reaction. And damn it if he doesn’t love his team. He pins a smile to his face.
“It’s great.”
A collective relief flows through the group, thinking Ilya loved it, and they all disperse back to their lockers to finish stripping down. They chat about that fever dream commercial all the way into the showers. Calling it things like “iconic” and “timeless” and “foundational.”
Ilya keeps his cool all the way home, where he curls up in Shane’s lap, with Anya tucked into his hoodie for comfort, and begs Shane never to make him watch that cursed video ever again.
Ross Harbour is almost certainly the smallest community Ilya has ever visited. He knows, in an academic sense, that Canada and the US are littered with tiny communities like this. And in the last few days running around the east coast of Canada, he’s definitely driven through a number of these places, and passed even more that will only live in his memory as signposts with funny names. As an international hockey superstar, Ilya has travelled a lot, like a lot a lot, but it has occurred to him a few times over the course of their two week east coast adventure that he’s only ever visited the big cities.
Moscow is big. Boston is big. Ottawa is big enough.
The east coast of Canada, as far as Ilya can tell, is mainly inhabited by trees. Even the “big cities” are small. And Ross Harbour is not a big city.
Still, Ilya is having the time of his life in the east coast. Most of the people haven’t recognized him, Shane, and Anya as they’ve toured around in their rented SUV (the Halifax airport’s Enterprise did not have anything flashy or fun, plus Ilya’s little princess requires all of the legroom available). The few people who have recognized them are so shocked to see someone famous they just keep asking what brings them here, and then they try to give them food. So far, Ilya has been given cinnamon rolls, banana bread, pickled beets, mustard pickles, and about a dozen biscuits. Granted, they have mainly been recognized in local markets and bakeries.
Though, they did cause a lot of chaos in the Cows Ice Cream shop just off the bridge in PEI. The ice cream there was top notch, but most importantly were all of the amazing and ridiculous t-shirts available at this place. And when Ilya found the “Shane Holludder” and “Ilya Moozanov” shirts he mildly lost his mind and staged a mini photoshoot right there in the middle of the packed store. That gave them a lot of attention, and they then had to spend like forty minutes signing every Holludder, Moozanov, and “NHL: National Heifer League” shirt in the building. Oh! But they did get free ice cream out of it from the kids behind the counter. And Anya got a sweet doggy bandana with cow print. So definitely worth it.
They’ve spent the last few days travelling along the Cabot Trail, staying in some spectacularly small towns and villages with some extravagantly beautiful views, and still Ross Harbour is the smallest. Just a little blip of a tiny village along the underside of what Ilya has been referring to as the ball sack of Cape Breton. Ilya is under firm orders not to mention ball sacks, “Cock Breton,” or anything dick-related for the entirety of their trip here, and Shane has already made good on his threats to cover Ilya’s mouth if he so much as thinks Ilya’s going to say something penis-adjacent here.
And normally, Ilya would be giving Shane a much harder time enforcing this rule, but they are here for Ryan and Fabian’s wedding, so Ilya is playing nice.
They’re married on a cliffside overlooking a dramatic seascape. Fabian wears a gorgeous, corseted vest and has a long veil pinned into his hair that catches the sea winds so that it billows artistically behind him. Ryan wears a dark suit, with intricate goldwork on the lapels that match the patterning on Fabian’s corset, and he has his hair slicked back into a stylish bun, his beard trimmed down to a respectable length, looking very viking prince beside Fabian’s gender-queer majesty.
The ceremony is short but sweet. Or at least Ilya thinks it’s sweet, it’s honestly a little hard to hear what’s being said over the sound of the wind. But he has the sneaking suspicion that this was by design, and that Fabian found a way to share the moment with their families while ensuring a truly private moment between himself, Ryan, and Ryan’s sister, Colleen, who is officiating.
Supper and the reception are held at Ross Harbour’s volunteer fire hall, which happens to be the only event space in town. It’s decorated tastefully, and the caterers are imported from Halifax and serve a delicious meal. After dinner there are some speeches. Some very short speeches. Ryan’s family seem to be as stage shy as he is, which means his sister is the only one to say more than three heartfelt sentences welcoming Fabian into the family. Fabian’s side seems to be more comfortable giving speeches, but they are shooed off stage by the groomsmaid, Vanessa, before they can go on very long either.
After the speeches, the music starts, and a bunch of burly redheaded men descend, folding up some of the tables to make more room on the dance floor. The dancing starts very formal, with the first dance and a family dance, where the DJ plays slow ballads and everyone turns slowly around the room. Ilya convinces Shane to stand up with him, and he holds his husband close as they sway to the music, and Ilya doesn’t even try to force any fancy footwork on him.
Soon enough, the music changes to a more standard party affair.
Shane and Ilya spend their time split between dancing together, sitting at the table snacking and talking to people, and Ilya dancing while Shane watches and they try and see how long Shane can resist before he’s up and in Ilya’s arms again. He hardly ever makes it more than a song or two.
It’s getting decently late into the night. Ilya and Shane are sitting together, slowing working their way through a bottle of white wine that somehow got left at their table. Ryan and Fabian are with them, sitting down after shooing away Fabian’s hockey-obsessed family, who were just starting to get tipsy enough to ask Shane and Ilya the embarrassing questions.
“You are not playing any of your music tonight?” Ilya asks. So far the playlist has been a lot of pop from the 90s to now and queer anthems. A lot of Beyoncé, Lady Gaga, Madonna, Spice Girls, etc. Though every once in a while there’s a country song, or something with fiddles thrown in, presumably for the straights among them.
“Nah. I think it’s a bit narcissistic to play my own music at my own wedding,” Fabian says, leaning across his new husband to steal a forkful of Ilya’s cake. To be fair, Ilya had two huge slices so far. Also: it’s Fabian’s wedding. He gets whatever he wants.
Ryan frowns a little. “No one would think it’s narcissistic, babe.”
Fabian waves him off. “I listen to my music enough anyways. I’d rather listen to Cher.”
They talk a bit more, Ryan relaxing into his chair, nursing a beer, Fabian slowly picking at Ilya’s cake, Shane leaning in at Ilya’s side to hear the discussion over the music and partying. They talk about Ryan and Fabian’s honeymoon, a lengthy trip around the Mediterranean, visiting Lebanon, Turkey, Cyprus, Greece, and more.
Ryan is midsentence, explaining the debate he had with himself over renting a car in each country versus relying on cabs and public transport, when the song changes.
“Oh the night that Paddy Murphy died is a night I’ll never forget…”
The first line of the song goes through Ryan like a shot in the back. He jerks to attention, stops all conversation, stands, and rushes to the dancefloor. Like a freaking sleeper agent in a movie who just heard the secret phrase.
Everyone around them is doing the same. All the big burly redheads from Ryan’s side of the family, and all the big burly brunettes from Fabian’s side of the family. They all converge on the dance floor, belting out the lyrics together.
Ilya blinks and suddenly the dance floor is packed. It’s not just men. It’s literally everyone except for Shane and Ilya and Fabian. Though, Fabian is grinning, and he jumps to his feet, reaching for Ilya to pull him up to the dance floor too.
The song starts a bit slow for the first few lines, and as Ilya (and Shane, because Ilya is not joining in on whatever weird Canadian cult ritual this is without his husband for protection) steps into the now densely packed dance floor, everyone is just sing-shouting the lyrics to each other. And Ilya thinks to himself that this is going to be fine. It’s like Barrett’s Privateers. They’re all just going to sing to each other in a close group.
And then the line comes, “O’Leary came with the bagpipes, some music for to play!” The words start rushing, and the music roars in at a breakneck pace.
The whole room starts shaking as everyone starts jumping, spinning, and stomping all as one.
Ilya looks to Shane for guidance, but this time even Shane is looking completely out of depth. He turns to Fabian, who’s hooting, and shouting along, “That’s how they showed their respect for Paddy Murphy!” He’s jumping and pushing his way deeper into the crowd.
And then a woman comes out of nowhere, an older woman, probably one of Ryan’s aunts, if Ilya had to guess. She grabs Ilya by the arm, hooking her elbow with his, and suddenly Ilya is being spun in a circle. The woman stomps her feet in time with the music as she spins recklessly.
Just as soon as she was there, she is gone, dropping Ilya’s arm so he goes spinning off into a crowd of men who are moving with their arms linked together in a tight circle of their own. And the woman, whoever she is, now has Shane’s arm in hers and she’s spinning in the opposite direction.
“That’s how they showed their honour and their pride! They said it was a sin and shame then they winked at one another. And every drink in the place was full the night Pat Murphy died!”
Drinks are thrust into the air at the last line of the chorus, beer spilling on the dancers.
Ilya gets pushed towards the center of the group like a leaf helplessly following the current of a stream. At the center, Ryan stands with one arm around his sister, the other around Fabian. His face is red like it’s about to burst as he sings along about the poor Mrs. Murphy, and a gang of men who steal whiskey and keep it with the corpse.
Literally, what the fuck is this song?
But the chorus comes around again, and suddenly Ilya is being swung around by men and women alike. He loses track of Shane in the group. Hell! He loses track of Ryan in the group, and even amongst his family of giants Ryan is still the tallest man in the room.
Ilya just goes with it. He stops trying to pay attention to the lyrics. He’s too busy keeping moving. Keeping his feet out from all the stomping and jumping. Attaching and detaching himself from people who spin him around and around.
It’s an absolute frenzy.
This is probably what it feels like to be chum in a sea full of sharks.
Just madness and carnage.
Though, there’s clearly also joy. The sharks always enjoy a good feeding frenzy.
Ilya is breathless. From laughing. From jumping. From spinning. From a wildness that settles into his bones and his blood being in the middle of this roiling mass of bodies all enjoying the hell out of this weird ass song.
And then it ends as abruptly as it started.
There’s a final, “Well every drink in the place was full the night Pat Murphy died!” and then it’s done.
The next song to play is freaking Taylor Swift, and Ilya loves her dearly, but he has no idea how to come down from Paddy Murphy to Love Story. It seems like the rest of the crowd agrees, because most of them scatter as soon as the song changes, heading back to the bar or to their chairs. Ilya spots the aunty who first spun him and Shane drop herself into the chair like she’s got no energy left in her, and she grabs for her wine glass.
“What the hell was that?” Ilya asks, clapping a hand over Ryan’s shoulder and pulling him in tight.
Ryan just shrugs and laughs.
“That’s an east coast anthem, right there,” Fabian says jovially. They head back to their chairs together, only this time Fabian seats himself on Ryan’s lap, an arm wrapped around his new husband’s shoulders.
“It doesn’t seem like your kind of music,” Shane notes, already leaning back into Ilya’s space to make sure he’ll be heard. Or maybe he’s just feeling cuddly after that whirlwind. Ilya strokes a hand down Shane’s back, just in case.
“Hey, I may be an Indie-classico-pop diva, but I’m still a Nova Scotian-er at heart. There’s not an Atlantic Canadian alive who can resist the allure of Paddy Murphy.” Then Fabian laughs. “Your faces when the dancing started!! I thought you were going to have an aneurism!”
Ilya shakes his head at Fabian, but he’s still smiling. “You crazy Canadians and your weird music rituals.”
Shane leans even closer, almost pushing Ilya out of the chair and taking it for himself. “He’s still upset over the ‘Don’t You Put It In Your Mouth’ incident.”
Fabian and Ryan both roar with laughter at that. Of course, they don’t need it explained to them. Weirdo Canadians.
“Oh my god, that’s great! Did you show him the house hippos?”
Ilya has seen it. It’s one of the few weird Canadian things that he enjoys. The house hippos are cute. He wants them to be real.
“Show me again,” he says. Ryan already has his phone pulled out, and they watch the North American House Hippo commercial together. Which turns into watching some classic Heritage Moments. Which turns into Fabian, Ryan, Shane, Colleen (who joined them after the House Hippos), and some random cousin Ilya never learns the name of playing a Heritage Moments drinking game. The game consists of them each having 30 seconds to quote a Heritage Moment, or else they have to drink. Which means the whole thing is a group of thirty-somethings saying weird phrases out of context, laughing together, and drinking, while Ilya watches with amusement with no idea what’s going on.
Some of the most notable ones include:
“Doctor, I smell burnt toast.”
“But I need these baskets back!”
“Now the people will know we were here.”
“Acknowledge! Come on, acknowledge!”
“Molly, sir, Molly Johnson.”
By the end of the night, Shane is absolutely plastered. He’s hanging off Ilya as they head out for the night, hitching a ride back to their Inn from some of the designated drivers for the night. And he’s singing ‘Don’t You Put It In Your Mouth’ off tune in Ilya’s ear, because Shane Hollander is a little shithead. Especially when he’s drunk.
After the wedding in Ross Harbour, Ilya picks up a mix cd of some Maritimes music from the airport in Halifax. It’s all various east coast artists singing sea shanties and folk songs. He puts it in Shane’s jeep, because of course Shane’s jeep still has a CD players in it, and they listen to it on and off over the next few months.
It’s not bad music. Definitely better than Dykstra’s awful country music, even though he feels like the difference between Ilya’s east coast fiddle music and Dykstra’s country and western fiddle music is probably thinner than he would like to admit.
Or maybe it’s just that Ilya really enjoyed that feeling of wild revelry dancing to Paddy Murphy with a pack of Nova Scotians, and this music reminds him of that day.
In any case, he develops a bit of a taste for it.
And now it’s a cold and grey November day, and Ilya is stuck home with Anya, resting a sprained knee while Shane is off at practice. There’s nothing to do in the house. Anya is already tired of his fussing and has wandered off to one of her many beds to nap. And there’s a song from the CD that’s stuck in his head, so he pulls up his laptop, balances it on his stomach, with his knee iced and elevated, and he looks up the song.
Fiddler’s Green is a quiet sort of mopey folk song, perfect for a sulky November day. From there, another east coast song plays. And another. And Ilya starts listening to them, one after another, paying attention to the lyrics, the stories they tell. Some of these songs get really sad. Like, really sad. There’s one that’s just called Poppy about a young boy who loses his grandfather that has Ilya holding back tears.
And then Sonny’s Dream comes on.
At first, it’s similar to the others. A calm tune and steady beat and a story about a farmer – all the songs are farmers or sailors.
But then it mentions Sonny’s mother, and what she said to him.
“Oh, Sonny don't go away, I am here all alone, and your daddy's a sailor who never comes home. All these nights get so long and the silence goes on, and I'm feeling so tired, I'm not all that strong.”
The flood of emotions that hits Ilya all at once comes with no warning. No chance to prepare himself or divert the pressure. It slams through him, hard and fast, and suddenly he’s crying so hard he can’t hear the rest of the song.
He pauses it, because he does want to listen, once he can. But first he has to deal with the emotional fallout of a mother saying she’s so tired and not all that strong.
God, it’s like the song was written just to detonate the mine that lives in Ilya’s chest.
And the mother asks Sonny not to go away. Not to leave her alone. It picks at something deep within Ilya. A hurt: because Ilya was the one left alone. But something more, too. Something deeper.
Because Ilya’s trajectory had always been heading towards leaving his mother. Leaving Russia. Even before she died, he had longed for America and the NHL. And there’s no way to know what his mother would have said about that when it actually happened. When Ilya was 17 and travelling the world for the World Juniors. Or when he was 18 and preparing for the draft. Would she have asked him to stay? Would she have kissed him, and told him she’d miss him, and asked him to call every day? Would she have asked to go with him?
Anya must hear Ilya’s ugly sobs, and she pads into the room and presses her face into his neck, licking some of the tears streaking down into his ears.
There are so many things he’ll never get to know. Memories he’ll never be able to make. And in some ways, he has accepted that, but in other ways the wounds are still fresh and they’ll always be fresh. And this song has reminded him just how fresh they are.
It feels awful. Lying here on the couch, bawling his eyes out over a song he’s only listened to eight lines of.
At the same time, there is a catharsis. It’s not often that Ilya allows himself to get swept away in the grief he still feels for his mother. That he lets himself feel the pain and the hurt.
He’s not alone. He’s got Anya here, and Shane will be home in an hour or two. And Galina says it’s healthy to sit with his emotions when he can. To let them run their course, without wallowing. So that’s what Ilya does.
He cries. And he misses his mama. And he thinks about the ‘what might have been’s until the tears subside.
Then he takes a deep breath and starts the song up from the beginning, letting himself listen to the whole thing through. One hand scratching behind Anya’s ears for support.
On full listen, he realizes the song is not as relatable as it first seemed. Sonny stays home. He doesn’t achieve his dreams because he doesn’t even reach for them. He wants to see the world, wants to sail like his father, and he never does because his mother needs him. It’s tragic in its own way. And while that might have been Ilya’s fate in another life, it is not his life here.
He listens to the song once more, all the way through, then he gets up. He makes himself drink a whole glass of water, because his head is heavy from crying and he feels dehydrated.
It’s not too long after that Shane gets home, very ready and willing to curl up on the bed for a midday nap and hold Ilya as tight as he likes, and maybe brush his fingers through Ilya’s hair, if he asks for it. And maybe after they wake up, if Ilya’s up to it, he’ll tell Shane about the song he discovered and play it for him.
“Dykstra, your music is godawful.”
“Hey, my house my rules, my dude.”
“Ughhhhhh!” Ilya draws out the guttural sound of his groan, as yet another country song plays, loud, on Dykstra’s sound system. It’s currently 3 in the afternoon and they’re down in Evan’s basement. They’re already half in the bag and hours into a Minecraft session.
Today is, importantly, a boy’s day.
Because, also importantly, there’s some big Mommy and Me Yoga event happening in town with some celebrity yoga instructor who’s visiting from, like, France or somewhere? Caitlin and Susie, Cassie and Milo, Jackie and Amber, and Shane and Arthur are all gone to bend around for a few hours. Then they’re doing naps and dinner at Bood’s house.
Bood is at home, cleaning and preparing for the dinner. Hayden is at his house in Montreal, being father to the other half of his horde. Which leaves Ilya and Dykstra to have a boy’s day together.
Which, unfortunately, means endless country.
And it’s all recent shit. Or like… Post-90s shit.
Ilya has discovered (though he will never say this to Dykstra) he doesn’t mind the old stuff as much. In the same way the east coast folk music is good and different, the old country is good too. Or at least better than the crap Dykstra listens to. David has introduced Ilya to Johnny Cash and Waylon Jennings and Patsy Cline and he has to admit they’ve got some good songs.
As the day progresses, the lava castle they are building together in Minecraft grows, their inebriation deepens, and Ilya’s disdain for the country music dwindles.
They’re drunk and running through an open expanse on the way back to their house for the night, racing to the door before the creepers show up. There’s a song that’s been playing for the last minute or so that Ilya’s barely paying attention to. It’s pretty standard country music. A twangy voice singing about being drunk and how invincible you feel when you’re drunk. And it’s kind of fun because Ilya is definitely drunk right now.
It’s got a repeat line, in the chorus, about “The more you drink the better you think you are.”
And it would almost be relatable, except that Ilya is better. Drunk or not. He’s the best.
Well, no. Shane’s the best. But Ilya is second best.
Best at loving Shane, though. Best at fucking him, too.
Currently, best at outrunning Dykstra into their home, avoiding all the bad guys. Though he’s shouting encouragement while Dykstra screams and races in after Ilya.
They get into their Minecraft home, and a peace descends both in the game and in Dykstra’s basement.
And the song goes, “The more you think the better you drink you are.”
It takes a second for Ilya to catch what they did there. The reversal. The fucking punchline to this stupid song. But then he does, and now he’s burst out laughing. He falls onto his back, hands clutching his belly as he laughs and laughs.
Dykstra doesn’t know what he’s laughing at, but he chuckles along.
“This song is so stupid, Dykkie.”
The song is actually already over. There’s some other country song playing now. But it doesn’t matter. Ilya is tickled by the bad joke.
“The more you think, the better you drink you are,” he repeats and Dykstra grins at him.
“Good Ol’ George Canyon. He’s Canadian, you know?”
Ilya rolls his eyes and then pushing Dykstra’s face away.
“Of course, you finally give me a Canadian song that’s not depressing and it’s fucking country.”
6: Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald
Ilya is sitting out in the back yard of the cottage, overlooking the lake as it reflects the pink of the night sky. It’s quiet and serene. Anya lays curled up at his feet. And in the cool shadows around them, the fireflies are just starting to come out for the night, sparking little points of light around the lawn.
It’s not cold enough to light a fire outside, yet, but it is cool enough that Ilya is regretting his bare knees.
He hears the door slide open and the soft thud of footsteps on the deck. There’s no point in turning to look, he knows it’s David. Mainly, he knows by the slow pace of the footsteps. But also, because Shane and Yuna have been locked in a heated dissection of the Centaur’s new rookie, Anderson’s, first year and will not be stopped until David and Ilya pull them apart for bedtime.
David drags his favourite chair (an adirondak just like Ilya’s, only this one is painted green, and David is adamant it was somehow built better than the others) over beside Ilya. He hands Ilya a blanket in such a way that it is already half-draped over Ilya’s knees before Ilya can take it from him, and then he drops into his own chair and spreads his own blanket over himself.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
That’s something Ilya has noticed about David. He’s a ‘you’re welcome’ guy. Shane is a ‘no problem’ guy. Yuna tends not to even acknowledge thanks, but if she does it’s with a tight-lipped smile. Or, in extreme cases, a ‘you’re very welcome’ or ‘it was my pleasure.’
Ilya doesn’t know what kind of guy he is. He thinks he uses all of them. And also a good ‘de nada’ that he learned from watching Dora the Explorer with Amber Pike. That one’s fun because it keeps people on their toes. No one expects Spanish from a Russian. Not in Canada, anyway.
“Tea?” David asks, lifting up a camping thermos he brought out with him, two metal cups attached to the handle by a carabiner.
Even in the dwindling light, Ilya can tell this is not Shane’s thermos. Which means it’s something David brought with them from his own cottage ten minutes down the road. Or maybe it’s something that lives in his car. He, like Shane, is the type to always be prepared.
“Please.” Ilya knows it will be a good tea. He and David drink theirs the same way, with milk and sugar.
The little metal mug steams in the cool night air. The tea is warm and sweet and perfect. Ilya sips at it as he watches the sky turn from pink to purple. There’s no sounds except for the sounds of nature around them, the gentle lapping of the lake against the rocks, the chirp of the crickets and the frogs, and the infrequent call of the loon.
David and Ilya sit together in silence, drinking their tea. Every so often they will hear raised voices coming from inside – just Shane and Yuna getting excited about whatever youtube clip they’re watching now. Sometimes, little Anya will snore at Ilya’s feet.
It’s peaceful.
Peaceful in a way Ilya has never known before coming here. In a way he never would have believed could be enjoyable before trying it for himself.
Growing up, Ilya’s idea of fun was noisy. It was blaring music. Roaring motors. Screaming hockey fans. Talking and laughing and shouting with friends. Music and dancing and movement and sex.
It was not blankets and tea and sitting quietly in nature with your father-in-law.
Ilya hadn’t known that fathers could be quiet.
His own father never was. Not that he was particularly verbose, either. But no matter what he did, he did it loudly. He moved loudly. Talked loudly. Thought loudly. And everyone else was expected to be silent and out of the way.
David Hollander is in every way Grigori Rozanov’s antithesis.
Only a man like David could make a beautiful and sweet son like Shane. Ilya is thankful to him every day.
When David wants to speak, he breaks the silence with a soft coughing noise, like he’s clearing his throat. It’s a funny habit of his. Like he needs to pre-announce his intention to speak. Shane does the same thing, and Ilya adores it. Loves having the three second headstart on paying attention.
“Shane mentioned you’ve been getting into Canadian music lately?” he says, in that way people do sometimes where it’s not clear if it’s a statement or a question.
“Yes. It is all very sad.” He’s still listening to a lot of the east coast sea shanties and the like. The folk music that often finds a way to be both cheery and depressing at the same time. Though Harris has promised to get Ilya into ‘some of the Canadian ladies’ who will ‘put him in a better mood.’ Of course, he then started with a lesbian version of Hallelujah that made Ilya weep, so it doesn’t actually give Ilya much hope.
“It is sad. It is.” David pulls out his phone and taps on it. The screen is almost shockingly bright in the growing darkness, the sun almost completely set now. “And I’ve got another sad one for you, if you haven’t heard it yet?”
Ilya sits up a little straighter, leaning to see David’s phone. “What song?”
“The Wreck of the Edmund Fitsgerald. It’s by Gordon Lightfoot.”
“Mmm. There are many songs about shipwrecks, but I think maybe I have not heard this one.”
“It’s a really famous one. But Shane said you’ve mostly been listening to the Atlantic stuff, and Gordon’s an Ontarian, so I thought it might not have come up. It’s a bit of a long one, but it’s really good.” David slows his speech as he scrolls on his phone, looking for the song. “My father and I used to listen to it when it first came out. I remember we had the LP and we used to sit in the basement together and listen to the song over and over.”
It never ceases to amaze Ilya: how good fathers can beget good fathers. It gives him hope, for his and Shane’s futures, that they might be able to continue David’s legacy and burn Grigori’s toxic legacy to the ground.
“I would love to hear it.”
The song that David plays is haunting. A lone man’s voice, some guitar and drums. It’s slow, and each lyric stands on its own to tell the story. There’s no chorus or repetition to break it up, either. Instead, there’s a slow build of the mood and the events that led to the wreck.
Listening to this song as the darkness deepens around them, and the fireflies spark around the shore of the lake and along the grass of the back yard, is surreal in a perfect kind of way that is hard to describe. The mood of the song so perfectly matches the feel of the night.
It feels right to share this with David. To sit quietly, in the dark, with a father, his new father, and just listen to the words and let them wash over him.
There’s so much respect in this song. Respect for the lake. For the storms of November and for the waves. Respect for the men who were lost. Respect for the loved ones left behind.
Respect was not something Ilya’s own father understood. It was something he demanded, sure – his own twisted and demented version of respect. But he never understood it. Not in this way.
Not like David does. Not like Ilya wants to.
Like he’s still learning to.
The final notes fade out into the night. Haunting as ever as they drift away.
David turns his phone back on and stops his music app before it turns to the next song, and they just sit there together for a moment, with only the light from David’s phone shining between them. It takes a while for Ilya to gather his thoughts up, the ones about the song, the ones about his father, the ones about David and himself.
Finally, he says, “Thank you, David.”
“Did you like it?”
“It was very good,” Ilya says earnestly. “Maybe my new favourite. It’s different from other songs – no chorus.”
“Yes, he really lets the story speak for itself.”
“Brave.”
That makes David chuckle. “I guess he was. Not just anyone can make a song like this.”
They stay out a while longer, talking about the song. David pulls up Wikipedia and starts looking up the history of the song, and the real shipwreck that inspired it, and they learn all they can. But, eventually, it is time to head in.
David and Ilya walk together back up to the house, Anya leading the way. As they walk, David reaches out and drapes his arm across Ilya’s shoulders, giving him a little squeeze. And Ilya feels, not for the first time and not for the last, just how accepted he is now. Part of the family. Sharing a tradition passed down from David’s father.
If Ilya’s eyes are a little wet by the time he joins Shane in their bedroom, well, that’s between himself and Shane.
+ 1: Ya Soshla S Uma (All The Things She Said – Russian)
“Oh, hey! Ilya!” Harris’s voice calls out of the open door of his office, stopping Ilya and Shane in the hallway. They backtrack to Harris’s door, and Harris sort of half-jogs out to meet them, holding a phone and a camera. “I had another idea for a song I wanted to show you, if you have a minute?”
Despite his promotion to Senior Director of Communications, Harris still likes to find time to shoot some of his own social media videos. He says it’s to keep from getting too stressed and overworked in this more hands-off and responsibility-filled role, but Ilya thinks it’s more because he wants to stay friendly with the players.
“Aww, you miss me, Harris?” Ilya teases, and he’s rewarded with twin eye rolls from Harris and Shane.
“Sure, Rozanov,” Harris says sweetly, “whatever makes you feel best about yourself.” He gives Ilya a condescending little head tap that makes Shane snort-laugh.
Ilya folds his arms together and pouts. “Treatment like this, maybe I don’t want to hear your music anymore. There are plenty of people who love me and want me around.”
“Sorry, babe,” Shane says, barely holding his laughter back, “my parents are actually out of town this week, remember?”
Ilya glares at his husband, biting his tongue just a little to keep from smiling. Shane is so cute when he’s being a brat. He’s all big smiles and laughing with Harris. The two of them are patently adorable.
“Fine, what is your song, Harris? If I am so unlovable, I might as well listen to your weird Canadian music.”
They’ve made a bit of a series out of it this season. Not as formal as the Riding with Roz series, but they’ve done a handful of short videos of Harris introducing Ilya to new Canadian music. He got the idea from some of Ilya’s stories: notably, the Don’t You Put It In Your Mouth and Paddy Murphy incidents. Though Harris doesn’t keep it to sea shanties and folk music. He likes to broaden Ilya’s horizons, making him listen to lots of different songs. He especially loves showing Ilya queer icons.
Yes, there has been a lot of Celine and Tegan and Sara, and Ilya likes them both, thank you very much.
“Actually, Roz, I thought we’d go Russian this time.” Harris is barely containing his excitement now, bouncing back and forth on his feet and looking at Shane and Ilya.
“You want to show a Russian Russian music?”
Harris nods really big. “Yup! I was listening to an absolutely iconic banger the other day and I saw the vision of this video. I’d actually love to show it to the both of you, if you don’t mind. And based on how you react to it, I might show you another one, too.”
“You want me?” Shane confirms, brow furrowing that cute way he does, and it makes Ilya want to bite his forehead right off.
“Please. It won’t take long, I promise.” Harris holds up his phone and makes an overexaggerated pleading face while Ilya and Shane have a silent conversation with their eyes.
They were on their way out of the building.
We could just go, Ilya says with a tilt of his eyebrow.
But Harris really wants to do this, Shane responds with a flick of his eyes and slight nod of his head.
But I was going to make chicken, Ilya argues with a twitch of his lips.
The chicken will still be there when we get home. Come on, your friend wants our help, Shane responds with a full eye roll and a puckering of his lips.
Harris is making the most aggressive puppy eyes at Ilya when Ilya finally relents. “Okay, Harris. Show us your song.”
“Awesome!”
There’s a few moments of staging. Harris pushes Shane and Ilya down the hall a little bit so they’re standing under the fluorescent light. And he futzes around with Ilya’s curls and tucks Shane’s long hair back, dusting off some lint from Ilya’s shoulder before he deems them ready.
“Okay.” The red light blinks to show the camera is on. “All right, Centaurs fans, we’ve got another song for Ilya. But this time, instead of a Canadian classic, I thought we’d see how this blast from the past from Russia hits.”
Harris taps on his phone and music starts playing.
It starts with the sound of rain, actually, which is a bit weird. Though, it tickles something in the back of Ilya’s mind. Like a warning alarm that’s too far away to be actually heard. Or like the sound of a distant police siren when you’re driving, and you’re not sure if it’s real or just part of a song. Ilya plays up his scrunched, confused face as he listens, because he knows that makes for a good video. (That’s why Harris loves him the most – because he’s willing to play up for the camera).
The first notes start coming in, with a shaky, pulsating kind of a beat that only makes the alarm bells ring louder.
Ilya’s face starts to drop, his heart starts to pound as something deep within him starts to recognize the song before his conscious brain can figure it out. He darts a look over to Shane and finds his husband with his own scrunched confusion written all over his face. (That’s why Shane is Harris’s second-favourite – because his face is so expressive he doesn’t need to play up for the camera).
The drums come in and a second later the singing starts and oh no! Ilya knows this song and this is not good!
Abort!
Abort!
Ilya doesn’t trust himself to throw another glance in Shane’s direction, because his whole body is stiff and vibrating with nervous energy – a latent impulse for fight for flight absolutely wrecking its way through his nervous system. He can feel Shane’s stiffness beside him (and not in a fun way) and he knows Shane recognizes the song too. Russian lyrics be damned. That beat has re-wired Ilya’s brain, and surely, it’s re-wired Shane’s too.
A few more seconds of the song and Ilya is right back at that night. In that club. 2017. Early, early in the year. Montreal.
He is standing in the flashing lights of Ultraviolet with a nameless girl pressed up against him, eyes locked on Shane.
Shane’s eyes locked on him.
Ilya can hardly breathe as he relives the heartbreak of that night. The agony of seeing the very person you least want to see – the very person you want most to see – and you can’t have them. Can’t even speak to them. Acknowledge them.
All you can do is act indifferent.
Lash out and try to hurt him like he hurt you. Suck on this girl’s ear and pretend you don’t want it to be his.
Glare at him across the club, while time stands still around you, and wish, wish, wish you could tuck yourself into his strong arms and let him kiss the pain away.
“Whoa!”
The music cuts out.
“Are you two okay?” Harris asks, dropping the camera away from them. “You both totally blue-screened. What the fuck?”
It takes a few blinks for Ilya to even properly see Harris, standing in front of him, looking incredibly concerned.
“I-I…” Ilya starts, his voice shaky. But he doesn’t get any farther into a sentence.
Shane’s hand slips into Ilya’s, warm and solid and rough with callouses, and Ilya takes a full breath. It feels good in his lungs.
The touch makes him brave enough to turn to Shane, whose eyes are wet, but his cheeks are dry. Shane makes a small, caring noise, the kind you make when you see a hurt child or a sad animal, and he strokes a thumb across Ilya’s cheeks.
Is he just caressing, or is he wiping tears?
Ilya doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to know. He just nuzzles into the touch and takes another breath.
“Maybe we don’t do that song. Yeah, Harris?” Shane asks, eyes not leaving Ilya’s for a moment.
And there’s something about the way Shane has locked on to Ilya right now. The focus and intensity in his gaze. The unflinching, unblinking power of it.
He gives Ilya’s hand a squeeze. Rubs his thumb over Ilya’s cheek again.
“Yeah, no. For sure. Definitely. We don’t need to do that song. Do you… do you guys need anything? Can I do something?”
Ilya isn’t really listening to Harris’s fumbling. He’s falling into Shane’s eyes. Drifting deeper into their safe darkness.
“We’ll see you tomorrow, Harris.”
“Right. Yes. See you.” Harris takes the dismissal and disappears.
Ilya doesn’t say goodbye. Doesn’t watch Harris leave. But he feels the absence of eyes on them. Feels Shane relax and breathe a little easier. It helps Ilya relax, too.
Shane doesn’t push Ilya, but somehow he maneuvers Ilya back against the wall with just that one hand on Ilya’s cheek and the other holding Ilya’s. Ilya blinks when the cinderblock wall hits his shoulder blades, then his spine. Shane keeps moving. Stepping right into Ilya’s space. Lining them up. Thighs. Bellies. Chests.
They never break eye contact.
And Ilya knows what this is.
He can read Shane so well, and he is reading the love in Shane’s eyes like it’s painted in big block letters in the back of his irises. The seriousness. The intensity. The unwavering love Shane has to Ilya.
Ilya soaks it all up.
He gives it all back to Shane.
Together, they re-write the moment.
That eye contact from across the room – the endless and uncrossable void between them – the torment and loneliness.
They cross that distance. Move in close. Replace that small, personal tragedy with love and caring and devotion.
Ilya is so devoted.
Hopelessly devoted.
(Which is another song. Ha! Though, Ilya does not think it’s Canadian or Russian, but it’s a good movie and a good song.)
Slowly, purposefully, Shane leans in, eyes locked on Ilya’s like a predator, to brush his lips against Ilya’s. The kiss is whisper soft. Barely there. But powerful. It makes Ilya’s knees go funny. Makes his stomach turn with anticipation. Makes his heart pound. All the good things, and more.
They kiss again. Firmer. Like Shane is trying to imprint his feelings on Ilya’s lips. And Ilya does the same.
If he could tattoo his love on the inside of Shane’s lips, so that he tastes them every moment of every day, Ilya would.
Next thing Ilya knows, they’re making out in the hallway. Tongues shoved down each other’s throats. Hands pulling and gripping and stroking. Bodies tight together.
“Whoa! Uh…” the interruption comes from down the hall, where Troy is standing, frozen in place. Ilya glares at him. “I was just coming to see my husband?” Troy says, pointing to Harris’s office door just behind them.
Shane already has two fists in Ilya’s shirt and is tugging him down the hall, away from Troy.
“We were just going,” Shane calls down to Troy, walking backwards and pulling Ilya along.
Ilya leans backwards, giving just enough resistance to really enjoy the feeling of Shane manhandling him down the hallway.
“Goodnight, Barrett,” Ilya calls, grinning, over his shoulder.
They make it as far as the tape review room. Shane pushes Ilya into the dark room and locks the door behind them.
By the time they start heading home, it’s too late for Ilya to make his chicken, and so they pick up poke bowls on the way.