Chapter Text
There was a scratch on the wall. Faded grey in a ragged streak across bland hospital off-white, right where the door or a chair would have banged back into it. Maybe just once, maybe repeatedly.
Ilya had been staring at it, more and more aware of his fixation as the pain medicine wore off. First, it was something to focus on in the post-operation haze of anesthesia leaving his system. An easy target. Something to latch his eyes onto as boredom crept in. Then, as clarity began to sink back, it was a way to drown out the layers of sound — voices in the hallways, nurses’ shoes squeaking on the floor, beeping and rolling and blinds rattling; the remembered, softly-echoed pop just at the back of his head, behind his ear.
He still hadn’t been able to parse the seconds.
He’d been trying.
It had been afternoon practice, a simple pas de deux. Nothing more strenuous than anything Ilya had done in a day’s work since he reached his tenth birthday. It had been more likely that Svetlana would have accidentally kicked him in the groin throughout her rapid-fire fouettés as the eponymous goddess than for Ilya to end up with a labral tear.
Fucking stag leaps, he thought bitterly, still scowling at the grey scuff mark.
He’d been having fun, showing off. Trading familiar barbs with Svetlana as he moved through the turns and leaps of his solo portion. Looking forward to the showcase that would feature this ten minute revision on an ancient myth — to say nothing of Pugni’s music, Svetlana’s precise and artistic extensions, and his own strength.
He’d landed hard on his knee coming down from a double tour en l’air into a genuflect. Then something tense pulsed up the length of his leg. He stood up, expecting to shake it off; to stretch, roll his ankles in a slow circle and touch his toes, and feel himself again. Instead, he heard a pop, his hip buckled, and his shoulder met the practice room floor.
The pain came after. Long enough after, Ilya believed it could have been a fluke. A mistake. A strange flare he could box away like a pulled muscle or a blister.
He had argued. No, he wasn’t dizzy. Yes, he could keep his balance. No, there wasn’t anything wrong — but Svetlana didn’t hear him. She insisted he hit his head when he dropped the second time. He hadn’t, though he was certain she had said so on purpose. Once the company’s trainer had heard that, every argument was a losing one. There was no arguing.
Ilya had been packed up into the backseat of her car to go to Montreal General, protesting the whole ride from GBC’s practice studios. All the while, the tension and tightness and pain ratcheted up, and up, and up, until tears threatened to leak down his face as they sat in the waiting area. By the time the litany of scans, questions, and x-rays were complete, being told he needed surgery was a relief.
“Do you have any questions, Mr. Rozanov?”
Ilya blinked. His surgeon was inspecting him from the end of the bed, navy scrubs and white coat distracting. “Erm. No.”
It was a lie, and a pretty bald-faced one at that. He had hardly heard what the man had said to him. What little he had heard was drowned out by the churning thoughts in his head, the sluggishness of his brain as it crawled to comprehend so much English through the lingering daze of anesthesia and pain medication.
No concussion, he thought dully. Near complete tear.
Ilya let out a slow breath. The back of his throat itched. He wanted a cigarette, or at least the calm of sucking something in and blowing it back out again. His eyes flickered to the bags of pain medication hanging on a metal stand; their tubes trailing down towards needles stuck into his arm, the back of his hand. He had half a mind to mess with the dosage, just to feel his mind blip out of focus for a minute.
Svetlana would have smacked him for not listening. If she had been sitting in with him, she would have heard every word and held him to it. She might have fussed over him, however, and Ilya had too bitter a taste in his mouth to let her. He quietly wished she was in the room. He could have asked for her, he supposed. He didn’t.
The nurses had ushered her out before taking him back for surgery. She wasn’t family, they explained, and Ilya didn’t list an emergency contact on his forms. Sveta was the only one who could have been.
“Alright. Well.” The surgeon rubbed his hands together, thinking. Or, perhaps, recalibrating; as if he had expected more questions, more concerns, perhaps even an argument.
Ilya didn’t have any. He didn’t have the energy for it. The faster this moved, the faster he could go home and sulk.
“I’d like to have one of our on-call physical therapists come in,” the surgeon continued. “Give you an idea of what your recovery will look like. Up for it?”
“Yes.” Ilya forced a thin, flat smile.
“Alright. I’ll finish my rounds and come back with him.”
He nodded, feeling more drowsy by the second. “Take your time.”
Ilya’s eyes slid back to the grey mark on the wall. A small, dark spot part of himself hoped rounds took a very long time.
Three to six months.
Ilya stared at the physical therapist in front of him. The surgeon had brought him in. Discussing treatments, therapies, timelines for when he’d be back in the studio, back in masterclasses, back performing—.
Three to six months.
The entire summer season.
Ilya’s teeth clenched, but his face stayed still. He hoped it was unreadable. “Are you sure?”
His voice betrayed him — more strained than he ever intended. He didn’t, however, pull a face at the realization that he was giving himself away. That he’d just handed over an easy excuse for both those men to pity him; something he couldn’t stand. So he swallowed it back and held it down with all he had.
He didn’t make a face when the surgeon confirmed it for the third time.
“Quite sure, Mr. Rozanov.”
His face didn’t so much as twitch as the physical therapist chimed in.
“As painful and startling as it is, this injury is fairly common for athletes like you.” The man’s voice was bright, crisp, professional, encouraging. “Three to six months is the average range, and you being young will certainly help your recovery. But the goal isn’t to be fast. The goal is to do it properly, and limit the possibility of this happening again.”
Ilya nodded once, sharply. He appreciated being called an athlete. Dancers didn’t typically get categorized as athletes, and certainly not ballet danseurs. The West had odd ideas about masculinity; rules for it, so many he didn’t bother to keep track. Ilya had always thought differently, if only to spite the hissing voice low in his ear, lurking in his head.
The therapist smiled, professionally polite. His dark eyes were focused, serious. His expression was friendly, kind. The smattering of freckles on his nose made him look even more impossibly earnest in his blue quarter zip pullover. “The next two weeks should be low-impact only. Rest as much as possible, stretch a bit, use your crutches. Considering what you do, you’ll need a physical therapist afterwards, but we can get you moving a bit today before you’re discharged. And I can give you a few recommendations, if you’d like.”
Impossibly Canadian. Ilya bit the top of his tongue inside his mouth, stemming the freshest wave of frustration in his chest. “Okay.”
The man’s expression faltered but he recovered nimbly. “The less intensive you can be on the joint the better. Walking is fine, and encouraged to keep your range of motion, but within limits. Certainly not full out exercise, alright. Nothing that would reinflame the—.”
“My friend. In the lobby,” Ilya interrupted, head buzzing. He was certain Svetlana hadn’t left. Maybe to change her clothes while he was under the knife, but it had been long enough. She would be back. “Can I speak with her?”
A wrinkle formed in between the physical therapist’s brows. Ilya felt a surge of victory, immediately tempered by a twinge of guilt. Discomfort was unbecoming on the other man. His freckles didn’t show so much when his nose was wrinkled up.
“Of course,” the surgeon picked up. “The woman who was with you when you arrived?”
Ilya nodded “Yes. Svetlana Vetrova.”
“I’ll see about that. Shane here will talk to you more about what’s coming.”
“Thank you,” Ilya muttered as a reflex.
The surgeon left. The door clicking into place behind him plunged the room into sterile silence. A gurney rolled outside. Nurses laughed in the room next door. The physical therapist stayed in his chair near the bed, fidgeting with his hands. He looked like he was waiting for a teacher to come yell at him.
Ilya rolled his shoulders against the bed, gaze staying leveled on the physical therapist — Shane, the surgeon had said. Ilya didn’t remember hearing a name, but he was sure that this Shane was too polite to not introduce himself. Everyone who had darkened the doorway had introduced themselves from the moment he arrived there, whether or not Ilya could be bothered to remember them at all.
Ilya’s gaze flickered to the embroidery on the quarter zip.
Montreal Physio. S. Hollander in smooth white script on dark blue.
S Hollander, Shane Hollander, he guessed. It rang a dull bell. His dark hair was neat, fanned across his forehead in a boyish swoop. His smile had faded to a more serious line. The tip of his tongue poked out to swipe at his lower lip, all while avoiding Ilya’s stare.
He settled back against the hospital pillows. Inhaling, he found the grey smudge on the wall again. He couldn’t wait to be home, discharged, moping around his kitchen to the tune of random television once more.
“I’m sorry.”
Ilya’s gaze shifted back to Hollander. All earnestness, and unclouded dark eyes, and patient nice expression. Most confusing of all, he looked sorry; truly, genuinely apologetic.
“Why?” Ilya arched a brow. “What is there to be sorry?”
Hollander shifted, the chair squeaking under him. “Your accent. English is your second language?”
Ilya nodded.
Hollander lifted a hand, scratching at the back of his neck. “I should have noticed sooner. I’m sorry if anything I’ve said has been confusing.”
“You have not said much.”
“Still—.”
“I speak English, Hollander,” Ilya cut him off. “Not perfect, but good enough.” He crossed his arms. “I understand you. I am tired.”
Hollander nodded. “Noted.” He seemed to be biting his cheek, lost in thought. “Is she your girlfriend?”
“Sveta?” Ilya inhaled, then shook his head. “No. She is a friend. My dance partner. You know?”
“Does she live with you?” Hollander asked.
“No.” Ilya pursed his lips. “Why? Is not important—.”
“It is important.” Hollander sighed. “Getting around will be difficult for the next few weeks. They’re going to send you home with crutches, but having someone who can reliably help you—.”
“I will be fine,” Ilya interrupted, dismissive.
“You have someone who can help you out?” Hollander looked skeptical, a little pink in the cheeks.
“I will be fine,” Ilya repeated. “I am always fine.”
Hollander pursed his lips, looking ready to argue. Ilya was spared a lecture by the door opening again, Svetlana striding through to wrap him in a strong hug. Her bag narrowly missed clocking Shane Hollander in the face. Ilya just barely suppressed a smirk, Svetlana’s hair disguising most of it.
He’d be fine. He didn’t need someone else. He’d been taking care of himself for years.
May
Ilya stared at the ceiling of his living room. It needed to be repainted.
A lot of things needed to be done, frankly. Many of the issues had existed before he had moved in. He hadn’t been bothered to do them himself, let alone have someone do them for him. He had a lot of things in front of him just like that.
The television on the wall played… something. He wasn’t altogether sure what. He’d lost track of the changing programs since that morning, when he sprawled out on the couch and turned it on. Now he was on the floor, on his back, staring at the ceiling. His empty coffee mug sat on the low table, as it had for hours. The one from the day before, and the day before that, joined it. He just hadn’t had it in him to care.
His phone pulsed in the pocket of his sweatpants.
He studiously ignored it.
Svetlana had called him to gripe about his replacement as Acteon – the company wasn’t willing to take a chance on his recovering in time for the showcase in two months’ time – before going into the studio. Ilya wasn’t willing to take the chance on it being her calling again, ready with more complaints after rehearsal. He didn’t want to listen to her talk about the studio, the company, the theater at all. He missed it too much.
He tipped his head, curls dragging on the pile of the rug. It was some sort of house show, he guessed. The sound was muted, but the screen showed wide clean windows and a sparkling lake beyond them. Ilya exhaled and turned back to the ceiling. A much less inspiring view.
He sat up, stretching his arms above his head. Spring rain battered the window glass, drops running in rivulets down the surface. He rolled his neck, head buzzing and empty. His hip was tight as he shifted upright. It had woken him up a few times in the night with twinging, stinging pain.
He blamed the storm for the tightness. He took an Advil for the pain. When Svetlana eventually swanned through the door with kvass and ukha from a particular restaurant, demanding to know how he was, Ilya would be balancing on his crutches, smiling easily. As though he hadn’t spent the last two weeks in bed, on the sofa, in denial he was well versed in denying existed.
His phone started buzzing again. It gave him pause. It also sparked a twinge of annoyance in him. He shoved a hand into his pocket, pulling out the device and glaring hard at the screen.
An unknown number blinked back at him.
Ilya sent it to voicemail, seeing the same number had already called him twice. He pushed it onto the coffee table, rolling his eyes. If they were so determined, they could call a fourth time.
The moment the thought passed through his head, the screen lit up again. Same number. Same pulsing vibrations, now louder for the wood underneath it.
Ilya snatched it back, answering. “Kto eto? Chto ty khochesh?”
A soft inhale sounded from the other end of the line. Whoever it was was hesitating, scared maybe. “Sorry. Ilya Rozanov?”
Ilya cleared his throat. “Yes.”
“Oh.” A small inhale. “Oh, erm, this is Shane Hollander. I met you after your surgery.”
The physical therapist, his brain supplied. “Yes.”
“Dr. Wiebe, your surgeon, reached out to me.” There was a pause on the line. “He said that, at your appointment this week, you mentioned not having a physical therapist.”
The appointment had been a few days before, a surgical follow up. Svetlana had scheduled it for him while he was still out of it and had been the one to bully him into acceptable street clothes, then her car, and finally the waiting room again. Wiebe had been pleased with the healing so far, but had frowned at Ilya’s answer. A disappointed, pinched, reserved sort of unhappy that Ilya had grown accustomed to ignoring. He had come up through the ranks on orders and demands, not suggestions and opinions.
“No. I do not.”
On the other end of the line, Hollander hesitated. Ilya could hear his measured breathing, imagining the crease between his brows forming and the brush of freckles wrinkling as he thought. “Can I ask why not?”
Ilya pursed his lips.
The truth was he didn’t want to think about exercises and stretches that weren’t at a barre. The truth was the cards Hollander had given him still sat in a pile on his bedside table, untouched since Svetlana put them there. The truth was Ilya knew he should have called one of those therapists, but he let it slip further and further away from him.
The truth, however, had never been Ilya’s strong suit. He preferred to needle, to taunt, to push every button under his hands.
For Hollander, he chose the latter. “I do not need one.”
There was an indignant sputtering on the other end of the line. Ilya didn’t try to quell the smirk that curled his mouth. He let it form and solidify in the privacy of his apartment, on display for no one.
Hollander — obviously — had different thoughts. “You don’t need one? Are you serious— seriously? You’re an athlete, Rozanov. You won’t be able to dance if you don’t properly recover, you must know that.”
Ilya’s grin pulled wider and he snickered into the receiver.
Hollander’s lecture broke off. “Did you just laugh?”
Ilya quieted himself, but the grin didn’t dampen. “No.”
“Yes, you did. I heard it, you—.” Hollander broke off, muttering in another language. French, Ilya guessed, but not clear enough to make out. The only French Ilya understood was what the master instructors at GBM called in the studio. “You’re messing with me.”
“No,” Ilya answered.
“Jesus Christ, you are.”
“Ilya, please. And no. I am not.” He paused. “I do not have a therapist.”
“Because you don’t need one?” Hollander echoed back. There was more levity in his voice now; a sarcastic kind of mirth. It suited him.
“That is right. Is no problem. I do stretches all the time.”
“Uh huh, sure.”
“I am sure. Very sure. One hundred percent.” Ilya paused to watch rain trickle down the windows. His grin dampened with it, turning just back towards the serious. “Hollander. Did you call because the surgeon asked you?”
“You can call me Shane, you know.”
“No. I did not know, Hollander.”
“Then I’ll call you Rozanov and it’ll be even.” Hollander coughed lightly, his voice turning back toward professional. Ilya wished it wouldn’t; teasing him had been too easy. “To answer your question, yes. I did call you because he asked. He told me to reach out and see if you need help with a referral for care.”
Ilya clicked his tongue as he rolled back down onto the floor with a huff. “No, no. I do not need referral.”
“But you haven’t called anyone.”
“No.”
“Then—.” Hollander cut off, still confused. “I could help fix that. Why not?”
Ilya shut his mouth at the question. Like everything before, there was truth at the center of it. One he’d rather not give air. So he let Shane Hollander fill in the gaps for him.
“Rozanov, why don’t you need a referral?” Hollander repeated. “Do you have someone in mind, are—?”
“You.” Ilya heard himself after the word had left his mouth. An impulse. A knee-jerk. He stared at the ceiling, feeling his face grow hot. He was glad there was no one else to see.
“What about me?” Hollander asked.
Ilya took a breath. No back-tracking. “I do not need a referral, Hollander, because I was going to call you.”
“You were going to call me?” Hollander didn’t sound like he believed it either.
“Yes,” Ilya lied lightly.
“Uh-huh.” Hollander exhaled. “Why didn’t you sooner?”
“Because.” Ilya scrambled for words. “Is very boring, not having work. I forget the day. Lose time, yes?”
“Sure.” Hollander went quiet.
Ilya did his best to wait it out. Curiosity got the better of him. He had told the truth — it was very boring all alone in his apartment, without the routine of work and rehearsals. Without being able to drive his car even. He was bored, and Shane Hollander was something new. Novel. Something to prod and inspect, if only to keep his head for a few minutes longer.
“Sure,” Ilya repeated. “What do you mean, sure, Hollander?”
Hollander hummed. “If you want me to be your physical therapist, Rozanov, I’ve got no problem with that. I’ve got openings and I’d be happy to take you on.”
“Ah. Yes. You are very in demand, yes?”
“Fuck off.” Ilya could hear the amusement. “I’m good at what I do, thanks.”
“Then what is problem?” Ilya asked. “Why did you not say yes?”
“Well.” Hollander made another noise. Funny, off-kilter; Ilya might have called it a laugh if he could imagine the man’s face as anything other than serious or exasperated. “I can’t agree to the job if you don’t ask me. Can I?”
Flat on his back, on his carpet, Ilya Rozanov rolled his eyes. His ceiling needed to be repainted. His apartment needed vacuuming, and the dishwasher needed to run. He had an odd, pinching feeling that Hollander was going to put him through his paces. But, at least, he would have a physical therapist.
“Hollander.”
“Rozanov.”
“Will you be my therapist?”
“I’d be glad to. How are Mondays and Wednesdays?”
“Rozanov. Ease up.” Hollander’s hands were around his leg a second later, stopping him. “I mean it.”
Ilya glared up at him and resisted. “You told me to press–.”
“I did, but you’re doing it wrong.” Hollander set his leg down flat on the yoga mat. He knelt to the side, fists pressed into the tops of his legs. His mouth was pinched, lips pursed in frustration.
“You told me how to do it, so how am I doing wrong?” Ilya snapped. He’d long since passed frustration and was deep into anger.
Hollander always had an answer. “You’re pushing through your knee, not your hip. Your hip is what needs exercising, not–.”
“So it is wrong?”
“Yes. No. Not strictly speaking, but for what we’re doing–.”
“If it is wrong, it is wrong,” Ilya snarled. “Say so. Not this stupid da nyet navera.”
“Alright, then it’s wrong!” Hollander burst. “You’re doing it wrong, you’re not listening, and you could hurt yourself more if you don’t quit it!”
“Then explain the right way first time!”
“I did!”
“Then why am I wrong?” Ilya held back the urge to shove the man. Knock him over, push him down again and again if he was so determined to get back up. “If you are such good teacher then I should not be doing it wrong.”
“You’re not listening to me!”
“You do not know what you are talking about,” Ilya hissed. “You do not understand. At all.”
Hollander’s jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth down hard. Ilya had gotten under his skin. But he was too nice, too polite. He was standing at the line and Ilya was pushing him, shoving him, daring him to cross it. To shout. To snap. To hit back.
“Terpét ne mogú,” Ilya muttered viciously.
I can’t stand this.
Hollander’s glare scraped across his skin. “Wanna say that again?”
“U menyá net bol’she sil,” Ilya hissed, pushing himself up onto his palms.
I have no more strength.
They were nearly nose to nose, snarling. Ilya wanted nothing more than to see Shane Hollander bite. “Ya tebya terpet ne mogu, Hollander.”
I can’t stand you.
Red bloomed in Hollander’s cheeks, hot and angry. The man prickled, hackles raised like a cornered animal. “Fine.”
In a blink, the man was up on his feet and stalking away. He flung the door to his office open, stepped outside, and shut it back with a decisive click.
Ilya glared after him, not particularly upset to see him go. Breathing hard, he dropped down onto his back. The impact wasn’t enough. He balled his fists and smacked them down onto the floor, pain pulsing through the meat of his palm, up his wrist’s smallest bones, and curling into his elbow. He squeezed his hands tighter, nails cutting into the skin in half moons, as a growl built in his throat. He clamped his eyes shut, covering his face with the crook of his elbow, and trying his best to steady his breath.
Wrong.
That was Shane Hollander’s favorite word, after no.
Wrong.
The whole session. Every set. Every stretch. Every movement.
Wrong, wrong, wrong–.
“I’m sorry.”
Ilya hadn’t heard the door open. He didn’t move his arm. He didn’t flinch when Hollander’s shoes came closer, when the man sat back down on the floor next to him. He didn’t speak. He pressed his lips together in a thin line and kept breathing slowly, deeply.
“I lost my cool, and I shouldn’t have. It wasn’t fair.” Hollander shifted as the silence wore on. A small vicious part of Ilya loved it; making him uncomfortable, concerned, whatever it is someone like Shane Hollander let bother him. “Rozanov?”
Ilya dragged his arm away from his face, blinking his eyes open. “What, Hollander?”
“I’m sorry,” Hollander repeated. His expression was heavy with remorse. “That was unprofessional of me. You deserve better than me getting after you. You’re allowed to get frustrated, not me.”
“Iisus Khristos, Hollander,” Ilya exhaled. He rolled his eyes when the other man fixed him with a curious look. “You are not a saint.”
Hollander’s mouth pinched again. “No. I guess not.”
“And, perhaps, I poke you on purpose.” Ilya glanced at him. “Bad mood is better when someone has it with you, yes?”
Hollander’s mouth un-pinched. “Misery loves company?”
“Yes.” Ilya nodded. “I am sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Hollander looked down, fidgeting with the cuffs of his long sleeved shirt. Montreal Physio was emblazoned across the back. Ilya wondered if he owned any shirts that weren’t blue and for work. “Can we start over?”
Ilya arched a brow. “I do not think we had time left for that.”
Hollander chuckled. “Not the session. Just.” He ran a hand through his dark hair, guilt beginning to leak out of his expression. “How we talk to each other. We could be a good team if we just quit needling each other.”
Ilya nodded. He let the silence linger for a few moments longer. Empty spaces in conversations did not bother him as much as it did others. Americans, Canadians, even the few Brits he had been around preferred words to keep flowing. They did not like too much air. Sometimes, just to keep up, Ilya needed it.
“It is hard,” he started again. “I have not been injured often. Never so bad.” He propped himself up on an elbow. Hollander held out a hand to help pull him upright, but Ilya shook his head. He was comfortable, for now. “I only have the words that come to me. They do not always say the right thing for me.”
Hollander nodded slowly. “It’d be easier if I spoke Russian, wouldn’t it?”
Ilya smirked. “Probably.”
“You do ballet right?” Hollander asked. He waited for Ilya’s nod. “How much French do you know?”
“Not enough,” Ilya admitted. “If it is not a dance move or coffee order, it is j’ne se pas.”
Hollander tipped his head back and laughed. Not at Ilya. With him. “Alright, well, there goes that idea. You’ll just have to yell at me in Russian, then. Get the frustration out.”
Ilya smiled faintly. “You would let me?”
“If it’ll help you push through the exercises, yeah.” Hollander shrugged. “Who would it hurt? Especially if I don’t have a clue what you’re saying to me.”
“True, true.” Ilya chuckled. “Could call you a little rabbit or a fish and you would not know.”
Or lyubmy, solntse, rodnoy…
Ilya pushed the errant thoughts away. If Hollander noticed, it didn’t show in the expression he wore – a small, kind smile and dark eyes no longer creased at the edges.
“Do your worst, Rozanov,” he said brightly. “Can’t be worse than anything I’ve already heard.”
Hollander held out his hand and, this time, Ilya took it. He levered back up to standing, Hollander’s hands steady on his waist and back. The motion felt easier now. Frustration still simmered in his limbs, but lower now. No longer aimed at the man helping him keep his balance. Banked back like a campfire.
“Alright,” Hollander said. “Now, I want you to put your foot down. Flat on the mat.”
“Weight on it?”
“Yeah. As much as you can. Just balance, and tell me if it hurts.”
Ilya nodded. He focused on the press of his foot to the yoga mat, on releasing the grip he had on Hollander’s forearms. He closed his eyes, settling into a familiar configuration of his hips, back, and shoulders. Hands light on Hollander’s sleeves as though he were standing at the barre in the studio. As if he could open his eyes and see his own reflection in the mirror behind them.
Without thinking, he pushed up into a small relevé.
Hollander made a noise. “Careful.”
“I will.” Ilya breathed slowly. He lowered his heels back down, then did it again. “Is good. Does not hurt.”
“Good.” Hollander held steady. He was sturdier than he let on; stronger than his quarter-zips and khaki joggers would ever let on. “Can you try a turn out?”
Ilya opened one eye. “Turn out?”
“The foot positions,” Hollander retried. Pink colored his cheeks. “I should brush up on my dance terms.”
“You will learn like that.” Ilya lifted his hand just enough to snap his fingers. It earned him another laugh. “They are not so hard. You will see.” Ilya closed his eyes again, moving into first position. “Like this?”
Hollander hummed. “Yes, that’s the one. Feel alright?”
“So-so.” Ilya released his arm to touch two fingers to the top of his hipbone. “Feels tight. Strained.”
“Strained how?” Hollander asked.
“Is an ache. Feels, erm…” Ilya wracked his brain for a word that would suit. “Old.”
Hollander thought. “Like, it’s hobbling you and you feel older?”
Ilya shook his head. “Old, like I have had it a long time.”
“Ah.” Hollander nodded. “Got it.” He brought his own hand down to where Ilya’s was. “Right there?”
“Yes.”
“How deep?” Ilya stared at him, and he clarified: “Does the ache feel like it’s in your skin, in the muscle, or deeper than that?”
Ilya nodded. He shifted slightly, thinking. “Muscle.”
“Okay.”
“That means something to you?” Ilya asked.
Hollander nodded. “You know how, at a restaurant, they might ask you questions to help pick a bottle or wine or a cocktail? It’s the same sort of thing. I ask a lot of questions to sort out what needs to be done.” He cleared his throat, glancing down between them. “Can you lift your foot to your knee? Like, um, pirouette?”
Ilya did as asked, feeling the muscles and tendons pull more. “Passe,” he said, suppressing a wince. “Pirouette is different. A spin.”
“Good to know.” Hollander inspected him. “How does that feel?”
“Fine.”
“Does it though?” Hollander pressed. “It doesn’t help me if you lie, Rozanov.”
Ilya exhaled. “Pain is pain, Hollander. It is not so different from rolling ankle or stubbing toe.” Hollander wouldn’t budge, and eventually Ilya relented. He let his foot drop to the mat. “Yes. It hurt.”
“Hurt how?” Hollander asked. “Burning, stinging, grabbing, pulling?”
“Twisting, pulling.”
“Okay. Comfortable again?”
“Da, pochemoochka.”
Ilya settled back into first position. He lifted one heel from the ground, then replaced it. He did the same with the other foot. Once more into relevé, and back down. He had half a mind to fully treat Hollander like a standing barre, going through his usual routine of tendu, demi-plié, and chambre back bends. It felt good and familiar, but a far cry from what he had been craving the last few weeks; what he knew he would be craving for several months still.
“What does that mean?” Hollander asked. He was studying Ilya’s small foot movements with curiosity, as though he’d never seen them or never noticed them before.
“Pochemoochka?”
“Yeah. That.”
“It means you ask too many questions,” Ilya said. “Something we say to children, but meant nicely.”
Hollander’s flush still sat, petal pink, among his freckles. “I guess I earned that today.”
“Is okay?” Ilya asked.
“Like I said, Rozanov,” Hollander said, smile turned melancholy. “I’ve been called worse.”
As Svetlana drove him home from Montreal Physio’s offices, Ilya stared out the window with his crutches between his knees and wondered who could call Shane Hollander anything worse than ‘nosy’.
June
Wear your practice gear for our next session.
Svetlana eyed him from the doorway as he shrugged into his usual studio wear. Loose black sweatpants over dance shorts that hugged his legs like a second skin and a moisture wicking tee shirt, his worn leather shoes tucked into a drawstring bag in favor of ankle socks and sambas.
Please? I have an idea.
Ilya sat down on the edge of the bed and stretched. He felt Svetlana’s eyes drag over him, curious and distantly interested. She’d seen him in all states – bundled up against a balmy Montreal winter, pressed into a shawl collar tuxedo for donor functions, lounging like a slob in flannel pajama pants, sweating and groaning in nothing at all. They were comfortable, perhaps too comfortable, but Ilya didn’t mind it. It was a relief, having someone close who held no pretenses, who did not imagine him any other way.
Just fuckin’ humor me, Rozanov. I think you’ll like it.
“Do you need help with the laces?” Svetlana asked, tongue curling easily around slavic syllables.
Ilya shook his head and scratched a hand through his curls. “No need.” He lifted one of the sneakers from the bed and showed her how the laces were already tied. “I’ll just pull it on.”
Svetlana rolled her eyes. “I can help.”
“I know.” Ilya exhaled. “If I need it, Sveta, I’ll ask.”
“I won’t hold my breath.” Svetlana exhaled, leaning against the doorframe. “How is it going, with the physio?”
Ilya bent at the waist, suppressing a wince as he tucked his toes into the shoe. “It’s fine. We understand one another better, so there’s less shouting.”
“There was shouting?” Svetlana’s perfectly shaped brows reached her hairline. “I would not have suspected he could shout.”
“He can, a little bit,” Ilya conceded. “But his heart is not in it. Not like you and me.” He wrangled the first sneaker, then started in on the second. When he finished, he pulled himself upright, massaging into his hips with both hands. “It makes him uncomfortable. He would rather he didn’t.”
“He is too nice?”
“He is a perfectionist.”
“But that’s not a bad thing?”
“No, it’s good. I am too, so it works.” Ilya cast around for his crutches. He pulled them close, then pulled himself upright. “He understands my joking now too.”
Svetlana hummed, playing with a strand of curling hair. “He’s hot.”
Ilya sighed. “Sveta.”
“I know you have eyes, Iliusha.” Svetlana grinned, too feline to be wholly innocent. “And I know what makes you tick.”
He shot her a bored look. “I do not tick, I’m not a clock.”
“You also don’t blush, and yet I see a little bit right here.” She tapped the apple of her cheek with her pointer fingers, still grinning. “I’m sorry, but you can’t have the linen and the basket.”
“For the blushing or the bisexuality?” Ilya adjusted the crutches in his armpits. He’d be glad to get rid of them.
Svetlana shrugged. “Why not both?” The phone in her hands began trilling with a musical alarm, and she glanced once at the screen before shutting it off. “Come on. We don’t want to be late.”
“We won’t be late.” Ilya moved closer to her. “You drive like a demon.”
“But you like sitting in my Porsche anyway.” She grinned, moving to let him pass. She gave him a small squeeze on the arm as he did. “He’s cute. And he will like you in those shorts.”
Ilya rolled his eyes. “He will not see them.”
“What a waste,” she sighed dramatically. “Perhaps you will be wrong, who knows?”
Ilya pushed the temptation to hope out of his mind. He tried not to imagine a rose-petal blush spreading over Shane Hollander’s nose and cheeks, stretching back towards the tips of his ears. He tried not to imagine the soft smile, tilted off its axis when Hollander was impressed with him – no mean feat, Ilya had learned. He tried not to imagine the precise feeling of Hollander’s fingertips pressing into his skin, the warmth of his palms guiding his motions, the short dark fan of lashes around brown eyes so deep they were nearly depthless.
He didn’t imagine those things. They didn’t creep into his mind as Svetlana drove them through Montreal’s streets. They didn’t find a second wind in Shane Hollander’s welcoming smile, or his ample biceps in a short-sleeved, white tee shirt.
“Hey there,” Hollander greeted, easy and professional as Ilya moved through the waiting room. “Ready to work?”
Ilya came to a stop in front of him and grinned. “I am always ready to work, Hollander. Your work is not work at all.”
“Asshole.” Hollander’s grin only brightened. “Who let you in here?” He nodded to Svetlana, taking a seat somewhere over Ilya’s shoulder, then waved him forward. “D’you have your dance stuff in that bag?”
“Yes, and wearing it,” Ilya said. He plucked at his shirt as Hollander opened the door into the exercise spaces. “Did you think I would not?”
“I would have been surprised if you hadn’t, actually. I know what it’s like to miss doing something you love.” Hollander led them away from their usual route, walking next to Ilya as he showed him down an unfamiliar hallway. “I thought we’d try something new today. Well, new for me, not you, I suppose.”
Ilya hummed. “We have masterclass today, yes?”
Hollander glanced sidelong at him. “Erm. No. Not the way you’re used to—.”
“I do not care,” Ilya cut him off, excited and not wanting to let Hollander get too far down the path of apologizing. “I will not be on my back like a dead roach. I am happy.”
Hollander laughed. “Well alright then. Here.”
He pushed open a door to their left, revealing a small square room with light wood floors. Mirrors lined two of the walls. A row of windows sat high up on another, letting early summer sunshine warm the place up. In one corner sat a stack of rolled up yoga mats. In another stood a yoga ball and other movable equipment.
“It’s technically a yoga studio. We have some classes here or other trainers use it, but—.” Hollander strode to one of the mirrored walls, pulling forward something that was pushed against its surface. A free standing barre. “We did have this in storage.”
Ilya stared at it, pulling himself up as best he could on his crutches. A small smile pulled at his cheeks. He didn’t keep it down. “You got me a barre.”
“Technically Rose did, but yes. We found one.”
“Hollander,” Ilya drawled, lilting and teasing on purpose. “You spoil me.”
The other man flushed hot pink, all the way to the ears. “Well, erm. The other exercises work, and we’ll keep using them, but you’re a dancer. Your recovery should be around what you already know and enjoy.” He cleared his throat, shoving his hands even deeper into his jogger pockets. “It’s what you’re working back towards being able to do. You should get to practice while we’re here.”
Ilya nodded, and moved closer. He removed the crutches and set them against the mirrors. Hollander stepped forward instinctively, ready to catch if he lost balance. Ilya didn’t. It wasn’t far from the mirror to the barre; a foot or two at most. He ran his palms over the smooth surface of it, leaning harder onto it to test its strength. Old, but sturdy; still good. He smiled at it, fondness uncurling in the center of his chest.
He tipped his head and met Hollander’s gaze. “Thank you.”
“It’s nothing.”
Ilya rolled his eyes. “No. You say ‘you are welcome, Rozanov’ and then berate me for doing too much.”
Hollander chuckled. “Berate you? Is that what I do?”
“Yes. No, Rozanov. Wrong way, do it again.” Ilya smirked. “You are ruthless.”
“I thought I was boring.” Hollander crossed his arms and tipped his head. Boyish, sweet, the warmer weather deepening the freckles on his cheeks.
“Yes. That too.”
Slowly, he moved around the bar to face the mirror. Carefully, he stepped out of his sneakers to stand in sock feet on the floor. Hollander watched every step appraising, studying him. Ilya brushed it away, meeting his own eyes in the mirror. The bag on his shoulders came off next, then his jacket, leaving him in nothing but his track pants and tee shirt.
He stretched his neck, then squared his shoulders. He rolled his fingers along the surface of the barre before positioning them lightly. He set his feet in second position and ran through the arm positions. Just as he’d been taught.
Bravo, Iliunya. Moy solntse. Mama ochen gorditsya toboy.
Ilya shook himself, glancing at Hollander. Leaning against the mirror in his tee shirt. Still studying him, still quietly curious.
“Do you want to put your shoes on?” Hollander asked.
Ilya shook his head, curls bouncing against his temples. “Like this for now.”
“Whatever you like. Now.” Hollander gestured to him. “Where do you want to start?”
“Basic,” Ilya answered. “Warm up sequence.” He thought a moment. “I will say names so you know them.”
Hollander nodded. “I’ll be paying attention. And keep you from falling on your ass.”
Ilya scoffed. “I am professional. I do not fall.”
“Sure you don’t.” Hollander’s face turned thoughtful, sad, for a moment. “I bet you tripped, and fell, and messed up all the time when you were a kid though. I did.”
Ilya inhaled. “All the time.”
He swabbed a hand over his jaw and into his hair. As he pulled it back down, he let his fingers glance over the orthodox cross, tucked under the collar of his shirt. Then, he was ready to work.
Ilya swore harshly and dropped his leg to the floor with a thunk. His core collapsed as he did, and he leaned heavily on the free-standing barre to catch his breath. An attitude had never hurt before.
“Hey, hey, hey.” Hollander was right next to him in an instant. “What happened, Roz? What hurts?”
“You know what hurts,” Ilya grumbled, scowling at his hands. The fingers white knuckled the barre. Frustration prickled at the back of his throat, tempered only by Hollander’s steady hands.
Shane’s steady hands.
He’d become Shane in Ilya’s thoughts lately; not Hollander except whenever Ilya opened his mouth. He couldn’t quite pinpoint the change, but Ilya couldn’t seem to drag himself back to before. It was still easy to call him Hollander. It was becoming easier to imagine calling him Shane, and the blush that would bloom if Ilya ever dared to.
“Breathe, Rozanov,” Shane ordered gently. A second later, he dropped into a crouch underneath the bar. “Scale of one to ten?”
“Five,” Ilya gritted out.
A nudge. “Liar.”
“Fine.” Ilya swore again. “Eight. But only at the top.”
Shane looked up at him. “Only when you got your leg that high or at the top of your hip?”
Ilya held up a pinky. A tacit the first one.
Shane nodded. He dropped forward onto his knees. “Tell me when you’re good. I want you to do it again.”
“Pizdets.” Ilya closed his eyes and grit his teeth. The sting had come down enough, but apprehension had set in. “Again? Why would I do it again, Hollander?”
“So I can help, Rozanov.” Shane patted the outside of his leg. “I want you to lift your leg again, slower this time. I’ll be touching you but not guiding you. When it starts to hurt, I want you to stop.”
Ilya spared the man a fleeting glance. “And then what?”
Shane’s dark eyes were clear, focused; task-oriented to a fault. “Then you let me take your weight, and we’ll move through your actual range of motion. No over-doing it. Alright?”
He looks good there, on his knees, just for you, Ilya’s traitorous brain supplied.
He swallowed tightly. “Alright.”
Ilya grit his teeth as he began to lift his left leg again. Bracing, ready for when the lightning quick zap of pain would shoot up his waist again. Shane’s hands stayed on him, barely noticeable over the tights Ilya had worn. His muscles and ligaments began to make themselves known, taut and pulling and tensing as he raised the limb higher.
“Stop there.” Shane’s hands pressed firmer, halting his motion. He looked up as Ilya looked down. “It’s bothering you, isn’t it?”
Ilya pursed his lips. “Is not so bad.”
“Thats not what I asked,” Shane replied. One hand stayed cradling Ilya’s calf, but the other moved further up Ilya’s thigh. “Right here.” He pressed two fingers close to the fold of Ilya’s hip. “Tight, isn’t it?”
Ilya nodded. He didn’t trust his voice.
“Okay.” Shane nodded, laying his hand flat over the curve of Ilya’s hip. “Can I move your leg, Rozanov?”
“Yes.”
“Can you give me a little bit of the weight then?” Shane smiled gently. “A little control? It won’t hurt you.”
Ilya exhaled. “I would not know.”
“Don’t do that often?”
“Cannot remember. Maybe never.” Ilya repositioned himself, shifting his weight so that it rested on his back leg. So that Shane was holding the other, relieving some of the tension in his hip.
Shane grinned up at him. “I’m honored.”
“Shut up.”
“Not a chance.” He chuckled, then refocused. “Alright. I’m going to move your leg back and forth. When it hurts, even a little, I want you to say so.”
“Numbers?” Ilya asked. “The one or ten?”
“That’d be perfect, yes. Do that.”
“Okay. I will use my words, Hollander.”
“Please do. Beyond that, keep your balance, and talk to me.” Shane tapped his hip, drawing Ilya’s eye down again. “Can you do that for me?”
“I do everything for you,” Ilya quipped.
“No you don’t. You still smoke, even though I told you to knock it off.”
“I was bored! I had one!”
“You shouldn’t be smoking.”
“And you should be working.” Ilya smirked. His heart squeezed and flipped under his ribs.
Shane rolled his eyes kindly, then did just that. He started by lowering Ilya’s leg back down. A thinner, shallower angle than would have been acceptable at Ilya’s level, but the tension vanished. Shane’s fingers pressed into the joint, an investigating kind of massage. Ilya bit his lip and stared at the corner of the room.
The convergence of the mirrors showed him the scene in a broken, misplaced mosaic. Ilya could see his outstretched arms, but not his head. He could see Shane’s broad back and strong shoulders, but his legs were cut out save for one Reebok sneaker. He stared right at the center of it as Shane moved his leg like a metronome on its lowest setting.
Back and forth…
“How’s that?”
“Five.”
“And here?”
“Five.”
“Good.”
Back, and forth…
“Fuck, shit, ah–.”
“Move it back, breathe. There. How bad?”
“Hollander.”
“How. Bad. Roz?”
“Nine.”
“Alright. We’re done with that.”
Shane set Ilya’s foot fully on the ground, rubbing his hands up and down the length of his thigh. His fingers prodded, poked, rubbed into the joint slowly and methodically. He kept it up for a while, as Ilya caught his breath and settled his expressions. He tucked his chin and clamped his eyes shut, breathing tightly in and out. The pain leaked away, sped up by time and Shane’s hands working together.
“There you go. Put weight on it again.” Shane stood and rounded the bar. He helped Ilya rotate to rest both hands on the barre. His hand settled now on Ilya’s back, rubbing smooth circles there. “Does it hurt with the weight on it?”
Ilya shook his head.
“Alright. Good.” Shane exhaled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push, I just–.”
"Ty takoy zhestokiy,” Ilya exhaled, half-laughing at himself. “Ruthless, maître de ballet. So cruel.”
“I’m sorry, I really–.”
“Shut up, Hollander.” Ilya leaned onto his elbows, glancing back and up at the man. “Compared to my teachers, you are a grumpy kitten.”
Shane frowned. “A grumpy kitten?”
“Da,” Ilya smirked. “You are too nice, but I don’t mind.”
“Sounds like we could trade war stories, so to speak.” Shane motioned him off the bar, then helped him down onto an unrolled yoga mat waiting nearby. He settled himself crosslegged. “I’ve had my fair share of coaches yelling at me in my life.”
“But they were not Russian,” Ilya shrugged. “It is different.”
“Mostly Quebecois, but one of them was Ukrainian. Always had something to say about my speed, my accuracy, where my blades were on the ice.” Shane laughed to himself. “I learned just enough to know when he was calling me a name and I’d shout it right back. My mom was so mad, the most rebellious I ever was.”
“I cannot see you as rebel, Hollander. You are too careful.” Ilya flopped onto his back, knees bent and feet flat on the floor. “You skate?”
Shane nodded. “Dad put me in skates as soon as I could walk. If you’re Canadian, and you don’t know how to ice skate, you’re a bad Canadian.” He didn’t elaborate further, but Ilya didn’t mind. He didn’t press. Eventually, Shane cleared his throat. “I know you haven’t gotten injured a lot, but what was the worst?”
He folded his hands over his stomach, then found Shane’s face instead of the ceiling. “When I was sixteen, I danced on broken foot.”
Shane’s jaw dropped. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”
“No.” Ilya shook his head. “I was lead. There was no replacement. Instructor said to dance or I could not come back.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“It was not so bad,” Ilya shrugged off. “I also did a show with a fever. I was so dizzy, I barely remember.”
“How old were you?” Shane asked, face pinching up.
“Thirteen.”
“Why? Who let you?” Shane pinched his nose. “That’s so beyond–. I can’t believe your parents allowed that.”
“They were not there.” The words snapped Shane’s eyes back to him. Ilya did his best to not glance away, to not brush it off. He inhaled, letting the air fill up his lungs completely. “My mother died a few months before. My father did not come. Ever. A minister thought he was important, so if it was not work it was a waste of time.”
Shane swallowed tightly. “You were by yourself?”
“Yes. But I was always by myself.” Ilya cleared his throat. “Why it was no problem to move to a new country, Hollander. I am my own problem, no one else.” He licked his lips. “Do not feel sorry for me. It is in the past.”
“If you say so.” Shane worried the inside of his cheek between his teeth, lost in thought.
The silence crept up, and Ilya let it. Shane seemed to have grown accustomed to it too, letting the air settle around them whenever Ilya stopped speaking. He didn’t seem to like it any more than at the start, but he seemed okay letting it stand.
“Hollander.” Ilya clicked his tongue admonishingly. “Stop.”
Shane sighed. “Tell me something good and maybe I can.”
Ilya thought for a moment. The answer was obvious. “My mother came to all of them. Before she died. She loved ballet. Every show made her happy. She played her favorite songs at home, when it was just us.”
“What was her favorite?”
“Tchaikovsky. The Sleeping Beauty, the little bluebird dance at the beginning. She said it made her want to fly like the prima.”
A wistful feeling took hold of him. Ilya could whistle every single note of that trilling, fluttering pas de deux. He knew all the steps, though he’d never performed in Sleeping Beauty on a stage. It was a song for when he was alone in an empty studio, headphones over his ears, and cross pendant bouncing against his chest with each leap, arabesque, and grand lift of an imaginary partner.
“Was she a dancer too?”
Ilya shook his head. “Not like me. She wanted to be.”
“What happened?” Shane asked quietly.
“Life. My father.” Ilya shrugged against the mat. “She had my brother very young, then had me. Then she was gone.”
It was more painful than that, more complicated and messy and tangled than that. Talking about her still sent a hurt through his heart like a hot needle. Sadness built up from where it had been dormant to squeeze around his chest like a snake. But he loved her still, loved talking about her. Years before, he had drunkenly told Svetlana all about her, only to realize the next morning how sober his friend had been. It had been embarrassing, until she had pressed a kiss to his cheek and handed him a cup of coffee at her kitchen table.
Mne by ochen khotelos s’ney poznakmit’sya, whispered into his ear.
I wish I could meet her.
Ilya’s fingers slid up to rest over the cross pendant under his shirt. Its crossbars pressed into his fingers through the fabric, familiar and calming. It had been hers. He never took it off if he could help it.
Shane pressed his lips together, thinking. “How old was she?” he asked finally. “When she passed?”
The question surprised him. How did she die was the most common, in the rare moments Ilya let it slip that his mother was dead. He’d answered it enough that the words would come numbly. He couldn’t remember ever being asked anything else.
Ilya had to think back, do a bit of stilted math in his head to come up with the correct number. Guilt swooped low in his stomach, and he sent up a quiet apology to her inside his head.
“Forty,” Ilya answered.
Shane stared, surprise evident. "That's too young."
“It is. I was twelve. I found her.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Is okay, Hollander.” Ilya reached out a hand to poke Shane’s knee. He flashed a smile. “I miss her, but is okay. She would be happy that I am happy.”
“Is she the reason you’re a dancer?”
Ilya clicked his tongue. “No, no. No more today.” He pushed himself upright onto his palms. “I cannot open all my insides for you. Otherwise you would not want to talk to me.”
Shane rolled his eyes. “You’re just scared you’ll lose your mystery.”
“Not possible. I am very mysterious.” Ilya grinned, pleased when Shane relented and moved them back to stretches, the last thing before Ilya would leave for the week. Ilya followed along perfectly, dropping sly comments here and there, earning laughter and eye rolls from Shane in equal measure. All the while, his head was overcome with fresh thoughts.
I’m scared I’ll learn, someday, what she was feeling on that day.
Your freckles look best when you’re pink in the cheeks.
I want you to touch me more.
I know she would have liked you, how kind you are.
This should have felt more depraved than it did.
Head tipped back against the comforter of his bed, warm and aroused and squirming against it, hand fisted around himself as he wrung out all his desire with tight, heavy strokes. Behind closed eyes flitted fragments of soft hair, pursed pink lips, and dark eyes gazing up at him from the floor.
It was a bridge too far.
Ilya knew that – as bone-deep certain as he knew he’d be perfectly satisfied afterwards. As much as he knew he’d need a mouthful of vodka afterwards. All to, hopefully, wash the preoccupation with Shane Hollander out of his brain for good.
He thumbed over the head of his cock, moaning a single note as he dug his thumb into the underside. Heat licked up his spine, his hips jerking after it. He raised his hand to his mouth, laving his tongue over the palm and fingers, then wrapped it back around himself. Lube was fine enough most days, but all the things running through his head led him in another direction. Led him to want a warm and wet mouth sucking around him. Led him to crave strong hands spreading his thighs around thick shoulders, taking him in deep and watching every twitch of his hips.
Ilya threw a hand out blindly, scrabbling for his shirt. When he found it, he yanked it towards him, keeping up his rhythm while pressing the fabric close to his face. He inhaled deeply. Once, twice, searching and searching until… there.
Under the scent of skin and lingering salt sweat was something else. Something fresher, still clinging to the shirt against all odds. Oakmoss, sharp juniper and ginger.
Hollander… Ilya moaned against the cotton. His fingers gripped into the shirt, inhaling again and again. Wanting it deep in his lungs, clouding his head. Shane…
It border-lined on perverted.
It was Shane’s fault, not Ilya’s. At least, he could rest easy on that portion. Ilya’s range of motion had improved enough for Shane to graduate him to piques, arabesques, and increasingly higher développé. Motions Ilya had felt unmoored without. Motions that now required Shane to help him accomplish.
You’ve got this, take your time… Shane’s voice echoed in his ears.
Ilya moved his hand harder, mind conjuring back the sensation of Shane’s forearm at his ribs. The man’s solid chest pressed close to Ilya’s back. A hand wrapped underneath Ilya’s knee, holding his leg steady at the right angle.
There you go. Good job, Rozanov, just keep breathing.
Ilya inhaled the scent of his cologne again, keening. His hip twinged as he thrust into his own fist, chasing his pleasure. Heat had curled itself into knots between his hip bones. The edge loomed in front of him, Ilya more than ready to fling himself over it.
Just a bit more, and we’ll be done. Almost there.
Orgasm dropped over him, hard and fast, dragging him under like a tidal wave. It flooded his brain, ginger and oak invaded his senses, and Ilya came up gasping for air. Release pooled on his abdomen, slicked the thatch of dark blond hair at his groin, and coated his hand.
Good job, Ilya. Rest for a minute. Okay?
He lay there for a long while, coming back to earth, catching his breath. Staring at the ceiling of his bedroom, his ears filled with the pounding of his heartbeat and thrum of his brain. Montreal hummed, and beeped, and squealed below his window.
He’d come. He’d come hard. Shane’s voice, form, and scent surrounding him until there was no choice.
Shane.
Shane Hollander.
“Fucking, fuck–.” Ilya snatched the shirt away from his face. He roughly wiped away all that remained – on his hand, his hips, his belly – then threw it as far away as he could manage. He heard it hit the floor somewhere behind him. He didn’t much care.
He didn’t care that the orgasm had been blindingly good. He didn’t care that he had sweated into the comforter. He didn’t care how much he needed it, how his blood simmered slower in his veins because of it.
On a physical level, it had worked. Ilya was sated, lust satisfied and banked back safely. It was fine. It was good. It was necessary and fun. There wasn’t any harm in it. Another problem now presented itself to him, just as strongly, just as surely.
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and grit his teeth. “Fuck.”
Ilya Rozanov wanted more of Shane Hollander.
So much more.
Impossibly more.