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1. Svetlana, December 2021. Ottawa.
Svetlana starts contemplating murder right around the time Ilya starts contemplating floriography, you know, the Victorian English language of flowers? You know, the country and time period neither of them live in, Ilyushenka? Ilya doesn’t care. Ilya needs everything to be perfect for the wedding, down to the meaning of the bloody flowers. She never thought he’d be a bridezilla, but here they are.
The only thing that stays her hand is the thought of having to deal with Shane post Ilya-cide. It would be like those bonded pairs of horses that you have to put down together, because one can’t survive without the other.
It’s important to note that Ilya hasn’t even proposed yet. He’s planning the wedding before the proposal, planning the most elaborate cart before he’s even gotten the horse to agree to pull it. This is another reason Svetlana might murder him before he makes it down the aisle.
He wants lilies, obviously, but white lilies represent virginity and purity, neither of which are qualities Shane or Ilya possess (Ilya says this while leering. He looks horrific, so Svetlana hits him until he stops. She would disagree, anyway. There’s an air of proverbial virginity around Shane sometimes.).
Yellow means friendship, and they’re far past the point of no-homo. Pink is femininity. Orange means passion, which would be okay, but Ilya doesn’t like orange.
”What about black lilies?” says Svetlana. Ilya rears back like she shot his non-existent dog.
”It’s not a funeral, Svetlana!” he says. He almost knocks over his cup of coffee with the gesture he makes. She moves her own matcha latte back out of self-preservation.
”Red, then, if you’re going to be boring.”
”I don’t like red flowers” says Ilya mulishly, “they remind me of funerals too”. Which, really, Ilya. Lilies aren’t anywhere close to carnations.
”Why don’t we focus on proposing first?” says Svetlana.
He groans, loud and long and unapologetic in a crowded coffee shop. People look over, to witness him fold his arms on the table and gracefully lower his head into them, all while still groaning. Like a dying swan, is Ilyushka. Beautiful, majestic, loud as fuck.
”Svetka” he says, muffled by how his face is pressed into his jacket sleeves, “I have no fucking clue how to propose to him. I wikihow-ed it”
”Okay, that’s a new low for us.” She says and then pauses. “Is wikihow even still around?”
”I have no ideas on how to propose. None.” He says sadly, ignoring her wikihow question. He’s not a swan. He’s a poor honking goose.
”Win him a cup and propose to him on the ice?”
”I do not want Scott Hunters’ old thunder.”
”Do it where you first met?”
”Have you seen Regina, Svetlana? It is said like vagina. I do not want to propose to my darling lover in Regina. Regina is where marriages go to die.”
”What about at the cottage?” she says.
”Svetlana. I cannot propose to him in his own house.”
”You are impossible to please. He will say yes, Ilya. He will say yes if you propose to him in the toilet while you are both pissing. He will say yes if you propose in the check out line in the grocery store. That man loves you.”
”I know, Svetka. Listen, it’s not- I know he will say yes. I am not an animal, I do not spring surprise proposals on people, we have talked about marriage. But he deserves the most perfect proposal, yes? It is- it’s.”
He raises his head to look at her. To her horror, there are tears in his eyes. Not falling, not really, just a glimmer of wetness around the ducts.
”It has not been easy for him, loving me. It has been very, very hard, in fact. Harder for him than it has been for me. And he has- he does not complain. But nothing in our relationship has been easy, or smooth, or perfect. I would like to give him that. He deserves that.”
There are people watching them still, out of the corner of their eyes. She is aware of phone cameras, and how they hound Ilya sometimes. She cannot stand up and fold him into her arms. She cannot climb across the table to kiss his brow. His arms are still crossed over the table though, so she reaches out and grabs one of his hands, squeezes it twice.
They’re larger than hers, his hands.
How strange- once, they held hands in the playground, and their sticky hands were the same size. And now her best friend is taller than her and getting married. When she was a teenager, she thought he’d die- what a miracle, to be here instead.
”Easy, smooth and perfect” she says firmly. “We’ll make it happen, Ilya.”
-
Hilariously, in a comedy of errors involving a rowboat, a near-frozen lake, a hundred tea candles, a blow job, a fire, and ending in pneumonia and a dubious head shave, Shane is the one who proposes, less than one month later. He has no issue with proposing at the cottage.
Apparently, he’d been thinking about it for months, the rings burning a hole in his pocket.
He hadn’t wanted to propose in December, because that was too close to Christmas, but he could not wait until after February (February, of course, being off-limits because of Valentines Day.), so it had to be in January. What a neurotic man.
He asked Ilya, “your middle name is Grigorievich, right?” on the drive up, just so he could say Ilyas’ full name in his proposal. She knows this because Ilya texted her “lmao he just asked me what my middle name is ”.
Ilya shakes the pneumonia and manages to grow most of his hair back before the wedding, which is really all that matters.
It’s a shame though. Svetlana thought her idea of a romantic horseback ride had merits.
-
2. Eliza Green, July 2029. Toronto.
When Eliza tells people she works in a high-end jewellery store, she gets a lot of “Oh, that must be so romantic!”. She imagines florists get the same kind of reactions. They’re imagining newly engaged couples, pooling their savings for the perfect ring, cooing over each other. Or boyfriends, husbands, partners, all choosing beautiful jewellery for their beautiful girlfriends/wives/partners, all in love, love, love.
Mostly, it’s a lot of horrible rich old men who bitch about their wives but can’t bear the thought of her leaving his worthless ass. This gold bracelet will definitely keep her from filing for divorce! You forgot your wedding anniversary for the 10th year in a row? She’ll love these diamond earrings, mined with real child slavery!
Eliza isn’t sure whether diamonds are minded with real child slavery- she just knows that the diamond industry is shit, and lab made diamonds are better. She lives in uneasy ignorance about all the other nasty stuff.
She really only stays here because the pay’s good and she can’t be bothered job hunting in this economy. Though lately she’s been thinking more and more about getting out of this city. She keeps thinking she sees Daniel and Anna on every street corner.
A customer comes in before she can think more about her ex-boyfriend and her ex-best friend and her shitty job and this shitty city. Thank God.
He’s effortlessly, unconsciously handsome. No, really. The kind of beautiful people spend a lot of money to achieve. Asian, fit as hell, brown eyes, red lips, freckles galore. His hair’s longer, in a kind-of wolf cut thing, shaggy layers. If she’s being honest, he looks a little bit like a lesbian. There’s a pink barrette in his long hair that keeps it from flopping into his eyes, with a strawberry on the end. Definitely a kids’ barrette. Dad? Probably a dad. A DILF, even. Jesus Christ. She needs to get laid. He’s not even in good clothes- he’s in an old sports hoodie and joggers. She can see the hole near his armpit.
”Hey, come on in.” she says. She’s never been good at being formal- it makes her boss Anthony despair. “What can we help you with today?”
”It’s our anniversary-“ Never mind. forget how handsome he is. Here we fucking go again- “in a month” he says. Wow! A man who can think ahead! “and I wanted to get a gold chain.”
Huh. Well. Definitely not her first thought for anniversary jewellery. The customer is always right, though. In manners of taste. Not much else.
”Sure, we can definitely do that.” She says, “Just the chain? Not a pendant?”
”Oh, no.” he says. “It’s- my husband has a piece of jewellery he wears all the time, but the links have broken twice in the last year and I’m worried about him losing it for good next time.”
”How old is it?” she says. Husband. That makes a lot of sense. Not too many gay guys come through this store, but she likes to believe they’re better at remembering anniversaries than straight guys. Otherwise there really isn’t any hope for men at all.
He hums, wordlessly. “I’m not sure, really. It was his mothers’; I don’t know if it was passed down before that. Is it age, that makes it break?”
”Sure.” she says, starting to unlock the cabinets, “a lot of stuff can contribute to gold wearing out- sweat can be a big factor, but so can friction and movement. Getting a higher karat or lower karat gold can also increase the risk of breakage, oddly enough- higher karat is purer, so it’s slightly softer, but lower karat is worse quality.”
”Huh.” He says. “So, he does a lot of exercise- is there a type of gold you can get that’ll minimize that?”
”I mean, it’ll always be a factor” she says “but yeah, I’d recommend an 18k gold. It’s 75% gold, 25% other metals, giving it more resistance to corrosion.”
”But really” she continues, pulling out the trays of gold chains, “I’d recommend he take off the jewellery before exercise and put it back on afterwards.”
He just shakes his head like she said something funny.
”He’s an athlete” he says, simply. She wonders if his husbands’ team is the one on his hoodie. That’s kind of sweet, if it is. She’s never heard of the Montreal Metros, but she doesn’t follow any sports, let alone ones in other cities. Maybe she’ll google them later.
He’s a good customer, though. He follows her explanation of the different chain options- Cuban links, Franco chains, Mariner, and Wheat chains for the four most durable options, Flat Curb if he really wants that classic chain look, but that’s weaker. He dismisses Mariner immediately (“it looks like a bottle tab” he says, nose wrinkling adorably. She can’t argue) and the Franco goes soon after. Flat curb he doesn’t even look at.
He keeps referring to his phone, holding the chains up against the screen, which she guesses has a photo of the mysterious necklace on it. She’s kind of curious what it is, but she knows better to ask- if it’s private, it’s private. She notices his ring when his hands are hovering over the chains. Not noticing in a creeper way, even if he is handsome, it’s just- it’s braided gold, not a solid band. Three bands, twisted over themselves and then flatted down into a ring. Simple, but pretty. Unusual for a man.
Eventually, they settle on a small Cuban link, 2.9mm. It’s over a thousand dollars’ worth of gold, and he pays it easily. Sometimes she’d do anything to be rich enough to drop that kind of money without thought.
She wraps it up carefully, tucked into the special box and then wrapped in ribbon. He declines a bag, putting the little box straight into his hoodie pocket- his funeral if it falls out, that’s all she’s saying.
”Hey, do you know what the other metals are?” he says, pausing in the doorway.
”It’s usually silver, copper, nickel, or palladium.”
”Well, it’s our 7th anniversary. That’s copper, right?”
”Sure” she says. Honestly, she has no clue. You might be surprised to hear it, but the kind of people who shop in jewellery stores aren’t the kind to follow the traditional anniversary gifts. If people only bought gold on the gold anniversary (which is what, 25? 50? One of the big ones), they’d go out of business.
”Hopefully he’ll let me get away with breaking the rules a little” he says, smiling, and then he’s gone.
She means to google the sports team, she really does, but next comes in a guy who’s two days late buying a gift for his enraged girlfriends’ birthday, and by the time she’s sold yet another pair of $500 earrings to him, the man and his mysterious athlete husband have completely left her mind.
-
3. Ilya Rozanov, July-August, 2023, Ottawa.
Shane is going to divorce him soon. Ilya knows it, deep and horrifying in his gut. They’re going to be one of those sad celebrity couples that barely makes it past their first anniversary, and Ilya does not know what to do.
Svetlana says- you stupid man. It will be alright. He loves you. As if Ilya doesn’t know that- he does not doubt the depths of Shanes’ love for him. It’s just- there is a difference between loving someone and enjoying being living with them and being married to them. Ilya knows this. He does not blame Shane. If Shane loves him but cannot bear being married to him- Ilya does not mind (that’s a lie. He minds so much. But he will learn to live with it).
Shane has started to request a different hotel room from him. Technically, as C and A, they’re entitled to it. Someone from player services takes him aside- Haylee, he thinks her name is, and when they come back, she’s smiling. Which is an odd reaction, Ilya won’t lie, but maybe she secretly wants to shoot her shot with Shane. She wouldn’t be the first one.
”I just need a bit more space temporarily.” he says to Ilya, bringing Ilyas’ hands up to his mouth and kissing them, sweetly as anything. “Just for a little bit, Ilya, I promise.” Who is Ilya to say no? He does not want to drive Shane further away than he already has.
He doesn’t sleep without Shane there to cuddle, but he does not tell Shane that. He struggles to eat, because he feels like throwing up, all the time, nausea his constant companion in an unwanted replacement for Shane. He gets undereye concealer recommendations from Svetlana to hide his bruised-looking eyes. He can fix it. He can.
-
Two weeks later, and Ilya might not be able to fix it.
Two weeks ago, they would come home from a roadie, and they would be like normal. Shane would put on his terrible playlist of the most basic indie music possible, and Ilya would dance in socked feet on the kitchen tile to it anyway, cooking dinner while Shane would unpack their bags and do the laundry. They would sit down to eat together, playing footsie under the table and eating with only one hand, because they held hands with the other.
Then they’d curl up on the couch to watch something, or to read in comfortable silence, or do a puzzle, or play video games, or just to cuddle and chat. Or retire to the bedroom early. They’d do anything, but they’d do it together.
They would come home, and Ilya would sigh out a breath of relief. He’d hoped, somewhat foolishly, that Shane really did just need some extra space on the roadies, but things would continue to be semi-normal at home. He’s had no such luck.
Now, they come home and there is a mysterious pile of packages on the front porch that Shane scoops up hurriedly and won’t let Ilya even look at. They’re flat. Like papers. Like divorce papers.
Shane locks himself in his study, for hours and hours and hours. He comes out for meals and for bed but that’s it. He falls into bed hours past his usual bedtime and is asleep before his head hits the pillow, while Ilya pretends to already be asleep, and instead stares into the darkness with wide and scared eyes. They haven’t had sex for 5 days. Well, that’s a lie actually, it’s them, but their hand jobs have been mediocre at best. Barely even worth mentioning.
Ilya is trying. He cooks dinner, and Shane says, “thanks babe” and presses a kiss to his cheek absentmindedly, but his mind is elsewhere. There’s no footsie. His hand does not reach for Ilyas’. He’s stretching out the spare hand, the tendons strained. Ilya is doing the laundry himself, as best as he can, colour coded and measuring out every drop of natural fragrance-free detergent used, but Shane won’t let him touch his away bag.
”Let me do it, moya lyubov'. You’re tired.” He says, but Shane shakes his head and retreats into the bedroom. The door closes behind him, and it’s not too long until Shane emerges with his dirty washing, but it’s long enough. Longer than it should take. Ilya does not know what secret Shane is hiding in his bag, but instead of asking, Ilya takes the rubbish out and even sweeps the kitchen floor. He empties the Roomba.
Look: he is trying to say. I can do it all. I can do everything you want of me. I won’t be a burden. Please let me stay.
He wants to cling onto Shane until his nails leave scars in his skin- no, you can’t leave me-.
But Shane doesn’t even notice. His efforts, or his desperation.
”Where do you want to go out for our anniversary?” he says, trying not to let the desperation he feels feed into his voice. “There’s a place in Glebe we haven’t been to, I called them and they said they cater for macrobiotic all the time.”
”Maybe some other time?” says Shane. “I just want a night in.”
”Okay, we can have a night in.” Says Ilya. His voice is small.
-
It’s just- Ilya has been trying to figure out what happened, and he doesn’t fucking know. They were fine. He thought they were fine. He thought they were great, actually. The sex was amazing. Better than amazing! And maybe Shane did the lions’ share of the chores, but he said he preferred it that way. Was he lying? Was it that bad? Has Shane been suffering, and Ilya didn’t notice? Where did they go so wrong, so quickly?
-
Ilya is deep cleaning the oven when Yuna calls. He’s not even sure why he’s doing it. If deep cleaning could fix whatever’s gone wrong in his marriage, it would’ve already done so- the house is sparkling. And he doesn’t even need to- the oven is one of those fancy ones that deep-cleans itself, it has an incinerator setting. Ilya is doing it anyway, just to give his hands something to do. His anniversary is tomorrow, and Ilya is trying to come to terms with the fact there might not be a next one.
”Privet, dorogaya” says Yuna, when Ilya manages to get his clumsy, yellow-glove-covered hands to pick up the call. The way this family has let him in makes him want to cry enough at the best of times. He holds it in though.
”Privet, Yuna” he says.
”Are you free tomorrow? One of the boards in our deck has rotten and David’s still recovering from his haemorrhoids surgery, so I need a hand at Home Depot, and I’ve got a few other errands to run. We could make a day of it, get lunch?”
”I would, but- it’s our anniversary.” He says.
”Oh! Yes, yes, it is” says Yuna. “Well- ask Shane. I’m sure he won’t mind parting with you for a few hours?”
”I can ask” says Ilya doubtfully.
”Let me know either way. Okay, I’ve got to go, but love you, Ilya.”
”Love you” says Ilya and lets the phone go dead.
”Who was that?” says Shane, wandering into the kitchen.
”Your mama” says Ilya, “she wants to go shopping with me tomorrow.”
”You should go” says Shane. He says it casually but- Ilya knows him. There’s something nervous about the way he says it. His shoulders are slightly stiff.
”Shane” says Ilya carefully. “It’s our anniversary tomorrow.”
”I know” says Shane, opening the fridge and pulling out a mandarin. “It’ll only be for a few hours though, right? We don’t need to spend the whole day together tomorrow. You should go.”
”You- this is what you want?” says Ilya.
”Sure.” Says Shane. He’s watching Ilya. Is this a test? “It’ll be good to see my mom, right? You guys haven’t hung out for a while.”
Ilya doesn’t know what to do. If Shane- if they- He hadn’t thought about it. How if they split, Shane will get his parents. Obviously. But that’ll mean Ilya will lose Yuna and David, the people who’ve become so dear to him.
Selfishly, he wants to spend the day with Yuna. While he still can.
”I’ll go out with your mom” he says. Shane breathes out, his shoulders relaxing a fraction.
-
He spends too long with Yuna. They get lunch together, and go to the Home Depot, then she has even more errands she wants to run with Ilya, and he can’t find it in himself to say no, because every hour with her is precious but- he spends too long with Yuna. She keeps checking her phone before she finds something else to do. It’s nice but- it feels weird, towards the end, almost forced, and it’s almost evening by the time he gets back. Maybe she knows. Maybe she’s trying to get those last hours with Ilya in, too.
He opens the door and- there are cranes. Paper cranes. Everywhere.
There are paper cranes hanging on delicate fishing lines, strung from the light shades like a babys’ mobile above a crib. There are paper cranes lining the edges of hallway. Paper cranes are tucked on the top of the photo frames on the wall. Ilya can see into the lounge, and there are paper cranes on the bookcases, on the coffee table, perched on the sofas’ arms, on the fireplace mantle, peeking between the stair railing, leading up to the bedrooms. Some of them are plain white paper, but there are ones in every colour of the rainbow, some patterned origami paper and some plain. Some are very large, and some are very small. Their entire house has been invaded by paper cranes.
What.
”What?” says Ilya.
”In here!” calls Shane from the kitchen. There are more cranes in there- cranes on the table, dotted around plates of takeaway from their favourite Thai place, already unpackaged and neatly laid out. There’s pad see ew with extra peanut sauce in front of Ilyas’ chair, a can of coke placed next to it. A small crane about the size of a Loonie coin is balanced precariously on top of the coke, another next to his fork. A plate of spring rolls in in the middle of the table.
”Shane” says Ilya slowly, “why are there cranes everywhere?”
”Oh! It’s a Japanese tradition- well, that and Canadian. You know, there are different gifts for each year of marriage? I think it’s from Medieval Germany, actually, but then the English expanded on it and now Americans and English have slightly different versions and- anyway.”
Ilya shakes his head, mute. He’s never heard of it.
”Well, first year is supposed to be paper. I guess because the marriage is so new that it’s flimsy? But there’s a Japanese tradition too, senbazuru. Not to do with marriage. It means one thousand cranes. People say if you fold a thousand paper cranes, you get a wish. I get why people don’t do it; it was- I think I have carpal tunnel. And I missed you. A lot. It was hard to keep secret, oh my god. You should appreciate it, because I’m never putting this much effort in ever again”
Shane has been keeping a secret. Shane has been folding a thousand paper cranes, for their wedding anniversary. Shane has been folding a thousand paper cranes in secret. Shane, presumably, has been ordering origami paper to their house, and it has been arriving in paper-shaped packages. Shane has been taking paper on road trips, folding cranes in his separate hotel room, and sneaking the finished cranes back into the house in his bag. Shane has been folding paper cranes in the office. Shane is not divorcing him. Shane is not divorcing him.
Ilya bursts into tears. Thick, heaving ones, immediately spilling down his cheeks. He tries to cover his face with his hands, hunch his shoulders to hide their shaking, but it’s no use- Shane has already cupped his cheeks in his own, lifting his face up.
”Ilya?” he says, so worried. “Did I- is there something wrong?”
”Fuck, Shane” he sobs out. “I was so scared.”
”Scared- of what?” says Shane.
”I thought you were going to leave me.” Says Ilya in between gasps. Shane makes his own kind of gasp, a sharp intake of breath.
”Ilya- I wouldn’t. I would never. Till death do we part, right?”
”Right” says Ilya. He wishes he could be more secure in it. Fuck. He should’ve known better. But he was- it was all- these three weeks- he just cries harder. An outpouring of bottled-up grief. Catharsis in the Greek sense; a literal purge.
”I didn’t mean to, baby, I promise” says Shane, pulling Ilyas head closer, his body stumbling after it. He pecks Ilya on the forehead, each cheek, one eye after the other, Ilyas’ eyelids fluttering, his mouth three times, the tip of his nose. Anywhere he can reach. Kissing the tears off his face.
Eventually the tears slow down.
”Shit” says Ilya, snottily, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. It’s hard, since Shane has yet to relinquish his head.
”Shit” agrees Shane. He pulls Ilya into his arms, squeezes his tight, and then lets him go, to rummage around the cranes on the table.
”Ilya” says Shane, holding out one particular crane. It’s been made with Centaur stationary paper. “Look, I- Here’s the final one. The wish, the one I used our thousand cranes for.”
When Ilya takes it, he gestures at Ilya to unfold the crane. Inside, written in the dead centre, in Shanes’ beloved handwriting, are the words-
I want us to be happy together, forever.
Ilya bursts into tears again. He only just stopped. He really thought he had run out of tears- it’s a little bit embarrassing, but Shane doesn’t seem to mind. He just takes him by the hand and leads him away. They leave the food on the table to get cold. There are even more cranes in the bedroom, but Ilya doesn’t pay them any attention. The ones on the bed fall to the floor- he’ll find one under the bed, five months later. Shane holds him in his arms, until he stops shaking.
It’s a pretty bad first wedding anniversary, all things considered. But, well- they’ll do better next time. They’ll learn. They have time.
-
4. Hayden Pike, August 5th, 2022. The Cottage.
”When I put you in charge of the stag do, I really didn’t expect separate ones, Svetlana.” Says Shane to the phone, placed on speaker in the middle of the kitchen table, one week before the wedding.
”We have to protect your innocence, моя маленькая голубка” cooes Svetlana Vetrova down the line. Hayden would really love for someone to go back and tell him how, exactly, he ended up in the kitchen with his best friends’ place in Ottawa on the phone with Ilya Rozanovs’ best friend/man, discussing wedding plans. Because his best friend lives in Ottawa and is marrying Ilya Rozanov. Really, he’d like to go back to that part and make it make sense.
And while they’re at it, make it make sense how Shane laughs at Svetlana Vetrovas’ joke. Shane barely laughs at his jokes!
”Bit too late for that, Svetka” he says. Really, it’s amazing how many war councils this wedding has taken, gathered around this very table with endless mugs of coffee. Hayden is now on first name terms with Rose Landry (and so is Jackie, which she won’t stop talking about.) and a surprising number of the Boston Raiders and the Ottawa Centaurs. He’s in a group chat called “shit they said in front of God and everyone (STSIFOGAE)”. The name is a gradual work in progress; the shit Shane and Ilya say in front of God and everyone is not.
He’s not on first name terms with Mrs Hollander, but that’s because it’s Mrs Hollander. He’s not on first name terms with Rozanov out of pure stubbornness.
”Well, we must salvage what purity you have left, and honour traditions” says Svetlana. “and I do not want you two to start your honeymoon early. Do not worry, I have planned it all out. You are staying at the cottage with all of your besties, tasteful cocktails, and boring classical music or whatever it is you like.”
”And you?” says Shane, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
”Oh, we are going clubbing in your pitiful Ottawa clubs. There will be so many shots, Ilya will throw up.”
”Gross” says Hayden before he can stop himself.
”It is good thing you will be at the boring party, then” says Svetlana tartly.
”No, I’m with Hayden on this one. That’s gross.” says Shane, wrinkling his nose.
”Yes, this is why you are at the boring party too” says Svetlana. The eyeroll is implicit.
”So, Ilyas’ getting you and the Raiders. I’m getting Hayden and JJ and Rose. Who’s getting the Centaurs?”
”We will make them choose” says Svetlana sweetly. “Like children, choosing between their divorced parents. One by one.”
”Geez, Vetrova.” says Hayden.
”Stay out of this, Pike.” Says Svetlana.
-
The dreaded day comes, with a six hour drive up to Ottawa for the whole family. Jackie jokes about accidentally slipping the kids some of their adult night-night juice, and it’s only a joke, but really. Who thought this was a good idea. Why did Shane have to involve his kids in the wedding party. They’ll be the cutest flower girls/boy (and one ringbearer) that have ever existed. Why couldn’t they have stayed in Montreal with Grandma and Grandad. You can do great things over Zoom these days.
Hayden is just about to break down and start screaming No we aren’t there yet! We will never be there yet! We are going to die here! when they pull up to their Airbnb, one of the other properties around the lake. He thinks this weekend has single handedly raised the price of accommodation for all the surrounding area- everyone has booked out anything vaguely close to Shanes’ cottage. He thinks Svetlana and Rose Landry have -bravely- taken Shanes’ spare rooms. Not rooms for the faint-eared, that’s all Hayden will say.
They fed the kids on the way up, stopping on one of many bathroom breaks, McDonalds paper bags and rogue fries tossed around the car like there was a mini cyclone, but at least they’re fed and half asleep in their car seats- fully asleep by the time they get them inside and into bed.
Mrs Hollander passes him on the way out, and he gratefully presses the spare keys into her hand- she and Mr Hollander are staying at their place and taking child sitting duties tonight, and Cliff Marleau is staying in the Hollander cottage, along with JJ, Troy Barrett, and Harris Drover and a couple of the other centaurs. From the group chat, he thinks there were two spare bedroom and a pull-out couch. Thank God it’s a small wedding, everyone’s already stacked up like logs, and the poor sods who are single are sharing whatever beds are free tonight. He thinks the Centaurs goalie mentioned he was camping, which honestly isn’t the worst idea.
”I’m more than happy to sit out your stag do, Shane.” Yuna Hollander had said, wryly, while they’d been planning logistics. Shane had gone red, but back then he’d thought he’d be sharing it with Ilya Rozanov. Now, Hayden knows Ilya probably passed them on the road, on his way into Ottawa.
”Hey, Hayds, Jacks” says Shane happily when they arrive on his doorstep, pulling them easily into a hug. Hayden’s never seen him at the cottage before- he looks loose. Easy. Free. But maybe he’s had a couple of drinks in him already. Hayden and Jackie are a little late- kids tend to do that to you-, but the pre-made plastic buckets of cocktails have already been broken into (a lavender-vodka spritzer, negroni, and a clear liquid optimistically labelled as “punch” that smells of cinnamon for some reason. Why Svetlana ordered this for a bunch of hockey players, Hayden couldn’t tell you.), two popped champagne bottles and countless novelty tiny paper umbrellas scattered across the kitchen countertop. There are beers in the fridge, thank God.
-
Four drinks in, and one of the other players wives (Cass? Cassidy? Cassie? He doesn’t know, it starts with C) pulls out a black box, saying “I wanted to wait until we were properly drunk, but Shane told me he’s never played…”, which makes Jackie shriek wordlessly and Rose drunk-shout “You’ve never played Cards Against Humanity? Oh my god, Shane, this was my after-rehearsal life in 2012”. Harris Drover says “girl, same”. Hayden has never heard of cards against humanity either, but he doesn’t want to mention it if this is the reaction it’s getting.
Five drinks in, and Hayden… Still doesn’t really get the game. It’s mostly pretty gross. Rose says, “I swear this was funnier when we were younger”, but she’s still laughing. The other guys are having fun with it, but Shane’s glued to his phone in-between his rounds. Hayden peers over his shoulder and reads I miss you, baby and I’d really like that before Shane notices and jerks the phone away.
”Hayden” he says, scowling. It’s pretty cute, actually. He’s like a little kitten.
”What!” says Hayden, hands up, “I’m not the one texting my fiancé at my bachelors’ party.”
”You definitely texted your fiancé at your bachelors’ party” says Shane, “I was there.”
”Aww babe” says Jackie, nudging Hayden, “that’s embarrassing.”
”You were texting back” hisses Shane. “Neither of you can say shit to me. Neither of you”.
-
Seven drinks in and… Listen, it takes Hayden an embarrassingly long time to realise that Shane’s gone missing. Like, an hour, easily. The guy said, “I’m just going to get a refill”, wandered off in the vague direction of the kitchen, and then never came back. If Haydens lost his best friends to fucking- bride snatchers, or something, he’ll never hear the end of it.
(In his head, bride snatchers are like- kidnappers who lie in wait to snatch brides before their big days, then ransom them back to the family for millions of dollars. Shane would be an ideal target- he’s handsome and he has plenty of very rich people willing to get him back. Obviously, though, they wouldn’t pay it- they’d all go on a badass action-movie-style-road trip to get him back. Rozanov and him would end the movie back-to-back with flamethrowers or some shit. Hayden might have had too many cocktails. Turns out they were pretty tasty.)
Hayden slides out of the game, which started as Bullshit and has since dissolved into a confused never-have-i-ever, complete with cards that are mostly used for throwing at people. He ducks down to press a kiss to Jackies’ head as he leaves, and wanders around Shanes’ house. He doesn’t call Shanes’ name, just peaks into every empty room. Everyone else is still in the lounge.
He opens the back door and- there they are.
Two figures, sitting on the end of the dock, illuminated by the fairy lights Rose and Svetlana strung around the garden, and the moon, high above them. He can hear their murmuring, drifting up to the house from the lake. One of the voices is distinctly Russian.
They’re a shadow, no distinct features, so they look like one being, with two heads leaning into each other.
Ruby’s been super into Greek myth lately, ever since Jackie got her some weird comic books about them. He might get her those Percy Jackson books soon, she’s a little young for them, but she tears through books like anything and maybe if they read them together- anyway. She told him about how the Greeks believed that humans used to have two heads, four arms, and four legs. Zeus feared their power, apparently, and split them into two, forcing them to spend their lives searching for their other half, their soulmate. Weird shit, but Ruby loves it.
In the moonlight, Shane and Ilya have fused back into one being.
Which is all very lovely, but Hayden doesn’t even know how Ilya ended up back at the lake. He’s supposed to be in Ottawa right now. There’s a meme Jackie sent him last week- she’s supposed to be at the club!
He pulls out his phone, tries to take a photo. His phone’s got night-sight, but it’s pretty shit. Still, he texts the blurry photo to Svetlana. He thinks about adding a snarky caption, missing something? but it doesn’t seem right. Svetlana heart reacts it and sends nothing else. A quiet moment of them both witnessing a quiet moment.
He closes the door behind him softly as he goes back inside.
-
Eight drinks in (he’s slowing down, sue him, he doesn’t actually want to be hungover tomorrow), and Harris checks his phone and says “hey, um- Troy says they lost Ilya like, a while ago, and they can’t find him anywhere and they’re all kinda freaking out about it. Cliff Marleau said something about bridenapping?”
didn’t you tell them? he texts Svetlana
lol Svetlana texts back.
-
5. Yuna Hollander, January 15th, 2022.
Yuna is the second person to know about her son getting engaged, and it’s not because Shane tells her, and it’s also not because Ilya tells her; it’s because David rings her while she’s at the farmers market and says “don’t freak out, Yuna. The boys took a dive into the lake and I’m driving them to the hospital, but they’re dry, we’re blasting the heater, this is just a precaution.”
Yuna (very calmly, not freaking out) puts down the heritage carrots she’d been inspecting and says “what?”. While moving out of the way of foot traffic, she’s not an animal.
”They’re fine, Yuna. Don’t rush home, I’m just letting you know why my car will be gone.”
”David” hisses Yuna, completely cool, “don’t tell me they were stupid enough to try skating. This winter’s been so mild, the ice is practically paper-thin.”
”Well” says David, and then a long suspicious pause. “I’m handing you over to Shane” he says, and then she hears the noise of rustling fabric, a clatter, and a muffled shit from her son.
”Shane?” she says.
”Shit, sorry, mom, I- my fucking fingers, I dropped the phone” says Shane, calling loudly but coming through faintly. She’d say language, but she’s long given up on curing his hockey mouth. He’s 31 years old; it’s not like he’s a kid anymore, even if she does wish he wouldn’t speak like that. He tries to tone it down around her, she knows, and she tries to be grateful for it. But. She’s not very good at being grateful, if what she has isn’t the best. High standards run in the family.
”Can you-“ says Shane, and Ilya says “I-I-I can t-try” through audibly clattering teeth. More rustles, the of something hitting the phone gently, then a “aha!”.
”Hey, mom” says Shane, a little gingerly.
”Hi Shane, honey.” Says Yuna. “Privet, Ilya.”
”Pr-privet. Yuna” says Ilya, except Yuna is broken up by chattering- Yu-na.
”So? What happened?”
”We were in a boat and we fell in. The rowboat, you know the one.”
”How did you overturn the boat?” she says. The silence is deafening. “Ah.”
”And the rowboat is- gone. Sorry. It was on fire, before it overturned.” Okay. Okay. Whatever. The rowboat was on fire. Sure.
”Why were you even in a boat? Shane, you don’t like them. Not enough for January.” She says. She didn’t think Ilya was all that keen on boats either.
”Well” says Shane, nervously. “I was- um. I was proposing. To Ilya. He said yes, by the way.”
”What?” says Yuna. She isn’t shouting. She’s very calm. She doesn’t know why everyone in the vicinity is looking at her.
-
Shane had been an incredibly late baby. Aka “2 and a half weeks past his due date” kind of late. Aka “had an appointment to induce labour in three days time” kind of late.
Yuna wishes she could say she was patient. That she cradled her swollen belly, wrapped in chiffon robes on a beautiful beach, serene like the Mother Mary, murmuring gently to him that it was okay to come out, they were waiting for him, it would be alright. That he was loved, and wanted, and they were eager to meet him. It was all technically true, but being 40-going-on-41-weeks pregnant made Yuna snappish. She missed her feet.
So Yuna did not look like Beyoncés’ pregnancy photos. Yuna did not sound like an ASMR podcaster. Yuna mock-punched her belly (mock! The key word here is mock!) and said, “come out, you fat bastard.”. She said it fondly though.
Her labour started roughly two hours later.
The fat bastard (affectionately! With love!) took 27 hours of labour and broke her fucking tail bone. The epidural couldn’t come fast enough, is all she’s saying.
The nurses were ecstatic with him. He was the fattest fucking baby the hospital had ever had. Already breaking records on his first day on Earth- his rolls were the most magnificent, his face the chubbiest, his butt the cutest. He had a crowd of five cooing nurses around his cot within the hour.
One nurse was Québécois, and she kept murmuring "rondelet garçon... Très rondelet garçon. Bon. Très bon. Très rondelet."
Yuna, high on pain meds, proudly told a steadily crying David that their son was "the best. Just the best, Dave. Look at him. Look at him. A baby that fat is going to conquer the goddamn world."
She was right. She always is.
-
And then there’s her other son, whose birth she did not witness, and whose fatness she cannot attest to. She hopes he was also a very fat baby. She hopes that if they’d been in the same hospital, Irina and her could’ve delighted over their fat babies together.
Ilya, she has learnt, is a man who you know everything and nothing about.
When Yuna had moved to Canada, dragged along by her parents’, she had hated everything. Hated school, hated the girls and the boys there, hated the peanut butter sandwiches they ate, hated the national anthem they were forced to sing, hated the way English clogged up her mouth like a slimy toad, hated the snow that felt different to her snow, and the trees that were different to her trees, and the birds that were so foreign and unknown to her. Nothing could be done about it. No amount of crying would convince her parents to let her go home.
But one day her school had a book fair, and she brought home a great thick book of Canadian Birds. A field guide, well used and well loved, with tabbed down corners and with a rip on the Stellars’ Jay page. Her parents bought her a bird feeder, and Yuna used her pocket money on seeds, read the bird book, and learnt to love her new home.
Here is something she learnt, from that book: the Killdeer is a small shorebird, found across most of Canada during the breeding season. It flies south for the winter. It nests in pebbles and isn’t too fussy, which is how you find their nests in gravel parking lots and on open lawns. A funny little thing.
But here’s the interesting part; it would fake a broken wing, to protect its’ nest. It would drag its’ weakness behind it, crying out pathetically, and the predator would go for the parent- after all, the eggs weren’t going anywhere, and this was easy meat. And the killdeer would keep hopping just a litttleeee bit out of reach, again and again, the predator following, until the predator was completely lost. And then the killdeer would take off, leaving the fox or coyote or what-have-you with an empty stomach and no idea how to get back to where they started. Sometimes it didn’t work. Sometimes the predators got two meals. What a contradiction! They’ll lay their nests in the stupidest of locations and then defend that nest with their lives.
Yuna thinks Ilya is a little bit like a killdeer. You know everything about him- look at this Russian boy-child-man, who’s succumbed to capitalist excess. His gluttony, his hunger for booze and women and expensive clothing and fast cars. Everyone knows he does drugs during the off-season (and probably sometimes during the season too). Everyone knows the league doesn’t care, because he’s their prized golden goose. Look how everything is handed to him on a silver platter. Look how he reaches for it with sticky hands.
Why would you look closer? You won’t find anything. He’s a shallow, brainless man, who thinks with his cock and not much else. Vacuous. Yuna saw a post once- a picture of Ilya, grinning, with the caption “he’s such an orange boy cat. Himbo legend. Absolutely NOTHING going on behind those eyes <3”.
The killdeer has fooled everyone, even her- she thought she was so clever, that she saw past his façade. She thought she saw a highly capable leader, a man with a massive hockey IQ (not quite rivalling Shanes, but up there) but no emotional IQ. She thought she saw a shark, bloodthirsty and soulless.
There’s no animal. There isn’t even a bird, not really. Only a man. A man who play-wrestles with Shane in the morning, snapping his teeth like a puppy, and then discusses Chechnya over a glass of vodka at night, as grave and serious as- well, as any tombstone. A man who gets flowers delivered to her door on mothers’ day and her birthday, and to Shanes’ door whenever the Metros’ thrash the Admirals. A man who cleans her parents’ graves, and takes to them without self-consciousness, and calls them “obaachan” and ojiichan”, coached through the syllables of her home language by Shane. A man who can get Shanes’ shoulders to slacken, his stubborn jaw to relax, his mouth to smile. A man who loves her son.
Once, in the early days, she mentions the drug rumours. She doesn’t remember what she’d said- some pointed, probing question. Ilya had shrugged.
”People forget I am an athlete, and they test us all.” he says, a funny little smile on his face, “I have not touched anything stronger than weed since- long before America. And never close to the season- I’m not stupid. But people believe what they want to believe.”
She regrets it now- the questions, the way she didn’t welcome Ilya with open arms. She regrets that she treated him with suspicion for- a good, shameful number of months. She did not know him, the real Ilya. Shane didn’t notice, she doesn’t think, but Ilya notices- everything. A lot more perceptive than people think. Thank God, he doesn’t hold her prejudice against her. Thank God, if the world is kind they’ll have time, and one day she’ll know Ilya as well as she knows Shane. For now, she’s still learning.
-
Here’s something new; he has opinions. Lots of them. Specifically, about the wedding.
Yuna was expecting to quietly plan most of it, to be honest.
She doesn’t want to be- a boy mom. It’s her deepest fear, ever since she heard the term snickered behind her back at Shanes’ hockey practice. Boy mom, tiger mom, micromanaging, making the whole day about her. She’d rather die. But she also thinks if she left it to Shane, it would be at the cottage, in his favourite, most worn-in hoodie, with something vital forgotten, like chairs.
She drives home from the farmers market, opens her laptop, and starts making a spreadsheet, trying to distract herself from driving to the hospital herself. The vegetables have been left on the kitchen counter.
”What about when you want everyone to leave, but there’s still ten guests dotted around your house, catering staff everywhere, ten million dishes to be done, and a bunch of trash to be collected?” she says, a few days later, and Shane makes a disgruntled noise. “What if you have the wedding at the lake at our place, and then you can go back to your cottage afterwards?”
”I’ll talk to Ilya, but that sounds- good.” he says.
He doesn’t get a chance to talk to Ilya about it, as far as she knows; Shane is back to normal within a few days. Ilya, however, is not.
”Mild pneumonia” says Shane over the phone, while Ilya hacks up half a lung miserably in the background. “Mild, though, really. The doctors think he already had a cold incubating and then- the water, and the smoking makes him more at risk of it developing into an infection. So.”
Yuna thinks: Shane has to practice and go away for games. They’re still in the playoffs. The centaurs are pretty fucked without Ilya, but they won’t go down without a fight. Ilya will be alone. Who will cook him soup, who will rest their hand against his sweaty forehead and brush away the curls? Who will make sure his fever doesn’t get too high, and drive him to the doctors if it does? Who will fill the plastic sick bowl with hot water and tea tree oil, and drape the towel over his head like he’s a bird in a cage being put to bed?
Yuna thinks: about a week in August, three and a half years ago now (how did time keep slipping away like that?). A house guest, who slunk around like a stray cat. Food that disappeared in the dead of night, because Ilya refused to take seconds at dinner. He took the exact same amount as Yuna and David, even though Yuna knew he should be eating more. Some kind of dog instinct, to appease the alpha (except, that’s not true, is it? She remembers reading that. Ugly human hierarchy, imposed on wolves). The dishes that didn’t even seem to get used, because they were cleaned and dried and put away before she or David could notice. The way Ilya was perfectly convivial, when they saw him. Not a single swear word passed his lips. He helped in the garden, and helped with dinner, and washed the dishes, and then went home, the day before Shane was due to arrive back. She found his sheets in the washing machine, already spinning away.
Yuna thinks: she will always be a mother. She knew she would be, when that first test came back positive, and then thought she wouldn’t be, when the blood pooled in the bath, and then continued to bleed, and continued to think she wouldn’t be, until Shane made it past three months, and continued to make it, and then she knew it in the abstract- something you know, but can never know. How to explain it to her pre-Shane self? Her entire being changed, and yet she is still Yuna. It sounds so simple- to be a mother is to love your child and look after them. Yes. But Yuna has band-aids in her bag, even though Shane has a team of medics at his beck and call. She cradles the Pike children with practiced hands. It will never, ever leave her.
Her son has pneumonia and she feels a clench in her stomach, thinks oh sweetheart, come home, even though she did not raise Ilya, and their home is not his. She forgets, sometimes.
”Is your spare room still set up?” she asks.
”Sure. Why?” says Shane.
Yuna thinks: ask. Do not barge in. Be respectful of your sons’ space and reasonable boundaries.
And then Yuna thinks: but then Ilya will say no. I won’t let him say no.
”I’m coming over.” She says. Stating, not asking.
It’s dirty play. Shane is grateful someone is going to look after Ilya, and Ilya is too sick to put up a fair fight. She packs a bag, kisses David on the cheek, and gets into the car.
-
Those opinions, the ones she mentioned- Ilya does not express any of them for the first week, because he spends that week less than a man. A slug-like existence. He sleeps, and wakes for her to funnel chicken soup or medication down his throat and then he sleeps again. He insists on moving to the couch during the day, and back to bed at night, moving slow, ponderous steps. It is the only time he has ever seemed big to her, because she thinks- shit. If he falls, I won’t be able to get him back up.
He hacks up massive wads of phlegm and then hacks up even more. Some of it is black, which has her rushing to call an ambulance before Ilya stops her.
”Some of this isn’t the- sickness” he says. He’s been struggling with English, his tired brain barely keeping up. Pneumonia was a word he hadn’t even heard before the hospital, and she doesn’t expect him to remember it now.
”I stop smoking” he says, “five months ago.” She exclaims “Ilya” and he waves her off. “I did not want to tell, in case I- uh. Un-stop. Fucking- word.”
”Fall off the wagon” she suggests.
”Sure. I have fallen off the wagon before.” He says, “but that shit- in my. Um.” He gestures to his chest. “going. Um. Over? No, up. Going up. It’s a bitch, Yuna. There is- fuck. The road stuff is in there.”
Which- what? Road stuff. Oh. Tar. The black stuff is tar. There’s tar in his lungs, from smoking.
”And it’s- it’s okay? That you’re coughing it up now?” she says.
”Yes. Doctors say it’s good, there are- uh. Stuff on head.”
”Hair?”
“Yes. There is hair in there. Kind of. It moves? And smoking bad for it, but it is coming back to life. I don’t know, Yuna, my head hurts and I barely understand in Russian. Sorry.”
”That’s alright, honey. I’m sorry for pushing. I’m proud of you, though.”
”Thank you” he says, already curling back up under the covers.
-
”What are you looking at?” he says behind her a few days later, making her jump. His voice is groggy, his accent thick and the words slurring, but- clearer, than it was. When she turns, she sees he’s sitting up on the couch, wearing a thick quilt like a cape, a Boston Raiders’ hoodie peeking through, his feet in the fluffiest socks she’s ever seen. He’s a lot better. His fever’s gone down, he was awake for an hour yesterday.
”I’m looking at options for the wedding, sweetie” she says, “there’s a- lot of options, for a lot of things, and they all need decisions to be made.”
She brings the laptop over, sitting down next to him, and he peers over her shoulder at approximately 500 napkins in various shades of white and makes a face, red nose wrinkling. She feels vaguely justified in taking over planning, his obvious male disgust at the nitty gritty pretty details, but then he says firmly-
”No, these are all shit. Ugly. And anyway, we won’t have napkins. Too much hassle, and stupid amount of money. Paper napkins, less hassle, save on cleanup, save on money. Less fancy, yes, but we won’t invite anyway who cares.”
It’s- surprising. Not unwelcome, to be clear. But Shane would shrug and say, “whatever you think is best”, 90% of the time. He’s similar to David, in that way- neither of them are interesting in pretending to care about things that don’t hold their interest.
”Okay” she says carefully, “I’m just- are either of you planning on inviting your coaches? Or the GM, or press manager, there’s appearances to keep up-“
”No.” says Ilya. No room for argument. “None of them. It’s- this is for us. Nobody else. Nobody will be there that we do not want to be there, and we do not want journalists, and we do not want coaches, or PR, or higher ups. Sorry, Yuna.”
Yuna thinks longingly of Scott Hunters’ beautiful, beautiful wedding. At the Metropolitan Museum of Art, because his husband is an art guy. An exclusive guest list of 200, including some of the highest ranked members of the NHL. No expense spared. Press. A Vanity Fair spread. She says goodbye to her dreams.
”That’s okay.” She says. Then, an olive branch- “do you want me to stop looking?”
”No, you can look at stuff if you want. But- maybe.” He looks down at his hands for a second. The engagement ring, on his right hand- the Russian way, apparently. It’s a thin black ring with a gold inlay. Raiders’ colours; but they’re both Centaurs’ now, her boys together in Ottawa, so maybe it’s just Ilyas’ colours.
”I think” he says, very carefully, “you can look. It is helpful, to have opinions, and you have good taste. But don’t make decisions without me, please? Shane does not care. But I do. And sometimes our taste is different.”
Oh, Ilya. Yuna will have to scrap all her spreadsheets. And make new ones, with him.
”Of course, honey” she says.
It won’t be the wedding she wanted. But it’ll be Shane and Ilyas’.
6. Cliff Marleau, a texting interlude. August 6th, 2022 . ??
Rozzie
Sat, 6th Aug 12.14 AM
Person A: bro where tf are you
Person A: no seriously where are you
Person A: ilya I swear to god
-
|
wedding bells |
||
|
You, Barrett, Boodram, Carmichael, Connors, Dykstra |
-
Rozzie
Sat, 06 Aug 12.14 AM
Person A: bro where tf are you
Person A: no seriously where are you
Person A: ilya I swear to god
Sat, 06 Aug 01.11 AM
Person A: do you want your old job back. I don’t wanna be captain anymore.
-
|
|
wedding bells |
||
|
You, Barrett, Boodram, Carmichael, Connors, Dykstra |
-
Rozzie
Sat, 06 Aug 12.14 AM
Person A: bro where tf are you
Person A: no seriously where are you
Person A: ilya I swear to god
Sat, 06 Aug 01.11 AM
Person A: do you want your old job back. I don’t wanna be captain anymore.
Sat, 06 Aug 01.56 AM
Person A: you better not be fucking dead.
Person B: Эййй, угадай что? Таксист дал нам алкоголь
Person A: holy shit ilya you scared us
Person B: нет хорошего алкоголя
Person B: Бедному да вору всякая одежда впору!!
Person A: ilya buddy I have no fucking clue what that all means.
Person B: Марли. ты мой лучший друг. я тебя люблю.
Person A: that’s great bud.
Person A: where are you????
Person B: Я с моей любовью)))) <3<3<3
Person A: can we please try it again in english? Please?
Person B: Джейн! мы женимся! Завтра!
Person A: French if English is non-negotiable?
Person B: ох черт, это сегодня.
Person B: ух ты. я не могу ждать ))
Person A: yeah buddy i got none of that
Person B: Всё нормально))
Seen
-
|
|
wedding bells |
||
|
You, Barrett, Boodram, Carmichael, Connors, Dykstra |
-
7. David Hollander, August 6th, 2022. The Cottage.
The day of their boys wedding dawns with bright, organised chaos.
They’d slept through the whole bachelors’ parties last night in the spare room at the Pikes’ Airbnb, only waking when Hayden and Jackie came in, so late David only remembers hearing the door and then falling straight back to sleep. Yuna wakes up before him, checks the group chat, and immediately starts freaking out, which wakes him- apparently, Ilya went missing last night. He scrolls down to see that Hayden already found him, but she’s already out the door, rushing over in her dressing gown to Shanes’ cottage. She finds them both asleep on the jetty, wrapped in one of the outdoor blankets from the storage bin by the fire, so the only thing that’s hurt is her nervous system.
”They’ll be lucky if they’re not covered in mosquito bites on their wedding day.” she says, huffy with irritation and stress, “they’ll be lucky if they’re not covered in ticks or leeches, oh my god”. David tries to get her to lie down with him, just for a little bit longer, c’mon love, but she’s stiff as a board.
”It’s no use, I’m up” she says, flinging herself out of bed after five minutes.
He takes a brief moment to the mourn the morning he’d hoped they’d have- one where they hid under the covers and reminisced on their kid, their marriage, thirty one years since they brought Shane home from the hospital, nine months of love before they even met him, two years of heartbreak before that, two more miscarriages after until they admitted that yes, Shane would be their one and only.
But Yuna has never been the kind for nostalgia or lazy mornings even on the most relaxed, plan-free day, and she wouldn’t be the woman he loves if she was.
So, David gets up too out of solidarity, already mourning the warmth of bed- it’s going to be a stunningly summer day, he can tell, even though dawns’ rosy fingers are only just stretching over the horizon, but warm later does not mean it’s warm now.
They drive back to their place for breakfast- the home-made granola whose recipe has been perfected with years of experimentation.
Every so often Yuna remembers the concept of mindful eating, and they have a brief no-phones-at-the-table period before inevitably one or both of them fall off the wagon, but today, Yuna is glued to her phone, scrolling through the expansive collection of google docs and spreadsheets, the emails from the make-up artist, photographer, confirmation from the registrar, the texts from Rose confirming the suits are safely in her room at the Cottage (custom made in LA, tailored in Ottawa, collected and driven up in her rental car Wednesday.). The cake is taking up most of their fridge space- Cliff brought that up from Boston, Ilyas’ favourite bakery when he lived there. Marleau’s a nice kid, despite the fact Yuna will never forgive him for hurting Shane. He hopes he wasn’t too stressed-out last night.
Yuna misses her mouth, and David gets to watch the spoon poke into her cheek. How lucky he is.
The first sign of life from Shane is a text, im awale. Second ping- in awake. Third ping- I give up. morning. Ah, his boy. Normally up at dawn, like Yuna, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, but apparently sleeping on a wooden dock will make even the earliest morning bird groggy.
How are you supposed to greet your son, who’s getting married today? The one who you cradled in the palm of your hand when he was born, red faced and wrinkly? The kid who grinned up at you with a gap-toothed smile? How do you acknowledge the weight of it all?
sleep well? says David, instead of trying to articulate the feeling in his chest, something caught in-between anxiety and joy.
Then, ping, a picture of Shane scowling at his phone, mug caught in the motion of being lifted to his lips. Hair flattened on one side and sticking straight up on the other side. There’s a wet patch on his chest- drool, presumably. The culprit is the one taking the photo- Davids’ other son.
he just missed his mouth and spilt coffee down his shirt says Ilya. Like mother, like son.
-
Despite their early morning, they don’t actually end up going over to the Cottage until just after 10am- they did most of the decorating on Thursday, the girls (aka Rose and Svetlana) did a great job with fairy lights everywhere, and the garden arch David installed at the end of the garden earlier in the year and Yuna planted with Blue Sky vine is blooming, a riot of blue-purple flowers. But the chairs need to go out, since they’re rentals and have been sheltering from the elements in the shed since Wednesday, and the cushions too, and Yuna needs to fuss with everything until it’s perfect, and then they both need showers, and the house is full of hockey players.
Thank God for their ensuite, is all David’s saying, since Troy has been in the main bathroom for the last half an hour, JJ banging on the door, c’mon, Barrett!. The hot water supply is usually plentiful for two people; it’s long gone cold.
Cliff is hunched over a cup of coffee, face hidden in a hoodie.
”How’s it going, groomsman?” says David as he passes. Cliff grunts. Fair enough.
Shower, suit on (dark grey with purple tones, with a dark lavender tie), nothing in his hair, done. Yuna going to take longer to get ready, but David takes his own loop around the house while she’s in the shower. The chairs are laid out, the speakers set up on the grass, the ugly-but-practical trestle table nestled next to the porch, ready for food. They’re not doing a sit-down dinner, just finger foods before and after the ceremony. The flowers were delivered yesterday, already at the cottage, and the garden has exceeded expectations, bursting into blooms and filling the air with scent and bees. The cake hasn’t magically disappeared from the fridge, and David lets in Kathy and her son Tom, who are doing catering today, and they quickly take over the kitchen.
When Yuna comes down, his breath is taken away. Her hair is twisted up into a loose bun and her face is clear, since they’ll be doing hair and makeup at the cottage. Her dress is simple, yet elegant, dark green silk (real silk, not shiny faux stuff. It’s rough against his palms). It shouldn’t be a surprise; how gorgeous she is. Funny, how that can still happen- he thinks he knows her body better than he knows his own, and yet. And yet.
”You look beautiful” he says, and folds her into his arms, pressing a kiss to the crown of her hair. She slumps against him briefly, one quiet moment before the storm continues.
-
When they enter the cottage, it’s- people everywhere. Music playing out of a portable speaker, although it’s low enough it’s being drowned out by the hubbub of people talking. The two younger Pike kids are weaving between peoples’ legs, cackling with laughter, Hayden bullying his way through the crowd after them, his shirt untucked from his pants, suit jacket absent. David is sure they started the morning in the right clothes, but Amber, 5, is in her undies and nothing else, and Arthur, 7, small for his age, is in her princess dress. He scans the room, but Arthurs’ suit is completely missing from the picture. Ruby and Jade, 11, are firmly in the middle of the crowd of goddess women in the kitchen, makeup scattered and four mirrors set up on the counter. The girls look blissed out under the capable hands of Rose Landry and Lisa Hayes; their hair is being braided into crowns.
There are flowers to go into their braids for the Pike girls, Svetlana and Rose, waiting in the fridge, of all places, in plastic boxes with moist paper towels- apparently it’s the best way to keep them fresh. At the time, Svetlana had said “aren’t flower crowns a little 2016” and Rose said, “oh, it’s coming around again!” and David had pretended he’d known flower crowns had been “in” in the first place. Yuna has a posey to tuck behind her ear, but claimed she was too old for flower crowns. David disagreed at the time and disagrees now.
Minus the few stragglers Yuna and David left at their place, the lounge is full of the rest of the wedding party, two entire hockey teams and a more than a few hangers-on packed into the room, a collection of suit jackets thrown carelessly over the back of the sofas, a dozen hair products discarded on the coffee table. To think this is a small wedding, technically- the amount of people in this house is a fire hazard.
Ilya and Shane are in the centre of the chaos, a circle of clear space around them. Shane is doing up Ilyas’ cufflinks, but Ilyas’ hand is resting with his knuckles against Shanes’ breastbone, unnecessarily close. Neither of them look nervous. Good. That’s good. God knows David was a nervous wreck on his wedding day, but Shane and Ilya always seem to be steadiest when the other is near.
Shanes’ suit is a dark lavender, the exact match to Davids’ tie, which David doesn’t even know how the girls talked him into, but he looks great. He suspects Ilya was recruited in their campaign against black, grey, or blue suits, headed by Rose and backed by Svetlana. Off-white shirt, waistcoat but no tie, tan brogues. He’s been growing his hair slightly longer, his bangs curling into hearts on his forehead. There’s a small fern design embroidered over his pocket in dark green.
Ilyas’ is that exact dark green, embroidered with native flowers- Black Eyed Susans, Goldenrods, New England Asters, White Yarrow, all the flowers waiting for them in their garden, purples and blues and yellows. Shanes’ pocket is empty, but he’s got a matching posey waiting for him, just like his mother. Ilyas’ shirt is also off-white (although David’s sure it’s got some fancy name, like almost-not-quite-eggshell), no waistcoat. The shirt’s not scandalously low, but there are just the right number of buttons left open so you can see Ilyas’ necklace peeking through at his throat.
Daniella, the makeup artist, has clearly already finished with them, and is fluttering over Svetlana, who’s sprawled out on a chair she’s dragging into the kitchen from the lounge, looking every inch a queen being attended by her handmaidens. Yuna lets her hand brush his elbow as she leaves him for them, Svetlanas’ court graciously handed over to the true Queen. David meets Shanes’ eyes, waves at his son, and then goes to find a quiet corner.
Eventually, the noise of getting ready dies down into the noise of gentle conversation. Daniella quickly goes from Svetlana to Yuna to Rose, helps with the Pike kids even though that wasn’t on her brief (she’s a sweet girl, friend of Roses from Toronto, apparently), and then packs up and leaves, pausing to wish Shane and Ilya well. The plastic boxes have been cracked open, flowers distributed, David tucking the little sprig of flowers behind Yunas’ ear, Ilya doing the same to Shanes’ pocket.
Yuna checks her watch, saying “it’s time to move” to Shane. Before Shane can attempt to get everyone’s attention, Ilya brings his fingers to his mouth and lets out a piercing whistle, cutting through the noise.
”LISTEN UP, CHUCKLEFUCKS. We’re moving out, chop chop!”, he roars. Well, David couldn’t have said it better if he tried, although he can see Arthur mouth chucklefuck. He hopes the Pikes forgive Ilya for that one.
”HERD” scream the Centaur-adjacent people back. Cliff shakes his head.
-
It both does and doesn’t get quieter at their place. Allie, the photographer, has arrived and been let in by Kathy, and she starts taking people out the back. Shane and Ilya first, hands linked as they pull each other into the garden, then Shane and Ilya and Yuna and David, then the entire party, and an hour passes before she says, “I think we’re all done here, well done everyone!” and they’re all released back into the main crowd in the house.
Finally allowed out of house arrest, most of the guests head out to the garden to mingle and find their seats, but Ilya is mobbed by groomsmen who, despite the rehearsal dinner, have forgotten the what and where and when-s. Shane, only looking a little frazzled now that he’s been separated from Ilya, is being ribbed gently by Hayden. Amber has been wrestled into Arthurs’ suit, since Arthur could not be persuaded to relinquish the princess dress. The ring box is in Haydens’ hand, thankfully, supervised by an adult until the last possible second. Ruby and Jade, baskets of flowers in hand, are huddled close to their mother, anxious that she’ll leave her children to find her seat soon, the only Pike not to have a role in the wedding itself. David hopes she doesn’t mind. Too late if she does.
The knock on the door makes them all freeze, like foxes hearing the hunting bugle. Hayden actually jumps a little bit. The groomsmen scatter. Shane clutches onto Ilyas’ sleeve, wrinkling the fabric, Ilya bending down to whisper something in his ear. Yuna is frowning slightly at them, obviously considering getting out the portable steamer.
Nobody makes a move towards the door. David heaves himself up and does it himself.
”Hi.” Says the justice of the peace, a white guy a little bit older than him. He’s in a slightly shabby suit, that doesn’t quite fit right. “I’m James Crawford, I’ll be your wedding officiant today”.
”David” he says, shaking the guys’ hand. He hopes his palms aren’t too sweaty. “Father of the grooms.”
”Pleasure.” says James Crawford, moving inside. “Shane and Ilya, I presume? We spoke on the phone.”
”Nice to meet you” says Ilya, moving to shake his hand too.
”Do you want to show me where we’re doing this, so I can set up? And then we’ll get this show on the road in, say, fifteen minutes if that sounds good to everyone?”
”Of course” says Yuna, leading him out the garden to their make-shift aisle, Ilya trailing behind, the rest of the wedding party flowing out, leaving Shane and David alone in the living room.
David will be walking Ilya up the aisle- him and Yuna pretty much tossed a coin to see who would take who. Of course, Ilya is already their son, and Shane is a husband in all the important ways, but in half an hour Ilya will be their son, truly, legally, and Shane will be a husband. His son, his boy, his baby, all grown up.
He thinks if he hugs Shane, Yuna will have a fit about wrinkled suits. He pulls his son into his arm anyway, careful not to crush the flowers. They have time for the portable steamer, if they need it, and they’ve already taken photos.
”I’m so proud of you, Shane.” He says. “I- I couldn’t be prouder of the man you’ve become.”
”Dad” protests Shane.
”And Ilya- you did a really good job there.”
”You’re just saying that because you can’t wait for him to be your son officially.”
”Well, duh Shaney, we weren’t exactly hiding that. Listen, I know we weren’t- I wish we’d been better parents. I wish you’d been able to come to us sooner, about so many things. If I could do it again, I wouldn’t change a thing about you, but- we could’ve done a better job. But you did good, kiddo. You’ve done so good.”
”Dad” says Shane, the same uncomfortable squirm he’s had since he was a kid, forced into the wrong socks to attend church with his grandparents, “I have makeup on, you can’t make me cry.”
”I know, Ilya was very concerned about the freckle visibility” he says, “but really, I’m just the warmup. You’ll have to face your mother next.”
The face Shane makes is enough answer to that one. Good luck, kid, that’s all David can say. He thinks Yuna has been working on her pre-aisle-walk speech with the same intensity as Shane has been working on his vows.
There is more David would like to say. If he could articulate it all, it would be something along the lines of:
You are the best of all of us. You are the best at everything you love, and that includes hockey, and that includes loving Ilya. I don’t know where you got that trait, but I’m so glad. You are beautiful when you skate, and I’ve thought that since you first stepped on the ice, even though I’ve never said it, because the word beautiful isn’t meant for men. Did the way the camcorder shook in my hands when I filmed your first, tentative steps convey the same feeling? Sometimes I wish you’d never discovered hockey, so you never learnt shame, and you never learnt to hide yourself from the world, from us. Sometimes I think it’s our fault; sometimes I know it. Sometimes I wish we’d packed up and moved to a country without ice, spared you the heartbreak, but then I’m afraid you would’ve killed yourself. I still have your first skates. They fit into the palm of my hand, but the blades could still cut deep. Sometimes I think your relationship with your mother is unhealthy, that we both let her get away with too much. Sometimes I’m glad you’re still so close to us. I’m so glad you were born, that you were the one who survived, even though that’s fucked up. Sometimes I wish one of the others had survived instead, those nameless bundle of cells, even though that’s fucked up; the kindest life for you is the one where you were never born. Then, you’d never have been hurt. I’m glad you’ve been hurt, because you were alive to feel it. I’m sorry for thinking all this. I’m so glad we’re here, today. I wouldn’t change a thing. You are the best of us all.
But there are things you can’t say without hurting people, even if they are true.
”C’mon” David says instead, “they’re waiting for you.”
They both go out into the sun.
-
7.5. An addendum, 7th August, 2022. The Cottage.
Ah, paperwork. The true test of a marriage.
Roughly seven months ago, they all sat down around this table to start planning the wedding. Now, newlywed, Shane and Ilya are putting their devotion to one another to the test, their chairs tucked close, heads bent down, knees knocking together, dearly beloveds gathered here today to fill out the truly romantic Application For Marriage Certificate Or Registration Photocopy (VSA 430M), and two copies of Application to Change an Adult's Name.
David is coaxing a double-shot espresso out of the old coffee machine, the one relegated to their holiday home when they got a new one for their Ottawa place six Christmases ago. He isn’t sure why Shane and Ilya are in their kitchen, and not at the Cottage, but he doesn’t ask. He’d never complain about getting more time with them.
There’s a slice of cake next to Ilyas’ arm that he keeps almost (but not quite) sticking his elbow into- Ilya insisted he wanted leftover cake for breakfast, but David suspects it was mostly an attempt to rile Shane up, since it hasn’t been touched since. It worked- Shane already has an ongoing thing about breakfast, and you could almost see smoke come out of his ears as he said, that’s just empty calories, Ilya! It’s pure sugar, you’re going to crash in two hours, and you’ll feel like shit and you’ll complain to me, you’re an athlete, oh my god, how do you not know these things-. Ilya had been grinning like a loon the entire time, tongue poking out between his teeth.
”Shane” whines Ilya, “it is the day after our wedding day. We could be doing anything other than this.”
”Better to get it over with” says Shane serenely, “and tomorrow we’re leaving for our honeymoon, and after that we’ll start pre-season training.”
Ilya mumbles something nonsensical along the lines of I’ll show you pre-season training, but settles down, pen scratching into paper, ring clicking against the pen.
-
(The paperwork gets returned a month later. Ilya is spitting mad down the phone- apparently, “Moscow” was not a sufficient answer to “where were you born?”, and they wanted Basmanny, Moscow, the tupyye idioty v pravitel'stve, it’s all the same goddamn city-, and Ilya has to fill the whole thing out again.
O, Canada!)
8. Teddy Jones, August 6th, 2026. New York.
Teddy would hazard a guess that the guy bursts into the shop like the hounds of hell are on his heels is a tourist. It’s just a hunch, but he’s wearing a “I LOVE NY” t-shirt. He’s breathing heavily, curls bouncing around his head like a halo.
”Hey?” says Teddy, then, “hey, are you alright?”
”I’ve been to every florist in this fucking city” says the guy. He’s Russian, huh. He looks- a little crazy, to be honest. Something around the eyes.
”Oh” says Teddy, “sorry?”
”Nobody has good flowers. All stupid- roses. And hydrangeas. Anemones, even though I know those are for fish. None of you are good like Madeline. Help me, you are only last hope.”
”Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi” says Teddy, before he can stop himself. The guy looks at him.
”Yes.” He says gravely.
”Okay” says Teddy, “what are you looking for?”
”I need purple cala lilies. That is easy. But then I need New England Asters, Goldenrods, White Yarrow and Lazy Susans-“
”Black eyed Susan?”
”Yes, that.”
”Okay. When do you need them by?”
”I need them today. It’s- every year I order them, but we were not supposed to be in New York, it is this last minute shit, Чёртова штука UnderArmour, Как будто мы не богаче Бога-“ Teddy only got UnderArmour. Like, the clothing brand? “My florist- Madeline- she orders them special, but my flowers are sitting back in Ottawa, dying, and the кусок дерьма авиакомпания lost my luggage and his gift, so my marriage is screwed, basically.”
”I’m sure it’s not that bad” says Teddy.
”It is” says the guy, darkly. Geez. Might need marriage counselling, not flowers, Mr Russian Guy.
”Okay” says Teddy soothingly, “yep, I’ve got cala lilies. But we might have to do some substitutions for the rest, are you okay with that?”
”I have no choice.” says the guy, sounding weary to his bones. Like the British government during WW2, making the order to sacrifice Convoy PQ-17 to keep the breaking of the Enigma code secret. Yes, Teddy watched The Imitation Game recently, what of it. It’s a great film!
”New England Asters- well, I don’t have those exactly, but I’ve got blue asters. You’re in luck because I do have goldenrod. No yarrow, but maybe babys’ breath?”
”Okay” says the guy, a flicker of hope behind his eyes. Like a beautiful candle, bursting into flame against the darkness.
”And you’re very, very lucky, because I don’t have Black eyed Susans, but I have a little patch of my own plants on the roof space, and I have Jerusalem artichokes, which is closer in look than your average daisy.”
”Yes. Please”
”Promise you won’t rob me if I pop up there now?”
”Scott from Scotts’ flowers” says the man, seriously, “I did not come to you first because a man named Scott lives in New York and is my enemy. But I was wrong- I was prejudiced. I will defend your flower shop with my life.”
Teddy isn’t sure how to explain that Scott was his grandfather, and that the shop has been open almost seventy years. He lets it slide. They have a random Russian mans’ marriage to save.
-
9. Rose Landry, August 6th, 2022. The Cottage.
How strange, to think Svetlana and her barely knew each other seven months ago. How strange, to think being placed in a group chat with Shanes’ mom was the start of something- else. No shade to Yuna! But. But. It’s something new to Rose. They’d met before, briefly, at the so-called “Pity Party” Ilya had thrown after the Centaurs had been kicked out of playoffs, that first year in Ottawa, but they’d been strangers then. Rose had admired her across the room, and then gone back to chatting with Jackie, who was a known element at that point.
Now, Rose wakes up in Los Angeles, and Svetlana, three hours ahead, has already wished her good morning. They text, all day- Rose gets so much shit for how she automatically reaches for her phone, as soon as there’s a break in filming. It started out as wedding stuff and now it’s- my coworker keeps blasting EDM and he’s sick and coughing everywhere. I’ll kill him for you. what if I got into knitting. do it, babe. pictures of their lunch. omg that looks good, can I have some? Yeah sure, come over. On my way!
That’s another thing- babe. Rose has never called anyone babe in her life. She’s always wanted to be someone who could casually call her friends endearments- apparently, it’s not a choice, sometimes it just comes out. She ignores the fact it’s only Svetlana. How it’s all only Svetlana.
She ignores how excited she is, to fly up to Ottawa, because she’ll see Svetlana again. Poor Shane. It’s his wedding, and all she wants is to spend time with the grooms’ best man.
-
”She’s stunning” sighed Rose down the phone line. Shane was in a hotel in the middle of Vegas for the NHL awards, having kicked Ilya out for drinks and/or a Vegas bar fight, whichever came first. He pretended to disapprove, but Rose knew Shane had a thing for bruises, for violence, for Ilyas’ ability to punch a mans’ lights out. She was home for the week, hiding in the cow shed (singular cow, named Rosie, thanks Indy) from her brothers, who, if they had heard she was on the phone with Shane Hollander, would’ve started offering unwanted hockey advice and/or beg him to take their ungrateful sister back and make a hockey-god-baby with her. They’d only be half joking. Poor Rosie, kept up past her bedtime by Rose, kept moo-ing in the background of the call, low and gentle.
”Are you sure you don’t want her to do the suits? I feel like I’m not contributing anything, her ideas are so good, she’s just so stylish-“
”Rose” he said, “you’re one of the most stylish people I’ve ever met.”
”You have low standards, Shane. I look good, yes, but she looks like she just stepped off the runway.”
”Yes, Svetlana has good taste in clothes” said Shane wryly, some kind of joke she’s not in on. “Rose, do you-“
”What?” said Rose.
”Do you- like, Svetlana?” said Shane. She thinks it might be a schoolyard euphemism- does she like-like Svetlana?
”Shane, I’m straight” said Rose. Like an idiot.
-
She’s beginning to think she might not be. Which is another issue. Not that there’s anything wrong about it! Just- how fucking embarrassing. A sexuality crisis, at 30.
Rose ignores it until August, but then it’s Thursday, and she’s decorating the Hollanders’ garden with Svetlana, the first time they’ve seen each other in person for months.
It’s bad. She can’t stop watching Svetlana, watching her strong arms, the way her midriff gets bared when she reaches up to string fairy lights over a particular tree branch. Rose wants to lick the exposed skin. Rose wants to bite. Rose wants some extremely not-heterosexual things.
She meets Svetlanas’ eyes, over the empty patch of grass where Shane and Ilya will pledge themselves to each other. It’s- heavy. Fuck, it’s heavy.
-
It’s late. Music is still playing, but the metaphorical aux has been passed around a dozen times, and the crowd has thinned out. The chairs were packed down straight after the ceremony, and outdoor beanbags pulled out, bottles scattered in the grass like hazardous autumn leaves. Pikes, gone. The kids were all so tired, Hayden had to recruit JJ and Shane to carry the older girls to the car. What lucky kids- they’ll never grow out of being carried around. Yuna and David have long gone to bed. Shane and Ilya disappeared about three hours ago, relatively early in the night. Ilyas’s suit jacket remains, draped over the railing of the porch. Harris and Troy are dancing, swaying like it’s the first dance at their own wedding, Troys’ head on Harris’ shoulder.
Fireflies dance around their heads, blinking in and out, attracted by the fairy lights- late in the season, according to David. Poor confused, horny bugs.
They’re beautiful, though. Rose had never seen them before today.
Rose is curled up in corner like a cat, settled into her chosen beanbag and blinking sleepily, when Svetlana approaches. They’d danced earlier, but Svetlana has spent the last fifteen minutes draped over Cliff Marleaus’ shoulders, arguing vividly about- something to do with Boston.
”C’mon, Landry.” She says, holding her hand out.
”Dya wanna head home?” says Rose, taking it and hauling herself upright.
Surely, it’s been enough time for Shane and Ilya to work their new marital bliss out of their system. Surely.
Svetlana wags her head, a yes-no, her curls flying around. The braids had come out about hour two into the party, Svetlanas’ clever fingers unwinding locks of hair, the flowers scattered underfoot. Rose still has hers in, but they’re probably limp and wilted.
”I don’t want this night to end. Let’s walk” says Svetlana.
”How far is it?” says Rose, snagging Ilyas’ jacket and throwing it around her shoulders. It smells a little of him, comforting- not in a weird creeper way. There’s no un-weird way for Rose to say she likes the scent of her friends, but it’s true. She’s always had a sensitive nose.
”Does it matter? Half an hour, an hour- I don’t care. It’s a nice night. I want to, and I don’t want to drive.”
”If we get eaten by a bear” says Rose, “I’m sacrificing you first.”
”Don’t be silly” says Svetlana, “Russians are trained from birth to fight bears. I’ll win my девочка a fur coat.”
What the fuck. Hearing Ilya speak Russian doesn’t do anything for her, but Svetlana- Rose feels like her cheeks are on fire. Hopefully Svetlana can’t see them, in the night. Maybe it’s the alcohol, making her flushed.
”You’ll protect me?” says Rose. It comes out after too long a silence. It comes out choked. It comes out too sincere.
”Of course” says Svetlana and takes her hand. Roses’ palm is a little sweaty, but she doesn’t let go, just starts leading them down the road. They both have their heels in their other hand- they wore them for photos, but dancing in heels is a bitch, and nobody cared, so Rose changed into her comfiest sneakers pretty much immediately after the ceremony. Svetlana brought dark green crocs, the perfect match to her dress. What an iconic move. What a queen.
”I’ve always wished I was gay” she says, out of nowhere. Jesus. Great one, Landry.
”That’s a very heterosexual thing to think” says Svetlana, wryly.
”I don’t know. Men, they’re so- you know.”
”Yes.” Agrees Svetlana, “but women can also be- people just suck sometimes, I think.”
Wait, does that mean-
”You’ve been with women?”
”Yes. Ilya doesn’t have a monopoly on being bisexual. I’m just not a slut like he is.”
The dark, the quiet, Svetlanas’ hand in hers- she doesn’t know what makes her bold, because she says-
”It’s kind of embarrassing, though. I’m 30, and it would be my first time, if I had sex with a woman. I’d worry about being bad at it.”
”I’m sure you would pick it up quick. You’re a clever girl” says Svetlana, which is- nice, but not what Rose wants.
”You know anyone?” she throws out. A gauntlet. Pick it up, or ignore it, Svetlana, she thinks, so I know where we stand.
”You are a tease, Rose Landry.” Says Svetlana darkly.
”I’m not a tease,” says Rose, “it’s not my fault you’re not taking me seriously”
Which is how Rose finds herself being kissed against a tree, Svetlanas hands fisted in the front of Ilyas’ jacket, Roses’ arms flung around her neck like a true Hollywood heroine, the bark digging into Roses’ back, Svetlanas’ tongue pressing into Roses’ mouth, Rose shoving herself into Svetlanas’ mouth, both of their teeth clacking, her lips tingling.
It’s a fucking good kiss. Rose is really enjoying it, actually, until-
The sound rings out in the still night, spooking Rose so badly she simultaneously bashes her head back into the tree and into Svetlana. Her tongue narrowly misses being bitten by Svetlana, and not in a sexy way.
For a second, she thinks it’s a fucking wolf howl, and then she thinks- god. Shane gives Ilya so much shit for it, but loons really do sound like daemon birds.
”Shit. That was- We have to stop. I’m not fucking you in the middle of the woods “ she says, slumping against the tree, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.
”You started it” says Svetlana, nipping in again, pecking her lips.
“Lana- let’s get home“ says Rose. Her chest is heaving, like, proper heaving. She feels a little lightheaded from the kiss and the adrenaline rush.
”Only you” says Svetlana, “can call me that. My American girl.”
”Fuck” says Rose, eloquently.
How do they get back to the Cottage? Rose doesn’t know. Svetlana presses her to the front door, presses kisses to her mouth, to her neck, kitten-sweet, before Rose manages to get her hand on the doorknob and they tumble backwards into the cottage. It’s pitch-black inside, Rose leading Svetlana by the hand down the dark corridor, tiptoeing up the stairs like children, slapping her palm against the wall inside her room, sliding it around until she finds the light. Rose gestures to her room, here it is. Wordlessly, Svetlana gestures to the bed. Silence reigns heavy. An atmosphere, created by their breath, made of more than just air.
Rose turns her back to Svetlana, reaching up to undo her dress. Svetlanas’ hands cover hers, one hand pulling hers away from zip, the other palming against the back of her neck. Slowly, slowly, Svetlana pulls it down, Rose giving an impatient little shimmy.
”Patience, Landry” says Svetlana, breath hot against the back of her neck. Her slip dress falls to the floor with a light thump, purple fabric pooling around her feet.
”I think” says Svetlana, “you should get on that bed.”
Rose has never agreed more. She climbs on the bed, turning and wriggling unsexily up to rest against the headboard. Svetlana is pulling her dress over her head. There are- abs. Wow. Rose wants to get her mouth on those. Svetlana crawls up the bed, straight into her lap. The contact against her cunt sends lightning straight up her spine. Svetlanas’ mouth brushes Roses’ neck. Her breath shudders, her knee raises automatically, and then Svetlana grinds down on her, and Rose makes a noise that can only be described as a whimper.
She- burns. Deep in her gut. She kisses Svetlana, open mouthed, sloppy, and her hand skates down Svetlanas’ back, briefly palms that perfect, round ass before slipping into the gap between them, and-
There’s a faint groan. It’s not from them- from downstairs, low and unmissably male. Russian, maybe, but that’s hard to tell. It could be Shane. Rose and Svetlana freeze, and then- erupt into giggles. Svetlanas’ head plants straight into Roses’ boobs, Svetlanas’ shoulders shaking, Roses’ tits jiggling with the movement. Roses’ hand is trapped between them, because Svetlanas’ fully laying straight on top of Rose, pressing belly to belly.
”Four fucking hours” whispers Rose, “honestly, I wouldn’t know what to do if my boyfriend had that kind of stamina.”
”I could show you” says Svetlana, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the lace of Roses’ bra, which is still a very interesting proposition, but- there’s another faint noise from downstairs. Jesus. Nope.
”No. Not here. It- I’m sorry, it feels weird. They’ll definitely hear us.”
”We could be quiet” says Svetlana, but she says it while rolling off Rose.
Rose feels- bereft, without her weight. She’s made the right choice. She couldn’t have sex in Shanes’ house, with Shane potentially listening (even though he, apparently, has no qualms about her hearing them). Svetlana might be able to keep quiet, but Rose doesn’t know if she could. It would be too awkward. She wouldn’t be able to meet their eyes in the morning.
But she also can’t bear the thought of- never. Never having this with Svetlana. If this makes it awkward between them, if she loses Svetlanas’ friendship, she’ll- do something drastic. Shave her head. Weep like a widow. Move home and join her moms’ weird artist commune and never do another film as long as she lives, because she won’t be able to do a single kissing scene ever again.
”We should’ve taken our chances in the woods” says Rose, shaking her head. A stray petal falls past her eyes.
”Rose” says Svetlana, softly. “It’s okay.”
She bends down, kissing Rose gently. Rose follows her, straining upwards when she breaks it.
”I’m in LA next month” she says, “maybe we could-“
”Yes” says Rose, “oh god, yes.”
”Needy. Okay, I will text you.” says Svetlana. “Sweet dreams of me, принцесса” and then she’s gone, the door closing behind her.
She’s stuffing her hand into her panties the moment the doors closed- Jesus, they’re soaked through-, and her fingers have barely touched her clit before her orgasm hits her like a wave. She has to bite down on her right arm to muffle the sound she makes, arching off the bed. She lies there, panting like she ran a marathon, for an embarrassingly long time.
She strips off her bras and panties, unbraids her hair while naked, let's the sad, sorry flowers lay on the carpet where they fall, changes into her comfiest t-shirt and soft shorts. There’s another moan from downstairs, louder this time. Jesus Christ, guys. She pulls out her noise cancelling ear plugs, jams them into her ears, and tries to go to sleep.
Cockblocked (cuntblocked?) by loons, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov (or, shit, they’re both the Hollander-Rozanovs now, aren’t they?). What a life.
10. Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, July 2032. Ottawa.
Shanes’ year doesn’t revolve around the seasons- it never has. Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter mean very little to him. His life followed the hockey season for a long, long time, and to some extent it still does- Ilya finally followed him into retirement earlier this year, but all of the kids, all of their rookies, even most of their friends, they’re all still active and playing. Shane and Ilya haven’t exactly gone far from hockey- the ice is embedded in their veins. They’re probably going to be assistant coaches the season after next, or something along those lines- they haven’t worked it out yet. They have time together, and Shane’s trying to enjoy it instead of rushing to the next thing.
But that’s not the point. The point is that Shanes’ life doesn’t revolve around hockey anymore. It revolves around anniversaries.
December, when they met.
March, when they went public.
June, when they first fucked.
July, the cottage, when they first said I love you.
The bad ones too, and the melancholy- January, when Shanes’ leg fought three people falling directly on top of it and lost badly, ruining his entire year and also reshaped his entire life. September, when he went to Moscow. February, when Ilya was outed. He counts the years that go by and has run out of fingers- he has known Ilya that longer than he hasn’t.
Each, they celebrate in their own ways. Ilya has a parasocial relationship with their local florist (is that the right way to use that word? Shane’s never quite understood it. God, he’s getting old.) and is probably keeping her in business, not that Shane’s complaining. Shane buys things when he sees them, keeps them tucked in a box in the cupboard above the wardrobe, waits until the next anniversary to give them out. Little things. A decorative lighter, because Ilya collects them. New skate tape. Tiger balm, a little plastic ladybug Shane found abandoned on the sidewalk, because Ilya thinks they’re lucky, stuff like that.
The most important anniversary, the jewel in the crown, is, of course, August, the wedding. Ten years later this year. Aluminium, if you’re traditional, which Shane likes to be. Diamond, if you’re not. He’d turned 32 later that year- he’ll turn 42 later this year. Old, for hockey players.
He’s never- Ilya feels very strongly about the years creeping up on him. Ilya never expected to live to 18, and then 20, and then 25, 30, each milestone an unexpected surprise, not unwelcome but not exactly welcomed with open arms, either. Even when he wasn’t actively suicidal, he still felt it- he told Shane once he’d felt guilty for marrying him, because he was sure Shane would be left a widower early. It wasn’t what he wanted, he assured him, as if Shanes’ upset was because of that, it just felt like an inevitability, to him.
So, no, Shane has never felt like that, but at the same time, the thought of a life after hockey once felt like a patch of fresh ice- white, expansive, shapeless. Something his mind shied away from, like a horse, rearing, afraid, mouth frothing, eyes rolling, white in the eyes and white in the mouth and white on the ice. It feels less scary now he’s stepped out, and found it’s still ice, still the life he knows. It feels less scary, now there’s someone to hold his hand, like his mother did, when he first learnt how to skate. Ilya and him, right hand in left hand, rings clicking against one another as they skated.
Time just kept passing, anyway, no matter how Shane felt about it. It was, Ilya assured him mockingly, how time works, moya lyubov'.
-
So yeah, Shane’s been thinking about time, and the wedding, and ten years of marriage, and he’s been thinking- it would be nice to do it again. Get everyone together. Have a big party at the Cottage- they have even more people to fit into it. Zoya, Shae, Jack and Puck. The Centaurs’ who have joined since their wedding. The Pikes are a little too old to be flower children, but he reckons they could tie a cushion to Anya and send her down the aisle. She’s 18 this year, with zero teeth- it would take her at least ten minutes to get from the start to the end, and that’s if she didn’t get distracted. Ilya would love it. They’re retired now, too- they could go for a longer honeymoon than their original one week in Paris. They could do- Rome and Italy. Greece. The rest of France. Would Ilya want to go to Slavic countries for a taste of home, or would it be too much, too close to Russia yet so far? They have time, now. They can do it all.
A decade of marriage. He feels like he’s so different. He feels like he’s exactly the same. He’s still that kid, in Regina, shaking Ilyas’ hand twice because he was so damn beautiful. He’s still so damn beautiful. His body has aged and changed- his too. He wonders if they’ll still fit in their suits. He’d like to find out.
But the vow “for better and for worse” feels different now. Two months in a hospital, Ilyas’ necklace around his neck. Shane doesn’t like to think about it but- They made it. They got through. They still love each other, maybe even more.
His last proposal- well, it got the job done. But Shane thinks he can do better this time.
-
Lately, Ilyas’ been fighting the urge to propose. It’s a strange thing to say, and a stranger thing to feel, like it’s a craving. It’s not exactly something he can ask Shane to get from the grocery store- love you, milaya, and by the way, can you pick up some rings on your way home? Yeah, anything will do, okay, see you later, bye.
”It’s stupid” he says, sprawled in one of Galinas’ armchairs, tossing a ball up and down. “We are already married.”. He doesn’t go to therapy very often these days. It used to be weekly, when he first started, and then twice weekly when Shane had his accident, but they’re back down to “whenever you need” now. Galina is nearing retirement, doesn’t keep an office anymore, only sees a few select clients; he’s technically sitting in her lounge right now. The grandkids line the walls- it’s one of their balls that he’s throwing right now.
”Why did you get married?” says Galina. Ilya gives her an eyebrow.
”I love him. I’m pretty sure you know this.”
”Sure. But you can love him and not put a ring on it, so to speak. Plenty of gay men didn’t have the ability to marry, and still loved each other, and plenty more choose not to now of their own free will. Plenty of straight couples too. So; what does marriage represent, for you? Other than love.”
Goddamn Galina. Always asking the hard questions. Ilya throws the ball a few times while he thinks.
”It was- security, I guess. Formally joining his family. A declaration to everyone, that he would be mine forever.”
”Sure. It’s a binding promise, right? And you’d come a long way from when you’d first met, even then. Maybe you wanted to get up in front of a crowd and celebrate that.”
He nods, slowly.
”Okay, so- here’s what I think. And you don’t have to agree with it, Ilya, you know the deal. It’s been a hard few years. Shane- it was a long road to recovery, for both of you. And I know your relationship suffered”.
Which is a very polite way of saying, they came as close to divorce as they ever have.
”And ten years is a long time. It’s a massive achievement- divorce rates are higher than ever. The Pikes got divorced this year, didn’t they? I think you’re wanting to acknowledge that you’re beating the odds. Acknowledge all the hard work you’ve both done. To stand in front of your family and say publicly; it’s been hard. But we made it through. And maybe you’re wanting to close the door on the pain of the last few years and look forward to the rest of your life. Again, you don’t have to agree, but just think about it. I don’t think there’s such thing as a stupid reason for wanting to renew your vows.”
He thinks about it for a bit. Yes, he thinks. He wants to acknowledge it. How hard it was. The two months he spent practically living between the rink and the hospital. How they slept in separate beds for months, even after Shane got home, because Shane couldn’t bear to sleep together, both for physical and mental reasons. How Ilya cried himself to sleep more times than he counted. How he imagined Shane doing the same. How Shane was so, so angry, and how Ilya took the brunt of it. The argument about antidepressants. How he struggled not to scream back, because he knew Shane didn’t mean it, but how just because he didn’t mean it, didn’t mean it didn't fucking hurt. How it all fucking hurt. How they still loved each other, but he wondered if love was enough. How he still dreams about the accident, more than two years on. The couples’ counselling. The long road home.
But how they’re still here, and Ilya still loves him husband, and would marry him again. Wants to marry him again.
”Galina” he says, “this is why I pay you the big bucks. Want to come to my wedding?”
”No thanks” she says, “I don’t think having your therapist there would be a good look.”
-
Rose Landry is mostly based in Toronto these days, doing a lot more theatre and loving it. She was Ophelia a few years ago, a sold out run, and now she’s in another production of Hamlet as Gertrude, which is “interesting to play a different perspective from the same play, but we really need to talk about the age disparity in the industry, oh my god-“. It also means Svetlana is mostly based in Toronto these days, a completely coincidental job change, which you’re not allowed to bring up, unless you want your head bitten off.
He’s still a car man, but thank God for the high-speed rail- Ilya arrives at Central within an hour and a half, and is sitting across from Svetlana two hours after leaving Ottawa.
”What do you want to talk about, Ilyushka?” she says, pushing his coffee across the table towards him.
”What, I couldn’t just want to see you?” he says, “it’s been too long.”
”No. You hate Toronto.” She’s got him there.
”Fine, you harpy. I want to propose to Shane.”.
”Ilya.” She says, very slowly, “I don’t know how to break this to you. You’ve been married for ten years. He beat you to the chase a little.”
”Fuck off” he grumbles, “I want to- do it again. Renew our vows or whatever.” Renewing their vows is such a dumb way of phrasing it. Renew. Like it’s a drivers’ license or passport. He wants to marry Shane, not renew his subscription.
”Congratulations” she says, “you don’t seem to need my advice on it, then.”
”We never got to propose, last time-“ (“We?”, says Svetlana incredulously, “I don’t think I was the one proposing to Hollander-“) “I don’t know, Svetka. Help me brainstorm, for old times sake?”
”Okay, Ilya, Jesus, you didn’t have to phrase it like this is your dying wish. What have you got?”
-
The plan is simple and elegant. An anniversary dinner, at their favourite restaurant, the whole place booked out just for them, with their wedding flowers on the table and candles lit. A special request to play their song, the one they danced to, after the dessert plates have been taken away.
It’s a lovely plan. None of it happens. Shane comes out of the shower the morning of their tenth anniversary, already dressed because he brings his clothes into the bathroom and doesn’t wander around naked like Ilya does, and Ilya thinks- oh, I need to marry this man. Shane’s not even in anything special, it’s ridiculous how attractive he is. There’s a streak of grey in his hair that Ilya is obsessed with, and it flops over his eyes.
He gets down on one knee more out of reflex than conscious thought, right there on the bedroom carpet, getting the ring box out of his pocket and opening it up. If he practiced, alone, to make sure the motion was smooth, then that is Ilyas’ business and Ilyas’ business only. The ring inside gleams. It’s custom made- a straight wedding band, but scalloped on one side, so it’ll slot perfectly onto Shanes’ braided band, the ring Ilya loves so dearly.
”Marry me?” he says.
”Ilya” says Shane, mouth open, gaping like a fish. What beautiful teeth his husband has. All original, a rarity for hockey players. Ilya can’t say the same; his mouth is the most expensive part of his body.
Ilya waits. Shane keeps staring.
”Shane” says Ilya patiently, which seems to snap him out of his fugue. He drops to both knees, a sudden thump that almost makes Ilya drop the ring and reach for him, afraid of his leg giving way underneath him, but no, his damaged leg is trailing behind him, fully straight since his knee can’t really bend well, foot braced against the floor. The only reason he can keep that pose is a lifetime of yoga and very sexy muscles. His hand scrambling in his jacket pocket, pulling out-
Another ring box.
”Ha!” crows Ilya, “I won, this time.” Which maybe isn’t the correct response to your very beloved husband being late to proposing. Shane throws the ring box in his face, Ilya only just manages to catch it- one hand, though. He still has the other ring box in his left hand. What a stupid series of events.
Ilya hands Shanes’ ring over, very carefully. He’s not a philistine, Shane.
”Life is not a competition, Ilya” says Shane grumpily, cradling it to his chest before peering into the box.
”You only say that when you are losing, moy samyy sladkiy vishnevyy pirog.”
”Hmm, not sure about that- usually, first wins, and I was first to propose.”
”I don’t remember that” lies Ilya, as if the day Shane proposed wasn’t one of the happiest in his entire life.
”Hmm, hypothermia does things to your brain- do you think we need to check for CTE too? So many knocks to the head, and you’re getting so old now.”
”I’ll show you old” growls Ilya and launches himself at Shane. Carefully though, they can’t roughhouse like they used to. The rings are the only casualty, tosses aside like very expensive used tissues.
-
”You never said yes.” Says Shane, after Ilya has thoroughly ravished his bride-to-be.
”Oh, I never said yes?” says Ilya, raising an eyebrow.
”Yes. I’m starting to think you might already have a husband, the way you’re avoiding the question.”
”Yeah, his name is Oliver, and he works for the Toronto Guardians, and he treats me better-“ says Ilya, but he’s interrupted by Shane howling-
”Oh, fuck off”
”No, no, you are right. I do have a husband, he is very sexy, most handsome man in the world, Shane Hollander-Rozanov, have you heard of him?”
”Name rings a bell. Best hockey player in the world?” says Shane Hollander-Rozanov, and Ilya pinches his side for his cheek, continuing-
”and I asked him first, so I’d really like to know whether he’d like to marry me again.”
”Yes” says Shane. “Yes, Ilya, always.”
So Ilya has to kiss him again, see, as a reward for good behaviour. It’s as easy as breathing, as natural as something his body was born to do, kissing Shane Hollander-Rozanov, because that is what Ilya was born to do, kiss him again and again and again, until his lips are red and his breath is quick. Hockey is dead, nothing else matters, and now Ilya will live forever in Shanes’ arms.
”We’re really doing it again?” says Shane, another little while later.
”Yes. Let’s do it again” says Ilya, thinking- marry me every 10 years. Every year. Every month. Every day. Every hour, every minute, every second, let me marry you again, until our friends get sick of us and abandon us, and we have to do it alone, vows exchanged in the bedroom with only the corner spider as our sole witness. Let’s get married until our fingers are more ring than flesh. Let’s get married for the rest of our lives. Let us die, and be reborn, and we’ll do it all over again, just because one life wasn’t enough. Let’s keep doing it until the Earth dies. Until the sun expands. Until the heat death of the universe, and even then, in that last moment of life before it’s all snuffed out, my mouth will still be shaping the words “I do”.
I promise, moya lyubov', no matter how long we get, how much time we have, it still won’t be enough for me to love you.
-
(Svetlana is very mad that her proposal idea wasn’t used for the second time in a row, Ilya. Ilya tells her to get her shit together and use her good ideas to propose to Rose. What Svetlana says in return cannot be repeated.
But she does agree to be his best man.)