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“Shane,” Dr. Kash’s voice began, “how are you doing today?”
Shane didn’t really know. It had been a month since he had started seeing the psychologist. He still wasn’t comfortable talking about his feelings, but he was doing his best.
“Better,” he said honestly, opening his notebook. He glanced at the key points he had written down before speaking. “I changed nutritionists. It’s still not easy. I’m trying to adapt.”
Dr. Kash pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose before speaking.
“Is adapting easy for you?”
“No,” he replied quickly before falling silent. “But I have to. That’s all.”
“So it wasn’t really a choice.”
He shrugged.
“Not really.”
“What pushed you to do it?”
The question lingered in the room for a moment. Shane stared into space before lowering his gaze to his hands.
“The league… I guess. The job itself.”
She wrote something in her notebook and nodded.
“I don’t want to sound ungrateful. I’m grateful for everything I have,” he insisted. “But I wish I could share a meal with Ilya without ruining our plans because I’ve started thinking about nutritional values…”
He gave a sad little smile.
“Your situation is legitimate, whatever it may be.”
He nodded, trying to believe it.
“And about Ilya. How does he react in those moments? When things become too difficult for you?”
Shane silently thanked Canadian confidentiality laws. He could talk about his boyfriend without fear.
“He reassures me,” he said with a small smile. “He makes something else for me without asking questions.”
He noticed the doctor’s subtle smile.
“That sounds like a very healthy reaction.”
“I’m lucky to have him,” Shane replied. “And I want to get better. For him. For us.”
“But not for yourself?”
He hesitated before answering.
“Yes… for me too, I think.”
He looked up and saw her handing him a pen.
“I’d like to suggest an exercise for next time.”
He took the pen and began writing.
“Have a meal with Ilya. Check the macros if you feel the need to, write them down. But most importantly, write how you feel before and after the meal.”
Shane sighed.
“That’s already what I do.”
“This time, I want you to write down your fear as well. And whether that fear actually came true.”
He hesitated, placing the pen on the desk.
But he wanted so badly to see the smile of his other half.
“Yes… I’ll try.”
If he could spend one evening without ruining their dinner, Shane would do anything. An idea was already forming in his head.
Two days later, Shane was excited.
He had cleared his schedule and was ready to make the two-hour drive between Montreal and Ottawa, his notebook in his backpack and bags in the back of the car.
When he stopped for a break, Ilya’s game must have been close to ending. At a highway rest stop, he checked the score. Ottawa had lost 3–2 to New York. They had fought hard, and Haas, the rookie, had scored a phenomenal goal, followed by Ilya, but it hadn’t been enough.
He grabbed a bottle of Coke before getting back on the road.
When he arrived, he entered the code, 1410, smiling at the thought of those four numbers.
He stepped into the apartment. He had to be quick before Ilya got back. He opened the small delicate bags he had brought and placed their contents in a corner of the bedroom. He arranged the flowers and the rest.
He adjusted the flowers once. Then twice. Maybe he was overdoing it.
He hoped Ilya would like it. That he wasn’t crossing any boundaries.
He had barely finished his preparations when he heard the front door open.
He stepped out of the bedroom and came face to face with the Russian. Ilya dropped his bag with a dull thud. The emotions in his blue eyes shifted from surprise to joy to confusion.
“Shane?” he blinked. “What are you doing here?”
It sounded almost like a reproach, and the Canadian suddenly wondered if this had been a good idea.
“I missed you,” he replied simply.
Ilya pulled him into his arms without a word, the scent of post-game showers still clinging to him. Shane ran a hand through his blond curls.
“Good game.”
“We lost,” Ilya grumbled, kissing his neck. “And to that old fossil. Hunter.”
“Ilya…” Shane warned, trying not to melt into him. “You played well.”
He pulled away and saw Ilya watching him with raised eyebrows.
“Shane.”
“Ilya,” he shot back immediately.
“That look,” Ilya pointed dramatically. “You’re thinking. You have an idea.”
“What look?” Shane teased, kissing him. “Yes, but I don’t want to tire you out even more.”
Ilya seemed more and more intrigued, a mischievous smile on his lips.
“No Ilya, it’s not that,” Shane sighed.
“Boring,” Ilya waved his hands. “Speak. Or I die of boredom.”
“I reserved a table at a restaurant,” Shane said bravely. “But if you don’t want to, I’ll cancel. We can go another time.”
“What?” Ilya asked. “Mr. I’m-afraid-to-go-out wants to be by my side in the outside world?” he teased. “Dangerous.”
“If you’re tired, we can stay here,” Shane muttered.
He was already starting to regret his idea.
“I didn’t say no, Shane. I’ll change and be right back.”
The Canadian hesitated.
“Could you do it in the guest room? I already laid out your clothes and everything.”
Ilya raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment on his panic. Shane silently thanked him for it.
“Of course, moya lyubov,” he said with a tired smile. “I’ll be right there.”
The drive was peaceful, with Ilya dozing beside him while Shane drove.
When they arrived, Shane kissed his lover’s forehead.
“My love, we’re here.”
Ilya blushed at the affection, and Shane couldn’t blame him. Even with tinted windows, Shane felt the anxiety creeping back, but he pushed it away.
“Shane, are we going?”
He stepped out and opened the door for Ilya, who immediately shot him a dark look when he saw the restaurant.
“Shane…”
“Ilya, what are you waiting for?” he asked innocently.
On the sign above the door were the words “Annika’s” written in Cyrillic letters.
The door opened as a couple speaking Russian stepped out. Ilya froze for a moment before joining Shane inside.
The warmth of the kitchen hit him first, followed by the smell of familiar food. An elderly woman stood behind the counter. When the scents reached him, he almost cried.
“Good evening…” Shane said awkwardly in Russian.
Ilya’s heart skipped a beat.
“Oh, so you speak Russian now?”
“Da,” Shane replied, imitating his voice.
They both laughed.
“Good evening,” the woman answered in Russian, clearly amused, before switching to English with a strong accent. “How can I help you?”
“I reserved a… a table,” Shane tried again in Russian, blushing. “The name… Hollander.”
Too many Russian words to have been learned on a whim.
Ilya discreetly tapped his shoulder while the woman led them to their table. A basket of black bread was already waiting. Ilya stared at it for a moment too long.
“And you are?” the woman asked.
“Rozanov. Ilya will be easier.”
“Welcome, Ilya. I hope it will taste like home.”
“Thank you… and thank you again. I don’t remember the last time.”
She nodded.
“I understand.”
The woman left them with the menus. When Ilya noticed that Shane was actually reading the Russian menu, he could hardly stay still.
“I will call you Mr. Languages from now on!” he exclaimed.
Shane laughed, and Ilya painfully realized he couldn’t remember the last time he had seen him laugh in public.
“It’s not as difficult as it looks…” Shane said hesitantly.
“I’ll give you private lessons. We’ll see if it’s that easy,” Ilya threatened playfully.
“Ilya…” Shane blushed.
“Yes, moy pomidor?”
“My tomato, seriously?”
“What? It looks like your face,” Ilya said, pulling out his phone and snapping a picture. “You should see what you look like right now, Shane.”
But Shane had already hidden behind the menu, so Ilya decided to give him a moment and look at the options on the card.
“I’m going to get the pelmeni. What about you?” he said instinctively in Russian before realizing it.
“Borscht for me,” Shane replied, pointing at the menu. "Good. Health..." he tried. “Beetroot.”
“Yes, Shane,” Ilya replied in English. “There is indeed beetroot.”
“Hey!” the Canadian protested. “At least I know what ‘compatible’ means.”
“I knew what it meant!” Ilya countered. “I just wanted to make sure.”
The memory of the All-Stars Game came back. And before Shane could answer, the woman, whom Ilya assumed must be Annika, returned to take their order.
“Have you decided?” she asked.
“The borscht for him,” Ilya answered. “He’s making a big effort.” He smiled. “I’ll have the pelmeni.”
The Russian words rolled naturally off his tongue.
“Very good. I’ll be right back,” she said with a gentle smile.
“Thank you.”
She left, and Ilya brushed his knee lightly against Shane’s under the table.
“Thank you, Shane…” he murmured, clearly overwhelmed.
“You’re welcome, Ilya,” Shane replied with a soft smile. “You deserve to have this part of yourself too.”
Ilya could have collapsed from happiness.
He touched the cross around his neck, as if speaking to his mother, if she could hear him.
Here he is, Mama. The man of my life. The reason for my happiness and the hope I still have left.
“Thank you again,” he said, biting his lip. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”
He gestured around the table and Shane rested his hand on the back of his.
“Always, Ilya. I’ll do anything to see you happy. And don’t worry… I think I’m getting better.”
The food arrived and Ilya thought that if this were the day of his death, he would still be happy for several lifetimes.
When he tasted the small dumplings filled with meat and dipped them into the sour sauce, he suddenly felt ten years younger. The sound of his mother’s laughter echoed in his memory before he looked up and saw Shane drinking his soup.
“So? Is it good?” Ilya asked.
Shane looked up and gently wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Yes. We should make this at home.”
“I’ll teach you,” Ilya promised.
“I’m sure you will,” Shane laughed. “Do you want to taste it?”
Ilya nodded and tried the soup. He closed his eyes for a moment.
Yes. If he died right now, it would be enough.
“Do you want to try a pelmeni too, Shane?” he asked, even though he feared the answer.
“Yes,” Shane said, not without hesitation, but still. “Just one.”
Ilya would never have believed that watching the man he loved eat a pelmeni could bring him so much happiness.
After a blissful haze of happiness, ending with warm thanks to old Annika and promises to come back, Ilya thought the evening couldn’t get any better.
He didn’t have words left, in either of the languages he knew, to describe his happiness or his gratitude toward his boyfriend. But he certainly didn’t expect to find Shane blocking the bedroom door when they got home.
“Before you go in, I just want to warn you,” Shane said quickly. “There’s… a small change near the wardrobe. If you don’t like it, we can remove it. I just thought it would be nice. I’m—”
“Moy lyubov,” Ilya interrupted softly. “Let me pass. I’m not going to run away.”
Shane stepped aside despite the worry growing on his face.
Ilya walked toward the wardrobe and froze.
“Shane…”
“I’m sorry. I might have crossed your boundaries… Actually, I probably did. I can put everything back.”
“Shane,” Ilya said again as he knelt beside the wardrobe. “No. I… thank you, Shane.”
In front of him stood the small altar.
A photo of his mother, one of the only ones that had survived, was framed at the center. She looked young and smiling in the picture. Peonies, his mother’s favorite's, a detail he was sure he had mentioned only once to Shane, rested carefully arranged in a bouquet. He counted them once. Then again. There were seven.
He stared at them for a moment, at the number.
A white candle waited beside them, with a match placed carefully next to it.
He looked at the photo of his mother, then at Shane sitting beside him. Then back to the photo. Then into the brown eyes of the man he loved. He couldn’t stop himself from crying.
Seeing the worry growing on Shane’s face hurt almost as much.
Shane pulled him into his arms, rubbing slow circles on his back.
“Maybe it was too much,” he apologized again. “I see you, Ilya. When you’re happy and when you hide it. And I know you miss her.”
His other hand moved gently through Ilya’s hair.
“I can’t bring her back… I’m sorry. But you deserve to grieve. You deserve to have her close to you.”
Shane continued tracing slow circles on his back, placing soft kisses on his forehead, his cheeks, his hair.
“ So... This your idea?” Ilya asked in a hoarse voice that didn’t sound like his own.
Shane nodded carefully.
“The flowers… you remembered?”
Shane brushed a hand across his wet cheek.
“Of course.”
Ilya remembered his mother teaching him to recognize different flowers, whispering, like it was the greatest secret, which ones were her favorites.
“I mentioned it once,” he protested weakly.
Shane smiled softly.
“Was enough for me to remember, Roz.”
Ilya couldn’t argue with him. He looked at the candle, as if it could give him an answer.
“In Russia, when someone dies… we light a candle.”
Shane let him move and take the match.
“I didn’t know if it was appropriate… the flowers too. I asked the florist. She was almost as funny as you.”
“No one is as funny as me,” Ilya protested, tears still running down his face.
“Yes, sorry,” Shane said lightly. “She explained the number of flowers… your traditions. It was very touching.”
Shane was clearly starting to panic again, and Ilya didn’t want to see him like that. So he kissed him softly, putting all his appreciation and love in it. He was almost sad pulling back from those familiar lips. He detached himself slowly from Shane, looking back towards the candle.
“Shall we light it together?” he asked quietly.
“Yes, Ilya.”
So they lit the candle together, without a word, while the smoke slowly curled into the room.
Irina’s face seemed to glow softly in the candlelight of that cold evening, watching over them.