When he was growing up, Shane's mother liked to read him the book "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie". It's a story about a boy who - as the title suggests - gives a mouse a cookie. The mouse then asks for everything under the sun. Shane liked the pictures in it, but absolutely hated the mouse. He'd ask his mom over and over why the mouse was so selfish, and every time she'd tell him he was far too smart for a little boy and wave him off.
Well, now the pot met the kettle, and Shane had some sympathy for the mouse, because he'd kissed Ilya Rozanov and he wanted more, and more, and more. Now, he'd never allow himself actually to have more, but the want was all the same. He did with it what he did with every other unwelcome thought and feeling, shoved it deep into a drawer in the back of his mind, never to be visited again.
Ilya appeared unaffected by the Halloween incident the following week, his demeanor towards Shane unchanged. So they continued playing the part, the parts moving like a seamless machine, not touching, each doing their job perfectly. They worked out, cooked, and occasionally went to their "events." In the first two weeks of November, they had dinner with Scott and Kip again, coffee with Svetlana and Rose (who had apparently become fast friends), and went to the movies together.
Shane loved the movie date the most because he got to watch a new release and didn't have to talk to Ilya at all. They just sat in the quiet theatre for two solid hours, and shared approximately fifteen words on the drive home.
"The movie was really good."
"Yes, I liked it, very good acting."
"The score was good too."
"Yes"
A perfect date in Shane's opinion.
Thanksgiving break approached quickly, a whole week free of class, and Shane couldn't be more nervous about it. Canadian Thanksgiving had passed a month ago with no celebration, so he wasn't exactly planning on celebrating its American counterpart. He'd typically be excited to spend a week reading, watching movies, and enjoying well-earned relaxation. But of course, Ilya in all his Russian glory wouldn't be celebrating the holiday either. So they'd be alone in the apartment for a full week together with no classes to distract them—at least the campus gym was open.
As it turned out, Thanksgiving break was not the issue, because the week before, they ended up thrown together anyway.
It started with a sniffle, a small cough from Ilya on Friday. Bags under his eyes on Saturday, a nose red from being blown. Then on Sunday morning, Ilya wasn't in the kitchen waiting for Shane to go to the gym together. It was the first time he had missed their unofficial workout schedule. So Shane paced for a good twenty minutes before he gingerly knocked on Ilya's door.
No response.
He could've walked away, gone to the gym, and ignored it. But he needed a little reassurance that Ilya wasn't dead. What was the point of having a fake fiancé for housing purposes if he died a few months in and left you un-engaged? Would they kick Shane out if he were grieving his "very real" fiancé?
He wasn't willing to risk it, so he knocked a little louder. No response. He stole himself—for what exactly, he wasn't sure. Ilya's corpse? A truly messy room? A naked woman in Ilya's bed, fast asleep after a night of passionate sex. The more he thought, the less he wanted to open the door, but he did it anyway.
The first thing he noticed was that Ilya was alone in his bed. (He sighed in relief - though he'd never admit it). The second was that the room was incredibly clean. Very lightly decorated, some geometric paintings on the wall, a single framed, worn photo of a woman with Ilya's nose on his bedside table, and a few small trinkets lining his dresser that Shane desperately wanted to examine more closely. What kind of trinkets would Ilya Rozanov have?
Ilya was lying on his side in bed, breathing deep and even, but his face was pale and his eyelids dark. Satisfied that he was, at the minimum, alive, Shane closed the door and went to the gym. He spent all 2,500 yards in the pool concerned about Ilya, his shower after, and his walk home at a much faster pace than usual just to get back to the apartment to check on him.
It turned out his rush was unwarranted. When he got back and nudged Ilya's door open (after another knocking attempt) Ilya was still asleep. As it turned out, Ilya slept until one o'clock that afternoon, emerging from his room like a zombie, barely moving, face gaunt and bloodless. Even in his disheveled state, he still looked rather gorgeous; however, that was possible.
Ilya spent the rest of the day nibbling on saltines, chugging water, and insisting to Shane that he was fine. Shane remained unconvinced, but let him sniffle away and did his best to ignore the hacking coughs that cut through the apartment walls. Shane figured another night of sleep might fix the issue, so he called it an early night, sure that Ilya would be on the mend tomorrow.
Ilya was, by all accounts, far worse the next day. Again, he missed their morning workout, but this time, when Shane returned to the apartment, he found Ilya leaning against the kitchen counter like it was the only thing keeping him upright. He looked like he'd lost some kind of fight, and he was carrying his laptop bag, as if he was…
"Are you going to class?" Shane asked in complete shock.
"Yes, I am a professor. Class does not happen without me," Ilya said, peering through tired eyes at Shane like he was asking the most ridiculous question in the world.
"You can't go to class, Ilya, you're obviously sick."
"Is tiny cold."
"No, it's not. You look like you died and came back to infest the university. Cancel your classes for today."
"No, I'm going to teach today, you can't stop me," Ilya said, his gaze challenging.
Shane pursed his lips angrily. He hadn't run into stubborn, asshole Ilya in a few weeks - nice to know he was still there. Annoying to have to deal with him today. He wasn't normally one to restrict Ilya's activities; he wasn't that kind of fake fiancé, but he did care about protecting the great Ashford campus from Ilya's plague.
"I'll offer you a deal. If you can stand there for the next thirty seconds without coughing, sneezing, or resting your weight against something. I'll let you go to class."
"Oh, you'll let me."
"Yes, I'll let you," Shane answered, not bothering to take the very obvious bait that Ilya was waving in his face.
Ilya was evidently unable to resist the challenge, because he pushed off the counter and gestured to Shane's watch.
"Thirty seconds, count," he said.
Shane was counting for only seven seconds before Ilya was doubled over, coughing, and Shane sent him packing back to his room with a demand to go back to bed and cancel his classes.
Ilya typed a quick email on his phone to his students, and Shane would have paid one hundred American dollars to see how they reacted to a class cancellation the week before Thanksgiving break. He'd have to check the street later and see if they were having a parade.
Shane went to his classes for the day, trusting that Ilya would uphold their agreement. When he returned in the late afternoon, he was pleased to see Ilya at home, tucked under a blanket on the couch. However, he was displeased to find Ilya pale, shivering, and sweating.
"Shane," Ilya said, his eyes barely focusing on Shane, and his voice soft and quiet.
"Oh my god, Ilya, you look awful."
"Such a mean fiancé insulting me when I'm sick," Ilya said, his eyes closed like it was far too much effort to keep them open.
Shane walked over to the couch, not asking before he laid a hand across Ilyas's brow. His skin was sweltering.
"You definitely have a fever," Shane said, but he was unsure what else to do when someone was sick.
He came to the sudden, horrifying realization that he'd never had to take care of anyone but himself, and it hit him like a punch to the gut.
"Hold on, I'm going to get you something for the fever, I just have to figure out what," Shane said, raking a hand through his hair as he attempted to calm his breathing.
"Shane," Ilya said, blinking his eyes open at him, "will you put on a movie?"
"A movie," Shane asked, looking at Ilya, who could barely keep his eyes open. "Okay, what movie do you want?"
"Your favorite, you always pick the best movies," Ilya said, his voice raspy and his eyes closing again.
So even though Ilya's eyes were closed, Shane put on When Harry Met Sally because it always made him feel better, and he hoped it would make Ilya feel better too.
Then he got to googling. He started with the obvious symptoms:
Fever
Exhaustion
Loss of appetite
Fifteen minutes later, he'd diagnosed Ilya with a brain tumor, acute appendicitis, and both of them with mold poisoning. The internet, as always, was far too extensive for Shane to handle, and the catastrophizing spiraled quickly out of control. So he decided to bring in the big guns.
"Hi, Mom," he said into his phone a minute later, Yuna having picked up after just one ring.
"Is that my son? It's been so long since I heard your voice, I've forgotten what you sound like."
"I called you two weeks ago, Mom. Stop being dramatic."
"I'm not being dramatic, I just miss my son who moved to America and left me behind. Tell me everything that you've been up to," she said, the guilt tripping spilling back over into genuine interest. It was always a balance with his mom.
"Actually, I called for some advice. My roommate is sick, and I'm not really sure what to do."
"Hayden's sick? I would expect Jackie to know what to do - why are you taking care of him and not her?"
"Actually, it's not Hayden. I forgot to mention I moved out, this is a different roommate," he said, praying his mom wouldn't latch onto the omission of his change in living situation. God must not have been listening because latch on, she did.
"You forgot to mention it, or chose not to tell me? Shane, are you doing okay? We can send you money if you need it."
"No, Mom, it's not a money thing. Hayden and Jackie were moving to an apartment in the city, so I moved to faculty housing with another professor. Can we get back to the point? How do I help my roommate?"
"Okay, okay, I'm going to want more details later, but I'll humor you. What are his symptoms?" She said, and he could imagine her pulling out a legal pad from the drawer she kept underneath their landline (yes, they still had a landline) and clicking open a ballpoint pen to take notes.
"He has a fever and is shivering. He isn't eating, and he's exhausted, plus he's been coughing and sneezing for a few days."
"How does his body feel?"
"What?" Shane asked, shocked and appalled by the question.
"Like, is he feeling sore or aching?"
Oh, of course. His mom was asking about Ilya's muscle soreness, now how good his body felt under Shane's fingers when they'd kissed two weeks ago OBVIOUSLY!
"Um, I'm not sure, hold on," he said, placing the phone against his chest and walking back to the couch, where he bent down and gave Ilya's shoulder a small shake. "Ilya"
"Mmmmm," Ilya moaned in response, half awake, half slumped into the couch.
"How does your body feel? Are you sore?"
"Feels like I got hit by a truck," Ilya slurred.
Shane pulled the phone back to his ear. "He says he's sore,"
"Sounds like the flu," his mom diagnosed easily.
The flu had come up early in Shane's Google searches, but somehow he'd overlooked it in favor of far worse options.
"So, what do I need to do?"
"Honey, why are you taking care of him. It's a nice thing to do, but you're going to make yourself sick. Doesn't he have someone else who can help him?" Yuna questioned, and she had a point.
This brought the second half of Shane's realization. He didn't have anyone to take care of, and Ilya had no one to take care of him. Two sides of one lonesome coin.
"He doesn't have anyone else. Just tell me what to do, Mom," Shane asked, his voice feeling small.
"Okay, get out a pen," She said, and he opened his notes app.
Five minutes later, he had a shopping list, two pages' worth of instructions on caring for the ill, and a promise to call his mother more often.
The first step was working his way through the shopping list. He only had a few options for this due to his lack of a car, of course. He could walk to the nearest pharmacy, 3 miles one way,6 total. So that was out. He could have had the goods delivered, but the price was exorbitant. Or he could ask for help. He decided on the last one out of sheer practicality.
He started by texting Rose, but she quickly informed him she was already gone for the break and in the car on her way to the airport to visit her parents.
His list of friends was embarrassingly short, so his next option was Jackie and Hayden. It was four o'clock, which meant Hayden would still be at work, so he tried Jackie, who picked up on the first ring.
"Hey Shane, what's up?"
"Are you busy right now?" He asked, jumping right into it.
"Um, I'm at the grocery store, but I could leave right now if needed. What's wrong?"
"No, that's perfect actually. Can you do me a favor and pick up some things for me? I'd get them myself, but Ilya's sick and I don't have a car…" his voice trembled a little. He felt very hopeless in this situation.
"Sure, what do you need?" Jackie agreed, always one to solve a problem.
He texted her his mom's list of medications and electrolytes, and then tacked on "Do you know how to make chicken soup?"
"Yes, of course. Are you making him chicken soup, Shane?"
"My mom suggested it," he clarified.
"I'm going to hold my teasing for another time, but I'll remember this later. I'll grab you some ingredients."
Jackie, as his personal shopper, Shane now had a little more control over the situation. He glanced back at Ilya, still sleeping on the couch, as Harry and Sally ran into each other year after year on the screen. He poured two glasses of water and walked back to the living room, placing one on the table next to Ilya, and holding the other as he slumped into an armchair.
He alternated between watching the film and watching Ilya sleep for the next hour. His favorite film barely held a candle to the sight of a peaceful Ilya dozing on the couch. Unfortunately, Ilya's peaceful demeanor began to fade as the film reached its final beats. Ilya began shifting restlessly on the couch, his large frame not truly fitting on the sofa.
Shane approached him and once again placed a hand on his brow, his forehead still burning up.
"Ilya," he said quietly.
"Mmmmmmnn," came Ilya's answering reply.
"Why don't you head to your room and get some rest. I'll come give you some medicine in a little bit."
"Bossy," Ilya muttered back, his eyes still closed
"Incredibly, now get going. If you stop protesting everything I ask, then I'll bring you some soup later, too."
This made Ilya's eyes crack open. "Soup?" he murmured, his voice raspy.
"Yeah, I'm going to make you some soup for dinner. My mom said that soup should help you feel a little better."
Ilya had a sad smile, his tired eyes meeting Shane's. "My mom used to make me soup when I was sick as a kid, too".
Shane stilled, this rare moment of vulnerability fragile. He was terrified of saying the wrong thing, and Ilya retreated into his shell. Ilya had never spoken about his family to Shane, and he was desperate to hear more.
"What kind of soup did she make?"
"Whatever we had around, sometimes just a hot broth, sometimes Borsch. Very scary red color when you are sick, though. Do not want to throw that up."
"She sounds like a great mom," Shane chanced, thinking of his own mother making her own soups when Shane was sick. Miso was a staple in his house, but Yuna was never above chicken noodle soup, David's favorite.
The whole thing made him smile a little, thinking about the generations of mothers around the world all hovering around a stove, making their own variations of soup to serve the people they loved. It was a nice thought.
"Shane," Ilya muttered again.
"Yeah"
"Legs don't work."
"Your legs absolutely work, come on. I'll help you up." Shane reached out two hands and pulled a very wobbly Ilya to his feet. Ilya looked like he was standing on a ship in rough water, the way he was swaying.
Shane hooked Ilya's arm over his shoulder and walked them to Ilya's bedroom. Once they reached the bed, Ilya flopped down immediately, out of breath from the short walk. He really hoped Jackie would get here soon with the medication he'd requested. Ilya looked bad.
"Get some rest, I'll bring you medicine and soup in a little bit."
"Mmmm, soup," Ilya said, before falling back asleep, his body still splayed out on the mattress.
He wasn't beholden to taking care of Ilya by any means, but he was already in too deep. So, he grabbed the mess of blankets at the foot of Ilya's bed and draped one over his sleeping form. Then he slipped back out of the quiet room and waited patiently for Jackie to arrive.
She did so exactly ten minutes later, sweeping into the apartment like a storm, arms laden with grocery bags, talking a mile a minute.
"Thank you so much, Jacks, seriously, you are a lifesaver. Maybe literally, he's looking pretty awful."
"I'm happy to do it, my dear. I love helping others, and I get to hang this over your head next time I want a favor."
"How very altruistic of you," He said in sarcasm.
He unpacked a couple of the bags until he found what he was looking for: Gatorade and Tylenol.
He grabbed both and slipped back to Ilya's room, placing them on his bedside table, with the hope he'd take them when he woke.
When he returned to the kitchen, Jackie was searching through the cabinets.
"What are you looking for?" he asked in confusion.
"A cutting board. These vegetables aren't going to chop themselves," she gestured at the celery, onions, and carrots she had laid out on the counter.
"Jackie, you don't have to cook the soup. I'm going to do it, you've done so much already."
"Shane, I love you, so I say this with all the kindness in the world. If you try to make this alone, then your cooking might be the final nail in Ilya's coffin."
"I resent that, I'm a good cook."
"Yeah, if the cooking involves plain chicken and plain rice."
"Okay, rude," he said, "I appreciate your help, but I don't want you to get sick. This place is probably caked in flu germs. It's too late for me, but you can still save yourself."
Jackie rolled her eyes at this, like Shane was unbelievably silly. She held up disinfectant. "I've already wiped down every surface in the kitchen, and Shane, we're in peak flu season, and I'm an elementary school teacher. If I haven't caught something yet, I'm not going to. I have immunity to germs you've never even heard of."
There was no use arguing with Jackie, so he begrudgingly accepted her help and took on the role of sous chef very seriously. They finished the soup in about thirty minutes, and Shane had to admit it would have taken three times as long without Jackie leading the charge.
She was packing up her things when Ilya emerged briefly from his room, poking his head into the living room and waving at Jackie.
"Hello, friend of Shane's," he said, giving Jackie just enough time to say hello back, before he ducked into the bathroom, and Shane and Jackie were alone once more.
"He looks—" Jackie started.
"Horrible, I know. He's not usually a ray of sunshine, but the flu is really taking its toll on him."
"No, I was going to say familiar. Yes, he looks super sick, but he also looks familiar. I can't quite place it, though."
"You can't place it," he asked in disbelief. Jackie was well known in their friend group for having a perfect memory, easily recalling details from years ago.
"I know, it's driving me insane."
"Maybe, you just saw him in the grocery store or on campus at some point."
"Yeah, maybe," she said, but still looked unconvinced, her face pinched up as she toiled with it.
She seemed to let it go, wishing Shane luck on his caretaking and collecting her bags and slipping out the door again.
The apartment was quiet again without her, but now had the delightful smell of chicken soup wafting through the air. Jackie had told him to keep the soup on the stove on low for the next hour or two to let the flavors "mingle". This had the absolutely wonderful effect of making the whole house smell warm and comfy.
Ilya emerged from the bathroom soon after Jackie left. He was wrapped in a towel, his wet hair still dripping, his chest still dripping with water.
"Did you take a shower?" Shane asked in concern.
"No, I went for a swim," Ilya quipped back, "Yes, Hollander, I took a shower."
"You should've told me. What if you fell?"
"Then I'd be on the floor of the shower. Calm down, Hollander. I am a little sick, not incapable of showering," Ilya said, rolling his eyes and striding to his room.
Shane followed, "You could barely stand earlier. I have a right to be concerned."
"No, actually, you don't." Ilya snarled, turning on his heel to sneer at Shane, "In case you forgot, you're not actually my fiancé, stop acting like you are". With that hanging in the air between them, Ilya strode back into his room, slamming the door behind him.
Shane stood in disbelief for a moment, letting the scene replay in his mind over and over again.
The apartment no longer felt warm and comfy; now it felt cold and empty, the smell of soup taunting him for caring too much when he had no right. He set a timer for two hours to remind him to turn off the stove and retreated to his room to —let's face it —sulk.
Shane was on his bed, laptop perched on his chest, watching a movie when his timer went off. He had no desire to leave his bed and return to the soup of despair, but he had even less desire to let the apartment burn down because he had left a burner on. So he scraped himself off the bed and headed into the kitchen.
He wasn't even hungry anymore, his appetite soured by Ilya's harsh words and the embarrassment of them being true. He kept acting like it was real. He had to do better about remembering that the whole thing was a lie. They didn't need to be friends when they were out of the public eye; they didn't even have to be nice to each other.
When he entered the kitchen, however, he found Ilya leaning against the counter, soup already off the stove, and the pot cleaned and drying by the sink. Ilya looked slightly better than before, a slight tinge of color in his cheeks and the hallows under his eyes a little less harsh.
Shane paused at the kitchen threshold, unsure if he wanted to enter this particular battlefield. Ilya held up the white flag before he had the chance to decide.
"I'm sorry," Ilya said, his chin raising slightly to meet Shane's gaze.
"It's fine, you were right. I overstepped when it wasn't my job. I'm not your fiancé, and I'm not your Mom. It won't happen again." Shane said. His words were short and clipped, tone as neutral as he could manage.
Ilya's face scrunched at "Mom", as the word itself had pinched him. "You're not my mom. My mom died when I was 12," he said plainly, his eyes meeting Shane's.
"Fuck, I'm sorry, Ilya," Shane said, immediately guilt settling over him.
"No, you didn't know. It's not your fault." Ilya paused for a moment as if gathering courage, "It's been a long time…a long time since someone took care of me. Not since she died." Again, he paused, his eyes cold, but holding Shane's, "I got a little overpowered, the medicine and Gatorade, the blanket, the soup. It was a little overwhelming, and I lashed out. I'm sorry, it was very nice of you." Then softer, his eyes a fraction warmer, "you're very nice to me. Even when I don't deserve it."
Shane had the almost uncontrollable urge to wrap Ilya in a hug and console him. Hold him tight and wish away all the pain from his past and all the hurt from his present, but it wasn't his place. So, instead, he gave a small smile, "It's okay, I get it. For what it's worth, you deserve for people to be nice to you."
Ilya gave a half smile. " I had some soup, I hope that's okay. It was delicious, thank you."
The sentence set a small fire alight in Shane, "We made it for you, I'm glad you liked it. You should really thank Jackie. All I did was chop some of the vegetables."
"That was the best part, perfectly sized carrots," Ilya said with the first real smile Shane had seen from him in days.
"You're welcome," Shane said quietly.
A moment of silence lapsed between them, too many things unspoken and too many said.
Ilya pushed himself off the counter, still looking a little unsteady on his feet. "I'm going to get back to bed, because frankly, I still feel like shit. But thank you, Shane — seriously. I should say it more often."
Shane let Ilya stride past him and disappear back into his room, the door shutting with a soft click, a sharp contrast to the severe slam from earlier.
Shane sighed, ate a cup of the soup (the carrots were perfectly sized), and rewashed the pot. It had been a nice gesture, but Shane was not going to use a pot that had the flu all over it.
The next morning, Shane awoke with a hacking cough and soreness in his muscles like he'd run a marathon. The sunlight streaming through his curtains felt blinding, and his whole body was coated in a fine layer of sweat.
Fuck, he absolutely had the flu.
He canceled his classes for the rest of the week, to the utter elation of his students. Then peeled himself from bed to take a shot of DayQuil, chug half a Gatorade, and fall back into a dreamless sleep.
He was pulled from sleep a few minutes later by a nudge at his shoulder. "Shane"
"Go away," Shane grumbled, snuggling back into his pillow.
"Shane," came the persistent voice again.
He opened his eyes and immediately jerked back from Ilya's face, which was far too close.
"Whaddareyoudoin" he murmured, his tongue feeling dry and heavy with the words.
"Checking to make sure you're not dead, sound familiar?" Ilya asked.
Shane let out a murmur of confirmation.
"You're sick," Ilya said.
"Wow, you should be a doctor," Shane quipped back.
"I am a doctor," Ilya said back.
"Fuck off," Shane said, closing his eyes again.
"Wow, you are so sweet when you're sick. Really delightful," Ilya said, still lingering at his bedside. "I'm sorry for getting you sick, Shane," Ilya added. "Did you cancel your classes? I don't want them to send out search parties for the beloved Dr.Hollander when he doesn't show up to class."
"Of course, I'm not stubborn like you."
"You take medicine?"
"Ilya," Shane said, cracking his eyes open again, "you're hovering."
"I know," Ilya said with a smile.
"Yes, I took medicine. Can I go back to sleep now? I let you sleep for as long as you wanted," he complained.
"Yes, I'm going back to bed too," Ilya admitted.
Shane paused for a moment, his head feeling jumbled. Later, he'd blame it on the fever, but right now he couldn't quite say what prompted him to ask.
"Can you stay?" he asked.
"Stay?"
"Sleep here, then we don't have to keep getting up to make sure the other person is alive. We can be sick and miserable…together," Shane explained, like it was the most rational thing in the world.
"Okay," Ilya said. No argument over the impracticality of two large men sharing a queen-sized bed as they fought off fevers and aches.
Shane shifted over in his bed, and Ilya climbed in next to him. He barely had a moment to appreciate the sight of shirtless Ilya stretched out next to him before sleep carried him away once more.
By Shane's third day with the flu, Ilya was almost completely improved, and the tables turned. Ilya stopped sleeping in Shane's bed and started taking care of Shane. He made his own soup and would push Shane to get up and drink water, or move from his bed to the couch to keep his muscles from cramping.
Ilya was a very fussy nurse, and Shane suddenly had an understanding of how overbearing he must have been the first few days of Ilya's sickness.
Still, he couldn't deny it was nice to be taken care of. One afternoon, he sat on the couch, his head in Ilya's lap as he half watched a movie and half dozed off. He lay there and thought to himself, "I'd almost tolerate the flu if I could spend every day like this."
By the time Shane was mended and Ilya was back at full strength, the Thanksgiving holiday was no longer daunting but welcome.
They spent the week deep cleaning the apartment at Shane's request, going to the gym at Ilya's request, and watching movies every night in an unspoken agreement between the two of them. It was one of the best weeks of Shane's life. Or maybe that was just the immediate enjoyment that comes after being sick for a while. Like being able to breathe through your nose again is God's greatest gift to you.
Either way, it was a nice week, and a nice calm had settled over the apartment in the wake of the flu. Shane barely even thought about kissing Ilya again.
Barely.
December washed over campus in a quiet hum, the Thanksgiving holiday fading away and slipping into the final sprint before December finals. Students were camped out in the library night and day, and Shane had noted several sleep-deprived, twitchy students in his class. His office hours had become a zoo of faces that he'd barely seen all semester, begging for extra credit.
Shane still hadn't decided on how to spend the winter holiday. His mom had texted him no fewer than 20 times, but he kept postponing his decision. Flying to Ottawa for a few weeks wasn't a bad option, but he wasn't sure if it was what he wanted this year. There was a longing inside him to stay behind and enjoy the quiet of an empty campus.
With three days left before finals, no plane ticket purchased or bags packed, his mom had resorted to negotiation.
He stood in the kitchen after dinner, leaning against a counter as the phone call with Yuna sucked all the energy out of him.
"No, Mom, it's like I told you. It's expensive to travel right now, and I have some work on a publication I'm trying to finish."
"Don't worry about the cost of the ticket, Shane, we'll buy it. We just want to see you," Yuna retorted, as if it were an obvious solution.
"We're not even big Christmas people, Mom, it's not like it's a major holiday for us."
"That doesn't change the fact that we'd like to see you. We haven't spent any time with you since the summer, Shane."
Another point to Yuna, she always knew exactly where to hit to make him feel the most guilt. So he tried a different approach—divert attention.
"I really don't want to leave my roommate alone either; he doesn't have any family left," he whispered into the receiver, even though the apartment was empty. He felt dirty selling Ilya out like this. He wasn't even sure if it was true; he knew Ilya had lost his mom, but he had no idea about his Dad or any other family. Ilya didn't share much about his family, and Shane got the sense it wasn't a topic safe to broach.
"Oh, that's awful, Shane. Do you want to bring him home with you? He could spend the week with us."
Shit. That was not what he'd anticipated when he brought Ilya into this, but he shouldn't have expected Yuna to go down without a fight.
"No, Mom, I don't think he'd be comfortable with that. He's very shy." Shane shook his head. There were a lot of words to describe Ilya, and shy was not one of them, but anything to get his mom off his back.
"Okay, if you're sure that you don't want to see us —"
"That's not what I said".
"—then I suppose you can just come up for your spring break in a couple of months."
It was not a perfect solution by any means, but it was a start. He'd bought himself a few more months of peace. Maybe by March, he'd be able to look his mom in the eye and tell her nothing was going on with his roommate and mean it.
"Okay, that sounds great." Shane glanced at the door as Ilya stepped into the apartment with a plastic bag and made for the kitchen. "I've got to go, Mom. I love you."
"Love you too, do you want to tell your Dad? I can find him somewhere around here," Shane could hear her pull the phone away and call distantly for his Dad to pick up.
"No, Mom, that's okay. I've got to go, bye," he quickly finished, not waiting for a response as he ended the call and glanced at Ilya.
"Your parents?" Ilya asked with a brow raised.
"Yeah, just my Mom asking about the break," Shane said timidly.
"That's nice of her. When are you heading out?"
"Oh, I'm not. I'm going to stay on campus over break."
Ilya's eyes flashed with an emotion that Shane couldn't name. Dissatisfaction, annoyance, confusion, desire, it was impossible to decipher. "You're staying," he said, his voice quiet. A single beat, and then it was gone. Ilya's face beat back to neutrality. "Do you not celebrate Christmas? I guess I don't really know anything about your family traditions." Ilya said as he leaned, placed his bag on the counter, and began unpacking various takeout containers, handing Shane one without explanation. The plastic warmed his hand even if he couldn't see its contents.
"For me?" Shane clarified.
"No, I gave it to you so you could hold it all night. Yes, Shane, it's for you," He said with a shake of his head.
"Right," Shane said, opening the container and finding a delicious ramen dish inside. His favorite is from their local ramen bar. He eyed Ilya, who gave him a vague shrug, like it wasn't a big deal to know his order.
"Holidays, Shane," Ilya said, as if reminding him of their conversation, but Shane suspected it was more a diversion from his kind gesture.
"We have a bit of an amalgamation of Holidays in our house." Shane began, still holding the ramen in his hands like a prayer candle. He placed it back on the counter and searched for a fork as he started talking again, "My Dad grew up in the U.S. before moving to Canada for university, so he celebrates a lot of the typical North American holidays. My mom grew up in Japan before immigrating to Canada in her teens, so she celebrates many Japanese holidays. For Christmas, it amounts to a few presents, no decorations, and a huge feast that my mom invites some of our neighbors to. New Year's is the bigger deal in our household."
Shane took a large bite of his ramen, smiling at the warm and familiar taste. "What about you?" It felt risky to ask Ilya about his family after their fight during the flu, but he was willing to take the chance.
Ilya took his own bite of ramen, as if buying himself a moment to think, to decide how much to divulge. "New Year's is big in Russia as well. It was my mother's favorite holiday. We would eat lots of food, sing songs, and exchange presents. Not so different than Christmas." He looked happy for a moment, as if recalling precious moments with his mother.
His expression soured quickly, though, "After she died, we didn't celebrate much of anything. No holidays, birthdays, or achievements. It was like she created a vacuum when she left, all the joy sucked out of the house with her."
Shane knew how Ilya felt about pity, but couldn't help but add, "I'm sorry, that sounds like it was difficult."
Ilya schooled his features. "It's just what it was. It doesn't matter now, my father is dead now too, and my brother is dead to me."
He didn't leave any room for argument with that, his tone firm and final. Shane decided that was enough pushing Ilya on his family for tonight.
"Thank you for dinner, you didn't have to do that."
"I was going anyway. What kind of fiancé would I be if I didn't bring you back your favorite?" Ilya said with a light shrug.
"How did you know it was my favorite? We've never been there together?"
"I pay attention to things, Shane. I'm very observant," Ilya said, his tone low. Completely innocuous words that sounded downright filthy on his tongue. He had a real talent for that.
Shane didn't respond, just let his cheeks flush as they ate their dinner together, leaning against the kitchen counters in a comfortable quiet.
Finals week flew by in a rush; each day saw a mass exodus of students from campus. By the end of the week, the Ashford University campus was practically a ghost town, huge swathes of the campus covered in a fine dusting of snow, devoid of the usual footprints.
Shane enjoyed the quiet. He'd loaded his Kindle with books, had a list of movies to watch, and a fridge full of fresh ingredients to cook. He was ready for this break and, admittedly, excited to spend a break where he wasn't recovering from the flu.
Within the first few days, he waited for the awkwardness of so much alone time with Ilya to arise, but it never did. They fell into a comfortable rhythm: Shane would cook, Ilya would wash the dishes. Shane would pick the movie, and Ilya would make popcorn and occasionally whip up a cocktail. It was simple and stress-free. Shane had to keep reminding himself that it was more conveniece than choice that forced them to spend the break together. He didn't mind; it was still nice.
One of these nights, they sat on the couch together, watching an older film, when Shane felt a weight against his shoulder. He glanced over and found Ilya leaning against his shoulder, asleep. It was a rare glimpse of Ilya, his face calm and his body loose. Shane spent about 10 minutes after sitting bolt upright on the couch, trying not to disturb him. Then he relaxed back a little, letting Ilya's weight come with him as he leaned his head back against the cushions.
He wasn't sure how long he'd slept for like that. Ilya pressed against his side. But when he'd awoken, the apartment was dark, the TV screen dim on the energy saver screen. As he stirred from sleep, Ilya did as well, opening his eyes and glancing over at Shane. There was a moment, in the dim light of the apartment, when their lips were mere inches from each other, and Shane was positive Ilya would close the distance. Their eyes met, breaths loud in the quiet apartment. Shane could lean in and close the distance in a heartbeat, but he waited for Ilya to do it first.
Ilya did not, instead standing up and thanking Shane for picking such an "interesting" movie, before retreating to his room. Shane spent the rest of his night tossing and turning in his bed, wondering if he should have closed the distance himself, and where they'd be if he had.
The next night, they watched another movie off Shane's list, and Shane couldn't help but notice the way that Ilya sat a little further away on the couch, like he was preventing a repeat. Shane also couldn't help but notice that he was disappointed by this.
On Christmas Day, Shane decided to cook dinner. Nothing fancy, but a home-cooked meal for him and Ilya. A small ode to his mom's elaborate feast back in Ottawa. He turned the dial on the electric stove, barely having time to place a pan on the burner before there was a click and the lights in the apartment turned off. The entire place was immediately cloaked in pitch black. Shane reached around the counter until he found his phone, then flicked on the flashlight. He turned the stove off, even though there was no actual power flowing through it, and went in search of Ilya.
Ilya was in his room, propped up on his bed with his phone in hand, scrolling in the pitch black like he was unaffected by the change in light.
"Hey, I think we lost power."
Ilya glanced up from his phone, the light reflecting off his face, as if he was at a campfire telling ghost stories, "Oh, you think," he said.
"What should we do?" Shane said, ignoring the sarcasm that was practically ingrained in their daily conversations.
"Wait for it to come back on," Ilya answered, like it was obvious.
"How long do you think that will take?"
"Shane, do I look like an electrician? I don't know. Probably a few minutes." Shane's phone buzzed in his palm with a notification, and he glanced down:
Eversource Energy:
We're aware of a power outage affecting your area and have dispatched crews to assess and restore service.
Estimated restoration time: 8:00 PM tomorrow, December 26.
Due to the holiday, response and restoration times may be longer than usual. We appreciate your patience as our teams work safely to restore power.
For updates, visit our outage map or reply STOP to opt out.
"Shit," Shane hissed out.
"What?"
"Didn't you get a text from the power company?" Shane asked, glancing at Ilya's phone still clutched in his hand.
"No, who signs up for those?"
"Me. And you should be glad I did, because they estimate we'll be out of power until tomorrow night," Shane bit back, annoyed at Ilya's attitude and the lack of power at once.
"What the fuck?"
"Yeah, my thoughts exactly."
"Shit, my phone is at 15%," Ilya said, and then gave a quick laugh, "merry fucking Christmas."
"Mine is at 24%. Do we have candles or flashlights or anything?"
Ilya glanced at him, his face unamused, "No, Shane, I don't have a hidden storage of camping supplies and candles."
"Okay, well neither do I obviously."
"Actually," Ilya said, sitting up from his bed and clicking his own phone flashlight on, rifling through his nightstand drawer. Shane walked closer and saw him produce a singular, small, scented candle.
"Wow, that will really light the place up," Shane said, his voice unimpressed. He tried not to linger on why Ilya had a single candle on his bedside table. Was that a sex thing? Did he even want to know?
"Shut up, it's more than you have."
"Do you have a lighter or matches, or will we need to rub two sticks together?" Shane quipped back, unamused.
Ilya just rolled his eyes, rifling through the same drawer to produce a pack of cigarettes and pulling a Bic lighter from inside it.
"You smoke?" Shane asked in surprise and disgust.
"Rarely"
"You shouldn't smoke."
"Thank you for that advice."
Ilya flicked the lighter and lit the candle; it produced a fair amount of light for such a tiny object, Shane had to admit, but still did little to dispel the oppressive darkness in the apartment.
Shane glanced at Ilya's small window, trying to discern if there were streetlights lit outside. "We should go outside and see if anyone around us has power."
"Why would we do that?"
"Because if there's power somewhere else, then something might be open. We can buy some more candles and maybe some food. I can't cook anything without a working stove."
"It's Christmas day after sundown, nothing is going to be open."
"It's still worth checking."
"Fine," Ilya stood from the bed, placing his phone down in favor of the candle. He held it in front of him like a lantern as he made his way to the front door, and Shane had to suppress his laughter. A modern-day Paul Revere with his lantern alight. The Russian is coming, the Russian is coming!
Ilya opened the door to their apartment, and two things happened simultaneously. First, a large gust of cold air blew into the apartment, snuffing out Ilya's makeshift lantern and bringing a chill deep into Shane's bones. Second, they saw the source of their power outage, a large maple tree branch weighing down the power lines to the left of their building.
Ilya closed the door with a huff. "Okay, we saw outside, satisfied?"
"No, it looks like that tree branch is the only reason we're out of power. That means stores in town absolutely have power."
"And they're absolutely closed, it's still Christmas."
"Ilya, can we please check?" Shane glanced at Ilya, his eyes wide and pleading. He didn't have a car, his stomach was gurgling, and Ilya was the only solution.
"Don't give me puppy dog eyes, Shane, it won't work," Ilya said back with narrowed eyes.
"Please", Shane kept his wide eyes on Ilya, hoping that it would wear him down.
"Fine", Ilya said in a clipped tone, giving in far quicker than Shane had anticipated.
Ilya walked to the coat closet in a fit, grumbling about power and winter storms, but grabbing their jackets and holding Shane's out to him. "Put this on, it's fucking cold out there."
Shane turned out to be correct; there were places in town with power and open. Ilya wasn't wrong, though; it was the evening of Christmas, which meant that their choices were exactly two places. The first being an absolutely decrepit gas station, "The Somesville One-Stop." The second was a Chinese restaurant, "Fortune Cookie II", both nestled into the same strip mall—their neon signs brightened in the dark, the green light across the bay in East Egg.
They started in the gas station, in search of candles, flashlights, or something else that might ease the darkness a little. As it turns out, gas stations in suburban Connecticut didn't have an expansive selection of these items. What they did find was a singular scented candle, rather applicable Yankee Candle "SnowGlobe Wonderland" that smelled heavily of soap.
They bought the candle, another lighter, a ginger ale, and a Coke. Supplies clutched in hand, they then went to the Chinese restaurant in search of sustenance. They ordered way too much food for two people, a veritable feast of Americanized Chinese food that Shane would never eat on a normal day, but it was Christmas.
Thirty minutes later, they returned to their apartment, bags of hot food in tow, and Snowglobe Wonderland lighting the way. They took Ilya's scented candle and their new addition, placing both on the coffee table in front of the couch. They spread their Chinese food assortment on the table, each with a fork in hand, eating directly from the containers. They shared the different dishes, and Shane didn't care that it was informal or about the germs they were inevitably sharing as they double-dipped in different cartons.
He sat on their couch with Ilya in the dark, eating egg rolls and lo mein, lit only by two candles that together smelled like a used-car dealership. And somehow, despite all the reasons that it shouldn't be, Shane thought it might be the best Christmas dinner he'd ever had. God help his soul if Yuna ever found that out.
After dinner, Shane headed to bed, only to find his room completely freezing. Without the heat in their apartment, it couldn't have been more than forty degrees in his bedroom. He had a blanket and comforter on his bed, but not much by the way of extra layers. He went to the living room in search of a throw blanket and found Ilya already a step ahead of him, blanket in arms.
"Is your room freezing?" Ilya asked knowingly.
"Sub-zero, I think. Yours?"
"Colder than Russia. It's cold out here, but not nearly as bad." Ilya let those words sit in the air for a moment, waiting for Shane to answer. "Should we pool our resources?" he prompted.
That sentence meant absolutely nothing to Shane. "What?"
"You know, bring all of our blankets to the living room and share them."
"Share them?" Shane asked, dumbfounded.
"Yeah, make a bed on the floor. I think teen girls would refer to it as a sleepover, but I'm not an authority on that," Ilya said with a straight face.
"Okay," Shane agreed, his voice wobbly. He retreated to his room and pulled off his blanket and comforter. Then, he put on his warmest flannel pajama pants, a long-sleeve shirt, and hideous, fluffy socks his Mom had given him last Christmas. The less skin he could accidentally expose to Ilya in their "floor-bed" the better.
When he made it back to the living room, Ilya had already laid out his own blankets on the floor. He reached for Shane's blankets, and Ilya took care in layering them carefully over his own, like he was making a lasagna of blankets. Then he laid out two pillows side by side at the top and slid beneath the blankets.
Shane stood there stupidly for a moment before the cold of the room prompted him to follow suit. The blankets were cool, but once under the blanket, he could immediately feel his blood begin to heat. Something about the layers of wool, cotton, and fleece, and the proximity to Ilya Rozanov under the covers made the room feel positively hot.
He expected Ilya to maintain silence for the rest of the night, both of them tossing and turning to get comfortable on the floor. So, he was surprised when Ilya faced him on the floor and told him, "I didn't expect to celebrate this year. Thank you for tonight, Shane."
"It was nice, wasn't it? Despite everything?"
"Yeah, it was," Ilya answered quietly, and against all odds, Shane found himself drifting to sleep soon after.
By the next morning, the power was back on, clicking on at 7 AM with a whir and click, all the lights they'd left on the day before bathing the early morning in a bright, unwelcome light.
Shane took it as a sign to rise from his "bed" and start the day. He, of course, found Ilya already in the kitchen. Shane had always considered himself an early riser, but Ilya seemed to be perpetually intent on beating him to the kitchen in the morning. It was simultaneously irritating and endearing.
Ilya was at the stove, one hand on his phone and the other on the pan handle as he made eggs.
Ilya turned and glanced at Shane over his shoulder. "Do you want eggs?"
"Sure," Shane said with a grateful smile. It was rare that Ilya cooked for them, and Shane couldn't deny that Ilya was a far better cook than he was.
"How many?"
"Two is good, thanks."
Shane stood silently as Ilya easily cooked the eggs, bringing Shane a plate with two perfectly cooked over-easy eggs a few minutes later. He placed his own on a plate and then looked a little sheepish as Ilya sat down on the couch to eat.
They ate in silence, and Shane felt that Ilya was holding something back. When both their plates were clean, just a smidge of bright yellow yolk left, Ilya cleared his throat and began.
"So, my friend is coming to visit."
"Your friend? What friend?" Shane asked, racking his brain for any friends that Ilya might have mentioned beyond Svetlana.
"You haven't met him; he and I did our doctoral program together. He teaches in Boston now. But he's coming to do a guest lecture in the first week of January and thought it would be fun to celebrate New Year's with me."
"Okay, fun. I assume you want me to meet him?" Shane asked him. It would explain Ilya's nervousness and his choice to tell Shane at all.
"Yes"
Shane double-checked, "As your fake fiancé?"
"Yes, I have not told him it is fake. He is a good man, but has a bit of a loud mouth. He isn't a very good secret keeper, and he knows a lot of people in academia. If I tell him the truth, it would be at Crowell's ear in the hour.
"Okay, no problem. We've been fine until now." Shane said, even as a little tremor of nervousness over the line ran through him.
"There is another thing," Ilya said, his voice tentative.
"Okay…"
"I told him he could stay here."
"You what?" Shane couldn't have heard that correctly. There was no way he'd heard Ilya correctly.
"Well, technically, he asked how many bedrooms our apartment had, and I said two, and then he invited himself to stay with us.
"Ilya"
"I know, I'm sorry. But the damage is done. We'll need to share a room while he's here so he doesn't suspect anything."
Shane paused, annoyance running through him. The apartment was the one place they didn't have to put on show. How could Ilya just invite someone here and break the one safe zone from all the lies?
"Can't you just tell him we sleep separately because you snore?" he suggested.
"I do not snore."
"He doesn't know that," Shane complained, his irritation over the situation growing.
"Hollander, calm down, it will be fine. We've shared a bed before; this is no different."
"We were half-delirious from fever when we shared a bed". Even now, the memory of it was fuzzy at the edges. He remembered asking Ilya while he was sick with the flu. Spending two days practically camped out in his bed with him, but they'd both been so sick that he hadn't had time to overthink it.
"Yes, what is your point?" Ilya said
"It's different," Shane quipped back without further explanation. How could Ilya not understand this?
"No, it isn't."
"Fuck, yes, it is." He took a deep bracing breath, arguing with Ilya over this was a losing battle. "Fine. We'll share a room, but it's going to be my room. He's staying in yours." Another breath, another moment to compose himself. "How long is he here for?"
"He arrives on the 31st and lectures on the 2rd, leaving right after"
That was good at least. Shane could handle two days. Two nights, on the other hand, that would be debatable. "Fine, but you have to do most of the talking. I'm not used to lying to close friends, especially in the apartment."
"I know, it'll be okay, Shane," Ilya said, placing a hand on Shane's knee and looking at his eyes with apology.
"I know, it's fine," Shane said, half tempted to move Ilya's hand away and half tempted to drag it further up his thigh.