Chapter Text
Montreal, Jun 22nd, 2016
“Le loyer fixé, payement le premier du mois, pas de niaisage. Trois jours de retard, je tape dans ta caution. Si tu payes toujours pas, le bail saute, et tu décalisses en trois jours pis la caution, tu peux faire ton deuil. Pas de bordel, pas de putes, pas de drogue. L'hiver, la neige est pelletée avant sept heures le matin.”"Rent is fixed, due the first of every month. After three days late, the penalty comes out of your deposit. If you still can't pay, that's automatic breach of contract, you out in three days, deposit stays with me. No noise, no whores, no drugs. In winter, the snow gets shovelled before seven in the morning."
French came at him like gunfire. It took him an extra beat to understand it all.
The basement wallpaper had yellowed, mostly peeled away. The furniture carried a smell of mildew, and the bathroom was so small he could barely turn around. The light didn't work properly either, buzzing and flickering at intervals. Ilya made a mental note to buy a new bulb from the grocery store. He couldn't stand that electric hum.
He stepped past the landlord and reached out to pat the heating unit, practically an antique, frowning as he turned back.
“C'est moi qui ramasse toute la neige?” "Snow shovelling is all on me?"
"T'as le loyer le plus bas de tout l'immeuble. Faut bien que tu compenses. “"Your rent is the lowest in the whole building. Got to earn it somehow."
"Je suis le seul de tout l'immeuble à vivre au sous-sol. “"I'm the only one in the whole building living in the basement."
The landlord shrugged, and a second later:"Tu le prends ou pas?”"You renting or not?"
It was still early. Outside the window, morning mist had settled. Across the street hung an enormous illuminated billboard, printed with a man in a suit and a Rolex watch. In the fog, the face was indistinct, unidentifiable. Probably this year's new model.
Ilya turned around and nodded.
"On signe là? ""Sign now?"
During his first year in the NHL, Shane bought this top-floor apartment in Westmount. Not luxurious, but comfortable and well-appointed. Already then, he had foreseen his entire career taking root here.
Protein powder, kale, spinach, frozen banana, chia seeds, water, ice cubes, all into the blender. Three minutes later, the machine stopped spinning. Every day after his morning run, he made a smoothie. Same ingredients, same portions. One habit among countless others.
He turned on the TV. The morning news crawl ran through policy changes in Russia, then switched to the next country in under ten seconds. He sat on the sofa for ten minutes listening to weather forecasts, oil price fluctuations, international affairs, and confirmed that the Russian news item that had flickered past was unlikely to reappear.
He got up, rinsed out the glass, took out his phone, and began replying to the messages from the night before.
First, the contract amendments and ad shoot plans from Yuna. Then a link Hayden had shared - it was photos of his and Rose's second date, with pages of comments already.
Shane skimmed through them. He didn't usually search for his name. Even him sneezing in public could get written up by some tabloids as suspected cancer. Not much substance to it.
The online response was mostly well-wishes, which didn't surprise him, until one particular comment caught his eye.
Well. Mourning the version of me who really believed Shane Hollander was gay :( #wishyouweregay
This comment had drawn plenty of replies. Some agreed, some disagreed. Some said he might be bisexual. Some said a gay man couldn't win the Stanley Cup.
Shane read every reply. Once. Again. And again.
The trending news that popped up on his phone was more of the same. Ilya swiped past them idly with his thumb, thinking he might see some new tabloid exposé, but it was the same couple photos over and over.
The grocery store wasn't far. Besides the lightbulb, he also picked up some paint, planning to cover the worst of the mould stains. The little TV beside the register was playing an entertainment program, the two hosts' voices grating. The owner was staring, transfixed, at the screen. Ilya called out Bonjour and then Hello several times before this big-bearded man, wearing a cap with the Metros logo, reluctantly tore his eyes away and glanced at him, impatient.
"Checkout." Ilya nodded toward the items on the counter.
The big-bearded man scanned his things at a crawl. The show hosts were still chattering endlessly about the same piece of gossip, a testament to how boring Canada's entertainment industry was. The studio rang with laughter; the screen flashed and flashed, photos cycling like slides. The owner's attention was pulled back again. Ilya took out his wallet, dug out the change, and didn't look up once.
A woman pushed through the door, cursing as she scraped a blue flyer off the sole of her shoe against the step. A regular, it seemed; the owner greeted her.
"Isn't that the actress from Suicide Squad? She and Sh—"
He pulled open the door. The bell rang, cutting off whatever had been left unsaid behind him.
Shane had just finished his workout. By the time he picked up his phone, the notification bar held several unread messages already. He shook his head, smiling, and typed back.
Shane's typing hand paused for a second. He pulled up Google Calendar, as if he hadn't already checked it. The first thing he did every morning upon opening his eyes was confirm his schedule. This, too, belonged among his countless habits.
June 22, 2016. An afternoon shoot. No dinner plans whatsoever.
He stared at those hours of blank space, as if staring might conjure some change.
Clutching a paper bag, toting paint, Ilya walked down the streets in Montreal in June where everything was reduced to blue and red, and the gold of victory. On the day of the Stanley Cup Final, it seemed like every person on the street had to wear something blue, the reserved ones a cap, the passionate ones straight-up jerseys. Most of those jerseys bore the number 24.
Even the Smirnovs, who never watched hockey, had excitedly tuned the restaurant to the game channel, shouting at the TV alongside the regulars. 5-2. Two goals in the third period back to back, no suspense left. When the final whistle blew, the city's roar swelled like a tide. Standing in the cramped corner of the restaurant, Ilya could hear the tremors of joy rolling in from every block, near and far.
On that same cramped little TV, a man with a full cheek of freckles lifted the Stanley Cup, a huge smile on his face, index and middle fingers raised high, signalling that this was the second time he'd hoisted that golden cup.
Ilya felt something wet on his face. He reached up and touched the corner of his mouth, then realized he was smiling.
Ilya detoured past countless Metros flags plastered with Stanley Cup stickers before he finally made it back to his basement.
Only once inside did he notice a blue flyer stuck to the bottom of his shoe. He cursed, tore it off. Something about discounted drinks and celebration parties. He really wanted to know whether this frenzy would have to last all the way into the next season.
There were a few Stanley Cup stickers on the flyer as well. He peeled them off gently and stuck them to the headboard, just to cover up two cracks spreading along the wood.
A noise came from the window. Ilya looked up. A man and a woman were crouched outside, gesturing at him with expressions of impatience. He rolled his eyes, gestured back, and indicated that he was coming out.
"...not urgent. I've read the contract, had the lawyer look it over too." Shane pushed his cart along, drifting through the health food aisle of the grocery store. "The terms are fine, but I really do think the shoot concept is a little..."
“No, no.” sighed he, phone pinched between his shoulder and ear, and began comparing the nutrition labels of different oatmeal brands. "Not the ginger ale. Ginger ale is fine. Although I still don't get what promotional value there is in carving soda into ice sculptures."
"Yes, that's the weird part." He placed the winning oatmeal into the cart and moved on to comparing quinoa. "I don't know, it feels a little... racist. Hire a bunch of Asian kids, and then—"
"Mhm, it just feels off... Okay, thanks, Mom."
The quinoa competition was fiercer. Shane now held three brands in his hand, one he'd bought before, the other two a new release and a reformulated version.
"Tonight... yeah, with Rose." In the end, he chose the one he'd eaten before. There wasn't really any reason to switch. "Mom..." He drew the word out. A string of okay, okay came from the other end of the line. It wasn't hard to picture Yuna waving her hand in surrender.
"Let's talk later... yeah, once it's signed, I'll send it over. Okay. Bye."
Hanging up, Shane began to move to the next section. Suddenly a man and a woman's conversation drifted over from across the shelves. He reflexively looked up, his mouth going dry, his heartbeat quickening.
The conversation floated over again. They seemed to be arguing about a shopping list.
Blender? Meat grinder?
His Russian was no longer good enough for him to understand the full exchange, but at the very least, he could confirm it was Russian.
"You're going to die here!" The woman fired a sentence of English straight at his face.
Ilya raised an eyebrow at her, then turned to the man and bumped fists first, greeting him in Russian: "Ничего не разбил по дороге?""Didn't crash into anything on the way?"
Mark rolled his eyes and gestured at the car behind him."Всё здесь. Но ты, скорее всего, найдёшь кучу вещей, которым в твоей новой квартире не место.""Everything's here. But you're very likely to find a bunch of things that don't belong in your new apartment."
"Пельмени в контейнерах, пирожки, тефтели, блендер, массажёр, кофеварка...""Pelmeni in tupperware, pirozhki, meatballs, a blender, a massager, a coffee machine..."
"Не игнорируй меня!""Don't ignore me!"The woman pulled him toward her, switching to Russian as well, but her accent was stilted."Я посмотрела — здесь была стрельба! ""I looked it up. There's been a shooting here!"
"Доброе утро, Евушка, я тоже очень рад тебя видеть. Маркуша, у меня всё это просто не поместится.""Good morning, Evushka, I'm also very happy to see you. Markusha, my place can't possibly fit all that stuff."
Mark shrugged and unloaded several boxes of miscellaneous goods from the trunk, then stuffed an enormous insulated bag into Eva's arms, motioning for her to take it inside.
"Мне одной не всё равно на безопасность этого района?"""Am I really the only one worried about the safety of this neighbourhood?"
Eva complained as she carried the insulated bag into the basement. The moment she stepped inside, she let out another wail:"Ilya Rozanov, sérieusement, on pourrait te faire tes funérailles tout de suite, tant qu'à faire. Avant que tu meures d'un cancer du poumon à force de respirer de la moisissure, ou que tu crèves du scorbut parce que tu vois jamais la lumière du jour. ""Ilya Rozanov, we might as well hold your funeral right now, before you die a painful death from lung cancer because of mould inhalation, or die a painful death from scurvy because you never see the sun."This time in French. She always used French when complaining, rapid-fire. Fortunately, Ilya didn't need to hear her complaints all that clearly.
He followed behind Eva. "Ты преувеличиваешь. В Монреале и так солнца почти не бывает.""You're exaggerating. Montreal doesn't get that much sun anyway."
Eva drew a sharp breath. "Он не стал отрицать вероятность рака лёгких."""He didn't deny the possibility of lung cancer."
"Рак лёгких может быть у кого угодно.""Anyone could get lung cancer."
"Ладно.""Okay."Mark set down the last cardboard box. Clearly, while they'd been bickering, he'd taken care of all the work by himself."Евушка, контейнеры надо в холодильник.""Evushka, the tupperware needs to go in the fridge."
The basement wasn't big to begin with. Once it was full of things, the three of them barely had room to stand. Ilya found a random box and began sorting. Eva, having finished her task, let out an oh as if she'd discovered a new continent and picked up the flyer from the floor.
"У нас в школе целая стена такими заклеена. Ты пойдёшь? ""There's an entire wall at my school covered in these. Are you going?"
Mark looked over her shoulder at the flyer."Он болеет за «Метрос».""He's a Metros fan."
"Ничего я не болею.""I am not."
"Ты подписан на кучу игроков «Метрос». У тебя вся лента, сплошной хоккей. Ты смотришь матчи в прямом эфире при любой возможности, даже повторы. ""You follow a bunch of Metros players. Your homepage is all hockey. You watch live hockey games whenever you have time, even replays."
"Я...""I..."
"Я только Шейна Холландера знаю""I only know Shane Hollander."Eva cut in.
"Кто не знает Шейна Холландера?""Who doesn't know Shane Hollander?"Mark rolled his eyes.
"Я ещё знаю, что он встречается с Роуз Лэндри. Когда новость вышла, у нас в школе каждый чат взорвался."" I also know he's dating Rose Landry. When the news broke, every group chat at my school exploded."
"А как они вообще познакомились? Я думал, в Монреале скучно.""How did they meet? I thought Montreal was boring."
"В Монреале тоска смертная.""Montreal is boring as hell."
"..."
"Мама просила напомнить, вечером большой ужин, приходи пораньше. ""Mom told me to remind you, there's a big dinner waiting tonight. Come early."
Before leaving, Mark leaned out of the car window and said.
Ilya nodded.
"Скажи ей, чтобы не возилась. ""Tell her not to go to any trouble."
"Поздно, она уже вовсю готовит. ""Too late, she's already at it."
Mark shook his head, laughing.
"Ладно, тогда до вечера. С днём рождения. ""Alright then, see you tonight. Happy birthday."
"С днём рождения, Ильюша!""Happy birthday, Ilyusha!"
Eva also squeezed her head over to the driver's side window.
Ilya smiled faintly and reached out to pat the roof of the car. The Smirnov family's pickup was getting on in years; its rear end shuddered and coughed smoke when it started up. He stood at the roadside and watched them leave. The truck swung around the corner at an exaggerated angle before finally straightening out. Ilya silently cursed Mark's driving, and his gaze shifted to the street corner.
There, looming, was the giant Rolex billboard. No fog obscuring it now; the image was finally clear. Shane Hollander's brown eyes looked straight at him, freckles floating like clouds across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, his upper lip a drawn bow, his lower lip so full it was nearly overripe.
His name was signed right beside the watch he wore. Captain of Montreal. The Golden Boy of Canada who had lifted the Stanley Cup two years in a row. As if there was a single person in this city who didn't know him.
He suspected that a hundred years from now, Montreal would erect a statue of Shane Hollander outside the Bell Centre. And that the disgusting health smoothie from his documentary would be handed out for free every Hollander Day. Elementary schoolers wouldn't remember he was a great hockey player; they'd only remember his boring, pretty face and that nightmarish smoothie.
He wondered who did his makeup. What lip gloss they used.
Ilya let his mind wander in aimless circles in Russian, then turned around and burrowed back into his basement.
Shane followed the assistant into the makeup room. A man was fiddling with the bottles and jars on the table. Catching sight of him in the mirror, the man turned around to greet him.
"Hi, I'm Dylan. I'll be handling your look today. Have a seat, Mr. Hollander."
Dylan had blue eyes, a head of short brown curls, and a fluent American-accented English.
"Just Shane is fine." He sat down and watched Dylan work through the mirror. Dylan had countless piercings in both ears, and faint black tattoo lines snaked up the back of his neck, disappearing into the fine little curls at his nape.
He tried to shift his gaze away without being obvious.
"Interested in ear piercings?" Dylan asked, smoothing a thick layer of lotion across his face.
"How many do you have?" His face felt a little hot.
"Hmm..." Dylan shrugged, picking up a different cream and applying it to his face. He made a thoughtful noise, but his hands continued moving, swift and gentle. "I've lost count on the left ear. The right should have eight."
He couldn't help glancing again at Dylan's left ear, which was lined with a string of earpieces.
"Does it hurt?"
Dylan smiled. "Depends on the spot." His fingertips brushed around his own curls, first touching the upper cartilage, then the earlobe. "If it's the soft bone here, it's still pretty painful. If it's the earlobe, it's no different than a mosquito bite."
He watched the brown curls shift under Dylan's fingertips. He cleared his throat to show he understood.
"Ever thought about getting piercings?" Dylan asked, his voice light. Before Shane could reply, he added, a little anxiously, "Is it okay for me to ask that? God, this is my first time styling a ball-sport athlete. I mean absolutely no offence."
Looking at the makeup artist flustering in front of him, Shane couldn't help but laugh. "I don't mind."
Dylan sighed wearily. "Some athletes take offence to this kind of thing... mostly male ball-sport athletes..." Seeing Shane watching him with amusement through the mirror, he raised his hands and shook his head. "Alright, I admit that's a stereotype."
Shane nodded, but his expression remained a bit tight. "There are guys like that on my team. I'm not good at physical confrontation, that also isn't macho enough in their eyes."
Dylan picked up a makeup brush again. "Shane, I might not understand hockey, but I understand what two Stanley Cups mean."
The conversation hovered there for a few seconds. When Dylan leaned in toward him, he could almost smell the hair oil in those curls. It made him hold his breath.
"I've never gotten a piercing, and I don't plan to." Feeling Dylan's gaze on him, he forced himself to continue. "But not for... macho reasons like that. I just have a hard time accepting changes to my body, whether it's due to the sensation or the habit." The simple idea of an extra hole in his ear made his skin crawl. If that hole ever got infected, he'd probably be so anxious he'd go crazy.
Dylan nodded with deep understanding. "But you do seem interested in them?" He gestured casually at his own ear.
"Yeah. Reminds me of an old... an old friend of mine. I went with him when he got his piercings done."
"Where did he do it?"
"Those places you said would hurt."
Dylan couldn't help laughing. "Right?"
The difference was, he hadn't said a single word about the pain. Had waited until they got infected, oozing pus, bleeding, hurting so much he couldn't sleep on his side. Only then had he finally told him.
At the time, Shane had been so furious he'd nearly crawled out of bed in the middle of the night to pull out his earrings.
"Okay, close your eyes." Dylan held up a spray can.
Shane closed his eyes.
"Мне что, пока нельзя открывать глаза? Смирновы и твоя расторопность.""I can't open my eyes yet? The Smirnovs' and your efficiency."
"Заткнись, Ильюша.""Shut up, Ilyusha."Eva's voice drifted from far away, carrying no force.
A few minutes later, Ilya could feel a source of heat moving closer to him, coming to a slow stop a finger's width from the tip of his nose. That orange glow seeped through his closed eyelids too, flickering quietly in the dark.
"Ильюша, открывай глаза.""Ilyusha, open your eyes."The middle-aged woman's voice carried a gentle smile. She, too, had grown up in Moscow and had come to Canada at twenty, marrying Igor, who was of Russian descent, and giving birth to Mark and Eva. She was the closest thing to home he could hear on this continent, in this country, in this city.
Twenty-year-old Yelena left Moscow. Twenty-year-old Mama married Papa.
Sometimes he let himself fantasize that in some other universe, Mama had also escaped her sadness, like Yelena.
He opened his eyes. Yelena was holding a homemade birthday cake in both hands, his name crookedly written across it in apricot jam and raspberry jam. The surface was so crowded with candles that the remaining letters were impossible to make out. Mark and Eva stood on either side of her. Beside him stood Igor, his warm, broad palms resting on the back of Ilya's neck and his shoulder.
"Wow," he cleared his throat, "По-моему, столько свечей — это уже пожароопасно. ""I think these candles are enough to be a small-scale fire hazard."
He'd assumed the candles were Eva's doing and was about to tease her, but to his surprise, Yelena gave him a light kick.
"Давай скорее, загадывай желание!""Hurry up and make a wish!"she urged.
So he closed his eyes again. A moment later, he blew out all twenty-five candles in one breath. Only once all the candles had been removed did Ilya truly read those crooked letters — they said: С днём рождения, наш самый любимый сын и брат.Happy birthday, our most beloved son and brother.
"А теперь моя любимая часть! ""Now for my favourite part!"Eva began rubbing her hands together. "Готовь уши!""Get your ears ready!"
Ilya rolled his eyes. There was a Russian birthday tradition of ear-pulling — one tug for every year you'd lived. He'd never done it back in Russia, but somehow, in Canada, he couldn't escape it.
"Нет. Им можно. Тебе нельзя.""No. They can. You can't."
"Это ещё почему?""Why not? "
"Потому что ты совсем не чувствуешь, с какой силой дёргаешь. В прошлом году у меня на следующее утро ухо до сих пор было красное. Я даже слышал плохо. ""Because you have no sense of how hard you're pulling. Last year my ear was still red the next morning. I couldn't even hear properly"
"Это потому что ты слишком старый.""That's because you're too old."
Before he could retort, his right ear was already given a gentle tug. He turned his head and saw Yelena beaming, her eyes sparkling under the light.
"Так, осталось двадцать четыре раза!""Alright, twenty-four to go!"Yelena cheered.
"I'm declaring this restaurant the worst I've ever eaten at in Montreal. Good thing I'm with you."
Rose rolled her eyes at the table full of dishes. "The fried fish is the only thing that's okay. But when you've already thrown something into oil and fried it, how can it just be 'okay'?"
"Wait," Shane couldn't help raising his eyebrows, "I agree with your assessment, but why good thing you're with me? Am I only worthy of eating bad food with Rose Landry?"
Rose burst into loud laughter.
"I mean, good thing I'm with you, so I can complain freely. If I were with acquaintances, I'd have to be polite while choking this down. That would be a nightmare." Rose stood up and left a light kiss at the corner of his lips. "I'm going to the restroom."
Shane nodded and watched Rose head toward the corner. A noise came from the next table, and he glanced over slightly. A man waiting for someone, talking on his phone. Shoulder-length black curly hair, a full suit, no tie, just two buttons open at the collar.
The man was trying to keep his voice down, but Shane could still hear the Slavic accent threading through his English.
The next second, the man looked up and met his eyes. He immediately pulled his gaze back.
"I almost forgot — are you interested in Russian food?"
Rose's hand settled gently on his shoulder. Shane looked up, momentarily lost.
"Russian food. Are you interested?" Rose sat back down in her seat. "Someone from the crew recommended a place to me, near Université de Montréal, I think. Supposed to be very authentic. I wanted to bring you there tonight, but it's closed today."
Shane blinked. Blinked again.
"Russian food..." He cleared his throat. "It's been a long time. I even tried making it myself once."
"Really?" Rose's eyes widened in surprise. "I tried learning Spanish cooking too, but the results weren't great. The rice didn't cook through."
His gaze first landed on the small painted lamp between them, then the cutlery glazed warm by the light, and finally Rose's eyes.
"I had an old friend. He came to Canada from Russia for school. We were high school classmates."
He smiled.
"I heard him talk about a kind of dumpling his family made, so I tried to make it myself."
"Pelmeni?"
"Yeah. In the end, the dough got flung up onto the ceiling. He said we might as well knock it down with a coat hanger. I thought, this isn't hockey, how are we supposed to knock it down? But he'd already thrown the hanger up. That red hanger and the ninety-percent-hydration dough ended up stuck to our dorm ceiling for an entire week. Every single person on our team came by to see it."
He'd told this story many times, to many people, from when it happened at sixteen, up until now, at twenty-five.
Every time, the person across from him would double over laughing, just like Rose did now.
Sometimes they'd ask follow-up questions about the present time. Sometimes they wouldn't. Most of the time, they wouldn't. He wasn't good at socializing, but he was good at observing and archiving. He'd learned that people were used to the drifting away of friends. When someone talked about a friend in the past tense, people generally assumed that said friend was no longer a part of their life.
That assumption hurt him more than the truth itself.
"Is he still in Canada? Or did he go back to Russia?"
Rose was the kind of person who asked about the present time.
Every time, he smiled and gave the same answer.
"We haven't been in touch for a long time."
"Напиши, как доберёшься до дома.""Text me when you get home."Mark frowned and glanced over Ilya from head to toe. "Или давай я тебя отвезу. Отвезу их домой и вернусь за тобой.""Or I'll drive you. I'll take them home and come back to get you."
Ilya ignored him, turned around, and waved goodbye.
The route home wasn't complicated. Ten minutes walking, half an hour on the metro, half an hour on the bus, another ten minutes walking. The bag in Ilya's hand was full of gifts from the Smirnov family, not heavy, but weighty. Igor had given him a new wallet, because his old one was so worn out it was "worrying whether coins might fall out of the holes." Yelena had knitted him a cashmere sweater, because even though it was June, "half the year in Montreal is winter." Mark had picked out a new pair of headphones and a new pair of sneakers, on the grounds that "music matters" and the shoes on his feet were "so worn down they could go sliding onto the ice." Eva had given a jar of face cream, because if he "didn't start a skincare routine, he'd be covered in wrinkles."
He carried them in his hand, walking slowly.
In the affluent parts of the city, the face up high on a billboard was always one he recognized - he'd look up and see that face. Sometimes it was Reebok shoes, sometimes Rolex, sometimes three-flavour protein powder, sometimes athletic wear.
But down on the ground, it was crowded with people who had no faces. No faces, no names, no nationalities, no language. They happened to live in this city that was winter half the time, waiting for the same metro, boarding the same car. No one knew where they came from or where they were going. They met, and no one remembered anyone.
He, too, was just a faceless person in someone else's eyes.
He leaned against the door and looked back. The metro train moved like an arthritic reptile, fast and crooked. Under the harsh white light in the carriage, the faceless people glowed with that kind of grey-blue shadow, the kind he'd seen once, when he was 12 years old.
The happiness of the past few hours peeled off him like a shedded skin. The ringing in his ears from their laughter still seemed to linger in the shallows of his consciousness, within reach, but the joy itself had already passed through him and flowed on toward the next person.
He felt like he'd never truly known it.
He wondered where this hollowness, this sadness, this pain, after the peak of joy, came from, exactly.
Social etiquette told him he should invite Rose.
Social etiquette also told him he should accept Rose's invitation.
Their third date had gone as smoothly as the first two. Conversation flowed with ease, physical contact was natural, and reporters still camped outside their restaurant, waiting to capture snaps of photos. In the middle of the date, Rose casually mentioned she didn't have an early call time tomorrow. The hint was as clear as it could get.
But he hadn't invited Rose to see his apartment, and when he dropped her off at her hotel, he hadn't accepted her invitation to come up.
His excuse was an important interview tomorrow. That he needed to prepare. But he couldn't even look her properly in the eye when he said it. He couldn't do this today. He'd thought he could, but no.
Rose didn't press him. She just cupped his face with her hand and kissed him on the lips. Her hand was very warm.
Back at the apartment, it was already deep into the night. There had been almost no cars on the road, but Shane had taken a detour, doubling the time it took to get home. This wasn't like him, but then again, the him of today hadn't been much like Shane Hollander to begin with.
He took off his jacket and went directly into the bathroom. The makeup from the afternoon probably hadn't been fully removed. He kept feeling itchy. His usual water temperature wasn't comfortable no matter what; his skin never felt clean. He kept raising the temperature higher. The face in the mirror was left with long finger marks from the violent scrubbing, and the skin all over his body was flushed red from the heat. He changed into his softest pyjama, feeling cold and stung nonetheless.
No. Nothing felt right.
He turned on the TV. Maybe because it was late at night, the late-night news anchor's voice was far colder than the morning's. This time, he watched from start to finish. Whether it was the international news the anchor reported or the scrolling text at the very bottom, he didn't miss a single word. He didn't actually know what he was waiting for, but he knew he didn't find it.
It wasn't until the commercials kicked in that he remembered to blink. Two large teardrops fell onto the back of his hands.
No. Nothing felt right.
He turned the TV off again.
With the only source of sound gone, the enormous apartment sank into muteness. He sat on the sofa, carefully controlling his breathing. He wanted to move, to go into the gym and ride the spin bike for an hour, but that wasn't right. He should be lying in bed, because it had already been far too long past his usual sleep time. And he didn't want to take another shower drenched in sweat, his skin still aching faintly.
He got up and turned off all the lights, because it seemed like the only correct thing he could do. He turned toward the bedroom. He should sleep. But he looked at that bed — the bed he'd ensured was perfectly comfortable with a mattress that cost thousands and the hundred-thread sheets — and for a moment, couldn't understand what it was or how he was supposed to lie on it.
That's what made him realize he was having a panic attack, and he was struggling to breathe.
He yanked the duvet over his head. The searing pain in his lungs intensified as his consciousness returned. His breathing slowly steadied. He collapsed into the bed, exhausted. His brain finally quieted. His body quieted too.
He felt like so many things were wrong. But he couldn't sort them out.
Ilya had bought the wrong lightbulb. Maybe he'd misread the label in his third language. Maybe the owner had been too absorbed in the TV and had swapped the product on him. Either way, the bulb he'd imagined, the one that would cast a bright white light, did not happen. Right now, his basement was coated in nothing but a dim depressing yellow.
The light was too dim. Squinting, he sat on the bed and took out the contents of his old wallet, piece by piece. ID. SIM card. Bank cards. OPUS card. Health insurance card. A few crumpled bills and coins. Lastly, two high school student ID cards. He flipped them over and was stared by two young faces at once.
One of them looked to be in a terrible mood, a head of messy curls. The other looked a little serious, a little stiff, with a dorky short haircut and cheekbones and a nose bridge full of freckles. He'd already looked boring back then.
The wallet Igor had chosen was very handsome, the brand-new leather reflecting a soft sheen. He placed the items back in one by one, making sure the two student IDs went into the innermost layer. Transfer complete, he picked up that poor old wallet again.
The leather was too worn, the stitching split. The most deeply worn spots had started peeling away, exposing the lining beneath. This wallet had originally belonged to his father. Before he'd come to Canada, his father had given it to him. Back then, he'd believed it symbolized companionship.
It wasn't poorly made. It had simply been used too long, its lifespan exhausted.
He put it away into the deepest of the drawer.
Ding. A new push notification on his phone. He didn't know how much Canadian journalists were paid, to be this persistent.
He scrolled up with his thumb. Past one photo. Another. One more.
The white glow of the screen fell quietly on his face.
Black blazer.
White casual shirt.
Dark jeans.
And his goddamn Reeboks.
Realizing that last point, Ilya couldn't help but laugh. He zoomed in on the photo. The freckles weren't obvious in these street shots. He'd have to know exactly where they were to make them out.
Sometimes, he hated Montreal. Hated the weather. Hated that everyone was a hockey fan. Hated that everything had to be in French, and French was his third language.
Hated that a ghost called Shane Hollander lived here. Beautiful, but would not stop haunting.
Hated that another day of his life had revolved around him.
But sometimes, he was grateful for Montreal. Because even when they lived in the same city, even when they passed through the same dates, when he weren't actually living alongside a certain man, he wished for moments like this.
No more imagining. He could actually see him.
His thumb caressed over the screen, as if he was caressing the face of that man.
So you look like this today.
Ilya murmured.
The white screen light casted on his face.