Ilya died, yes, but then the doctors saved him. Cardiopulmonary resuscitation in the ambulance, three electric shocks, two emergency surgeries, twenty-six units of blood. Ilya died, but then he came back.

If only Shane could get his subconscious to understand that.

Inherited traits, inherited trauma, and family heirlooms.

A move-for-move story about two chess players and one pair of slutty glasses.

Shane is hiding an injury. Ilya notices.

Their waitress is kind enough to let Shane practice his clumsy Spanish with her. He pointedly does not look at Ilya after ordering, but he's known him long enough to know when he's laughing at Shane's expense.

“I hate you,” he says.

“No,” Ilya says. He looks unfairly handsome in a linen beach shirt and his flamingo-patterned board shorts Shane bought him last summer. “You do not.”

“Should call you the Ottawa Puppies,” says the Toronto centre, Svensson. As an insult it makes no sense, so Ilya ignores it, until he continues, “Hear Hollander keeps you on a short leash.”

Ilya is the captain, so if anything, he should be holding the leash. In English, you can be singular or plural, but he knows what Svensson is trying to say. He is saying Ilya Rozanov, you are Hollander’s bitch.

“Only sometimes,” Ilya replies, grinning. He wins the face off.

OR: Ilya trains himself to be a very, very good guard dog for Shane.

Everyone says the Olympic village is a total fuck-fest. Shane tries to tune it out, tries to focus, tries to stay off his phone, tries not to pop a boner every time he hears someone speaking English with a Russian accent.

Shane isn't used to people touching him. Then he meets Ilya Rozanov.

Hudson finally decides to bite the bullet now—here, in the corner of a too-loud gay bar that smells like heavily poured vodka sodas and sweat—and ask the question no interviewer had yet dared to.

“Have you ever been with another guy?”

Connor sips his drink slowly, licks his lips over a smile. “Can't imagine how that's relevant.”

Connor resumed petting Hudson’s hair, fingers sliding around the curve of his ear. “Does this approach usually work for you?”

Hudson considered feigning modesty, for about a thousandth of a second. “I mean…” he said. “Honestly, most approaches usually work for me.”

As Shane Hollander, Hudson adopted an on-screen demeanor that spoke of sexual inexperience, dizzying amounts of lust, and flushed cheeks over how badly he wanted his love interest, Ilya.

But Hudson Williams? The man does not seem to know what self preservation is. If a door is opened to him, he walks through it in the name of curiosity. Failure is a lesson, and embarrassment, non-existent.

So for Connor to witness realization slowly dawning over the other man’s face, every part of it turning red with clear embarrassment, it seems like the utmost violation on a day when every other piece of him has already been laid bare.