The #1 fan always losing ticketing war #14

A/B（）

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m'embrasser

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Ilya POV.

No promises about not dropping bricks on your heads in the next two chapters😌 but I'll make sure the brick takes its sweet time flying through the air before it hits you.

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<h1 class="contact">Shane 💐💌Ласточка</h1>

<dd>Are you alive? Or drowning in champagne?</dd>

</div>

<div class="in"><dt>Shane</dt>

<dd>Alive. Barely.</dd>

<dd>Mostly just exhausted, but the headache is finally going away.</dd>

</div>

<dd>Good. You need real food. Not your stupid wet cardboard diet.</dd>

<dd>I know you have millions. Do not need free meal from anyone. But I can buy you dinner tonight.</dd>

<dd>To celebrate your Cup.</dd>

</div>

<dd>Only celebration.</dd>

<dd>Nothing else.</dd>

</div>

<div class="in"><dt>Shane</dt>

<dd>Not everything tastes like wet cardboard. And it's called a Macrobiotic Diet.</dd>

</div>

<dd>But it's boring. Not suitable for a champion.</dd>

<dd>I found quiet place downtown. They have rice in so many color, pumpkin soup no milk and meat made from bean. Gross but I think you will like it if you say yes.</dd>

<dd>And it's members-only. No reporters. Safe. Private. Just casual dinner. No stress.</dd>

</div>

<div class="in"><dt>Shane</dt>

</div>

<dd>You can say no if you are too busy being famous captain.</dd>

</div>

<div class="in"><dt>Shane</dt>

<dd>I'm not so busy that I can't have a members-only dinner. Send me the address.</dd>

</div>

<div class="in"><dt>Shane</dt>

<dd>Did you just go make a reservation, or did I reply too slowly and you regret asking?</dd>

</div>

<dd>fuck i mean yes i just madeareservationandiamnotregretask</dd>

<dd>I MADE A RESERVATION</dd>

<dd>stupid iphone keyboard</dd>

<dd>I will not let you walk to restaurant with those champion legs. That's not style of Russian gentleman. I will pick you up at 7. Send me address and dress fancy, Hollander.</dd>

</div>

</dl>

<p class="dm-messagebody"><span class="dm-header">Jane🎹losing mind@rozno1fan</span><br />

<br />

<span class="dm-text1">That's just a side note, you don't have to answer. But do dating rumors usually affect a musician's career?</span><br />

<span class="dm-text3">I'm just curious, it's not a big deal.</span><br />

<span class="dm-reply1">For any Russian musician without second passport, yes, it is very dangerous. But for Ilya Rozanov? Worth a try.</span><br />

<span class="dm-reply2">His family in Moscow is complicated, and Canada PR is not finished yet. One big scandal and everything can go wrong. But he is already trying to leave Russia forever. He is learning French, doing everything to stay here. If he decides he wants something</span><br />

<span class="dm-reply2">or maybe, someone</span><br />

<span class="dm-reply3">He does not run back. He is too stubborn. Do not worry.</span><br />

<span class="dm-reply">If you are actually asking about other musicians, I do not care them.</span><br />

</div>

<hr/>

＊

That spring, after the Crimean crisis erupted, leaving Russia became harder for Ilya. Fuck Putin.

As the second son of a retired high-ranking military official and a featured performer from the Sochi Olympics opening ceremony, the Russian state scrutinized his every move. It cost Ilya an extra fifteen thousand dollars through a broker, just to bribe his way into a clean Russian police clearance certificate. He then took that fifteen-thousand-dollar piece of paper and submitted it alongside his proof of funds, his contract with McGill, and an official recommendation letter from the Dean of the Schulich School of Music to apply for Canadian permanent residency.

The FSB was likely already suspicious of his plans to emigrate. If he ever set foot in Russia again, he might never be allowed to leave. "Sochi Opening Pianist Rumored to Emigrate to Canada" sounded like a screaming scandal headline, one that would definitely bruise Putin's arrogant ego. Ironically, Ilya had to pray that the Canadian immigration officers wouldn't flag him as a "Russian spy" during the vetting process. Still, if he could pass his French proficiency test in the coming months, he could submit additional paperwork to boost his score. Or perhaps, if the immigration officer bothered to glance at the "Charity and Community Contributions" section, noting his instrument donations to the music therapy department at the Montreal Children's Hospital and the photos of Ilya Rozanov visiting sick kids, it might go a long way in easing their doubts about the son of an elite Russian officer.

Emigrating to Canada had drained nearly all the savings Ilya accumulated over years of concert tours and album sales, but to escape a country that did nothing but hollow him out, every penny was worth it.

He had also liquidated most of his luxury car collection to fund his donations to the children's hospital, keeping only a single, bright orange two-door Porsche.

The engine rumbled low in the dim alleyway. Under the streetlights, a familiar figure strode toward Ilya's car on long legs. Just looking at that silhouette sent an involuntary rush of warmth straight to Ilya's chest.

Shane leaned down, his knuckles tapping lightly against the glass. Ilya rolled the window down.

"I don't think parking this thing in the lot of a members-only restaurant qualifies as 'low-key,' Rozanov," Shane said.

"Good evening to you too, Mr. Hollander," Ilya replied, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he teased back. "Get in, please. We need get car into that unworthy parking lot before they cancel reservation."

"Jesus." Shane let out a long-suffering sigh, but opened the door and slid into the passenger seat anyway.

Ilya stepped on the gas, and the engine erupted into a beastly roar. Shane let out a yelp, the seatbelt he was pulling across instantly snapping back. "Holy shit, Rozanov!"

Triumphant laughter exploded inside the car. "Unbelievable. Multi-million hockey star in sports car for first time, yes?"

"I've been in sports cars before! I just—"

"You just don't own single one."

That hit the nail right on the head. Shane frowned and turned his face toward the window. Chuckling, Ilya spun the steering wheel, backing the car out of the alley and onto the main road.

"Sports cars are completely useless in Montreal snow! And I don't need to buy a fleet of them just to flex like you do." Shane hadn't even asked where they were going yet, still stubbornly arguing about Ilya's cars.

"Oh, I sold all of them," Ilya said, glancing at Shane from the corner of his eye. "Only have this one left."

"What? Why?" Ilya could hear genuine alarm in Shane's voice.

"Children's hospital need new music room and instruments. And I do not need so many cars."

"Oh... Ilya... I saw the news. That's... really amazing."

The tender, almost aching softness in Shane's tone made Ilya's chest tighten. He swallowed dryly, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the road ahead.

"That was just private ward visit. Next time I text you public performance date. If kids see Montreal's champion, maybe they stop pestering me to play 'Let It Go'. God, that song and 'build snowman' should be banned."

Without turning his head, Ilya knew Shane was grinning ear to ear. Ilya deliberately hummed the piercing high notes of the princess movie's theme song, and Shane laughed out loud, singing along with the lyrics while complaining about how Pike's kids constantly tortured him with the exact same songs whenever he babysat.

<hr/>

Ilya did indeed pull the bright orange supercar into the absurdly members-only parking lot. But when he walked around the front of the hood and opened the passenger door, under the bright halogen lights, he was struck by the sudden, stunned realization that his flashy ride completely paled in comparison to Shane.

"What?" Under Ilya's glued gaze, Shane stiffened his shoulders slightly, a flicker of panic flashing through his wide eyes.

"Nothing... just wishing I am first person who gets to see you in this. Otherwise, I would die from jealousy of everyone else."

Shane was wearing an ivory, single-breasted dinner jacket over a pure white satin dress shirt, paired with tailored black trousers, a matching white cummerbund, and sleek, pointed black patent leather shoes. It was a look truly worthy of his multi-million-dollar salary, he looked like a superstar walking straight off a haute couture runway, not a hockey player who had been battling for the puck on the ice just twenty-four hours ago. Ilya's gaze tracked down his open collar, lingering on the bare skin between his collarbones and necklace, his shameless eyes tracing the faint, sculpted outline of Shane's chest. He simply couldn't look away.

"You told me to dress fancy!" Shane retorted, a pretty pink instantly rushing to his cheeks.

"Yes, I did. And I won't regret it for single second from now on." Ilya licked his lips, his throat suddenly dry like he was standing in the middle of a desert. Goddammit, who taught Shane to leave the top three buttons undone?

Ilya's eyes flicked back and forth between Shane's exposed chest and his flustered expression, until Shane couldn't help but let out a soft scoff. "Guess I have Rose to thank. But this isn't a date, just 'celebrating my Cup', right, Rozanov?"

"Fuck. Yes. Am I going to regret saying that?" Ilya muttered under his breath, while a smug, triumphant smirk pulled at the corner of Shane's mouth.

"Who knows?" Shane said, striding ahead toward the restaurant entrance. The sharp, elegant line of his back gave Ilya an overwhelming urge to reach out and grab the hem of that white dinner jacket.

"Who is Rose?" Ilya asked, catching up to his long strides.

"My piano tuner."

"You have tuner? You have piano?"

"I have a multi-million-dollar salary, so, yes, I have a piano that needs tuning."

They cut their argument short right at the front door. Ilya gave his name for the reservation, and the host led them toward their seats.

Walking right behind the host, Ilya turned his head and whispered, "You let your piano tuner recommend date outfit?"

"I—"

Shane bit back his retort as the waiter stopped at a window table for two. They sat down opposite each other in quiet elegance. After the waiter gave his introduction, both lapsed into silence behind their menus, until Shane suddenly snapped his shut with a soft thud.

"Technically, Rose recommended a stylist who works with Steinway, and then I asked her for a little advice before leaving."

Ilya laid his menu flat on the table, a helpless, fond smile breaking across his face. "Wow, star forward Hollander. Can't let single competition go, just like on ice, yes? Fine, that goal is yours. You are best-looking date I ever brought here. You make me start regret denying this is date. Go thank Rose."

Shane wore an awkward expression, though he couldn't hide the grin spreading across his face.

But a second later, Shane's expression dropped. "...You brought other dates here before?"

Ilya buried his face in one hand, trying desperately to smother the smug, triumphant grin that threatened to break across his entire face, before shaking his head in denial.

When the food arrived, although Ilya openly complained about Shane's order, calling the salad, tri-color rice, and mushroom plant-based steak "rabbit food". His own meal completely blew him away, between the dairy-free pumpkin soup sprinkled with vegan bacon bits, the crispy vegan drumsticks, and the spiced turmeric rice, Ilya couldn't stop making sounds of genuine amazement, making Shane grin ear to ear.

By the time Ilya scraped the last bite off his plate, they had talked through Ilya's upcoming summer charity concert, Shane's off-season training plans, and the Metros' championship victory parade scheduled for next weekend. Even though Shane hadn't outright said it, Ilya could clearly hear the implicit invitation in every word, and each subtle hint only fed Ilya's swelling pride.

When dessert was served, Ilya practically groaned in delight over the tofu-based chocolate mousse cake, no longer mocking Shane's eggless, dairy-free health-nut ice cream as some kind of cult food.

"Svetlana mentioned... you're applying for Canadian PR," Shane said, his spoon idly nudging the ice cream into a melting little mound. He looked up, a hint of guilt in his eyes. "Sorry. I wasn't trying to pry."

"Is fine," Ilya said around his spoon, waving a hand dismissively. "Is true anyway."

"Uh... so... is everything going smoothly?" Shane finally scooped up a spoonful of almost-dripping ice cream and popped it into his mouth.

Ilya shrugged, setting down his spoon and ticking items off his fingers. "Sent all required papers already. Documents from Russia, bank statements, teaching contract, recommendation letters, plus some charity photos."

Shane froze mid-bite, his mouth slightly open. "You sold your sports cars just for the PR application?"

Ilya's gaze drifted toward the corner, putting on an indifferent front with a shrug. "Svetlana's idea. To make good impression on immigration officers. You know... Russians not very popular in the world right now. And I think donating to children's hospital is good idea anyway, so..."

Those stubborn, never-let-anything-go creases immediately bunched up between Shane's brows. Ilya was completely helpless against this man's busybody nature, but his soft spot for Shane made him let the interrogation continue anyway.

"Jesus, you don't have anything to do with those political stunts or the war—" Shane cut himself off.

"I don't blame Canadians," Ilya said, looking directly at him, his tone turning serious. "That bastard was elected by us. And during last election, I didn't even go back to vote. This is what happens when people look away. Now we just have to swallow the consequences we made."

"Can I—is there anything I can do to help?" Shane asked earnestly.

Ilya shook his head with a quiet sigh. "I don't think so. Letter from music school dean already helped lot. Though Svetlana said if we can contact your Canadian, uh... депутат... how you say political man elect to speak for people in the house?"

"The House of Commons? An MP? A Member of Parliament?"

"Yes. If contact MP, we can check review status of PR."

"Yes! Yes, I can help with that!" Shane's eyes lit up, his words tumbling out fast. "Montreal isn't our home riding, but my mom probably knows the MPs in Montreal. She might be able to help. But I'll need your residential address, because MPs are assigned by ridings and boroughs—"

"Wait, wait! Hollander!" Ilya interrupted Shane's rapid-fire train of thought. The last time he had seen Shane like this was at the McGill gala, scheming up ways to land Ilya the faculty contract. "Your mother knows MP? And what is 'borough'?"

Shane paused to take a deep breath, gradually centering himself. "Montreal is huge, and each MP has their own designated riding, so I need your address to know which MP to reach out to. And, yeah, my mom knows most of the MPs in Ottawa, plus a few in Montreal since it's the Metros' main territory and critical for the franchise's community relations."

"Wow..." Ilya leaned back against his chair with a low whistle. "Didn't know there is Mrs. Negotiator above Mr. Negotiator. I never underestimate Mama Hollander again."

"Shut up, Ilya," Shane laughed, the lingering tension evaporating completely. "Though you really shouldn't underestimate her."

"Is this really okay? Feels like using back door," Ilya asked, arching an eyebrow.

Shane shook his head. "I honestly didn't think about it until you brought it up, but that's what constituent services are for. It's an MP's job to assist local residents in their riding. Don't overthink it, it's just asking them to check on the status."

"Thank you," Ilya murmured, his voice utterly genuine. "I send you address later. This... means a lot to me."

Shane offered a shy curve of a smile. "You're welcome. It's just..." He looked back down, swirling his melting ice cream again, his voice dropping softer. "Are you planning on getting citizenship eventually? Uh, what about your family in Russia...?"

Ilya stared at Shane's ice cream bowl, falling into a brief silence. He was grateful Shane wasn't pushing too hard. While he hated talking about family matters, still—

"There is no reason for me to stay there anymore. Family I cared about is long gone. Everyone else just sees me as brand that prints money and fame."

"Ilya... I'm so sorry," Shane said softly, his hand sliding across the tablecloth, inching over the centerline of the table.

Ilya shook his head. "Don't be, Shane. I look forward to new life in Canada. Many reasons to immigrate here."

Ilya rested his hand on the table and extended it forward, though their fingertips never quite touched. Under the soft, ambient glow of the restaurant, they held each other's gaze. In that moment, the silence between them spoke volumes far beyond words.

"Excuse me, so sorry to interrupt, but are you Shane Hollander?"

Hearing the voice, Ilya glanced toward the edge of the table. Two women, clearly not waitstaff, were staring at Shane with shining eyes. Smoothly and without a sound, Ilya pulled his hand back from the table.

Shane's gaze flicked between the two women. Not recognizing them, he offered a slightly hesitant yet warm smile. "Yes, I am."

"We're huge fans, and we just wanted to say congratulations! The game last night was incredible. We hope we're not interrupting your dinner," the blonde woman whispered, keeping her voice low. Both wore excited grins they couldn't conceal, their eyes bright. Ilya knew that look all too well, the unmistakable expression of someone standing in front of their idol.

Realizing what they were here for, Shane visibly relaxed. "Not at all, thank you so much for the support. Uh, did you want...?" He mimed a quick writing motion with his fingers.

"Oh, could you! Oh my gosh," the blonde gasped, her voice pitching up before she quickly clamped a hand over her mouth to quiet down. "Thank you, thank you so much!" Behind her, the brunette immediately fumbled with the straps of her bag. A moment later, they each held out a palm-sized plush doll keychain and a Sharpie.

Shane took them. "Of course I—oh, wow. This is incredible. I've never seen merch like this before. I should definitely bring this up with Metros management," he said, waving the plush doll toward Ilya across the table.

The doll was decked out in the Metros' blue jersey, with big black eyes, a patch of black fabric for short hair, and even the faint freckles on its cheekbones meticulously detailed. It was a spitting image of Shane.

"A mini Hollander. Wow," Ilya muttered with a low, amused breath.

Shane focused on signing the back of the doll with the marker. Because the doll was so small, he took his time, signing slowly and carefully. When he handed them back, the two women almost squealed with joy, dissolving into muffled giggles behind their hands.

Shane's eyes suddenly darted between Ilya and the two fans, a flicker of hesitation crossing his features before he spoke up. "This is Ilya Rozanov," he said, gesturing toward Ilya with an open palm.

"Hi," Ilya said. Shane's sudden introduction caught both Ilya and the fans slightly off guard, but they all exchanged polite hellos anyway.

"Uh, I'm sorry... apologize for not recognizing you, but are you a hockey player too?" the brunette asked, blinking uncertainly with an apologetic tilt of her head.

"Oh, no. I don't play hockey for long time. I play piano."

Ilya finally realized what Shane was doing. Shane wanted to introduce him properly, to give him the respect he deserved. The two fans clearly had no idea who Rozanov the pianist was, but seeing their blank faces didn't make Ilya feel slighted or bitter in the least. Quite the opposite, the fact that Shane's fans had no clue who he was gave Ilya a rare, profound sense of peace and grounding.

He offered the two women an easy, genuine smile.

"Oh! It's so nice to meet you, Mr. Rozanov." The two fans exchanged a quick glance before turning back to Shane. "Thank you so much, Mr. Hollander, for taking the time to talk to us and sign. Have a wonderful evening, both of you."

"You too. Have a good night," Shane said, a touch of sheepishness in his voice, while Ilya gave a polite nod.

Watching the fans walk away, Shane looked back down at the table. The ice cream in his bowl had long since melted into a sugary puddle. "Sorry."

"Why sorry?" Ilya rested his chin in his hand, looking at him with amused curiosity.

"Why—uh, I... because they didn't—" Shane rubbed the back of his neck, sounding frustrated and embarrassed.

"Hollander, nothing to apologize for." Ilya leaned forward. "Dinner is great. Food is delicious. Watching you get recognized by fans is fun. Mini Hollander is very cute. I think I need one. Hang it on rearview mirror of Porsche. Or maybe put on my piano during concert."

"Oh, don't you dare." Shane said, a breathless, mock-serious warning slipping through his teeth.

"Why not?" Ilya chuckled softly. "You see how they clip doll on bag? They clearly care about you, the person, more than just name and number on jersey. So, yes, I want one too."

Shane's face flushed crimson in an instant. His mouth opened and closed as he stammered, completely unable to produce a single coherent rebuttal. Ilya watched unabashedly as the bright pink blush blossomed across Shane's cheeks, like chocolate shavings melting over strawberry ice cream, utterly tempting, making him want to lean in and lick it right off.

"Uh, I—I'm going to the restroom," Shane said, shooting up from the table.

"You come back, yes?" Ilya called out before Shane could turn around.

Shane stopped in his tracks. "What?"

"Cannot let my 'date' walk home alone. Not very gentlemanly," Ilya teased, an eyebrow cocked.

"Since when do you care about gentlemanly manners?" Shane asked, looking back over his shoulder.

"Starting tonight," Ilya shrugged, his eyes drifting back to Shane's open collar.

"Okay, Mr. Rozanov." The tension melted off Shane in an instant, replaced by a devastatingly handsome grin. "I'll take a ride home in that completely obnoxious sports car of yours."

They shared a smile. Only when Shane’s back disappeared down the hallway toward the restrooms did Ilya signal the waiter for the check.

＊

當春天，克里米亞危機爆發後，Ilya離開俄羅斯變得更加困難。去他的普丁。

因為Ilya是退伍高官的次子、索契奧運開幕式的表演者，俄羅斯會慎重看待他的一舉一動，Ilya為此破費，額外花了一萬五美金，透過中介買通一張無犯罪紀錄證明文件。然後用這張價值一萬五美金的破紙連同他的財力證明、與McGill的合約、舒立克音樂學院院長的推薦公函，遞交加拿大移民局申請永久居留。俄羅斯聯邦安全局可能已經開始懷疑他準備移民，說不定下次入境俄羅斯，他就再也走不了了。「索契冬奧開幕鋼琴家驚傳移民加拿大」聽起來就是斗大的醜聞標題，可能會折了普丁自負的大鼻子。

諷刺的是，Ilya卻得祈禱加拿大移民局不會在審查過程中認定他是「俄羅斯間諜」，但如果Ilya的法語在接下來幾個月內通過檢定，他還能補交資料提升形象分；又或者，移民局官員願意多瞥幾眼申請文件中「慈善與社區貢獻」欄位下，蒙特婁兒童醫院音樂治療部門的樂器捐贈紀錄，以及Ilya Rozanov探望病童的合照，或許能大幅消弭移民局對這位俄羅斯高官次子的疑慮。

移民加拿大幾乎榨乾了Ilya多年來巡迴演奏、發行專輯的存款，但對於離開一個只會掏空Ilya身心的國家，這點小錢是值得的。他也賣了大部分的名車收藏，變現兒童醫院的捐款紀錄，只留下一台亮橘(Orange)的雙門保時捷(Porsche)。

引擎聲正在昏暗的小徑裡低沉鼓動，路燈下，一道熟悉的人影邁開長腿朝Ilya的車走來，光是看著那道剪影，Ilya的胸口便不由自主地升起一股暖意。

Shane彎下腰，指節輕輕敲了敲車窗。Ilya 降下車窗，「我不覺得這輛車停在會員制餐廳的停車場能有多『低調(Private)』，Rozanov。」

「你也晚安，Hollander先生，」Ilya 嘴角勾起一抹打從心底浮現的微笑，揶揄道，「請上車吧，我們得在餐廳取消訂位前，把車開進那座配不上它的停車場。」

「天哪。」Shane哀怨地嘆了口氣，卻依然拉開車門，坐進副駕駛座。

Ilya踩動油門，引擎瞬間爆發出野獸般的轟鳴。Shane驚叫一聲，原本正要拉過來的安全帶立刻彈了回去，「我的老天爺啊！Rozanov！」

車內頓時爆出 Ilya 得逞的笑聲，「真不敢相信，千萬年薪的冰球選手第一次坐跑車，是嗎？」

「我當然有坐過跑車！我只是——」

「你只是一輛跑車都沒有而已。」

這句話顯然精準刺中事實，Shane皺起眉頭撇過頭。Ilya 偷笑著，打轉方向盤將車倒出小徑，開回大路上。

「跑車根本不適合蒙特婁的雪地！而且我也不需要像你那樣買一堆用來炫富。」Shane甚至還沒問一句他們要去哪，執著地爭論Ilya的跑車。

「喔，我都賣了，」Ilya餘光瞥了眼副駕的Shane，「現在只剩這輛。」

「什麼！為什麼？」Ilya可以從Shane的聲音裡聽出真實的驚恐。

「兒童醫院需要新的音樂室跟樂器，而我不需要這麼多跑車。」

「噢……Ilya……我有看到報導，那真的很棒。」

Shane 那近乎疼惜的溫柔口吻讓 Ilya的胸口微微一緊，他乾澀地嚥了嚥口水，強迫自己直視前方的道路，「這次只是私人病房探訪，我下次會把公開演奏的時間傳給你，如果那群孩子看到蒙特婁的冠軍，就不會一直纏著我彈《Let It Go》了。老天爺啊，那首歌跟build a snowman都應該被禁掉。」

Ilya 不用轉頭就知道 Shane 此時笑得有多花枝亂顫，他故意哼起那部公主動畫主題曲的高音，Shane 大笑著接唱歌詞，抱怨起Pike的孩子也總是拿這些歌折磨當褓姆的自己。

Ilya 確實把這輛亮橘色的超跑停進格格不入的奢華停車場。然而，當他繞過車頭、替副駕駛座拉開車門時，在停車場明亮的燈光下，他才震驚地發現，這輛囂張的座駕在 Shane 面前，顯得相形見絀。

「怎樣？」面對 Ilya 膠著的視線，Shane 微微繃緊雙肩，睜大的眼睛裡透出一絲慌亂。

「沒什麼……只是希望我是第一個看到你穿這套衣服的人，否則我會嫉妒死其他人。」

Shane穿著一套象牙白的單排扣晚禮服西裝，內裡搭著純白緞面襯衫，下身則是黑色長褲、純白腰封與極具質感的黑色尖頭漆皮鞋。那完全配得上千萬年薪的造型，他就像走出高訂伸展台的巨星，而不是昨晚還在冰上與人爭球的冰球選手。Ilya的目光順著他敞開的領口，一路落在鎖骨與項鍊之間的肌膚上，他肆意的眼神描繪著隱約裸露的胸肌線條，久久無法移開。

「You told me to dress fancy!」Shane反駁，臉頰迅速染上漂亮的粉紅。

「Yes, I did. And I won't regret it for single second from now on.」Ilya舔了舔唇，覺得自己像身處沙漠般口渴。該死，究竟是誰教Shane不扣前三顆扣子的。

Ilya 的視線在 Shane 暴露的胸口與慌亂的表情之間來回掃視，直到 Shane 忍不住輕笑了一聲，「看來我得感謝Rose了。不過這可不是約會，只是"celebrating my Cup"，是吧，Rozanov？」

「Fuck. Yes. Am I going to regret saying that?」Ilya低聲咒罵，Shane揚起得意的嘴角。

「誰知道呢，」Shane邁開步伐朝向餐廳入口走去，那挺拔的背影讓 Ilya 生出一股想抓住他白色晚禮服下襬的衝動。

「誰是Rose？」他追上Shane的腳步。

「我的鋼琴調音師。」

「你有調音師？你有鋼琴？」

「我有千萬年薪，所以，對，我有一架需要調音的鋼琴。」

他們在餐廳門口停止爭論，Ilya報上訂位資訊，帶位員領著他們走向座位。走在帶位元身後的Ilya這才回頭低聲說，「你讓你的調音師推薦約會的服裝搭配？」

「我——」

Shane止住反駁，侍者的步伐停在靠窗的雙人位，他們安靜地坐進面對面的餐椅，聽完侍者的介紹，兩人各自陷入觀看菜單的沉默中，直到Shane突然啪地一聲合上菜單。

「技術上來說，Rose推薦了史坦威鋼琴合作的造型師，然後出門前我又向她徵詢一點建議。」

Ilya也將菜單平放於桌上，笑得無奈，「哇喔、王牌前鋒Hollander. 就像在冰上一樣不肯放過任何競爭，是嗎？好吧，這球送你(Alright, that goal is yours)。你是我帶過最有面子的約會對象，你讓我開始後悔否認這是約會，所以，感謝Rose吧。」

Shane 露出一個彆扭卻隱掩不住笑意的表情。可是片刻後，他又垮下臉色，「……你帶其他人來過這裡？」

Ilya 伸手蓋住自己的臉，試圖掩飾那幾乎要張揚破功的得意笑容，然後搖頭否認。

當餐點端上來時，雖然Ilya嘴上非常嫌棄Shane點的「兔子飼料」沙拉、三色米與蕈菇植物肉排，但他自己點的假培根碎無奶南瓜湯、酥炸素雞腿肉以及香料薑黃米，卻讓他驚豔得嘖嘖稱奇，Shane因此笑得合不攏嘴。

當Ilya刮完盤裡最後一口時，他們已經聊過了Ilya預計在夏季舉辦的慈善音樂會，Shane則提到夏天的自主訓練，以及Metros下週末的冠軍勝利遊行。雖然Shane沒有直接明說，但Ilya完全聽得出來那是個邀請，Shane每一句含蓄的暗示，都加劇了Ilya內心逐漸膨脹的得意。當甜點上桌，Ilya對著豆腐做的巧克力慕斯蛋糕發出陣陣呻吟般的讚美，再也不嫌棄Shane的無蛋無奶、健康冰淇淋會是某種邪教食物。

「Svetlana說……你在申請加拿大PR了，」Shane的湯匙輕輕刮掃冰淇淋，將其堆成一座逐漸融化的小尖山，他有些歉疚地抬起頭，「抱歉，我不是有意知道的。」

Ilya含著湯匙，隨意地擺擺手，「沒關係，那是事實。」

「呃……那……一切還順利嗎？」Shane終於刮了一匙差點滴落的冰淇淋送進嘴裡。

Ilya聳聳肩，放下湯匙，數著指頭，「必要的文件都送出去了，俄羅斯的文件、我的存摺、教學合約、推薦信，還有一些慈善活動的照片。」

Shane張著嘴準備將冰淇淋送入口，動作突然定格，「你是為了申請PR才把跑車都賣了？」

Ilya的目光飄向角落，一副無所謂的模樣，他聳聳肩，「是Svetlana的建議。為了增加移民局的好感，你也知道，俄羅斯人現在在國際上不怎麼受歡迎，然後我覺得捐給兒童醫院很不錯，所以……」

那些對所有事都不會善罷甘休的皺紋，立刻緊緊聚集在 Shane 的眉心。Ilya 對這個人愛管閒事的性格簡直沒轍，但他依然心軟地放任 Shane 繼續追問下去。

「我的天哪，你跟那些政治活動、戰——又沒有關係！」

「我不怪加拿大人，」Ilya認真地看向他，「那個混蛋是我們選出來的，而且前一次大選投票，我甚至沒有回去投，這是我們當初放任結果的下場，現在也只能吞下自己造成的後果。」

「我能——有什麼是我能幫上忙的嗎？」Shane 急切地問。

Ilya 搖著頭嘆了口氣，「我不認為。音樂學院院長的推薦信已經很有幫助了，雖然Svetlana說如果能聯繫你們的、呃，Депутат……該怎麼說？由人民選出來，替人民發表意見的那種官員？」

「議員？國會議員？」

「對。如果能聯繫國會議員，就能確認一下PR的審查進度。」

「可以！可以！這我幫得上忙！」Shane雙眼放光，語速加快，「雖然蒙特婁不是我們家的選區，但我媽媽應該認識蒙特婁的國會議員，或許能幫上忙，但我需要你的居住地址，因為國會議員是根據行政區(borough)劃分——」

「等等，等等！Hollander！」Ilya打斷了腦子急速運轉的Shane，他上次見到Shane這副模樣，還是在McGill的晚宴上替Ilya策劃拿到McGill聘書。「你媽認識國會議員？還有，"Borough"又是什麼？」

Shane停下來深深吸一口氣，逐漸冷靜下來，「因為蒙特婁太大了，每個議員都有分配的轄區，所以需要你家的地址才能確定該找哪位議員。然後，對，我媽認識大部分在渥太華的國會議員，蒙特婁也認識幾個，因為那是Metros的主要選區，對球隊發展很重要。」

「哇喔……」Ilya靠向椅背，發出一聲驚呼，「我不知道原來Mr. Negotiator上面還有一個Mrs. Negotiator？我以後不敢小看Mama Hollander了。」

「閉嘴啦，Ilya，」Shane笑了出來，剛才那股緊張感頓時消散，「但你確實不該小看她。」

「但是這樣真的好嗎？有一種走後門的感覺？」Ilya挑眉。

Shane搖頭，「在你提出來之前我確實沒有想到，但這本來就是你的選區權益，國會議員的工作是幫助選區內的居民。別想太多，而且只是請他們查看一下進度而已。」

「謝謝，」Ilya緩緩吐露，語氣無比真誠，「我會再把地址給你，這個忙對我來說……意義重大。」

Shane靦腆地揚起嘴角，「不客氣，只是……」他再次低頭翻攪起碗裡幾乎融化的冰淇淋，聲音稍微壓低了些，「你將來是打算歸化入籍嗎？呃，你在俄羅斯的家人……」

Ilya看向Shane的冰淇淋碗，陷入短暫的沉默，他很感激Shane沒有步步緊逼，雖然他不太願意談起家事，但是——

「那裡已經沒有我留下來的理由了，我在乎的家人早就不在了，其他人只將我看作一個可以源源不絕賺取金錢與名聲的品牌而已。」

「Ilya……我很抱歉，」Shane的手在桌巾上挪動，逐漸越過餐桌的中線。

他搖搖頭，「別這麼想，Shane，我對在加拿大的新生活充滿期待，這裡有很多值得我移民的理由。」

Ilya將手放在桌面上朝前延伸，但直到最後，指尖始終沒有碰到Shane的手。他們在餐廳的微光下，注視彼此。此刻，沉默裡的意義，遠遠多於任何言語。

「不好意思，很抱歉打擾了，請問您是Shane Hollander嗎？」

Ilya聞聲看向桌邊，兩名明顯不是侍者的女性正眼神發亮地看向Shane，Ilya隨即不動聲色地抽回桌面上的手。

Shane 的視線在兩名女性之間來回掃過，似乎並未認出對方，他臉上帶著些許猶豫卻親切的笑容，「是的，我是的。」

「我們是你的球迷，只是想來說聲恭喜！昨晚的球賽非常精采，希望我們沒有打擾到你的晚餐。」金髮女性壓低聲音悄聲說著，兩人臉上都帶著掩飾不住的興奮笑容，雙眼閃閃發光。Ilya 對這種粉絲看見偶像時的眼神再熟悉不過了。

Shane在意會到她們的來意後放鬆下來，「別介意，謝謝你們的支持，呃，你們需要……？」他的手做了一個的書寫動作。

「噢，可以嗎！我的天哪，」金髮女性驚喜地拔高音量，隨即連忙掩住嘴巴，降低分貝，「謝謝，太謝謝你了！」她身後的棕髮女性立刻擺弄著皮包背帶，兩人最後各自遞出半個手掌大的鑰匙圈布娃娃以及麥克筆。

Shane伸手接過，「當然可——喔，這個，哇噢。真精緻，我從沒見過這種應援品，我回去必須向Metros管理層提議一下，」他拿起手中的布娃娃向對面的Ilya晃了晃。娃娃穿著Metros的藍色球衣，一雙黑色大眼睛，一小塊黑布當作短髮，甚至連顴骨上的雀斑都還原了——簡直跟Shane一模一樣。

「A mini Hollander. Wow.」Ilya發出一聲低沉的驚呼。

Shane 拿著麥克筆在娃娃的背後專注地簽名。因為布娃娃體積很小，他簽得格外緩慢且小心翼翼。當他完成並交還時，兩名女性高興得差點歡呼出來，最後摀著嘴咯咯笑著。

Shane 的視線突然在 Ilya 與兩位球迷之間來回掃視，神色似乎有些猶豫，直到他主動開口。「這位是Ilya Rozanov，」他的手掌朝Ilya指了指。

「嗨，」Shane 的舉動引起Ilya與兩名粉絲的茫然，但他們都順勢地互相打了個招呼。

「呃，抱歉……為我沒能認出您道歉，請問您也是冰球員嗎？」棕髮球迷猶豫地眨著眼，略帶歉意地發問。

「噢，不，我很久不打冰球了，我彈鋼琴。」

Ilya這下終於釐清Shane的意圖，Shane想把他介紹給球迷，展現應有的尊重。這兩位球迷顯然不認識鋼琴家Rozanov，面對她們的茫然，Ilya卻未感受到失落或不平衡，恰恰相反，正因為Shane的球迷完全沒認出他是誰，反而給了Ilya前所未有的平靜與踏實。

他對兩位女性露出坦然且輕鬆的笑容。

「喔！很高興認識你，Rozanov先生。」棕髮與金髮對視一眼後，再次轉向Shane，「謝謝你，Hollander先生，願意跟我們說話以及簽名，祝兩位有美好的夜晚。」

「你們也是，祝晚安。」Shane 帶著些許尷尬地說，Ilya 則微笑著點頭致意。

目送球迷走遠後，Shane 重新低頭看向桌面。他碗裡的冰淇淋早已完全融化成了一小攤糖水，「抱歉。」

「為什麼道歉？」Ilya托腮，饒富興味地看著對面的人。

「為什——呃，我、因為她們剛才沒——」Shane 有些沮喪且猶豫地揉著後頸。

「Hollander，沒什麼好道歉的。」Ilya朝前傾身，「今天的晚餐很愉快，飯很好吃，看你被球迷認出來很有趣，mini Hollander很可愛，我覺得我也需要去弄一隻來應援。」

「喔，你敢！」Shane瞪大雙眼，低聲發出警告。

「為什麼不？」Ilya咯咯低笑，「你有看到她們把娃娃掛在皮包上嗎？比起你的名字與背號，她們顯然更在乎你這個人本身，所以，我也要一隻。」

Shane 的臉頰瞬間紅了個徹底。他張著嘴支支吾吾了很久，最後卻連半個反駁的字眼都沒能吐出來。Ilya 就這樣目不轉睛地盯著那抹混著紅暈的粉色在 Shane 臉頰上蔓延。就像草莓冰淇淋上的巧克力碎，讓人想忍不住一口舔上去。

「呃，我、我去個洗手間。」Shane 猛地從桌邊站起身來。

「你會再回來，對吧？」Ilya 在他轉身前叫住了他。

Shane停下腳步，「什麼？」

「我可不能讓我的『約會對象』自己走路回家，這不符合紳士的禮儀。」Ilya充滿玩味地挑了眉。

「你什麼時候開始講究紳士禮儀了？」Shane側過頭問道。

「從今晚開始，」他聳聳肩，視線又落在Shane敞開的領口。

「Okay, Mr. Rozanov, 」Shane 身上的緊繃感頓時一掃而空，他揚起了一抹無比迷人的笑容，「我會搭你那輛一點都不低調的跑車回家。」

兩人對視一笑，直到 Shane 的背影消失在洗手間的方向，Ilya才招來侍者買單結帳。

<hr/>

<p class="dm-messagebody"><span class="dm-header">Jane🎹losing mind@rozno1fan</span><br />

<br />

<span class="dm-text1">I'm in the restroom right now. I know I didn't tell you I was seeing Rozanov tonight, I swear I'll explain the details later, but please just answer me first.</span><br />

<span class="dm-text2">Two fans came over to congratulate me. I offered to sign something for them, but nobody recognized Ilya at all. He just sat there waiting for me.</span><br />

<span class="dm-text3">I feel terrible. He's the actual genius artist here, not me, and I just stole his spotlight. Is he going to be upset??? Oh god</span><br />

<span class="dm-reply1">First, stop panicking in bathroom.</span><br />

<span class="dm-reply2">Second, he is not upset. Not even a little bit.</span><br />

<span class="dm-reply2">All his life, people only see 'Rozanov the genius pianist'. Everyone expects him to be perfect superstar. But when people look at you instead, nobody is watching him.</span><br />

<span class="dm-reply2">He does not need spotlight when he next to you. Feeling like just a normal person by your side is his best night.</span><br />

<span class="dm-reply3">Typo. *will be his best night.</span><br />

<span class="dm-text">Thanks. I'll talk to you later.</span><br />

<span class="dm-reply">Good luck. Go get him, Hollander.😈</span><br />

<span class="dm-text">Oh god Lily. We're just having dinner!</span><br />

</p></div>

<hr/>

＊

When Shane returned from the restroom, his cheeks were still dusted with a soft pink. Ilya didn't say a teasing word, but the triumphant smirk spread across his face said everything.

"What?" Shane frowned in mild panic, immediately looking down to check the buttons on his ivory dinner jacket and shirt.

"You worry too much. <ruby>Tu es magnifique. <rt>you are magnificent.</rt></ruby>"

The moment the French rolled off his tongue, Shane's head snapped up. His wide brown eyes locked onto Ilya's, filled with pure disbelief.

The sheer shock in Shane's expression actually made Ilya a little self-conscious; he arched an eyebrow defensively. "Did I say wrong?"

"You're actually learning French?" Shane asked, utter astonishment written all over his face. "Sorry, Svetlana mentioned it, but I didn't think..."

"<ruby>Un peu. J'apprends… encore, <rt>A little. Still... learning,</rt></ruby>" Ilya muttered, powering through the clumsy, heavily accented pronunciation.

Shane narrowed his eyes slightly, a spark of playful suspicion dancing in his gaze. A sly, knowing grin pulled at the corners of his lips. "<ruby>Hmm… Pas mal, Rozanov. Pas mal.<rt>Hmm… Not bad, Rozanov. Not bad.</rt></ruby>"

"You sound like my French teacher, Hollander." Feeling like he was being laughed at like a schoolboy, Ilya glared back, which only made Shane burst into a bright, melodious laugh.

On the drive back, as if Shane had caught him red-handed with the ultimate leverage, Ilya was subjected to an impromptu French drill. Shane even launched enthusiastically into the differences between Québécois and Parisian French, and Ilya willingly listened to every single word the entire way home.

It lasted until the bright orange supercar rolled slowly into the dim alleyway behind Shane's apartment. The engine cut out. Ilya unbuckled his seatbelt, stepped out into the quiet night, and walked Shane to the shadows of his back door.

"<ruby>Merci<rt>Thank you</rt></ruby> pour <ruby>l'invitation<rt>the invitation</rt></ruby>, Rozanov. J'ai vraiment bien mangé ce soir. C'est mon nouveau <ruby>restaurant<rt>restaurant</rt></ruby> <ruby>préféré<rt>favorite</rt></ruby>. <ruby>Merci<rt>Thanks</rt></ruby> de m'avoir ramené à la <ruby>maison<rt>home</rt></ruby>."

Shane stopped at the back door and turned around to face Ilya. A single porch light overhead illuminated the sharp, handsome profile of his face.

"<ruby>Pa- Pas de problème,<rt>N- No problem,</rt> mon cher ami.<rt>my dear friend.</rt></ruby>" Ilya nearly bit his own tongue trying to force the syllables out.

Shane burst out laughing, the bridge of his nose scrunching up in amusement. Ilya had to take a deep, steadying breath just to keep his composure. "Is that a textbook example?" Shane teased.

"Goddammit, Hollander. From that whole speech, I only understood 'thank you for invite,' and... oh? So that restaurant is your favorite now?"

"Merci pour l'invitation, j'ai vraiment bien mangé ce soir. C'est mon nouveau restaurant préféré. 'Thank you for the invitation, I ate very well tonight. It's my new favorite restaurant,'" Shane repeated slowly, offering the translation with a grin.

The halo of the porch light spilled down from above, casting a soft, hazy glow over Shane's brown eyes. Speaking French seemed to strip away his usual boyish earnestness, replacing it with an effortless, intoxicating confidence that made him look even more—

"Je me souviendrai de ce soir comme de notre premier rendez-vous. Ça serait <ruby>parfait<rt>perfect</rt></ruby> si tu pouvais <ruby>m'embrasser<rt>kiss me</rt></ruby> avant de me dire <ruby>bonsoir<rt>goodnight</rt></ruby>."

Leaning back against the doorframe, Shane made no move to reach for his keys. The alley shadows softened the sharp angles of his jaw, drowning his dark eyes in pools of velvety ink. When he pressed his lips together, an elusive, teasing quiet settled between them.

"What does that sentence mean?" Ilya took a long stride forward, cutting the distance between them to nothing.

Shane tilted his chin up, looking up with an unwavering gaze that hadn't strayed for a second. Ilya would never, in a million lifetimes, refuse being looked at like that.

"'Thank you for driving me home.'"

"Liar. That was not nearly that short," Ilya said, planting his palm against the wall beside Shane’s head, trapping him completely inside his shadow. "And I think I heard <ruby>parfait<rt>perfect</rt></ruby> and <ruby>embrasser<rt>to kiss</rt></ruby>."

Shane let out a low chuckle, his dark eyes glittering in the dim light. "Oh? Then tell me, studious Russian, what do those words mean?"

"I am not good with spoken explanations," Ilya murmured, his voice dropping into a low rasp as his eyes tracked down to Shane's parted, slightly swollen lips. "Can I demonstrate?"

"<ruby>Oui.<rt>Yes.</rt></ruby>"

Ilya could swear he heard a soft, breathless hum vibrating in Shane's throat with that single word. He leaned in slowly, leaving just enough room for Shane to pull back if he wanted. But those brown eyes never wavered, looking up at him with absolute certainty.

Ilya breathed in Shane's scent—the crisp, clean lime of his shampoo tangled with the faint sweat of an early summer night. Whether that fragrance bloomed from his temples or the crook of his neck, Ilya made a silent vow to find out for himself one day.

Before that, he tasted the salty sweat resting on the bow of Shane's lips.

Unlike their first kiss, there was no lingering haze of late-night alcohol. Only the taste of salted strawberry ice cream. The briny trace of sweat clung to Ilya's tongue, only to be washed away by the gentle, eager rush of Shane's saliva, replaced entirely by the creamy sweetness of strawberries. Ilya had to lick into him again and again just to be sure whether that sweetness came from the dessert or from Shane himself. He gripped Shane's jaw tight, drinking deep to quench an insatiable thirst, determined to silence the fluent French melting into muffled moans against his tongue.

Yet it was Ilya who moaned first.

When his fingers tangled into the thick black hair and his calloused pads grazed the damp scalp, the scent of lime shampoo flooded his senses, sharp and vivid. In that instant, behind Ilya's closed eyelids, he could hear the faint drip of a showerhead, the rough friction of a towel drying skin, and the damp, barefoot steps of a freckled, dark-haired boy padding straight toward him—stepping wet and undeniable across the very core of his longing heart.

The dreamland Ilya Rozanov had craved for so long was nothing more than an early summer night in Montreal.

"<ruby>C'est parfait,<rt>It's perfect.</rt></ruby>" Shane whispered against their parted lips, giving them both a fleeting second to catch their breath.

Ilya let out a low hum against his mouth before leaning in once more, claiming a perfect, lingering goodnight kiss.

＊

從洗手間走出來時，Shane的雙頰泛著粉紅色。Ilya雖然沒有出聲調侃，臉上的笑容卻洋洋得意。

「又怎樣了？」Shane 驚慌地皺起眉頭，連忙低頭檢查著象牙白的西裝與襯衫扣子。

「你擔心太多了。Tu es magnifique. (you are magnificent.)」

法語剛脫口而出，Shane便猛地抬起頭與Ilya對視，那雙棕色的眼睛睜得大大的，眼神裡滿是震驚。反而讓 Ilya 開始緊張起來，他微微挑眉，「我說錯了嗎？」

「你真的在學法語？」Shane的臉上寫滿難以置信，「抱歉，因為Svetlana跟我說了，但我沒想到……」

「Un peu. J'apprends… encore. (A little. Still... learning.)」Ilya 用蹩腳的發音硬著頭皮回答。

Shane 微微瞇起雙眼，眼神裡帶著一絲狐疑與調侃。他開口時，嘴角露出一抹狡黠的輕笑「Hum… Pas mal, Rozanov. Pas mal. (Hmm. Not bad, Rozanov. Not bad.)」

「你的口氣聽起來像是我的法語老師，Hollander。」感覺自己被當成小學生嘲笑了，Ilya回瞪，Shane 頓時爆出一陣清脆的笑聲。

開車回程的路上，Ilya 彷彿被抓到把柄似地，被 Shane 逼著複習法語課，他甚至興致勃勃地向Ilya解釋加拿大法語和法國法語的差異，Ilya心甘情願地聽了一整路。

直到亮橘色的超跑緩緩駛入 Shane 家後方的暗巷，引擎熄滅，Ilya解開安全帶下車，步行Shane走到昏暗的後門。

"Merci pour l'invitation, Rozanov. J'ai vraiment bien mangé ce soir. C'est mon nouveau restaurant préféré. Merci de m'avoir ramené à la maison." Shane停在門口，轉向Ilya。廊下有一盞壁燈照出他的側臉。

"Pa- Pas de problème, mon cher ami. (N- No problem, my dear friend.)" Ilya險些咬到舌頭。

Shane忍不住大笑出聲，鼻頭笑得起皺，Ilya得深呼吸。「這是課本例句嗎？」

「該死的，Hollander，你剛才那整串我只聽懂「感謝邀請」，還有……喔？所以『這間餐廳是你的最愛』了嗎？」

「Merci pour l'invitation, j'ai vraiment bien mangé ce soir. C'est mon nouveau restaurant préféré. 'Thank you for the invitation, I ate very well tonight. It is my new favorite restaurant.'」Shane緩慢地複誦與翻譯。

壁燈光暈從上方打下來，襯得Shane的眼神迷濛。用法語說話似乎卸下他平時的老實與直率，多了一種說不上來的迎刃有餘，看上去更——

「Je me souviendrai de ce soir comme de notre premier rendez-vous. Ça serait parfait si tu pouvais m'embrasser avant de me dire bonsoir.」Shane背靠在門旁，始終沒有拿出鑰匙。巷道的陰影撫平他輪廓的稜角，彷彿雙眼都被柔和的墨色染黑，當他抿了抿雙唇，身上的氛圍顯得難以捉摸。

「這句是什麼意思？」Ilya往前跨了一大步，縮短兩人的距離。

Shane微微仰起下巴，由下而上地直視，目光從剛才起從未偏移，鎖定著Ilya。Ilya永遠也不會拒絕被Shane這麼盯著。「『謝謝你送我回家。』」

「少騙人了，這句可沒有這麼短，」Ilya 伸手撐在Shane身側的牆面上，Shane困在了他的陰影裡，「而且我似乎聽到了parfait(perfect)與embrasser (to kiss)。」

Shane卻輕笑了一聲，深沉的雙眼在暗處閃爍光芒，「喔？那麼，好學的俄羅斯人，能跟我說說那是什麼意思？」

「我不太擅長口頭解釋，」Ilya壓低嗓音，目光落在Shane那因反覆抿著而起皺、微張的雙唇上。「我能直接示範嗎？」

「Oui. (Yes.)」

Ilya發誓，他聽到Shane在應答時，喉嚨裡發出的輕聲沉吟。

Ilya緩步接近，留下了足夠讓Shane反悔退縮的空間。然而，那雙棕眼從未偏離分毫，無比篤定地仰望他。Ilya吸入了Shane身上的清香——洗髮乳的萊姆清香，混著早夏夜晚的薄汗，究竟是源自耳鬢還是頸側的香氣，Ilya將來會親自確認。

在此之前，他先嚐了Shane唇弓上的汗水。

不同於他們的初吻，那裡沒有狂歡後的酒氣，有的是撒了鹽的草莓冰淇淋的味道。汗水的微鹹黏在Ilya的舌尖上，隨即又被Shane湊上來的唾液溫柔沖淡，直到草莓的甜膩取代這些鹹意。Ilya非得反覆舔舐，才能確認冰淇淋的香甜究竟是來自砂糖，還是來自Shane本人；Ilya非得伸手緊扣Shane的下顎，才能從這個加拿大男孩的嘴裡汲取更多止渴的甜汁，才能阻止他用流利的法語在自己的舌頭上呻吟。

率先呻吟的人，卻是Ilya。

當他的手指滑進那頭黑髮，指腹擦過汗濕的頭皮，萊姆的香氣瞬間充斥鼻腔，變得銳利而鮮明。那一刻，在Ilya闔上雙眼的視野裡，他聽到淋浴間的滴水聲、浴巾擦拭的摩擦聲，他甚至能聽到帶有雀斑的黑髮青年正朝他走來的赤腳聲——步伐溼答答的，踏在魂牽夢縈的心尖上。

Ilya Rozanov渴望多時的夢土，是蒙特婁六月初夏的夜晚。

「C'est parfait. (It's perfect.)」Shane在兩人的唇瓣之間如耳語般低語，給予彼此喘息的時機。

Ilya發出低哼作為應答，隨後又俯身，給予另一個道晚安前，更綿長、完美的吻別。

<hr/>

Ilya坐進跑車裡，從車窗看著廊下的後門闔上，他盯著許久直到相信黑髮的身影不會再出現。

他今晚沒有喝酒、沒有演奏鋼琴，情緒卻像醉後埋首於琴鍵之中那般高昂，足以讓他的腦子融化成水。他的唇上還殘留美夢的氣息，任何物質的滿足都無法復刻這股幸福感，他會追求這股幸福感，他發誓他會；他會沉浸、沉迷、成癮，他會像年少輕狂時，溺斃在虛度光陰裡被虛假滿足麻痺知覺，忘了真實、忘了真相——

忘了胸口被掏空的痛苦為何物。

Ilya slid back into the sports car, watching through the window as the back door under the porch clicked shut. He stared at it for a long time, lingering until he was certain the dark-haired silhouette wouldn't reappear.

He hadn't touched a single drop of alcohol tonight, nor had he played a note on the piano, yet his emotions were soaring. Dizzying and intense, like burying his head into the keys after a night of heavy drinking, enough to melt his brain into pure liquid. The lingering sweetness of a dream still rested on his lips. No material indulgence in the world could ever replicate this euphoria. He would chase this feeling; he swore he would. He would drown in it, obsess over it, become hopelessly addicted. He would be just like in his reckless youth, sinking beneath squandered time, numbing his senses in illusions until he forgot reality, forgot the truth—

Forgot what it felt like to have his chest hollowed out by pain.

＊

<span class="dm-text1">WE KISSED AGAIN</span><br />

<span class="dm-text3">Sorry I didn't tell you about last time, but I really need to scream at someone right now. I swear I will explain.</span><br />

<span class="dm-reply">I can keep kissing you as long as you like.</span><br />

</p></div>

＊

Sitting in the driver's seat, Ilya couldn't help letting out a low, breathless chuckle.

He watched his message get marked as Read almost immediately. Below it, the typing bubbles flickered frantically, appearing, vanishing, and reappearing in endless loops. It took a full seven minutes before a new message finally popped up.

＊

Ilya 忍不住坐在駕駛座上咯咯低笑出聲。

他看見自己傳出去的訊息立刻被標註為已讀，下方的輸入中對話氣泡瘋狂地出現又消失，消失又出現。用了整整七分鐘，新的訊息才跳出。

<span class="dm-text1">Rozanov, are you still in the back alley?</span><br />

</p></div>

<blockquote><i>Rozanov, are you still in the back alley?</i></blockquote>

＊

Without giving it a second thought, Ilya's fingers flew across the screen.

＊

Ilya甚至沒有細想，指尖飛快敲擊鍵盤。

<span class="dm-reply">Inviting me upstairs, yes?</span><br />

</p></div>

<blockquote><i>Inviting me upstairs, yes?</i></blockquote>

他將手機螢幕翻面蓋在腿上，再次轉頭望向廊下的後門。然而，幾分鐘過去，木門依然緊閉，暗巷裡沒有傳來任何腳步聲，被蓋住的手機也沒有發出預期的震動。既沒有雀躍的回應，沒有被推開的門，也沒有那個熟悉的身影。

等待答案的焦急，宛如在夜色中凝視深不見底的水面，大腦會被情緒欺騙、雙眼會被假象蒙蔽，唯有真正落水的那一刻，才能知道深淵有多致命。

當思緒裡的異樣像針頭刺穿Ilya的頭皮，再度翻開手機螢幕時，他的指尖是冰冷的，現實也在死寂的數分鐘後揭露。

螢幕頂端的對話框發亮著：Jane

＊

He flipped his phone face-down on his lap and turned back to look at the porch door. Yet, minutes ticked by. The wooden door stayed firmly shut. No footsteps broke the quiet of the dark alley, and the phone on his lap gave none of the anticipated vibrations. No eager reply, no door swinging open, no familiar figure stepping into view.

The agonizing anxiety of waiting for an answer was like staring into pitch-black, bottomless water in the dead of night. Emotion deceives the mind, illusions blind the eyes. Only at the moment of truly falling do you realize how lethal the abyss is.

When a cold needle of unease pricked sharp at the back of Ilya's skull, he finally flipped his phone back over. His fingertips had gone completely icy. After several minutes of dead silence, reality bared its teeth.

The handle glowing at the very top of the chat window: Jane

＊

<p class="dm-messagebody"><span class="dm-header">Jane🎹losing mind@rozno1fan</span><br />

<br />

<span class="dm-text1">WE KISSED AGAIN</span><br />

<span class="dm-text3">Sorry I didn't tell you about last time, but I really need to scream at someone right now. I swear I will explain.</span><br />

<span class="dm-reply">I can keep kissing you as long as you like.</span><br />

<span class="dm-text">Rozanov, are you still in the back alley?</span><br />

<span class="dm-reply">Inviting me upstairs, yes?</span><br />

<span class="dm-text1">Ilya Rozanov.</span><br />

<span class="dm-text3">I need an explanation.</span><br />

</p></div>

＊

And only at the moment of falling does the drowning begin.

也唯有落水的那一刻，溺斃才開始。

－－－

These two chapters are very angst because the secret account "Lily" has long been the Tunamelt of this story.

I don't speak French, that was powered by Google Translate.

<ul>

<li><em>"Merci pour l'invitation, Rozanov. J'ai vraiment bien mangé ce soir. C'est mon nouveau restaurant préféré. Merci de m'avoir ramené à la maison."</em><br>

→ "Thank you for the invitation, Rozanov. I ate really well tonight. It is my new favorite restaurant. Thank you for driving me home."</li>

<li><em>"Je me souviendrai de ce soir comme de notre premier rendez-vous. Ça serait parfait si tu pouvais m'embrasser avant de me dire bonsoir."</em><br>

→ "I will remember tonight as our first date. It would be perfect if you could kiss me before saying goodnight."</li>

</ul>

關於加拿大PR申請的流程，很抱歉，我沒有相關實務經驗，主要來自網路資料。我將我的搜尋結果與同人構想寫在這邊，希望可以幫助同樣寫同人文的夥伴們。

在這篇同人文裡，我設定讓Ilya走Federal Self-Employed的PR申請管道，由於當時2014年還沒停止申請（現於2024年已暫停申請），所以可以透過鋼琴家Ilya的世界級文化貢獻（我相信在原作裡的世界級體育領域貢獻也同樣適用），而依據這個良好條件，Ilya的教育程度與語言能力幾乎可以不計。除此之外，就像#8提過Ilya必須要"show that he can build a career in Canada"的自顧證明，所以這邊McGill的音樂學院院長或校長的推薦函至關重要（原作裡當然就是Boston球隊的推薦函），並且是在申請前五年中至少有兩年在加拿大工作。其餘簡單附件包含加拿大長期居住證明、財務證明以及體檢健康證明。

但是對於Ilya的身分還有兩個最麻煩的補充資料，就是他的家庭背景以及Police certificates。由於2014年索契奧運結束不到一個月，俄羅斯聯邦入侵烏克蘭、併吞克里米亞的國際影響重大，雖然Ilya的父親已經從軍警職業退休，但是仍使得他的身分敏感；而在現在烏俄戰爭的時空下更是如此。

第二個困難的文件是Police certificates，Ilya需要向俄羅斯內務部申請，用來證明他在俄羅斯沒有犯罪紀錄。雖然我們都知道Ilya Rozanov是不會有犯罪紀錄的（如果不考慮各位的同人設定，哈哈），困難之處在於俄羅斯不會輕易提供這份文件，因為Ilya是旅外知名人士，他的一舉一動都會影響到俄羅斯的對外形象，而且政府猜得到你申請「無犯罪紀錄證明」是要幹什麼，俄羅斯肯定會認為他打算移民，他們會拖延、找藉口駁回申請。所以在這篇同人文裡，Ilya委託仲介買通官員，至少打通申請管道，在取得無犯罪紀錄證明之前不會被耽擱。

而為什麼會在這篇提到國會議員(MP)呢，首先，請當地國會議員協助查詢PR申請是合法的，選民及居民都擁有這個選區權益。而Ilya在這篇同人文裡就是居住在蒙特婁的居民（或在原作中的渥太華），但是不論有無，都不會影響PR申請的「結果」，目的是看看審查進度哪裡卡關了，有時候可能也會讓審查速度加快。雖然根據我的搜尋結果，大部分的MP都不太願意幫助外國人，但在Ilya的情況上，McGill大學是Ilya的聘任單位，McGill大學又在MP的選區內，光是這點就足夠讓MP提供協助（在原作中這就要靠半人馬球團囉）。或者也可以讓Mama Hollander出動一下，哈哈。題外話，我的搜尋結果還有提到，可以去MP辦公室當志工、參與社區活動，展現積極參與公民社會的態度，MP可能更願意處理外國人的案件。

<summary>A quick disclaimer regarding the Canadian Permanent Residency (PR) application process: </summary>

I don't have any hands-on real-world experience with this, so most of this comes from my own online research! I'm sharing my findings and headcanons here, hoping they might be helpful to fellow fic writers tackling similar themes.

In this story, I set Ilya up to apply through the Federal Self-Employed Persons Program. Since this stream was still open back in 2014 (it was recently paused in 2024), Ilya qualifies through his world-class cultural contributions as a pianist (and in canon, his world-class athletic contributions would work just as well). Given these stellar credentials, requirements like formal education level and language test scores are practically negligible.

However, as mentioned in #8, Ilya still needs to "show that he can build a career in Canada." This is why a recommendation letter from the Dean or Principal of McGill's Schulich School of Music is vital here (in canon, this would obviously be a supporting letter from the Centaurs). He also needs at least two years of relevant work experience in Canada within the five years prior to applying. Other standard attachments include proof of long-term Canadian residence, financial records, and a medical clearance exam.

That being said, two specific background documents pose the biggest headache for Ilya: his family background and his Police Certificates.

Since Russia invaded and annexed Crimea right after the 2014 Sochi Winter Olympics, international political tensions were running extremely high. Even though Ilya's father was retired from the military/police, it still leaves Ilya with a politically sensitive identity (which is even more complex in today's geopolitical climate).

The second obstacle is the Police Certificate, which Ilya must request from the Ministry of Internal Affairs of the Russian Federation to prove he has no criminal record in Russia. Now, we all know Ilya Rozanov doesn't actually have a criminal record (unless we're talking about everyone's wild fanon, haha!), but the real challenge is that the Russian government won't hand this document over easily. Ilya is a high-profile international figure, his every move impacts Russia's public image abroad. The government can easily guess why he's asking for a clean record, they'll know he intends to emigrate. They would stall or find petty excuses to reject the request. So in this fic, Ilya hires an agency to bribe officials and grease the wheels, ensuring his request gets processed without getting bogged down.

Now, why did I bring up the local Member of Parliament (MP) in this chapter? First of all, asking a local MP to check on the status of a PR application is completely legal, it's a standard constituent service available to all local voters and residents. In this fic, Ilya is a resident of Montreal (or Ottawa in canon). Whether he holds full status yet or not doesn't change his right to reach out, nor will the MP's inquiry directly sway the immigration officer's decision. The sole purpose of an MP inquiry is to figure out where the application is stuck, which can sometimes nudge the review process along.

According to my research, while many MPs might be reluctant to help non-citizens, but Ilya's case is unique. McGill University is his hiring institution, and McGill sits right inside that MP's constituency. That alone is more than enough reason for the MP's office to step in (in canon, the Centaurs organization would pull those strings!). Or, you know… we could just unleash Mama Hollander on them, haha. As a fun side note, my research also showed that volunteering at an MP's office or engaging in local community events demonstrates active civic participation, making an MP's team much more willing to assist with a foreigner's case.

</details>

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