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Day 2
The hangover wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it might be. Not that Russians ever got hangovers, no. But he’d had to drink the rest of the vodka that Hollander had left in his glass, and a little bit more just for fun, so he wouldn’t have been surprised to wake up with a bit of a headache. His head was clear and fresh, though, and his sheets were crisp and cool instead of the sticky, tacky mess he’d gone to sleep in. Ilya frowned. Maybe he was still drunk because this bed did not seem to have been fucked in.
Had Hollander snuck in and changed the sheets? Ilya allowed himself a small smile imagining him stealthily tucking in the duvet and fluffing pillows in an obscene maid’s uniform—but then his phone buzzed, and he forced himself to dismiss the fantasy. He’d had him already, last night, and he didn’t need to think about him when he wouldn’t be able to have him again for months.
The text was only Marlow, asking him if he wanted to meet up for breakfast. Apparently, there was a Belgian waffle and crepe station he really wanted to try. Ilya rubbed his eyes as he read the text again and again. Was he going crazy? Hadn’t he done this already with Marlow yesterday? He scrolled up through their text chain but there was no previous text about stupid Belgian waffles. What the fuck?
Could he just be remembering something that had happened before at another hotel? Marlow would be obsessed with something as dumb as Belgian waffles. What was the difference between Belgian waffles and normal waffles anyway? What the fuck would Belgians know about waffles?
Whatever. Marlow would bitch and whine if he didn’t go with him, and it would be a waste of his last few days in America. Ilya told him he’d be down in 10 minutes and started fumbling around for his clothes. He remembered tossing his shirt down by the chair he’d used to watch Hollander in, the memory making his cock stiffen with worrying speed. Fucking Hollander usually tired him out quite a bit and thinking of him really shouldn’t make him this horny. And now he had no time to jerk off before eating fucking Belgian waffles.
But his shirt wasn’t by the chair, and his pants weren’t either. In fact, his garment bag was still hanging nicely in the closet, when he distinctly remembered kicking it under the desk as he’d gotten dressed, his nerves for the awards, for seeing Hollander again, getting the better of him. Ilya reached out and unzipped the garment bag hesitantly. Inside, his suit hung neatly, glowing with that just-pressed, fresh-from-the-dry-cleaners perfection. His hand trembled as he hovered over the jacket, the shirt, the pants, that dumb bowtie that Sveta had said looked sexy.
Ilya was afraid now. He was man enough to admit it to himself. Because he could explain Marlow’s texts, the lack of a hangover, the fresh-seeming bed if he really tried and didn’t think about it. But how was he supposed to explain the pristine suit that absolutely could not have gone through an entire ceremony and the bathroom and that hot night with—
His phone was ringing. Marlow was calling, probably wondering where he was. He didn’t know what to do.
Ilya pulled out a shirt and jeans from his duffle. It was still packed. The packets of lube and condoms were still there. He tried not to think about it as he got dressed and met Marlow at the elevator and said sorry for being late. He ate his stupid fucking Belgian waffles and tried not to stare as Shane Hollander walked into the buffet area and made himself a yogurt with granola and fruit.
Just like yesterday. This at least was normal. Hollander probably ate that at every single hotel. The thought soothed him enough to quip back at Marlow and make him laugh loudly and obnoxiously like all Americans did. Hollander didn’t look at him. He hadn’t yesterday either.
St-Simon and Connors came down and joined them, ragging on Marlow’s enthusiasm for the buffet. Ilya tuned them out, watching Hollander move around the tables gracefully, willing him to look at him. He felt as if just a glance from him would ground him, convince him that everything was normal and right.
“Yo, Roz, you excited for the awards tonight?” Connors said, clapping him on the back, and he promptly choked on his orange juice, nearly spraying St-Simons in the face.
“You good, dude? You’ve been looking a little pale. Did you start drinking already or something?” Marlow’s worried face swam into view in front of him.
“I—what day is it?” he croaked, hastily wiping at his face with a napkin. Fucking Hayden Pike was looking at him, probably wishing he had choked to death, but Hollander was stubbornly refusing to look up, instead meticulously mixing his granola with his yogurt, one scoop at a time.
“Uh, it’s Wednesday,” St-Simons said. Ilya benevolently restrained himself from punching him in the face.
“The fucking—the date! What date is it?” He knew he looked crazy. He couldn’t help it. His heartbeat was pounding out of his skin.
“It’s May 14, Roz,” Marlow said not unkindly. They were all looking at him while his heart stopped.
“I think I drank too much last night,” he said. It was too loud; they all flinched back from him. Marlow clapped him on the back again sympathetically.
“Can’t believe you got started without us, man,” Connors said. “You sure you’re all good?”
“He’s just nervous he’ll have to present that award with Hollander,” St-Simons laughed. “That’s going to be a riot.”
“Yes,” he said. He watched himself outside of his body as he sleepwalked through the rest of the day. Thankfully, his teammates were intimately familiar with his sullen moods and knew to leave well enough alone.
Once, he had gone to an amusement park with his family, one of those rare moments when his father had been in a mellow, golden temper. Alexei had even been nice to Ilya, buying him a new ice cream when his had slipped out of his hand and letting him go first on the rides. He and his mama had gone on a ride through a tunnel, her favorite ride she’d said, and he had been so, so excited until their little boat had floated through the entrance, much, much too late for him to escape. When the first animatronic had popped up, with its creepy, empty eyes, spinning around and around in its little predetermined, monotonous loop, he’d started crying like a little baby and buried his head into his mama’s lap. He still flinched when he saw anything mechanical that moved a little too jerkily.
The eerie repetitive nature of this day was way too similar to that cursed ride and was thoroughly freaking him the fuck out. Connors still ran into a potted plant, too busy texting his newest fling, and Marlow still broke out into that same cackling laugh. After many, long, meandering minutes, plans to go to a fancy new club after the awards ceremony were made, just the same as yesterday. He was stuck on the ride, tracks firmly pointed to their inevitable destination, and this time there was no promise of a light at the end of the tunnel.
He found himself in the bathroom again before he was to present the award. He almost missed his cue, and Hollander sniped at him again. Ilya didn’t have the capacity to snap back like he had yesterday. In fact, he barely made it through the presentation. His smile felt bright and overexposed. Hollander was shrinking away from him. He watched his arm trail down and down, caressing his waist. It was as warm and firm as it had been.
Ilya followed Hollander to the bathroom. The déjà vu was fucking with him, a wrong-right-awful feeling that curled around his spine. The same production assistant strode straight towards him, eyes down, only this time Ilya could duck out of her way, nearly matching pace with Hollander.
“What do you want from me?” Hollander yelled again, tears at the corners of his eyes. He opened his mouth, but he couldn’t say what he said yesterday. That snarky cockiness was gone, washed away when he’d learned it was May 14 again.
You begged me to get on my knees and suck your dick, he thought, in awe. Hollander kept yelling at him, then abruptly turned and stormed out, the door slam echoing loudly.
Later, back in his suite, after he’d skipped the gala, he texted Hollander his room number, testing the boundaries of this strange new world.
Ilya stayed up until 2 AM until his eyes slipped close in spite of himself, waiting but Hollander never showed.
Maybe some things were not as inevitable as he thought.
Day 3
Ilya woke up. It was May 14. He grabbed a pillow and screamed into it until his voice gave out.
He spent the day in bed, getting up only to piss, eat the copious amounts of room service he ordered, and drain every single bottle of liquor in his minibar. He turned his phone off after the buzzing and ringing became so constant that his phone vibrated off the nightstand.
The knocking started around 5 PM. He should have been at the awards ceremony already, getting his lines for the award he was to present. He imagined Hollander’s scrunched up, angry face when he looked around and didn’t see Ilya anywhere, and it made him hard. Because he could, he opened up YouTube and jerked himself off languidly to Hollander’s incomprehensible French post-game interviews.
“Nous avons bien joué aujourd'hui—”
He came hard all over his stomach and wiped his cum off with the sheets.
Marlow even slipped a note under the door after knocking and calling for him for ages. He stepped on it as he went to the minibar again, ground it deep into the carpet without reading it.
Ilya sat on the edge of the bed, reruns of some home improvement show playing quietly on the TV. On screen, the couple was wondering if they should buy the house even though it didn’t have the pool they’d wanted. He took the bottle of gin like a shot, tossing the empty bottle on the carpet.
Then he wrapped his clumsy, rough fingers around his cross and did something he hadn’t done since the day he’d gotten it.
He prayed.
This was a cosmic punishment, he thought. God was smiting him.
My God, my God! Why hast Thou forsaken me?
Ilya thought of the consequences he would have to face tomorrow, if he was crazy and his memories of everything had only been a dream. He’d have to pay a fine for missing the awards ceremony. Missing the presentation. Missing his mandated interviews.
He wondered if Hollander had texted him. He pictured Hollander getting in his face, scolding him for making him present his award alone.
He went to sleep with a smile, dreaming of Hollander’s angry kitten face, of his fury turned on him, all his attention on him, only him.
Day 4
Ilya woke up. It was May 14. He pushed up the window sash. The breeze was beautiful, like a cool breath on his sleep-warm skin. Ilya tipped his head up towards the sun. It was a gorgeous spring day. He jumped out the window.
Everybody said that you would regret it during the fall. That was a lie. He felt so free, so light, like he was floating through those twenty long stories.
Right before he hit the ground, his last thought was that he hoped Hollander wouldn’t see his body.
Day 5
He woke up. It was May 14. Marlow texted him about Belgian waffles. He very calmly threw his phone across the room.
Ilya scrubbed his hands over his face. Okay, he was fucked. What now?
He realized he was being dumb as usual. Sveta would have laughed and laughed at how long it had taken him to try this.
After all, something must have gone wrong that very first May 14. He had done something to earn this very personal hell. If he retraced his steps, did everything exactly as he had done before, maybe he could figure it out and fix it.
Very quickly, he figured out that this would be extremely difficult. Ilya wished it was Hollander stuck in this trap. He would have known exactly how to repeat his day perfectly. Ilya could never be Hollander, though. How had he done it before? Every time he said something wrong, he wanted to cry. Nothing felt the same as before.
He breathed deeply, in and out, in and out, in and out. He was in the bathroom before the presentation like the first time. He watched the seconds tick down and walked out right when there was 30 seconds to go. Hollander was pacing, snippy and annoyed. Ilya shoved all of his fear down, deep down, and pretended it was the first time.
That made it easier. He didn’t have to remember exactly what he’d done. He just needed to place himself back to what it had felt like before, to see Hollander again, to be caught up in the feel of his waist, to want those pictures of them together.
He followed Hollander to the bathroom. Ilya watched him almost sink to his knees on that dirty floor. It was sick how much it turned him on to see Hollander like this. To know that he would do this for him every time if he played his cards right.
For the first time since that very first May 14, Hollander came up to his suite.
“I need…you,” Hollander panted. Ilya obliged.
After, he was so drunk on the buzz of recreation and blissfully fucked out that he’d forgotten the conversation that was going to happen. Hollander asked about Russia hesitantly. He felt his hackles rise involuntarily, and he snapped back. Hollander left.
Ilya turned over all of the events of the day in his head, twisting them this way and that like a mouse in a cat’s paws. He didn’t see anything that would have brought down such a heavy punishment. It was nothing more than he’d done before. If it was a sin to fuck Hollander, he would have already been in hell years ago.
He tried to stay up, wanting to know what it felt like when he looped, when he was brought back through time, but his eyelids drooped and he fell asleep.
Hollander’s glass of vodka was still half full beside him.
Day 6
He woke up. It was still May 14.
Okay, it was May 14. Maybe he should look at this like a boon. After all, he could have a willing Hollander in his bed every night.
Could this be his reward instead of his punishment?
Ilya was so grotesquely greedy. He couldn’t help it. Who said you couldn’t love your own hell?
He made Hollander get on the filthy bathroom floor and suck his dick. He fucked his face harshly, tugging his hair meanly, laughing when he gagged and choked.
He told Hollander he was a whore, a slut, a disgusting bitch who begged to have Ilya’s cock in his mouth. Hollander was crying and whimpering, his beautiful face red and debauched. He came all over his face, coating his lovely freckles and left him coughing and heaving in the bathroom.
Ilya texted him his room number during the gala and waited but Hollander never showed.
Day 7
Hollander was laying on his back on Ilya’s bed, naked and spread out gloriously. His pupils were blown out, and his head was hanging off the edge of the bed. His lips were shiny with spit and precum.
Ilya shoved his dick back in his mouth, gasping when he felt Hollander try to swallow. He wrapped his hand around Hollander’s throat and grinned, all teeth, when he felt the thick bulge of his cock through the fragile column of his neck.
Later, Hollander asked about Russia, his voice a wheezy rasp. Ilya sent him away petulantly.
Day 8
“I won, didn’t I? Shouldn’t I get a reward?” Ilya’s smirk only widened at Hollander’s scowl.
“So, what do you want, then, Rozanov?” Hollander’s voice was breathy and deep, the way it got when he was horny but was desperately trying to hide it.
“Take off your clothes. Get on the bed.”
Hollander asked for vodka like he always did. Ilya held the glass up to his lips and tipped it back, pouring it down his throat until he choked on it and vodka was dripping down his chest.
“Dirty, naughty, little boy,” he said. “Now I have to clean you up.” He licked at Hollander’s neck and nipples until he was panting and whining, begging for it prettily.
“On your stomach.” Hollander was already slipping, his eyes glassy and wide. Ilya manhandled him, pushing him until he was face down, ass up, back arched. Hollander was flushed like a lobster down to his chest, from the alcohol or the position, Ilya didn’t know.
He smacked Hollander’s ass hard, relishing in the yelping whine he let out.
“Hey, do you want my cock? Do you want me to fuck you?” Hollander was slurring and moaning, his face smushed in the pillows. Ilya yanked his head up, hand fisted in those soft, silky strands of hair. He slapped him—once, twice—open-handed, just to see the way his freckles popped against the red blooming on his cheek. Hollander whimpered like a whore.
“Use your words, huh? Or I’m leaving.” Ilya was lying. He would never leave him like this. He was so hard he could barely think as Hollander immediately started pleading, crying for his cock, saying please, please, please.
“Tell me you want it. Tell me you need it. Tell me you need me.”
Hollander did it all. His big, brown eyes were wet with tears, shame, and something else Ilya didn’t want to see.
When he slid home, Ilya’s heart seized with a dark, needy want. He never could be satisfied with what he had.
He spanked Hollander’s ass so hard he could see a red handprint. Then he dug his fingers deep into the mark until Hollander wailed and fell forward prone. Hollander didn’t protest the mark, so Ilya bit down on the curve of his ass, the inside of his thigh, the meat of his shoulder. Maybe he would be so bruised that he could see it the next loop, he thought wildly, and the image of Hollander in his expensive suit covered in Ilya’s touch made him come so hard he saw stars.
Hollander could barely move, so he let him stay and talk like he always wanted. He blew clouds of cigarette smoke obnoxiously into his face, ignored his questions about Russia, and sneered when Hollander spluttered trying to sip his vodka.
There was a faint shadow of a bruise on Hollander’s left cheekbone, over his favorite constellation of freckles. Hollander mumbled his goodbyes, wincing as he pulled his pants on. Ilya watched apathetically as he left. He was hollow, empty, the barest outline of a man.
Day 9
He woke up. It was May 14. Ilya still felt scooped-out, like an empty eggshell. Was this a good sign? Was this progress? If it was, he wasn’t sure how he could go through this again. He didn’t want to hurt Hollander anymore. The charm of it, if there had ever been any, had worn off. He’d proven to himself he was the monster he’d always feared he was. Hollander still came anyway. He didn’t deserve him.
Ilya went through all the motions of the day that he had to do before he could see Hollander. He was early to the award presentation, startling Hollander into stunned silence.
In the bathroom, after, Ilya felt the same lightness he’d felt when he’d jumped. “What do you want from me, Rozanov?” Hollander was crying this time, big, fat tears rolling down his round cheeks, still chubby with the last bit of baby fat.
“I’m sorry,” Ilya said. “I missed you. I was too scared to tell you. But you were all I thought about. I’m sorry.”
“How can you say these things to me?” Hollander wailed. He slumped over the sink. Ilya tried to go up to him, to hold him, but he shook him off and ran out the door, wiping at his eyes.
At the gala, after, Ilya looked for Hollander, but he didn’t see him. He texted him apologies, his room number, long confessions he would have been embarrassed about if he hadn’t known that this day would exist only in his mind.
Hollander never replied and never came to his suite.
Day 10
Ilya woke up. It was May 14. Yesterday had been bad. He had overwhelmed Hollander. Of course it would be too much for him to apologize like that. He had to ease him into it. Hollander spooked easily, like a skittish foal.
This time, when he apologized, he didn’t tell him he had missed him. Even though it had been true. He let Hollander yell at him and then told him stoically about his father’s disappointment. The revelation softened Hollander, like he’d hoped it might. This time, Hollander offered to come to his suite later without any cajoling. Ilya agreed, feeling like the cat who’d got the cream. He’d had him so many times already, but it was never, ever enough.
He laid Hollander out on the bed and made love to him, softly, sweetly even when he begged for more, begged for him to fuck him hard. Ilya watched his pretty face as he came on his cock and wanted so badly to have him like this forever. The need sliced through him, and he cried as he came in Hollander, grinding his hips deep into him, wishing he never had to pull out.
“Rozanov, what’s wrong?” Hollander carded his hand through his sweaty curls, brushing through them gently, like he was a soft, precious little thing.
Ilya felt trapped, inexplicably, by the realization that Hollander would never remember this moment. It should have felt freeing, but it wasn’t, not at all. Only Ilya would remember, forever, how Hollander hugged, a tight crush of his arms that anchored him. How he pressed Ilya’s face into his shoulder and dabbed gently at the tears running down his face. How he shushed him, murmuring musical little English and French comforts, like Ilya was a child.
All of these days were stuck inside him, little taxidermied butterflies pinned to a board, never able to fly like they should. He wanted to free them. He wanted to see them flutter their little wings, fill this dark and gloomy room. Ilya opened his mouth to tell Hollander about them, but only a wracking cough came out. Flecks of blood flew onto the sheets.
“Rozanov? What—Rozanov? Ilya!” Something was holding him up, gripping him tightly, but he didn’t want to stay upright any longer. It was a lot of work to speak, to move, to feel. So he didn’t.
“Ilya, wake up! Do not close your eyes!” Hollander pushed at him frantically. Ilya forced his eyes open for him. Hollander’s panicked face swam in front of him, gross with snot and tears yet still beautiful as ever. Ilya tried to tell him that it was okay, that he would be back tomorrow, but Hollander couldn’t seem to hear him. He was on the phone for some godforsaken reason, speaking in hurried, clipped tones. Ilya felt Hollander move away from him, and he slumped accordingly without Hollander’s bulk keeping him up, a frantic, wild panic building up in his body.
Ilya tried to tell him not to leave, to stay, please, please, please, he couldn’t bear it anymore.
“I’m not going anywhere, Ilya,” Hollander whispered. A hand traced his face reverently.
But his eyes had already slipped closed.
Day 11
Ilya woke up. It was May 14. He didn’t want to see Hollander today, not after last night. He didn’t want to think about freckles, about hockey, about anything.
He got dressed and went to a casino and sat at the roulette table, watching it spin and spin and spin. Ilya stayed there for hours, until the croupier switched and his luck started to turn. He lost all of the money he’d won and then some and then some more too for good measure. Then he switched to blackjack and lost even more money. Women had started coming up to him ever since he’d started throwing around chips like candy. Ilya picked a tall, curvy, redhead and tried not to think about why.
They stumbled up to her room, making out and grabbing at each other’s clothes obnoxiously. Ilya fucked her from behind and then smoked a blunt with her. She started hiccupping quietly at the end of her high-pitched giggles, and it was really fucking annoying. He ducked out at the earliest opportunity.
It hadn’t made him feel any better. He hadn’t felt anything at all, really.
It was near sunset when he left the casino, the setting sun gilding the buildings and people with a crimson glow. Ilya walked aimlessly, in large, erratic circles. He saw a Lamborghini dealership and walked in. Twenty minutes later, he was sitting in the newest model car, revving his engine through the streets of Las Vegas.
The salesman had asked him to return in an hour so that he could finish arranging his credit lines. Ilya drove out of Las Vegas and took random highway exits until he could really start flying. At this speed, the streetlights were streaky blurs, mere comet tails. He sped through miles and miles of desert until there were no more streetlights or buildings or cars. Ilya took a sharp right and started rolling through the desert, tearing up the poor Lambo’s suspension. When the car started sputtering in protest, he stopped and got out. The moon hung bright and sparkling above him, like a teardrop about to fall. He laid down on the scuffed hood and stared up at the sky.
Out here, there was only silence. The chatter and bustle of Las Vegas was far, far away. Ilya looked at the stars and tried to find the constellations his mama had shown him years ago, but all of the stars shimmered indistinguishably from each other.
He wondered if Hollander liked to stargaze. Had he been out to the desert before and seen how they winked so brightly? Was he looking at them right now?
Ilya watched the stars blink and dance quietly until he began shivering from the cold desert breeze. His eyes closed, the afterglow of the moon still painted on the backs of his eyelids.
Day 12
He woke up. It was May 14. He felt dry and paper-thin, like an old onion peel. Ilya had come to the realization that he was never going to escape. This was his life now.
He did not pray, not this time. He did the only thing he could.
At breakfast, when Hollander walked in and went for the granola station, he stood up.
“Hollander,” he called. Shane jerked, like he’d been electrocuted. The granola dispenser was still open, and his little cup was overflowing, spilling nuts and oats all over the floor.
“I need to talk to you,” Ilya said, pleasantly, charmingly, he thought. Hayden appeared beside Shane, like the world’s ugliest guard dog. Apparently, he hadn’t been as charming as he’d thought.
“What do you want from him?” Pike hissed. Ilya reached over and closed the granola dispenser, in a gesture of good faith. Shane’s mouth worked but no sounds came out. His eyes were wide and terrified, like he imagined a rabbit’s would look when face to face with a wolf.
“I just want to talk to him,” Ilya said. He stretched his face in a smile, and Pike recoiled. Okay, not successful. He stopped trying to smile.
“Hayd, it’s fine,” Shane said. “I’ll meet you back here, okay?” Ilya led Shane away victoriously, shooting a smug look back at Pike, who stood there openmouthed. Every single hockey player in the buffet area was staring at them.
As soon as they were out of view, Ilya grabbed Shane’s arm and dragged him into the bathroom, locking the door with a disturbingly loud click. Shane flinched away and then seemed to remember who he was. His face transformed into a mask of fury, and he immediately shoved Ilya into the wall.
“What the fuck is your problem, Rozanov?” Shane spat the words at him. His freckles were bunched up under his eyes, and he had never looked more adorable.
“Please, Hollander, I need your help. I am in a time loop. It has been May 14 for almost 2 weeks now. Please, you have to help me.” His shirt was suddenly wet. Ilya reached up and realized he was crying silently, tears slipping down his face.
The unexpected words seemed to have shocked Shane into silence. Ilya found he no longer had the strength to stand, and he sank to his knees. He reached for Shane, his tears turning into sobs when Shane wrenched away.
“What the fuck are you saying, Rozanov? Did you hit your head?” Shane tried to laugh awkwardly.
Ilya was crying so hard he was hyperventilating, drawing in large, shaking breaths of air that seemed to go nowhere. He was shaking. At some point, he had drawn his knees to his chest, and his cheek was now pressed against the cold tile of the bathroom floor. Shane’s voice had turned from scornful to concerned a while ago, but Ilya couldn’t understand him.
Shane left. Ilya kept sobbing. He didn’t think he was ever going to be able to stop.
The bathroom door opened, and Marlow came in.
“I don’t know what’s going on, but he won’t stop crying,” Shane said.
“I think he was pregaming, started drinking early,” Marlow said. “Hey, Roz, you with us? You good?” The words sounded as if they were being played through a tin can, tinny and reverberating weirdly.
Ilya felt dizzy. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he was in an ambulance. Shane wasn’t there. Marlow was though, and he immediately tapped the paramedic on his shoulder, pointing at him urgently. A sweet, numbing unconsciousness spread throughout his body.
The doctors put him under a sedative for the rest of the day. Ilya blinked in and out of consciousness, drifting through dreams. He thought he felt Shane’s calloused hands on his, felt the drag of his fingers through his hair, felt the brush of his lips on his forehead.
Day 13
Ilya woke up. It was May 14. Telling Hollander had been a bust, but he had learned that he was being stupid yet again. He should have gone to the hospital earlier. The doctors would be able to fix him, surely.
“Hi, I am Ilya Rozanov,” he said politely to the receptionist. He had searched for “neurologists near me” and picked the highest rated one, someone who had gone to Harvard. Lots of the women he fucked went to Harvard, and they were all much smarter than he was. If anyone could cure him, it was this doctor.
“Do you have an appointment, Mr. Rozanov?” The receptionist was very guarded. He put on his best smile, the one he wore when he wanted to score. She blushed.
Thirty minutes later, he was in front of Dr. Miller. He frowned and took notes for a very long time while Ilya described his symptoms. Ilya left out the parts about him fucking Shane just in case he was able to be cured. It would be just his luck to have that be what exposed them.
“So?” Ilya asked impatiently. “What’s wrong with me?”
“This is a very unusual…case, Mr. Rozanov,” Dr. Miller said. “Why don’t you wait here for a second?” Dr. Miller closed his notebook and rushed out of the room.
Ilya waited for 5, 10, 15 minutes. He started pacing. Dr. Miller was a fucking liar. The room began to spin. He wiped at his nose, and his sleeve came away bloody. He stumbled and fell over. He tried to call for Dr. Miller, Shane, his mother, anybody. His tongue was thick and heavy in his mouth and wouldn’t work.
Distantly, he could hear the receptionist screaming, Dr. Miller yelling something about coding.
Ilya closed his eyes.
Day 14
He woke up. It was May 14. Doctors were scummy motherfuckers who only lived to squeeze cash from desperate, sick people. He was never going to another doctor as long as he lived and especially not one from fucking Harvard. In fact, he was never fucking anybody who went to Harvard ever again.
Ilya was so, so, so tired. He debated the merits of wasting another day in bed, ordering room service that he would never have to pay for, getting drunk off his ass. He could waste his entire life like this, he realized, an endless sprawl of days of drinking, fucking Hollander, doing whatever the fuck he wanted. There were no consequences. There was no life. It was astonishing how clear that siren’s call was, how easy it would be for him to sink and sink and sink into a life of repetition and hedonism.
He felt for his cross and wrapped his hand around it, squeezing to feel the edges cut into his skin. The pain grounded him, and he forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply. He had to trust. He had to believe there was a way out. If he had made it in, he could make it out.
Ilya sleepwalked through the rest of the day, checking off boxes and hitting all his marks. Nothing seemed amiss. Everything unfolded just as it had that first May 14 two weeks ago. Time ticked by slowly, crawling towards his doom. Every minute he wasted reenacting his stupid conversations with Marlow was another moment he had to relive forever. But what else could he do?
They were handing him his MVP award. The satisfaction and accomplishment of winning had severely diminished around the fifth time he’d accepted it. Usually he rushed through his speech, wanting to get to the end of the night when he could fuck Shane. He had thanked his mama the first time, but it had felt cruel and crass to invoke her name every loop. To reduce her moment to a flat epithet he had to force himself to say every day.
Today, he looked into the crowd, and their eyes met. Shane was staring, openly, unafraid, like everyone else in the room. Like everyone expected him to, but only Ilya could see the small smile tucked into his cheek, the slight glimmer of pride and happiness in his eyes.
Ilya swallowed once, hard. On the screen beside him, he could see his own throat, magnified, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. Shane’s eyes were dark and fixed, and Ilya imagined them tracing over the line of his neck and down his body, reverent like they had been in the first hotel room they had met in.
The host was trying to nudge him off the stage now. The exhilaration of flying through those twenty long stories was thrumming in his veins. The fall had been beautiful. It could be again.
“Can I say something?” People were starting to murmur and glance around with raised eyebrows, their smiles tight. Ilya gripped the podium and planted his feet in case the host tried to move him, but everyone seemed frozen in confusion.
“I want to say something.” Everyone was watching him, but he only wanted to see Shane. His chest ached but there was no fear, only the smooth, icy adrenaline he felt before a game.
“Hollander. Shane. I love you. I think I have always loved you, but I only just knew now. I’m sorry for hurting you, but I love you.” Shane’s mouth was slack. The camera helpfully panned to his wide, frightened face. He looked like he was about to cry, his eyes damp and miserable. Ilya’s shirt was wet again, and he reached up to wipe at his own tears before anyone else could see, but his sleeve came back dark with blood.
He coughed loudly into the mic, the feedback screeching shrilly and silencing the loud chatter that had overtaken the room. Marlow and the other Raiders were pale and concerned. He wished he could tell them that this didn’t matter. Only he would remember the snickers from the audience, the quiet jeering whispers, the way his love would always be a joke for them. None of this was real.
A large, jelly-like clot of blood had splattered onto the podium. His knees were buckling, and he tried to hold himself up, so that he could see Shane. He wanted Shane to be the last thing he saw this time. Was there anything in his eyes beyond that overwhelming terror?
Ilya reached for him as his eyes closed. Shane’s face was half shadow.
Day 15
He woke up. It was May 14. He kissed his cross. The gold was warm from his skin and felt like the heated press of a finger against his mouth.
Mama, I’m scared. Please help me.
Ilya kissed his cross again for good luck. Then he stood up and got dressed because no one had ever come to help him, not since he was twelve years old.
He still felt drained from the night before. He wished he could have seen Shane’s face better. He wished he could have gotten the chance to hold him again.
Ilya decided he was going to be selfish today. He was going to make stupid, godawful, ridiculous choices because they didn’t matter. Future Ilya was never going to exist, so Past Ilya (Present Ilya?) was going to fuck around like he should have done from the beginning.
He ditched Marlow for breakfast and walked down the Strip instead. At 8 in the morning, it was quiet, with only hungover clubbers and sporadic joggers. Ilya paid an exorbitant amount for a coffee that tasted like shit. He poured it out onto a frilly bush and stood there watching the coffee slowly seep into the dirt. Could plants take in caffeine? He pictured a jittery bush shaking its leaves all over the ground and laughed.
Ilya took a picture of the sun climbing over the Luxor pyramid and sent it to Shane with no comment. He just wanted him to see it.
The typing bubble popped up immediately but then disappeared just as quickly. Shane didn’t reply. Ilya didn’t mind. Maybe tomorrow he would find the perfect text to send to Shane to make him break, send him a furious, scolding message that Ilya could jerk off to the memory of. Time was all he had in this sandbox, time and the luxury of infinite rewinds.
Marlow was sulky that Ilya hadn’t eaten Belgian waffles for the tenth day in a row, so Ilya convinced him to sneak out to the casino and play blackjack. Word spread to the other Raiders, and they all slipped out for an hour, giggling like children. Ilya avoided the tables he had visited earlier. He didn’t want to cheat to win, even accidentally.
Ilya won $5k at blackjack and tipped it all to the dealer. He briefly wished the man could actually enjoy the money. He sent a picture of a pile of chips to Shane. No bubble appeared this time.
He was early to the award presentation, so grotesquely early that even Shane hadn’t shown up yet. Ilya milled around backstage aimlessly, smiling sweetly when he got in the stage crew’s way. Shane did a comically exaggerated double take when he saw Ilya. It was so fucking adorable that Ilya wanted to reach out and smoosh up his cheeks. He restrained himself barely, only letting himself grin fully, trying to express all the unrestrained joy in him at seeing Shane again. Shane’s mouth was slack again, much like it had been yesterday when he’d said he’d loved him. Ilya wanted to poke his finger in just so he could feel that soft, pink tongue, rub on the sharp points of his teeth.
On stage, he let himself savor the tense muscle of Shane’s waist, the way the silk of his suit jacket stretched smoothly over the planes of his body. Ilya wished he could save the pictures from each new loop, a locked folder of dozens and dozens of Shanes, every one minutely different. Today’s Shane had an extra pronounced crinkle in his brow. Maybe it was only an unconscious shift, but he had leaned slightly backwards into Ilya’s hand this time. Was Shane happy? Did it matter when tomorrow he would wake up angry and upset with no memories of Ilya making him happy? Or would something in his soul know and remember? Ilya pictured Shane’s soul as a blank cloth spread out in front of him, shot through with gold for every day he was in this loop. One day, the cloth would be all gold. Ilya had to imagine Shane happy.
In the bathroom, he said he was sorry so he could see the way Shane’s face collapsed in anger and sadness and that naked thing he hadn’t wanted to see before. Ilya could see it now in the harsh lines of his face, shining through the curve of his cheekbones. Why had he ever been so afraid? There was nothing to fear here.
Ilya’s hands shook when he opened the door for him later. Shane was flushed when he walked in, his hair ruffled and suit jacket on his arm, eyes bright and warm in the lamplight. Ilya didn’t stop himself from reaching out and running his fingers through the spiky hair, just because he could. It was as soft as he had remembered.
“What are you doing?” Shane whispered. His lips were dark with the imprints of his teeth, raw and red. Ilya brushed the pad of his thumb over them, testing the plush softness, the light give. He pushed his thumb in Shane’s mouth like he’d wanted to earlier, and Shane closed his lips around it and sucked lightly, tracing around the tip of his finger with his tongue.
Ilya popped his thumb out of Shane’s mouth and ran his fingers over his brows, his chin, his pretty freckles. Then he kissed him, long and slow and deep, like he’d wanted to the very first day. Like he was going to every day from now on. His lips were as soft as he’d remembered, the shape and taste so intimately familiar to him, so viscerally recognizable. Shane moaned into his mouth and wrapped his arms around Ilya, crushing him tightly like he was afraid he would disappear.
Ilya made love to him like he had all the time in the world because he did and he wanted to use it all doing what he loved. Their mouths hardly left each other’s. Even after they had finished and showered, they couldn’t seem to stop kissing. Shane’s mouth was so sweet, lips swollen with kisses. His smile was as brilliant as the stars in the desert.
Ilya wrapped Shane in his arms, dotting tiny kisses over his shoulders and neck. “Will you stay tonight?” he whispered into Shane’s hair. If he had to wake up alone forever, he could at least try to go to sleep with Shane.
Shane tensed, and Ilya prepared a list of excuses he could rotate through until he found the one that worked. But then Shane relaxed the tiniest fraction and nodded slightly, barely a dip of his head really. Ilya felt a drop of moisture on his neck and pretended not to notice.
The moonlight shone in through the large windows, reflecting off the gleaming Las Vegas Strip. Shane’s face was so peaceful in the light, his cheeks a smooth canvas of freckles. Ilya stayed awake as long as he could, just watching. If this was all he could ever have of Shane, it would be enough.
May 15
He wakes up. It’s May 15. Beside him, Shane is snoring lightly, his cheek creased adorably. Ilya sits up slowly, so he won’t wake Shane. It’s still early, even earlier than the alarm Shane had insisted they set so he could slip out in the morning. The dawn casts light golden-pink rays onto the rumpled bed.
Ilya reaches out a careful hand, lightly skimming Shane’s hair, his bare shoulder, his broad back. He’s so afraid that his mind has finally snapped, but his warmth feels so real, his body so solid. Shane snuffles into the pillow, a bit of drool at the corner of his lips. Ilya has never seen anything more beautiful.
He leans over and kisses the tip of Shane’s ear.
I love you, he thinks.
One day I will tell you.
One day you will know.