Chapter Text
Ilya has it all mapped out. Down to the minute. The second, even. Because the last thing he’s going to do is fuck up even one minor element of the day they’ve all been waiting anxiously for— Shane’s release from Montreal General.
It’s finally happening. After two and a half weeks, Shane is finally going home.
There are a lot of logistics to figure out, and Ilya has been determined that Shane will not have to worry about a single one of them. He’s been quietly planning behind the scenes for days, recruiting help where needed to make sure this process is absolutely seamless. It goes somewhat against his nature, but he’s trying to emulate a Shane-Hollander-level of detail oriented since his husband isn’t in the position to do it himself.
The doctors all made it very clear that stress should be entirely removed from the equation of Shane’s recovery wherever possible, which was sort of the equivalent of telling the sun to stop shining on days that end in ‘Y’ or the tides to take a night off from rising and falling. Ilya can see the difficulty of informing someone that one of their main personality traits (fretting, fussing, worrying, etc) go directly against their hospital-mandated recovery plan, but he’s very committed to obeying the order regardless. No stress for Shane. He can handle that, right? (Right?)
Well, so far so good, anyway.
Ilya glances over at the passenger seat where Shane is adorably conked out, his head slumped against the pillow wedged between him and the window, mouth open and a line of drool leaking out of the corner. Ilya’s heart swells so suddenly he’s worried his chest might explode, but they can really only handle one medical emergency at a time right now, so he forces himself to get a grip.
Shane’s sleep is extremely intentional, deepened with the help of some very strong pain medication. They’d been warned that car rides post-surgery could be brutally painful, the body settling into a new, uncomfortable configuration while the seat belt pushes against the abdomen in all the wrong places, especially for a two hour journey. Ilya thinks Shane looks a little bit like the Michelin Man right now, surrounded by pillows on all sides, most importantly between his stomach and belt crossing his body. Ilya is driving more carefully than he has in his entire life, but even if he has to brake harshly at some point, Shane hopefully won’t feel it.
Ilya smiles to himself, looking back at the road and remembering the ungraceful shuffle they’d done to get Shane in the car early that morning. Shane’s care team had erred on the side of caution, giving him the medicine well in advance of the journey in the hopes he’d simply close his eyes and wake up back home in Ottawa. They either forgot to consider or didn’t realize, however, how sensitive Shane was to this particular kind of medication, and suddenly had a very loud and loopy patient on their hands about an hour before his departure. Luckily Shane was in high spirits, tearfully grateful to everyone who came by to wish him well, promising extremely gratuitous gifts to the nursing staff as they laughed good naturedly and indulged him by frequently confirming for him that yes, his husband was “definitely the hottest person we’ve ever seen, Mr. Hollander, you chose very well for yourself.”
Ilya had to bite down on his grin for most of the morning, a bit high himself on all the good things this day was bringing. Shane, out of the hospital. Shane, finally home and safe from the harsh exposures to the outside world. Shane, improving more each day. Shane, completely and entirely his again.
Shane, simply.
They’re about thirty minutes outside of Montreal now and Ilya expects nothing but smooth sailing the rest of the way. He’d gassed up the car so the tank would be full and made sure to use the restroom right before they left so there would be no reason to make the trip any longer than it absolutely had to be.
Or, at least, that was the goal.
Shane hums low in his throat, either signalling that he’s having a dream or that he’s waking up from his nap. Ilya reaches over and pets his head to soothe him, but it seems to have the opposite effect when Shane speaks sluggishly.
“‘lya?” he asks. “Where ‘re we?”
“On the way home, maylsh,” Ilya says softly. “Go back to sleep. We’ll be there soon.”
“Needta pee,” Shane grumbles. Ilya whips his head towards him.
“You need-?” Shit. Ilya hadn’t accounted for this, hoping Shane would be asleep for the entire drive. “How badly?” he asks as his mind reels through the complications of this request, like where they should stop, how to get Shane comfortably out of and back into the car without agitating his injuries, being seen by someone who may snap a picture of Shane at a vulnerable moment—
“10,” Shane provides, which Ilya takes to mean really fucking badly.
“Fuck. Okay, okay. We will pull off at the next exit, okay?”
Shane seems fairly chill about the whole ordeal, so he’s hoping that means he’s not in excruciating pain or anything. Even though his eyes are hooded with sleep, he stays awake, blinking owlishly as Ilya takes the exit and pulls into a parking spot at the nearest gas station. He’s around the car and opening Shane’s door before his husband can even unbuckle his seatbelt.
“I’ll do it, Shane,” Ilya says, gently batting his hands away from where they’re trying to help but mostly just getting in the way. Once Shane is unbuckled and de-pillowed, Ilya reaches for the glove compartment, wrestling around for whatever pair of sunglasses are floating around in there.
A minute later, he assesses his work. The hood of Shane’s sweatshirt has been draped over a Centaurs hat he found in the car and Ilya’s massive, neon, reflective sunglasses perch on the edge of his nose (god, why did he only keep his Pit Vipers in here? The Prada’s would have been much more inconspicuous). The navy blue sling supporting his left arm isn’t helping the situation either. All in all, Ilya has probably managed to draw more attention to Shane with his shitty ass disguise, but it’s the best he can do with what he has. If this ends up on Twitter later today, Ilya will just have to suffer the consequences.
Forgive me, moya lyubov.
“Ready?” he asks. When Shane nods sweetly, Ilya can’t help himself from leaning forward and pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. “Okay. We go.”
It’s easier than Ilya was expecting, even as Shane leans heavily against him as they maneuver through the door and inside. There isn’t an attendant behind the register and Ilya throws up his thanks to the heavens as he hurries them both along to the single use restroom in the back.
When Ilya positions Shane the best he can and he makes no move to get to business, it’s clear that they’ve reached something of an impasse.
“Shane, maylsh” he says. “What do you want to do here? Can you do it, or do you want my help?”
Ilya has been trying, truly trying, to dial down the overprotectiveness that Shane had confessed to find stifling. This means not interfering when Shane is capable of doing things himself or being overbearing when Shane needs space or even making overly concerned faces when Shane is pushing the boundaries of what he’s previously been capable of since the accident. He doesn’t want to lose progress now, but he would like to get Shane home as quickly as possible, which means he may have to take matters into his own hands. Literally.
Shane looks down, reaches for the waistband of his sweatpants with his one good hand and— misses. He must find this funny because he quickly huffs out a laugh. Then Shane looks up at him, but the sunglasses are so fucking huge, Ilya just ends up staring into a reflection of his own face. Impatiently, he pushes them up on Shane’s head and takes in the sweet, slightly drugged out expression.
Shane blinks. “Help me, please?”
Ilya hesitates for a single second before complying. He considers himself something of an expert when it comes to handling Shane’s dick, but this is a different level of intimacy entirely. Meaning, he’s never taken Shane’s dick in hand and aimed his stream for him, not from lack of wanting to, but from the reality of that suggestion being met with Shane’s immediate refusal, mortification, and horror. High Shane seems to have no such qualms, half melted into Ilya’s side, head resting comfortably against his shoulder and content with being a mere observer.
“D’dyou miss it?” he asks Ilya, who tilts his head down to see Shane’s eyes are closed.
“Miss what?” Ilya replies through a smile, though he’s pretty sure he already knows.
Shane snickers once to himself before clarifying. “Touching my dick.”
A long suffering sigh leaves him as he tries to focus on the task at hand. “Hollander. Behave, please.”
“Because I missed it,” Shane adds wistfully and a terrifying thought occurs to Ilya far too late.
“Shane. Don’t you fucking dare get hard right now. Doctors said absolutely not, you could hurt yourself—”
“Relaaaaax,” Shane huffs, his warm breath heating the side of Ilya’s neck. “They said no sex. ‘M not gonna hurt myself from getting hard.”
Ilya looks at him warily. “I am not so sure the way you do it.”
Shane rolls his eyes— or tries to, he kind of just looks up at the ceiling in a half-attempt— and Ilya tucks him back into his pants, bending down to sling Shane’s arm across his shoulders as he pushes them back out into the store.
They’ve made it a few steps out of the bathroom when Shane surprises him again.
“Wait. I wanna drink.” he asks. Ilya looks over to see his head turned towards the fridge of sports drinks. Having been at the hospital for two and half weeks and therefore without access to anything outside of water and juice, Ilya would be a monster to say no to the adorable face currently half obscured by Pit Vipers.
He steps them both closer to the fridge, and a bolt of anxiety strikes him when Shane’s hand feebly reaches for the door. He’s forbidden from pulling or lifting anything heavier than 2 kg right now, and Ilya is aware that a gas station fridge door probably weighs less than that, but sometimes those motherfuckers stick and he’s not taking any chances. He scoots in front of Shane and snags the handle himself, already reaching for the zero sugar cherry flavor Gatorade he knows to be Shane’s favorite.
“No, no,” Shane says, sounding put out. “Want the blue.”
Ilya stops short.
Lie. That is a fucking lie. Shane hates blue Gatorade, a fact that Ilya became painfully aware of the third time he visited Ilya’s house in Boston, after their summer at the cottage and the sort of no-coming-back-from-this declarations that had pushed their relationship into an entirely new stage. A stage where Shane suddenly felt comfortable enough to make his loud and negative opinions about Ilya’s drink choices very clear.
“No, you don’t,” Ilya promises him. “You think it tastes like Windex.”
When Shane had told him that the first time, Ilya had childishly retorted by asking him how he knew what Windex tastes like. That earned him a hard glare and an evening of kissing Shane’s neck until the ice from his cold shoulder melted completely.
Shane’s eyebrows pull together. “I want it.”
Jesus Christ. “The last time I offered you blue Gatorade you told me you would rather die of thirst, Shane,” Ilya replies, the edge of a whine finding its way into his tone.
But Shane won’t budge, so Ilya rolls his eyes and grumbles his frustration under his breath in quick Russian as he snags the blue Gatorade too. This detour means they now have to interact with the attendant who is either extremely polite or entirely oblivious, because he asks no questions, requests zero pictures, and is immediately distracted by his phone before they’ve even walked away from the register.
Once Shane’s disguise has been removed and he’s practically bubble wrapped again on all sides, Ilya walks back around to the driver’s seat and slides in. He checks the clock. In total, the stop only cost them ten minutes.
“Not bad, huh?” he says with a relieved smile in Shane’s direction. He rustles in the bag, removing the blue Gatorade and twisting off the cap in one movement before handing it to Shane.
“Here you go, crazy, stubborn man,” Ilya says, fully expecting him to take all of one sip before remembering he actually hates it. Shane reaches out his hand, but instead of grabbing it, he pushes it back towards Ilya and shakes his head.
“For you,” he says quietly, and then, as if that wasn’t enough to bring tears to Ilya’s eyes, he smiles, the movement crinkling his eyes at the corners and showing off his dimples and the expression is so fucking sweet Ilya almost has to bite his knuckles to stop from biting Shane himself.
For him. Shane wanted that stupid blue drink for Ilya.
“Shane,” he whines, reaching across the console, taking Shane’s face in his hand, and gently squishing his cheeks together into an irresistible pout. “Fuck, you are so perfect.”
And a sudden, forbidden thought pops into his head. Or rather, a nickname Shane has all but banned from their household after Ilya had overheard David use it one summer and turned to look at his boyfriend with such wicked delight in his eyes, Shane instantly prohibited him from ever using it if he valued his life.
Absolutely not, Ilya. You call me all kinds of shit I don’t understand in Russian all the time. That’s off limits. I’ve asked my parents to stop calling me that, but they’ve had twenty six years of practice.
But, Ilya protests mentally now, if only you could see your face right now, baby. You look exactly like a Shanebug.
Shane probably wouldn’t be opposed to Ilya calling him that now, but he resists anyway. He can keep this to himself, commit this precious mental image straight onto the hard drive of his memory. His Shanebug continues to smile at him dreamily as he leans to press a quick to his lips and then reverses from the parking spot, leaving the rest stop in the dust.
***
Shane is aware of the silence first.
No incessant beeping beside his head, no footsteps thundering down the hall, no chatter from nurses while they do their rounds, no snoring from the couch by the window. Just… quiet.
Too quiet.
He opens his eyes, disoriented, and blinks in the room around him with bleary eyes. He almost closes them again instantly, convinced he’s dreaming some cruel dream and will wake up once again surrounded by four white walls, but— no. No, he’s not at the hospital.
That’s the rug he bought Ilya the week after he moved into this house, all the way back in 2019. It’s big and plush and costs more money than he’ll ever admit to spending, but Ilya had loved it the second he saw it and laid on it for an hour, performing “rug angels” until Shane forced him to stand so he could vacuum his boyfriend’s outline away. He’d also picked out the matching teal lamps on the side tables and the curved standing lamp in the corner by the TV. Ilya’s massive sectional couch had traveled with him from Boston, but Shane loved the soft leather and loved the memories that came with it even more— years of cuddling and wrestling and fucking and kissing and squishing each other with their full weight even when the couch was more than big enough for the both of them to spread out if they wished. (They didn’t.) They’d worn down the springs on one side from where they’d always end up piled together, limbs tangled, unsure where either of them began or ended.
Shane’s eyes continue to roam around the room, soaking in the sight he’s been denied for weeks as his gaze falls on each familiar piece. His half-finished book on the coffee table. Ilya’s sugar cookie candle burning right next to it. Shane’s cashmere blanket thrown over the armchair, a gift from Rose. The vase Ilya had bought from the farmer’s market with his parents, a seaglass green the same shade as his eyes. Every piece perfectly blended, every part blurred in a homey, golden glow, fitting together like the most beautiful jigsaw he’s ever seen in his life.
All his. All Ilya’s. All theirs. Their home.
Shane is finally home.
Except there’s one last crucial, vital component missing which needs to be amended fucking immediately.
“Ilya?” he calls, his voice cracking embarrassingly down the middle. He hasn’t used his voice much today, he thinks— though he has no idea what time it is or when exactly he got home or how long he’s been asleep for. All he knows is he needs to see his husband’s face in the next ten seconds or he might do something really stupid like cry.
Luckily, Ilya reappears in five, turning the corner from the hallway with a blinding smile splitting his face.
“Solnyshko!” he coos. He’s at Shane’s side instantly, crouching down to kiss his temple. “I was just on the phone with your mama, letting her know we were home. Did not want to wake you, Sleeping Beauty.”
Shane grapples for him and ends up with the arm of Ilya’s t-shirt sleeve in his fist, holding on for dear life. “How long—?”
“A few hours. Pulled into the driveway around two, and you’ve been napping since then. It’s five now. Almost time for dinner, hm? Are you hungry?”
Is he? A quick inventory reassures him that he is, so he nods. He’s tired still, drowsier than he’s been in a few days, even as he tries to blink himself awake. He remembers, then, that he’d been given some medication to make the drive easier on him. No wonder he doesn’t remember most of today, including how he got into this—
He looks down with a frown that only deepens as he notices exactly what he’s sitting in for the first time. And yeah, he might still be out of it, but he’s 100% sure this offensively large black recliner had not been in his house the last time he left it.
“Shane?” Ilya asks, and Shane knows he’s not imagining the faint trace of panic in his voice. “What’s wrong, does something hurt?”
“Yeah,” Shane says drily, “my eyes. What the fuck am I looking at right now?”
Ilya huffs out an annoyed breath. “A chair, Shane.”
Shane thinks chair is a mild word. “This is the ugliest piece of furniture I’ve ever seen.”
There’s cupholders, for god’s sakes. It in no way matches the midcentury modern (with tasteful hints of rustic) feel of the rest of their living room. It’s also taking up more than its fair share of free space— Shane realizes belatedly that Ilya must have relocated one of the matching armchairs in their set to make room for it.
“Why did you buy this?” Shane asks. He’s a little surprised when Ilya looks almost… bashful. Like he isn’t quite sure how Shane will react to his answer.
“I, um, did some research,” he starts slowly, “into people’s experiences recovering from surgeries like yours. A lot of people said that these kinds of chairs, ones that go up and down like this, make things a little easier when you are still healing. You can sit and sleep without worrying about hurting your scar. I just thought… I don’t know. I want it to be easier for you, Shane. There is only so much I can do.”
It’s true, unfortunately. There isn’t much Ilya can do except of course buy hideous chairs for their perfect house and make his husband (almost) cry with his annoying, overwhelming thoughtfulness.
“Hey, hey,” Ilya says, reaching for his face with fast fingers before any tears can fall. “If you hate it that much, we can get rid of it—”
“No. Shut up. I mean, I do hate it,” Shane sniffs, “but I love you so much fucking more.”
Ilya smiles, that trademark, crooked one Shane loves, and brings his forehead to rest against Shane’s.
“Look, I did not have time to get anything up to your standards delivered. So, we have this. And it did come very highly recommended,” Ilya says, his voice a mix of defensive and amused.
He knew. He fucking knew what he was doing, knew that Shane would have opinions. Correct, sensible ones about recliners with cup holders going on his “absolutely not” list for things that belong in their house.
“Highly recommended by who? Do we know someone who owns this?” Shane demands, leaning into his exasperation to amuse his husband. “No seriously, tell me, because if we’re actually friends with someone who has this monstrosity in their home we need to unfriend them immediately.”
“You are so dramatic,” Ilya sighs. The sound is desperately fond.
“It’s beyond an eyesore, Ilya. And it’s black. Our couch is light brown leather!”
“All that matters is that it is comfortable! And it is, yes?” He raises a brow and judging by his smug expression, seems to already know Shane’s answer to this question, so he expertly sidesteps it.
“How did this even fit through the front door?” he asks. The size of it could not be overstated. Shane thinks he and Ilya could probably fit on it together… which, now that he thinks about it was definitely not an oversight on Ilya’s part. Hm. Something to test out later, maybe.
“Well they struggled a little at first,” Ilya says. “Someone had the bright idea to take the door off the hinges eventually. I scared them when I started chirping them from the Ring doorbell, but I could not help myself—”
“Wait, who is they?”
“Oh, the Cens. I sent them to Costco to try chairs out and get the best one.”
The mental image of Ilya’s— their— team piling into a car to go to Costco together and test out recliners is at once baffling and touching.
“Does that qualify as an abuse of captain privileges?” Shane teases. Ilya only scoffs.
“Was not a hardship for them, believe me. I bought them all the industrial sized bullshit they could ever want. I think Luca left with 18 cans of tomato soup.”
“It’s still really nice,” Shane says. Mentally, he’s already drafting a thank you text he’ll need to send out since they went so far out of their way on his behalf. Again.
“Yes, they are nice guys, I am always telling you this. All the nice, gay people are in Ottawa now, is the place to be.”
“The nice, gay people with horrible taste in furniture,” Shane says. “Yeah, Ottawa has cornered the market on that, I think.”
Ilya laughs. “We do not have to keep it, Shane—”
“We are not fucking keeping it—?”
Ilya pats his hand. “When you are better we can have a ceremonial bonfire in the backyard and light it on fire. Will be very symbolic. Very moving.”
Shane flashes his husband a disapproving look. “There’s way too much plastic in this thing to safely burn it, Ilya, we’ve talked about this.”
“God, you are so boring,” Ilya sighs dramatically, the same exact way he’s done a thousand times.
But after all these years of reading between the lines of Ilya’s words to interpret the real meaning behind them, the only thing Shane hears is, I love you.
***
Dinner is peaceful and quiet. Shane had been curious as to what could possibly be viable in their fridge— the produce was certainly expired and definitely molding (eugh) — but didn’t have to wonder for long after Ilya confided that his parents had picked up groceries for their return. They’re notably absent though, clearly wanting to give Ilya and him some privacy. He makes a mental note to thank them later as he settles into a seat at the bar and contently watches Ilya pull out ingredients, back in his element.
Shane’s stomach is irritatingly sensitive (he still hasn’t gotten that cheeseburger Ilya owes him), so he opts for something semi-nutritious, but comforting and ends up getting down two slices of buttered whole wheat toast and half a cup of edamame, letting Ilya salt it to taste when he’d normally go without seasoning. Still, it’s a meal they get to share together without one of them being in a hospital bed or an uncomfortable vinyl chair, so as far as Shane’s concerned, it’s fucking perfect.
After they finish eating, Shane catches Ilya fidgeting more than usual, a dead giveaway that he’s deliberating on something but doesn’t want to say what. They’re in the living room, Shane begrudgingly enjoying his cushy recliner while Ilya sprawls out next to him on the couch, pulling at a string on his pants and pretending to watch the hockey documentary they put on.
“You okay?” Shane asks after fifteen minutes when he still hasn’t worked up to it.
Ilya glances at him distractedly. “Hm? Oh. Yes. Perfect, I think,” he smiles, but there’s something there that prevents it from reaching his eyes.
Shane considers what could be the issue. They’re both home for the first time in weeks, having nothing and no one to answer to except each other while they find their footing in a new routine. There’s no hospital stress, no well-meaning but invasive onlookers. Just them, together, in their perfect house, languishing in the much-missed quiet of their two-person unit. But then he watches as Ilya glances to the corner of the room, and Shane follows his eyes, stopping when they land on the empty dog bed.
Ah. Fuck. Shane has been shortsighted, he realizes. Because they aren’t a two person unit, or at least not exactly. There’s a particular fluffy brown and white canine missing, and her absence must be punching a hole through his husband’s heart. He’s gone weeks without seeing his baby and hasn’t said one word of complaint about it, which has probably taken Herculean levels of effort on his part. Ilya must love him a lot.
“Hey, by the way,” Shane says. “Did Mrs. Drover text you about a good time to pick up Anya?”
Ilya’s eyes widen and Shane almost laughs. He looks exactly like Anya does whenever they say her favorite words, his tail practically wagging.
“She said I could today, but.. it is already late, and it is your first night back. I won’t leave you, obviously, so I said maybe tomorrow or next day, I would have to see.”
“Ilya,” Shane deadpans. “It’s like an hour roundtrip.”
“But you can’t ride comfortably in the car,” Ilya protests. “And I’m not leaving you here alone.”
“I think I can survive for one single hour by myself.”
Ilya still looks unsure, biting his lip.
So Shane decides to play dirty. “If you don’t go pick up our daughter right now, I’m gonna be really upset with you. I’m serious.”
He’s not really, of course. But Ilya always loves it when Shane refers to Anya as their child, even if he’s adamant on being the favorite parent between them.
Ilya hesitates. “Shane—“
“Do you want her to forget about us?” he asks meanly, knowing exactly how to force his husband into action. “She’s probably already so lonely and sad and heartbroken—“
“Oh my god, enough, Shane, fuck! You are torturing me with this image!”
Shane just laughs. “Go get her, idiot. I know how much you’ve missed her.”
And by the look on his face, free from that hesitation that had colored his features only moments before, Shane knows he made the right choice. Ilya bursts into action, making sure Shane has access to water and meds if he needs them as well as a fully charged phone that he’s promised to use immediately if something is wrong. Shane isn’t worried, and when the sound of the door unlocking echoes through the house an hour later, he smiles. The familiar clacking of nails on the hardwood is a surprisingly heartwarming sound— before now, he hadn’t considered that he also really missed their dog.
He hears Ilya’s voice coming from the foyer. “Your dad is not feeling so well right now, malyshka, so you must promise to be gentle, yes? No jumping on him, even if you are excited to see him. I know, I know, is hard for me too, sometimes.”
Shane grins.
When the two of them round the corner, Anya yips excitedly at the sight of him and immediately disregards Ilya’s warning, pulling on her harness in her haste to reach him.
“Anya, dorogoy, what did I say?” Ilya chides, sounding more fond than disciplinary.
“Hi, sweet girl,” Shane says, dropping a hand off the side of the chair to pet her soft ears as she wiggles and whines excitedly. “Hi, honey. Yeah, I missed you too.”
She jumps up, putting her paws against the arm, and licks Shane everywhere she can reach, He lets her, having apparently gone soft in her absence. He doesn’t think he’s ever found something this unsanitary to be quite so adorable.
A little bit later, when Anya has gotten out her zoomies and done her sweep of every room in the house, deeming it all to be acceptable, she jumps up on the couch and curls up by Ilya’s stomach, once again content in her favorite spot.
Shane smiles at Ilya when he catches his eye. “Better?”
Ilya’s grin takes over his entire face. “Now I am perfect.”
***
Ilya declares that it’s time to get ready for bed at a whopping 8:16pm when he catches Shane’s eyelids starting to droop, apparently exhausted from a day of doing nothing but sleeping. At first, he insists on bringing Shane’s things down to the bathroom on the main level, but Shane promises that he can handle the stairs as long as they go slow, and Ilya reluctantly acquiesces. He offers his arm for Shane to lean on. Shane takes it. Anya follows behind them like a shadow, intent on never letting them out of her sight again.
The sight of their bedroom sends an almost painful ache of longing through his chest. God, he missed that bed. Every night spent on the lumpy hospital mattress made him realize how much he took theirs for granted, cursing himself for not luxuriating in it more while he had the chance. He wants nothing more right now than to pull Ilya into it and fall asleep intertwined at every possible juncture, pressed together, skin to skin, until their heartbeats sync.
“You want to try sleeping here tonight?’ Ilya asks, watching him gaze at the bed with pure longing in his eyes. “We can prop you up with extra pillows, maybe?”
He knows Ilya is hesitant because Shane is a textbook side sleeper and without the space limitations of a hospital bed, is extremely likely to revert to his natural position, potentially making himself very uncomfortable.
“I want to,” Shane starts, then sighs. “I don’t know. Maybe the recliner is a safer bet for tonight.”
“Okay,” Ilya says easily. “Whatever you think.”
They slip into a quiet night routine, a shorter, slightly out of practice version of their usual, but still so familiar and wonderful, neither one of them can keep the soft smiles from their faces as they get ready in tandem. Ilya darts out to change for bed— his signature plaid pajama bottoms and no shirt combination— and returns to find Shane leaning against the counter heavily, contemplating his skin care routine with defeated eyes.
“What’s the matter?” Ilya asks, coming up behind him and hooking a chin over his shoulder. “Has been so long, you forgot all the steps, or what?”
Shane glares without heat at his husband’s reflection in the mirror, then looks back down at his immaculately organized products with a sigh. He was so excited to get home and back to his meticulous, yet soothing routine, and now…
“I’m too tired, I think. Standing is…” he doesn’t finish. He has a hard time admitting that standing still, doing absolutely nothing, exhausts him, when two weeks ago he’d been running marathons every week.
Ilya frowns, already pulling away. “Let me get chair—”
“No, no, it’s fine. It’s not worth the trouble,” Shane waves him off, walking slowly to the bathroom door and flicking off the lights to emphasize his disinterest. “Help me downstairs?”
He’s situated in the recliner, already sweating thanks to the veritable mound of blankets Ilya had piled on top of him, when he realizes he hasn’t seen his husband since he disappeared back upstairs a few minutes ago. He frowns. Did he already go to bed? Shane wants Ilya to get a good night’s rest more than anything, but it wasn’t like him to disappear without a word. But, then again, he was exhausted, and Shane couldn’t hold it against him if Ilya had already passed out, even if it meant he would have to get up again to flick off the lamp—
His thoughts are interrupted by heavy footsteps sounding down the stairs. Ilya reappears with a focused expression, balancing about ten bottles in the cradle of his arms. Anya trails behind him dutifully, hopping up on the couch and panting happily.
“Ilya, what are you—”
“Hush. I am fixing.” He dumps what appears to be every single skin care product from their bathroom onto the coffee table before turning to Shane with something pink and fuzzy in his hands.
“Oh my god,” Shane groans. “Where did you find that?”
Ilya grins, holding up the cat ear headband he’d purchased for Shane as a joke months ago that had tragically disappeared not long after. It seems to have made a miraculous reappearance. How wonderful.
“In the back of the bottom drawer where someone rudely stuffed it.” Ilya steps forward and, before Shane can protest, slides it over his head, pushing it back until Shane’s hair is sticking straight up.
Shane glares, knowing he probably looks too ridiculous to be menacing. This is confirmed two seconds later when Ilya coos, “So cute!”
Then he claps his hands and returns his attention to the bottles. “Okay. Right. You will have to tell me the order because I can never fucking remember, but I can do the rest. Just sit still and look pretty.”
Shane’s heart tha-thumps in his chest. “You— Ilya, you really don’t have to—”
“Shut up. You already used cleanser, yes?”
Shane nods slowly. As much as he’s recommended his products to Ilya, he’s never gotten the man to commit to using anything more than a nightly face wash and occasionally a moisturizer.
“Right. Toner next? The rice one?”
Shane’s throat is too tight to speak, so he nods. Ilya’s fingers are gentle on his face as he makes his way through each step, only needing the slightest direction from him here or there. Without meaning to, Shane finds his eyes fluttering shut, calmer and more at peace than he’s felt in so, so long.
He blinks awake to a darkened room, lit softly by the glow from the lights beneath the cabinets in the kitchen. He can just make out the shape of Ilya settingling down on the couch, pulling a blanket over himself.
“You’re not going to bed?” Shane croaks out. He’s half concerned Ilya’s lost his mind, once again having access to their perfect mattress and instead choosing to sleep on the couch. But he swears he can make out a smile on his husband’s face even in darkness, something soft and achingly sweet.
“Mm, no, malysh,” Ilya says softly, speaking through a yawn. “Not without you.”