Chapter Text
The drive to Shane’s parents’ house is twenty minutes. All of those twenty minutes, Shane’s mind is racing as he grips the steering wheel to the point that his knuckles are scarily white. As he drove, the words replayed in his head. And with each repetition came a crack in his composure.
“You know what else would be simple?”
Shane clenches his eyes shut but opens them as he remembers that he’s currently in control of a vehicle that weighs over one thousand kilograms.
“If I had married a woman and stayed in fucking–Russia.”
Shane lets out a shaky breath,
“And who knows? I might have been happier.”
Shane flinches.
“If I had married a woman and stayed in fucking–Russia.”
The sentence repeats.
“I might have been happier.”
Shane adds them together. Ignoring Russia. Ignoring the ‘who knows’.
“If I had married a woman, I might have been happier.”
Fuck.
“I might have been happier.”
“I might have been happier.”
The tears are free-falling now. He thanks the world itself that he can see the turn onto the road that leads to his childhood home. He goes through the motions of parking his car and walking to the front door with a sense of numbness.
The knock was rough and loud against the wooden door, echoing down the street. Shane winces as he sees a lamp turn on in the house down the street. But his attention quickly snaps back to the door when the porchlight flicks on. The door opens to Yuna Hollander, hair messy and eyes tired.
“Shane?” She asks, a little stunned as the sleep from her eyes vanishes. She runs her eyes over his body, taking in the way his shoulders hunch in an attempt to fold in on himself. Without any word of response, she leads him in, taking him to the couch, “David, come here.” Yuna calls out.
Shane’s father turns the corner of the hallway, mid-yawn. His jaw snaps shut when he realises his son is in the living room with dried tears on his cheeks. He rushes over and his first question is, of course, “Is Ilya okay?”
The question is so simple.
So sure.
So prepared.
But those three words rip apart the last of Shane’s fragile composure that he so carefully tried to rebuild on the walk from his car to the front porch. He crumples forward, falling into his mother’s arms. Her entire body tenses before wrapping around his shoulders and tucking his head under her chin. A ragged sob tears from his throat as she tries to pull him away and she’s quick to tighten her grip, cradling him like he was five years old again.
David meets Yuna’s eyes, recognizing the panic that is rare on her features. Her usually composed and naturally elegant expression turning to one of unease. He comes to sit next to her as she strokes Shane’s hair. She composes her body language. For Shane. She doesn’t push by asking questions–although she has a million of those–she just holds him as his shoulders shake and he gasps for breath.
“Did he–” David starts as he raises a hand and rubs it down Shane’s back, “Is he hurt?”
“No–No.” Shane heaves in a breath, wanting to soothe their worries.
His parents both let out a deep sigh of relief.
“Okay,” David murmurs, “then tell us what’s going on.”
Shane hesitates, his breath hitching before he pulls back. He drags the balls of his hands roughly across his face and then presses into his closed eyes until he sees flashes of light. Pulling his hands away, Yuna stares at him with worry.
“Shane,” She whispers, and Shane looks away, shifting his focus to the puzzle left on the coffee table and then the warm glow of the lamp in the corner of the room. Shane’s breathing shakes on both the inhale and exhale as he prepares himself to speak.
“We fought,” his voice is hoarse, rough from the sobs he’s been heaving, “About nothing–at first. About where the pans should go after they get washed–I don’t know, it was stupid.” His voice trails off, and he glances at his dad, who gives him a gentle smile.
“Take your time.” He says, calmly.
“Then it… It escalated. He talked about how I pulled away when he tried to hold my hand yesterday.” Shane sighs, and Yuna nods.
“When you were leaving the rink, I remember,” Yuna says, recalling it from a small news outlet’s photography tabloid. Shane nods at her, confirming the timeline, and then swallows hard.
“I told him that it wasn’t like that. That it wasn’t–wasn’t him–that it was hockey. The media. And then he said–” Shane’s voice falters as he squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to forget what happened. “He said it would’ve been simpler if he’d married a woman. Stayed in Russia. That he might’ve been happier.”
David’s hand stops the gentle strokes on his back, and Yuna stops breathing.
“What?” David’s voice comes out low and dark, protective but full of curiosity, “He said that to you?”
Shane glances over to him, nodding and wiping a hand across his face to rub any tears left off his cheeks.
“He didn’t mean it.” Yuna says, her voice is firm, and Shane looks to her, “And, understand, in no way am I defending what he said, if anything–I’m pissed at him– but, Shane, that boy is head over heels for you, he did not mean it. You know that.”
That’s the worst part.
He does know.
He knows that Ilya loves him… and yet.
“I know,” He whispers, “I know he doesn’t think that, but–he–he said it.” Shane’s breath hitches, “And he knew what that would do to me.”
Yuna’s expression darkens, a fierce protectiveness taking over the logical side of her brain for a moment, but David is quick to reach over and squeeze her hand, reminding her to breathe. After releasing a long breath, she tucks a tuft of black hair behind Shane’s ear.
“People say awful things when they’re hurt. Hurtful things.” She tells him, “Especially people who haven’t been allowed to hurt.”
Shane closes his eyes, imagining Ilya’s childhood, hell, even his life as a young adult was filled with emotional barriers. Ilya had spent years learning to turn his words against others. To strike whenever things got too real. And now Shane had done the same thing.
“But this was targeted, Shane. It wasn’t just deflection.” David tells him, gentle and understanding.
Shane closes his eyes. That’s the worst part of this entire situation. Ilya hadn’t just lashed out blindly; he struck where it’d hurt most. He played into Shane’s insecurities, and Shane had led him to it.
He dug into Ilya’s insecurities enough to make him dig into his.
“Did you tell him?” David asks, and Shane opens his eyes to look at him, “That you knew he didn’t mean it?”
Shane shakes his head mutely, pursing his lips.
What good would it do anyway?
The silence between them stretched on, still fragile.
Yuna’s fingers move through Shane’s hair, slow and methodical. “He’ll come after you,” she said suddenly, voice certain.
Shane stiffened. “He won’t.”
“He will.” Her tone showed no argument. “That boy would walk through hell for you, Shane. You know that.”
Shane’s throat tightens as his mind flashes. He knows that Ilya wakes up in the middle of the night after nightmares of his mother and watches him breathe. He knows that Ilya will randomly text him from the other room to ask if he’s okay. He knows that he memorizes every little detail about his family.
All for him.
But Ilya insists that it’s for himself, his own peace of mind.
And maybe it is, Shane doesn’t know.
“He knows where I am.” Shane admits, shrugging slightly, “I told him.”
Yuna smiles softly, “Of course you did.”
After a few seconds of clear self-pity, Shane wrings his hands out.
“So, what now?” David asks, and Shane blinks at the question.
“I don’t know.” And it’s true, he doesn’t, “I just needed some space–I think.”
“And what are you thinking so far?” Yuna pipes up.
Shane tenses. The truth is, he’s already forgiven Ilya. Staying mad at him is difficult enough. The rough emotion had burned out as soon as he sat down on his parents’ couch. It’s now just a sizzle of exhaustion.
“You should get some sleep.” David murmurs, raising a hand to squeeze Shane’s shoulder, “You look tired.”
Shane doesn’t argue. He pulls himself up, immediately missing his mom’s fingers running through his hair. The walk to his childhood bedroom feels like it goes on forever. He passes different photos of him and Ilya that have been hung across the walls.
Once there, he grabs a pair of sweatpants and a pajama shirt from his closet, the ones that actually fit him, not the ones from his childhood. After he changes, folding his clothes and resting them on the dresser, he sits and stares at the wall for what feels like forever, but was most likely less than two minutes.
Once he lies down on the bed, curling in on himself, the exhaustion falls over him. With a few quiet breaths, he lets himself sleep.
—
Ilya can’t sleep. He couldn’t. He’s tossed and turned all night. Every time he tries to close his eyes, all he sees is the expression on Shane’s face. The absolute devastation and then acceptance. And being surrounded by Shane’s scent didn’t make anything easier.
At some point, he gave up and was just staring at the alarm clock, waiting until it was a reasonable time to drive to David and Yuna’s. When dawn finally breaks through the curtains, Ilya is already dressed and ready to go.
He stops at the front door and slips his shoes on. The drive is silent. His hands are gripping the wheel tight enough that it eventually hurts, and Ilya has to remind himself to let go. He’s rehearsing the conversation through his head. Debating how things will go. Trying to come up with a plan.
He’s failing miserably.
Yuna is opening the door before he even has the chance to knock. He stumbles slightly as she tugs him through the entryway. He watches as she studies his face, taking in the dark color under his eyes and pained expression. Her attempt at anger is faltering.
“Before I say this, understand that I love you.” She snips, “But you are an idiot, Ilya.”
Ilya opens his mouth, closes it, and repeats the motion a few more times before he decides to let it snap shut. She just watches. And whatever she watches eventually leads to an upset exhale, and a choice to pull him in for a hug.
He doesn’t melt into it.
He practically collapses, his large body curling around her.
“You look awful.” She murmurs, bringing her hand up to stroke the back of his head. Ilya lets out a sharp laugh, pained and remorseful.
“Yeah.” He says, his voice cracking on the singular word.
David chooses to walk in as she releases him from the hug. Ilya tenses. But in a way, he’s relieved. Because, since Yuna isn’t going full scary momager/mother-in-law on him, he doesn’t expect it from David either. Yuna is usually the one who handles anger. But she clearly understands why he reacted the way he did.
However, Ilya has a flicker of surprise fall across his face as David’s expression turns certain, almost a little angry.
“You fix this.” He says, short, “You understand?”
Ilya swallows and nods, which causes David to walk over and tug Ilya into another hug.
And then, as expected, after David pulls away, Yuna holds Ilya by his shoulders. Her grip tightens, her dark eyes boring into his with the same terrifying precision Shane had inherited, "You don’t get to do that," she says quietly, voice sharp as shattered glass. "Not to him. Not ever again."
Ilya flinches like she’d struck him. "I didn’t mean it," he whispers, the words scraping raw from his throat.
Yuna’s expression quickly softens back to the way it was before, but her grip doesn’t falter, "I know," she says, exhaling sharply through her nose. "But knowing doesn’t stop it from hurting, does it?"
The words settle in his chest, deep and harsh. Yuna sighs.
"He’s in his room," she says, stepping back and jerking her chin toward the hallway.
Ilya nods, swallowing hard as he toes off his shoes and walks down the hallway–each step slower than the last. The door to Shane’s childhood bedroom is cracked open, just enough for Ilya to see the edge of the bed, the rumpled blanket, the outline of Shane’s hair against the pillow. Pushing the door open, his breath catches in his throat.
The sight before him sends a sharp pain through his chest. Shane is faced away from him and curled into a tight ball, knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped around himself like he’s trying to hold himself together. He stands in the doorway, frozen, until Shane speaks first.
“What, Ilya?”
Ilya breathes in shakily, “You knew it was me?”
Shane doesn’t answer. He lies still, but Ilya sees the blanket shift slightly as he squeezes himself. The silence stretches between them until Ilya takes a few steps into the room and sits on the edge of the bed, twisting his torso so he can look at Shane’s back. The bed creaks beneath him.
“I didn’t mean it,” Ilya says, softly.
Gentle.
Careful.
A bitter laugh escapes Shane, “Doesn’t matter.”
“It does, Shane.” Ilya’s voice is pleading as he tries to convince Shane that he does care and he knows it was wrong, “I need you to know that I would never-”
“Every morning,” Shane whispers, and Ilya’s jaw snaps shut, “I hesitate. I worry. I worry that–one day, you’ll look at me and just– regret everything. Regret that you never left Russia–Boston–that you regret moving to fucking–Ottawa, of all places–That you never–” Shane cuts himself off.
And no matter how much it pains him, Ilya listens. He listens to each sentence. Because Shane is being honest, and he can’t stop himself from listening. But now, he’s stopped talking.
“Never what?” Ilya prompts, his voice soft.
“Never followed me to that fucking cottage.”
The noise Ilya lets out is strangled. His hands close into fists where they rest on top of his thighs. Because he knew this fear. Had seen it flicker behind Shane's eyes every time they argued, every time Ilya's temper got the better of him. Had felt it in the way Shane sometimes gripped him too tightly after Ilya’s time away, visiting Svetlana or his old teammates.
"You think I don't know?" Shane's laugh was wet, broken. "That I haven't seen how you flinch when someone mentions Moscow?" He presses his head harder into the pillow. "Like how you know you can't go back to Russia because you could be arrested or even fucking killed?" Shane sits up and finally turns to Ilya, "You think I don't feel guilt for fucking any of that?"
Ilya’s breath stutters in his chest. Shane’s words, raw and ragged, hang between them.
The silence stretches painfully within the small room. Shane stares at the frayed edge of the bedsheet, fingers twisting into the fabric. When Ilya still didn’t speak, he takes a sharp breath and turns his eyeline toward the wall. "When do you want me to get my things?"
Ilya blinks, the question landing so sudden that it feels like conversational whiplash. "What?"
Shane’s throat works. "It was your house originally," he says flatly. "I’ll stay here until I can find my own place."
Ilya’s hands spasm where they unfurl and grip his knees. "Your own–Shane, what the fuck are you talking about?"
A brittle laugh escapes Shane’s lips. "I know you want to div–“ Shane cuts himself off, unable to say the actual words, “break up with me," he supplies, voice eerily calm. "Just tell me when you want me to get my shit. I won’t make it harder."
The words hit like a sucker punch to the gut.
Ilya’s breath leaves him in a rush, his pulse thumping in his ears. For a second, he wonders if this was some cruel joke–if Shane was punishing him. But the raw, wounded look in Shane’s eyes tells a different story.
Shane genuinely thinks that Ilya wants to leave him.
“Break up?” Ilya turns even further until his legs are bent awkwardly on the bed as he moves to grip Shane’s face gently, “You think that–after everything–I would–” Ilya’s voice breaks off, “Is that what you think of me?”
Shane flinches but doesn’t pull away, “You said–”
“I know what I said!” Ilya’s voice shatters any quiet left in the bedroom, and Shane’s mouth snaps shut. He drags his eyes across Ilya’s face, looking for any sign of distaste, “And I would fucking die before I ever meant those fucking words.”
Shane goes very still. The morning light cut across the bed between them, showing the tear tracks from the night before still staining his cheeks. "You don't get to say that," he whispers, "Not after last night."
Ilya's stomach twists. He listens to Shane. To Shane’s voice. Shane's voice, now quiet and fragile, is worse than any shouted accusation.
"I know," he said hoarsely. "But let me try."
Ilya exhales shakily and pulls his hands away, leaving them palms-up. Shane's fingers twitch, then slowly uncurl to thread through his. The contact sends a jolt through Ilya's chest, relief flooding through his body.
Ilya exhales sharply, his thumbs brushing over Shane's knuckles as he turns their hands until he’s grasping onto Shane’s. "I don't want to break up," he said, voice scraping low. "Not now. Not ever."
Shane's gaze stays fixed on their tangled fingers, his eyelashes fluttering and casting shadows across his cheeks.
Gently–more gentle than Ilya had before–he removes his hand from Shane’s grip, reaches up and tilts Shane's chin with two fingers, forcing their eyes to meet. "I love you," he said, simple as breathing. It’s breathy. More of an accidentally spoken thought rather than purposeful.
Shane hums, a noncommittal sound that vibrates through Ilya's fingertips. It’s full of disbelief. His eyes flicker towards the door.
Ilya exhales through his nose and tightens his grip on Shane's chin–just enough to keep him there, not enough to hurt.
Shane is going to understand.
Ilya is going to show him.
Make him understand.
"I love your stupidly elegant hands," he begins, voice rough. "The way they look wrapped around a stick, the way they feel when you–"
"Stop," Shane whispers, but his pulse jumps under Ilya's thumb.
"–when you trace my ribs like you're memorizing them." Ilya presses on, relentlessly. "How you snort when you laugh too hard. How you–fuck–how you still get shy when I watch you lace up your skates."
Tears are shining in Ilya’s eyes now.
Shane's breath hitches. The morning light caught the sheen in his eyes, the tears resting on his lower lashes.
"I love," Ilya continues, voice dropping to a rasp, "that you teach yourself Russian phrases to surprise me with." His thumb brushes the hinge of Shane's jaw.
"I love that you still sleep with your socks on even in summer," Ilya murmurs, thumb tracing the delicate skin under Shane's eye where his lashes tremble. "And how you pretend not to listen to all of my rants about celebrity drama, but then you’re able to remind me of little details I forget." His voice hitches when Shane's breath stutters against his palm. "I love that you remember my mother's birthday and celebrate it even though she's not alive."
Shane's breath stops, his fingers tightening around Ilya's as the words tumble out–small, intimate truths that unravel something deep in his chest. "I love how you still check your gear twice before every game, even though you've been playing since you were a child," Ilya continued, voice roughening. "How you trace my face when you think I'm asleep. The way your nose scrunches when you're pretending not to laugh at my jokes." His thumb traces the ridge of Shane's knuckles, calloused skin catching on the softer spots between fingers.
"How you never say 'I told you so' when I'm wrong like I do to you, just give me that fucking look like you're storing it away for later. And–” Ilya swallows hard, a wet laugh escaping him
"And I love how much you've changed my life, Shane."
Shane blinks hard as he finally meets Ilya's gaze, really meets it, for the first time since the fight. The doubt there cracked something open in Ilya's ribs.
"If I were in Russia and married to a woman," Ilya whispers, the words scraping raw from his throat, "I would be miserable." His grip tightens convulsively. "Because I know I could never find love like ours. You have ruined me." A tear tracks down his cheek, landing on the blanket below. "I love the way you have ruined me. I will follow you anywhere."
For one second, the world narrows to the space between their lips, close enough that Ilya can almost taste the salt of Shane's tears, can count each individual freckle across his cheeks.
Shane exhales, broken, and he crawls out of the leftover covers and moves to sit in front of him, on his knees. His forehead drops against Ilya’s shoulder. The weight of him was warm, familiar, the way his breath hitched against Ilya’s collarbone even more so.
"You’re an asshole," Shane mutters into his shirt, voice thick.
Ilya releases his gentle touch on Shane’s face and his hand. His arms come up around him automatically, hands pressing flat between Shane’s shoulder blades. "I know," he murmurs into Shane’s hair.
The bed creaks as Shane shifts, his knee accidentally knocking against Ilya’s thigh.
Neither move away.
Shane’s fingers curl into the fabric of Ilya’s shirt, gripping tight as if he might disappear. Ilya can feel the dampness of tears soaking through the cotton, the way Shane’s ribs expanded unevenly against his own. He doesn’t speak–just holds on.
"You smell bad," Shane mumbles eventually, nose pressed to Ilya’s collarbone.
Ilya laughs–rough and sleep-deprived, and it rattles through his chest where Shane's forehead pressed against it. "Forgot to shower," he admits, fingers combing through Shane's sleep-mussed hair. "Came here first thing."
Shane's arms tighten around him, his grip almost painful. "Sorry," he mumbles into Ilya's shirt, the word muffled but unmistakable.
Ilya stills, hands pausing mid-stroke through Shane's hair. "For what?" His voice came out softer than he intended, frayed at the edges.
Shane pulls back just enough to meet Ilya's gaze as he swallows hard. "For pulling my hand away," he said quietly, "At the arena last week. When you reached for me."
Ilya winces. He remembers–the way Shane had flinched away from his touch like Ilya's fingers burned, the way his own hand had hovered in empty air for half a second too long before dropping to his side.
Shane's throat works as he stares into Ilya’s eyes, "I don't want you to get hurt," he says, voice raw. "If someone sees–if they know–"
The unspoken fear hangs in the quiet atmosphere. Ilya breathes through his nose, pressing his forehead against Shane's. He takes Shane’s hands, now unwrapped into his own, "You think I care about some asshole with a camera more than I care about holding your hand?"
"I care," he whispers. "When they call you slurs during games."
Ilya’s grip on Shane’s hands tightens almost painfully. "They call you slurs too," he said, voice dangerously low. "Every fucking game."
Shane’s jaw clenches. "It’s not the same."
"Why?" Ilya begs, leaning in until their noses almost touch. Ilya’s words aren’t harsh anymore. It’s not the beginning of an argument. It’s a genuine worry and the wish to understand, "Tell me why it’s not the same."
The silence is thick.
Shane’s gaze drops to their tangled fingers. "Because I deserve it," he finally whispers.
The words punched through Ilya’s chest, taking his breath away. He freezes, breath stalling in his lungs. "What?"
Shane doesn’t meet his eyes. "I only like men," he said, voice hollow. "So I should be called that. But you–" His throat worked. "You like women, too. You don’t deserve it."
The bed creaks as Ilya jerks back like he’d been burned. "You what?" His voice cracks, raw with disbelief. "Shane–"
Ilya's hands tremble where they grip onto Shane’s, "You think–" His voice breaks. He grabs Shane's wrists instead, squeezing hard enough to feel the frantic pulse beneath his skin. "Listen to me," he hisses, shaking him once–sharp, urgent. "You do not deserve that. Ever."
"I don't care if I like women too," Ilya grinds out, each word deliberate. "I love you. That makes me yours. That makes me–" His breath hitched. "That makes me exactly as queer as you are."
Shane makes a wounded noise in the back of his throat, fingers twisting in Ilya's grip. "You don't–"
Ilya doesn’t let him finish. He drags Shane forward by the wrists until their foreheads collide, the impact shuddering through both of them. "I do," he snarls, voice raw. "Every time they call you that word, it’s mine too. Every time they spit at you, it’s me they’re spitting at." His thumbs dug into the delicate skin of Shane’s inner wrists, right over the pulse points. "You don’t get to take that from me."
Shane’s fingers twitch against Ilya’s grip. For a long moment, neither moves–caught in the moment.
Then Shane exhales and slumps forward, his forehead falling hard onto Ilya’s shoulder. "I hate this," he mumbles into the fabric of Ilya’s shirt, damp with tears neither would acknowledge.
Ilya’s hands slide up, from wrists to elbows, pulling Shane closer until there is no space left between them. "I know," he murmurs into Shane’s hair as he leans back, lips brushing the crown of his head. The familiar scent of Shane’s shampoo–something sea-like, seaweed and sharp–filled his lungs.
Home.
The silence holds between them for a full minute, thick with the weight of their conversation and the morning light creeping across them. Then Shane shifts, his socked foot brushing against Ilya’s ankle as he says, "We should make out the next time we see cameras."
The words hang in the air–so absurd, so unexpected that Ilya freezes for half a second before barking out a laugh that shook them both. Shane’s mouth twitches, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips even as his eyes stay red-rimmed and swollen from crying.
"Fucking what?" Ilya wheezes, gripping Shane’s shoulder as laughter punches through his chest.
Shane shrugs, the movement jerky but deliberate under Ilya’s palm. "Front page of ESPN," he deadpans, voice still rough from tears. "Caption: ‘Rivalry Officially Heated.’"
Ilya's laughter dissolves into a strangled snort, his forehead dropping against Shane's shoulder as his entire body shakes with it. The sound was rough–half-hysterical, half-relieved–and Shane could feel the way Ilya's fingers dug into his arms.
"Fucking madman," Ilya gasps between breaths, his Russian accent thickening with amusement. "You would hate the attention."
Shane's mouth curves despite himself, the ghost of a real smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah," he admits, thumb brushing the damp skin under Ilya's eye where laughter interacted with tear tracks. "But you'd love it."
The silence that followed was lighter, soft and warm.
Ilya's grin widens, sharp and knowing. "Ah," he drawls, dragging the syllable out. Shane sighs, preparing for whatever dumbass comment Ilya is about to make. "So you think I am self-centered?" His fingers trace idle patterns against Shane's arms before trailing down to his hips, rubbing the skin through the thin fabric of his pants, light enough to tease but heavy enough to add pressure.
Shane shrugs, deliberately casual as he picks at a loose thread on the old duvet. "I'm not not saying that," he mutters, but the corners of his mouth twitch betrayingly.
Ilya clutches his chest with exaggerated horror, with messy hair and bloodshot eyes. "Wow," he gasps, voice dripping with mock devastation. "My own husband thinks I'm self-centered. Wow." He flops backward, halfway off the mattress, with enough force to make the bed frame creak, one arm flung dramatically across his forehead. "This is betrayal. This is–how do you say–divorce material."
Shane snorts, shoving at Ilya's shoulder halfheartedly. "Shut up," he grumbles, but his fingers linger against the warm skin where Ilya's shirt had ridden up, tracing the familiar dip of his waist.
Ilya peeks out from under his arm, grin sharpening when he catches Shane's fleeting touch. He hums, sitting up and rolling suddenly to pin Shane beneath him–careful, so careful, to keep his weight braced on his forearms. Shane's breath stutters, but he doesn’t push him away. "You know," Ilya muses, nose brushing Shane's, "for someone who thinks I'm so ‘self centered’, you're very bad at pretending not to like me."
Shane's cheeks flush pink. "I never said I don’t like you," he mutters, gaze flickering away–but his hands settled tentatively on Ilya's hips, thumbs pressing into the sharp jut of bone.
Ilya’s mouth crashes into Shane’s before he could continue speaking–all heat and desperation, lips chapped from lack of sleep but achingly familiar. Shane gasps into it, hands lifting and threading into Ilya’s hair, tightening reflexively around Ilya’s curls.
Ilya nips at Shane’s lower lip, earning a bitten-off noise that makes his heart leap in his chest. He maps the shape of Shane’s mouth and tongue with his own, before trailing kisses along his jawline. When his teeth graze the sensitive spot beneath Shane’s ear, Shane arches against him with a punched-out groan, fingers twisting in Ilya’s shirt.
“Fuck,” Shane breathes as Ilya’s lips find the flutter of his pulse, tongue pressing against the fast beat of it. He can feel Ilya’s smirk against his skin, smug asshole, before the hot kisses descend down the column of his throat.
Ilya’s hand slides beneath Shane’s shirt, calloused fingertips tracing the ridges of his ribs, slow and deliberate, teasing. Shane shudders, hips jerking involuntarily as that familiar touch skims higher–
Then he freezes. His hands flew to Ilya’s wrist, wrenching it away. “No way,” Shane pants, cheeks flushed. “We are not having sex in my parents’ house.”
Ilya groans, forehead dropping to Shane’s collarbone with a thud. “They’re in the living room–or maybe the kitchen,” he muttered, breath hot against Shane’s skin. “They won’t–”
“My childhood bed, Ilya.” Shane hisses, “That’s just–Absolutely not.”
Ilya sighs dramatically and rolls off of him, flopping onto his back. Shane smiles softly and kicks his shin, rolling his eyes at Ilya’s pout.
The silence that rests across them now is understanding. It’s gentle and warm, soft between them. The resolved argument and loving atmosphere are calming to both of them. Ilya turns his head and props himself up on one hand to study Shane’s face. He traces the slope of his nose, the curve of his lips, the flush on his cheeks.
Shane looks over at him, his eyes so full of love that Ilya doesn’t think he deserves and says, “We should go home.”
“Mm, yes, so I can fuck you properly,” Ilya says and yelps when Shane kicks him, roughly, this time. Shane grins as he sits up, getting out of bed. Ilya’s eyes now trace the curve of his back and shoulders as he stands. Ilya’s eyes trail down his arms and stop at his hands. His chest tightens as the morning light catches on Shane’s wedding ring, not having left his finger despite their fight. He walks towards the door before turning to Ilya.
“You coming?” Shane teases, a small smile crossing his face. His face warms when Ilya smiles. The smile is adoring and soft, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and adds a gentle flush to his cheeks. Shane’s stomach flips within him despite the years they’ve spent together.
Ilya stands and walks, stopping in front of Shane, “I’m sorry.” He says and Shane’s eyebrows furrow before he rolls his eyes.
“You’ve already apologized–”
“Yes,” Ilya interrupts him, grasping Shane’s hand and bringing it up to rest on his chest, over his heart, “But I wanted to tell you again.” His thumb rubs over the bones of Shane’s wrist. Shane stares at him, his eyes soft.
“I’m sorry too.” Shane says, his mouth curls around the words softly.
Both of their apologies stick in the air. Ilya opens his mouth, prepared to say something extremely sappy or sexual–or maybe both–but then–
The distinct sound of a metal bowl clattering to the ground, followed by an exasperated sigh.
Yuna’s exasperated sigh, to be specific.
Shane and Ilya hold eye contact seriously for at least two seconds before breaking into quiet laughter.
“She’s definitely eavesdropping,” Shane says, and Ilya hums.
“Oh, absolutely,” Ilya says, and they both grin at each other. Shane pulls his hand away from Ilya’s chest and threads their fingers together. He tugs Ilya toward the doorway. Ilya follows gently but stops them again and quickly pecks a kiss to Shane’s temple. Shane leans into the touch and presses against Ilya.
Another crash. Yuna’s voice floated up the hall–deliberately loud–"David, stop hovering like a creep!"
“I just pulled that spatula out of the dishwasher!” David’s voice calls back.
Ilya bit back a snort, pressing his smile into Shane’s hair. "Your parents," he stage-whispers, "are terrible spies."
Shane’s fingers tighten around his. "We should go out there," he said, but made no move to leave, his thumb tracing absent circles against Ilya’s pulse point.
Ilya hums petulantly, swaying them gently where they stood, just enough to make Shane roll his eyes. "You’re a baby," Shane mutters, but his free hand comes up to grip Ilya’s elbow, steadying them both.
The floorboard outside the door creaked conspicuously. Shane freezes. Ilya didn’t bother lowering his voice. "We can hear you, David."
A muffled curse. Then, with exaggerated innocence, "Just checking if you kids want breakfast!"
Shane pinches the bridge of his nose. "We’re almost thirty-two," he hisses under his breath.
Ilya grins, leaning in until his lips brush Shane’s temple again. "You will always be their baby," he teased in a singsong whisper. "Their little–"
Shane elbows him sharply in the ribs. Ilya coughs dramatically, catching Shane’s wrist as he tries to pull away. "Violence!" he gasps, pressing Shane’s hand flat against his chest where it stutters from laughter rather than pain. "After everything–"
They both dissolve into laughter at that. Laughter that’s light and airy, almost giggly, in a way.
“Shut up,” Shane says, but his voice doesn’t disguise the grin that's taken over his face. They hear the floorboards creak again, signaling his dad’s retreat.
Ilya’s teasing grin softens into something quiet and intimate, full of devotion for Shane. Moving his grasp on Shane’s hand, which is still pressed against his chest, he lovingly strokes the curve of his wrist. “I love them.” Shane meets his eyes with a quizzical look, “Your parents. The way they…” Ilya explains but doesn’t finish his sentence, gesturing with a crook of his head.
Shane rolls his eyes with a small smile, “They’re ridiculous.”
“You are ridiculous, too. And I still love you.” Ilya points out, and Shane scoffs in response, but then shifts his hand out of Ilya’s grip and threads their fingers together.
“Yeah, yeah.” Shane smiles and leads him out of his room.
The kitchen smells like all kinds of herbs when they walk in. Yuna is stirring a pot, most likely full of some sort of healthy soup, so they can all eat within Shane’s diet. David is pretending that he’s been reading a book at the table all morning.
“Finally,” Yuna calls back, her back toward them, “I was about to come get you if you took any longer.”
Ilya squeezes Shane’s hand once before letting go, walking toward the table, pulling a chair out, and sliding into it with practiced ease. "Smells good," he offers as he leans back, lazy and content.
Shane hovers awkwardly by the doorway, fingers twisting in the hem of his shirt. The sight of Ilya, comfortable in his parents’ home, commenting on his mom’s cooking as if nothing had happened, made something ache behind his ribs.
David lowers his book with exaggerated slowness. "So," he said, eyes flickering between them. "Everything...resolved?"
Shane’s cheeks burned. "Dad–"
"Because if not," David continues, ignoring Shane’s groan, "I googled and found some pretty good articles–”
"David," Yuna hisses, smacking his shoulder with a dish towel as she rests a now full coffee pot on the table. She shoots Shane an apologetic glance before going back to the stove, but not before Shane catches the relieved curve of her mouth. He gently pads his way over to the table and takes a seat next to Ilya.
Ilya’s knee bumps Shane’s under the table, silent, steadying. Shane exhales, shoulders relaxing as he reaches for the coffee pot. His fingers brush Ilya’s, where they still linger around the handle. Ilya pulls the pot away from him and smirks slightly at Shane’s offended look.
He pours coffee into Shane’s mug first, a chipped blue one he’d bought him for Christmas–before filling his own. His pinky curls briefly around Shane’s, where it rests against the tabletop.
An apology.
A promise.
Shane glances at his parents, Yuna pretending not to watch them over her shoulder, David flipping through book pages with exaggerated focus, and Shane leans into Ilya’s space. Ilya smiles as Shane rests his head in the crook between his neck and his shoulder, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead and tracing his knee with his fingers under the table. Yuna makes her way over.
“Eat,” she ordered, plopping a steaming bowl of miso soup in front of Shane with enough force to make the table rattle and then another identical one in front of Ilya. “Before it gets cold.”
She turns back to grab two more servings for herself and David. Shane pulls away and watches as Ilya begins to eat, humming in satisfaction, “I do not know how you manage to make Shane’s bird food taste good.”
Shane kicks his shin under the table.
Hard.
Ilya’s resulting yelp is extremely satisfying.
Yuna’s lips quirk into a small smirk as she sits at the table and starts to eat as well. After a few minutes of silent eating, Yuna pulls back and takes a sip of her own coffee, poured not long after she sat down. Over the rim of her mug, she looks back and forth between them.
“So,” She starts, placing her mug down, “You boys are… good?”
Both Shane and Ilya pause their eating and look at each other, smiles crossing their faces.
“Yeah,” Shane says and then breaks out of his small trance, “Yes. Yeah. We’re uh–good.” Ilya snorts at his sudden nervousness, “Shut up.” Shane says, but his smile doesn’t falter.
David clears his throat. "So," he says, eyes darting between them, "are we going to talk about–"
"No," Shane interrupts, shoving a too-large bite into his mouth. The broth burns his tongue, but he’ll take physical pain over this conversation. Knowing that his dad even overheard Ilya talking about fucking him is embarrassing enough.
Yuna's lips curl into a knowing smirk as she lifts her mug and takes another sip of coffee. "I'm glad you boys made up," she says, her gaze flickering between their still-reddened eyes and rumpled clothes.
The pause that followed was just a beat too long.
"And thank you, Shane, for suggesting to wait until you get back to your house to—"
“Mom!” Shane’s spoon clatters into his bowl as his face burns red. All three other occupants of the room laugh at his scandalised expression. The noise echoes all around them, offering a teasing atmosphere.
Yuna, adding to Shane’s embarrassment, waves a dismissive hand, her eyes sparkle with mischief. "But please," she adds, "use protection. I don't want early grandchildren."
Shane’s jaw drops as he stares at her.
"I can't even get pregnant,” he hissed through gritted teeth, ears burning. "I’m a cisgender man!”
Ilya hums thoughtfully beside him, spoon poised over Shane's half-finished bowl of soup, which Shane smacks away quickly.
"It just means we haven't tried hard enough," he mused, stealing a bite with infuriating calm.
Shane's palm connected with Ilya's bicep with a satisfying smack. "Ilya!”