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Ilya had expected Shane, as creator of the multi-year plan to get the two of them in the same place, to have had even more plans for the day his move to Ottawa actually happened. Color coded boxes. Room layouts. Maybe a cute little clipboard.
He had forgotten that Shane, love of his life, only created one kind of plan: a structured routine, set to provide optimal benefits for all involved, which he would then follow to the letter until some sort of massive event required him to make changes. (See: off-season workout plans. Game day routines. The laundry system Ilya still didn’t understand.) Dreaming up a plan to get them together had been wildly out of character. Ilya had clung to it as proof that Shane was willing to change his world for him. Every time Shane mentioned it, every time they hit a milestone in it, had made Ilya that much more confident in their relationship, in Shane’s love.
Shane was now confronted with a major change, making the long-term plan a much more immediate one. The definition of the kind of massive event that threw him off balance. Ilya should really have expected Shane to freeze up every time a mover asked him a question about where a piece of furniture went, or which bedroom a box was for.
Ilya cursed the day Shane had decided to move into his (their) house in the middle of Yuna and David’s vacation. Yuna would have run this day like a general going to war.
He finally waved a mover off. “That room.”
“But--” Shane said, looking unsure.
“That room,” Ilya repeated, and took Shane’s hand, towing him to the master bedroom and the closet, where - good - several boxes of clothes were waiting.
Shane continued to look stressed. The company they’d hired to pack Shane’s things up had labeled them “clothing, master bedroom” without any more specific information, and the little stacks of boxes could have been anything - sweatpants, shoes, swimsuits. Only the garment bags on the bed were easily identified as game-day suits.
“You will need clothes before you will need anything else,” Ilya said. He pointed at the closet and dresser, where he had created space for Shane’s things next to his. “Unpack.”
“But the movers--”
“I will tell the movers where things go. After they leave, you can tell me how wrong it is. We are big strong hockey players, we can move a chair if you don’t like it.”
Shane still looked anxious. Ilya wrapped him up in his arms and kissed him. He waited until Shane’s body softened against his, then pulled back and cupped Shane’s face in his hands. “Unpack,” he said softly.
“Okay,” Shane almost whispered back.
Ilya kissed the side of Shane’s head and left him, already tearing the tape off the first box, to go find the movers. He could deal with kitchen boxes and Shane’s comfort recliner. Nothing was going to stress Shane out if Ilya could prevent it.
“Sir?” someone asked, and Ilya hurried to answer.
Was it too late to get a cute little clipboard?