Archive of Our Own

“What do you think, Shanebug?” Shane’s mama asks, smoothing his hair back and tilting her chin towards a tank of fish swirling around and around and around in a shiny, flickering little snowstorm of scaled bodies. 

Shane scrunches his eyebrows together, trying to figure out if there’s a polite way to say that the movement makes his tummy feel bad, too fast and unpredictable. He knows they’re supposed to be picking out a pet for his birthday, but he also knows his mama is more than a little bit hoping that he’s going to go for a fish. The slower ones don’t make his tummy feel wiggly, but he also doesn’t really see the point of them. If he wanted something he could look at but not really touch, he could just get a plant like one of the ones his daddy has. 

As it is, if he’s going to have a pet, he’d like it to be a pet that both doesn’t move in ways he can’t see coming and a pet that he can actually touch. 

And a pet he isn’t going to turn out to be allergic to, he thinks a little resentfully, today being their second visit to a pet store after their first ended in him breaking out in hives because apparently he’s allergic to birds. It’s not the worst of his allergies–he hadn’t needed his epipen for it, even if having to take oatmeal baths and put on lotion after all week was annoying and made him feel sticky–but it also wasn’t exactly a fun discovery. 

(Especially as part of something that’s supposed to be a present for him turning eight soon.) 

“They’re cool,” he says, but the way his mama and daddy exchange a look says he didn’t say it right, which just makes his tummy feel even more wriggly. It’s not new, him saying something and it not coming out how he wants, but even with his mama and daddy, it doesn’t ever make him not feel bad about it. 

“Why don’t you go wander a little, huh?” His daddy suggests, smiling at him and smoothing a hand over his hair, too. “See if anybody speaks to you?” 

Shane bites back his comment about animals not speaking and decides to listen. 

Mainly just so he can stop watching the fish party that makes him feel a little sick the longer he looks at it. 

He wanders back towards the slower fish, but none of them especially catch his interest. A grey and black-spotted–he checks the name written on the glass in marker–pleco briefly makes him pause, but eventually the fish not really moving at all gets boring, and he moves on. The word feels good in his mouth, and he repeats it to himself as he keeps looking, but the fish itself isn’t very fun to look at for very long. He stops and watches some guppies for a little bit, interested in their colors and the fluttering motions of their tails, but then one of them apparently starts a fight, and several of them zipping around suddenly makes him feel a little stressed imagining that happening in his room, and he keeps going, eventually running out of fish completely. He glances back to see if his parents are still waiting on a decision from him or not, but they’ve turned away now, back to looking at the little wall of betta fish, and eager for a break from fish suddenly moving fast after tricking him, he decides to wander from the fish section. 

He makes sure to stay in sight of his parents as he gets a little farther away, edging around the hamsters and gerbils–he doesn’t like their little hands, freaked out by such tiny little fingers and their tiny little nails–and ending up in a section with a sign over it reading REPTILES. He pauses, wondering if he’s allowed to get closer to the tanks or not, unsure without an example from his parents to follow, but when no one appears to stop him, he creeps closer, feeling the warmer temperature of the area with so many little glowing lights on top of the tanks. The sound of running water in a few of them is kind of nice to listen to, and it makes him feel more settled than the fish did. He stops and looks at a chameleon for a little bit, smiling slightly at its funny eyes as they move in different directions, but he doesn’t especially care for the way its feet move, and he moves along when it starts climbing along a stick in its enclosure, wandering slowly past frogs and a couple of lizards until he ends up in front of a tank with a little snake in it, its skin cream and light orange. It lifts its head slightly and looks at him, and Shane smiles, a little, surprised and pleased to be noticed. 

“Hi,” he says. He glances up at the label on the tank, which says Creamsicle Cornsnake in curly blue lettering. “You’re called a creamsicle cornsnake,” he informs it. The snake doesn’t appear very interested, but Shane doesn’t take it personally. “I don’t think you look like a creamsicle, though,” he tells the snake. “I think you look more like…” He pauses to think. “More like spaghetti.” He wonders if he should tell someone about their mistake or not. If they’re going to name it after food, spaghetti is way more accurate, with the snake’s white body looking like a noodle and the orange patches looking like the stain spaghetti sauce leaves. 

If the snake minds that someone named it wrong, it doesn’t show it. It’s pretty small, maybe just a bit thicker than a pencil, and Shane finds that he likes watching it move, likes the wavy back and forth of its body. It looks like it would be interesting to hold, and he wonders if he’s allowed, or if-

“Hi there.” 

He jumps a little at the voice and turns to find a woman with short, purple hair behind him. She smiles apologetically. 

“Sorry,” she says. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Getting to know our newest noodle, huh?” 

It’s only her looking at the snake that lets him know she’s talking about it when she says noodle, and he nods, a little too shy to actually speak to a stranger, especially when he didn’t have time to be ready to do it first. 

“Are you a snake guy?” She asks, and Shane shrugs. He’s a hockey guy, but that doesn’t seem relevant right now. “You wanna hold him?” 

“I can hold him?” He asks, pleased at the idea enough for the words to come out. 

“Sure,” she says with a smile, reaching for her belt and pulling off a ring of keys. “You ever held a snake before?” He shakes his head, worrying a little bit that it’s going to mean she changes her mind and says he can’t, but she just nods back. “Alright, why don’t you take a seat on the floor for me, then? Only so far you can drop him that way, just in case.” 

The idea of potentially dropping this snake he’s being allowed to hold makes his tummy feel wiggly with worry, but he’s curious enough about what the snake must feel like when it moves to push past it, sitting down criss-cross applesauce and waiting while the lady sorts through keys until she gets to the right one. 

“Alright, you little noodle,” she says cheerfully as she carefully picks up the snake. “You behave now, you hear? You’re repping noodles everywhere here.” 

Shane wonders if he’s supposed to talk to the snake, too, or not, but the lady doesn’t mention it, just kneels on one knee and holds her hands out. 

“Okay,” she says, “don’t be surprised when he moves, alright?” 

Shane nods, holding his hands very still as the little snake starts climbing onto his palms, curling its tail across his fingers and settling its head on his palm. Despite the warning, he jumps just a little bit at the new sensation of it moving across his skin, but it’s not unpleasant, the pull and push of tiny muscles as the snake wiggles and moves. The employee keeps her hands under his just in case, which he’s thankful for. 

“Okay, when he starts getting to the end of your hand like that, just-” Before she even finishes speaking, Shane moves his other hand for the snake to keep wriggling on, scared of dropping him and ruining his chance to hold him. “Yeah, good, exactly. You’re a natural, bud.” 

Shane beams, pleased at the compliment

“Why’s he keep sticking his tongue out?” He asks, glancing up from the snake only briefly. 

“That’s how he smells things,” she says, slowly dropping her hands from beneath his and sitting back on her heels. Shane is thrilled by the fact that she apparently trusts him to hold the snake correctly without help, and it makes him even more diligent in keeping track of how it’s moving. “Snakes have something called a Jacobson’s Organ, and they use their tongue to gather information so they can figure out what’s going on around them. He sticks his tongue out, gets some new smells on it, and then pulls it back to send it to his Jacobson’s Organ. He’s getting to know you.” 

“It tickles,” Shane says, giggling a little bit when it flickers against his hand again. 

“Yeah, it-” 

“Shanebug, what-oh my God.” 

Shane looks up, a little alarmed at the way his mama’s voice went a little shrill at the end of the sentence, but he can’t see what happened to make it do that. Before he can ask, his daddy is there, and he frowns a little when his mama’s hand grabs his daddy’s and squeezes hard enough to make the skin squish a little. 

In his hands, the snake keeps crawling around, flickering his tiny tongue and getting to know him better. 

“Found a new buddy?” His daddy asks, voice much more normal than his mama’s is right now, and he nods. 

“I think so. He’s licking me so he can smell me,” he reports, proud to have new information to offer. 

And a little worried about the way his mama has gone very, very pale and seems to get even paler at his new fact. 

“Sorry,” the pet store lady says, “probably should have gotten a go-ahead first. He just seemed interested, and I’ve got a soft spot for snakes myself.” 

She starts to reach out to take the snake back, and Shane finds he doesn’t want to give it back. He likes the feeling of his soft-scaled body moving over his skin, likes the way his little nose pokes against his palm as he slithers along. 

“Can I have him?” He asks, turning to his mama and daddy, knowing in an instant that he’s made his choice about what pet he wants. “For my birthday?” 

His mama makes a very strange noise he’s never heard from her before, and he pauses, wondering if maybe he should tell his daddy to maybe help her sit down. She looks a little shaky like the way the older kids at hockey camp do right before they puke when they go too hard in a game. He’s a little curious about why his mama looks like that right now, but he can figure that out later. 

“You want a snake?” She asks, swallowing hard after the question is out. 

He nods, looking to his daddy to see if he’s also noticed that his mama seems a little sick suddenly. His daddy, though, is already looking at his mama, who looks to him and gives a slight little shrug of her shoulders, her hand rising briefly in a gesture Shane can’t read. 

“Give us a second, buddy, huh?” His daddy asks, putting a hand on his mama’s back and nudging her away, where they huddle in a corner with their heads together. Pet store lady rises but then doesn’t seem sure about what to do next, so Shane is a little reassured that he’s not the only one missing something here. 

Still on the floor, Shane just looks back to the snake. 

“I think we’re going to be friends,” he whispers to it. 

The snake flickers his tongue again. 

Shane smiles, taking it as agreement. 

*

“-and Veronica said Tracy said-” Shane fills Spaghetti in on his day as he pulls his clothes off so he can change into practice gear, Spaghetti on one of his rocks and listening intently. 

This is their new little routine two months into Spaghetti going home with him. He knows by now that his mama doesn’t especially like Spaghetti–she doesn’t go into Shane’s room until she’s confirmed that Spaghetti is in his tank and she never looks at him in a way that seems on purpose–but on his own part, Shane is just as in love with his new pet as he was the first day he brought him home. 

“I think she’s lying, though,” he tells Spaghetti when his head pops through his shirt. 

He thinks Spaghetti might be his best friend, something he said to his parents that made them look a little sad in a way he didn’t like, so he hasn’t said it again. 

He still feels like it, though. 

The kids at school don’t like hearing about his snake, but they don’t really like a lot of things Shane likes to talk about, so that’s okay. 

Spaghetti likes hearing him talk. 

That’s enough for him. 

*

Shane gets some gentle teasing about not wanting to stay with anyone else after joining Montreal’s team. He knows it’s pretty standard practice for rookies to either be roommates or to stay with an older player for a bit while settling into a new city and into a new team, but he personally can’t think of many worse things than coming back from a long day and still having someone else in the house with him, especially someone he can’t ask to not talk to him for a bit without seeming rude. With this in mind, his parents help him find a place, organize movers, and then Shane is on his own, just him in a brand new apartment in a brand new city. 

Well, him and Spaghetti. 

“What do you think, huh?” He asks, leaning down to look in Spaghetti’s tank. 

For his part, Spaghetti doesn’t seem interested in much beyond sulking in his hide about being relocated, even if Shane thinks he could be a little more appreciative of the fact that he now has a whole room for himself, something called a “breakfast nook” repurposed as a Spaghetti Nook, tucked away enough that hopefully anyone coming over won’t stress his snake out but also in the central part of his apartment enough that Spaghetti won’t feel like he’s being hidden away. It’s a stupid amount of sentimentality to have about a snake, probably, but if Spaghetti has to deal with the stress of moving out of Shane’s bedroom at his parents’ house, he should probably get at least a little bit of a perk out of it. 

“I think we’re really grownups now, Spaghetti,” Shane tells him, and for the first time, he feels like it really might be true. 

*

Spaghetti settles in quickly, and it’s not long at all before he’s content to ride along somewhere on Shane’s person when he’s home. It’s nice, really, being able to have his snake out whenever he wants, not having to worry about freaking his mom out, even if she’ll deny that she’s freaked out because she’s trying to be supportive of his weird pet. 

(Still, there’s a reason Spaghetti tended to only get to go beyond the safety of Shane’s room when she wasn’t home.) 

“What if you don’t crawl in my smoothie, though?” He asks Spaghetti now, gently lifting his head up and away from the cup he was attempting to investigate. “You got a mouse literally three days ago, dude. Don’t get greedy.” 

Spaghetti takes the correction with grace, returning to curling up around Shane’s neck, smooth, sinuous muscles flexing and contracting as he explores his hoodie. Shane strokes along his side gently with the back of his fingers as he looks back to his phone, Ilya Rozanov winking at the camera after delivering a cocky answer to a question about if he’s worried about not achieving the number of goals he said he would get this season. He glances down when Spaghetti starts tunneling down under the collar of his hoodie, and he pulls up the sleeve so he won’t be buried too long, Spaghetti’s little cream-colored nose poking out soon enough, pink tongue flickering as he figures out why his cave suddenly ran out. 

“Can you believe this asshole, Spaghetti?” Shane asks when his snake has dared to poke his head out fully, holding his phone up for Spaghetti’s benefit. 

Spaghetti doesn’t appear to notice the phone’s existence at all, but Shane doesn’t hold it against him. 

“He keeps saying he’s going to beat me in scoring for the season,” he continues, pulling the phone back up so he can see it, turning his arm idly so Spaghetti won’t fall as he investigates the curvature of his forearm. “I don’t fucking think so.” 

The way Spaghetti curls around his arm feels like agreement. 

*

It’s old habit at this point, to practice things with Spaghetti as an audience. He’s done it since he was a kid: class presentations, studying for a test, pretend interviews so he won’t stumble in front of a camera. He thinks Spaghetti has probably heard him talk more than anyone else in the world. 

Tonight’s, though, might be the biggest thing he’s ever said to him. 

“I broke up with Rose tonight,” he tells Spaghetti, who doesn’t pause from his investigation of the throw blanket they’re sharing at the announcement. Shane smiles, slightly, running his fingers slowly over the flexing muscles of Spaghetti’s back. “Well, I think technically she broke up with me.” 

Spaghetti still doesn’t seem particularly impressed. 

“You could have some kind of reaction, you know,” he informs his snake. “You liked Rose.” Spaghetti did like Rose, in fact, one of the things that had made Shane think they could work out together. Apparently Rose had grown up with a pet tarantula, and they’d bonded over it, having pets that other people didn’t necessarily understand or like. 

It’s just that there was a central thing between them they couldn’t bond over. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” He asks Spaghetti, picking him up until they’re looking at each other, Spaghetti flickering his tongue attentively. Even with a friendly audience–one that can’t even understand him, in fact–he still hesitates a moment. “I think I’m gay, Spaghetti.” 

He feels a little jolt run through him at actually saying the words out loud, stupid as it is when his only audience is his snake. 

For his part, Spaghetti just keeps slithering, winding his way down his hand and his wrist until he can start wriggling in under his sleeve. Shane smiles, absurdly relieved. He feels lighter, somehow, like just saying it was like ripping a bandaid off. It feels like it might be easier to say again, now that he’s said it one time. 

“Think Rozanov will take it as well as you?” He asks Spaghetti, who is busily making his way up his bicep. 

Spaghetti doesn’t offer an opinion one way or another. 

Shane exhales, closing his eyes for a moment. 

And then reaching over to check his arrival time on his plane ticket to All Stars. 

*

Of the many things to cover in the cottage, the existence of Spaghetti–who lives in his own room here for the sake of Shane’s mom coming over now and then–doesn’t really occur to him as a priority. He planned on giving Spaghetti a few days to get used to the vibrations and sound of another person when there’s only been Shane before in their vacations to the cottage together, but beneath the weight of “what are we”–and also “hey, please don’t bring anything with nuts in it around me again or you might actually accidentally kill me,” which came up only when immediately relevant post a Reese’s peanut butter cup Ilya had bought in the airport and forgotten he had until he almost killed Shane via a peanut butter kiss that Shane stopped him from giving just in time after seeing the orange wrapping on the counter–introducing Ilya and Spaghetti doesn’t seem like it really needs to be a priority. 

Not until Ilya accidentally opens The Mouse Freezer in the garage. 

“Shane!” 

Alarmed at the sound of so much alarm in Ilya’s voice, he tosses his phone down and rushes to him, finding him still standing in front of the open freezer. With him not actively bleeding or injured as far as Shane can see, it takes him a second to even begin to process why he might sound so off. 

Then Shane realizes what he’s looking at. 

“Ah.” 

“‘Ah’,” Ilya repeats, giving him a look before he looks back to the tidily stacked frozen mouse packages in the freezer and makes a face as a little badly-hidden shudder moves through him. “Why the fuck do you have mice in your freezer, Shane? You are doing serial killer shit now? This is why you have cottage in the middle of nowhere? For serial killer things?” 

“It’s for Spaghetti,” Shane says. 

Ilya gives him an absolutely horrified look at that and turns a little green, which makes him remember that Spaghetti isn’t just his snake's name. 

“Not food!” He rushes to explain. “Not food spaghetti! Snake spaghetti!” 

“What the fuck are you even saying right now,” Ilya says, looking honestly a little concerned that Shane might have something going wrong in his head. 

(Distancing himself from almost twenty years of owning a snake, Shane can indeed see why this situation might be a little alarming for someone on the outside looking in.) 

(It also clues him in to the fact that maybe it’s not just Spaghetti who should have gotten a little adjustment period.) 

“C’mon,” he says, holding a hand out. “I’ll show you.” 

Ilya looks a little wary, but he shuts the freezer door and follows him, slipping his hand into Shane’s. 

*

Shane gets the feeling that this introduction isn’t going well. 

“Is a snake,” Ilya says flatly, all the way across the room still. 

“Yes.” 

“In your house.” 

“Uh huh,” Shane says, guiding Spaghetti to curl around his arm a little more securely. At this age, he’s about five feet long, and judging from the look on Ilya’s face, that fact isn’t really helping this getting to know each other event. 

“On purpose?” 

“I mean, yeah, that’s how pets work,” Shane says, feeling a little nervous the longer Ilya looks similar to how Shane’s mom does around snakes. 

In all of the possible complications of them being together, Spaghetti had never even occurred to him as a possibility. He’s used to not talking about his snake by now–kids growing up either thought it was gross or weird or later liked to talk graphically about how they would kill him, so Shane learned to just not bring his pet up at all–so he hasn’t really had a lot of experience. 

Even in his limited frame of reference, though, he gathers that Ilya looking like a cat ready to spook and take off at any second isn’t the most promising sign of future camaraderie. 

“He’s called a creamsicle cornsnake,” Shane offers, an attempt at maybe making his snake edge closer towards cool and less towards “might actually make his brand new boyfriend make a run for it.” 

He wonders if he should have asked Rose for any ideas about how to do this properly. 

“You have a pet snake,” Ilya says flatly. “That you keep in your house. With you.” 

“I mean…” Shane shifts his weight a little, really wondering where exactly he went wrong here. “Yeah?” 

Ilya apparently reads the hesitance in his voice as his stomach gets tighter and tighter, because he glances at his face and then noticeably makes an effort at softening. He starts to step forward, but Spaghetti picks that moment to lift his head, which makes Ilya stop immediately. 

Shane is wondering if maybe the first step here might have been leaving Spaghetti in his enclosure. 

“Since when do you have a snake?” Ilya asks, and Shane is at least reassured when he comes closer, even if he keeps a wary eye on Spaghetti, who for his part is just contently exploring Shane’s arms now.  

“Since I was kid,” Shane says. “I can show you some pictures.” 

“There was no snake in any pictures in your parents’ house,” Ilya points out. 

“Yeah,” Shane says, “my mom isn’t really a snake person.” 

“And you couldn’t get that from her, too?” Ilya asks wryly, but at whatever he sees on Shane’s face, he softens. “Sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” Shane says, even if he isn’t exactly thrilled that Ilya is clearly not cool with his pet. He doesn’t exactly need them to be best friends or anything, but if Ilya is this uncomfortable, Shane gets the feeling he really isn’t going to like the casual way he usually wears Spaghetti around the house. 

“His name is Spaghetti?” Ilya says, coming closer with visible effort needed to do so. 

Shane smiles, a little, touched at the attempt at interest when he can see how much Ilya does not want to come closer. 

“Give me a break,” Shane jokes. “I named him when I was a kid.” 

“Hm,” Ilya says, looking a little steadier under the familiarity of teasing. “This is still not an excuse, I think, but okay. He is…chill?” 

“Yeah,” Shane says, daring to lift him up a bit. “He’s really calm. Cornsnakes usually are, but I’ve also handled him a lot since I was little, so he’s super desensitized.” 

“Hm, you are professional at snake handling by now?” Ilya asks, a glint in his eyes that makes Shane roll his. 

“Don’t make sex jokes about my snake,” Shane complains, though he will take that over Ilya looking ready to pack up and leave the way he did just a few minutes ago. It occurs to him that he could ask Ilya if he wants to hold Spaghetti, but he thinks Ilya just being within three feet of him might be as much as they’ll be achieving on this first introduction. Still, he turns Spaghetti enough to have a safe amount of side to offer without his head being close. “You want to touch him?” 

Ilya’s face looks like the answer is an immediate and firm “no the fuck I do not want to do that,” but before Shane can pull away, Ilya steps one pace closer and reaches out, touching Spaghetti briefly and then dropping his hand. Shane notices a suppressed little shudder run through him, but he doesn’t mention it. 

After all, his mom has never even gotten close enough to touch Spaghetti, so maybe this is a little baby step towards progress. 

“Very…snake-y,” Ilya offers, and Shane snorts, which breaks the tension. Ilya smiles and apparently gets brave enough to touch again, this time a little firmer. “He likes this?” Ilya asks, tracing along an orange patch. “Being pet? He is like a dog?” 

“Mm,” Shane says, mindful of keeping Spaghetti’s head well away from Ilya, “not really. I don’t know if he likes it, but he doesn’t really care. He even lets Hayden’s kids hold him.” 

“Pike lets his children hold snakes?” Ilya asks with clear judgement. “This is because he has enough to sacrifice or what?” 

“Okay, he is not big enough to eat a kid,” Shane scoffs. “He’s not even big enough to eat a guinea pig.” 

“Wow, what a baby,” Ilya says dryly, jerking his hand back when Spaghetti’s tail whips to one side to keep his balance. 

Shane decides it’s probably time to call it while they’re relatively ahead. 

*

(And if he notices how intently Ilya watches him secure the enclosure, well.) 

(He decides he can let it pass.) 

*

“I cannot believe your parents let you have a snake,” Ilya observes a few days later. 

They’ve progressed to Ilya at least being okay with Spaghetti being out around him, but Shane hasn’t missed the way he sticks strictly to the opposite end of the couch and keeps one eye on his snake the whole time. He will now pet Spaghetti–which seems to be his form of a peace offering–so Shane thinks they’re getting somewhere at least. 

Still, he’s careful to make sure Spaghetti doesn’t leave his personal space and venture anywhere near Ilya’s. 

“They let me pick what pet I wanted for my birthday when I was kid,” Shane says, scrunching a bit when Spaghetti making his way down his shirt collar tickles for a moment. 

Ilya eyes him like he’s still deciding if Shane is entirely sane or not. 

“And in entire pet store of possible animals, baby Shane had to have a baby snake?” Ilya asks, lifting his brows. 

“What?” Shane asks, catching Spaghetti’s head at the bottom of his t-shirt and guiding him to climb back up his arm to keep him from exploring the couch, primarily because he’s a little worried about what Ilya is going to think about finding out that Shane’s snake likes to curl up behind pillows when he’s out. “He’s cute.” 

Ilya’s expression is a clear contradiction to this opinion, but he doesn’t say it out loud. 

“I used to say he was my best friend when I was little. I told him everything when I was kid,” Shane confesses, embarrassed as soon as it’s out. He doesn’t even know why he said it. He just felt the urge to tell Ilya something true about him, something that no one else knows. God, of all the lame things to say-

“Best friend, huh?” Ilya repeats. He takes a deep breath and sits up, and Shane tilts his head in question, a little wary of how determined he suddenly looks. Shoulders squared, Ilya scoots closer. “Can I hold him?” 

“You want to hold him?” Shane asks, immediately doubtful. 

“Yes,” Ilya says, which is clearly a lie. Still, if he wants to give it a go…

Shane gently unloops Spaghetti from around himself and coils him enough to pass him over. He starts to pull him back when Ilya full body shudders, but Ilya shakes his head. 

“No, no, I’m good. I want to hold the snake.” 

Shane doesn’t think this is remotely true, but he’s also not sure how to call him on it. Instead, he carefully settles Spaghetti across Ilya’s hands and thigh, keeping hold of his head. Spaghetti accepts the change easily, and Shane magnanimously ignores the noise Ilya makes when Spaghetti turns his head enough for his tongue to flick against Ilya’s wrist. 

“That’s how they smell,” Shane offers, wondering if that might make things feel less creepy. “They collect scent on their tongues and pass it over an organ in their heads. He’s getting to know you.” 

“Yes. Interesting. Snake is tasting me. Very normal and fine,” Ilya says, visibly uncomfortable and trying to hide it in a way Shane kind of wants to take a picture of, amused. He’s touched that Ilya is trying to do something he’s so very obviously hating just because he wants to be cool with Shane’s pet. He lasts up until Spaghetti tries to climb up his arm, and then he holds out the portion of Spaghetti he’s holding. “Okay okay okay. Is enough, I think. He wants to go back to you now.” 

“Baby,” Shane can’t help but tease, but he reclaims his snake, sitting back and turning sideways, folding his legs up so he can face Ilya and let Spaghetti stay on his lap. “See? You guys will be best friends in no time.” 

The way Ilya whole-body shudders like he’s trying to shake something off isn’t necessarily promising, but Shane decides to be an optimist for once. 

*

“So, Ilya,” his mom asks the next day, when they’re over for a last dinner together before Ilya has to leave, “have you met Spaghetti yet?” 

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Thank you, also, for warning me I am staying in the same place as a giant snake.” 

Shane’s mom smiles, passing the salad to him across the table. 

“I did over a decade of it,” she says with absolutely zero mercy. “You’ll live.” 

“Do you miss him?” Shane teases, pretending to stand up. “I can go get-” 

“No,” Ilya and his mom say as one. 

“Stop tormenting the non-snake-enthusiasts, Shane,” his dad says, the scolding softened with a smile. “That’s not nice.” 

“Yeah, Shane,” Ilya agrees, clearly goading him. “That’s not nice.” Shane gives him a look but doesn’t comment. 

“Has Shane told you yet that Spaghetti also has a history as an escape artist?” His mom asks. 

Shane can feel Ilya’s attention snap to him sharply. 

For his own part, he becomes suddenly fascinated with the potato salad. 

“What does she mean escape artist?” Ilya asks, voice just slightly higher than it is normally. 

“Didn’t you say you wanted ketchup?” Shane asks instead of responding. “I’ll go get it.” 

“Shane,” Ilya says, turning to look at him as he rises. “Shane, there is a snake in your house. Why is your mother saying it is escape artist?” 

“Should I get pickles, too?” Shane calls back. 

“Shane!” 

*

“You are Mr. Real Estate even for your snake?” Ilya asks the first time he sees Spaghetti’s main tank in Shane’s apartment in Montreal. 

Shane would like to protest, but he can admit it’s possible he might have gotten a little wild with the setup over the years, a custom-built, wooden, multi-level bioactive enclosure with plants and climbing structures and hides and-

Well. It’s not exactly like he’s hurting for money. 

“You want to chirp me about my snake’s tank or fuck me?” Shane asks, turning. 

Ilya grins, tugging his shirt up over his head. 

“You think I cannot do both?” He asks. 

Shane grins back. 

(Still, he makes them take the fucking elsewhere, unwilling to make Spaghetti watch.) 

(After all, it feels wrong for Spaghetti to have seen both his childhood stuffed animal and him fucking his boyfriend.) 

(Boundaries are boundaries.) 

*

Kept two fucking hours later than he planned on when he has a boyfriend waiting on him at home does not leave Shane in the best mood by the time he finally manages to make it through his front door, leaning his forehead against it for a moment just to collect himself after he shuts it. 

Turning to find his apartment suspiciously absent of boyfriends doesn’t exactly improve his mood. 

He stops himself from calling out, though, knowing that Ilya mentioned before that he hasn’t been sleeping well after Shane asked if he was okay because of the dark circles under his eyes during a video call. Ilya hadn’t wanted to talk about it, but Shane hasn’t forgotten it. Even if he’ll be disappointed to miss out on a chance to fuck his boyfriend senseless the way he’s been dying to do for literal weeks now, he knows it’ll probably ultimately be a good thing if Ilya managed to get some rest. It’s even flattering, in a way, the idea of Ilya feeling relaxed enough in his space to finally get some sleep. 

Even if it’s going to mean postponing a much-needed orgasm or two. 

(...or three or four or-)

“-no, see, this is what I am talking about.” 

Shane frowns a little at Ilya’s quiet voice, soft enough that it barely reaches him but audible enough for him to pick up the words. Is he on the phone? Shane starts heading towards the sound. 

“I just feel you aren’t really listening,” Ilya says. “I ask you not to do the thing with your tongue and then-see! Again. I think you are doing it more just because I asked you not to.” 

Well now Shane is even more fucking confused about whose fucking tongue his boyfriend would be talking about in his goddamn home. 

When he turns the corner and sees him, though, Ilya isn’t talking to a phone. 

He’s talking to Spaghetti. 

“I am trying very hard to get along with you, Spaghetti, and I do not feel that you appreciate this,” Ilya says, facing away from Shane and on his knees next to Spaghetti’s tank. Spaghetti lifts his head, either looking at Ilya or at the motion of Shane behind Ilya. Either way, he can tell from the way Ilya pulls back slightly that he isn’t a fan. “No, see, this behavior? This is not good for getting used to you. You are moving like cobra, Spaghetti. I do not like this.” 

Shane smiles faintly, leaning his shoulder against the wall and deciding to grant himself a few more seconds of spying, perplexed but amused. From how much Ilya usually seems like he’s trying to ignore Spaghetti’s existence beyond confirming that his enclosure is shut and secured against escape attempts, coming home to Ilya talking to him is unexpected. 

“You were with Shane first, and I am respecting this, but I am also here now. We need to get along, Spaghetti, and for this, you need to not do these things that are freaking me out like-no, see, you are doing the thing with your tongue again.” Ilya lets out a frustrated-sounding breath. “It is going to make Shane very sad if I cannot get along with you, but I need you to cooperate with me, yes? Behave so your papa is not sad.” 

Shane presses a hand to his mouth to keep himself from laughing, touched by the gesture of Ilya trying to acclimate himself to his snake but also wondering if this chatter is more for Spaghetti’s benefit or his boyfriend’s. 

“Okay, yes, back to doing your slither…thing. This is better. Is more-no, see, you are being cobra again.” Ilya lifts his hand in a frustrated gesture. 

This time Shane can’t help but laugh, which makes Ilya jump what seems like a foot in the air, spinning and off-balancing himself enough from his crouch to land on his ass. Shane swallows his laugh back only with effort. 

“Sorry,” he manages. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your meeting.” 

Despite Ilya’s insistence that being Russian makes him incapable of it, Shane does see his cheeks go a little pink. 

“Your snake is very bad at listening,” he says, picking himself up. 

“Well he doesn’t have ear holes, soooo…” Shane drawls, not bothering moving from his place as Ilya makes his way to him, turning him enough to press him against the wall. 

“Hm,” Ilya says, nosing his chin up so h can get to his throat. “Is fine. I am more interested in your holes anyway.” 

“Gross,” Shane complains. 

Still, when Ilya slips a hand under the fly of his jeans, he doesn’t protest. 

*

“Missed me so much you had to talk to my snake in the meantime?” Shane teases later, sweaty and a little breathless and with his jeans still around one ankle, which he kicks off so he can curl up against Ilya better. 

“Mmm,” Ilya hums, pressing a kiss to his hair and then stroking his fingers over it, bicep under Shane’s head. “He is better for conversation than you. Much more interesting opinions.” 

“Asshole,” Shane says, leaning up enough to press a kiss over Ilya’s heart before laying back down. 

They’re quiet for a few moments, just enjoying the warm peace of being together again after so long apart. Shane is toying with the idea of falling asleep when Ilya speaks again. 

“He is important to you, your snake,” he says softly. “So he is important to me, too.” 

Shane smiles a little shyly and presses his face tighter against Ilya. 

“I really love you,” he says. 

He feels the pressure of a kiss pressed to his head again. 

“I love you, too.” A beat. “Even though you are very weird serial killer person with dead mice in your freez-” 

“Okay,” Shane says, sitting up and thwapping him on the stomach firmly before getting up to take a shower. 

*

Shane doesn’t think having a reaction ever gets easier. 

Having one as a result of someone fucking with his food at a team potluck certainly doesn’t fucking help, either. 

“-anything else you need?” Jackie asks, his hospital buddy for this round, Hayden left home with the kids. 

(Primarily, Shane thinks judging from the clear rage on her face, so Jackie won’t catch a charge today.) (He’s not sure Hayden is a better alternative to avoid that, but he also hadn’t really been in a place to weigh the pros and cons in the moment.) 

“I’m good, Jacks,” he says, stopping her from fucking around with his pillows supposedly to fluff them for at least the eighth time since he got settled in. 

“Swear to God, when I find out who decided to get on my hit list…” Jackie says, trailing off and pressing her lips together in a tight line. 

Shane, who can’t explore the idea because it’ll also mean confronting the fact that his team has turned against him enough at this point to do something like this, doesn’t respond, just closes his eyes and tries to will his headache out of his existence. 

“Ruby okay?” He asks after a moment, not bothering to open his eyes. 

“She will be,” Jackie says, in a tone that makes Shane’s stomach feel tight with residual guilt about scaring her. “She already texted me on Hayden’s phone asking if Uncle Shane is okay.” 

“Did you tell her I am?” He asks, though he’s pretty sure of what the answer is going to be. 

“Yeah,” Jackie says, reaching out and squeezing his arm gently, her small hand cool and oddly soothing. 

The reaction was a bad one, requiring using his Auvi-Q and an epipen he’d stashed at Jackie and Hayden’s house at their insistence years ago. He knows he’ll probably get an “I told you so” of epic proportions about that at some point, Hayden always judgemental of him not carrying a backup. He’s never found a good way to put it into words, the way it feels like carrying two means he’s inviting a reaction bad enough to need two, which means only carrying one just feels safer. 

Not that the superstition saved him this time, he thinks, a little bitterly. 

“I’m really sorr-” He starts, but Jackie taps the bottom of his chin to make him stop talking. 

“If you apologize, I’m going to have to kick your ass, Hollander,” she teases gently. “And right now, I wouldn’t put money on you.” 

Shane smiles faintly. 

“I’ve seen you refereeing Easter egg hunts,” he jokes. “I wouldn’t put money on me normally.” 

“Damn right,” Jackie agrees, and Shane can hear the smile in her voice. 

It’s not much when his own team has put him in a hospital and he’s terrified a kid who cares about him by having a reaction in front of her, but still. 

It’s something. 

*

He convinces Jackie to go home after a few hours. With his reaction as bad as it was, he’s stuck for overnight observation, but he waves off her offer to stay. He’d rather she get home and make sure Ruby is processing things okay. 

(And, a little bit, to either make sure her husband hasn’t killed someone or at least to help hide the body if he has.) 

(Honestly, Shane thinks it might still be a 50/50 chance either way.) 

He’s drifted into a light doze when his phone starts buzzing, and he blinks himself awake again, more a little bleary. He considers just letting it go to voice message, but when he sees the caller ID on the Facetime request, he starts reaching immediately, nearly yanking the charger out of the wall completely but managing to get it before the call ends. He taps to accept the call. 

“Fuck, Shane,” is Ilya’s opening line. 

“Hey to you, too,” he teases with as much levity as he has in him right now. 

“Hi,” Ilya says. “You are okay?” 

“Great,” he jokes. “I’m ready for the Stanley Cup, so you can go ahead and quit now if you want.” 

“What happened?” Ilya says, ignoring the attempt at a joke in a way that says he’s very at risk of doing something rash if Shane doesn’t convince him he’s okay. 

(He’s almost tempted to let him do it anyway, just to see what it might be.)

“Pike texted and said you had a reaction,” Ilya continues. “What happened? I thought Jackie always keeps your food separate.” 

Shane’s kneejerk response is to just tell him. He hasn’t told Ilya much about his team, about the way they’ve slowly soured after he came out to them, like an apple slowly rotting from what initially appeared to only be a small bruise. He’s stopped himself from doing it until now because he’s been telling himself that it’s just temporary, that he can muscle through it, that he just has to work harder and prove nothing has changed. Telling Ilya would feel like taking a step, like making a decision about something, and that isn’t something he’s ready for. Telling Ilya would mean saying he’s made a mess he doesn’t know how to clean up. 

“I think someone must have tried some of mine with a spoon from the main line,” he says, and it’s not a lie, he tells himself. That could be exactly what happened. He needs that to be what happened. 

(He is so afraid that’s not what happened.) 

He sees Ilya bite something back, and he imagines it’s probably something about how Shane should really tell his team about his allergies already instead of continuing to keep it a secret. Shane is glad for the silence. If someone did this by accident, just by fucking with him to fuck with him, he’s a little worried about what they might do if he hands them a guide on how to fuck with him on purpose. 

On how to hurt him on purpose. 

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” Ilya asks, looking alarmed suddenly. 

It’s only after the question that Shane realizes a tear managed to slip down his cheek, and he scrubs it away roughly. 

“Sorry,” he says, “I just feel like shit.” He hesitates a moment, not wanting to make Ilya feel guilty but something else on the tip of his tongue. “I really wish you were here.” 

He sees Ilya swallow, hard. 

“I get back tonight,” he says. “I can drive up right after we land. No games until Tuesday, so I’m yours for the weekend, okay?” 

“You don’t need to come tonight,” Shane says. “I’m here until tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow?” Ilya asks, frowning. “You only stay for a few hours for observation.” 

“It was…bad,” Shane says, deciding not to go into further details because Ilya already looks like he’s contemplating doing something crazy like skipping his game tonight to come back now. It’s tempting, obviously, but he also knows it’s a bad idea. He just needs Ilya to not make the offer. 

He’s not 100% sure he’s strong enough to refuse it, after all. 

“I get out tomorrow morning, though,” Shane says. “If you want to come over then.” 

“Spaghetti is okay?” 

Shane blinks, wondering for a moment if Ilya is offering to send him dinner or something. Apparently Ilya reads this on him, because he smiles slightly. 

“Spaghetti your snake, Shane. He is okay? Or should I drive up and check on him tonight?” 

“You’d go check on my snake?” Shane asks, throat feeling embarrassingly tight at the offer. 

“You said his heater keeps acting up, yes?” Ilya says, like what he’s offering is nothing at all instead of taking a two hour car ride after a long day just to check on a snake he doesn’t particularly like. 

Just because Shane might need it of him. 

“I got a new one,” Shane says, voice a little rough in a way Ilya doesn’t comment on, either chalking it up to a post-reaction symptom or kind enough to not call Shane on acting a little crazy at the offer of stopping by to make sure his snake doesn’t get too cold in a Canadian winter night. “It’s all good.” 

“You are sure?” Ilya presses. “I don’t mind, dorogoy. Is not a big deal.” 

It is a big deal, actually, but not in the way Ilya is saying. 

In the way that makes Shane thankful that of all the potential people in the world who could be his person, his is Ilya Rozanov. 

“I’m sure,” he says. 

*

Shane is trying to be excited where he can be about the move to Ottawa, largely involuntary or not. 

He’s not sure if he’s succeeding, but he’s at least trying. 

Ilya has tried to help him out with the adjustment, even restraining his own joy about it because Shane isn’t ready to meet him halfway about it yet, something that Shane feels guilty about but can’t really help, not right now, at least, not when it’s still so fresh. He’s excited to be moving in with his husband–his husband, what a thrill, still, an unmarred bright spot in the middle of everything else that’s still so complicated–and to have an entire season of being together to look forward to, but it doesn’t change the fact that his entire life got turned upside down and that gaining this future meant losing his entire past, a hard reset of his career, and ostracization from people he’d thought were his friends. He’ll be ready to be happy with Ilya about it eventually, sure. 

But not just yet. 

“-change it from blue, if you want,” Ilya says, and Shane smiles, slightly, not especially opinionated about changing any of the decor in Ilya’s place but touched at the attempt of making him feel at home. 

“The blue’s pretty,” Shane says, reaching out to run his fingers over the living room wall. His own place had been done in warmer tones, but he kind of likes the idea of a fresh start, not trying to drag pieces of his old life with him. He doesn’t know how much it’s going to hurt in the long term, but there’s a certain amount of satisfaction in the idea of shedding Montreal like Spaghetti does his skin. This might be like that, Shane’s thought a few times now, his new scales tender until they harden, but fitting him better in the end. 

Eventually. 

“We should bring your couch, though, I think,” Ilya says thoughtfully. “Is better for sleeping on.” 

“You planning on sleeping on the couch a lot in the future?” Shane teases, lifting his brows. “Shouldn’t we at least get to our first anniversary before I start banishing you from the bedroom?” 

Ilya growls under his breath playfully, grabbing Shane by the waist and boosting him up on the back of the couch, Shane parting his knees to let Ilya press in close and accepting the kiss he’s offered. 

“You are already planning on kicking me out of bed, Hollander?” Ilya says, clearly playful. “So mean to me.” 

“You’re the one who brought it up,” Shane points out mildly. 

“Better for sleeping after I fuck you on it,” Ilya corrects, leaning in to nip at his neck. 

Shane hums an amused noise, trading a few more kisses before Ilya pulls back, nudging their noses together before looking around again. 

“My TV is better, though,” he decides. “Yours is too small.” 

“Only because yours is ridiculously big,” Shane argues, but he doesn’t especially care, honestly. Of the things he wishes could be different here, the television isn’t one of them. 

“Hmm,” Ilya says, and Shane knows from the tone what’s coming next even before he says it, “is not the only thing of mine that is big, and I do not remember you having complaints before.” 

“I’m divorcing you,” Shane says flatly, ruining his own threat by pulling Ilya in for one more kiss before hopping off of the couch, not bothering to go far. “I’d like to bring at least some of my art, though. Maybe that picture of the cottage at sunset and one of the abstract ones? The big red splotchy one, maybe?” 

“Art, I do not care about,” Ilya says easily. 

“Yeah, I can tell by your taste in it,” Shane says with a grin, laughing when it gets him a pinch to the side. 

“And that corner,” Ilya indicates with a tilt of his chin, “for Spaghetti’s tank, do you think?” 

Shane blinks. 

“What?” 

“Is out of the way,” Ilya says, like that’s what Shane was confused about. “But I know you like watching him. People don’t usually come in here if they come over, but we could put up a screen, maybe? If we do have people over who come in here, so he won’t be stressed with strangers? There is outlet and everything for his heat lamp and water filter and things, and-what is happening, what is wrong?” 

Shane only realizes the world has gone a little blurry when Ilya points it out, and he pulls away, a little embarrassed. 

Everything that’s happened, and it’s his husband thinking forward about where to put the snake he still doesn’t even really like that makes him tear up. Jesus. 

“What-” Ilya starts, but Shane cuts him off with a kiss. 

Subpar for fucking or not, Shane decides Ilya’s couch will do for now. 

*

Shane counts it as significant progress that Ilya can fall asleep even when Spaghetti is out now, still on the other end of the couch but their feet tangled together, the television muted but the fire crackling gently in the hearth. This deep into the season, it’s probably a miracle they both don’t pass out the second they even sit down, but Shane is still wound up from a decisive victory over Montreal tonight. The pain of playing against his old team is there, still, but there’s a satisfaction in beating them, too, in proving they made a mistake when they tossed him aside. 

It helps that he was able to land somewhere gentle, he thinks, pressing one of Ilya’s feet between his own affectionately. 

Ilya stirs in his sleep, slightly, but doesn’t wake. Spaghetti peeks out of the end of his sleeve, and he smiles, lifting his arm and giving him a platform to climb out on on his hand. He flickers his tongue, grazing the side of Shane’s thumb, and he smiles, thinking of being a little kid holding a little snake so many years ago. 

“Look at us now, huh?” He whispers to Spaghetti, who coils around his wrist like a hug.