Chapter Text
Ilya watched as Shane hesitated, staring down at the vodka still sitting in his glass. After a moment, Shane tipped back the last of it, then stood slowly, snagging Yuna’s cardigan from the back of the chair before following his mum outside.
Which left David and Ilya alone at the table.
Ilya tapped a finger against the side of his glass, the soft clink too loud in the sudden quiet. His gaze drifted to the dents and scratches in the tabletop, tracing their paths as he wondered how many family meals it had seen. Serious discussions. Games. Easy catch-ups. His finger paused on a deeper groove in the wood. He wondered if that one had been Shane—some careless drag from childhood, proof of his existence pressed into the grain.
He still wasn’t quite sure he believed this was real. Sitting across the table from his lover’s parents.
Ilya’s lips twitched despite himself. He’d absolutely be teasing Shane about this later.
He should probably say something. It was getting awkward.
Ilya lifted his eyes and met David’s stare, steady and assessing.
Right. What, exactly, did you ask your—whatever Shane is—dad?
“New Yorker,” Ilya started, which immediately earned him a raised eyebrow. “Shane said you read The New Yorker?”
“I do,” David replied.
“Is good,” Ilya said, trying again. “I, uh. I do too.”
“That’s… good.”
And that conversation died a quiet, unmourned death.
Ilya cleared his throat. “Do you like the games? Like online?”
David’s expression shifted—confusion flickering across his face—and Ilya, bless him, barrelled on anyway.
“You know. Like, uh. Wordle? Or the Mini?”
“I haven’t played them.”
“Oh.” Ilya nodded, a little too quickly. “Is good for English. For me.”
“So,” Ilya said, leaning forward a little, elbows hovering awkwardly above the table as if he wasn’t sure how to proceed. “Wordle is, uh. Five-letter words. You get six tries. Letters turn green if correct place, yellow if wrong place but still there.” He waved a hand, miming the colour changes in the air. “Grey if useless. Like Hayd—” He stopped himself. “Not people. Letters.”
David watched him with the same level, unreadable attention.
“Is daily,” Ilya continued, because stopping felt worse. “Everyone gets same word. Shane is very competitive about it. He pretends he doesn’t care, but he does. If I beat him, he sulks.” A corner of Ilya’s mouth lifted at the memory. “Is cute.”
Silence settled again, heavier this time. The hum of the house seemed louder for it; muted voices carried through the open door. David didn’t smile.
“I might check it out another day,” David said flatly.
Ilya’s shoulders stiffened. “Ah. Right. Sorry.”
David folded his hands on the table. The movement was deliberate, final. “Why Shane?”
The question landed like a puck to the chest—sharp, unexpected, knocking the air from him.
“Oh,” he said, intelligent as ever.
He glanced down at the table again, at that groove in the wood, suddenly acutely aware of how far from home he was. His accent felt thicker in his mouth, his English clumsier. This wasn’t idle curiosity. This was a father asking something that mattered.
Why Shane?
Because he’s stubborn, and kind, and cute when he’s feisty. Because he’s dedicated and brave, and he loves like it’s oxygen. Because when they’re alone, he laughs with his whole body. Because he chose me—again and again—even when it would have been easier not to.
Ilya swallowed.
“Because,” he said slowly, carefully, “he is… good man.” He lifted his eyes to meet David’s. “He is honest. He tries very hard. Even when he is scared.”
David didn’t look away.
“And,” Ilya added, softer now, the truth tugging free whether he wanted it to or not, “I could not… not keep him. Now that I have him. Maybe difficult. But is what I want. What I need.”
The words sat between them, bare and unadorned.
Ilya waited.
“Well, alright.” David stood abruptly. “Come on, then. We might as well start on some food.”
Ilya swivelled in his chair as David moved into the kitchen, already pulling things from the fridge.
“This is one of Shane’s favourites,” David said, laying out pancetta, mushrooms, garlic cloves, and chives on the counter. He bent to open a drawer, retrieved a chopping board, then placed it down with quiet efficiency. “He was never big on comfort food, but I think the occasion probably calls for it.” David set a knife on the board before turning to wash his hands at the sink. “Come on. You can start chopping.”
Ilya stood and joined him, washing his hands as well. The kitchen felt homely—warm in a way he wasn’tused to. When he was a boy, he’d rarely been allowed in the kitchen, often shooed out from underfoot. Only once it became clear he was good at sports had his father allowed him to help, always with an eye on strict diets and discipline, on utility rather than comfort.
This kitchen was different.
Magnets crowded the fridge, layered with holiday souvenirs from family trips. Well-used tea towels hung from cupboard handles. Utensils and appliances were neatly organised, ready for whatever might be needed. Even the sponges and cloths were lined up behind the sink, which looked out over the yard where Shane and Yuna were still talking.
The knife settled into Ilya’s hand with familiar weight. He started on the mushrooms, slicing them carefully, the steady rhythm grounding him. David worked beside him without comment, trimming the pancetta into neat strips, the soft thud of the blade against the board marking time between them.
For a while, they didn’t speak.
Garlic skins crackled as Ilya crushed a clove with the flat of the knife, the sharp scent blooming instantly in the air. He scraped it into a small pile, then reached for the chives, their green scent clean and bright under his fingers.
“You were saying,” David said eventually, eyes on his own work, “about those word games.”
Ilya paused, knife hovering. He glanced sideways, just to be sure he’d heard right.
“Yes?” he offered.
“The one with the colours,” David continued, still not looking at him. “The daily one.”
“Oh. Wordle.” Ilya nodded, a little surprised warmth spreading through his chest. “Yes. Five-letter words. Same puzzle for everyone. You get six tries.”
“And the other?” David asked. “The shorter one.”
“The Mini,” Ilya said. “Crossword. Faster. Shane does it in… maybe a minute or so, if he is feeling smug.”
David’s mouth twitched despite himself. “And you?”
“I am slower,” Ilya admitted. “But I like it. Feels like exercise. For brain.” He gestured vaguely with the knife before remembering himself and setting it down. “Except sometimes is too American, but Shane will help me.”
“Hm,” David said, but there was something thoughtful in it. “I’ll check it out.”
The pan warmed on the stove, oil shimmering as David tipped the pancetta in. It hissed immediately, fat rendering, the kitchen filling with the smell of salt and smoke. David stirred it once, then nodded to Ilya.
“Mushrooms.”
Ilya slid them in, the pan answering with another sharp sizzle. He stirred, careful not to crowd them, watching them darken at the edges. Footsteps sounded at the back door.
“What's going on here?” Yuna said as she came in, Shane close behind her. “I thought I smelled food.”
Shane’s eyes flicked from the pan to Ilya, a soft smile tugging at his mouth. He didn’t say anything, just leaned in briefly, shoulder brushing Ilya’s in passing.
“I can take over,” Yuna offered, already reaching for a spoon.
Ilya shook his head quickly. “No, is okay. I’ve got it.” He smiled, small but certain, then reached for a bowl of greens. “I make salad.”
Yuna paused, then smiled back. “Alright. I’ll open the wine.”
David stirred the pan, adding garlic, then the chives at the last moment. “Shane,” he said, “table.”
“On it,” Shane replied, already there.
Shane moved around the kitchen with easy familiarity, grabbing plates from a cupboard, cutlery from a drawer. He nudged Ilya gently aside with his hip to reach the fridge, murmuring, “Sorry,” as he passed, fingers briefly warm at Ilya’s wrist.
Ilya let himself be moved, unbothered, settling at the counter to tear leaves into the bowl. He added tomatoes, a squeeze of lemon, a drizzle of oil, salt between his fingers. Yuna poured wine, the quiet glug of it filling the room, glasses clinking softly as she set them down.
For a moment the kitchen felt full in a way that had nothing to do with food, giving Ilya an almost hopeful look into the future.
Then they carried everything to the table and sat.
Ilya took his seat beside Shane, their knees brushing under the table, and thought—quietly, almost to himself—that this might be what it felt like to stay.
+
David:
Wordle 996 4/6
⬜️⬜️🟩🟨⬜️
⬜️⬜️🟩🟨⬜️
⬜️🟩🟩⬜️🟩 ️️
🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩Shane:
Wordle 996 4/6
⬜️⬜️🟩🟨⬜️
⬜️🟨🟩⬜🟨️️
⬜️🟩🟩🟩🟩️️
🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩Yuna:
Wordle 996 3/6
⬜️🟨🟩⬜🟨️️
⬜️🟩🟩🟩🟩️️
🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩Ilya:
Wordle 996 6/6
⬜️⬜️🟩🟨⬜️
⬜️🟩🟨🟩⬜️
⬜️🟩🟩🟩🟩
⬜️🟩🟩🟩🟩
⬜️🟩🟩🟩🟩
🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩I think unfair when English is not first language, no?
+
The first Christmas at Shane’s house was thrilling for Ilya.
He hadn’t looked forward to a Christmas like this in years, so much so that he’d managed to wake Shane earlier than usual that morning. This was no small feat, especially considering he’d kept Shane very definitely awake the night before in more ways than one.
Merry Christmas to him.
December had never really meant this for Ilya. If Svetlana had been around, maybe they would have spent the time together, quietly. But this year was different. This year, he got three full days with Shane.
They’d flown in separately the night before from where their teams had last played, and Ilya had gone to sleep buzzing, only to wake with that same restless excitement sitting bright in his chest. He felt like a child again; too awake, too happy, everything edged with anticipation.
He’d also stressed about the presents for weeks.
Yuna and David had opened their home to him—to them—and Ilya didn’t want to get it wrong. The more often he did things like this, the more he felt himself settling, starting to belong, and he didn’t want to jeopardise that by making a bad impression.
Shane had been entirely unhelpful, having already got them a little vacation away.
“It can be from both of us,” he’d insisted, repeatedly.
Ilya hadn’t agreed. It felt like a cop-out. So, he’d bought Yuna a set of fancy hand creams, the kind she’dnever bought for herself. And for David, he’d purchased a year-long subscription to The New Yorker.
It felt right.
It became a tradition for Ilya after that—renewing the subscription year after year, always with the same joke ready. That if The New Yorker was Shane’s most boring trait, then clearly it was genetic.
And really, he didn’t mind. Some things, Ilya had learned, were worth inheriting.