Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ilya was always a monster on the field. The kind who unsettled opponents before the puck even dropped -  fearsome, cocky, and razor-sharp, a player who knew the game, the goal, and exactly how to get there. Adversity hit now and then, but once his skates touched the ice, Ilya became indifferent to everything else. He had punched people, been punched, realigned teeth in ways Shane preferred not to imagine.

So it was very confusing.

Shane watched a topless Ilya in the kitchen, unbearably cute, standing there gripping the butter knife tightly in the centre, making a tuna melt just for Shane. Ilya hadn’t even said it outright. He just lifted two fingers at Shane - first the pinky, then the ring finger- counting.

“I was going to make one,” he said. “Now I make two.”

And there were only two of them in Ilya’s kitchen.

Shane’s brain did what it always did when it didn’t know how to process something soft. It panicked.

This is domestic, isn’t it? No. Probably yes? Oh my God.

His inner voice told him to breathe and to look somewhere else.

So, he watched Ilya flex his arms while handling the plastic boxes, curls bouncing in shades of brown and gold - somewhere between dark chocolate and sunlight streaming through the huge glass windows. Ilya’s face was set in full concentration as he pulled out the ingredients one by one, lining them up neatly on a plate.

The worst thing about listening to his mind was that it simply traded one chaos for another. While he tried to calm himself down, his focus snapped onto a new problem entirely.

The red box was smaller than the blue box.

Which meant, obviously, it should be stacked on top. But Ilya had put it the other way around.

Shane tried not to care.
Come on. It’s just boxes. Very trivial. Extremely trivial.

But aesthetically. Mathematically. Logically. Or whatever -ically his brain had decided this fell under - it was two boxes, different sizes, in the wrong order. Some neurons inside him started itching.

He stood up, stretched across the table as casually as he could (which he knew he absolutely wasn’t). Ilya froze mid-motion, eyebrow lifting as he watched Shane reach in.

Shane slid the blue box under the red one, nodded to himself, and sat back down.

For a second, he wondered if Ilya thought he was frustrated by his habits and was about to get stabbed with a butter knife.

Instead, Ilya just went back to cooking.

Of course, Shane had to explain. Because of course he did.

“The boxes were not in the right order,” Shane said slowly.

Ilya glanced at them, shrugged, and nodded.

Shane felt immediate relief. His brain immediately started crawling again, reminding him how intimate that moment had been. The whole day had been intimate, full of surprises to say the least. Shane felt warm under his ribs. He didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to pull apart every adjective, good or bad, and research every second of it.

So, he needed a distraction. Again. He fixed his eyes on the kitchen towel. There was nothing special about it. But maybe... possibly... in some hypothetical future predicament, Ilya might need it. Shane slid the towel a little closer to him.

Ilya ignored it completely. He dumped all the ingredients onto two plates, slid them into the microwave… and wiped his hands on his pants.

Shane died a little inside. His brain immediately started a chaotic internal fight.

“We should talk,” Ilya said, leaning on the table like this was a MasterChef judging moment.

But now Ilya had said the word talk, which could fall into many dangerous categories. Shane’s spine went cold.

What does one talk about while tuna melts are heating up?
What talk?
Why talk?

“What to talk?” Shane said far too fast. “I mean...I-sure--who designed this house? Do you know who built it? Can you get me their contact so I can look for something at-

He stopped when Ilya rolled his eyes, made a raspberry, and stared straight at him.

“Shane, you are so boring. Be Mr. Landlord later,” Ilya said, leaning back against the counter. “We can talk about something else.”

“Okay. Okay,” Shane said quickly, already embarrassed. “Fine. Then give me a topic.”

“Topic?” Ilya repeated.

“Yes. I mean...what do people normally talk about? The weather. We can talk about the weather.”

Ilya nodded seriously.
“The weather is warm and nice and good and everything is fine,” he said, waving vaguely towards the window. “There is sun. There is tree. There is grass. There is-

“Tridax procumbens,” Shane supplied.

He was suddenly horrified that he said it. Even more horrified that he knew it. But most horrified of all was Ilya’s face.

“Tristar Condoms,” Ilya repeated quickly. “Weather talk complete.”

Right on cue, the microwave dinged.

“Food is ready,” Ilya announced.

Then, under his breath, he muttered,“He wants a topic.”

Shane felt embarrassed at their complete failure at normal conversation.

Ilya arranged the tuna melts carefully, opened a packet of chips, and Shane resisted the urge to comment about fat and hot cheese and health. He also noticed the butter knife sitting unwashed on the table and decided not to comment.

Then Ilya plucked a single leaf from a very dehydrated plant on the shelf that held on to its two leaves for this moment. Was it a cilantro plant? He placed the leaf on top of the tuna melts.

Shane stared at it. He didn’t know much about complicated cooking or artistic food decoration, but he was absolutely certain that leaf did not belong there.

Ilya passed the plate to him.

Shane picked up the leaf, held it in front of his face, and looked at Ilya.

“Nice decoration,” Ilya said.

Shane placed the leaf carefully on the side of the table. Ilya looked offended.

Then Shane separated the chips from the tuna melts and paused. He took in the setting. The kitchen. The food. Ilya cooking for him. The non-conversation conversation they had. The ridiculous butterflies in his stomach. He felt the weight and heaviness of it and glanced at Ilya to see if he was feeling anything too. Maybe there was--

But Ilya had already shoved half a tuna melt into his mouth.

“Are you not eating?” Ilya asked through a mouthful.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Shane said, lifting his own tuna melt.

Shane put the leaf back on top of the food because he wanted to convey to Ilya: yes, he would do anything for him, even if this turned out to be a plant grown by a Martian. Ohhh, Matt Damon is handsome. Shit. Okay, time to eat.

He was just about to take a bite, but stopped when he noticed Ilya across the table, looking strangely confused.

Ilya had stopped chewing completely and was touching his lips and mouth, as if trying to figure out what exactly was happening to them. They were red, Shane noticed. But red like tomato? Had there even been tomato in the tuna melt? When did tomato get involved?

“…Something is happening,” Ilya said carefully.

Shane immediately looked up from his intense inspection of the tuna melt, which he was now examining for any suspicious red objects that could explain Ilya’s lips. “What kind of something?”

Ilya rolled his tongue around inside his mouth, testing it. “My tongue is doing… zzzz. Zzzz zzz. But inside.”

Shane frowned, “Tingling?”

“My lips also,” Ilya added, still prodding his mouth. “They are doing zzzz zzzz.”

Then Ilya stuck his tongue out slightly and pressed his lips together, studying the sensation.

“Maybe my mouth wants kees,” he said thoughtfully.

He leaned forward and did an actual pout with his eyes closed. Shane stared at the mouth. It was ridiculously getting bigger. But somewhere between Ilya’s lips turning from hot lips to oh no, lips, something struck him.

While Ilya was still pouting, then opening his eyes and frowning to ask, “Hey”, Shane had already shot out of his chair and was now at the dustbin, digging through it with growing urgency.

“What-what are you doing?” Ilya asked. “This is very unromantic.”

Then Ilya caught his reflection in the microwave door and examined himself. “Hm,” he said. “My skin is also doing zzzz..zzzz.” He walked over to the mirror, scratching as he went, and leaned in close to examine himself properly.

“Lips look very sexy,” he announced. “Eyes not.”

Shane turned around, holding the empty tuna packet in his hand.

“Do you have an allergy?” Shane asked Ilya from the open kitchen, still reading and taking a photo of the packet. He already knew the answer. Ilya would say Russians do not do this.

“Russians do not do this,” Ilya said. Shane, still not looking at him and focused on the packet, said, “There is nothing for you to do. It will do it to you.”

Ilya stopped midway. “Too many you you in that sentence,” he said.

“There are only two--never mind. This is not tuna,” Shane said.

“What?!” Ilya asked.

Shane swayed the packet back and forth at Ilya. “This is--" he swallowed. “This is something else.”

“All fish is same fish,” Ilya said reasonably. “Same water.”

Shane was irritated by the way Ilya was reacting to this.

“YOU ARE HAVING AN ALLERGIC REACTION!”

Ilya blinked at him. Then he placed his hands on his hips, angled his body slightly, and tilted his head.

“maybe, I will die,” he said calmly, “but looking sexy.”

Shane stared at him in absolute horror.

“Stop posing. You’re swelling and scratching. Ilya, this is serious. Stop stop stop.” Shane threw the packet back into the dustbin, started to go to Ilya, stopped midway, washed his hands, flicked water all over the kitchen, and then went to him.

“Ilya, what do we do?” Shane asked, wiping his hands on his pants and pulling out his phone.

Shane didn’t wait for an answer. He was already typing frantically, searching for anything that looked useful. He paced around and started reading aloud from the screen.

“Okay, um... if someone is having an allergic reaction, you should remove the allergen.”

He looked at their plates. They were quite far away now. Shane didn’t want to remove them, so he decided the distance was large enough and that was fine.

“Give antihistamine if available. Oh, we need to give you antihistamine,” he said loudly, mostly to himself. He kept pulling up more articles. “Hmm. Then seek medical help immediately.”

Then he heard a burping sound.

Burping?

He looked up at Ilya.

Ilya was holding a bottle of vodka that was nearly finished.

“ILYA!”

Shane ran across and yanked the bottle out of his hand, but it was too late. Ilya had already had more than enough.

“What the hell are you doing?” Shane shouted.

“Vodka solves everything,” Ilya said, smiling. Or at least, Shane thought it was a smile. It was hard to tell at this point and was fully panicking now.

“You are the most stupid person I have ever met,” Shane said, pacing.

“But I am beautiful, yes?” Ilya asked. He asked that to Shane with his swollen face and scratching hands.

Shit, Ilya.

“I need to go to the pharmacy right now and get you antihistamine.” Shane started moving around the house, searching for his wallet, when Ilya followed him.

“I will be okay,” Ilya said, trying to scratch his back and turning 360 on the spot. Shane felt like he was the sun and Ilya was orbiting him.

Shane said, picking up his wallet, “You won’t be okay. You cannot drink alcohol and be okay. I will be back in a few minutes. Can I use y--

“No, don’t go. I am scared,” Ilya said. It was so soft and tender, but this idiot had alcohol in his system and was now turning dizzy, tipsy, and swollen.

“Please,” Shane said, "Just wait. I’ll be very fast.”

Ilya shook his head and slowly squatted down on the floor like a child refusing bedtime.

Shane stared at him. Then he squatted too.

“Ilya, listen to me,” Shane said, holding his arms gently. “Allergies can be serious. This is not a joke. Please.”

“No,” Ilya said again. “I am going to vomit,” Ilya said, putting his finger in his mouth and retching. “Don’t go, please!”

Shane closed his eyes. This idiot was now having an allergic reaction and throwing a tantrum.

And somehow, impossibly, Shane still wanted to protect him.

Shane was a grown-up, a fully capable adult, a man with responsibilities, and a man who could absolutely handle a crisis . Now, he had a problem, which obviously meant he needed a solution, and he was very sure he could find one. He understood allergies now. He had read multiple articles on the internet and was fully capable. Ilya had gone full alcohol-high mode.

Shane Hollander, captain of the Montreal Voyageurs, a man who had captained the Canadian National Junior Hockey Team and was at the World Junior Championships at seventeen, took the next step very bravely.

“Mom,” Shane said the second she picked up. “Can you help me? It’s very urgent.”

“Yes, yes,” he continued quickly, already pacing. “Just...just consider this a...a... hypothetical situation.”

He walked back and forth across the kitchen, watching Ilya scratch his arms and slowly wander towards the glass door.

“Let’s say I have a fish allergy,” Shane said into the phone. “Hypothetically. Not me, mom. Someone else. No, you don't-”

Ilya reached for the door handle and Shane sprinted.

He grabbed Ilya’s hands. “Where are you going?” he mouthed.

“Fresh air,” Ilya said calmly.

“Is allergy transferable?” Shane muttered to himself and then realised he was holding Ilya’s hands. Oh. He was holding Ilya. That was… cute. Not the time.

Into the phone, while dragging Ilya back inside with far more strength than he realised he had, he said, “Yes ...yess.. I am here. No, nothing happening to me. I don’t know what fish it was, Mom. No, not me. Wait...wait...I have a condition.”

He shoved Ilya onto the sofa and scowled at him like an angry schoolteacher.

“No, not a medical condition. A rule or law kind of thing. The condition is you are only allowed to ask questions later. Next week. Do you agree?”

Ilya tried to stand. Shane pushed him back down.

“Yes, Mom. No questions. So you agree? Promise me you will ask no questions.”

He mouthed don’t move at Ilya.

“Yes. Your hotel is just ten minutes from where I am. Don’t forget, no questions. Okay, sorry to--okay. Thank you!”

He lowered the phone.

“…Fuck.”

Shane sat with his hands on his face. Ilya was scratching himself with every object in reach, and Shane kept pulling him away from the kitchen, where the food still sat on the table. Every alarm siren in Shane was ringing. Now there was no going back to anything.

He knew his parents would be fine with him being gay, but Ilya? He didn’t know how his mom was going to take it. She would probably think they were talking strategy about coming together to open a charity. Would that work with her? Obviously not. He had always wanted his parents to meet Ilya, but this was not it.

On top of everything, Ilya kept talking. A lot. And he was sharing things he would never share if he were sober. He was too drunk and in too much pain to filter anything. Shane felt like he was the dominant one now. He smiled a little to himself when Ilya listened to him like a child. He actually liked this state.

Ilya was speaking Russian mixed with English. English mixed with Russian. Then full translations of both.

From what Shane could piece together, Ilya hated his brother. His brother was scared. His father had Alzheimer’s. His mother, Irina, had died in an accident involving a bottle. Ilya was sad about it - but not as sad as he used to be. Because Shane was here now. That part came up several times.

He also said “I love you” in English.

Many times.

Shane’s brain short-circuited when Ilya rolled himself dramatically across the sofa while saying it, because his fingers were tired from scratching. He groaned loudly and was currently rubbing his shoulder against the cushions.

Shane told himself that drunk “I love yous” probably didn’t count. Unfortunately, he was killing those butterflies in his stomach with every possible thing that could go wrong.

“Hey, Mom,” Shane said when he opened the door.

Yuna Hollander stood there, already suspicious with her son. Her eyebrows moved from curiosity to shock to worry in the span of a few seconds as she scanned Shane. When she realised, he was completely fine, she let out a breath of relief.

Behind him, Ilya peeked out from behind a cushion and grinned at Yuna.

“Hello!”, he said and continued rubbing himself against the cushions. Yuna stepped inside and stared for few moments,but did not recognise him.

“Who--” she began.

“Later,” Shane said.

“Why can’t you--”

“Later,” Shane said again.

“Come on, Shane, you have to give me something.”

“Later.”

“Did you bring antihistamine?” Shane asked.

“You can’t administer drugs like that,” Yuna said. “It doesn’t look like a serious allergy, but we need to go to the hospital. Can I ask a non-related question?”

“Yes,” Shane said.

“Why is this man shirtless and why is his shirt on you?”

“Later.”

“Shane.”

“Later.”

“Is he drunk?” she asked, making a disgusted face.

“A little,” Shane said, looking elsewhere.

“That doesn’t look little,” Yuna said, then rolled her eyes and looked around the house. Shane knew she was impressed with the decor.

Then Shane saw her pick his untouched Tuna Melt on the table.

“NO!” Shane and Ilya screamed together.

Ilya launched himself over the back of the sofa and landed flat on the floor.

“Ahhhhhh!”

Before Shane could get behind the sofa to check on him, Yuna was already there. Ilya groaned and peeked one eye open at her.

“This is not ice,” Ilya explained.

“It’s not?” Yuna asked, smiling.

“No pads,” Ilya added, gesturing at his hands.

“Of course not,” she said.

Shane watched his mother’s brain engine turn.

Ice? Pads?

She bent down and peered closer at the man lying on the floor.

Then her eyes widened.

“ILYA ROZANOV!”

She sprinted towards Shane and pointed a finger at him.

“This is..is..his house?! What are you doing in his HOUSE? He is DRUNK, SHANE!”

“Mom--”

Before Shane could finish, she ran to Ilya and pointed at him.

“What are you doing with my son?”

Ilya smiled up at her from the floor.

She spun back to Shane, finger still pointing.

“Why is he smiling at me like that?”

“Mom! He didn’t do anything to me, or anyone. Should we give the allergy medicine or not?” Shane asked.

Yuna pointed at both of them, glared at Shane, muttered something under her breath, and reached into her purse.

She handed Shane a tablet.

Shane grabbed a glass of water, went behind the sofa, and helped Ilya sit up. He knew he was out of his mother’s direct line of sight -  but only for a few seconds.

“Why are you taking care of him?” Yuna asked, peeping over the sofa from the other side, staring at the two men on the floor.

“He was scratching himself on the sofa you’re sitting on now,” Shane said without looking at her.

“Yikes,” Yuna said, leaping away from the cushions.

Shane asked Ilya to open his mouth, and Ilya opened it wide and stuck his tongue out. Ah, to be in this position with an obedient Ilya made Shane a little horny. Was it fine to ask Ilya for a quick blowjob?

Fuck. What was wrong with him?

Shane administered the tablet and let Ilya stay on the floor. He was a bit worried that his mother was quiet, so he peeked from behind the sofa and looked around for her.

His mother had her arms crossed. She looked angry but she was inspecting the house? Shane ducked back behind the sofa and looked at Ilya, who was smiling at nothing. He knew his mom would be fine. He just had to explain his side of things.

Then he saw her already drifting towards the bedroom.

“Mom, you can’t go there,” Shane said quickly.

Yuna jumped at the sudden sound and turned back towards him. “I wasn’t ,” she said and Shane knew that was a lie.

“You should ask who designed this house,” she said.

“I did,” Shane replied.

Then grimaced.

“So?” she pressed.

“Well… we couldn’t… and he didn’t… and I didn’t get the name properly,” Shane finished weakly.

Before she could interrogate him further, Shane tried to change the topic.

“Where’s Dad?”

Yuna slapped her forehead lightly and swore to herself.
“Shit. He’s still in the car waiting.”

She opened the curtains, looked out, and waved. Then she turned, picked up her purse, and took a long look at the house.
“Let’s take the man to our family doctor.”

“Okay,” Shane said, a bit dazed.

Shane turned back to Ilya, bent down so their faces were dangerously close to a kiss, and gently rubbed his cheek. Ilya looked at him very intensely.

“Can you walk? Are you feeling a bit okay now?”

Ilya nodded. “Yes. I am hero.”

“Put on a shirt, Mr. Rozanov,” Yuna shouted from near the door.

“Ilya,” he corrected her. Wow, what a state he was in and still correcting his mom, Shane thought.

“Please put on a shirt, Ilya.”

Ilya scrunched his nose and looked at Shane thoughtfully.
“Oh, Mrs. Hollander. This is my shirt.”

He started pulling Shane’s shirt up.

Shane went bright red and jumped up to see if his mother had heard. Of course she had! Her body fully turned towards them near the door. Shane fell back to hide behind the sofa.

“Ilya, no. Not now. ILYA.”

“Oh, now you are shy?” Ilya teased. “Not when--”

Shane clapped a hand over his mouth.

Yuna opened the door very fast and stepped out. “I will get you a shirt. Stay here.”

But of course, Ilya followed Shane instead, holding onto his arm.

They emerged with Ilya wearing a shirt and Shane looking mildly traumatised.

Yuna was waiting by the door.

“Why was Dad in the car?” Shane asked.

“Because we didn’t know if you had a girlfriend and got her pregnant,” Yuna said. “It’s easier when a woman handles that situation.”

“Mom!”

She headed towards the car, then stopped abruptly.

“So, you guys are holding hands now? What is this, Shane? What is all this?” Yuna asked.

Shane felt a little bad, but now was not the time to explain. “I will explain it to you, Mom. But right now we need to get Ilya to the clinic. I want him to be a bit sober at least when I talk to you and Dad.” He looked at Ilya. “Not like this.”

Yuna nodded, stepped forward, and rubbed Shane’s arm. “We will always be there for you. Him”-she pointed at Ilya--“is a bit of a… surprise.”

“I’m sorry, Mom, but I promise to tell you everything.”

Yuna gave a small smile. “Okay,” she said softly and turned to walk to the car.

“Mom,” Shane called. Yuna turned back.

“Ilya here is doing nothing,” Shane said.

“Yes, you tol--” Yuna began.

“Not without my consent,” Shane said, and dragged Ilya quickly to the car while she made strangled noises.

Shane buckled Ilya’s seatbelt in the backseat and took the seat next to him. He could feel his mother’s eyes prying into him. Yuna closed the door a bit harder than necessary, and they all settled into their seats.

David looked at Ilya through the rear-view mirror, then turned properly to stare at him. He narrowed his eyes, then made a confused face.

“Hello, Mr. Hollander,” Ilya said cheerfully. “You have a lovely son.”

“Yes, yes, we do,” David replied automatically. Then he turned to Yuna. “Is that Mr. Rozanov?”

“Yes,” Yuna said.

“Ilya,” Ilya corrected politely. “Please call me Ilya. No formalities.”

David nodded. “Okay. Ilya.”

Then there was silence.

No one looked at anyone.

David cleared his throat. “So what is--”

“Later,” Yuna said.

“Well, how come--”

“Later,” Yuna said again.

She refused to look at him.

David turned to Shane in the backseat to ask, “Is he drunk, Shane? Did you hit him?”

“No, Dad. He drank vodka to cure his allergic reaction,” Shane said.

David looked at Ilya in shock. Ilya waved at him.

“Is he your--”

“Later,” Shane said.

“What are you doing in his--”

“Later,” Shane said again.

“Are you pregnant?”

“Dad!”

“David!”

“Oh, I want to get you pregnant,” Ilya added, scooting closer to Shane. “Mr. Hollander, do you want a grandchild?”

David looked like his soul had briefly left his body.

“Not now, Ilya,” Shane hissed, sinking into his seat.

Yuna shot Shane a murderous look. “I will kill you if you get pregnant.”

“Mom,” Shane said, exhausted. “I cannot get pregnant.”

Silence again.

Yuna and Shane were fuming, while David looked deeply confused. He was trying to put the pieces together. Ilya was bouncing happily in his seat.

“Shane told me something nice,” Ilya said brightly. “You played for McGill, yes?”

Not the time, Ilya, Shane thought, and he wanted to punch him.

“I want to ...,” Yuna told David showing a punch, and he looked surprised at his wife’s hostility. “Is that allowed?”

“No?” David said.

Yuna puffed out hot air. “Maybe? He is already swollen.”

“Okay. Sorry,” Ilya said politely.

Another silence.

“It is nice team, yes?” Ilya continued. “Which position did you play?”

“David, drive,” Yuna snapped.

“I could,” David replied calmly, “but you haven’t told me where.”

“To Doctor Müller,” Yuna said.

David checked the mirror, nodded, and started the engine.

Then he added, “I was a goalie.”

“Good,” Ilya said approvingly. “But you small man for goalie.”

Shane wanted to punch his face.

“David, I am going to--,” Yuna repeated.

They were on the highway, the road stretching empty in front of them. There was nothing interesting to see, so everyone stared out their windows, lost in their own thoughts.

“Shane,” David finally said from the driver’s seat.

Shane held his breath.

“Are you or Ilya hungry?”

“No,” Shane replied instantly.

“I am hungry,” Ilya said at the same time.

“No, he’s not,” Shane said quickly.

David glanced at them in the mirror. “I could stop somewhere if your friend… acquaintance… friend? wants to eat.”

Ilya placed a hand on Shane’s arm. “Lovers,” he said.

Shane shook his head violently. “No, no, no.”

“We are lovers,” Ilya repeated.

David slammed the brakes, and everyone jerked forward in their seatbelts. Ilya went, “Weeeeeeee.”

Both David and Yuna turned slowly and stared at Shane. Then at Ilya.

Shane said quickly, “He’s drunk. He’s blabbering. Please drive.”

Yuna turned forward and started rubbing her temples.

David restarted the engine and drove on in silence.

“Small man does not drive carefully,” Ilya muttered.

Shane closed his eyes and prayed. Yuna showed David her fist and he rolled his eyes.

Doctor Müller asked far too many questions. At some point, Shane wanted the vodka Ilya had had himself.

Ilya was no longer fully drunk, but still tipsy enough to talk nonsense and smile at everyone. He waved at every person who passed them as they sat outside the doctor’s room, while his parents were inside talking about “stuff.” He didn’t want to know what the stuff was. The day had started so innocent and then, somehow it had turned into… this.

A hospital visit, an allergy, a drunk Russian who had declared to his parents that they were lovers.Coming out to his parents.

Wait. Had he even come out?

He thought about it.He had come out plenty. And then there was Ilya who was currently sitting beside him, kissing his fingers and Shane didn’t pull his hand away.

Ilya also managed to steal a flower from the vase at the reception and tuck it behind Shane’s ear.

Shane felt all silly and in love at the same time. What else could possibly go wrong today?

He felt strangely relieved. Mostly happy. It felt like everyone in his family knew something was happening - they just hadn’t started their interrogation yet. And when they did, he could probably handle it.

It was okay.

But did Ilya remember anything from today? A horrible thought struck him.

What if everything Ilya said was just drunk nonsense? What if none of it meant anything?

Shane didn’t want to ask. He was too afraid of the answer. What if Ilya said Shane was stupid? That he took a drunk man’s words to heart?

Ilya gently rubbed his palm.

“Are you feeling okay?” Shane asked suppressing all his thoughts.

“Yes,” Ilya said softly, still looking at Shane’s hand.

Shane sighed and launched into a rant.

“You need to be careful. Don’t you know your allergies? Why did you drink alcohol? It made everything worse. What would you have done if I wasn’t there? There will be so many times in the rest of our lives when you need help, so we need to be better.”

“The rest of our lives?” Ilya asked Shane, looking up.

Shane panicked. “I mean...it’s just a figure of speech...I mea--”

“I love you,” Ilya said.

Shane stopped breathing.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

Ilya lifted his eyes, searching Shane’s face for an answer. He looked like he was holding himself together by pretending.

“Say something, yes?” he asked, almost pleading. 

Shane froze. Ilya exhaled sharply and got up, walking away.

Shane ran behing him, unsure and his voice came out careful. “Are you really--”

“--It's ok!,” Ilya snapped, not stopping.

“I didn’t know if it was the al--” Shane called after him.

“--Hollander!”

Ilya stopped so suddenly Shane almost crashed into him. As he turned, Shane noticed his eyes were shining. Shane swallowed and his hands trembled a little.

Ilya smiled at him, not the crooked one that Shane always loved. “It’s ok... I just-- it was alcohol. Okay?” Ilya said, forcing the words out.

Shane reached for him, unsure, then gently hooked his pinky around Ilya’s.

He thought Ilya wouldn’t take it, but he did almost immediately.

“Ilya, I’ve always loved you. You know that.”

For a moment, Ilya just stood there. Then relief flickered across his face.

“No. You hate me,” he said quietly.

“What you did today? Yeah, I hate you. But always… I love you,” Shane said, smiling through tears.

“Are you sure?” Ilya whispered.

Shane let go, stepping back and put his hands on his hips. “Is this a test? What is this?”

“Maybe. Prove me. Will you steal a baby?” Ilya asked.

“What?!”

“This is a hospital. They have babies,” Ilya explained, looking very seriously into Shane’s eyes.

“This is not--” Shane started.

Ilya smiled. Shane laughed and punched him lightly in the arm. “Idiot.”

“Ah! Another idea. Give meee kkkkeeeess,” Ilya said, pouting and moving closer.

“I want kkeeessssss. Pleaseeeeeeee. Keeeess.”

“No, fuc--”

Ummmaaaaah!