Work Text:
Shane doesn't know why he’d ever thought it was a good idea to bring Ilya to IKEA. When Ilya isn’t just a cocky, irritating, testosterone-fueled hockey player, he’s like a curious puppy you have to keep on a very short leash.
And IKEA, apparently, is a wonderland designed specifically to destroy any chance of that.
The moment they step through the sliding doors, Ilya’s eyes light up like he’s just been dropped into a theme park.
“So many things,” he says, already drifting sideways toward a display of neatly stacked throw pillows. “Is like maze for furniture. Why so many pillows? Who need this many pillows?”
“People who like having a house that doesn’t look like a locker room,” Shane mutters, grabbing the back of Ilya’s jacket before he can start poking at them.
They’re only here for a few things. New kitchen utensils, maybe a piece of wall art or two, and a new bed. It’s not that their current one is broken — which, honestly, is kind of impressive considering how much they… utilize it — but it’s old, and lumpy, and Shane’s back has started filing formal complaints.
They make it into the lighting section, where rows and rows of lamps glow in warm, carefully staged little clusters. Ilya immediately stops dead.
“Oh. This is nice,” he says, picking up a small desk lamp and turning it on and off. “Look, baby. Mood lighting.”
“That’s not mood lighting, that’s for reading,” Shane says, but Ilya is already holding it up to Shane’s face.
“Hmm. You look very dramatic. Like a movie star who just find out he is in love.”
Shane swats the lamp away. “Put it down before you break something.”
Ilya grins. “You are so afraid of IKEA.”
“I’m afraid of you in IKEA.”
They pass through the kitchen section next. Ilya keeps stopping to examine everything: ladles, cutting boards, tiny jars of spices, drawer organizers.
“Why is there tool just for avocado?” he demands, holding one up. “What kind of weak fruit need special weapon?”
“It’s not a weapon, it’s — never mind,” Shane says, grabbing a pack of forks and a pair of scissors and tossing them into the cart. “Please just… keep walking. We have what we need.”
Ilya drifts toward a display of neatly arranged spice jars. “We should buy these. So organized. Like army.”
“You cook like a raccoon,” Shane says. “You do not need an army of spices.”
“But I could,” Ilya replies thoughtfully. “I could become chef.”
“You burn pasta.”
“I make good tuna melt,” Ilya reminds him.
Shane huffs. “That is one dish.”
“It is very good dish.”
Eventually Shane manages to herd him toward the cafeteria, mostly because he knows if they don’t stop for food soon, Ilya is going to start eating sample napkins out of spite.
They sit down with their trays of IKEA meatballs, mashed potatoes, and lingonberry sauce. Ilya stares at his plate suspiciously.
“So this is famous Swedish food,” he says. “Small balls of meat. Very… round.”
“Just eat it.”
Ilya takes a bite, chews, and immediately makes a face.
“Wow,” he says. “This is… offensive.”
Shane snorts. “Offensive how?”
“To my Russian tastebuds,” Ilya says solemnly. “Where is flavor? Where is garlic? Where is… suffering?”
“They’re meatballs, not a life experience.”
“These taste like they give up,” Ilya says, poking one with his fork. “Like sad little puck who miss goal.”
Shane laughs despite himself. “You’re impossible.”
Ilya eats another one anyway. “Still better than airplane food. But just barely.”
Shane looks out over the vast IKEA cafeteria, then thinks about the half of the warehouse they still haven’t even reached yet, and sighs.
By the time they hit the couch and armchair section, Shane is already running on sheer willpower.
There are just… too many options. Sofas in every imaginable shape and size. Plush armchairs that look like they could swallow a person whole. Sleek chaise lounges. Things that belong in a dentist’s waiting room and things that look like they were designed for a billionaire who doesn’t actually sit down.
Ilya is in heaven.
“Oh. Oh! This one,” he says, flopping down onto a deep blue couch and bouncing a little. “This is very good. Soft but also strong. Like me.”
“You cannot be compared to furniture,” Shane says, but Ilya is already sprawled out, arms thrown over the backrest like he already owns it.
“We should get this. And that one. And maybe two of this,” he adds, pointing to a set of beige armchairs. “So we can sit in different moods.”
“Where would we put them, baby?” Shane asks, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We live in an apartment. There is no space. We barely have room for you.”
“We make room,” Ilya says cheerfully. “We stack them. Like gym.”
“That’s not how couches work.”
Ilya ignores him and sinks into another armchair, swiveling slightly. “This one is for reading. You will read hockey stats. Very romantic.”
“I will not.”
“You will,” Ilya insists. “You will read and I will sit on armrest and bother you.”
“You are already bothering me.”
Chaos reaches its absolute peak when they reach the bed display room.
The space opens up into neat little fake bedrooms, each one carefully styled with rugs and lamps and perfectly tucked duvets. Shane tries very hard to pretend they are in a normal furniture store, doing a normal adult thing.
Shane presses his palm experimentally into a few of the mattresses, comparing a box-spring bed to one with a headboard.
“What about this one?”
Ilya completely ignores every rule of social decorum and throws himself onto the bed on his back like a starfish, bouncing slightly from the impact. He frowns and sits up.
“Not good,” he announces. “Not big enough to fuck on.”
The world seems to grind to a halt.
Shane feels every drop of blood leave his face as he stares at Ilya, who is sitting on the bed with a sincerely thoughtful expression, like he’s reviewing a piece of gym equipment instead of loudly advertising their entire sex life to IKEA.
He marches over to Ilya, grabs his arm, and yanks him up.
“What are you doing?” he hisses. “Behave yourself!”
Ilya just laughs but stands up obediently. “It’s true. Is too small. You like when I—”
Shane clamps a hand over his mouth.
“Please,” he says, with the weariness of a man who has seen several wars. “Just .. no. Let me handle the talking.”
Shane flags down a young woman in IKEA’s yellow jacket, relief flooding through him the second she turns around. He immediately launches into what they need, speaking quickly and clearly, and shooting sharp warning looks at Ilya every time he even looks like he’s about to interrupt.
The assistant, bless her, seems completely unaware of the feral chaos vibrating at Shane’s side. She smiles brightly and starts walking them through different bed frames, different mattress types, different firmness levels, clicking on her little tablet and nodding as Shane (desperately) asks practical, normal questions.
“Important question,” Ilya says suddenly, before Shane can cut him off.
Shane feels a cold, sinking sense of doom as the assistant turns toward Ilya, smiling politely.
“Yes?”
“How good is mattress for absorption?”
Shane actually stops breathing.
The assistant blinks. “Do you mean… like, for sweat?”
“Yes.” Ilya shrugs. “And other bodily fluids.”
Shane is going to strangle him with a bedsheet. He stares murder at Ilya over the assistant’s shoulder. Ilya smiles back, sweet and infuriating.
“Oh. Er.” The assistant clears her throat. “Well, if you’re the type who sweats a lot during the night, I’d recommend this one—”
She moves over to another bed. Shane doesn’t even want to follow her, but has no choice; he and Ilya drift after her, Ilya with a look in his eyes that makes Shane pray for help from his ancestors.
The assistant, bless her, doesn’t bat an eye as Ilya continues.
“So this frame,” he says, knocking on it experimentally, “how sturdy? If two… athletic men are on it?”
And:
“And mattress spring,” he adds, pressing down hard. “How much bounce?”
And:
“And sheets; which ones hide stains best?”
Shane is very, very close to abandoning IKEA entirely and walking straight into traffic. Instead, he stands there smiling tightly, nodding along, pretending this is a completely normal conversation.
Eventually, against all odds, they settle on a bed that is both sturdy, adaptable, and — apparently — sufficiently absorbent.
“And of course,” the assistant says while she’s clicking on the computer, ordering it for them, “you have a ten year warranty in case it breaks …”
“Oh!” Ilya straightens. “That is good to know. We might need to utilize that warranty.”
The assistant looks at him.
She definitely deserves a raise, because even though she absolutely understands what he means, she doesn’t even blink. She just finishes printing the order sheet and hands it to Shane with a professional smile.
“Here you go.”
Shane thanks her profusely, hopes her job covers things like health insurance for therapy, then grabs Ilya and physically herds him away before he can traumatize her any further.
“You are a menace. You cannot be allowed in public,” Shane mutters as they push their cart away, piled high with kitchen cutlery, a lamp, a random teddy bear Ilya insisted on, and several flat-packed boxes that together will become their new bed.
Ilya shrugs, whistling innocently. “Why? Because I am not afraid customer who ask for what he want?”
“You can ask for things without psychologically scarring the staff!”
Ilya just chuckles and leans over to kiss Shane’s cheek.
“I have to have some fun in life, don’t I?”
By the time they’re driving home, the car is packed like a game of Tetris. One of the long bedframe boxes is wedged across Ilya’s headrest, forcing him to tilt his head slightly to the side.
Shane grips the steering wheel and sighs deeply.
“I think we’re sticking to online shopping exclusively from now on.”
“Oh!” Ilya lights up. “Is good idea. I see some very good sites. They have handcuffs—”
Shane nearly drives into oncoming traffic.