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Dinner is amazing. Shane’s dad doesn’t usually man the grill, but when he does, the results are always ridiculous: sticky, caramelized ribs and chicken skewers so juicy they practically fall apart. The smell of smoke and barbecue sauce still hangs in the air, mixing with the warmth of the kitchen.
Yuna has made homemade scalloped potatoes, creamy and golden, and a big salad she threw together while Ilya leaned against the counter, watching her work with open fascination. He keeps asking little questions — what kind of cheese is that, how long it bakes, why you slice the potatoes that way — and Yuna answers them all with patient amusement.
Sometimes, Shane thinks, Ilya is like a nosy little puppy. An absurdly handsome, terrifyingly competent puppy.
The conversation flows easily, light and comfortable. All the worry Shane had felt about his parents holding onto any lingering resentment or suspicion toward Ilya has completely blown away. He’s charmed them to the point that Shane almost wonders if they don’t like Ilya more as a son than they do him. Now they’re chatting casually about — no surprise — hockey, and how practice went today.
“It’s important to keep them in shape,” his dad says loftily, waving his fork a little like he’s giving a press conference. “They shouldn’t think they can take it easy just because you two are together. Complacency kills teams.”
Shane groans and sets his fork down. “Dad. Stop playing expert.”
Dad just shrugs, unapologetic. “What? I’m just trying to offer some advice. You know I like to stay informed.”
“We’re the captains,” Shane mutters. “We’ve got it under control.”
Ilya slips an arm around him and presses a quick kiss to his cheek, warm and affectionate and very deliberately in front of everyone.
“Don’t be grumpy, baby boy,” he says. “Your papa maybe is a late bloomer. He can become hockey pro now. I train him.”
Shane gets an immediate, horrifying mental image of his dad wobbling around on skates, trying to shoot a puck into the net while Ilya stands beside him barking orders in his thick accent. He actually shudders.
“Please don’t,” Shane says weakly. “I don’t need that in my life.”
Despite his half-hearted grumbling, dinner is genuinely nice. It’s such a relief to step away from the pressure and the noise and the constant analysis of their games and just… sit. Eat. Talk. Listen to his parents tease Ilya about his eating habits, or about how intense he gets when hockey comes up. Shane is just starting to feel pleasantly sleepy and relaxed from the food — and that’s when it goes wrong.
He’s just scooped a little more scalloped potatoes onto his plate, glancing around for the salt. He spots it next to his dad’s plate. He waits for a pause in the conversation Ilya is having with Yuna — about the balanced diet a salad can provide — and asks:
“Daddy, can you pass the salt?”
Both David and Ilya reach for it.
Shane watches it happen like it’s in slow motion: his dad’s hand moving, Ilya’s hand moving, their eyes lifting and locking on each other over the table. Somewhere in Shane’s head, there’s a dramatic, screeching record-scratch.
The silence is deafening. Ilya and David are still staring at each other — David with wide eyes, slowly understanding, Ilya with an expression that isn’t quite shame or fear, but is definitely alarmed. Yuna has a hand over her mouth.
Shane wants to sink through the floor. He wants to evaporate into mist. Or time travel five seconds into the past and slap himself — or Ilya. He has no idea what to say — and now it’s been quiet for far too long.
Ilya pulls his hand back first. Clears his throat, drapes his arm over the back of Shane’s chair again.
“Excuse me.” He gestures toward the salt shaker. “Please.”
David keeps staring at him, looking like someone who’s just had a very inconvenient puzzle piece click into place. Slowly, he picks up the salt and passes it to Shane. Shane can’t meet his eyes as he mutters a thank you and salts the potatoes. Probably too much, but he doesn’t care—he’s not going to be able to taste a single thing after this mortifying moment anyway.
Slowly, the clinking of plates and cutlery returns. Yuna takes a big sip of wine, and Shane wishes he could do the same. David is still moving a little stiffly, a little zombie-like, as if he’s in the aftershocks of some traumatizing situation. Which, to be fair, he probably is.
Ilya clears his throat again, the sound a little too loud in the fragile quiet.
“I apologize. Force of habit,” he says. “At home we usually—”
Shane stomps hard on his foot, so hard that Ilya coughs, but at least he shuts up.
David nods slowly.
“I understand.”
The worst part is that Shane thinks he actually does.
Yuna still hasn’t said anything. She just takes another sip of wine, looking back and forth between Shane and Ilya like she’s trying to read something between the lines. Shane refuses to look at Ilya. Instead, he locks onto a bright red cherry tomato on his plate and starts poking at it with his fork, nudging it in slow, aimless circles. If he stares at it hard enough, maybe he can disappear into it.
“So.” Ilya coughs. “We feel good about next game anyway. Team is pumped, yes?”
“Yeah.” David’s answer is a little hesitant, careful, like he’s afraid of accidentally learning more about Shane and Ilya’s sex life. “You’ve been doing well so far, so I don’t see any reason that would change now.”
Slowly, the conversation slides back toward normal, even though the incident lingers like fog on the horizon.
Later, in Shane’s old childhood bedroom, he slams the door shut and immediately shoves Ilya back against the wall with a low, furious groan.
“What the hell did you think you were going to get out of that?” he snaps. “At home we usually… what? What were you going to say?!”
Ilya, of course, doesn’t look bothered in the slightest, just grins crookedly even with Shane’s arm against his throat.
“It’s true, yes? You call me that at home.”
Shane drops his hand and throws his arms up.
“Yes! At home. Not at dinner with my parents!”
Ilya shrugs, still infuriatingly unfazed.
“Sorry. Is force of habit.”
Shane lets out a long, suffering sigh and collapses onto the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands.
“I am never showing my face in this house again,” he declares. “I’m going to move into a remote cave and live there for the rest of my life. No internet. No family dinners. Just me and my shame.”
Ilya flops down beside him on the bed, the mattress bouncing, and wraps a teasing arm around his waist.
“As long as I get to live in cave with you, no problem,” he says, nuzzling into Shane’s shoulder before tugging him down into a kiss.