Chapter Text
“So, I spoke to Svetlana yesterday.”
It's a quiet morning at the cottage. Shane and Ilya took the opportunity to sleep in, something they rarely do — even on their infrequent days off — and, after some sleepy sex, they decided to get a start on the day. They had nothing concrete planned, though — maybe invite David and Yuna over for dinner if they're free — so really they just got out of bed to continue being lazy in the living room.
That's where they are now, both splayed across the same couch, legs over each other's and both silently scrolling on their phones and occasionally speaking.
So when Ilya pipes up and mentions his friend, Shane doesn't startle. He is confused, though. Ilya and Svetlana speak almost as often as he and Ilya do — regardless of the time difference — and so of course he spoke to her yesterday. Why feel the need to announce it? Shane thinks, perplexed.
“Okay? Is she alright?” He asks, sitting up a bit in worry. Something must have happened for Ilya to sound so serious about talking to his closest friend.
Ilya holds up a hand to stop his boyfriend from worrying, putting his phone down and also sitting up. This causes their previously entangled legs to separate. Shane pouts, mourning the loss of contact, his bare legs suddenly cold now that they're not stealing some of Ilya's abundant body heat.
“She is fine, but she told me something very odd. Something you might know about,” Ilya drawls, accent still thick —the way that it always is when they're at home, the way that Shane absolutely loves. Ilya quirks an eyebrow at him, gaze questioning as he looks his boyfriend in the eyes.
Shane is growing more concerned by the second. Ilya usually gets straight to the point — never one to mince words or try and beat around the bush (two sayings Shane has recently had to teach the Russian) — and he knows how bad Shane is with unclear communication. Something is going on, he thinks, and he's not sure if he likes it.
“Something I know? Like what?” Shane asks suspiciously, drawing his legs up so he can rest his head against his knees, “I've not texted her in like, a month!”
It's true. He and Ilya usually have a weekly video call with the woman for the three of them to catch up, but besides that Shane doesn't speak to her separately all that much. And when they do, it's usually about Ilya. There's no way she can know about the ring, right? He thinks, trying to recall if he's mentioned anything related to that to her. He's sure he hasn't, though. He had thought about asking her if she knew Ilya's ring size, but, besides making his intention too obvious, he also didn't think she'd know that information off by heart.
“I ask her to go to see my mother sometimes,” Ilya starts, now sat up on his knees, leaning towards his boyfriend who's looking just past Ilya's head — breaking their previously held eye contact, “and she says she saw random man leaving flowers on her grave. Says she asked who he is and he says he is paid to leave bouquet for my mother every month.”
Fuck, Shane gulps. Play it cool, he tells himself, schooling his expression into a blank stare.
“Huh, that is odd,” he says after a minute, stopping himself from rambling, which would definitely give him away. When he's nervous, he rambles — overexplains things, says too much — and Ilya knows this. Please just let it go.
The Russian gives his boyfriend a no-nonsense look and Shane feels a bead of sweat form on the back of his neck. He's been made, he just knows it.
“Da, very odd. Even weirder that flowers have tag with your name,” Ilya says, crawling over to and on top of Shane before the other man can try and escape. Shane, instinctively, lowers his legs from underneath his chin so that Ilya can place his knees on either side of his thighs. Now, with Ilya's hips hovering above his and Ilya's arms on the armrests behind his head, Shane is fully boxed in.
Trapped.
I told him not to leave my name on them, he thinks exasperatedly, mad at Ivan, the guy he's hired to drop off the flowers. He's not getting a tip next time.
“I'm not the only Shane in the world,” the Canadian says, still trying to convince his boyfriend of a lie even though he knows it's futile. Ilya may not be as book-smart as Shane is, but he is very perceptive — especially when it comes to matters of emotion and even more so when it comes to knowing Shane.
“Shane is not common name in Russia. Very uncommon, actually. And, you are only Shane who knows where my mother is buried.”
Ilya remembers mentioning it to Shane before — the graveyard where his mom was laid to rest — when talking about his father's death. Ilya, who paid for and was in charge of his father's funeral, had demanded his parents not have graves by each other. He caused her death, practically killed her, he thought, angry at the thought of them together again. She shouldn't be stuck with him anymore. Alexei and his grandfather had protested, but in the end Ilya got what he wanted. His father got a large, ornate tombstone in the same graveyard, but nowhere near his mother's more modest one.
Shane closes his eyes as Ilya leans in to whisper this. His boyfriends hot, still somewhat minty smelling breath from their toothpaste causes his eyelashes to flutter.
“Okay,” Shane relents, pitching forward so he can rest his forehead against Ilya’s sharp collarbone and avoid seeing his reaction, “you've got me.”
Taking his hands off the armrest, Ilya reaches up and cups Shane's face in the palm of his hands, gently pulling the other man back so they can meet eyes again. He always hates when Shane tries to hide (besides during sex, when he thinks Shane being coy is hot) and so Ilya doesn't let him.
“Of course I have,” Ilya says sincerely, tilting his head to the side slightly — the way he does when he doesn't quite get what something means — “I'll always have you.”
Shane smiles, nuzzling into Ilya's calloused palm. Years of firmly grasping a hockey stick show up in almost every part of his boyfriend's body. His callouses, his muscles, his flexibility, the tiny chip on one of his front teeth from a stray puck. He loves it.
Shane chuckles a bit. “That's sweet, babe, but in this instance I mean that you busted me, that you've caught me in a lie,” he clarifies.
“Of course I have,” Ilya repeats his previous statement, smirking down at Shane and teasingly patting his cheek, “you are terrible liar.”
Rolling his eyes, Shane scoffs as he leans out of Ilya's grasp, playfully shoving the other man away.
“No I'm not, you asshole.”
“Are too,” Ilya shoots back with laugh, “but is not problem for me. I can read you like a book,” he finishes proudly, both at being right about knowing his boyfriend so well and also for having the opportunity to use another phrase he'd recently learned.
The two smile at each other, gazes soft, and then Ilya pulls Shane back in to rest his head against his bare chest.
“Why?” Ilya asks, not elaborating any further. Shane knows what he is really asking though. The question rattles around his head, the vibrations from being pressed against his boyfriend, the sound soothing him. It's like a cat purring, he thinks fondly.
“I can stop sending them, if you want. I'm sorry I didn't ask you,” he replies, voice sounding muffled to him as he speaks into the thick meat of Ilya's pec.
Ilya tsks, hands coming up from where they were resting on Shane's hips to card through his smooth, dark locks. His hair is getting longer, the Russian thinks, lightly tugging on the hair in his fists, I like it.
“Did I ask for apology? Don't be sorry, любимый, I am happy she's getting them, she deserves flowers and with Svetlana travelling more she can't leave them for me as often as I would like. I want to know why, though.”
Shane sighs, leaning back slightly — not enough to break his boyfriends grip on his hair, but enough to meet Ilya's hazel eyes. As much as he wants to, he knows this isn't something he can shy away from. Besides, he's not ashamed about it.
“I wanted to thank her, for giving me you,” he starts, eyes already becoming misty as he gets emotional, “for making you who you are. I'll always be sad that I can't meet her, but at least this way she can know about me, and know that you're not alone. That you're loved.”
He chokes up a bit at the end, voice cracking slightly. He's not embarrassed though, especially since his boyfriend has also been moved to tears. Ilya's hold on his hair has loosened — arms now resting on Shane's shoulders — and the blonde man has his eyes scrunched shut.
“Oh, babe,” Shane whispers, reaching up and grabbing Ilya's wrists. He scoots back and up the armrest of the couch so that he's sitting taller than the man who's hovering above him. Then, he drops Ilya's wrists, grabs his hips, and draws him close, tucking Ilya's head of blonde curls underneath his chin and wrapping his arms around his broad back.
“I'm sorry, I didn't want to make you upset,” he says, gently running his hand through Ilya's curls and massaging his scalp.
He feels Ilya shake his head.
“You never make me upset,” he says, voice thick with tears instead of sleep this time. He presses a kiss on the underside of Shane's jaw. “Sometimes sad, yes, when you work yourself too hard or say no to second round, but never upset. You make me the happiest I have ever been, moya polovinka.”
My other half, Shane translates. He's so glad he's been studying Russian for the proposal he has planned, because now he knows what all of Ilya's terms of endearment mean.
Closing his eyes against the new onslaught of tears threatening to spill, Shane gives a long, forceful kiss to the top of Ilya's head, inhaling the scent of his partner's specific, wavy hair shampoo that he loves the scent of.
“I love you so much, Ilya. Ya tebya lyublyu.”
The Russian man sniffles, then leans back. He looks up at Shane with such adoration, such reverence, that it makes the man burn, all of his nerve endings lighting up under his partner's intense gaze.
“Ya tebya lyublyu, Shane. And I know my mother would love you, too.”
They go back to cradling each other, content in just breathing in the others scent, Ilya's hands under Shane's shirt, tracing the stretch marks on his love handles, and Shane still mussing Ilya's hair about. A few minutes later, Ilya breaks the comfortable silence.
“It will be her birthday, next month. My mother's. Could you… could you take the day to celebrate with me? I can make her favourite meal and tell you more about her, if you'd like.”
And, while Shane hates how soft and somewhat scared Ilya asks him, as if he's worried Shane will say no, he is happy that he asked at all.
“Of course. I’d love to.”
Looking down at his partner — hopefully soon his fiancé if he can ever muster up the courage to get the ring he bought out of it's hiding space and ask — Shane can't help but be grateful that he was caught. Ilya struggles speaking about his mother, for obvious reasons, but now Shane is thinking that that will change.
Maybe I should actually tip Ivan more.