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Ilya wasn’t cold. Not in the slightest. Ilya was used to winters in Russia, and summers in Russia, and everything in between in Russia. He was also used to winters in Boston, and summers in Boston, and well, everything in between.
If anyone accused Ilya of being cold, in Canada, in the summer, he’d laugh and call them a liar.
Which, ironically, was exactly how Shane found himself on the receiving end of Ilya laughing when he had asked, “You cold?”, and then, when Ilya had denied it, had noted, very matter-of-factly, “You’re literally shivering, dude”.
“Am not”, Ilya had responded, defiantly.
“Whatever, I don’t care. I told you to pack more than just t-shirts”, Shane remembered the way too small duffel bag Ilya had brought, giving away just how underprepared he was for Canadian summer evenings by the lake.
Only, Shane did care. Of course he cared, always had, from the very first moment they had met, even if he had spent years trying to convince himself otherwise.
Now, with him being more certain of how he felt for Ilya, with him allowing himself to want more, even if wanting still felt fragile, delicate, breakable, he also allowed himself to care more openly.
Not too much, of course, not out of fear, but mostly because Ilya still enjoyed being bratty and defiant a little too much, and Shane couldn’t let him think he was getting away with it.
He was. Getting away with it. Shane had gotten so soft, so weak, even for Ilya’s bratty responses, but Ilya wouldn’t be able to torture that information out of him. Not yet.
“Am fine, Hollander, shut up”, Ilya tried, but the slight pout still gave him away.
“Ilya”
“Shane”, Ilya sighed, scrunching his nose briefly, still kicking the habit of calling Shane by his last name.
A few moments passed, with Shane cleaning up the seating area a little, ready to settle down for the evening, preferably with Ilya not shivering and being miserable the whole time they sat outside.
The evenings did get cold around these parts, Shane knew that much. He had spent his childhood here, had become accustomed to chilly summer nights. Unlike Ilya, who did not want to admit that he should have listened to Shane.
“My flannel’s inside. Kitchen chair. Help yourself”, Shane told Ilya, not even turning to look at him as he fluffed up the pillows, “Or don’t. Your choice”.
It was such a simple offer, such a small gesture, one Ilya shouldn’t have stumbled over.
He stood, just for a moment, contemplating. Not because he didn’t want Shane to be right about him being cold. No, this was something else.
Ilya tried to shake it off as he headed back inside, a soft “I’m going to get us drinks” drifting over to Shane, an excuse, really, but only if you were looking closely at the way Ilya suddenly felt a little soft around the edges.
On the way to the fridge, he passed the chair, flannel neatly draped across its back. Shane never did anything haphazardly, especially not regarding his clothes.
The flashback came unbidden but not unwelcomed.
Shane, neatly folding his clothes, before they hooked up. Ilya had wanted to laugh, had wanted to tease, but it all died on his lips, the habit so unexpectedly endearing that he felt something shift inside of him, something he wasn’t ready to face, wasn’t ready to name, not now, maybe not ever.
Only, “not ever”, died right within the walls of Shane’s cottage.
Everything in Shane’s life was neat, organized, in order. Even the clothes he put away when they were no longer needed.
Shane was boring like that.
Ilya couldn’t bring himself to hate that about him. Not even a little. Not even one bit.
Shane cared about the things that belonged to him.
And Ilya, maybe selfishly, wanted to belong to Shane.
It was another one of those feelings that felt entirely too big to fit into his chest, to keep tucked away, and this place was slowly unravelling him in ways Ilya could no longer control.
He grabbed their drinks from the fridge, then paused once more in front of the chair, the flannel still there, waiting.
He could grab it. Put it on. No big deal. It was just a piece of clothing.
It was Shane’s piece of clothing.
The one he had worn earlier, until he had no longer needed it, until he had changed into his sweater.
Ilya touched it with an unexpected reverence, a single finger brushing the fabric. Soft. Like Shane.
He picked it up like it was something precious, holding it for just a moment, as if contemplating if this was okay, if he was allowed to do this.
These days, there were a lot of those moments, quiet negotiations in places Ilya hadn’t anticipated. How much was okay to want? How much was okay to have? To ask for? How much was too much, too big?
This, suddenly, felt too big.
Ilya slipped the flannel on, anyway.
An exhale.
Shaky, uneven, settling down again.
He sniffed, just once, resisting the urge to laugh at himself.
Don’t be ridiculous, it’s just a flannel.
The flannel still carried Shane’s scent, gentle, comforting. Something Ilya hadn’t allowed himself to lean into for too long before, because it felt too vulnerable, left him too exposed, made heartbreak a possibility.
Shane had worn his clothes once.
It had twisted something inside of Ilya’s chest, warm and helpless, but he hadn’t said that out loud, because what would he have said anyway?
I really like seeing you in my clothes. I like seeing that you belong to me. That I belong to you. You can wear my clothes for the rest of your life; I would never get tired of it.
But then Shane had left. Ilya had stayed behind, heart wide open and bleeding. He could have bled out, right there and then, and he wouldn’t have cared. It still would have been less painful than watching Shane leave, still wearing his clothes.
Ilya had sworn to never let Shane get this close again after that day, the pain having come too close to what he had felt after losing his mother.
Until the day he saw him on the ice, motionless, hurt. The fear and terror running through him had been colder than the ice beneath his skates.
Not knowing what was wrong, not knowing if Shane would be okay, rearranged all of the thoughts and feelings and plans Ilya had had before that moment. Seeing him in that hospital room later, injured, but alive, had allowed Ilya to finally breathe again.
And then, no more running. No more hiding.
The urge was still there, when vulnerability felt too close, too raw, but Ilya decided he could handle that because, for the first time, hope felt bigger than the fear. Maybe, he could have something nice, something happy, something soft, too. Just once. With Shane.
Ilya felt a warmth creep in then, not just from the flannel, but from the feeling of being able to do this, to head inside and grab a piece of clothing from Shane and put it on.
So simple. So full of unspoken feelings and promises.
Domestic. That’s what it was.
Ilya had actually needed to look that one up. Not that he would be saying it out loud any time soon, but it still felt useful to know, in case he ever felt ready to share this feeling with Shane.
Home.
That was a word he knew, from when the house he had grown up in had still felt like one.
It had become meaningless throughout the years, a sour taste attached to it, whenever he spoke of home. Because his home had felt cold ever since his mother had died and had taken all the warmth with her. Colder than any Canadian summer evening or Russian winter could ever feel.
Home, with Shane, felt warm again. Not that he allowed himself to think about it this way, but his stupid heart listened a lot less these days.
Home, with Shane, felt like playing video games and eating eight stupid burgers, and watching him fold his clothes.
And wearing his flannel.
Home, Ilya thought, felt a lot nicer than he remembered.
He lingered, one more moment, rubbing his nose, collecting himself before he walked back outside to join Shane.
He felt softer now, and Shane must have noticed, even if he didn’t point it out.
Any joke he was about to make died right on his lips at Ilya standing there, wearing his flannel.
Something twisted in Shane’s stomach at the sight, something sweet and soft and warm. No matter how many times he might have imagined this very moment, nothing could have possibly lived up to actually seeing Ilya in his clothes. Nothing could have prepared him for the overwhelming amount of affection and tenderness he was feeling now.
He probably shouldn’t do it, shouldn’t act on feelings that were entirely too big for where they were at in their relationship, if one could name it that at all. Shouldn’t scare Ilya away.
Shane couldn’t help himself, not with Ilya standing in front of him, surprisingly unguarded, surprisingly soft. It took him all of five steps to close the distance between them, hands carefully resting on Ilya’s waist, looking at him for a long moment, letting his eyes communicate all the things he couldn’t say out loud.
I really like seeing you in my clothes. I like seeing that you belong to me. That I belong to you. You can wear my clothes for the rest of your life; I would never get tired of it.
Recognition flickered in Ilya’s eyes, a spark that was echoed in Shane’s, an unspoken ‘I know what you are feeling’.
It was Shane who leaned in first, Shane who saw Ilya, all of him, unguarded and open, who saw the trust he put into him and held it so carefully, like it was the most precious thing ever given to him.
The kiss was soft, Ilya’s lips pliant, accepting, welcoming. Eyes, briefly, closed. Hands holding onto Shane, a warm, solid thing.
Shane’s flannel, comforting and warm.
Shane’s hands, keeping him tethered.
Shane’s lips, grounding and soft.
Shane.
Home.
To Ilya, both meant the same.