Archive of Our Own ^beta

All in all, once contractual obligations, ceremonies, and team events had been factored in, they may only have three total weeks alone together during the summer. Which is why Ilya felt his pouting was entirely justified.

“You were out there all day yesterday,” he pointed out.

Shane, already dressed in overalls that he had no right to look so good in, turned his face to the window. “I want to make the most of the weather.”

And me? Ilya wanted to ask. Don’t you want to make the most of me?

It was petty, and he knew it; they were married now, had been for almost a whole year, making the most of each other was exactly what they had vowed to do for the rest of their lives. Time was no longer of the essence, yet Ilya could not help but feel that Shane was wasting it.

Last summer, they’d hardly had a moment to breathe, too busy dealing with the fallout of their unceremonious outing and Shane’s equally unceremonious departure from Montreal. Then came the free agent season, the preparation for Shane to join a new team, the fear that it would tear him out of Ilya’s reach, along with all the media speculation his movements garnered. Before one wave could pass, another hit; their wedding—their beautiful, perfect wedding—had come a week after Shane signed with Ottawa, followed shortly by the summer camps, then their brief honeymoon in Ibiza before pre-season training began.

All that to say, they’d hardly had a moment of peace all year, and Ilya did not understand why Shane was so determined to deny them for longer. He wanted to sprawl on the couch with his husband’s feet in his lap and watch terrible movies with fake explosions. He wanted to cook hot dogs on the grill and race each other in the lake. He wanted to sleep in, with his arms wrapped tight around Shane’s shoulders, until they woke to the warm sun and Anya’s whining.

He wanted a quiet, slow, beautiful summer.

Shane did not.

It wasn’t such a shock to discover that his husband had a green thumb. After all, the cottage was designed specifically to appreciate the surrounding nature, and it remained Shane’s favourite place in the world. He’d even, on more than one occasion, suggested going on a camping trip. Ilya had yet to stoop quite low enough to agree, but if Shane were to ever truly ask in earnest, they both knew he’d fold.

It was a shock to discover that green thumb had evolved to a whole green hand, seemingly overnight. It began with a delivery, a small box of assorted seeds. Ilya had tried to pay attention when Shane explained each packet to him, but his cheeks had been flushed from the sun, and his freckles were all bunched around his smiling eyes…Ilya could hardly be blamed for falling prey to such powerful distractions.

It was cute, at first. In the way everything Shane did was cute, with singular focus and absolute comprehensiveness. Shane did not go and buy soil until he’d spent three days agonising over which type would be the most suitable. Shane spent several hours installing support rods and several more pulling them all up, only to start again. Shane now had enough hand trowels to rival his hockey stick collection. He got up before sunrise and checked on the garden before even drinking his coffee. He spent hours upon hours consulting gardening forums and downloading plant growth apps. He always, always, smelt a bit like earth.

Ilya didn’t mind it, not really, not yet.

****

Sometimes, Ilya couldn’t help being a bit nosy. Perceptive, even.

His call with Svetlana ended almost five minutes ago, but Shane had made himself scarce to give them privacy, heading straight for the garden.

“You don’t need to leave,” Ilya had tried to assure him. “She knows you are here.”

Shane had only shrugged, eyes averted. “You can say whatever you want, this way.”

“You think I will complain about you?” Ilya had almost laughed. “My perfect, boring husband is too perfect and boring?”

“Something like that.”

Shane had kissed him then, slowly, a perfectly boring kiss that sent shivers down Ilya’s spine. Then he’d collected his overalls and ventured into the garden, and Ilya almost forgot that there was any reason to complain at all.

Until Svetlana, who had spent six uninterrupted minutes ranting about how she’d wasted her morning letting some YouTuber test drive cars he couldn’t afford, took a breath to ask, “You’re still at the cottage?”

“Yes.”

“Must be nice.”

“Hmm.” It was nice; Ilya loved the cottage, loved the lake and the birds (even the loons), the way the sun rose and set between the trees, the way that, for pockets of time, it felt like nothing and nobody existed except he and Shane. But this year was different. This year, Shane had found something more worthy. “Shane has gotten really into gardening.”

A pause, too long to be anything but mockery, then, “Is he…retiring?”

“After one year with the Centaurs and no cup? Of course not.”

“Well,” Ilya could hear her smirking, “men don’t usually get into gardening unless they have nothing better to do.”

Ilya grumbled. “He used to do me.”

“Oh, woe is you,” she laughed. “Is he not anymore?”

He was. If there was one thing that had never changed about Shane, it was his insatiable need for sex. Specifically, sex with Ilya. Even the thought of it made Ilya’s chest feel warm; Shane was a famously successful, adored, attractive man…he could have had anyone, but he’d only ever wanted Ilya. The desire was mutual, obviously, even when Ilya was still young and foolish and trying to forget Shane’s careful eyes in the body of another.

All that to say, sex was not the problem.

The problem was that Shane had given Ilya a dose of domesticity and made an addict of him. He wanted to lick the column of Shane's throat just as much as he wanted to chop onions while Shane peeled carrots. He wanted to bend Shane over the sofa just as much as he wanted to curl up upon it and bury his cold feet under Shane’s thighs. He wanted to make Shane coffee in the morning, then taste it on his tongue. He wanted to watch him do the crossword in the back of the newspaper, then mutter praises while he wrapped a hand around Shane’s cock.

He wanted afternoon naps and late mornings, comfort movies and family dinners at David and Yuna’s, to laugh while they tried to wrangle Anya into the bath after she’d found mud to roll in, to empty the dishwasher and make fun of Shane’s books and fuck until the sheets needed changing.

Perfectly boring.

For years, that is what his summers had been, and now…Shane wanted to garden.

Svetlana listened to him mumble vaguely for ten more minutes before promising to see him before the pre-season and hanging up. He hadn’t actually meant to complain about Shane, not really. It felt somewhat sacrilegious; Shane was the best, calmest, brightest part of his life, to imply he was anything else did not sit right.

It wasn’t the same with Galina. She didn’t know Shane, hadn’t eaten a meal he’d spent a day labouring over or watched him fight a draining social battery. Galina’s role in their lives, in Ilya’s, was to listen to his innocuous complaints with total confidentiality, so that he did not have to burden his friends with them.

Not a burden, he could almost hear Shane say, never a burden, and god…of all the voices that took residency in his head, Shane’s had always been the kindest.

It was that voice he sought now, padding onto the patio and down to the garden, where Shane was hunched over a mound of soil, surrounded by little plant pots. Ilya strode to him, unsure of his objective beyond being in Shane’s proximity, maybe even coaxing him into the lake.

He stopped short when he heard Shane’s mumbled voice, speaking entirely to himself.

“They had a new stall last weekend, the ripest persimmons I’ve ever had. Ilya didn’t like them, but you probably could have guessed that. I think, maybe, if I put them in a crumble, he might…I don’t know. Probably not, right?”

Ilya didn’t want to lurk, but he really couldn’t help it. Shane was talking to his plants, and it was quite possibly the most absurd thing Ilya had ever witnessed.

“Yeah, no. Hardly like I have the time to pick up a baking hobby, anyway. Ilya might actually murder me if I tried.”

“Why am I murdering you?” he asked, delighting when Shane jumped out of his skin.

“Oh fuck!” Shane was on his feet now, hand to his heart and eyes wide. “You need to wear a bell.”

“Kinky. What are you doing?”

“Nothing. Gardening. Nothing. It’s—have you—how was Svetlana?”

Ilya watched him carefully. Even now, all these years later, Shane couldn’t tell him a convincing lie. It was probably a good thing, but that didn’t make it any less frustrating.

“She is fine, will come to see us before we leave for pre-season,” he said.

Shane’s smile widened into something more genuine. “That’ll be nice. We can take her out on the jet skis.”

“Yes,” Ilya chuckled. “I think she’ll like that more than the kayak last year.”

“Still haven’t forgiven you for letting me go through with that,” Shane said, stepping closer and turning them away from the garden.

“What can I do to change that?” Ilya purred, hands coming to Shane’s hips.

On cue, a blush blossomed across Shane’s cheeks, cherry-red. Ilya wanted to bite a chunk out of him.

“I can think of a few things,” Shane said, steering them straight back into the house with burning determination.

Unwittingly, he cast one fleeting glance over his shoulder to the patch of soil and tried to ignore the pit that formed in his stomach.

****

It wasn’t that Ilya was jealous.

Objectively, he did not want to join Shane and David on a three-hour trip (each way!) to the garden centre; he didn’t want to walk around discussing soil types and plant food; he didn’t want to listen to them mumble boringly about whatever boring documentaries they’d been watching while they drove Shane’s boring car.

And it wasn’t that Ilya had been abandoned. He’d filled his day with a long walk, taken Anya to play with the neighbourhood kids on the way back, prepped dinner, gone to the gym, answered a call from Troy (and therefore Harris), and even stopped by Yuna’s to discuss the camps.

So, no, it wasn’t that Ilya was jealous. It was just that…he sort of was.

They were not supposed to spend time anywhere that was not diligently at each other’s sides during the summers. Maybe that was a bit dramatic, considering they no longer spent the majority of the year several hours apart, but…still.

When Shane had slipped his shoes on that morning and tilted his face up to press a parting kiss to Ilya’s mouth, Ilya had expected an invitation to join them. He might have said no, but Shane—polite, Canadian Shane Hollander—would always invite him.

Instead, he’d brushed a stray curl behind Ilya’s ear and said, “You’d hate it there.”

Which was true, but beyond the point.

“It’s just a bunch of old men trying on gloves and returning garden shears,” he’d said, wrapping Ilya in a hug. “They play classical music over tinny speakers, and everyone smells a little bit musty.”

“Is that so?”

“Mhmm.” Shane had nuzzled under his ear, pressing a soft kiss to the skin there. “To get to the clay pots, you have to navigate through three aisles of artificial grass.”

Ilya shuddered at the thought. “But you like it.”

“No, I hate it. It’s the worst place in the world. I’ll be very annoying and serious the whole time. I’m going to ask the first member of staff I find at least fifteen questions about leaf care.”

“Poor them.”

“I’ll tip them well.”

“Of course.”

Then he’d left, waving sweetly out of the window of his stupid, safe car, and Ilya felt like he’d swallowed a stone. Because yes, he would hate it there, and no, he didn’t want to listen to classical music or look at artificial grass, but he would have gone anyway if Shane had asked.

But he hadn’t. In fact, Shane had gone out of his way to ensure that Ilya did not go. Had prepared a list of reasons why Ilya wouldn’t enjoy spending the afternoon together, just to ensure they wouldn’t.

He’d only been home alone for an hour before Shane and David returned, wearing wide grins and carrying tarp-covered trays that left lines of soil on their shirts. Ilya tried not to care when Shane only stopped to plant a quick kiss on his cheek before leading David straight to the garden. He tried not to be annoyed when they remained out there until the sun got low, and he tried not to grumble when, after David bid them goodbye, Shane announced he was taking a shower and didn’t ask if Ilya wanted to join him.

Perhaps, Ilya thought, this is just what married life is like. The thrill of returning home wore off when you were there every night, the touch of your lover wasn’t so precious when you didn’t have to go without it, and time could be wasted when you had it to spare.

This is what he’d wanted, right?

Still, when Shane rolled over in bed and pressed his mouth to Ilyas's throat, when he fell asleep two hours later, spent and ruffled, when the following morning came, and he declared that he had no intentions of putting his hands anywhere but on Ilya for the rest of the day, Ilya could barely disguise his relief.

****

“Is going to rain.”

Shane glanced out of the window and frowned at the clear blue sky. “No it’s not.”

“I can feel it.”

“You can’t feel shit.”

Ilya smiled, wrapping his arms around Shane’s waist and sliding his palm down to the elastic of his briefs. “I can feel a lot.”

Shane, thank god, let his head fall back against Ilya’s shoulder, eyes already fluttering, humming softly. Ilya buried his smile in Shane’s neck and let his palm travel lower.

The thing about fucking Shane was that he never wanted it to end, and when it did, it never took long for either of them to want to go again. Usually, during these languid summer days, they would go until their bodies simply could not anymore, until Shane could no longer stand the feeling of sweat on his skin. Then, once thoroughly scrubbed, they would fall into clean sheets and sleep in a tangle of limbs.

That's how they missed the start of the rain.

Ilya awoke some time later—it could have been an hour, it could have been three—to Shane’s sharp curse. The sheets flew up and over Ilya’s head, the bed shook with the force of Shane’s ejection. By the time Ilya freed himself from the trap, Shane was already stumbling out of the room, tugging on his T-shirt inside out.

“Shane?” he called.

“The fucking Hoyas!” was Shane’s only response.

Ilya had no idea what that meant, but if the crashing sounds were anything to go by, it was something bad. He leapt out of bed, fighting off the immediate dizziness, and followed the sound of chaos. Anya stood at the threshold of the kitchen, watching Shane frantically gather items with the same curious concern as Ilya.

“Do you need help?” Ilya asked.

“No!” Shane dropped everything to grab his wellies, wincing as his unsocked foot slipped into them. “No, just—I’ll be a minute.”

He was not a minute. He was, at a minimum, two hours.

Ilya was indulging in some Doritos and mindlessly scrolling through social media when Shane finally stepped back inside, and it didn’t take more than three seconds to know that he was not himself. In his hands, he held a large tray, wet soil spilling over the edges and a plastic wrap over the top. His legs, his arms, his entire body were covered in rain and dirt, and his eyes…his eyes were utterly vacant.

Ilya froze. He’d seen this before, when Shane got too overwhelmed, when the world was too bright and too loud and demanded too much of him. Slowly, Ilya set his phone down and stood.

“Let me take that,” he said, reaching out for the tray.

“Not…not yet,” Shane mumbled. “You’re not supposed to…”

“Not going to look at it, just want to set it down, okay?”

It took a moment, but Shane nodded; a jagged, stilted thing. Ilya wasted no time taking the tray, which was fucking heavy, and setting it on the ground, close to the door where he could clean up afterwards.

“It’s ruined,” Shane mumbled. “You said…you warned me about the rain. Now it’s ruined.”

“What is ruined, sweetheart?”

“The whole thing.”

“Is okay.” Ilya tentatively took Shane’s hand, releasing a relieved breath when he didn’t flinch away. “Shower, yes?”

Shane didn’t say yes, but he didn’t fight when Ilya began guiding him towards the bedroom either. In fact, he hardly even blinked as Ilya pulled him into the en suite and turned on only the mirror light, letting its soft glow illuminate the room just enough to see where they were going. Next was the shower, adjusting the temperature so that it wouldn’t be jarring, then the removal of Shane’s sodden, soil-coated clothes.

That got a twitch out of him, finally.

“Sorry,” Ilya whispered, and Shane could only shake his head.

It wasn’t until they were under the water spray, until Ilya’s soapy hands were working their way down the length of Shane’s arms, that he finally broke. His head fell forward to rest against Ilya’s shoulder, a great big shudder rippling through his body.

Ilya said nothing, just held Shane under the water until he stopped shaking, then continued his work.

Shane did not let Ilya dry him, but he didn’t push back when Ilya told him to lift his arms and slipped a large shirt (one of Ilya’s own) over his head. Nor did he argue when Ilya pulled back the bedsheets and urged him under them. Nor did he roll away when Ilya climbed in after him and pulled him tightly against his chest.

“We can get another plant tomorrow,” Ilya said softly into the crown of Shane’s head, inhaling the familiar scent of his shampoo. “I will drive you to garden centre, you can show me the grass.”

Shane shook his head. “No. I’m not giving up.”

It seemed like an odd stance to take on an easily replaceable bit of greenery, but Ilya wasn’t surprised. When Shane Hollander set his mind to something, he dedicated himself wholly.

Ilya would know.

****

It took several seconds for Ilya to respond to the stranger at his door.

“Who…are you?” he asked.

The woman looked old enough to be his grandmother, so his brain did not immediately jump to stalker. Could the elderly be stalkers? Was it presumptuous of him to write off the possibility? She was short and stout and had round, cherubic cheeks that dimpled when she smiled. Her hair was standing up at every end, as though humming with static, and she wore—and this was maybe the most bizarre part—an apron and a pair of elbow-length gloves.

“I’m Cyrene,” the woman, named Cyrene, said happily. “I’m here about the hoya.”

Ilya’s English was very good these days. Fluent, even. Occasionally, Shane still had to whisper the odd word under his breath (usually when they were fighting, which was a little bit aggravating and profoundly endearing), but for the most part, Ilya did just fine.

But he had no idea what on earth this woman was saying.

“I think you may have the wrong house,” he said politely, giving his best impression of a Canadian.

Cyrene frowned at her phone, then held it up for him to see, “Is this not the right address?”

It was exactly the right address. Ilya looked down at Anya, who seemed all too happy for the new company, and wondered if he should just close the door. He wouldn’t, of course; he was not a monster.

“You are Mr Hollander, right?” Cyrene asked, undeterred.

One of them, he wanted to say, even though it technically wasn’t correct. He’d considered shedding his name in favour of Shane’s after they got married, but he just could not bring himself to do it. It was the name his mother had taken to her grave, the name he’d turned into a career, the name on the back of jerseys and on trophies. He didn’t want to let go of it any more than Shane wanted to let go of his own.

Still, it didn’t mean he never referred to himself as such, just not usually on the doorstep in front of strange old women with bright smiles and his address in her phone.

He landed on, “No, but my husband is.”

“Oh!” Cyrene lit up. “You’re him!”

“Him?”

“Ilya, who is it?” Shane’s voice carried from the kitchen, where he stood wearing his stupid, adorable gardening hat.

“Um, a lady is here about a…” He looked to Cyrene for help, which she did not offer. “There’s a lady here for you.”

Suddenly, Shane was not in the kitchen, but pressed to Ilya’s side as he pushed his way into the doorframe. “Cyrene? I wasn’t expecting you until later!”

“Traffic was calm,” Cyrene said. “And your messages seemed very urgent.”

“Thank you so much for coming.” Shane was beckoning the stranger inside, leading her through their home without a care in the world. “I really hope we aren’t too late.”

“Nonsense, we’ll have her back to good health in no time.”

Ilya did not have time to request context before they were gone, out in the garden and crouching over Shane’s little soil patch, gesticulating wildly as they spoke. Ilya watched from the window for a while, dumbfounded and, if he were being honest, a bit vexed.

“I hate that garden,” Ilya said to Anya.

Cyrene stayed for three hours, drank two cups of tea, and laughed with her whole body. She spoke to Ilya in passing, always with a knowing shine in her eye that set his teeth on edge, but otherwise kept to the garden with Shane, who seemed to take everything she said with absolute seriousness.

When she finally left, waving one little hand out of the car window while she reversed down their once-private driveway, Ilya finally managed to ask, “What was that about, moya lyubov?”

“She is a plant doctor,” Shane said.

“Plants have doctors?”

“Yes.” He was still beaming, freckles bright from the sun. It was impossible to be annoyed at him when he looked so happy. “She wrote me a list of things I need to do.”

Ilya scoffed. “If I’d known she was going to flirt with you, I wouldn’t have let her in.”

“Yes, you would have,” Shane smirked.

Yes, he thought somewhat bitterly, probably.

Canada had ruined him.

****

Shane was a practical man. Ilya had known that since he was seventeen, he had witnessed Shane in action more times than he could count over all the years that followed. Shane Hollander needed new clothes, so he hired a stylist. Shane Hollander purchased a property, so he hired a designer. Shane Hollander wanted a cottage, so he had one built to his exact specifications. Shane Hollander was a planner, a researcher, sometimes to a fault.

So, maybe it shouldn’t have been that much of a surprise when Ilya returned from his walk with Anya to find Shane sitting amongst various pipes and glass panels, frowning at a sheet of instructions.

“What is this?” Ilya asked, carefully stepping into the living room, which had been somewhat rearranged to accommodate Shane’s newfound passion for DIY.

“Building greenhouses,” Shane replied, not taking his eyes off the instructions. “It’s like they make it impossible to follow on purpose.”

Ilya snickered. “Why did you not pay handyman to do this?”

Determination settled in the line of Shane’s jaw. “I need to do it myself.”

“Alright.” Ilya could hardly begrudge him that, even if he didn’t love returning to a workshop. “You want help?”

“No, I, uh—” Shane cut himself short, finally lifting his eyes from the paper to meet Ilya’s own. It never failed to make Ilya’s chest pang, seeing how quickly they softened. “Actually, yeah. I’d love that. You should…you should probably have a hand in this.”

Ilya raised a brow, but he knew better than to expect any answers about Shane’s little project by now. Truthfully, he hadn’t been expecting Shane to agree; so far, every attempt to offer assistance had been met with quick rejections. That was fine, Ilya could hardly be jealous of a little garden soil, could he?

And yet.

“What should I do?” Ilya asked, sitting down in the only available floor space.

Shane frowned at the instructions again. “I don’t know. This is…nonsense.”

“Give it here.”

“It might actually make more sense in Russian.” Shane handed over the paper with a defeated sigh. “I speak two languages, and I’m still lost.”

“Two and a half,” Ilya corrected with a smirk. “Vy, navernoye, i bez menya smogli by prochitat’ russkiy tekst.”

“Odin den’.”

Ilya beamed. “Skoro.”

The instructions, it turned out, were marginally more sensible in Russian. Ilya read them aloud while he and Shane assembled their respective greenhouses, both as tall as Shane, both with identical clear shelving. Once again, Ilya wanted to know what was going on with them, and why Shane had become hellbent on spending his summer—their summer—putting this all together.

Instead, patience became him.

He left Shane to finish up on the greenhouses and carry them out to a patch of garden, where Ilya knew he was not yet welcome, while he prepared lunch.

****

Ilya had wondered for a while if Shane would benefit from therapy, but never more so than when he stumbled out of the cottage, disgruntled to have woken up alone and so very early, and found Shane talking to his plants.

Again.

“I think I’m supposed to wrap your leaves this way,” he said, hunched down in his little garden patch. “I tried to read about it last night, but Ilya gets very needy when we’re here. I think he’s jealous of you.”

Ilya almost laughed.

“I’m not complaining, obviously, I get the same way.” Shane rolled his shoulders, glancing up at the lake briefly. “Sometimes, when we are here, it feels like nothing else exists. Maybe that’s why I love it so much.”

And, well, what was Ilya supposed to do? Interrupt him while he was speaking so sweetly? No way.

“I do think he needs a haircut, though. Don’t you? It’s starting to cover his eyes.” Shane sighed. “I know, I know, I’m hardly one to talk. Oh, shit, I think I’ve put you in the wrong spot again.”

Ilya, not wanting to risk being caught, slipped back inside the cottage without a word and set to making two cups of coffee. He booked a haircut while he waited for the machine to heat. By the time they were ready, Ilya made his way back down the garden, no longer treading lightly.

He only caught the last of whatever Shane was telling his plants.

“—talk about you all the time.”

“Shane,” he said, not wanting to spook him this time.

Shane spooked anyway, because he was Shane, and turned to look over his shoulder with a freckled, sun-kissed smile. Ilya loved him. Ilya loved him so much.

“Sorry, I was hoping to get back in bed before you woke up,” he said sheepishly.

Ilya wiggled his brows. “We still can.”

Shane rolled his eyes and called him an idiot, but he still drank his coffee, and they still ended up in bed.

****

The first thing Ilya did that morning was roll on top of Shane, who was still blinking his pretty eyes open, press a kiss to the underside of his jaw, and ask a very reasonable question.

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?”

“What the fuck?” Shane replied, which was fair enough.

Harris had texted Ilya the night before about how he wanted to make the team more personable on social media, maybe get them involved in a few trends, get them miming along to silly soundbites and answering sillier questions.

What kind of questions? Ilya texted.

I don’t know, from Harris, something ridiculous, like—

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?”

Shane wiggled free of Ilya’s hold to stare up at him, eyes still puffy and mouth still cruelly unkissed. Ilya would have to wait until they’d brushed their teeth to fix that.

“I don’t understand,” said Shane.

“Is a simple question, no?” Ilya nudged Shane’s nose with his own. “If I was a worm, would you love me?”

Shane frowned. “Were you always a worm?”

“What other option is there?”

“I mean, were you, like, cursed to become a worm?” Shane was thinking hard enough for Ilya to hear it. “Were you a person when I met you, then became a worm?”

“Does not matter, I am a worm now.”

“It matters,” Shane huffed. “Is the worm you, or are you the worm?”

Ilya pushed himself off of Shane’s chest. “You are overcomplicating it. Is a simple question.”

“No, it isn’t,” Shane said.

Ilya didn’t feel much like talking anymore, rolling off the bed with a sharp, “Forget it,” and heading to the bathroom, ignoring Shane’s confused call of his name.

It wasn’t a simple question, certainly not to Shane, whom Ilya knew too well to expect any other reaction than the one he’d gotten. It didn’t even matter; Ilya was not a worm, he was a man with red blood and good bones. It wasn’t even about the fucking worm.

It was about the garden.

Which was stupid, and selfish, and really quite unforgivable if he were being honest with himself. So Shane found a hobby that didn’t include Ilya, so what? That was healthy! So Shane spent most of their summer so far amongst a patch of soil, steering clear of any questions Ilya dared to ask about it, so what? They were married now, living in the same house and playing on the same team. It didn’t matter.

It didn’t.

But would it have killed Shane to just say yes? Yes, Ilya, of course I’d love you, even in your worst and most wormy state? Was it so difficult? Were there really such strict conditions to the love Shane had for him? What if Ilya changed too much one day? What if Ilya retired, and his body changed? What if this version of Ilya, which had been honed by a lifetime of effort, disappeared one day? What if he was a fucking worm, what then?

Ilya shoved his toothbrush into his mouth and froze, because oh—oh.

The toothpaste tasted like clay.

****

Ilya often found himself out here, sitting on this rock and watching the sunrise dance over the lake, casting the day’s first minutes in glistening gold.

Ilya often found himself out here, wearing nothing more than the pyjama pants he slept in, trying not to shiver.

Ilya often found himself out here, talking to his mother.

Sometimes it was because he simply could not contain his joy any longer and needed, more than sleep, to tell her about it. To tell the world. His summers were full of mornings like that; cheesing grins and choked gratitude.

Other times, like today, he was seeking a very different sort of solace. The biting breeze and dew-coated grass were the only things that convinced him he was on the earth. Squinting at the sun was the only thing that confirmed his eyes were open. The rest, the entire fucking rest of him, was just floating in empty space.

Regardless of why Ilya was out here or how Ilya was feeling, there was one thing that never changed: Shane would find him, wrap him in a blanket, shuffle up beside him, and stay.

“Is it the worm thing?” Shane asked, the question riddled with guilt.

“No,” Ilya said, reaching for him and hauling him closer, desperate to feel his warmth. “I think the worm thing was because of this.”

“This?”

“Me.”

“Oh…bad day?” Shane asked.

“Bad day,” Ilya confirmed.

“That’s okay. I’m here for those, too.”

Shane didn’t need to ask any more questions. He used to, back when he was still figuring out how to handle Ilya’s bad days. It used to be annoying, all the watching and probing and planning. The alarms for his pills and for water breaks. The constant check-ins and tests.

Let’s get some air, Ilya.

You can’t skip breakfast, Ilya.

Try talking about it, Ilya.

Far be it from Shane to fail at anything, even caretaking. Especially caretaking.

When the fog cleared, which it always did eventually, Ilya could see it for what it was. Shane was learning, trying his best to understand, to find the line and keep Ilya firmly on the right side of it. He didn’t flinch when Ilya snapped, nor did he rip Ilya out of bed and demand more than he was able to give, but he also didn’t…let him rot. If Ilya was in bed, unable to climb out, Shane was there too. If he were in the shower, Shane was closeby to help. Finally, when the dissonance faded and shame burned bright, Shane didn’t shy away from the tears that shook free from Ilya’s eyes.

Today was no different.

They went inside, and Shane made them tea instead of coffee, then set to making breakfast. Something simple: toast and scrambled eggs. He knew it was all going to taste like cardboard to Ilya anyway. When Ilya let the tea go cold in the mug, too lost in his own head to keep track of time, Shane poured it away and made another without a word.

After his pill and one whole slice of egg-covered toast, Ilya found himself being guided to the sofa and pulled down onto Shane’s chest. The blanket was still over his shoulders. Absentmindedly, he recognised it as one Yuna had knitted for him last Christmas, during one of her many efforts to find a relaxing hobby. It was nice, and soft, and smelled like the only laundry detergent Shane would use. Ilya pressed his ear to Shane’s sternum and let himself melt.

The TV went on, and Ilya watched some absurd black-and-white film with swaying focus. When he drifted too far, when his breath went shallow and his body rattled, Shane’s hands would slip into his hair and coax him back with simple, repetitive strokes.

Guilt remained, because it always did. He should be talking to Shane about how he was feeling—wasn’t that what he’d promised to do? Wasn’t that exactly what he’d wanted? To be able to say anything without fear? He should be getting up, working out, trying to rouse his body into action and chase away these lingering shadows. He should be cooking meals and kissing Shane and fucking him out on the dock with reckless abandon. He should be feeding Anya.

Fuck, he should be walking Anya.

Fuck, Anya.

He lifted his head to scan the room, finding Anya curled up at the foot of the sofa, paws twitching as she dreamed.

“Mom’s coming to walk her later,” Shane whispered, tucking Ilya back to his chest. “We’ll make it up to her tomorrow, if you feel like it.”

He should have made a thousand apologies, but it was impossible to get a single sorry out between the waves of relief that hit him. So, Ilya turned back to the TV, let his cheek flatten against Shane, and watched two men in top hats tap dance until he fell asleep.

Shane did not go into the garden that day. He stayed right where Ilya needed him.

****

Ilya awoke to the press of lips to his forehead and soft sheets around his body.

“It’s just a delivery, stay there,” Shane whispered, padding out of the room.

Ilya blinked at the soft sunrise drifting through the windows, which Shane had purposefully kept uncovered for this very reason, and took stock of himself. The fog was not entirely gone, but his body felt like his body, his mind felt like his mind, and he really wanted to brush his teeth. He stumbled to the bathroom, determined to clean himself up just enough before Shane returned.

When he slipped his toothbrush into his mouth and tasted mint, he almost wept.

Shane crawled back into bed half an hour later, smelling like fresh air. He pulled Ilya close and recounted an article he’d read the night before, grounding Ilya with every low vibration of his voice. Saying nothing, but somehow saying everything.

Later, when Ilya emerged in fresh clothes, he cast a glance towards the garden. There, beside the rock he so often found himself sitting on, and there, beside the mound of soil that had become Shane’s home, he spotted two free-standing outdoor heaters.

“You’ve been shopping,” Ilya said.

Shane, who was reading a book about plant care, peered over his glasses to follow Ilya’s gaze out of the window. “Oh, yeah. Didn’t want you freezing to death because you refuse to wear a shirt.”

“You like it when I don’t wear a shirt.”

“I do,” Shane smirked. “Hence the heaters.”

If Ilya lifted the hem of his shirt a little, it was purely accidental. “Very thoughtful of you.”

“Hmm, that’s not all I got.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Shane set his book aside and sprang to his feet, holding out a hand for Ilya to take. “Want to see?”

“Always.”

Shane smiled as he led Ilya into the garden, and Ilya’s heart leapt into his throat. Was it happening? Was he finally going to see what had stolen so much of his husband's attention this summer?

But no, where the mystery mound of soil sat to the left, Shane led him to the right, straight towards the treeline. There was a relaxed swing to Shane’s arms, and Ilya took a minute to watch him. There was nowhere on earth that relaxed Shane more than the cottage; he slept in longer, let himself eat freely, spent afternoons on the dock and evenings spread open for Ilya.

He hoped, one day, they could stay here for months.

“Here,” Shane said, stopping before a tree and pointing to a little house that had been hammered into the trunk.

Ilya frowned. “Is a birdhouse?”

“Big enough to build a nest in. I also ordered a water fountain, but it’s not here yet.”

“That’s…nice?”

“Yep, come on.”

Shane pulled him away from the tree and headed towards the dock, where two red chairs sat side-by-side. Between them, on a small table, sat a large container of—

“Fish food?” Ilya asked. “You want to start fishing next?”

“No,” Shane laughed. “It’s not for catching them, just for feeding. I thought about installing a pond…maybe next summer.”

“No.”

“This will do, then.”

Ilya had absolutely no idea what was going on, but the mischievous glint in Shane’s eye was a beautiful sight indeed. “Sure, okay.”

Shane pointed towards the house. “You see the pots hanging off the windowframes?”

“Yeah?”

“I planted wildflower seeds there. For the bees.”

“For the bees,” Ilya echoed.

“They are important.”

“Of course.”

Shane beamed. “Okay, next.”

Ilya wondered, as Shane tugged on his hand and led him towards the garage with long strides, if this was what Anya felt like when they took her out on her morning walks; more than a little bewildered but perfectly content to take in the sights.

Shane stopped at the foot of the garage and pointed at a large glass…rectangle?

“Is that a tank?” Ilya asked.

“A terrarium.”

“Right.” Ilya nodded. “For what?”

“Well, you can put all sorts in there. Snails, woodlouse…worms.”

Ilya’s breath hitched. “Shane.”

“Ilya.” Shane turned towards him, hands reaching up to hold the sides of his face with palpable tenderness. “It doesn’t matter what you are. You can be a worm, or a fish, or a bird, or a bee. I’ll love you, and you’ll have a home here.”

Ilya wasn’t going to cry about a terrarium. He just wasn’t. The lump in his throat would go no further. “This is a very el—too much?”

“Elaborate.”

“Elaborate answer to a silly question.”

“Maybe, but you like a grand gesture.” Shane shrugged, looking pleased. “I’m sorry it took a while to give it. Overnight shipping is a liar.”

“You are a ridiculous man.” Ilya pulled him closer anyway. “Is very stupid, how much I love you.”

****

Shane was not averse to spending money; he was just more careful with his finances than Ilya. Ilya liked gadgets and cars and buying large rounds of expensive drinks for everyone in the club after a win. Shane liked investment strategies and wealth advisers with colour-coded spreadsheets.

That being said, since his finances became their finances, Ilya had been less inclined to piss money into the wind. He hadn’t ordered anything needless in a while, certainly not since they’d arrived at the cottage, which is why it caught his attention when a slew of deliveries began turning up at the doorstep.

Most of them were flowers, large groups of them already in bloom. Shane took those straight to the garden with boyish glee. A series of pipes arrived next, which Shane informed him was a water system. He didn’t ask anymore. Then came a bench, large enough for two. Shane had taken that one straight to the garage before Ilya could get a proper look at it.

“When will you tell me what this is all about, moya lyubov?” Ilya asked as they cooked together that evening.

Shane simply smiled and said, “Soon.”

****

Running with Anya was a little lonelier than usual, since Shane had decided to skip it and work in the garden instead. Ilya tried not to be annoyed by it, but it was impossible; Anya always beat him, and with no Shane at his side, it meant he always lost.

Anya was panting for water by the time they arrived back, her little paws scraping at the front door with a fervour that would have made Shane wince, had he not ditched them.

“I know, I know,” Ilya cooed, letting himself in and heading straight to refill her bowl.

He’d only just filled a glass for himself when Shane appeared in the kitchen, looking soft and sweet and so hopelessly lovesick that Ilya almost forgot to be annoyed with him.

“Good run?” Shane asked.

Ilya took three gulps of water before wiping his mouth and responding, “No.”

“Did she beat you again?”

“You already know.”

Shane laughed and swooped forward to press a kiss to Ilya’s mouth. He tasted like toothpaste and coffee and heaven on earth—was Ilya annoyed at him, really? Probably not. Certainly not.

“I’m sweaty,” he mumbled against Shane’s lips.

“I can see that.”

“You’re kissing me anyway.”

“Mhmm.”

Ilya leaned back and narrowed his eyes. “What do you want?”

Shane laughed, freckles bunching in a way that made Ilya’s stomach twist. “I want to show you what I’ve been doing in the garden.”

He may as well have told Ilya that Anya had learned to speak Russian. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Right now?”

“Unless you want to shower or eat—”

“No.” Ilya was already marching to the garden. “After. I want to know what stole my husband.”

“That’s a little dramatic.”

Shane slipped his hand into Ilya’s as they made their way to the mystery patch. The air was fresh, the sun was settling into the sky, the birds were singing from tree to tree. Ilya didn’t know what to expect from the garden, but it wasn’t this: a semi-circle of roses, carnations and lilies. The two greenhouses they built together stood on either side of a beautiful wooden bench, carved at the top with—

“Oh,” Ilya exhaled.

An orthodox cross, just like the one around his neck.

His mother’s cross.

“I installed a water system. It’s connected to the house, so they should be able to take care of themselves, but I’ll hire a gardener for the months we aren’t here.” Shane stood with his thumbs in his pockets, shoulders up by his ears, looking like his entire world rested on Ilya’s approval. “If we get a cat, which we will, I’ll get rid of the lilies.”

“We’re not getting a cat.”

“Yes we are.”

“Shane,” Ilya said, fighting a smile. “This is lovely, but I am confused. What is this?”

“Look inside the greenhouses,” Shane said, and Ilya did as instructed, kneeling by the glass doors.

There were four pots inside, housing long vines that climbed up the length of the glass and carried crisp, green leaves. Clusters of flowers sprouted between them, each like a little ball of sunshine. Every bud a flower, growing neatly in a natural circle. They were so beautiful, he couldn’t help but reach out to touch them.

“They are hoya plants,” Shane explained, coming to kneel beside him. “Usually kept inside and should only be watered every five or so days…hence the water system and the greenhouses.” Shane cleared his throat. “They come in hundreds of species, each with a different bloom. Ask me what this species is called.”

With a tight throat, Ilya asked, “What is this one called?”

“Irina.”

Immediately, Ilya felt his eyes fill with tears. He turned his head to hide them, though he never needed to; Shane simply took his chin between two fingers and turned him back, planting a soft kiss to the tip of his nose and wiping an escaped tear.

“I know this isn’t…I don’t know how often you visited her when you were in Russia,” Shane continued nervously. Ilya wanted to tell him that he didn’t visit her, not really, even though he should have. It didn’t feel like the right place for her; it didn’t feel safe for her to rest, for him to talk. Not like here. But the words were too thick to push out of his mouth. “I just kept thinking about how you can’t do that anymore, now that we are…well, you know, married.”

“Shane…”

“I hear you talk to her out here. I just wanted you to have a nicer place to do it.”

“Shane.”

“I love you. This is your home, too. We spend our summers here, we have our family here, it felt wrong without…I know it’s only a plant, but—”

“Is not only a plant,” Ilya said firmly, fingertips still brushing the golden flowers.

“No, it’s not.” Shane smiled. “I’ve actually, uh, been talking to her, too.”

Ilya’s head dropped with a ragged exhale. He knew that; he’d heard Shane muttering to himself so often over the last couple of weeks, but he never could have guessed the truth of it. “You don’t believe in that stuff.”

“But you do,” Shane replied. “At first, I mainly wanted to get a feel for it, you know? To make sure it was all right. Then…I guess it was nice telling her about you. It occurred to me that maybe nobody had done that in a while.”

Ilya’s voice was hardly a whisper when he asked, “What did you tell her?”

“That you snore when you sleep on your back.”

“I fucking don’t.”

“You fucking do. I told her that you spoil Anya, and you never separate your laundry properly, and you are a TV hog.”

Ilya let out a watery laugh. “Wow.”

“And that you’re the best captain I’ve ever had, even when you make me bag skate. That you’ve turned a down-and-out team into a cup contender. That skating with you feels so right that it makes me wonder if I only ever stepped on the ice to get to here. That you’re a good, perceptive friend and an even better husband. That you make the coffee just right, every morning. That you cry at commercials for cat shelters, which is why I know we are getting one. That some of your curls drop at the back when your hair gets too long. That you are funny, and beautiful, and kind, and sometimes so sad that it makes me want to, I don’t know, tuck you under my ribs. That you’re loved, so very loved, by all your friends, by my parents, even more so by me. That she is, too.”

Ilya could hardly even speak, so he just wept, and Shane just held him. Shane, a man usually of so few words and so much action, had managed to give both. He was good at that these days, always knowing when Ilya needed to hear things, always willing to say them. Grand gesture, he’d called it.

Ilya really did like those.

“All this time,” Ilya sniffed, “you were doing this for me?”

Shane nodded. “I’d do anything for you. Sorry it took up so much of my time. I could have hired help, but I really wanted to do it myself.”

“No, is perfect.”

“I was useless at first. Didn’t have a clue what I was doing out here.”

Amongst the flowers, Ilya leaned against him. “I don’t believe that.”

“No, really,” Shane laughed. “If it wasn’t for Cyrene, I’d have nothing more than a mound of soil and a few leaves to show you.”

“Thank god for Cyrene,” Ilya said.

The sun was beating down on the back of his neck, probably burning him. The washing machine chimed from inside the cottage, alerting them that it was finished. Anya stood on the dock and barked at the birds that flew overhead. Clusters of golden petals were soft at his fingertips, so brilliantly vibrant. Flowers bloomed and bees circled, keeping life flowing. Ilya closed his eyes and let his head rest against the shoulder of the man he loved more than all of it combined, the man who loved him back, in every way he could.

“Dobro pozhalovat’ domoy, mama,” he whispered.

In the end, it really was a perfect summer.