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The cottage always made Shane soft.
Not in the public, press-conference, chirpy-captain way. Not in the way the internet thought he was soft because he smiled too much in interviews. The cottage made him soft in a bone-deep, defenseless way. The lake was too still. The loons sounded too lonely. The air smelled like pine sap and damp wood and childhood.
And, apparently, worms.
This was not a thought he’d expected to have.
They’d been at the cottage for three days—three blessed, lazy days of sleeping in, swimming in the lake, cooking elaborate breakfasts that would have made their team nutritionists faint, and absolutely not thinking about hockey.
No Montreal Metros.
No Boston Raiders.
No replays of that overtime goal in Game Seven.
No chirping. (Well. Minimal chirping.)
Just Shane, Ilya, and a dock that creaked like it had opinions.
They were sprawled on an old quilt on the grass near the shore, late afternoon sun filtering through trees, Ilya’s head pillowed on Shane’s stomach. Shane was lazily carding his fingers through Ilya’s hair, which had grown a little too long in the off-season and kept flopping into his eyes.
Ilya squinted up at him. “You love me.”
Shane snorted. “That’s not even a question.”
“It is a statement,” Ilya said gravely. “You agree?”
“Yes, professor. I agree.”
Ilya hummed. He was wearing Shane’s hoodie, sleeves swallowing his hands. He looked entirely too pleased with himself.
Shane should have known that expression meant danger.
“I have important hypothetical,” Ilya announced.
Shane groaned immediately. “No.”
“You do not even know what it is.”
“It’s you. It’s never normal.”
Ilya poked him in the stomach. “If I turn into worm, would you still love me?”
The world stopped.
Somewhere in the distance, a loon cackled like it had just witnessed a murder.
Shane blinked down at him. “What.”
“You know. Worm.” Ilya wiggled a finger in demonstration. “Small. Pink. No legs. Very humble.”
Shane stared.
“Ilya.”
“Yes.”
“Are you concussed?”
“I am asking serious question.”
“You are not.”
“I am.”
Shane tried to laugh. He really did. But Ilya’s face was infuriatingly sincere.
“You’re not going to turn into a worm.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I—” Shane sat up a little, dislodging Ilya’s head. “Ilya. You’re a professional athlete.”
“And?”
“And you can’t just—metamorphose.”
“Caterpillars do.”
“You are not a caterpillar.”
“You have no proof.”
Shane pressed his hands over his face. He could feel a headache forming already. “Okay. Fine. Hypothetically. If you turned into a worm—why are you turning into a worm?”
Ilya beamed, triumphant. “So you would still love me.”
“That is not what I said.”
“You are considering it.”
Shane sighed deeply. “Ilya.”
“Yes, Shane.”
“Why would you turn into a worm?”
“Maybe curse.”
“By who?”
“Old woman. I steal bread. She is upset.”
“You don’t even like bread.”
“Details.”
Shane tried logic. “Okay. Let’s say you’re cursed by an old woman because you stole bread you don’t like. Why specifically a worm?”
Ilya shrugged. “Very humbling. Teaches lesson.”
“What lesson?”
“Do not steal bread.”
Shane stared at the sky. This was his life. This was the man he loved.
He looked back down. Ilya was watching him carefully now, green eyes intent, mischief softened into something almost shy.
“If I am worm,” Ilya said quietly, “you would still love me?”
And that— that was the trap.
Because underneath the nonsense was something real. Ilya did this sometimes: wrapped vulnerability in absurdity so it couldn’t be rejected too harshly.
Shane swallowed.
“Yes,” he said automatically.
Ilya’s smile burst across his face like sunrise. “You would?”
“Of course I would. I love you. Worm, human, whatever.”
Ilya flopped dramatically back onto the quilt. “Good. Because I think I would be very cute worm.”
Shane snorted. “You would be the most annoying worm in existence.”
“I would wiggle aggressively.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
Ilya rolled onto his side, propping himself up. “You would keep me in little terrarium?”
Shane hesitated.
Ilya narrowed his eyes. “Why you hesitate.”
“I’m just—thinking about logistics.”
“Logistics?”
“Yeah. Like. You’d need soil. Moisture. Proper aeration.”
“You would research for me,” Ilya said, sounding unbearably fond.
“Obviously.”
“And you would feed me?”
“I guess worms eat—dirt? Leaves?”
“I would prefer organic,” Ilya said primly.
Shane laughed. “Of course you would.”
Ilya beamed, satisfied, and snuggled back into him.
It should have ended there.
It did not end there.
Shane woke up at 2:17 a.m., heart pounding.
The cottage was dark, moonlight spilling through the curtains. Ilya was a warm weight beside him, sprawled half on top of him, breathing slow and steady.
Shane stared at the ceiling.
Worm.
His brain, traitor that it was, began constructing scenarios.
Scenario one: Ilya wakes up tomorrow morning. Worm.
Just—gone. In his place? A small, wiggling pink thing in the sheets.
Shane’s pulse spiked.
Would he notice immediately? What if he rolled over and—
He shot upright in bed.
Ilya made a soft noise and burrowed closer. “Shane?”
“Sorry,” Shane whispered, voice tight.
He turned on the bedside lamp.
Ilya blinked up at him, hair everywhere, eyes squinty. “Why you are glowing.”
“I’m not glowing. The lamp is.”
“You look stressed.”
“I’m not stressed.”
“You are sitting like someone told you world is ending.”
Shane opened his mouth.
Closed it.
“Ilya,” he said carefully, “if you turned into a worm.”
Ilya’s face lit up instantly. “Ah.”
“Don’t ‘ah’ me.”
“You are thinking about it.”
“Of course I’m thinking about it! You asked me!”
Ilya rolled onto his back, delighted. “You cannot sleep because of worm.”
“I just—okay, think about it from my perspective.”
“I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am very empathetic worm.”
“You’re not a worm!”
“Yet.”
Shane made a strangled sound.
Ilya propped himself up on his elbows. “Shane. It is joke.”
“I know it’s a joke.”
“Then why you look like you are planning funeral.”
“Because what if I mess it up?”
Ilya blinked. “Mess what up.”
“If you did turn into a worm. Hypothetically. What if I didn’t take care of you properly? What if I forgot to mist the terrarium? What if you dried out? Do worms dry out? They probably dry out.”
Ilya stared at him.
Shane kept going, words tumbling faster. “And what if I accidentally stepped on you? Or what if you escaped and I couldn’t find you? I mean, this is a cottage, there are cracks everywhere—”
Ilya grabbed his face.
“Shane.”
“What.”
“You are catastrophizing about fictional worm scenario.”
“You don’t know it’s fictional.”
Ilya burst out laughing. Not a small laugh. A full-body, wheezing, delighted laugh.
Shane scowled. “This isn’t funny.”
“It is extremely funny,” Ilya gasped. “You are losing sleep over my potential wormhood.”
“That’s not a word.”
“It is now.”
Shane flopped back onto the pillows, staring at the ceiling again. “I just don’t like uncertainty.”
“You play professional sport for living.”
“That’s controlled uncertainty.”
Ilya crawled on top of him, straddling his hips. “Shane.”
“What.”
“If I become worm, we handle it together.”
“You wouldn’t be able to handle anything. You’d be a worm.”
“I would handle emotionally.”
“You wouldn’t have arms!”
Ilya dissolved into giggles again, collapsing onto Shane’s chest.
Shane tried not to smile. He failed.
“This is your fault,” he muttered, wrapping his arms around Ilya anyway.
“Probably,” Ilya agreed cheerfully.
They lay there in silence for a moment.
Then Ilya said, very softly, “You really would love me?”
Shane’s irritation melted instantly.
He brushed hair out of Ilya’s face. “Yes.”
“Even if I am small and ugly and covered in dirt.”
“You’re not ugly.”
“As worm.”
“You’d be the handsomest worm.”
Ilya sniffed dramatically. “Thank you.”
“But,” Shane added, “I’d also take you to the best worm specialist in the world.”
“There are worm specialists?”
“There have to be.”
“Like… worm doctor.”
“Yes.”
“Would you put me in little carrier.”
“Yes.”
“Would you talk to me in baby voice.”
Shane hesitated.
Ilya narrowed his eyes again.
“…Maybe.”
“I knew it.”
“I would not use baby voice.”
“You would.”
“I would not.”
“You would be like, ‘Who is cutest worm? Is you.’”
“I would not say that.”
“You absolutely would.”
Shane huffed. “Go to sleep.”
“Answer properly.”
“I did answer properly! I love you! Worm or not!”
Ilya smiled softly, eyes crinkling. “Good.”
He tucked himself back under Shane’s chin.
Shane reached over and turned off the lamp.
Darkness again.
Silence.
Two minutes later—
“Shane.”
“What.”
“If I am worm, can I still watch hockey.”
Shane screamed into his pillow.
By morning, Shane had gotten approximately three hours of sleep.
Ilya, traitor, was radiant.
They were making pancakes in the tiny cottage kitchen. Ilya was in charge of flipping; Shane was in charge of not burning down the building.
“I have been thinking,” Ilya said casually.
Shane eyed him warily. “That’s never a good start.”
“If I am worm, I cannot hold stick.”
“You’re not playing hockey as a worm.”
“But maybe you push me around in little wagon on ice.”
Shane closed his eyes. “Why would I do that.”
“So I can still participate.”
“You would freeze.”
“Ah.”
“Worms don’t wear parkas, Ilya.”
“You could knit me one.”
Shane made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob.
Ilya laughed and leaned over to kiss his temple. “You are very cute when stressed.”
“I am not stressed.”
“You checked my side of bed this morning.”
Shane froze.
Ilya grinned. “You lifted blanket very carefully.”
“I was making sure you weren’t cold.”
“You were checking for worm.”
“…Maybe.”
Ilya abandoned the pancakes and wrapped himself around Shane from behind. “You are ridiculous.”
“You started it.”
“I know.”
Shane turned in his arms. “You’re not allowed to turn into a worm.”
“Okay.”
“Promise.”
“I promise not to intentionally turn into worm.”
“That’s not specific enough.”
Ilya laughed. “I promise, if I ever become worm, it will not be by choice.”
Shane squinted. “You’re still leaving room for curses.”
“Old women are unpredictable.”
Shane pulled him closer. “If any old woman curses you, I’m fighting her.”
“With what.”
“Respectfully. But firmly.”
Ilya kissed him properly this time, soft and lingering.
“No curse,” Ilya murmured against his mouth. “Only me.”
Shane exhaled, tension easing out of his shoulders.
“Good,” he said.
There was a pause.
Then—
“But if I were worm—”
“Ilya.”
“I am kidding!”
Shane narrowed his eyes. “Are you.”
Ilya’s grin widened.
Shane lunged.
They went down in a tangle of limbs and laughter, knocking into the counter, nearly sending pancake batter flying.
“You menace,” Shane accused, trying to pin him.
“You love me,” Ilya shot back.
“I do,” Shane admitted, breathless.
“Even if—”
“Don’t.”
Ilya cackled.
Shane kissed him again just to shut him up.
It worked.
For approximately thirty seconds.
That night, Shane slept.
Mostly.
He still woke once, briefly, to the sound of rain starting outside, tapping against the roof.
He reached out automatically.
Warm. Solid. Definitely not a worm.
Ilya mumbled something in Russian and curled closer.
Shane smiled into the dark.
Maybe loving someone meant accepting the possibility of absurd hypotheticals.
Maybe it meant being willing to research worm care at two in the morning.
Maybe it meant losing sleep over something that would never happen.
He pressed a kiss into Ilya’s hair.
“If you turn into a worm,” he whispered, “I’m building you the best terrarium in the world.”
Ilya, somehow still half-awake, murmured, “Organic soil.”
Shane groaned softly.
“Go to sleep, worm.”
A sleepy laugh.
The rain kept falling.
And in a cottage by a quiet lake, two very human boys slept, blissfully un-wormed.