Work Text:
Shane knew he was very particular about smells. He always seemed to associate them with a memory or a feeling. Like his mom’s perfume always smelled light and airy and safe. The coffee Ilya made every morning smelled like home and smiles and saying I love you.
It had started when he was small, around the age of eight, when he had joined his first real hockey team. He loved hockey, and practicing with his team, but there were times that he didn’t like them because they were mean to him for reasons he couldn’t understand as a (suspected) neurodivergent kid. They said that his eyes looked weird and asked him if he could even see out of them. They made fun of his mom, saying she didn’t belong here, and it didn’t matter if Shane was good at hockey, he should just “go back where he came from.” Which confused Shane even more, because he was already going home after practice, did they want him to leave early? He didn’t think he was that bad, sure he had missed a few shots, but surely that didn’t mean he had to be sent home?
One day after practice, things escalated in the locker room. The boys were all undressing and slamming their gear down when two of the boys that seemed to particularly have it out for Shane dragged him into the bathroom. Shane had only gotten the top portion of his gear off, as well as his sweaty undershirt, but was stumbling and slipping on the tile in his socked feet and bulky leg pads. They pushed him and Shane threw out his hands to catch himself on the floor, his palm scraping over the shower drain. They mocked him and kicked his ribs, made fun of his hair and eyes and skin, and said he was ugly and would never have any friends here. Then one of the boys leaned down and punched Shane squarely in the jaw. They guffawed and pointed as Shane groaned in misery, and left him there, staring as he spit and watched his blood trickle down the drain. He felt so alone and scared, worried that he had done something really wrong, and wasn’t sure what that was. He just wanted to play hockey, and was so confused and miserable.
As he lay there, the only thing he could focus on apart from the ache in his ribs and the rapidly growing bruise on his jaw, was the sharp smell of the cleaner the custodians used in the locker room. It smelled faintly of bleach, but was laced with a sickly floral smell that made Shane want to gag. Eventually, the coach and his dad came in when he didn’t walk out with all of the other boys to be picked up in the parking lot, and helped get him cleaned up. Shane didn’t want the other boys to get in trouble, so he refused to tell who had hurt him when both the coach and his dad tried to find out what happened.
Years later, in a locker room not too dissimilar from the one Shane remembered from his youth, he stood with his husband and his MLH team getting undressed from a stellar home game. Men laughed and jostled as they undressed and slammed their gear onto the benches and into lockers. Shane smiled to himself, reveling in their win and how good it felt to be on a team with his husband and friends.
He walked into the showers and immediately wrinkled his nose. He was hit with a wave of sticky sweet floral and bleach smell, bringing him back to a time almost two decades prior where he didn’t think he would ever fit in and have what he has now. Ilya had followed him in and noticed the look on his face.
“What is it, moy lyubimyy?” he asked, placing his hand on the edge of the towel wrapped around Shane’s waist.
“It’s nothing,” Shane said.
“Shane, you look like you smelled rotten eggs. What is it, you’ve never smelled bathroom cleaner before?” Ilya laughed.
“No, no,” Shane chuckled, “it’s just, this specific smell. The floral. It’s gross,” he explained.
“Okay?” Ilya replied, questioning.
“It’s just, when I was a kid, on my first hockey team, the arena we used to practice in used this cleaner. In the locker room. And I remember the smell,” Shane said. “There was one time…well it was maybe more than once, but the time I remember the most, I was, uh, laying on the floor in the bathroom. And all I could smell was this sickly floral and bleach smell,” he said, looking at his feet.
“Shane…why were you on the floor?” Ilya asked softly.
“Uh, it was nothing really it was just - well some of the kids didn’t really like me, and they sort of pushed me around a bit,” Shane replied, embarrassed to even be bringing this up.
Ilya turned Shane to face him and pulled him into a hug. “Shane…I am sorry,” he said, kissing the top of Shane’s head.
“It’s okay,” Shane said, voice small. “Just brings up bad memories is all.”
A few days later, they were back at the home rink for practice. Shane walked into the showers afterwards, sweaty and wanting to get into clean clothes as soon as possible, when he stopped abruptly. He took a deep breath, inhaling the clean, citrus smell. It smelled faintly of bleach still, but was mixed with a lemon/orange scent that was surprisingly pleasant.
“Shane, you good?” came Ilya’s voice from one of the shower stalls further down. His head was peaking out and staring at Shane just standing in the middle of the aisle.
“Yes - it’s just - well it smells different in here,” he said dumbly.
“Ah,” Ilya smirked. “Yes, it smells better, no?”
“Did you have something to do with this?” Shane asked incredulously.
“Was no big deal,” Ilya shrugged. “I just asked the custodians to use a different cleaner,” he said.
“You what?” Shane’s eyebrows hit his hairline.
“You didn’t like the smell. So I asked them to use a different one. I didn’t want you to have bad memories every time you had to shower here, moy lyubimyy,” Ilya said as if this was the most simple thing in the world.
Shane stared at him. He didn’t think it was possible to love Ilya any more than he already did, but somehow, the man proved him wrong on a daily basis.
“I love you,” Shane said, shaking his head. “Thank you.”