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The rain was rhythmic and relentless, blurring the Ottawa skyline into a grey smudge against the windows of their home.
It was the kind of gross Saturday weather that demanded absolutely zero productivity—a directive Ilya eagerly embraced with professional-level dedication.
He was currently sprawled across their sofa, his head pillowed on Shane’s thigh, while a low-budget disaster movie played on the TV.
It was the kind of film where the science was questionable and the acting was even worse, and he half wondered if it had been shot in Buffalo.
"This movie is terrible," Shane mumbled, though he didn't move to change the channel. He couldn’t, his fingers were currently engrossed in a far more important task, as he continued threading them through Ilya’s golden curls, absentmindedly massaging his scalp in just the way he knew made Ilya melt.
After a few more minutes of comfortable silence, save for the ludicrously outlandish scene playing out on their screen, Shane scoffed loudly, "Okay, so now the volcano is literally chasing them. That’s not how physics works."
Ilya let out a soft, affectionate hum, his eyes remaining half-closed. "Shut up, Hollander. No being boring. Just enjoy the explosions."
“I can’t help being boring, Rozanov," Shane countered, his tone mildly amused, but predominately dripping pure adoration for his other half. "I’m genetically predisposed, and also pretty hangry."
Ilya reached blindly toward the coffee table, his hand fumbling until it collided with a red cylindrical can. With the practiced grace of a three-time Stanley Cup champion, he popped the lid of the Pringles and fished out two chips and then quickly set the still opened can against Shane’s side.
Ilya wasted no time as an idea he had seen a group of kids doing at their last summer hockey camp popped into his head and he abruptly sat up with a sudden, mischievous glint in his eyes.
"What are you doing?" Shane asked as he also sat upright and turned to study his husband’s movements as Ilya’s massive hands very carefully aligned the curved edges of the fragile chips.
But Ilya didn't answer. Instead, he pressed the two chips together and tucked them into his mouth, wedging them between his lips and teeth.
Then he made a show of dramatically making eye contact with Shane and leaning in close enough to make his heart rate quicken, even as his face was transformed by a salty, starch-based duck bill.
"Quack," Ilya said, the sound muffled and ridiculous, causing Shane to stare at him for a beat, looking utterly exasperated, even as the corner of his mouth betrayed his fondness as it twitched into a smile.
"You are thirty years old, Ilya." Shane tried to reason, but couldn’t mask the amusement in his tone, which caused Ilya to just wiggle his eyebrows, making the duck bill bob precariously.
"Quack, quack." The Russian repeated, leaning in to place a quick “kiss” on Shane’s cheek, leaving a tiny spot of salty crumbs behind.
"You are incorrigible," Shane chuckled, as he gave in and reached into the can and only a moment later, Shane had his own yellow beak firmly in place.
Then with a sudden burst of giggles at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation, he leaned in close to Ilya’s face, their duck bills clinking together with a dry tap.
They stayed like that for several seconds—just two of the greatest hockey players in history, multimillionaires and fierce rivals turned devoted husbands, sitting in their cozy livingroom, in loose sweatpants, being absolute morons.
As the next bout of rain began beating down on their windows, it was as if an invisible timer had run out, and their relatively intact composure broke simultaneously.
Shane started shaking with silent laughter, which caused his chips to snap and fall onto his chest, and in the same second, Ilya collapsed back against the cushions, his own "bill" disintegrating as he laughed.
"You looked so dumb," Ilya wheezed, wiping a stray crumb from Shane’s chin. “A true loon.”
"Me? You started it!" Shane retorted, still laughing as he leaned down to press his forehead against Ilya’s. “Leave it my favorite stupid Canadian wolf-bird to make a crappy Saturday into an adventure.”
As the end credits finally rolled on what was possibly the worst action movie of the 21st century, their mutual laughter finally fizzled into a comfortable, glowing warmth.
"You have salt on your nose, angel." Shane murmured, reaching up to brush it away when he caught sight of Ilya’s brilliant smile, a soft, but admittedly incredibly common expression that Shane still considered his greatest achievement.
Ilya reached up, cupping Shane’s face with a hand that wore a bright gold band, identical to Shane’s own, and teased, "It’s a good look for me.” Before pulling Shane down for a lingering, salt-flavored kiss, his voice dropping to a tender whisper as they drew back half a centimeter to catch their breath.
"Love you, sweetheart." Ilya whispered, provoking Shane to repeat it back to him in his incrementally improving Russian as he shifted so he could easily tuck himself into the curve of Ilya’s side, tossing the forgotten Pringles can in the vicinity of the end table in his haste.
"Love you too, baby. Even if you're a problem.”
"I'm your problem." Ilya reminded him, pulling a throw blanket over both of them as the intro scene for the next, slightly less terrible movie began filling their television screen.
"Yeah," Shane sighed, closing his eyes and breathing in Ilya’s familiar scent, the one that smelled of comfort and love and home. "The best one I ever had."