Chapter Text
Late August at the cottage always feels slightly suspended in time. The days stay warm long into the evening, sunlight stretching gold across the lake until almost too late, the trees shifting lazily in the breeze outside the open windows and doors. Everything slows here without anyone really noticing it happen.
The cottage carries summer differently by this point in the season. Lived in properly. Towels drying over railings, sunscreen abandoned near the back door, the faint smell of lake water and coffee and wood warmed all day by the sun.
The air feels softer, like the day is exhaling, and everything slows just enough to notice it. It had always held a particular kind of gravity for both Shane and Ilya, this time of year, threaded through with memories in a way that feels almost tangible. It pulls at Ilya without asking, gently but persistently, drawing his thoughts backwards.
Back to when it was just the two of them.
New in this, still working out the edges of something that had never been simple. Still learning where they fit, not just in the world, but beside each other when there was no rink, no rivalry, no structure forcing proximity. Just space. Just choice.
The cottage had been the first place that felt like theirs without question.
He can still remember that first August, the way everything had felt heightened, like the world had narrowed to the shape of Shane’s laugh, the warmth of his hand, the quiet steadiness of being wanted without condition.
He remembers the August Shane had given him the 'playlist'.
Ilya’s gaze drifts, unfocused for a moment as the memory settles in properly.
He still has it. Still goes back to it sometimes, scrolling through the songs and annotations like they’re something fragile and carefully kept. They have given each other so many things over the years, gestures and words and pieces of themselves offered up in ways that mattered, but that one had stayed with him differently. Maybe because of when it came. Maybe because of how much of Shane it carried.
Shane - who had never found it easy to say everything out loud.
It had been deliberate in a way that made it impossible to ignore. Thought through. Felt through. Each song placed with intent, even if Shane would have shrugged it off at the time, downplaying it like it hadn’t taken anything out of him to put together.
It had.
Ilya knew it then. He knows it even more now.
That August had stretched out in the way only early happiness can, unhurried and almost indulgent. They had stayed longer than they planned, pushing everything else back because there had been no real reason not to. Days blurred into each other in the best way, filled with small things that felt bigger because of who they were shared with.
Cooking badly and not caring.
Swimming in the lake until the water felt like part of them.
There had been a kind of reverence to it too, threaded quietly through everything else. The way they touched, the way they learned each other without needing to rush. It had felt like discovery and recognition at the same time, something both new and inevitable.
Even now, years later, Ilya can still remember the feel of the wood beneath his back on the dock, the faint chill of the evening air against his skin, Shane’s weight over him, grounding and sure in a way that made everything else fall away. It hadn’t been practical, not even slightly, but that had never really been the point.
It had been theirs.
The cottage holds that version of them just as much as it holds who they are now.
And then there was the August that came after they got married, when everything had already been chosen and said and promised, and somehow that made it all feel even quieter rather than louder.
They had come back to the cottage before they left for their actual honeymoon, half because of logistics and half because neither of them had wanted to wait to be somewhere that felt like this. It had become a kind of in-between space, a pause before everything else, though neither of them treated it like a pause at all. No schedule, no expectations, just the two of them in a space that already knew how to hold them.
That time had felt different. Not less intense, but steadier. The sharp edges of uncertainty had worn down into something softer, something that didn’t need to prove itself anymore.
They spent long afternoons outside without really deciding to, drifting in and out of small, unimportant things that became meaningful simply because they were shared. Shane would start a crossword and pretend he didn’t need help, only to eventually slide it across the table with a reluctant kind of acceptance when he got stuck. Ilya would take it without comment, filling in answers with quiet certainty, occasionally glancing up just to catch the look on Shane’s face when something clicked into place. His English had come such a long way that he didn't need the reassurance now.
They played in the yard in a way that would have felt ridiculous anywhere else. A hockey stick dragged out for no real reason, a ball instead of a puck because it was easier, both of them pretending it wasn’t competitive when it very clearly was. Shane talking the entire time, commentary and complaints and exaggerated frustration, Ilya answering in kind until they were both laughing too much to keep score properly.
There was a lightness to it that hadn’t always been there before. A sense of permission.
Evenings folded into something softer. Music playing low from inside, the doors left open to let it spill out onto the dock. That was when they danced again, slower this time, less about the moment and more about the continuity of it. Ilya’s hands familiar at his waist, Shane’s head resting against his shoulder in a way that felt instinctive rather than chosen.
No rush. No urgency.
Just the quiet understanding that they had already decided this, fully and without hesitation. Forever.
Later, they would end up back on the dock, the same place that had held them before, only now there was a different kind of grounding to it. Not discovery this time, but certainty. The same closeness, the same way everything else seemed to fall away, but steadier, anchored in something that had already been built and tested and kept. Ilya had always wanted to take Shane apart on the dock - finally he got his wish.
It still hadn’t been practical.
That still hadn’t mattered.
If anything, it mattered even less.
Because by then, they knew exactly what they had.
Another memory follows, softer at first and then suddenly sharp with clarity.
The call.
He can see it so clearly it almost overlaps with the present. The two of them inside, still damp from the lake, Shane complaining about something inconsequential while Ilya half listens, half watches him instead. The phone ringing, Shane answering without much thought.
And then stopping.
Ilya had known something had shifted before he even heard Phoebe’s voice properly. There had been something in Shane’s face, something that pulled his attention in completely.
Phoebe had wanted to wait. She had said as much, laughter and disbelief tangled together on the other end of the line, telling them she had planned to tell them in person, to do it properly.
They hadn’t let her.
They had known what the call was before she said it.
The eggs had taken.
She was pregnant.
With twins.
Ilya can still feel the way the world had tilted slightly in that moment, not unsteady but changed. The way Shane had looked at him, something bright and disbelieving breaking through in a way that was impossible to miss. The way neither of them had quite known what to do with the information at first, like it was too big to hold all at once.
It had started there, in that room, with lake water still drying on their skin and summer stretching endlessly ahead of them.
Everything that came after had grown from that moment.
Now, years later, the echoes of it sit around him in a different form.
Inside, Shane stands at the counter with Theo perched beside him, both of them frowning at a recipe like it personally offended them. Theo is reading each step out loud with careful seriousness, measuring everything exactly, while Shane pretends not to hover and then absolutely hovers anyway.
“Okay, but that’s not a pinch,” Shane says, watching Theo add salt.
“It is a pinch,” Theo argues, deeply offended. “My fingers are just bigger.”
“That logic is terrifying.”
“It’s accurate.”
It’s the same rhythm Shane has always had, just… smaller beside him now. Or maybe not smaller. Just echoed. Theo moves like him, speaks like him, thinks like him in ways that feel a little too precise to be coincidence. It’s uncanny. It’s also kind of perfect.
Outside, Lena is on the training mat with a stick that’s slightly too big for her, entirely unbothered by that fact. She fires another puck into the empty net and throws both arms up like she’s just won something important.
“ɡōl!”
Her voice carries across the yard, loud and triumphant, like the whole world should be watching. She doesn’t need an audience to celebrate. She is the audience.
Ilya, stretched out in a chair near the fire pit, watches her with a smile that lingers but doesn’t quite settle.
He’s been like this for a few days now. Quieter. Slower around the edges. Nothing dramatic, nothing sharp enough to interrupt anything, but noticeable if you know what you’re looking for.
Jacob notices.
He always does.
He lingers for a moment on the edge of the porch, watching his papa the same way he’s learned to watch storms that might or might not come. Then he squares his shoulders in a way that is very obviously borrowed confidence and walks over, dropping into the chair beside him with a little too much intention.
He bumps their shoulders lightly. Intentionally. As if to ground him.
Ilya turns his head at once, the tiredness in his expression easing the second he sees him.
“Hey,” he says softly, reaching out without thinking and squeezing the back of Jacob’s neck, thumb brushing briefly at his hairline before letting go. “You okay?”
Jacob nods, because he is, but stays where he is, shoulder still pressed to his papa’s.
“Yeah. Just… sitting with you.”
Ilya hums, something fond and quiet in it.
“I like that plan.”
They sit like that for a moment, the fire low, the sounds of the house and the yard threading easily through the space between them.
Jacob huffs a quiet laugh at nothing in particular, then goes still again. His hands fidget in his lap for a second before he presses them flat against his knees like he’s trying to hold himself steady.
There’s a pause.
“I think…” Jacob starts, then stops, recalibrates. “I think you’ve been a little… quieter. Recently.”
Ilya doesn’t answer straight away.
He doesn’t deflect either. He just listens.
Jacob pushes on, a little braver now that he’s started.
“And slower,” he adds. “Like… when you’re tired but not just tired.”
Ilya lets out a quiet breath through his nose, gaze drifting out toward the trees for a second.
“That’s very specific,” he says gently.
Jacob shrugs, smaller this time.
“I’ve seen it before.”
There’s no accusation in it. Just observation. Familiarity.
A beat passes, then another.
Jacob glances down briefly, then back up again, voice softer when he continues. “I know you get like this sometimes. I just… it feels like it stayed a bit longer this time.”
Ilya is quiet for a moment.
“I didn’t really notice,” he admits.
“I did,” Jacob says, a little quicker, then steadies. “Not in a bad way. Just… I notice you. We care about you, papa. We see you.”
lya’s mouth presses faintly at that, something in his expression giving way in a way he doesn’t try to hide.
He turns his head slightly, looking at Jacob properly now, taking him in with a kind of attention that lingers.
Jacob keeps going, because stopping now feels worse.
“It know Babulya’s anniversary wasn't too long ago,” Jacob says, voice softer now. “I know you get sad around then. That makes sense. I just…” He hesitates, then looks up properly, meeting Ilya’s eyes; his own eyes. “It feels like it stayed a bit longer this time.”
He pauses before continuing, pace slightly quickening as if becoming aware of the weight of the conversation.
“I just wanted to check,” he says. “Because you always tell us that if something feels off, we should say it. And not wait until it gets bigger.”
Ilya lets out a soft breath that almost turns into a laugh.
“You’re quoting me now?”
Jacob’s mouth tips up a little.
“It’s good advice.”
“It is,” Ilya says, quieter.
Jacob shifts in his seat, then nudges his shoulder again, gentler this time.
“You don’t have to fix it,” he adds. “I know it doesn’t work like that. But you’re not doing it on your own. You know that, right?”
Ilya looks away for a moment, blinking once, twice.
“I know,” he says, softer than he means to.
Jacob nods.
“Okay.”
Another pause settles, easier this time.
“You know Rhys..” Jacob says after a moment, voice turning thoughtful, “his dad… isn’t like you. Or like Dad.” He frowns slightly, trying to get it right. “He doesn’t really listen. Or notice things. Rhys gets upset a lot at school, and it’s usually because of stuff at home.”
Ilya’s attention sharpens, his expression shifting into something more focused and kind of stunned.. Jacob isn’t a child who struggles to express himself. He’s perceptive, steady in a way that often reads older than he is, but this level of clarity, this kind of emotional precision, especially from a pre-teen is almost shocking.
“I’m really glad you’re my papa,” Jacob continues, words coming even quicker now, like they’ve been waiting. “And that Dad is… Dad. You actually see us. And you talk to us. Even about hard things. I don’t think everyone gets that.”
Ilya looks at him then, fully, and there’s no disguising the emotion in his eyes.
“You make it very easy to see you,” he says quietly. “All of you.”
Jacob’s mouth twitches.
The back door slides open behind them.
“Dinner!” Theo calls before turning back and running in.
With that, Lena skids to a stop somewhere nearby, abandoning her game and protective gear immediately at the word.
Jacob glances toward the house, then back at Ilya.
Ilya reaches for him without thinking, squeezing his hand briefly, grounding and grateful all at once.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For telling me. For noticing.”
Jacob shrugs, but he doesn’t pull his hand away.
“I’m glad you did,” Ilya continues. “It matters. You being honest like that… it matters.”
He pauses for a second, choosing his words carefully in a way that Jacob will recognise.
“You don’t need to worry,” he adds, softer now. “I think I’ve just been… in my head a bit more than usual. Thinking about things.” A small breath. “But I’m happy. With your dad. With you. All of you.”
Jacob studies him for a second, like he’s checking the truth of it, then nods.
“Okay.”
“I’ll call Galina,” Ilya adds, almost as an afterthought, though it isn’t one. “Set something up. Just to keep things on track.”
Jacob’s shoulders ease, something in him settling.
“Good,” he says simply.
Ilya smiles at that, something warmer this time, and gives his hand one last squeeze before standing.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go see if we’re about to be poisoned.”
“I heard that!” Theo calls from inside.
Dinner is loud in the way that only their dinners ever are.
Lena talks over everyone, recounting goals no one fully saw. Theo defends every part of the meal like it’s being professionally judged. Shane leans back in his chair, watching it all unfold with a kind of quiet satisfaction he doesn’t try to hide.
Ilya sits in the middle of it, letting it wash over him.
He watches Jacob reach for more food, steady and at ease. Watches Lena gesture wildly, completely unfiltered. Watches Theo explain something with absolute certainty that may or may not be correct.
And then his gaze shifts to Shane.
It lingers there for a moment longer than necessary.
Shane looks up like he feels it, their eyes meeting across the table in a way that is familiar, instinctive. There’s a question there, subtle but present. Ilya answers it without speaking, something in his expression easing, settling.
Shane’s mouth softens in response, just slightly, but it’s enough.
The conversation continues around them, but Ilya feels himself more present in it now, more anchored. The quiet weight that had been sitting just under the surface has shifted, not gone, but lighter. Named. Shared.
He didn’t notice it slipping.
But Jacob did.
And he said something.
Ilya glances back at him briefly, something close to wonder threading through the fondness.
They built this.
Not just the life. Not just the space. This. The honesty. The safety. The way their children move through the world without having to hide the parts of themselves that matter.
Across the table, Shane catches his eye again, and this time there’s something else in it too, a familiar spark that sits somewhere between amusement and something quieter, deeper, the kind of understanding that has never needed words between them.
It has been a few days since they have had a moment that belongs only to them, the kind they used to fall into without thinking. Sick kids, restless nights, the low-level chaos of life when it tips slightly out of rhythm. The twins are only just getting back to themselves after whatever they picked up from the Pikes, and everything has revolved around that in the way it always does, without question, without complaint.
But now, sitting here, there is space again.
Not a lot. Not uninterrupted. Just enough.
The awareness of it threads quietly between them, woven into the easy rhythm of the evening, into the way Shane’s gaze lingers for half a second longer than necessary, into the way Ilya doesn’t look away straight away. It isn’t urgent, and it isn’t something they need to chase. It sits there instead, steady and certain, something already understood.
Later, it promises.
When the house is quieter. When the children are settled. When the world narrows again, just slightly, to the two of them.
Ilya lets his gaze drift from Shane back to the table, to the life laid out in front of him in all its noise and movement. He takes it in properly, not just seeing it but feeling it, the warmth of it, the fullness. The way everything overlaps and spills into each other without needing to be managed too carefully. The kind of chaos that only exists when something is secure enough to hold it.
It settles in his chest, not sharp or overwhelming, but steady.
This.
All of it.
This is what they built.