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"Max, when was the last time you saw the floor in here?" Shane's voice carried from the doorway, half-amused, half-exasperated.
Max glanced up from his laptop, blinking as if just realizing the state of his room—clothes strewn over the chair, hockey gear piled in the corner, notebooks scattered across the desk. "Uh," he said eloquently, pushing a hand through his hair. "Yesterday?"
Shane sighed, stepping inside to scoop up a stray hoodie. "You and Noah going out later?"
"Yeah," Max murmured, shutting his laptop. "Movie night at his place." He glanced at Shane as his dad moved deeper into the room, picking up stray socks and tossing them toward the hamper. Shane's routine was comforting—methodical, predictable—until he paused near the closet, shoulders stiffening. Max frowned. "Dad?"
Shane didn't answer right away. Instead, he bent down, fingers brushing against something tucked half-under the dresser. When he straightened, the soft fabric of a pleated skirt dangled from his grip, the deep burgundy folds swaying slightly. Max's stomach dropped.
The silence was deafening. Shane turned the skirt over in his hands, brow furrowed, before looking at Max. "This yours?" His voice was careful, neutral in a way that made Max's throat tighten.
Max's breath caught, fingers tightening around the edge of his laptop. He could lie. He could say it was Alyssa’s, or that Noah had left it here somehow—but the way Shane was looking at him, steady and patient, made the words stick in his throat. Noah wouldn’t own a skirt like that. Alyssa wouldn’t be caught dead in burgundy.
"Is okay," came a familiar voice from the doorway. Ilya leaned against the frame, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He’d always had a way of appearing exactly when he was needed, even if Max hadn’t realized he was.
Shane held up the skirt, turning it toward Ilya as if for confirmation. Ilya just shrugged. "Is fabric. Not crime."
Max swallowed hard, his pulse thudding in his ears. The room felt too small suddenly, the walls pressing in. Shane’s gaze flicked between him and Ilya, the skirt still dangling from his fingers. "I just—" Shane started, then stopped, shaking his head slightly. "I wasn’t accusing you of anything, kid. I’m trying to understand."
"I know," Max whispered, fingers twisting in the hem of his shirt. His throat burned. He hadn’t planned for this—hadn’t planned for anyone to ever know.
Ilya pushed off the doorframe and stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He crossed the room in two strides and took the skirt from Shane, folding it neatly before setting it on Max’s bed. Then he sat down beside it, elbows resting on his knees. "Is yours," he said, not a question.
Max nodded, his fingers curling into fists against his thighs. "Yeah," he admitted, voice barely audible. "It's mine." The confession hung in the air, heavy and fragile all at once.
Shane exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair before sitting on the edge of Max's desk. His expression softened, the initial confusion giving way to something gentler. "Okay," he said simply. "That's okay."
Ilya reached out, nudging Max's knee with his own. "Is not big deal," he said, matter-of-fact. "You like skirt? Good. Looks nice."
Max let out a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping slightly under the weight of his fathers' unwavering attention. He hadn't expected this—hadn't planned for the moment his carefully tucked-away secret would be laid bare between them. His fingers trembled as he reached for the folded skirt, tracing the edge of the fabric with tentative fingertips. "I didn't—I mean, I wasn't sure how you'd react," he admitted, voice cracking under the strain of vulnerability.
Shane leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze steady and warm. "Max, kid," he said softly, "you could've told us." There was no reproach in his tone, just quiet reassurance.
Ilya hummed in agreement, nudging Max's knee again. "Is not like we care what you wear," he added, shrugging. "You happy? Good. That's all."
Max let out a shaky laugh, blinking fast against the sudden sting in his eyes. "I just—didn’t want it to be a thing," he admitted, fingers still tracing the skirt’s pleats. "Like, I know it shouldn’t matter, but... hockey locker rooms aren’t exactly progressive."
Shane exhaled through his nose, a flicker of understanding passing over his face. "Yeah," he murmured. "I get that." He rubbed his thumb over his wedding band, a habit Max had noticed he did when thinking hard. "But you know Noah wouldn’t care, right?"
Max’s cheeks warmed. "He doesn’t. He’s the one who bought it for me." The confession slipped out before he could stop it, and he immediately ducked his head, heart pounding.
Shane's eyebrows shot up, but before he could say anything, Ilya let out a bark of laughter. "Good taste," he said, nodding approvingly. "Noah pick color too?"
Max bit his lip, glancing up hesitantly. "Yeah. He said it'd look good with my eyes." The words came out small, but there was a warmth underneath them—a quiet pride in being seen, in being known so intimately by someone he loved.
Shane's expression softened further. He reached out, ruffling Max's hair affectionately. "Kid, you could show up to dinner in a tutu and we'd still love you. Hell, your papa wore a feather boa to Pride last year."
Ilya scoffed, swatting Shane’s shoulder lightly. "Was fashion statement," he muttered, but there was no real heat in it—just the familiar rhythm of their banter. Max watched them, the knot in his chest loosening slightly at the normalcy of it all. His fathers weren’t staring at him like he’d grown a second head. They weren’t angry. They were just... them.
Shane grinned, nudging Ilya back before turning to Max. "Point is," he said, voice steady, "you don’t have to hide this stuff from us. Or from Noah, apparently." There was a teasing lilt to his words, but his eyes were warm. "You’re allowed to like what you like, kid. Even if it’s not what everyone expects."
Max swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the skirt. "I know," he murmured. "It’s just—hard, sometimes." The admission felt raw, like peeling back a layer of skin. "I don’t want people to think I’m—I don’t know. Different."
Ilya leaned forward, his sharp features softening in a way that always reminded Max of ice melting after a long winter. "Different is good," he said firmly, tapping Max's knee with his knuckles. "Is how we get interesting people in world." His accent curled around the words like steam rising from hot pavement—warm, familiar, grounding.
Shane nodded, his fingers still absently spinning his wedding band. "And for what it’s worth," he added, voice low, "you wouldn’t be the first hockey player to like skirts. Remember that guy from Seattle? Played in the league ten years, won two Cups, wore sequins on his days off." He smirked. "Media called him ‘eccentric’ right up until he retired. Then they called him a legend."
Max huffed a quiet laugh, wiping hastily at his eyes with the heel of his hand. "Yeah, well, I’m not exactly planning to wear this to practice," he muttered, but the tightness in his chest was easing, breath coming easier.
The tension in the room dissipated like fog under morning sunlight, leaving behind something softer, warmer. Max let out a slow breath, his fingers still tangled in the fabric of the skirt, but his grip wasn’t as tight anymore. Shane watched him for a moment before pushing off the desk with a quiet sigh. "Alright," he said, clapping his hands together lightly. "Room’s still a disaster, kid. You want help cleaning before Noah gets here?"
Max blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift back to mundane normalcy—like the skirt wasn’t still sitting between them, like his heart wasn’t still thumping unevenly in his chest. "Uh," he managed eloquently, glancing around at the chaos of his room. "Yeah. Sure."
Ilya snorted, standing up and stretching his arms over his head. "Is good plan," he said, already bending to scoop up a stray hoodie from the floor. "Maybe find floor again, da?"
Max hesitated for a second, then carefully set the skirt on his pillow before standing up. He grabbed a discarded water bottle from his nightstand, tossing it into the recycling bin with more force than necessary. "You guys really don't care?" he asked, voice small but steadier now.
Shane paused mid-motion, halfway through folding one of Max's Bruins jerseys. "About the skirt?" He shook his head, smoothing out the fabric. "Nah. You could wear it to Thanksgiving dinner and the worst you'd get from us is a comment about pairing it with better shoes." He shot Max a quick grin. "Your sister, though—she'd roast you about the pleats."
The tension in Max's shoulders eased further at that. He rolled his eyes, bending to pick up a stray pair of socks. "Alyssa would burn my entire wardrobe if she got the chance."
Ilya chuckled, tossing a crumpled t-shirt toward the hamper—it missed, landing half in, half out—but he didn’t seem to care. "Da, but is same girl who wore sequined hockey jersey to school last week," he pointed out, shrugging. "She has no room to talk."
Shane snorted, shaking his head as he smoothed out another jersey—Max’s away one, the black and gold fabric worn soft from years of wear. "Yeah, well, good luck telling her that." He glanced at Max, his expression softening. "You good, kid?"
Max nodded, his fingers brushing against the skirt one last time before he turned back to the mess of his room. "Yeah," he murmured, and for the first time since Shane had picked up that damn piece of fabric, he meant it.