Work Text:
Shane Hollander was built for data entry. Ilya Rozanov was well aware of that. He was well aware of it because the first time Ilya sat down to help his very beautiful, very sweet, very hot husband enter the registration forms into the group’s spreadsheet, he was given the deadliest glare of their entire relationship.
“I help,” Ilya stated, “sorry it took so long for me to join, Anya wanted extra walk today”
“I’m not mad you’re late, but you’re going to ruin the system” Shane deadpans, no longer glaring at Ilya, but back at the desktop screen.
“So you teach me this system?”
“Don’t want to, want to do it myself.” Shane is starting to mumble, clearly reaching his frustration threshold for this conversation.
“Got it” Ilya frowned, knowing logically that his husband didn’t mean anything by it; however, logic didn’t stop the sting in his chest at being dismissed. He left the office, heading towards the kitchen. The longer he and Shane have been together, permanently, the more comfortable Shane had been unmasking around Ilya. Ilya adores his husband, but sometimes Shane’s bluntness poked Ilya just wrong, reinforcing the more fragile parts of his ego.
Ilya wasn’t focused or driven like his husband. Sure, he’s high achieving, but he doesn’t throw himself all the way into something the way Shane does. He doesn’t “lock in” about things easily—hockey was an exception, but even that was only when he was at work. It’s his job, after all. Shane is better than him and probably always has been, and he works for it more than anyone.
Shane works harder than everyone on everything. That’s his mission, that’s what will show everyone that he deserves everything he’s gotten. Paramount to that, though, is that he makes it seem effortless. He is the best because he works for it whether it’s hockey, his career, or founding a goddamn mental health nonprofit, Shane Hollander is locking the fuck in and dismissing anyone who breaks his flow. That includes his husband, who was now in the kitchen getting water as loudly as possible, apparently.
“Ilya can you keep it down? I’m trying to work!” Shane hollers across the house.
Ilya dropped the glass he was holding, and it shattered loudly. “Blyat! Anya-- place.”
Shane sighed deeply, standing to go see the damage “Ilya, what did you do—”
“Stay out” Ilya exclaimed as he saw Shane approach, “is okay, I’m fine. It’s fine.”
“Ilya let me help you…”
“No”
“Why not?” Shane was becoming irritated, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Is not your problem, I sweep up. Please leave” Ilya’s voice pitched up at the end, the façade beginning to crack.
“Ilya I’m coming in, don’t move”
“Shane, stop. Don’t try to fix this. Stop trying to fix this, I can do it myself regardless of what you think. I don’t need you to fix this. Please stop trying to fix this please stop please stop please stop.” Ilya is beginning to repeat himself, stuck in the loop in his brain.
“Okay, I’m stopping baby.” Shane acquiesces, hands up and away from the broom closet he had been reaching towards. He steps away, watching Ilya with concern as he shuffles over to the closet and grabs the broom, mumbling to himself as he begins sweeping up the glass.
A minute passes. Two minutes. Five minutes later, Ilya is carefully dumping the third and final dustpan into the trash bin.
Ilya takes a deep breath and shakes his head, a physical indication that he’s clearing his mind. A deep breath in. Hold. Exhale. Repeat. Ilya sinks to the floor, his back against the counter. A quiet “come here” beckons Shane to his side.
Shane sinks to the floor next to him, not saying a word for a minute. Their knees bump together in a light rhythm, a physical tempo to the thrum in Ilya’s head.
“Want to tell me what just happened?”
“You don’t think I can do anything right” Ilya deadpans, staring at their knees determinedly.
Shane stares at his husband incredulously. “Where the fuck did you get that from?” he demands.
“You don’t let me help with camp forms, you say I get a glass of water too loudly, and you don’t let me clean up dropped glass. I get it. I will go to our room and wait until you’re done.” Ilya starts to stand up, groaning a bit as he hauls himself up.
Realization dawns on Shane, and he suddenly feels nauseated. Intentional or not, his “locking in” is locking his husband out. He grabs Ilya’s shoulder, pulling him back to his side.
“Fuck, Ilya. I… I didn’t realize you feel that way when I work on things alone. I’m sorry for making you feel that I didn’t want or appreciate your help.”
“Is fine, is not personal. It’s just—I think sometimes you are so much like your mother that you forget how she makes you feel. Not everything can or should be done by only you. Is like you say, mothering” Ilya explains, smile watery.
“Sm—nevermind. You’re right. I’m sorry that instead of trying to be helpful I was taking away the ability for you to be helped at all.” The guilt was going to eat Shane alive.
Yuna is great, Shane knows he’s super lucky to have not one but two parents who love him and his husband unconditionally; however, he spent all of his formative years basically having his entire life arranged by his mother. Every minute, every meal, every appointment and practice and brand deal was going through five layers of Yuna Hollander™ and her help that also took away his agency. For all of his mother’s love and support and housing, Shane didn’t get to be a real, independent adult who lived truly on his own until he moved in with Ilya. Maybe Shane had overcorrected. Maybe Shane should make a tune-up appointment with his therapist. Maybe the sky is blue, since we’re all just stating obvious facts.
“Stop it, Hollander. I can hear your brain spinning from here.” Ilya sniffs “you cannot optimize a system for being husband. Maybe the sex part, or at least we are pretty close on that. But not the feelings part. I tried. Galina got to say she told me so the next week.”
Shane relaxed a bit, chuckling at the joke. He was mostly relieved that he wasn’t the only one feeling compelled to make their relationship perfect. Shane leans into Ilya, sighing “so do you think we have to keep working on this open and honest communication thing without the end goal of it being perfect? Because I’d be lying if I didn’t say that idea scares the everliving hell out of me.”
“It will be good. I will never consider it ‘work’ if it’s about us.” Ilya says sweetly, wrapping an arm around Shane’s shoulder in an awkward seated half-hug. “okay, time to stand and work on these forms.”
“Will you listen to my five minute crash-course on the system I have?”
“Of course, moya lyubimmy.”
They both rise and return to the office, settling in for what will inevitably long night of fine-tuning coworking.