Chapter Text
It was a hard morning. Shane had woken up before his alarm, but not early enough that he could justify curling into Ilya’s warmth and drifting for another hour. He forced himself to leave the safety of their bed. His stomach crawling up his throat, he moved through the motions of his morning ablutions and made his way to the kitchen where he left his laptop and glasses. As he settled into his chair at the table, he mulled over his to-do list.
-Check his camp email.
-Confirm medical forms for insurance.
-Confirm media obligations.
-Check in with his mom.
-Check in with the other coaches.
-Check in with catering.
-Confirm the updated first aid kits.
-Confirm first-aid training for the coaches.
-Confirm mandatory reporter training for the coaches.
-Confirm camper photographic content permission slips and social media waivers.
-Check in with his mom again that she sent confirmations to the Ontario Camps Association and Canadian Camping Association so they didn’t trigger an audit and lose accreditation and get hammered in the press for having a dangerous camp and being bad role models who were dangers to children because they were gay and bisexual and transgender hockey players who shouldn’t be leading a camp anyways or leading their hockey teams, and they should lose their sponsorships and have their contracts terminated because Ilya would get deported and then he would be alone, alone forever—
Shane closed his eyes and concentrated on the pressure of his glasses against his face. “Stop,” he said into the empty room. “Not helpful.” He focused on the warmth of the sun filtering through the windows and how it felt on his skin as he tried to moderate his breathing.
A few moments later, Shane checked his phone—five unread messages from his mother, all within the last ten minutes. He was so grateful that she was willing to take on the brunt of the Foundation’s work, and working with her felt familiar from the years of her managing his brand deals and public appearances, but so much was riding on this camp going well that he couldn’t leave anything to her alone. His life with Ilya was riding on this camp going well. His mom loved Ilya, would do anything for him because she knew Shane loved him, but the weight of what they were up against meant that Shane needed to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they were safe. And for now, that meant making sure camp went well with no surprises.
Mom: Good morning! I left this morning to get things going at camp. Sorry I didn’t get to see you for breakfast. I have forwarded several emails that need your eyes on them before camp starts.
Mom: Here is the contact for the reporter who is coming to interview you this afternoon. *Shared Contact*
Mom: They are local news, all in French, so I recommend reviewing the questions with Ilya so you can speak for the both of you. I forwarded the prep questions to you and Ilya, but they’re in French too.
Mom: I am still waiting on several photography waivers from campers, and Hayden Pike has not sent in his training certificates. Can you please touch base with him?
Mom: Call me after you’ve had eyes on the emails I forwarded. I want to hear your voice, and I left some banana nut bread in the fridge you might like.
As Shane read through the texts, another message came through from his mom.
Mom: Several parents said they sent in their kids’ medical forms, but they are not in the main camp email. It’s possible they sent them directly to you. Can you check and forward to the main email, please? This is urgent.
Shane sighed and began to type.
Shane: Just getting started. I’m logging onto my email right now. I’ll call in a few minutes.
Shane worked his way through his unread emails. He hated Outlook with a passion and, not for the first time, thought about hiring a personal assistant to handle all of his emails for him. Delete. Delete. Forward to Mom, CC Ilya. Forward to main camp email. Forward to Coaches List. Delete. Flag for follow up. Forward to Mom. Flag for follow up and show to Ilya when he wakes up. Add to Media Requests folder. Delete. And finally, yes, the missing medical forms. He forwarded them to his mom before starting to go through them on his own. Might as well confirm them while he was looking at them.
He opened the camp roster spreadsheet and located the names of the four campers with missing medical forms. All he needed to do was verify that each camper had received a physical that was signed off on by a doctor, note any necessary accommodations, and confirm that the parents signed the form.
The first one was fine, a repeat camper from last year. The second had several allergies, including to kiwis and…eggs? The third had no allergies but would be dropping off a spare inhaler with the head coach. Was that him? Who was that? What age group did the camper fall into? Fuck, why was his mom not here? And the fourth—yep, allergic to eggs too. Two egg allergies.
Shane tried to remember the lunch and snack menus for the week—they definitely were having sandwiches, and some of those sandwiches probably had mayonnaise as an option, and mayonnaise had eggs, right? And what did egg allergies even mean? They were having chicken tenders one day, and didn’t a lot of breading have eggs in it? And maybe the dipping sauces had eggs—how would he know? Didn’t cupcakes have eggs? They were definitely having cupcakes because he and Ilya had gone to a local bakery and put in an order for cupcakes decorated in the different group team colors, and they were going to draw the campers’ chosen numbers on the cupcakes in frosting. The campers would get to have the cupcakes at the closing ceremonies. They planned for gluten free cupcakes, but maybe they should have also planned for vegan cupcakes. Were vegan cupcakes a thing? Did egg allergies only apply to raw eggs? Didn’t cooking the eggs change things—something about the proteins? He needed to call his mom. He needed to confirm with catering. He highlighted the two rows in the spreadsheet so he wouldn’t forget to revise them later. His chest felt tight as he accidentally glanced at the time. Where had the time gone?
As he pulled up his mom’s phone contact, Shane heard footsteps. Ilya, his mind supplied, as he simultaneously fumbled with his phone and tried to click away from the spreadsheet back to the medical forms.
“Good morning,” Ilya said.
“Hey,” Shane said. Where did the forms go? “Just going over the medical forms for the kids. There are so many different things. A couple of the kids are allergic to eggs.”
“Then we won’t throw eggs at them.”
Shane flexed his jaw. He didn’t know if his mom had gotten ingredient labels for all the food, and it was serious. What if a kid got hurt and had to go to the hospital? This was Shane’s responsibility. It was serious. It had to be serious.
“It’s serious,” he said. “What if something goes wrong?” What if I hurt someone?
“Nothing did last year,” Ilya said.
Shane couldn’t bear to look at Ilya. Things had gone wrong last year, at least for Shane. He remembered when one of the campers in his group refused to eat lunch because she wasn’t hungry, and the angry conversation with her mother the next morning because apparently the girl hadn’t been offered a snack and came home hungry, and didn’t she pay for meals, and yes, she expected the meal fee to be partially refunded. His mom had stepped in, and everything was fine, but Shane just couldn’t—
“I know,” he said, finally, not wanting to get into it. “But it still could.”
Shane felt more than saw Ilya move toward him. He leaned into Ilya’s hands as they pressed into his shoulders, and God, why couldn’t they stay in bed today? Everything felt different with Ilya’s warmth at his back, more bearable and less daunting.
“It will probably happen,” Ilya said, his tone a little softer. “Someone getting sick or hurt. But it will be okay. Is hockey. And kids.”
Shane closed his eyes and tried to put out the fire in his brain. He concentrated on the pressure of Ilya’s fingers on his scalp as they ran through the hair at the nape of his neck. “I don’t want this week to be a disaster,” he confessed as he tried to rub away the pressure in his eyes. If it’s a disaster, then it’s my fault, he didn’t say.
“You are worrying too much,” Ilya said.
Obviously, Shane thought, trying to breathe around the pressure building in his chest.
“Easy for you to say,” he muttered, unable to hold it back. He felt his phone buzz in his hand, probably his mom again. He never hit send on that email. “Your mom hasn’t been texting all week with stressful details about this damn camp.” His computer screen lit up with another email notification, and Ilya stepped away from him.
Shane missed the warmth already.
“No,” Ilya said. “She has not.”
Something about his voice disquieted Shane, who turned to see Ilya move toward the coffee machine. With his back to Shane, Ilya’s movements seemed muted as he reached for the coffee grinder and whole beans. It was like he was angling his face away from Shane.
Another vibration from his phone, 'Mom' appearing on the screen, and then—Your mom hasn’t been texting all week.
“Ilya,” Shane breathed. He pushed his laptop away and stood from the chair, approaching Ilya cautiously. “Ilya, I shouldn’t have said that.”
Ilya continued to work on the coffee without turning to look at Shane. “It’s fine, is nothing. You are very worried. The camp is important.”
Shane moved closer and wrapped his arms around Ilya from behind, pressing his chest against his back and burying his face in Ilya’s curls. “Not more important than you,” he insisted. “I’m sorry.”
Shane listened to the gurgle of the coffee maker and the hiss of the steam as the water heated, and he let out a breath of relief when he felt Ilya turn in his arms to face him.
“It’s fine,” Ilya repeated. “I know you did not sleep well—I felt it. Is nothing, an accident.”
Shane adjusted his arms to pull Ilya closer and buried his face in Ilya’s neck. It was one of his favorite places on Ilya’s body. He liked to feel for Ilya’s pulse, and he liked the way his smell gathered there, strengthened by whatever sweat was leftover from sleep, not yet washed away by Ilya’s morning shower.
“It was an accident,” Shane agreed. And he hadn’t slept well, that was true too. “But it isn’t nothing.” He shifted away slightly so he could try to catch Ilya’s eyes. “Can you just, I don’t know, call me an asshole and let me kiss it better?”
Ilya finally looked at him, and there was a hint of a smile. “Asshole,” he said, and to Shane, it sounded like I love you.
Shane’s hand caught Ilya’s jaw and tilted it slightly. He kissed Ilya, and then kissed him again, and then one of the mole’s on his cheek, and then another on his collarbone. He did not leave as Ilya rotated again to pour the coffee. He kept his head hooked over Ilya’s shoulder and watched his hands move.
“Are you going to let me go?” Ilya asked. “Can we at least sit down?”
No, Shane thought. I never want to move from right here. I am right where I want to be. Forever. He stepped back and let Ilya walk to the kitchen table, anyway.
He sat in his chair and stretched his legs so he could catch one of Ilya’s feet between his own. Shane regretted not closing his laptop earlier because he saw his mom had sent him two more emails in the past fifteen minutes. He made note of the time and closed the laptop—he had time for Ilya.
“You can answer them,” Ilya said with a nod to the laptop. “I know we need to go soon.”
“No, it’s okay,” Shane said. “Enjoy your coffee. How’d you sleep?”
Ilya’s eyes dimmed just a little bit, even as he answered. “Fine. Better than you, probably.”
“Probably,” Shane agreed, but he wasn’t sure. Some of the pressure climbed back into his throat, and he swallowed against the rush of saliva. He couldn’t help but repeat himself again. “I am sorry.”
“Shane,” Ilya closed his eyes. “I know you are sorry. I know it was an accident. I know these things, and I forgive you. Focusing on it does not make me feel better.”
“Right,” Shane said. “Yeah, you’re right.” And he caught himself before he said sorry again. “I’m just—”
Ilya exhaled loudly and set his coffee down on the table. He rubbed his hands against his face roughly. “You are just being you. It’s fine. I am an asshole yesterday, with the dirty socks. Today, you are an asshole because you are worried about the camps. Do I need to kiss you?” Ilya asked, both teasing and serious all the same. “Do I need to make it better?”
“No,” Shane insisted. He needed to pull himself together. Ilya did not need to be the one taking care of him in this moment. “You already make everything better. You make everything better.” A pause, and then, “I am worried about the camps, though. Just, what if something goes wrong and someone figures us out?”
Ilya took a sip of his coffee. “We are good at protecting this thing,” he said carefully. “We have been doing it for years. And we did it last year.”
Shane was quiet for a moment. He imagined the emails piling up in his inbox right now, and it was like he could feel the early morning slipping through his fingers, and why was he like this? Why was his brain like this? “I’m worried that something will go wrong, and we’ll get audited or sued or something, and we’ll be found out, and everything will be—fuck, I don’t know—ruined. I can’t make my brain stop.”
“Hollander, I need you to breathe.” When had Ilya gotten out of his chair? When had he crouched down in front of Shane, folding his arms across Shane’s knees?
Shane focused on the weight of Ilya’s forearms on his legs, the subtle pull of his leg hairs pushed against their growth pattern, the warmth of their skin together. Five things you can feel, his high school counselor’s voice said in his mind.
Ilya reached for one of Shane’s hands and pushed it into his curls, encouraging him to pull gently. Shane focused on the texture of Ilya’s hair and the shape of his head. All of his five things came back to Ilya, which felt inevitable and precious, even if all he could taste was bile.
“Are you with me?” Ilya asked after a minute or so.
“Yeah,” Shane breathed. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Ilya smiled, kissed both of Shane’s knees, and stood, his own knees creaking from being bent for so long. Shane let his hand fall naturally to Ilya’s waist, and he slumped forward to bury his face in Ilya’s stomach. Ilya gripped the back of his neck firmly and slowly moved his thumb against the hairs there. Shane tried to match his breathing to Ilya’s. He wished he could listen to Ilya’s heartbeat. They were quiet, and Shane let his mind drift through the silence.
A few moments later—or maybe longer, Shane wasn’t sure—Ilya spoke. “I will answer the emails. You will eat your chia yogurt with berries and toast me the banana nut bread Yuna left for us. I will ask you for help if I need it.”
And, well, it wasn’t that Shane thought Ilya was incapable of helping. But they were his responsibility, and everything needed to be perfect, and what if something went wrong because he didn’t check?
“Are you sure?” He asked, and left it at that.
Ilya heard what he didn’t say and pulled at Shane’s ear a little bit.
“You think because I am Russian, I cannot read? I do not have email?” He asked in exaggerated indignation. “No one will ever believe me when I say you are an asshole, but it is true.”
Shane rolled his eyes, but he wordlessly acceded to Ilya’s redirection and stood to open the refrigerator anyway. Chia yogurt sounded okay, better than it had earlier at least. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Some of the emails are in French!”
Ilya smirked. “Then it is good I have a boyfriend with such a good mouth who also speaks French.”
And, well, true.
Shane lost himself in breakfast preparations. He pulled out the chia yogurt and berries and set them aside. He also grabbed the banana nut bread and salted butter for Ilya. He carefully cut a pad of the butter and placed it at the center of a slice, before putting the bread in the toaster oven. After washing and patting the berries dry, he dished up a large serving for himself and a slightly smaller serving for Ilya, and when the toaster oven dinged, he breathed in the smell of the salted butter and caramelized crust as he placed the slice on Ilya’s plate and carried their food over to the table.
Shane smiled at Ilya working intently at the laptop; he put down their food and went back to get silverware and refill Ilya’s coffee which had gone cold in the meantime. As he returned to the table, Ilya seemed to reach a stopping point and pushed the laptop away.
“Smells good,” Ilya said. “You didn’t want to try the bread?” His eyebrows furrowed, Ilya made as if to cut the slice in half and share it.
Shane shook his head with an easy smile. “No, not right now. I’m thinking we should bring the rest of it to camp for the other coaches, and I’ll maybe try a bite of it then. I’m having extra yogurt and berries.”
“Ahh, Mr. Fiber,” Ilya teased. “Mr. Gut Health.” He reached over to steal a blackberry from Shane’s breakfast.
Shane swatted his hand away. “You have your own, asshole,” he said, laughing. “And you shouldn’t tease me about things integral to our mutual enjoyment of sex.”
“You are correct.” Ilya feigned seriousness. “I could never do this to my lover.”
Shane huffed a laugh. “How were the emails?” he asked, and tucked in to his own breakfast.
“Good,” Ilya said through a mouthful of banana bread. “I told the catering we need egg salad sandwiches all days.”
Shane gave him a look, and Ilya smiled. It reached his eyes this time, and Shane was reasonably sure his heart skipped a beat.
“Just jokes, moy lyubimyy,” Ilya assured him. “I emailed Yuna about the eggs, and she says they will check with the parents at drop off, but they have ingredient cards for the food just in case. And I answered the other confirmations on your list. All good here.”
“What about the interview? There’s a local news crew coming this afternoon,” Shane said. “It’s French, so I’ll talk to them, but I wanted to go over the questions with you so we’re on the same page. I can translate them after breakfast.”
“There is this thing now, actually,” Ilya countered, pointing a spoon of yogurt at Shane. “It translated the questions for me, and it is okay sometimes when the sentences are easy. Maybe you have heard of this?”
“Wow,” Shane said. “What happened to you liking it when I used my mouth? Also, you shouldn’t trust Google Translate.”
“Ah,” Ilya acknowledged. “But Google Translate helps me enough to save your mouth for other things, more important things, you see?”
“Oh, yeah?” Shane asked dryly.
“Yeah,” Ilya said. And there was that shit-eating grin, framed by a face full of affection and bathed in sunlight.
“You know, you’re unfairly handsome in the mornings,” Shane said.
Ilya’s grin softened. “In the mornings, solnyshko, I say the same of you.”
~fin~