Chapter Text
Ilya sat at the kitchen island, iPad propped up, that week’s episode of Criminal Minds playing, as he poured himself a bowl of Lucky Charms.
“I don’t know how you eat that crap or how you watch a show like that with breakfast.”
“What?” Ilya asked, laughing with a mouthful of cereal. “Is good show. Sicarious is very good character.”
Shane shook his head, as he assembled the ingredients for his morning protein smoothie next to the Vitamix. “Ugh, I’m almost out of protein powder again. I need to do a Costco run.”
“Shane, just add to the grocery order. Or Claudia can pick up.” Ilya turned back to the iPad, and Shane tried to ignore the violent noises coming from it.
“They never get the right stuff and then I end up having to go to the store anyway.” This was only partially true, and not something Shane was going to admit to. He was still having a hard time giving up so many tasks to staff.
It was something that still baffled Shane a bit, just how much Ilya delegated to other people. Practically speaking, it made sense, he was able to focus his attention on his career, and Shane. And, it seemed, his diverse portfolio. Which could have been a full time job in and of itself.
But Costco runs, that was the one of the last things Shane had been reluctant to give up.
So, the latest shenanigans began, as they did, with Ilya involving himself in something Shane had developed a systematic approach to over the years.
Shane went every third Thursday he wasn’t on the road. It was often enough that he could replenish fresh foods and not too often that he was wasting anything. It was the perfect schedule.
He was going to go this coming Thursday, after practice, alone, the way he liked to: he’d discovered that weekday afternoons were optimal, specifically Thursday afternoons, the warehouse half-empty, the shelves pre-stocked for the weekend rush, and before the “dads on the way home” rush hit the store. He always had a list in his pocket, always hand written on paper, and on a good day was in and out in less than forty-five minutes.
He had mumbled, mostly to himself, "I'll do the Costco run Thursday, after practice," writing out the list, sipping coffee and opening cabinets and the refrigerator in between. He was nearly out of the things he actually cared about: the bulk frozen blueberries, the protein, the unsweetened almond milk and the frozen spinach for his morning smoothies. All of which the grocery service had messed up or substituted at least once. "You've got the media thing in the afternoon, so I'll just…"
"I want to come." Ilya said, interrupting Shane’s monologue, and what sounded like a vicious TV murder.
Shane looked over at him. "You have the media thing."
"I will move the media thing."
"You can't move the media thing. It's the team…" Shane stopped. "Wait. You want to come to Costco?"
Ilya set down his spoon. "Yes. I have never been."
Shane's coffee stopped halfway to his mouth.
"You've never been to a Costco?"
"No."
"Never?"
"This is what I said." Ilya nodded, pouring himself more cereal.
Shane set the cup down and turned his whole upper body towards Ilya. "Ilya. You're thirty-three years old."
"Thirty-one."
"You're thirty-one years old and you have never been inside a Costco."
"There was no reason." Ilya shrugged, and paused the show. "In Boston, I had Sylvia. She did the house things. In Ottawa, Claudia, grocery delivery. And Amazon." He said Amazon as if the ‘duh’ was a given. He also used the names of the housekeepers. He never referred to them as ‘the housekeeper.’ "Things arrive. You do not go and get them. This is genius idea, Shane. I do not need to spend off-day waiting in line at Loblaws."
"We have a housekeeper here," Shane said. "That's not the…"
"Claudia. Yes. Tuesday and Friday." Ilya nodded, as if this only proved his point. "And the man for the cars. And the grocery service I still arrange, which you cancel, and which I then arrange again." He said, nodding, as if they were in agreement, even though they weren’t. "I pay these people, Shane. This is the purpose of paying them.The errands happen, and we do not have to do them. And yet." He looked at Shane with a tenderness that was, underneath it, genuinely puzzled. "You insist on doing your own errands. You drive yourself to the store. You stand in the line. I have never understood this. You could be resting. You could be with me."
Shane was looking at him with an expression that was a trademark combination of fondness and exasperation - the one that was present in almost every conversation related to living together, since Shane had traded to Ottawa the year before, and they cohabitated fulltime.
Shane was only finally getting to the point where he didn’t push back on Ilya employing so many other people to do things Shane did himself without a single thought. Like changing the oil in the car or getting tires inflated. Or, buying household goods.
Ilya ate another spoonful, unbothered. "So you take me. First time. I would like to see it."
"Fine. I'll go Thursday on my own and take you the next…"
"Нет.” No. "First time, I go with you. Not next time. This time."
Shane opened his mouth to argue and found he didn’t really want to. He was somewhat taken with the idea that Ilya, who did virtually none of his own errands or household tasks, was so insistent on accompanying him to a Costco.
He looked at the calendar on his phone which was color-coded, because of course it was, and scrolled through the week. Both of their lives, outlined in small, digital blocks. Practice. Media. Games. Trainers. Conference calls. Two flights for the quick turnaround to Detroit. The foundation thing. Ilya's commitments, his own. There was exactly one block of time when the two of them were both free and both in the city, and it stared back at him like a cruel joke.
"The only time we can go is this morning. Saturday." The word was Saturday, but what Shane was really saying was ‘fuck no.’
"So we go this morning," Ilya said, smiling, like a man who was getting what he wanted with almost zero effort. "I do not see the problem."
"The problem is that it's a fucking Saturday, Ilya. Saturday morning Costco is the single worst environment a human being can voluntarily enter. Everyone in the city is there at once. The aisles are crowded.There are carts the size of small cars, driven by people who have basically turned household errands into a contact sport. " He pressed his fingers to his temples. "I go on quiet weekday afternoons specifically to avoid this. That is the entire point of my..." He coughed. “My schedule.”
Ilya looked at him, unbothered by a single thing Shane had just explained.
Shane looked at him. He clearly did not understand. He could not understand. He had never once stood in a bulk warehouse store surrounded by an incalculable number of people on a Saturday in his life.
Shane took a breath when he realized Ilya was just not getting it, and reached for the only language that would explain just how insane a Costco on a Saturday morning would be. "Okay. Think of it like: game seven, wild card playoff run. On the road. Their barn, sold out, everyone on their feet screaming, your line isn’t connecting, there’s no room anywhere on the ice, someone in your lane every single time you touch the puck, the whole building wanting you to lose. And your goalie has a bruised rib." He spread his hands. "That. For two hours. With carts, not skates."
He watched Ilya process the new description. A slow smirk spread across his face, instead of horror, it was closer to anticipation.
"We will see," he said, and finished his cereal, like he was Ilya Rozanov, who was everything the media said he was on the ice: a man who enjoyed nothing more than being a holy fucking terror in a hostile barn.
"That was not… Ilya. That was not a fucking sales pitch."
"You will experience new things. We will experience them together," Ilya said. "With your husband. It will be an adventure. Like trade to Ottawa."
"It will be a zoo."
"Good," Ilya said, and meant it, which was the first warning sign Shane should have heeded, and did not.