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It starts with a post somewhere online, bullet point fun facts on some random slideshow.
"90% of men never receive flowers in their lifetime, except for the day of their funeral."
It ought to be nothing, really - a statistic, a handful of letters, calibri font in red text on pink - but Shane can't get it out of his head.
All week it's the only thing he can think about. He thinks back; he knows he's never received flowers. He asks his dad, he asks Hayden - neither of them have ever received flowers. They seem politely confused by the mere suggestion that they'd receive flowers. It seems to inspire them both, because both Jackie and Yuna post pictures of bouquets on their stories later that week, but Jackie and Yuna don't return the favour. Nobody expects them to, Shane supposes. Men give flowers, they don't get flowers. That's just how it is.
It's not a big deal, really, but Shane just can't let it go - the fact that men never receive flowers until they're no longer there to know about it. Like some kind of secret, a token of devotion that everyone can know about except them. And, well, Shane's had enough of keeping his devotion secret.
It takes seven days for the little bullet point fact to carve itself to the inside of Shane's skull, but when he actually decides to do something about it, it's a split second decision. He's out for a run around their neighbourhood - something he does frequently enough that nobody really bothers him about it even when they do recognise him - when he sees a patch of daffodils peeking out from the shrubbery on the edge of the path, blooming impatiently despite the still-present chill of winter. They're the first flowers Shane has seen all year.
If this was a movie, Shane would stop in his tracks, pick the daffodils, and spring home to his husband. Shane's not quite that dramatic, though. Instead, he runs on by, because he doesn't want to take someone's flowers that they've planted and must be looking forward to seeing. But he does extend his run by five kilometres to run back towards the shopping street he usually avoids because it's too crowded, dodging pedestrians and the occasional double-taking hockey fan until he reaches the florist he knows he's walked past dozens of times before and never gone in. It's opposite Ilya's favourite Russian restaurant, Shane notices, and wonders how he never thought to do this before.
90%. It seems ridiculous.
Shane doesn't need to spend a long time in the florists. He doesn't go in with a plan other than no lilies - too on the nose - but within ten seconds of entering, his eyes land on a bouquet of yellow and white flowers that make Shane think of Ilya's hair in sunlight, accented with little blue flowers and tied with a forget-me-not blue ribbon. The whole arrangement just screams Ilya, and Shane needs to see it in his arms. He picks it up and walks to the counter without another thought.
"Just these, thanks," Shane mumbles, reaching for his phone to pay.
"In trouble, are ya?" the middle aged lady behind the counter jokes.
Shane blinks, confused. It takes a second for him to realise that from her perspective, he's a man who has obviously literally run to a florist's in the middle of the day. It makes sense, he supposes. He shakes his head, about to make some generic small talky comment, but he feels strangely compelled towards honesty today.
"No," he says. "I was just out for a run, and I was thinking- did you know that something like 90% of men never get given flowers in their whole lives? And the only time they get given flowers is on the day of their funeral?" Shane blurts out.
The florist blinks, perhaps surprised at this deviation from her usual script, but she recovers smoothly.
"So, who's the lucky guy?" she asks instead.
"My husband," Shane says. "He just... He deserves to get flowers." He shrugs. He can feel the heat rising to his cheeks and he hopes the flush from his run will camouflage it. From the look the florist gives him, he's not sure it has.
The florist finishes tying the protective cellophane and gives him a wider smile this time.
"Well, I hope he loves them. Have a good day, sweetie," she says, and Shane nods awkwardly. On his way out he holds a door for a guy coming in. As the door swings shut behind him, he hears the familiar "Whoa, was that Shane Hollander?" He doesn't stop, though - he's got a mission.
Shane checks his watch. Ilya is out doing some promotional photoshoot for something or other, and he won't be back for at least an hour. He's got time. Shane jogs across the street to the Russian restaurant and picks up an order of all Ilya's favourites, plus a big slice of medovik. He can't pronounce all of them, but Olga, the wizened little babushka behind the counter, already knows what he's going to order the moment he walks in. She recognises him immediately from all the times he's been here with Ilya, and she fusses over him the same way she fusses over Ilya. She makes him sit down and drink a glass of cool water as she bustles about getting everything ready in take out containers. She, unlike the florist, knows that Shane has a husband, but even she assumes that Shane must be in trouble if he's buying flowers. Shane wonders if that says something about him and the way he comes across to other people, or if it says more about the general behavioural patterns of married men. He's not sure which one he ought to be more concerned about.
Bouquet in one hand and and bag of take out in the other, Shane bids Olga farewell, and decides that his run is probably over. He stops his smart watch, pulls out his phone, and orders an Uber home. Or more specifically, he orders an Uber to a park a couple of streets away from their home. It's something he's done countless times and the memories or shame and concealment threaten to surface, but ultimately they sink back down. This time, Shane is not trying to hide where he's going or who he's going home to. There's nothing he wants to conceal. It's just a beautiful day and Shane wants to walk in it.
Even with the early drop-off and walk through the park, Shane is home with plenty of time before Ilya is due back. He goes to put the flowers in water, and then realises that in a house of two men, they don't own a vase. It throws Shane a little, but he manages to find a large jug in the cupboard that will have to do for now. He trims the stems according to the instructions on the little slip of paper attached to the bouquet, and puts the flowers in water so they won't wilt while he waits for Ilya to get home. With a little more time to kill, Shane gets in the shower, rinses off the sweat, dresses himself in his cosiest clothes, and he waits. It isn't long before he hears Ilya's car rumble into the driveway, followed by the familiar sound of Ilya dropping his keys on the porch and swearing in Russian.
All of a sudden, Shane gets irrationally nervous. He hasn't run this idea by anyone. What if this was a stupid idea? All those people in the shops thought he must be in trouble with his partner - what if Ilya thinks the same thing; that Shane has done something wrong? What if he thinks Shane cheated and he's apologising with flowers? Or maybe even worse; most men don't get flowers unless they're dead or someone else is - what if Ilya sees them sat there and thinks someone has died? Shane's brain suddenly whirs with infinite horrible possibilities. He takes the flowers out of the jug, shakes the water off, and he's just going to put them down somewhere so they don't stand out so much until Shane can like, maybe introduce the idea or something, but then the door opens and Ilya is right there.
"My husband, I am home!" Ilya calls out, tone playful and cheery. "I know you have been jealous of my fun time doing sexy photoshoots while you did boring emails and workouts but I am here to-"
Ilya stops abruptly, gaze falling to the bouquet of flowers in Shane's hands.
"What's this?" he breathes.
Shane passes them from one hand to the other, nervous, and then realises that looking nervous will definitely make his husband think there's something wrong. So he commits. He walks up to Ilya with the bouquet in hand and pushes them gently into his hands.
"These are for you," Shane says. He kisses him on the cheek softly. Ilya's eyes are wide with surprise and a small smile lifts the corners of his lips. He thinks about telling Ilya what inspired the sudden gift, that statistic that won't leave his head, but it's maybe a little morbid. So instead Shane says, "I just... wanted to get you flowers. You deserve it."
It's not like it isn't also the truth.
Shane doesn't know what reaction he anticipated, but he's definitely a little surprised when Ilya's wide, surprised eyes suddenly frown and dart away, shining where the light hits them. His mouth scrunches up in that particular way and Ilya turns his face away from Shane. Shane blinks.
"Baby, are you-" Shane begins, but he doesn't even need to finish the question.
Ilya is crying. He's trying very hard not to, but he's sniffling quietly and trying to hide his face like he always does. Ilya wipes at his wet eyes with the hand that's not holding the flowers, visibly trying to straighten his mouth and stop the tears from coming, but Shane gently grabs his jaw and turns Ilya's face back towards him.
"Hey, hey," Shane murmurs, almost cooing. "What's this?"
Ilya swallows, still not meeting Shane's eyes. He tries to speak, but a quiet sob comes out instead, and Shane's heart clenches. He takes the flowers and puts them down on the entryway table, and pulls Ilya in close.
Ilya's arms wrap around him, almost too tight, and his face disappears into the crook of Shane's neck. Shane cradles his head, fingers weaving into the curls, and holds him. It makes Ilya cry harder at first, so Shane rocks him slowly side to side, until his breathing evens out.
They must spend at least ten minutes like that - just standing in the hallway and holding each other - but eventually Ilya loosens his grip and pulls back, just enough to grip Shane's face and kiss him hard. He's still crying a little bit, but Shane kisses back, helpless to deny his husband anything.
"I love you," Ilya mumbles, the words spoken directly into Shane's mouth. He manages to pull back a little bit further. "I love you," he repeats, clearer. And then, like it's a basic fact and a revelation at the same time, "You love me."
Shane knows that Ilya doesn't doubt his love for him, that he's just surprised and emotional, but he thinks his heart might break a little bit all the same.
"Of course I do," Shane says, kissing him, and then kissing him again. He kisses Ilya everywhere he can reach, whispering his love into his skin in English and Russian as many times as he can. "I love you, I love you, I love you."
Eventually, Shane and Ilya calm down enough to release each other. Ilya picks up the bouquet and Shane leads him towards the makeshift vase waiting on the counter. Ilya has finally calmed down enough to start bragging about getting pretty flowers from his pretty husband, as dramatic and larger-than-life as ever, and he holds them up to take a deep inhale of their sweet scent. It's at this moment that Shane finally notices that Ilya's eyes, still bright from the tears, match the ribbon on the bouquet perfectly. The whole arrangement somehow looks just like him.
Shane doesn't think he could be more in love if he tried.