Archive of Our Own

The walk-in closet of Ilya's Ottawa home was smaller than any closet Shane had ever owned in his entire adult life. Because of this, Ilya had managed to turn his side into a chaos of expensive fabric and careless folding. When Shane brought some of his stuff after the wedding, he had been given only three drawers and a short hanging rod. Three drawers for a man who owned more tailored suits, sportswear, branded clothes, and soft sweaters than most stores carried. Shane did not complain at first. He knew that adjusting to married life meant choosing battles, and closet space felt like a small one. But after two weeks of digging his shirts out from under Ilya's discarded clothes and finding his socks tangled with cashmere scarves, he decided to rearrange everything.

Shane knew he could not survive another month of digging through Ilya's mess just to find a matching pair of socks. The three drawers and short hanging rod were not enough, and Ilya's side of the closet had grown into a mountain of crumpled fabric that seemed to multiply every time Shane turned his back. He needed a permanent solution, something that would give them both enough space without forcing either of them to compromise. So one evening, while Ilya was sprawled on the bed scrolling through his phone, Shane sat beside him and brought up the idea.

"I want to convert the room next to ours," Shane said. "Turn it into an extension of the walk-in closet. We can knock down part of the wall or just use the doorway that is already there. That way we have room for everything. Your suits, my jackets, all the off-season gear. No more cramming."

Ilya looked up from his phone with a frown. His brow furrowed in that way it always did when he was about to argue. "The room next to ours? That is the perfect size for a nursery for our future baby. If we turn that room into a closet, where will the baby sleep when we have one?"

Shane had anticipated this objection but didn't expect the reason. He and Ilya had talked about children, and they both wanted a child. Maybe before their 40s but not too soon. He placed a hand on Ilya's knee and squeezed gently. "We have plenty of rooms and lots of space that we can convert into a proper bedroom. The room at the end of the hall is bigger and gets better morning light. That would be a better nursery anyway. And I do not want any future child sleeping in the room right next to us. If our hypothetical child is too close, we will never have a moment of privacy for... you know." He let the last words hang in the air with a slight raise of his eyebrow.

Ilya stared at him for a long moment. His frown softened into something more thoughtful. Then he let out a heavy sigh and tossed his phone onto the bedside table. "You have already thought this through, yes? You probably have contractors lined up already."

Shane smiled. "Not yet. But I have a few numbers saved on my phone."

Ilya shook his head, but there was no real resistance in the gesture. He reached over and pulled Shane closer by the back of his neck, pressing a quick kiss to his temple. "Okay. You win. Turn the room into a closet. But you are in charge of organizing it. I will help, but you are the one with the system."

Shane kissed him back, soft and grateful. "That is all I ask."

Within a week, Shane had a team of workers at the house. They knocked down the wall between the master bedroom's walk-in closet and the adjacent room, creating one large continuous space that stretched nearly twice its original size. They installed new shelving, additional hanging rods at different heights, and a long central island with drawers on both sides. The work took ten days, and Shane checked on their progress every morning with a coffee in hand, directing them on where to place each fixture. Ilya stayed out of the way mostly, but he appeared at the doorway every now and then, watching with a bemused expression as his home transformed into something far more practical.

When the renovation was finally complete, Shane stood in the middle of the expanded closet and felt a wave of satisfaction wash over him. Everything was clean and new. The lights were bright and warm. The shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, waiting to be filled. He turned to Ilya, who had come up behind him, and gestured around them with both arms. "See? We have space for everything now."

Ilya nodded slowly, looking impressed despite himself. "It is big. Too big, maybe. We do not have that many clothes."

"We do once I organize everything," Shane said. "Now, we need to decide how to divide everything. I was thinking we keep our home clothes in the original walk-in closet. The stuff we wear around the house, the sweats, the hoodies, the comfortable pants. That way we do not have to walk far when we are getting ready for bed or lazing around on weekends. The new extension will hold everything else. Suits, dress shirts, jeans we wear out, jackets, team gear, formal wear, seasonal clothes. Things we only put on when we are leaving the house."

Ilya considered this and then gave a single firm nod. "Okay. I like that. Home clothes stay close. Fancy clothes go far."

The next day, they spent the whole day working together. Ilya hauled armfuls of his suits and blazers from the original closet and carried them to the new extension, hanging each one with more care than Shane expected. Shane tackled his own formal wear, arranging his dress shirts by color and his blazers by season. They moved back and forth between the two spaces, sorting, folding, and hanging. Ilya grumbled about having too many jackets, and Shane reminded him that he had bought every single one of them himself. Ilya grumbled again but kept working.

Around sunset, Ilya was downstairs taking a call from Svetlana, which gave Shane the perfect window of time. He pulled a few fancy shirts out of Ilya's old closet and laid them on the wide display table for watches and jewelry, mostly Ilya's, in the center of the new walk-in closet. He sorted them by color before he hung them on the new closet on Ilya's side. Then, he went back to the old walk-in closet to check the folded clothes and some shopping bags on the bottom of the closet.

Shane folded the clothes neatly before bringing them to the new closet. He stacked the T-shirts in squares so tight they looked like bricks. He arranged the hanging clothes by color, from black to white, with grays and blues in between. The work felt good, almost meditative. Shane liked order. He liked knowing where everything belonged. And he liked that he was doing this for their home, not just for himself.

When he reached the deepest corner of the old closet, behind a row of Ilya's old team jackets, shirts, and hoodies, his fingers brushed against something crinkly. A shopping bag. White paper with gold lettering from a store Shane did not recognize. He pulled it out and peered inside. The fabric was soft, almost slippery. He pinched it between his thumb and forefinger and lifted.

A white sheer polo shirt emerged. The material was so thin that light passed through it easily. Printed across the fabric in pale gold and brown were animal spots, leopard or cheetah; Shane could not tell which. The shirt was clean but badly wrinkled, as if it had been wadded into the bag and forgotten for a very long time.

Shane stared at it. For a moment, his mind simply refused to process what he was seeing. Then the memory crashed into him like a wave of cold water. The club. Five years ago. He had gone with Rose because she wanted to dance, and Ilya had been there too, shirtless under a sheer animal print top that clung to his chest. Shane remembered the lights, purple and red and blue, flashing across Ilya's skin. He remembered watching Ilya move through the crowd, his hips swaying to music that was too loud and too fast. He remembered a woman with sleek blonde hair dancing against Ilya's body. He remembered Ilya kissing her, open-mouthed and careless, right there on the dance floor while Shane stood frozen with a drink in his hand.

That was the night Shane had finally admitted to himself how much he liked Ilya. Not wanted. Liked. Cared about in a way that made his chest ache. He had watched Ilya touch someone else, and something inside him had cracked open. He had not said a word about it for years. He had buried that feeling under practice schedules and game days and the careful distance he always kept between himself and Ilya when other people were watching.

Now the shirt was in his hands. The shirt Ilya had worn while kissing that girl. Shane's fingers began to tremble. Then his whole hand shook, the sheer fabric quivering in the air like a flag in a storm. He could not stop it. His breath came faster, shorter. He closed his eyes and counted. One, two, three, four. He counted his inhales and exhales. Five, six, seven, eight. He focused on the numbers and not on the image of Ilya's lips kissing another person.

"Shane? Are you almost done? I was thinking we could order dinner."

Ilya's voice came from the closet doorway. Shane opened his eyes but did not turn around. He knew Ilya could see the shirt held up in his shaking grip. He knew Ilya could see the tight set of his shoulders and the way his jaw was clenched.

"Shane." Ilya's voice dropped, lost its casual tone. His footsteps crossed the floor quickly. Then his hand reached past Shane's shoulder and snatched the white animal print polo away. He threw it to the far corner of the closet as if it had burned him. Then, he dropped to his knees in front of Shane, his big hands cupping Shane's jaw, tilting up. Ilya stared at his husband's face. Shane looked anxious, scared, and defeated.

"Come here, sweetheart," Ilya said. He pulled Shane forward and wrapped his arms around him, pressing Shane's face into the curve of his neck. Shane went willingly, his body folding into Ilya's warmth. He breathed in deeply. Ilya smelled like soap and coffee and something woodsy, his scent, the one that always made Shane feel safe. He pressed his nose against Ilya's skin and let his trembling slowly ease.

"I am so sorry," Ilya said. His voice was rough. His hand rubbed slow circles on Shane's back. "I should have thrown that shirt away a long time ago. I did not even remember it was still in here."

Shane shook his head against Ilya's neck. "It is fine," he mumbled. The words came out muffled and thick. He pulled back just enough to speak clearly. "It must have been expensive. You do not have to throw away expensive clothes."

Ilya made a sound that was almost a laugh but not quite. "No. Money does not matter. Nothing matters except you looking at me like that. Like I hurt you."

Shane felt heat rise to his cheeks. He knew he was blushing. He also knew his eyes were still wet from holding back tears he had not even realized he was crying. He blinked, and a single drop slid down his cheek.

Ilya's expression softened. He pushed Shane back gently, just a few inches, so he could see his whole face. His thumb came up and wiped the tear away. Then he leaned forward and pressed a long, slow kiss to Shane's forehead. His lips were warm and dry.

"I am sorry," Ilya said again, quieter this time. "For that night. For making you watch that. I did not know then how much you meant to me. I should have known. But I was stupid."

Shane swallowed. "You did not know. Besides, I was with Rose at that time. It must be hard for you, too."

"It's okay. You two were dating back then. I have no say in that. And I should have known how you feel after I said your name at my Boston home months before you started dating Rose," Ilya was quiet for a while before he spoke again. "You can throw away anything of mine that you hate," Ilya said. His voice was soft now, almost a whisper. "Any shirt, any jacket, any pair of shoes. If looking at it makes you feel bad, it goes. I mean that."

Shane smiled. The expression felt strange on his face after the tension of the last few minutes, but it was real. "Anything? Even your Boston Raider stuff?"

Ilya was quiet for several seconds. Shane felt the pause in the way Ilya's arm tightened slightly around his waist. Then Ilya sighed. "Yes. Even that. If it makes you feel better, I will throw away every Raider thing I own."

Shane shook his head. "No. Don't. I like your Raider stuff. It reminds me of when we were younger. And your Raider sweater is comfortable. I like it."

Ilya let out a breath that might have been relief. "Okay. I keep them."

Shane lifted his head from Ilya's shoulder and looked at him with a curious tilt of his brow. "Do you want me to throw away anything from my side? Any shirt you hate? Any jacket you cannot stand to look at?"

Ilya considered the question for a long moment. His hand on Shane's waist drew small absent circles through the fabric of Shane's T-shirt. He opened his mouth to say no, then paused. His eyes took on a distant look, as if he were reaching back through years of memory to pull something forward.

"There is one thing I want to see," Ilya said.

Shane frowned. "What is it?"

"The Olympic jacket," Ilya said. "The one you wore for the Canadian team in Sochi. The one with the red maple leaf and Canada at the back. Do you still have it?"

Shane blinked in surprise. He still had that jacket. He had not worn it in years, but he remembered packing it carefully when he moved out of his Montreal home. It held too many memories to leave behind. "I still have it. I think it is in one of the boxes."

Ilya's face lit up with a quiet eagerness. "Can I see it right now?"

Shane studied his husband's expression, searching for the joke or the ulterior motive. He found neither. Ilya looked genuinely eager, almost nervous. Shane shrugged and pushed himself off the bed. "Okay. Come on."

They walked together into the new walk-in closet. Shane went straight to the far corner where several cardboard boxes still sat stacked against the wall. He had labeled them weeks ago but had not found the time to empty them all. He pulled down the one marked "Winter Gear – Old," lifted the flaps, and began digging through layers of wool scarves, knitted gloves, and heavy sweaters. His fingers brushed at something soft, and he knew he had found it.

He pulled the jacket out and held it up. The light cream color was still vibrant. The red maple leaf sat proudly on the back. The fabric was soft from years of wear but still in excellent condition. He turned to Ilya and held it out.

Ilya took it carefully, almost reverently. He ran his thumb over the maple leaf and then over the Canada text. For a few seconds he simply stared at it. Then he looked at Shane with a smile that was a little too knowing for Shane's comfort.

"Put it on," Ilya said.

Shane scowled. "What are you planning?"

Ilya's smile widened, but he did not answer. He just held the jacket up, waiting. "Put it on. Please. Just for a moment."

Shane stared at him, suspicion flickering in his eyes. But Ilya's expression was soft and patient, so Shane let out a long breath and took the jacket. He shrugged it on over his T-shirt and zipped it halfway up. The fleece lining was warm against his arms, and the familiar weight of it settled over his shoulders like an old friend. He spread his hands and looked down at himself. "There. I am wearing it. Now what?"

Ilya did not answer with words. He took Shane by the wrist and led him across the closet to the full-length mirror. The mirror was enormous, nearly as tall as Shane himself, and it reflected both of them clearly under the bright closet lights.

Shane stood awkwardly in front of the glass, the jacket bright against his darker shirt. He looked at his own reflection and then at Ilya's reflection behind him. "Okay," he said, his voice carrying a note of confusion. "What is happening right now?"

Ilya stepped closer until his chest pressed against Shane's back. He wrapped one of his arms over Shane's shoulder to his front while the other one wrapped around Shane's waist to his stomach, and pulled him into a firm embrace. He rested his chin on Shane's shoulder before he closed his eyes. His face relaxed, and his breath came slow and even. For a long moment he just stood there, holding Shane in the jacket, his eyes shut tight.

Shane waited. He placed his own hands over Ilya's arms, his fingers curling around his husband's wrists. He closed his eyes as well and waited for a while. Then, he opened his eyes and stared at his husband in the mirror. "Ilya. Tell me what is going on."

Ilya opened his eyes. In the mirror, his gaze found Shane's and held it. His voice came out lower than usual, rougher around the edges. "I remember the way you looked at me in Sochi. When you came over to talk to me while the figure skating competition was happening. You were wearing this jacket. Your cheeks were red from the cold, and your hair was a bit messy, and you smiled at me like I was someone worth knowing." He paused, swallowing hard. "That look haunted me. For years. I could not stop thinking about it. It followed me all the way to Vegas when we finally met again after six months of not talking to you."

Shane felt his throat tighten. He remembered that day too. The cold Russian air. And Ilya, standing alone, looking distant and guarded. Shane tried to walk over to him to talk. But Ilya was cold and kept telling him to stay away and not to talk to him.

"I was rude to you that day," Ilya continued. "I know I was. I was scared. We were in Russia, and if anyone had seen us being friendly, if anyone had guessed what we were from looking at you, it could have been bad. Very bad. I should have said something nicer. I should have smiled back. Instead, I was rude like you meant nothing."

Shane turned in Ilya's arms so he could face him directly. He reached up and placed a palm against Ilya's cheek. "It is fine. I understand. You did what you had to do to stay safe."

Ilya leaned into Shane's palm, his eyes closing again. Then, he bent forward and buried his face in the crook of Shane's neck, right where the soft fleece met his skin. He breathed in deeply, and Shane felt the tension slowly drain from his husband's shoulders. Shane wrapped his arms around Ilya's broad back and held him, letting him have his moment. They stood like that in front of the mirror, two figures wrapped around each other, the fleece jacket soft between them.

After a long while, Ilya pulled back just enough to look at Shane's face. His eyes were clear and warm again. "Are you hungry? We should eat dinner."

Shane smiled and nodded. "Okay."

"I want pizza," Ilya said. "A whole pizza. Maybe two."

Shane laughed softly. "Okay."

Ilya smiled, a real bright smile that reached his eyes. "Yes!" He let go of Shane and stepped toward the door. "I will order it. Do you want anything special on it? Extra toppings? Stuffed crust?"

Shane thought for a moment. "Stuffed crust and extra cheese." He knew Ilya liked that.

Ilya pointed at him with a grin. "Perfect. That is the perfect pizza. Extra cheese. I will call right now."

He disappeared out of the closet, and Shane heard his voice drifting from the bedroom as he pulled out his phone and started speaking rapidly into it. Shane turned back to the boxes and continued sorting through them, folding the remaining winter items and placing them on the shelves. He took off the jacket and hung it with the other jackets.

Twenty minutes later, Shane heard Ilya call from downstairs. "Pizza is almost here! Less than ten minutes!"

Shane stepped out of the closet and found Ilya at the top of the stairs, phone in hand, checking the delivery tracker. Ilya looked up and smiled at him. "You freshen up. We will continue arranging the closet tomorrow, okay? Tonight, we eat pizza and watch a movie with Anya. She has been sleeping on the couch all day. She needs quality time with her Papa and Dad."

Shane agreed with a nod. "Okay. I will be down in a few minutes."

Ilya headed downstairs, his footsteps fading as he descended. Shane turned back into the bedroom and walked toward the bathroom to wash his face. But as he passed the open doorway of the original walk-in closet, his eyes caught on something hanging on Ilya's side. A black jersey with white letters and numbers across the back. Rozanov 81. The Boston Raider colors. Ilya's name printed large and bold.

Shane stopped. An idea bloomed in his mind, small and mischievous at first, then quickly growing into something irresistible. He stripped off his T-shirt and pulled the Raider jersey over his head. It was a bit huge on him, the sleeves falling past his wrists and the hem dropping nearly to his thighs. He looked down at himself and grinned. Then he took off his jeans and folded them neatly on the bed. He stood in just the jersey and a pair of simple black boxers. The jersey covered enough to be decent, but the boxers peeked out just below the hem. He adjusted the collar and ran a hand through his hair, mussing it slightly for effect. He took his eyeglasses from the bedside drawer and put them on.

Then he walked downstairs.

The living room was warm and cozy. The coffee table had been cleared and set with two large pizza boxes, a can of cola, and a can of ginger ale for Shane. Anya was curled on the corner of the couch, her tail thumping lazily against the cushion. The television was on, paused on a streaming menu full of movie options. Ilya sat on the couch in front of the coffee table, remote in hand, scrolling through the titles.

"I did not know what you wanted to watch, so I was just looking at the action section. Do you have any preference?" Ilya glanced up, and his voice trailed off as his eyes landed on Shane.

Ilya froze. The remote went still in his hand. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again. His gaze traveled from Shane's face down to the oversized jersey, then to the bare legs below it, then back up again. He swallowed audibly.

Shane pretended not to notice. He scratched his stomach lazily, letting the jersey ride up just enough to reveal the waistband of his boxers. "Action sounds good," he said, keeping his voice casual. "Maybe something with explosions. Or car chases." He glanced at Ilya and found his husband still staring. "What?"

Ilya blinked several times. His voice came out a little strangled. "I do not think I can eat pizza and watch a movie anymore."

Shane laughed, a warm and easy sound. He walked over and dropped onto the couch next to Anya, who lifted her head and gave him a happy lick on the hand. "Too bad. I am really tired, and I am really hungry. So, we are eating pizza and watching a movie. You want this."

Ilya groaned and set the remote down with more force than necessary. He turned to face Shane fully, his expression caught between exasperation and pure want. "Uggghhhh Malysh, why are you doing this to me?"

Shane tilted his head, feigning innocence. "Doing what?"

Ilya gestured at him with both hands. "This! Wearing my name on your back. Wearing your eyeglasses. Walking around looking so sexy like that. You know exactly what you are doing."

Shane smiled slowly. "I thought I was always sexy for you."

Ilya let out a short breath that was almost a laugh. "Yes. You are always sexy. But seeing my name on your back, my number, my former team, it adds something. It makes it different. Better. More."

Shane tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Maybe I should get a tattoo. Your name on my back. Right here." He twisted slightly and pointed to the top of his hip, just above the waistband of his boxers. "Right above my ass. Permanent. So you always see it."

Ilya made a sound that was half growl and half groan. He dropped the remote completely and lunged forward, grabbing Shane by the waist and pulling him closer. Shane started laughing, and Ilya was on him instantly, pressing kisses to his forehead, his cheeks, his jaw, the curve of his neck. Each kiss was quick and warm, peppering his skin like rain. Shane let his husband have his way on him, his hands coming up to rest on Ilya's shoulders.

Then Ilya stopped. He hovered over Shane, his eyes dark and intent. "You wear this jersey while I fuck you later, yes?"

Shane raised an eyebrow. "Maybe. But I need to relax first. And eat. And watch a movie with you. So, you have to be patient."

Ilya dropped his forehead to Shane's shoulder and let out a long, dramatic sigh. "You are killing me, Hollander. Slowly. On purpose!"

Shane chuckled and ran his fingers through Ilya's hair, scratching gently at his scalp. "You need to live long for me. So no dying. Eat your pizza. Watch the movie. And then we will see."

Ilya lifted his head and looked at him with a mixture of adoration and frustration. "Okay," he said softly. "Okay. I can be patient. For you."

He pressed one more kiss to Shane's lips, soft and lingering, before pulling away and settling onto the couch beside him. He grabbed a slice of pizza and handed one to Shane. Anya shifted on the couch and rested her chin on Shane's knee. The television flickered with the opening scenes of an action movie that neither of them would really pay attention to. But that was all right. They had the rest of the night, and the rest of their lives, and that was more than enough.

Epiogue

Months had slipped past them like the quiet snowfall that now painted the streets of Ottawa in soft shades of white. The house had settled into its new rhythm, and the expanded walk-in closet had become less of a renovation project and more of a lived-in space. The shelves were filled, the drawers were organized, and Shane's system had held up remarkably well against Ilya's natural tendency toward chaos. But as the seasons changed and winter tightened its grip on the city, Shane found himself standing in the storage room off the garage, staring at a large cardboard box that had been sitting there since they first moved in together. He had pulled it out with the intention of finally going through its contents, and what he found inside was a collection of clothes that no longer served them. Some were too small, others too worn, and a few simply did not match the lives they now lived.

Ilya appeared behind him. Shane glanced at him. Ilya scowled as he looked inside the box. He walked and stood across Shane and pulled out a faded T-shirt that had seen better days.

"Where are you taking all of this?" Ilya asked, holding the shirt up before dropping it back into the box.

Shane wiped his hands on his jeans. "I am bringing it to the Community Donation Centre. I heard about it from Harris. He mentioned that he and Troy are doing a big purge at their place too, and they are planning to drop off a few boxes there next week. It seemed like a good place to send things that are still in decent condition but that we do not need anymore."

Ilya nodded and sifted through the box with one hand. The clothes were old but clean, perfectly wearable for someone who might need them. He looked up at Shane with a thoughtful expression. "That is a good idea. We have too much stuff. I probably have a few things I can add as well."

Shane glanced at his wristwatch. "I am going to check the storage in the basement. I think there are a few old winter jackets that I have not worn in years. They are still warm, just not my style anymore. I can donate those too." He walked toward the door and paused, turning back to face Ilya. "While I am out there, why don't you take a look through your side of the closet? See if there is anything you want to get rid of. We have the space now, but that does not mean we need to fill it with things we never use."

Ilya agreed with a small nod and watched Shane go inside and head to the basement of their home, leaving Ilya alone in the quiet garage. He then made his way upstairs to their bedroom. The walk-in closet greeted him with its neat rows of hanging clothes and its orderly shelves. He stood in the middle of it, looking around at the sheer volume of fabric that surrounded him. He pulled open a few drawers and rifled through the contents, picking out a shirt here and a sweater there, pieces he had not worn in months and probably never would again. He set them aside on the central island, a small pile growing with each pass.

Then he stopped. A memory surfaced from somewhere deep in his mind, sudden and sharp. He remembered the shirt. The awful white sheer polo with the animal print. He knew exactly where Shane had folded it and placed it, in the bottom drawer on Ilya's side, the one Ilya never opened because it held things he did not care about. Shane had kept it there, despite Ilya's earlier attempt to throw it away. Shane had argued that it was expensive and that throwing away perfectly good clothing was wasteful. So Ilya had let it go, but the shirt had lingered in the back of his mind like a splinter he could not remove.

He walked to the drawer and pulled it open. There it was, folded neatly at the very bottom, the sheer fabric almost translucent under the closet lights. Ilya stared at it for a long moment. His fingers twitched at his sides. Then, without a second thought, he reached down and snatched the shirt from the drawer. He crumpled it into a tight ball and shoved it deep between the other clothes he had collected for donation, burying it under a heavy sweater and a pair of old jeans. He did not want to see it again. He did not want to think about the night it represented or the way it had made Shane tremble. It was time to let it go for good.

He gathered his pile into his arms and carried it downstairs. The box in the garage was waiting, and he dumped his armload into it without ceremony. The clothes landed in a heap, the white animal print polo hidden somewhere in the middle of the jumble.

Then, Shane stepped back into the garage. He carried three winter jackets over his shoulder, bulky and heavy. He looked down at the newly added pile of clothes and immediately reached in to start arranging them. His hands moved with automatic precision, folding a sleeve here and smoothing a collar there.

Ilya shook his head and gently took Shane's hands, pulling them away from the box. "Do not bother with that. Those centers just dump everything into a massive pile and sort it out later. They do not care about perfect folds or neat stacks."

Shane frowned. "It looks better if it is organized. It makes it easier for the volunteers."

Ilya picked up the three winter jackets from the floor and dropped them into the box on top of everything else. "You do not have to be so organized with this. They are just clothes. They will find their way to people who need them, whether they are folded or not." He patted Shane's shoulder and stepped back. "I am coming with you. Let me just go upstairs and dress properly. The weather outside is brutal."

He ran up the stairs before Shane could argue. His footsteps echoed through the hallway and then faded into the bedroom above.

Shane let out a long sigh and turned back to the box. He could not help himself. He reached in and started straightening the pile, lifting jackets and shirts and smoothing them into rough stacks. He worked quickly, almost absentmindedly. Then his fingers brushed against something familiar, something sheer and thin. He froze. He pulled the fabric up just enough to see it. The white animal print polo. The one he had carefully folded and placed in the bottom drawer months ago. The one he had told Ilya to keep because it was expensive and wasteful to throw away.

A smile spread slowly across Shane's face, warm and soft. Ilya had tried to sneak it into the donation box. He had buried it under other clothes, hoping Shane would not notice. But Shane noticed. He noticed everything when it came to Ilya. And what he saw now was not a sneaky attempt to dispose of an expensive shirt. What he saw was Ilya finally letting go of the ghost that had haunted them. Ilya was choosing to release the memory, not because Shane had asked him to, but because he was ready on his own.

Shane gently covered the shirt with one of the winter jackets, hiding it from view. He did not pull it out. He did not confront Ilya about it. He simply let it stay buried, because he knew that this was Ilya's decision to make, and Shane would honor that.

Footsteps on the stairs announced Ilya's return. He came down bundled in a thick parka, a knitted scarf wrapped around his neck, and a wool hat pulled low over his ears. His cheeks were already pink from the warmth of the house, but his eyes were bright and eager. "I am ready," he announced.

Shane stepped forward and reached up to zip Ilya's jacket all the way to the top, tucking the collar snugly against his chin. His fingers lingered for a moment on the fabric. Then he leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Ilya's lips. It was not a quick peck. It was slow and deliberate, full of unspoken words.

Ilya blinked in surprise when Shane pulled back. His lips parted, and his brow furrowed in confusion. "What was that for?"

Shane looked at him, really looked at him, at the man who had once walked away from him in Sochi and who now stood in their living room ready to drive to a donation center with a box of old clothes. "Because I love you so much," Shane said. His voice was quiet but steady.

Ilya smiled. It was the kind of smile that Shane had fallen in love with years ago, crooked and unguarded and full of warmth. It reached his eyes and softened the sharp edges of his face. "I love you, too," Ilya said.

"I know," Shane replied. Then, Shane took the car key from his pocket and pressed it to open the back door of his SUV. He bent down and grabbed one end of the heavy cardboard box. Ilya took the other end without being asked. They lifted it together, its weight balanced between them. They walked and put the box on the back of the SUV before closing the door. They got inside the SUV. Shane would be driving. He glanced at Ilya, who was looking at him. They were getting rid of the shirt now. From a club in the city to a closet renovation to a donation box with a hidden secret. They had reclaimed their past, piece by piece. And now, finally, they were letting some of it go.