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Being alone in Shane's place was a bit strange, all things considered. He'd moved into a house, somewhere more private, so the space felt even more empty. Ilya arrived earlier than expected, practice in Ottawa got cut short and he didn't see the point in waiting around until the next day to drive to Montreal.
It would have been a great plan, had Shane not been roped into ’Captain's duties' after his game and whisked away to some bar to celebrate. Honestly, Ilya is a little proud of Shane for going out and having fun.
Even if it means falling asleep on the living room couch watching highlights from the game.
Ilya wakes sometime later to the sound of the front door being opened. He blinks his eyes into focus, squinting slightly up at the ceiling. He can hear Shane muttering under his breath, and his uneven footsteps as he traipses through the house. Ilya fumbles for his phone and winces as he's flashed by the bright lockscreen. After his eyes adjust he sees that it is after two in the morning.
“Shanya?” he calls out in a rough, sleep heavy voice as he pushes himself off of the couch.
He shuffles down the hall and steps into the kitchen, stopping when he only sees the lower half of Shane sticking out from behind the refrigerator door. He pushes a hand through his hair and cocks his head to the side slightly. “Sweetheart? What are you doing?” he asks, moving to sit himself down at the raised bar.
Shane reemerges with his arms wrapped around a large number of ingredients, his face is flushed red, his hair is disheveled, and his eyes are hooded and glassy. “I… I’m hungry,” he mumbles, moving to put everything down on the counter.
Ilya snorts a laugh, “You’re drunk.”
Shane looks back at him with the most scandalized expression which just makes Ilya laugh harder.
“I… am not drunk,” he says, pointing a wavering finger back at Ilya before dissolving into a fit of giggles, “I had a little to drink.”
“Only a little?” Ilya asks, clearly amused.
Shane rolls his eyes and starts to spread out everything on the counter before turning to rummage around in a cabinet, returning with a pan and placing it on the stovetop.
“Hey Shane?” Ilya asks. He reaches into his pocket to pull out his phone, quickly opening the camera app. Ilya settles his phone against a decorative vase with the back camera facing where Shane is going through his pile of ingredients. The screen is facing Ilya, letting him keep an eye on what's happening as he presses record. “What are you making?”
“Quesadillas,” Shane answers happily. He sounds so at ease and free, so different from how he normally is. Shane glances over his shoulder and grins broadly, “They’re the perfect drunken food.”
Ilya chuckles and can’t help but ask, “Why?”
“Because,” Shane says, turning around to face Ilya fully now. Somehow he’s managed to find a shot glass which is now filled with what Ilya guesses is more tequila, from the stash saved for guests as Shane hardly ever touches the stuff even in the off season.
“It is both the cheesiness of grilled cheese… and the flatness of pizza.”
He does a little ‘cheers’ motion with his shot before downing it and shivering, his face scrunching up slightly as he turns back to everything on the counter. Ilya silently wonders when the last time Shane had a quesadilla or pizza. Shane finds a package of tortillas and tries once to get it open but drops it when he doesn’t succeed to take another shot of tequila.
“Y’know… unlike whiskey, tequila doesn’t make you want to fight. Tequila just makes you… so drunk,” he mumbles, looking back over at Ilya, a thoroughly quizzical look on his face.
Ilya only laughs and nods.
When Shane turns back to the counter he grabs the bag of shredded cheese, opens it, sticks his hands into the bag and quickly drops a handful of cheese into his mouth. Ilya can't recall the last time he'd seen or even heard of Shane eating cheese like this. Dairy was a pretty hard no in terms of his diet. Shane hums happily and drops the bag back down onto the counter. He looks down at it for a moment before sighing softly.
“Okay… open the bag,” he says to himself as he grabs the tortillas. He struggles for a few seconds but gets it open with an excited “yay!”.
Ilya wants to squeeze him until his head pops off.
Shane manages to grab two tortillas out of the bag and put that back on the counter before staring down at his hands. He hums and lifts both of the tortillas up to press on either side of his face.
“Tortillas feel good against my hot face,” he says with a happy sigh before pulling them away and dropping both of them onto the counter.
He was absolutely going to kill Ilya over this later, but it is so worth it.
He hums to himself, dancing just a little, as he starts to grease the pan before turning on the stove. He grins and grabs a tortilla off of the counter and bites into it three times, chewing slowly. When he pulls it back and looks down, he doubles over laughing and Ilya is seriously considering intervening because obviously Shane is in no state to cook. But, Shane stands upright and holds the tortilla in front of his face, showing that his three bite holes are in place of his eyes and mouth.
“I think I look better like this,” he says with a giggle.
Ilya's heart swells and he can't help but smile, “You look radiant.”
Shane laughs and shakes his head, taking the tortilla face away. “And into the pan,” he says, tossing it into the pan on the stove, grinning triumphantly when it makes it.
“What do you do once the tortilla face is in the pan?” Ilya asks. He knows he’s just egging Shane on at this point, but he never sees Shane this at ease and it’s kind of refreshing, not to mention hilarious and rife with blackmail material.
Turning to look back at Ilya, Shane chuckles as he folds his arms over his chest. “You wait for the tortilla face to lightly cook, and then you put cheese on it. Because he’s probably sad that his face is burning and maybe he wants some cheese,” he says, shrugging and turning back to the counter to grab the bag of cheese.
He slides down back to the stove and starts to sprinkle some cheese on top of the tortilla, making sure to eat some himself as he does so. He tosses the cheese down to the countertop and, since the bag is still wide open, cheese spills all over.
“Cheesus,” Shane mutters sullenly, under his breath. He tries to clean up by pushing the cheese back into the bag, but gives up and eats the remaining cheese.
Ilya has to clamp a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter.
Shane takes a deep breath and reaches into the pan to fold the tortilla in half before pressing it flat with his hand. “It’s best to use your hand to make quesadillas,” he says matter-of-factly, glancing over his shoulder at Ilya, “But you gotta be careful. ‘Cause your hands are the only hands you've got. Or maybe not. Did you see that guy with robot hands? He had more than one. So… Did I make that up? Was that a dream?”
He ignores Ilya’s snort of laughter and shuts off the burner of the stove. Shane excitedly picks the pan up so that he can tilt it enough to show Ilya his drunken creation. “It looks like a little mooooon,” he says, smiling so big that his nose scrunches and his eyes crinkle. He puts the pan back, picks up the quesadilla, rips it in half, and takes a big bite. He hums a little to himself as he turns to grab the package of tortillas up and holds it close to his face– he's not wearing his glasses– and scrutinizes something as he continues to sloppily chew.
“This tortilla has 4 net carbs,” he says, words beginning to slur together. “So it has that weird… shitty taste to it.”
Shane tosses the bag back to the counter and grabs the other half of the quesadilla, taking a bigger bite. “But… arguably… you look great,” he says, giggling as he grins over at Ilya. Something about the mooney-eyed expression of Shane's flushed face momentarily takes Ilya’s breath away.
He takes a step closer and leans down on the table, resting on his forearms. “Ilyusha, baby… we’re gonna be together forever, right?” he asks, his eyes wide and his voice soft, almost hesitant.
Ilya can’t help but smile back as he nods his head slowly, “Forever.”
“Forever is such a long time,” Shane says, standing upright and stretching his arms up over his head, “I am simultaneously terrified of existing forever and not existing at all. Wherein is my peace?”
Ilya’s eyes widen as he blinks back at Shane, not at all expecting his boyfriend to be waxing philosophic at two in the morning after a rare night of drinks with the team. He, however, does not get a chance to even think of any sort of reply because Shane has obviously moved on from his life pondering ways to pick at the burned, crispy cheese still stuck to the bottom of the pan.
“Shaya,” Ilya laughs softly, “What are you doing now?”
Looking up, Shane stares at Ilya with wide eyes as he sucks the cheese from his fingers. “Have you ever tried pan cheese?” he asks, scraping at the pan again, “It’s delicious.”
Shane turns on his heel, puts the pan back on the stove and starts to gather up everything from the counter. He heads back towards the fridge but drops the tortilla package as well as what seems to be a Tupperware container with onions and peppers.
“Shane, you’re dropping stuff on the floor,” Ilya says with an amused grin.
Shane just looks up and sort of glares at Ilya, “The floor is where I keep most of my things!”
Ilya decides that this is the time to put an end to the fun. He grabs his phone, stops the recording, and shoves it back into his pocket. He gets up from the stool he has been sitting on, and rounds the hightop to make his way over to Shane. “C’mon, we’re getting you to bed,” he says with a soft grunt, lifting Shane from the floor in a bridal style hold.
*****
When Shane finally wakes up, his head is heavy and foggy and his mouth is dry. He groans and rolls over, reaching for Ilya but the spot is cold and barren. With a pitiful groan, Shane searches out his phone. When he finally finds it, there is a message from Ilya in his notifications. His eyes squint at the screen as he navigates to the message, finding a video file.
Curiously, he opens the video.
His jaw falls open when he sees himself, in last night’s clothes, rambling drunkenly as he cooks. He hears Ilya’s laughs and encouraging words and his face flushes as he immediately deletes the video and scrambles out of bed. Ignoring his pounding headache, Shane rushes out of the room and into the living room, a scowl on his face.
“Ilya. Rozanov,” he seethes when he spots Ilya sitting on the couch, a mug of coffee in his hands.
Ilya looks up and smirks at Shane, “Good morning, moya lyubov. Feeling better?”
Shane pushes a hand through his hair and crosses his arms tightly over his chest. “I deleted that god awful video,” he says through gritted teeth.
Ilya raises his brows and puts his coffee cup down before picking something up off of the table as he stands up. “This video?” he asks, holding a sleek silver flash drive between his fingers.
Shane all but growls in the back of his throat and rushes forward, hands reaching for the drive, but Ilya holds it straight up over his head.
“Give. Me. That,” Shane grits, jumping and grabbing for it.
Ilya laughs and leans down to press his lips against Shane’s lips, making him pause and relax slightly. He pulls away and grins down at Shane. “I’m going to make you some breakfast. And I’m keeping this video to remind you what happens when you drink tequila,” he laughs, stepping around Shane to head into the kitchen.
“I hate you,” Shane shouts as he walks over to grab Ilya’s coffee.
Ilya laughs, “I love you too.”