Work Text:
When Shane moves to Ottawa he intends to buy his own apartment. He and Ilya have been together for over ten years, but they’ve only actually been together for less than a year total. The most time they’ve spent in each others’ company is two and a half weeks at the cottage over the summer, and they couldn’t even do that every year in case people got suspicious.
Now everything’s blown up and there’s no need for secrecy anymore. He loves Ilya, he does, but he’s not sure he’s ready to take this step, not yet. Moving to a new city and a new team is enough to deal with all at once without having to deal with a new housemate as well. More than that, a small, ugly part of Shane he tries not to listen to thinks that if he moves in with Ilya, Ilya will realize that he actually hates him and Shane will be alone and adrift in a strange place, scrambling to find a place to land.
“I’ve been looking on Zillow for apartments in Ottawa,” he says one night. He and Ilya have been FaceTiming like they do every couple of days.
Ilya’s brow furrows. “Why do you want your own apartment? I thought you were moving in with me.”
“Yeah, no, I want to,” Shane says, rubbing his neck. They haven’t actually talked about it, which is part of the problem. “I just think it would be easier if I don’t jump in all at once.”
“Shane, would be stupid. If you get an apartment, you will have to wait at least a year to move in with me, unless you break your lease. Do you really want to wait a whole year to be together for real?”
Shane’s heart wobbles within him. It’s not like he can’t afford to break a lease, but the pleading look in Ilya’s eyes, the way a loose curl falls over his eyes and the phrase be together for real give him a jolt.
So he agrees.
***
Moving in with Ilya is more complicated than just getting a new place, since they have to decide what to keep. Ilya’s no help. He just says “Bring it all and we will figure it out.”
Shane goes through each room, making lists of things he wants to take with him. It’s not a long list. Most of the furniture isn’t needed. Same for things like plates and silverware. He sells some of the stuff and puts the rest into storage (Just in case the ugly part of him whispers.) He keeps all his clothes, of course. There’s some things that are too personal or sentimental to leave: his trophies and awards, his favorite mug, a couple of cozy blankets. He’s also keeping all his weights, since that way he and Ilya can work out at the same time.
But when he pulls up to Ilya’s apartment, he’s only carrying a duffel bag and suitcase and the U-Haul he’s rented is only half full.
Ilya’s brows pinch when the movers open the back of the truck, revealing the few boxes, but he doesn’t say anything, just directs them where to put everything.
It doesn’t take long for Shane to move in. Ilya’s awards are crowded to one side of the shelves in the trophy room to make room for Shane’s, his blankets and sheets are in the linen closet, his dishes in the cupboards or hanging on hooks in the kitchen.
Even so, it’s still very obviously Ilya’s place, not looking much different than when Shane’s visited over the last year.
Shane feels arms around him as he hangs his last hoodie up and a voice murmurs in his ear “Let me welcome you home.”
He grins and turns in Ilya’s embrace, putting his arms around his neck. “And how will you do that?”
Ilya responds by moving his hands behind Shane’s legs and hoisting him up. Shane squawks in surprise, then laughs as Ilya throws him to the mattress.
***
Shane sits at Ilya’s kitchen table the next morning, drinking herb tea and eating wheat toast. Ilya stumbles in as he’s finishing, wearing only boxer shorts. Ilya’s eyes soften as he sees him there, but then his gaze falls to Shane’s coffee mug, and he frowns. Shane doesn’t know why--it’s just a mug. Sure, it says “My blood type is hockey” on it around crossed sticks and a puck, but Ilya shouldn’t have an issue with that.
Ilya kisses him good morning, then moves to make his own breakfast, rattling around companionably. “I’m taking you shopping,” he says out of nowhere, his face in the fridge.
“What? Why?” Shane says, sure he’s misheard.
Ilya closes the fridge and looks at him seriously. “You do not have enough stuff. You need to buy more.”
“Wha…” Shane sputters, “Ilya, I have plenty of ‘stuff.’ And if I need anything else I can have it shipped from the storage unit.”
“Nope, uh-uh, we are going shopping today.”
And Shane, despite his protests, finds himself being dragged from department to department at a local store. Furniture. Home goods. Bedding. Ilya tells him to buy anything he so much as looks at.
“Ilya, you already have a coffee table.”
“I do not need it. Buy this one.”
Shane objects, of course, but Ilya is stubborn, and he finally gives up since he doesn’t want to be here till the store closes.
After they’ve been through every department in the store, including ones they’ll never buy anything from (“Ilya, this the hardware department.” “Just in case, solnyshko.”) they take the smaller stuff to the checkout. The rest will be delivered in a week or so. Shane can’t keep track of all the stuff he bought, it fills two whole carts. Besides the coffee table, Shane has a nightstand, a couple sets of bedding and a food processor that he can think of.
When they get home, Shane is feeling drained, but Ilya insists on putting the new blankets on the bed immediately. It is more comfortable, especially since Ilya also brought out Shane’s favorite blanket, one that’s been washed so often its original color can’t be guessed (it was blue).
Over the next few days he takes the other things and tucks them here and there around the apartment—a poster on the wall in the gym, a new mat in the bathroom, a wrought-iron table lamp in the living room. Ilya beams every time his eyes fall on a new item, and he usually kisses Shane softly afterward.
The bigger stuff is delivered a week later, and the workmen take away Ilya’s duplicate furniture.
Shane looks around again. He hates to admit it, but he does feel more at home here now that he can see touches of himself, things he picked out, in every room. Still...
“I’m glad it’s all done.”
“Not yet,” Ilya says, grinning crookedly.
“What do you mean?”
The grin widens. “You’ll see.”
“Come on, just tell me! You know I hate surprises.”
“You will like this one. Trust me.”
Shane does trust him, but he’s already feeling somewhat unmoored with everything. It’s no use, though. For all of Shane’s wheedling, Ilya doesn’t relent, saying only “You will like it, I promise.”
That weekend they’re flicking through the channels on TV, trying to find something other than trashy reality schlock or mindless talk shows, when there’s a knock on the door. Shane moves to get up, but Ilya waves him down again. “Stay. I will take care of this.”
Shane ignores him, following him to the door. It’s three workmen, with a massive cardboard box on a dolly. Ilya bounces on his toes and says “This way!”
Shane trails after the workmen, ending up in the trophy room. The foot or so of space between the display cases is gone; they’re now pushed against each other, leaving a gap large enough to fit another one.
The workmen put down the box and open it, revealing a frame and glass panels.
“Ilya, did you…?”
“Hush, Hollander,” Ilya says, but his eyes are dancing.
It takes a surprisingly short time for the case to be fully assembled. While it’s going on, Ilya opens the other cases and takes out Shane’s awards: his Rookie of the Year Award, his Juniors’ Cup, his Olympic gold medal.
Ilya lets him arrange them the way he wants, handing him each one by one. Shane arranges them exactly the way he had them in his own apartment. They fill up the whole case.
“If you win more awards, we will have problem,” Ilya jokes.
“Then we’re gonna have a problem,” Shane says, to hide the fact that there’s a lump in his throat and his eyes are stinging. The voice in his head, the one that says things like “This is stupid” or “It will never work,” is silent. He reaches out to Ilya, grabs his chin and kisses him deepdeepdeep.
When they break, Ilya smiles softly at him. “Welcome home, moya lyubov.”