Chapter Text
The morning sun hit the Hollander backyard with peaceful, unsuspecting warmth. That peace lasted roughly forty seconds, right up until David rolled a massive, three hundred pound box labeled Heavy Duty Cedar Pergola Kit onto the patio with a hand truck and unceremoniously dumped it onto the grass.
"Alright, boys," David said, wiping his hands on his jeans and looking immensely pleased with himself. "Your mother wants shade over the patio before the afternoon heat sets in. Let's get to work."
Shane stepped out onto the back deck, looking like he was stepping onto ice for Game 7 of the finals. He had pushed his sweater sleeves up to his elbows, safety glasses perched on top of his head, and a yellow notepad tightly clutched in his hand. His jaw was so firmly set it looked painful.
"I looked up the assembly specifications last night," Shane declared, his tone sharp and authoritative as he strode down the deck steps. "It's an eight hour build meant for three certified contractors. If we divide the process into four distinct phases, site prep, post anchorage, beam levelling, and roof slats, we can complete it in six hours with zero structural errors."
Behind him, the back screen door swung open.
Ilya drifted out onto the porch, clutching a mug of coffee in one hand and wearing gray sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. He squinted at the bright sky, took a lazy sip of his coffee, and yawned.
"Why we have giant box of wood in backyard?" Ilya asked, his voice low and raspy with sleep. "I thought we were having nice breakfast."
"We're building a pergola, Ilya," Shane said, pointing his pen accusingly at his husband. "And you're helping. Put your coffee down and grab a pair of gloves."
"A-per-go-la," Ilya repeated, testing the word on his tongue with a low chirp of laughter. He sauntered down the steps, his dark eyes locking onto Shane's intensely focused expression. "Sounds fake. Like disease."
"It's an architectural shading structure!" Shane snapped, bending down to slit the box tape with a pocket knife. "Now, first rule: organization. I'm going to sort the screws by size and thread length into these plastic bins. Dad, you start laying out the four main posts on the tarp. Ilya, you read the safety warnings."
"No," Ilya said smoothly.
Shane froze, knife still hovering over the cardboard. He looked up, his wide eyes burning with immediate, high strung panic. "What do you mean, no?"
"I don't read warnings, Мой милый," Ilya smirked, leaning casually against the unopened box. He set his coffee mug down on top of it, reached past Shane, and ripped the heavy cardboard flaps wide open with his bare hands. "Warnings are for people who don't know how to use power tools." (my sweetie)
"Don't—Ilya, wait!" Shane scrambled forward, but it was already too late.
With supreme, chaotic confidence, Ilya grabbed the large, clear plastic bag containing hundreds of bolts, washers, and metallic brackets. Before Shane could even process the movement, Ilya dumped the entire bag straight out onto the grass, letting out a satisfied clap of his hands as metal scattered everywhere in a chaotic silver cloud.
Shane stared at the pile of loose screws on the lawn. His chest rose and fell in short, rapid breaths. His face turned a deep, alarming shade of red.
"You... you dumped the hardware," Shane whispered, his voice dangerously thin. "You dumped two hundred and forty six piece precision hardware into the grass."
"Is fine," Ilya said cheerfully, crouching down to pick up a heavy, battery powered impact driver from David's toolbox. He gave the trigger two test pulls, making the motor whine loudly. "Now we see them better. Grass holds them in place so they don't roll away."
"That is not how grass works!" Shane yelled, dropping to his knees and desperately trying to gather the bolts back into a pile like a man trying to save precious jewels from a sinking ship. "Dad! Tell him! Tell him he just ruined Phase One!"
David slowly took a sip of his coffee from his lawn chair, looking over the top of his glasses at his son's near hysterical state. "Well, Shane, technically...the grass does keep them from rolling onto the concrete."
Shane's mouth opened, but no sound came out. He turned his head slowly toward the kitchen window, where Yuna was leaning against the sink, calmly watching the scene unfold with a small, amused smile on her face.
Ilya dropped down onto his knees right beside Shane, leaning in close enough for his shoulder to heavy bump against Shane's rigid arm. His dark eyes glittered with pure, wicked delight as he picked up a long lag bolt and held it out like a rose.
"Look, мой пузырь," Ilya purred into his ear, his asymmetric grin widening as Shane's breath hitched. "I found a big one for you. Very shiny. You want to write its name in your little notebook?" (my bubble)
"I hate you," Shane gritted out through his teeth, though his hands trembled slightly as he snatched the bolt away. "I genuinely hate you."
"Yes, yes, I know," Ilya chuckled softly, reaching out with a gloved hand to gently tap the tip of Shane's flushed nose. "Now give me wood, husband. Let's build heavy house."