Archive of Our Own

After a week, Shane was worried.

With two years of playing side-by-side with Ilya as teammates and as husbands under his belt, Shane was familiar with the ebb and flow of Ilya’s moods. He knew the path that his husband’s depression tended to lead him down after the rush and constant go, go, go of the season was over.

This wasn’t that path. Not exactly. At first, it was Ilya sleeping in more often. Crawling into bed late after staying up too long watching TV. His Instagram story posts were fewer, which sounded dumb, but Ilya loved Instagram. Anya’s evening walks became a few minutes shorter. It was painful to watch, always, but typical enough that Shane usually noticed before it became all-consuming.

This time, Shane didn’t notice until Ilya stopped drinking coffee. Playoffs were long over and practices were on a reduced schedule. Camps for the Irina Foundation didn’t start back up again for a few weeks, there was no need to be waking up at the crack of dawn anymore. No need for the extra caffeine.

But it was weird. The day after they ran out of Ilya’s favorite coffee beans, he just stopped. Shane’s husband, who had ordered a twelve-pack of stainless steel hand-pumps for every single bottle of coffee syrup that he owned. Ilya, who had an entire Pinterest board dedicated to themed lattes, didn’t buy more coffee beans.

He didn’t ask Shane to go buy more. Didn’t steal any of Shane’s coffee from the moka pot. He stayed in bed even longer. Shane’s playful complaints about morning breath were met with weak grunts and sometimes silence. It felt like he was watching his husband be swallowed into a place that Shane couldn’t follow.

It was Saturday morning, almost afternoon, and Ilya was still in bed. 

Shane had been awake for four hours when he finally caved to the fact that he would, eventually, need to eat something more substantial than coffee and a smoothie. Making and eating breakfast with his husband every morning had become his favorite part of the day after his move to Ottawa. He didn’t realize just how much he loved it until he was suddenly doing it alone.

He opened the fridge, closed it, opened the pantry, then closed that, too. Nothing looked particularly appetizing to him, and he tried to think of what Ilya might want when he came down. If he comes down.

Earlier that morning, when Shane had come back with coffee from their favorite bakery; black for himself and a ridiculously decadent iced latte for Ilya, the Russian man didn’t so much as look in the drink’s direction. Normally, Shane would chalk it up to the blonde’s typical crankiness in the morning. But Ilya had a sweet tooth through and through. Sugar and caffeine almost always got him moving.

But Ilya stayed asleep, and the latte melted into the coaster on the night stand where Shane left it for him, and now he was hungry. Anya stared up at Shane from where he leaned against the kitchen counter, glass of water sitting between both hands. He’d taken her on a run hours ago, a bit longer than usual to make up for the fact that she was out of routine.

He always tried his best to give Ilya space when he had hard days, but hard weeks were something Shane wasn’t entirely sure how to deal with. He feared pushing Ilya even further into a dark place by nagging, but he couldn’t sit by and watch either.

He let Anya out into the yard one more time, then toed softly up the stairs, water glass abandoned on the bench.

—

“Hey,” Shane murmured into their dark bedroom. Both the regular and blackout curtains were closed, only the small sliver of light from the hall making its way in. Ilya was sprawled across the bed diagonally, arms shoved beneath his pillow. He didn’t stir.

Shane closed the door softly and padded further into the room. He lowered himself on the edge of the bed furthest from Ilya, not wanting to force him into an interaction he didn’t want. He reached out a hand and found a lump that he was pretty sure was Ilya’s foot and squeezed gently.

“Ilya,” he said at the same volume. Shane would leave Ilya be if he really was sleeping, but he could tell by the way the blonde’s breathing started and stopped manually, that he was awake.

He rubbed his hand up and down Ilya’s calf a few times before letting it rest on his ankle, squeezing again. “You up?”

“Mm,” Ilya grunted quietly, shifting slightly. The same grunt he’d received every afternoon for the majority of the past week. The grunt that meant yes, unfortunately.

Shane was running out of questions that didn’t entirely suffocate his husband. Hungry? You okay? I’m running an errand, do you wanna come? 

He glanced around the room until his gaze finally settled on the glass of water he’d brought up earlier that morning for Ilya to take his pill. The glass was mostly empty and the pill was gone from the top of the night stand. Shane squeezed his ankle again.

He stood slowly, making his way to Ilya's side of the bed. It was really Shane’s side, but Ilya’s entire lower half was currently taking up his own. His curls fanned across Shane’s pillow, eyes still closed as Shane lowered himself onto the mattress until his hip barely grazed the side of Ilya’s arm.

“You want anything other than water? I was about to make tea.” He wasn’t, but he would.

“Mm, no,” Ilya grumbled into the pillow, so low it was almost inaudible.

“Alright,” Shane whispered, bringing his hand up and resting it tentatively on top of slightly tangled curls. He could tell by the way that Ilya tensed beneath his fingers that he was hoping Shane wouldn’t try to uncover his face.

He sat there and petted Ilya’s hair for a few moments, but ultimately couldn’t resist, and gently carded his hand through the patch of curls sprawled over his right eye. His cheeks were dry, and Shane physically held back a sigh of relief. Ilya closed his eyes tighter and his next exhale shuddered.

“Try and sleep some more if you’re not hungry,” he said at a slightly more conversational volume. “Then I want to bring you some real food, alright?” Ilya just nodded.

Figuring that was about as much energy Ilya was willing or able to spare, Shane pressed a kiss to the top of his head, pulled the covers higher over Ilya’s shoulders, and smoothed a hand down his blanket-covered back.

“Alright, baby. Sleep tight. Text if you need me, kay?”

“Okay,” The broken whisper sounded like music to Shane’s ears.

—

Shane called his mom right before dinnertime.

“I don’t know,” Shane whispered, pacing around the kitchen island and pulling at his lashes with his left hand. “He’s just really lethargic, it looks like he’s been taking his medicine but this isn’t normal, mom.” Yuna hummed over the line, Shane could hear her frown. It made his stomach twist.

“Has he spoken to his therapist? Or Terry?”

“His therapist was out of office last week and his next appointment isn’t until Tuesday. I’m just worried he’s not going to go.” Shane brought a hand up to his mouth, pressing fingertips into his lips to keep himself from making any extra noise. His breath felt harsh coming out.

“Okay, okay,” Yuna soothed, sensing her son’s position on the ledge. “That’s in a few days, maybe he really just needs the rest, Shane. He hasn’t cancelled it, has he?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Shane’s voice wavered slightly. “I’m just really afraid he’s just not going to go. And I can’t force him to.”

“No, you can’t,” Yuna agreed. Shane absorbed the words like a punch to the chest. He wanted someone to be able to tell him that yes, he can force Ilya to do something about this. He wanted to wrap Ilya up, stuff him in the car and drive him straight to Galina's office, duvet and all. But he couldn’t do that, and he wouldn’t. Not against Ilya’s wishes. Unless he had to.

Shane hung up as Yuna got ready to eat dinner herself, and he mauled his lower lip as he started down at the blank screen of his phone afterwards. The only thing Ilya had eaten all day was a protein bar Shane practically shoved into his hands earlier, and now he was running out of ideas.

There were still some of Ilya’s frozen microwavable stir fry bowls in the freezer, which Shane didn’t care for, but his husband loved. He usually ate two. Shane could try one of those later. Against the part of himself with the better judgement to leave Ilya be, he trudged back upstairs.

When he pushed the bedroom door open, he saw that Ilya had rolled over, but otherwise hadn't moved an inch. His eyes shot open at the soft creak of the door, looking apologetically around the room as Shane came closer.

“Is it okay if I lay down with you?” 

It obviously hadn’t been what Ilya was expecting, based on the way his blue eyes filled rapidly with tears, but none of them fell. He didn’t say or do anything but look at Shane miserably, and then Shane was crossing the room to climb onto the bed with him.

“Hey,” he whispered at the same time Ilya was shaking his head, though he was moving to make room for his husband. He molded himself to Shane’s side the second that he was underneath the covers with him, quickly pressing his cheek to Shane’s t-shirt so as to keep his face hidden. He sniffed once, hard, and tried to focus on the feeling of Shane’s hand twisting into his hair.

“Do you want me to bring you a new blanket later?” Shane asked, pulling at the throw that Ilya’d been buried under all week. It wasn't what he wanted to ask, but Shane was scared beyond rational thought. It drove Shane so crazy to be useless, he wasn’t above doing extra laundry just to bring some semblance of peace to Ilya.

Ilya shook his head immediately, arms tightening around Shane at the thought of him being anywhere but wrapped around the Russian man. “No.”

“Okay,” Shane soothed. One hand rested on the back of Ilya’s head, holding it to him. He massaged his scalp lightly with fingertips and dull nails. “I’m gonna walk Anya one more time before I shower. You're welcome to join me.”

Ilya didn’t say anything to that, his breathing shallow and more rapid. Shane pulled him impossibly tighter to his chest.

“Hey,” Shane said again, running the hand not buried into blonde curls up and down Ilya’s back. “It’s okay. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he trailed off, not knowing how to be honest without making Ilya feel even worse than he already did. “I just want to help you. That’s all I care about. You. Just you.”

Ilya kept shaking his head, and Shane squeezed his eyes shut. A part of him wanted to shake Ilya senseless. Wanted the thoughts to just fall out in front of him where he could read them and make a clear plan of action. The silent, nearly catatonic version of his husband laying next to him didn’t even seem like Ilya.

“Ilya,” Shane whispered desperately, barely louder than a breath because it was the only true word he could speak. “I know you’re exhausted. I know.”

Ilya shifted against him, the cold tip of his nose pressing into Shane’s neck. He swallowed, so Shane waited for him to speak, but no words ever came.

“Just tell me what you need, Ilya,” he whispered, but the emotion caught in his throat made the words sound harsh in his ears. He felt like any admission of his own would be a crack in any facade of stability he had left.

“Nothing,” Ilya croaked exasperatedly, voice sounding gruffer than it had in days. He almost sounded annoyed. He also sounded like he wanted to say more, but again, he didn’t.

“I was thinking,” Shane started slowly. “We have some dinner. Maybe on the couch.” He focused on rubbing only Ilya’s upper back and shoulders, where he anticipated tension seconds before he felt it beneath his fingers. He pushed further into Ilya’s muscles.

“Shane,” Ilya whispered. “I can’t.” Shane knew what that meant. He could do it, physically, but it would take everything.

“I’ll help you,” Shane started to say, but Ilya was shaking his head and pressing his face into Shane’s neck so hard that the man beneath him was wondering if Ilya could even breathe. He was breathing, strained and harsh, but Shane had to continue.

“I know,” He said again, letting Ilya catch his breath fully. “And if we get halfway down the stairs and you can’t go anymore, we can turn right around.” He felt Ilya open his mouth to protest some part of what Shane just said, but the shorter man didn’t let him. 

“But I’ll help you, the whole time. Your feet don’t even have to touch the floor, if you really don’t want-”

“No,” Ilya said weakly, but he was shifting into a sitting position, so Shane took it as a success and followed him up. “Don’t pick me up.” Shane smiled, relieved to see the sliver of Ilya’s regular self coming back to surface. He couldn’t help but lean in and kiss his nose.

“No promises,” Shane told him with a smirk, then crawled over Ilya to slide off of the bed on his side. He held both of his hands out, palms up, to his boyfriend who looked completely adorable where he sat in the middle of the rumpled sheets. “C’mon, you.”

So, Ilya stood. He narrowly escaped Shane’s second attempt to wrap him up and carry him down the stairs like a puppy. It didn’t quite make him smile, but it was close. He opted not to change his shirt like Shane had suggested once they had stepped away from the bed, but Ilya accepted the sweatshirt his husband was wearing, easily. Shane felt something in his chest ease slightly at the sight of Ilya in his clothes, settling into the familiarity of Shane’s scent.

Downstairs, Shane led Ilya into the living room and manhandled him into sitting on the couch. Now that he was sitting up and more alert than he’d been all day, Shane could see Ilya fighting through his exhaustion to be useful somehow.

“I can help,” Ilya said weakly, lifting a hand to either gesture towards the kitchen, or stop Shane from walking there himself. 

“You could,” Shane agreed, snapping his fingers for Anya who came before he’d even gotten the chance to call her name. “But who’s going to sit here with Anya?” 

Ilya looked down at the dog, who jumped on the couch and started circling the cushion next to him. Once she was satisfied with her work, she laid down with a small huff, her side pressed directly against Ilya’s thigh. He stared at the small dog and reached out to stroke her soft head. Satisfied, Shane grabbed a folded throw blanket from the back of the couch and whipped it over Ilya’s legs, making sure not to accidentally cover Anya’s entire face in the process.

“Okay,” He said, perching himself on the arm of the couch and running a hand over Ilya’s head, which was now leaning back into the couch cushions. “Anything sound good? Or not really?” 

“Not really.” Ilya whispered, back to bashful now that he’d allowed himself to become the cared for and not the carer. His appetite was usually endless, something that the entire Hollander family was charmed by. Ilya had his own section in the snack drawer at Yuna and David’s cottage. Today, food hadn’t crossed his mind once.

“Okay, I’ll pick.” Shane stood and reached for the TV remote on the coffee table. He clicked the TV on, went through the slightly annoying process of also turning on the Apple TV, then handed both remotes to Ilya. “Pick something, scroll. Whatever. I'll be right back, you two.” He patted Anya’s head for good measure, then left his little family in the living room to head into the kitchen.

Their grocery options were less than spectacular, and Shane knew it wasn't likely that Ilya would finish all of what he was presented with, anyway. Since he knew his husband hadn’t eaten breakfast, he sliced two pieces of sourdough and put them in the toaster. He filled a large water bottle with too much ice and lots of water, then grabbed a can of coke from the fridge.

When the toast popped, he spread an Ilya-like amount of butter onto both pieces, then added raspberry jam onto one of them. He felt a faint tug of guilt that he wasn’t offering Ilya something more nutritious, something more filling or with more protein. He took a breath, trying not to optimize his husband's diet. At this point, he just wanted Ilya to eat.

He tucked the can of coke under one arm, then grabbed the water bottle and plate of toast with his free hands, carrying them back into the living room. A re-run of an old season of Canada’s Drag Race played quietly on the TV. Ilya stared at the screen blankly, knees now tucked up beneath him, one hand slowly trailing down Anya’s back repeatedly. Her head lifted as Shane placed the plate on the table in front of them. 

“We were out of Nutella, before you ask,” Shane told him with a small smile. He seriously needed to fix the automatic grocery delivery list. Ilya huffed half-heartedly. 

To Shane's delight, he ate the entire piece of buttered toast, but the one with jam had long gone cold on the plate. Ilya kept it on his lap for a polite amount of time, then turned towards Shane.

“Do you want it?” Ilya asked, lifting up the jam-covered toast, still perfectly intact. He barely looked at Shane when he asked, arm already moving to place it on the coffee table. 

He didn’t realize that declining never even crossed his mind until after he said: “Sure.”

He ate the piece of toast as the Drag Race contestants were halfway through their sewing challenge, and was snuggled into Ilya’s side by lip synch.

—

They’d watched four episodes of Drag Race by the time it was ten at night, and the couple had gone fully horizontal on the couch, Shane covering Ilya’s entire body with his own. He lifted his head from the Russian’s chest to bicker over a particularly bad runway look, which Ilya then claimed was his favorite look of the night.

Their banter was easy as it ever was, and Ilya’s chest rumbled with laughter beneath Shane’s cheek every so often. His energy seemed brighter than it had been all day, but Shane knew the situation was…precarious.

Ilya hadn’t really cried yet. Properly. It wasn’t that he cried that often, neither of them typically cried more than a tear or two in front of the other, but still. Ilya always seemed to go teary-eyed when he ran out of ways to hide, and his held breaths and careful laughter told Shane it was a matter of time.

Shane suggested they head back upstairs once he noticed Ilya was drifting, eyes blank and empty as his stare burned into the TV. He let the darker-haired man pull him back upstairs and into the bathroom. Shane leaned him against the sink counter and turned on the shower, and Ilya stared at the very center piece of the tile floor.

Shane tugged at the hem of Ilya’s shirt, and the blonde wordlessly lifted his arms up as the fabric was tugged up and off of his shoulders. Ilya kicked off his sweats, then lifted his head as he half-heartedly tugged at the waistband of his boxers with one thumb. He pulled them the rest of the way off, then swayed as he balanced on one foot to pull them free of his ankle.

“Here, babe,” Shane said, holding open the glass shower door. He was still fully clothed, and Ilya didn’t cling to him like he normally did when they were in the bathroom together. “I can warm up some towels really quick, does that sound good?” 

Do you want me to leave you alone? Is what Shane let go unsaid, though he knew the answer even before Ilya nodded his head slowly. He watched as his husband stepped into the shower and let the hot water and billowing steam surround him entirely. Shane watched for as long as he could while he gathered a few towels for Ilya, then slipped back into the bedroom and then the hallway to toss the towels in the dryer.

He debated going back multiple times during the fifteen minutes that Ilya spent in the shower, debated calling his mom even though she was likely winding down for the night, but he sat anxiously on the edge of the bed instead. Ilya was always a very tactile person, but not in the moments when he felt embarrassed. Embarrassed for existing. It made Shane’s heart clench.

He gave a poor attempt at checking some emails on his phone, but his mind would wander the second he made it past the subject line. He was grateful when the melodic chime of the dryer finally rang out down the hall, glad to have something useful to do. By the time he opened the bathroom door with two warm, neatly folded towels in his arms, the water was off and Ilya was just opening the shower door.

“Hey, you,” Shane said softly. “Perfect timing.”

Ilya smiled small, private and bashful like it always was when it was just the two of them, and took one of the towels from Shane’s hand. He pressed a wet kiss to his freckled cheek as he wrapped the towel around his waist. 

“Spasibo.” Ilya leaned back and moved over to the rug in front of the sink to keep from dripping more on the floor. Shane rubbed his lips together to suppress his grin and carried the second towel over to the sink, placing it on the counter.

“I’ll find something for you to wear, do you want help with your hair?” Ilya looked at him with eyes that were tired, but otherwise relaxed, and shook his head.

“Is okay. Can I have the blue hoodie?” Ilya asked with a pout that was totally disarming and equally unnecessary. Like Shane was going to say no.

“Sure, baby.” Shane pressed a soft kiss to Ilya’s upturned, waiting lips, tapped him softly on the butt, then left him to finish getting ready for bed. His hand had barely closed around the handle when he heard his husband gasp faintly.

“No,” Ilya breathed, and Shane spun around so fast he almost slipped on the wet tile beneath him. 

“What?” He asked immediately, voice gone incredibly serious. Ilya stood in front of the bathroom mirror, fingertips clawing at the base of his throat right where his chain- right where his chain used to sit. The Russian’s neck was bare and slightly pink from where Ilya repeatedly prodded at it with audible disbelief. “No, no…”

“Ilya,” Shane said cautiously, scanning him over for injuries that could’ve happened in the millisecond he had turned away. “What happened?”

“I-” Ilya croaked out. He swallowed, though it only made his words come out rougher. “My- I don’t know where…”

“Okay, okay,” Shane said, placing one hand on Ilya’s shoulder, the other coming up to lightly clasp over Ilya’s fingers, holding them still against his irritated chest. “It’s okay, we’ll find it.”

Ilya shook his head repeatedly, not quite panicking, but twisting his face together in devastated, heart-wrenching acceptance. “It is gone.” Shane shook his head then, releasing Ilya’s fingers to palm one of his cheeks instead, thumb brushing over his mole once, then twice.

“Did it fall off in the shower?” Ilya’s head was steady in its back-and forth motion. 

“It was not on the floor. It is gone.” He whispered the second part as if he didn’t want to believe it was even possible. His mother’s cross. The only physical piece of her property that he had, that he’d ever have. The thought made Shane sick.

“No, it’s not. It’s around here somewhere, alright? You were wearing it this morning.” Ilya’s breath stuttered at that, like it was information he hadn’t yet considered. He sniffed harshly, then lifted a hand to squeeze at his nose once. 

Rationally, he probably knew it was likely that the necklace was somewhere within the house, maybe the yard, or the laundry machine. But presently, it felt like the universe was playing tricks on him.

“It could’ve,” Ilya swallowed thickly, every inhale sounding like it was being pulled from a tiny straw. Devastated eyes flicked up to meet Shane’s. “What if I took it off?”

“Okay, one thing at a time,” Shane said, grabbing the second folded towel from where he’d just set it down on the counter. He draped it over Ilya’s shoulders and pulled it to wrap around as much of his front as possible, then soothed his hands over Ilya’s arms through the fabric. “Dry off. Find something to wear, and we’ll look around some, okay? It’ll be okay.” It was all Ilya could do to nod and obey, sulking into the bedroom in both towels, head low.

The second he was gone, Shane became a man on a mission. 

There was no way that necklace was gone. Shane knew that cross, and he knew it well. He fell asleep with it tangled in his fingers every night, knew the exact weight of it in his palm, he knew how it felt banging against his forehead when fucked him. Losing the necklace was not an option, so Shane would have to fucking find it.

He checked the floor, beneath the counters, at the bottom of the plastic basket full of Ilya’s combs that sat on the counter. He checked the toilet room despite not seeing Ilya go anywhere near it all night, and checked the laundry hamper just because. He poked his head past the condensation-ridden shower walls to glance at the floor. There was no necklace in sight. He was halfway out of the shower door when the glint of the shower drain caught his eye. 

The drain itself had holes that were way too fine for such a big piece of metal to slip through, but the drain cover had slid an inch or so out of place over the drain pipe.

Shane turned sharply on his heel and crossed the bathroom to open their linen closet, digging around until he found the plastic drain tool with short, bendable teeth along the edges. Yuna had given him an extra one she ordered by accident, and Shane had laughed at the time. Neither Shane nor Ilya had hair long enough that it actively clogged their drain. He thanked her silently now.

He went back into the shower, kneeled on the still-wet stone floor, and lifted the drain cover before plunging the tool directly into the drain. It made a wet, scraping sound as he poked around gently, not wanting to make the mistake of pushing the jewelry further down the pipe if it was down there.

He pulled up a small clump of brownish hair, damp and grimy from its travels. Shane gagged quietly. He flicked the clump onto the tile and put the tool back down into the pipe.. He rotated it a few times, trying to distinguish the squelching sounds from anything that might be slightly metallic. When he pulled up again, the tool held a tangled knot of gold chain and hair, Irina’s crucifix gleaming from where it was half-covered in muck and conditioner.

“Ilya!” Shane called before he fully realized what he was looking at. He stood quickly, already pulling the necklace from the end of the tool. He didn’t even feel the slimy, wet sensation of shower gunk on his fingers, especially not after seeing Ilya’s face when he entered the room a few seconds later. 

“What is-” He stepped into the bathroom with an energy Shane hadn’t seen all day, lips parted and now clothed, when his eyes landed on the mess in Shane’s hand. He smeared his thumb over the top of the cross so Ilya could see it properly.

“It was stuck in the pipe, the drain cover came loose,” Shane explained excitedly as he carried the necklace over to the sink. He opened the cabinet below to find Ilya’s container of gold jewelry cleaner. “I keep meaning to call them and either order a better cover or resize the tile, but I’ll have to-”

“Fuck,” Ilya choked from behind him. Shane glanced up to look at Ilya through the mirror, hands not holding the crucifix half submerged in  the jewelry cleaner. His huge husband looked miniscule standing in the center of the bathroom, both palms covering his face. “That was so stupid.” 

Shane let the entire necklace fall into the jar. It could soak for a minute.

“No,” Shane said, making his way over and throwing both arms over Ilya’s hoodie-covered shoulders. They shook slightly as Shane squeezed him tighter, guiding Ilya to rest his forehead against Shane’s neck to catch his breath. “No it wasn’t.”

It was then, in their dimly-lit, fogged-up bathroom that Ilya cried properly for the first time all week. His hands dropped from his face to clutch at Shane’s back through his t-shirt, and he shuddered so hard on each exhale that it shook both of them. Shane ran helpless hands over Ilya’s back, one hand lifting to hold his head gently against him. His thin t-shirt did nothing to mute the blonde’s harsh, wet sniffs, Shane was sure the shirt was done for. He didn’t care.

“It wasn’t stupid. Everything’s okay,” Shane whispered against the side of Ilya’s head, shushing every pained sound that rumbled against his skin.

He kissed Ilya’s warm temple, lips pressing against the damp curls at his hairline, then kept kissing down the side of his face. He kissed his cheek twice in the same spot, trying to ground Ilya enough that he could breathe through tears and snot. 

“I’m gonna wipe it off so you can put it back on, alright?” He leaned back from Ilya slightly, waiting until blue eyes glanced up at him, shy and glistening. Ilya nodded, and decided he was done crying just like that.

Shane kept one hand on him all the way back to the sink anyway, only pulling away entirely to fish the necklace out of the tray and wipe it down fully with the piece of cloth from Ilya’s drawer. He held it up after he was done, and it shone like it’d never seen the inner workings of their home’s plumbing.

Shane reclasped the jewelry around his husband’s neck and pulled him into his side the second he was finished. They leaned against the counter, Ilya’s arms crossed as he tilted into Shane’s space.

“You’ve had a tough couple days,” Shane rubbed his back with one hand, strong and sure in its course across Ilya’s shoulders. “It was scary. It’s alright.” Ilya nodded as he twirled the crucifix through his fingertips, chin tucked down so that it almost touched his chest. Shane could tell he was reaching his limit for verbal reassurance. He changed gears. “Scarier for her, though. You’ve seen what goes down our shower drain.”

Ilya looked up at Shane suddenly, genuine surprise clear on his frozen face. Shane’s lips turned up against his better efforts, and soon Ilya was breaking too, dropping his chin back down as a bubble of laughter escaped from his lips. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, peeking at Shane as his shoulders shook again, this time with hysterics.

“You are gross,” Ilya said, shuffling closer so he could drop his head to Shane’s shoulder. He grabbed Shane’s hand and brought it to his lips so he could kiss it. “I love it. Ya lyublu tebya.”

“I love you,” Shane whispered, smushing his cheek into Ilya’s damp hair. “Ya tebya lyublu. So much.”

—

Shane could tell that Ilya felt a little better once they were in bed for the night. Shane had gotten into bed first, lifted the sheet with his arm and watched his husband crawl in and press directly against him. Shane’s eyes were closed as he ran his hand in a calming trail over Ilya’s back, down to smooth over his butt, then all the way back up to his shoulders and neck.

“Can we go to Crumbl next week?” Ilya asked after a few silent minutes.

“Sure,” Shane answered easily, voice fond and amused. He didn’t care that Ilya wanted to spend their next day off at a creepy, corporate cookie factory. Shane was just glad he wanted to go anywhere at all. He would go to Canadian Tire if that’s where his husband wanted to go. “Why Crumbl?”

“They have a soda with the most sugar in it,” Ilya said simply. 

“I don’t doubt that,” Shane chuckled, running his hand down Ilya’s spine. He slipped his hand beneath the waistband of Ilya’s sweatpants that were actually Shane’s sweatpants and brushed his thumb over Ilya’s ass affectionately.

“No, it’s actually the most sugar. The grams would kill you. It might be illegal.”

“How would they be selling it if it’s illegal?” Shane asked, then felt Ilya shrug against him. He made a vague I don’t know noise, then lifted his head.

“America.” He peeled himself away from Shane to grab his phone. “I will show you.” 

He felt Ilya reach over towards the night stand, so he tucked his arm underneath his pillow to get out of the blonde man’s way. Shane peeked an eye open to see Ilya re-smushing himself against Shane’s chest, his phone propped up on its side right above Shane’s left pec. Shane snorted and tilted his head down, gaze fully focused on his husband.

Moments later, Ilya had a news article pulled up and turned the screen so it faced Shane. Sure enough, there was some sort of drink with- Shane had to make sure he read it right- 186 grams of sugar? He grabbed Ilya’s phone to get a better look.

“What?” Shane squeaked. 

“I told you,” Ilya shrugged, reaching to take his phone back. Shane yanked his hand away before he could, so Ilya leaned down and lightly bit his collarbone. 

“Ilya, this is probably AI. I told you, that shit’s everywhere.” He looked back down at the screen, scrolling through the article for details. Ilya groaned dramatically.

“Is not AI,” Ilya said, swiftly snatching his phone back and tossing it onto the night stand. “I checked the Instagram, too.”

“You can not drink that, Ilya,” Shane said seriously, looking down at Ilya on his chest, who now had his chin propped up on the back of his folded arms. Ilya pouted pathetically at him. Shane brought both hands to sit at his waist, completely endeared. 

“If we share, then it is only,” Ilya glanced up at the ceiling while he did the calculations. “Ninety-three grams each.”

“That’s insane, baby.” Shane said with a smitten sigh. They were going to Crumbl next week. And Ilya was getting one of those sodas, which Shane also knew that he would be drinking at least a couple sips of.

“I want cookies, too.” Ilya wiggled further into Shane’s neck, practically climbing him. He untucked his arms and shoved them beneath Shane’s body, palms flat against his back.

“We’ll get you a cookie, Ilya.” 

“Cookies,” Ilya emphasized with a squeeze around Shane’s torso. “You have to buy four, at least.” The darker-haired man sighed, and decided to quit while he was ahead.

“Four cookies,” Shane said, voice turning thick with sleep.

“And soda.”

“Four cookies and a soda.” 

Ilya hummed against him and then went still. His breath was steady, but Shane could feel the residual tension of the day still trapped somewhere inside of him. It was still three more days until Ilya’s next therapy appointment. He’d allowed Shane to make some sort of contact today, but that didn’t promise what tomorrow would look like.

“Hey,” Shane said softly, quiet enough that Ilya wouldn’t hear it if he really was asleep.

“Hm?” Ilya replied, equally sleepy but holding on.

“How about I pick up breakfast tomorrow? Whenever we get up.” Ilya didn’t say anything right away, just rubbed his cheek against Shane’s sleep shirt a few times before resettling with a sigh. 

“It might be late for breakfast,” He said cautiously. It was hard for Ilya to feel optimistic about his good moods lasting. He could fall asleep feeling nothing but peaceful and wake up the next morning. Shane liked keeping to a tight schedule, but he knew strict routines sometimes made Ilya feel boxed-in. They’d become decent at making compromises.

“Lunch then,” Shane suggested lightly. “We can go together. Or you can come with, if you’re up to it.”

“Maybe,” Ilya said, swallowing hard.

“Do you,” Shane wanted to keep going, but didn’t want to overwhelm him with too many questions. “Do you want to watch the rest of Drag Race tomorrow?” 

It was quiet again, and then Ilya slowly lifted his head. It turned eleven, and the automatically timed lightbulbs in each of their bedside lamps went out at the same time, leaving the couple submerged in darkness.

“What?” Ilya whispered. But Shane’s unadjusted eyes could still see the gleam of Ilya’s full grin directly in front of him.

“Well, it’s Snatch Game next episode, so…” Ilya shifted and wrapped both of his arms around Shane’s neck, whole body rumbling with silent laughter. Shane thought he was crying at first, but then the Russian man was leaning back and smiling so hard that he forgot to be worried.

“What?” Shane asked, his chuckle coming out more like an adoring giggle, too tired to laugh any harder.

“I am obsessed with you, Shane Hollander,” Ilya said, face becoming just visible enough that Shane could make out the peak of his lips in the moonlight. The plainness of it left Shane speechless, still made him speechless. He could recover from these sneak-attacks of devotion from Ilya a bit quicker now, but it was a lost cause. Shane was completely gone on Ilya Rozanov. 

“I love you.” Shane said steadily, because it was the truest thing he knew. “Let’s do nothing tomorrow, okay?”

“Da.” Ilya sniffed once and nodded into Shane’s chest. “And maybe coffee.”

“And maybe coffee.”