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Ilya watched from the front porch as Shane's Jeep turned into the cul-de-sac, just as the U-Haul with the Massachusetts’ licence plate was leaving. The contractors had laughed when they surveyed the cargo they were supposed to deliver, and to their question where the rest of it was, Ilya had made a sweeping hand gesture. He had tried to talk Shane out of renting the big lorry, but Mr. Real Estate seemed convinced it was one of Ilya's usual jokes. He couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that his boyfriend preferred to travel lightly.
Which, in this case, had led Ilya to his new residence in the city of Shane Hollander's birth. Closer to him by two hours instead of a whole fucking country.
Shane had insisted on helping, which Ilya knew meant he had strong opinions about where everything had to go. In comparison, Ilya wasn't fussed in the slightest, but happy to let Shane take over, since he knew his boyfriend needed things to be a certain way or his brain would start itching.
And if Ilya was to be honest, his heart grew almost too embarrassingly large for his chest at the thought of Shane making his mark in the house from the start. So, when they would spend time together in Ottawa, Shane would know which of the kitchen cabinets contained the coffee mugs because he had been the one who put them there.
Afterwards, Ilya had insisted on ordering celebratory pizza, and, with a solemn expression, had explained it was the traditional food to share after helping someone with their move. It was basically the law, which left Shane with little more than a token protest. It was technically still pre pre-season, and, well, who was Hollander to dispute a legal argument.
They sat opposite each other at the kitchen island and ate one-handedly since, by coincidence, the fingers of their left hands had intertwined and played a lazy tug-of-war between them.
“So,” Shane started, before pausing. “You weren't actually joking about the number of boxes.”
Ilya turned around as if he had to check the pile of empty and folded cardboard on the floor in the living area behind him to be sure.
“Nope.” His mouth curved into a crooked grin.
“You should have stopped me.”
“You did not notice me trying?” Ilya laughed when Shane brought his free hand up to cover as much of his face as one set of fingers and palm allowed.
“This isn't exactly environmentally friendly, Ilya,” Shane groaned. “And an unnecessary expense too,” he mumbled grumpily.
“My poor hockey millionaire,” Ilya cooed.
Shane dropped his hand again to glare back at him, which only made Ilya laugh harder. He brought their joined hands towards his mouth to take the sting away with a kiss.
“It is a little funny, though, yes? You should have seen the faces of the moving guys. Was a tragedy that I sold my Porsche already. Would have been an easy fit next to the leather couch and boxes with kitchenware.”
Ilya mused the expanse of his possessions for a moment.
“Besides, I have never been possessive about … things.”
The irritation in Shane's expression slowly morphed into something different, a small, wistful smile tugging at his mouth.
Eventually, he nodded. “Makes sense, I suppose. When you leave home at 18 to move to a different continent there isn't a lot you are able to take with you, probably.”
Ilya wiped his fingers on a paper napkin. The golden cross tucked safely against his chest was warm to the touch. He felt the squeeze in his hand as well as around his heart. By force of habit he averted Shane's sympathetic gaze. Until a thumb caressed his cheek and gently guided his head upwards.
“So, if it's not ‘things’, is there anything else you are possessive about?” Shane asked, the tone playfully shifting the mood, as if he didn't already know the answer.
Ilya huffed, and a couple of complicated emotions happened in his chest which, probably, also showed on his face.
“You … are a not-a-thing,’ he replied, and he didn't seem to be the only one surprised by the forceful declaration, judging by the look in the soft, brown eyes watching him intently.
“Oh. So, what am I, then?” The faint blush only managed to further accentuate the dusting of freckles which had haunted Ilya for more than a decade.
Fuck. Trust Hollander to turn Ilya into a sentimental fool and not make him care about it in the slightest.
“You are my …” Ilya paused. What was he supposed to follow the possessive pronoun with? My boyfriend? My life? My reason I breathe and get up in the mornings? He silently cursed the English language for being entirely insufficient. “You are my … Shane.”