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September has always been a busy month. Shane had a specific routine, one he always held onto tightly.
He always woke up around seven, give or take a couple of minutes. He wouldn’t ever let the clock hit eight; that would be a slight failure and a big disturbance to the schedule. That was the right way for the day to go, and that was it.
Seven fifteen was the morning run. He took Anya with him. Eight was shower and coffee. Some cuddles with sleepy Ilya. That was a part of the schedule, of course.
Then, eight thirty: breakfast. The dietary plan was attached to their fridge with a magnet from Ibiza, their honeymoon destination. A neat sheet of paper, printed out and carefully highlighted, each colour representing a different nutrient. Carbs, proteins, and fats were in bold and had double straight lines underneath them.
At nine fifteen was training. Shane was thankful every day that they took care of having a small, private gym installed in their basement, with all of the essential equipment. Then it was mobility, stretching and a strength workout, ending with HIIT. By twelve thirty, Shane was usually done with his personal training.
After that, the day went on. Prepare lunch with the colourful spreadsheet on the fridge, spend time with Ilya, eat lunch. Workout with Ilya, because he wouldn’t let his husband skip movement altogether while preparing for the season. Then dinner, spreadsheet. More time with Ilya, a walk with Anya.
September was busy.
But then, a small disruption to the schedule came - the Centaurs’ pre-season barbecue, their tradition.
Shane wasn’t particularly keen on going because it meant he’d skip his evening yoga, for one, and there was something inherently irritating about having an event wedged into a day that already had a perfect structure.
But Ilya, as the Centaurs’ captain, felt it was his duty to make sure his husband showed up. He said everyone was coming over to Zane's place, it was fun and it would a good opportunity to connect with others outside of the arena. At least something along those lines. Shane was nodding his head at the appropriate moments, and only partly listening. The other half of his brain was already working out how to sneak in a salmon salad for a barbecue without it being awkward.
So, Shane is sitting on a log of wood, Ilya’s arms wrapped around his waist in a warm, tight embrace. Zane invited them onto the logs at the beginning, proudly stating that this year they’d have a real barbecue. There’s a fire in the middle, surrounded by rocks for safety. It feels more like a campfire instead of a garden barbecue but he doesn't note it out loud. The smell and smoke are slightly irritating Shane, but otherwise…
It is actually nice. Troy is particularly keen on telling some story, Harris is taking photos of some trees in the distance, and Ilya’s warm arm is a comforting pressure against his back.
“And then he slipped in the middle of the arena like a kid, landed on his hip and bruised it badly. Grown ass man, by the way. Serves him well, though.” Dykstra huffs, shaking his head.
“Isn’t he a free agent after this season?” Shane asks, as he tries to contribute to the conversation every now and then.
He feels Ilya nuzzle his neck.
“Oh for fuck’s sake! You spent the whole summer together, you’re married.” Zane groans. “I will reinforce the idea of the PDA jar, just you wait.”
“I have million dollars on my account, Boodram. You are not a threat to me.” Ilya mutters back against Shane’s neck, a teasing grin on his face.
“Anyway, as I was saying…” Dykstra looks at Zane. “Yes. I hope whoever he signs with, they’ll get a hold of him. He’s a dick.”
“Yeah, sure they will. Keep wishing.” Troy says with a slight shudder. “He’s getting penalties after penalties but nothing will change. And the dicks will thrive forever…”
Shane tunes the conversation out, as it continues mostly between Evan and Troy. He reaches behind the log for his backpack, and slowly takes out a glass container with his salmon salad. He puts it carefully in his lap. Shane can feel Ilya’s eyes on it.
“Is that your famous salmon salad?”
Shane blinks a couple of times and looks at him. “It’s not famous.”
“It is in this house. I have seen this salad more than I have seen your par- mom and dad.” Ilya fixes himself, something vulnerable glinting in his eyes for a second.
“You’re just jealous because it has better nutritional value than anything you eat.”
Ilya puts a hand over his heart dramatically. “You wound me, Hollander.”
“You’ll survive.”
“I am not sure. I may need emotional support.”
“You’ll have to ask Anya.”
“She has always been more sympathetic than you.”
Shane smiles, leaning back against him. Ilya looks at the container again, as if scanning its contents.
“You know, they have burgers.”
“I noticed.”
“And fries.”
Shane feels himself warm up a bit. Not in a good way. He swallows slowly.
“Ilya.”
“What? I am simply informing my husband of his options.”
“I know my options.”
Ilya grins. “You could have one.”
Shane’s smile disappears. He looks at the container again, and his fingers clench on it a bit.
“I said I’m fine.”
The change in his voice makes Ilya pause.
“I know. I’m just teasing.”
“Then stop.”
A beat of silence passes between them. Ilya’s arms loosen slightly around his waist.
“Okay.”
“Yeah.” Shane mutters quietly. He hesitates for a second but then reaches for his backpack and puts the container away there.
“Why are you not eating your salad?”
“I’m not hungry anymore.”
Ilya’s eyebrows draw together in a bried frown.
“Hollander, you didn’t eat anything.” His voice sounds genuinely confused.
“Jesus, Ilya. I said I’m fine!” Shane hears his voice go up in volume and he quickly glances around. “I ate dinner at home…” He adds more quietly now.
“You barely ate anything today, Shane. A burger isn’t going to hurt you.”
Shane suddenly becomes more aware of his surroundings. Troy’s laugh rings annoyingly in his ears. The smoke is irritating the inside of his nose and gets in his eyes. Ilya’s voice is too loud. The log beneath him is hard and his back aches with tension.
“How many times do I have to tell you that it’s a dietary plan from my nutritionist?” Shane squeezes his lips, feeling his breath get quicker.
“Yeah, yeah, sure. You eat like a bird.”
Shane’s palms are getting sweaty all of a sudden.
Why are his palms sweaty…? It’s September. In Ottawa. It’s chilly; his palms shouldn’t be this sweaty.
Why do they feel so weird? Shane looks down at his palms, and his hands are trembling slightly. Why are they trembling…
His shirt feels tighter now, and the material is itchy on his skin. The neckline is a v-shape, ending just above his pecs, but it suddenly feels suffocating. Oh god. He needs to get out.
“Are you okay?” Ilya’s voice is too loud. Why is Ilya’s voice so loud?
Shane stands up abruptly and rushes towards the house.
Wait. It’s not his house.
It’s not his house, what is he supposed to do? Where is he supposed to go? Car. Their car is parked in the driveway. But Ilya has the key card in his pocket. What is h-
“Shane.” Ilya gently catches his wrist.
Shane’s breath quickens even more as he turns towards Ilya.
“Get off me, Ilya, fuck.” He huffs, but then freezes for a mere second. “I-I need a moment alone.” His voice shakes. “I’m not pushing you away. I need a moment.”
Ilya slowly releases his wrist, and Shane takes a shaky breath.
“Okay.” Ilya’s voice is quieter now. “Do you want me to stay with you?”
Shane swallows hard and his throat is impossibly tight.
And the truth is, for a few seconds he doesn’t know. He wants to say something, anything. No. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. But no words can leave his mouth.
Instead, he nods weakly. Ilya stays where he is, and for a moment neither of them says anything. Shane focuses on the grass beneath his feet, trying to control his breathing. In. Out. In.
Ilya takes a small step closer but doesn’t touch him yet. “It’s okay. Just breathe with me, I’m here.”
Ilya’s voice is barely above a whisper, and then he starts breathing. Slow and deliberate, loud enough for Shane to hear. He tries to follow it. In. Out. In.
He feels his chin trembling slightly. What is happening to him?
Shane turns quickly and crashes against Ilya’s chest, his forehead pressing into his husband’s shoulder. He feels Ilya’s arms wrap around him tightly. In. And out.
✵✵✵
Shane turns the key and is immediately welcomed with Anya’s bark. He smiles weakly, and pats her head once.
“Hi.” He says quietly before taking his shoes off.
Anya wags her tail and sniffs his leg curiously. Shane’s clothes stink of smoke. He has to do laundry. He goes to do it immediately and changes into comfortable sweatpants.
The shirt is cotton, but the pants are lyocell, and they can’t be washed together. Shane huffs and puts both pieces in separate containers, so the stench of smoke doesn’t get on anything else.
He returns downstairs and heads to the kitchen, puts the glass container into the fridge. Still full of the salmon salad.
“We need to go grocery shopping tomorrow.” Shane’s voice is a bit mundane as he looks around the fridge. “I’ll make a list in the morning.”
Ilya is weirdly quiet. Shane turns to look at him, and sees Ilya leaning against the door frame awkwardly. He looks like he wants to say something but stops himself.
“What?” Shane asks with confusion and hears Ilya let out a breathless sigh.
“Can we talk about what happened earlier? At the barbecue?” His voice is careful and slow.
Shane swallows. “What is there to say?”
“I-”
“Nothing happened.” Shane cuts off quickly, and starts moving products in the fridge. Ilya must have been looking for something because many of them are out of their usual order and place. It pisses him off. A bit.
“Shane, I…” He hesitates for a second, clearly searching for the right words, and Shane lets him. “I think you might have had a panic attack.”
Shane freezes, his hand hovering above a jar of pickles. “I-” He realizes he’s unable to answer for a long second. “I didn’t have a panic attack over a fucking burger, Ilya.” He shoves the jar to the back.
“I didn’t say that...” Ilya notes quietly.
Shane closes the fridge door with a loud thud. “You basically did.”
He doesn’t want to fight. He doesn’t want to talk like that with Ilya. He doesn’t want to regret his words.
“Why do you care so much? I have to be ready for the season.” He looks at Ilya. “You know that. I have be in best shape.”
Centaurs’ were excited for Shane to join them. Ilya said a week ago before the first practice last season that they were all in very good spirits. Hopeful. Luca Haas, the rookie, even admitted to having Shane’s poster in his room.
And they didn’t win. Even though they were over the moon about finally getting to the first round of play-offs, it wasn’t… enough for Shane. He was a Finals player. Stanley Cups winning one. And they merely got to the fucking play-offs. He should be happy, he really should.
Ilya comforted him, of course he did. He said that it always takes time to get settled into a new team, that it was hard for him too before he felt like he belonged. And Shane understood that it could be hard. He got the logistics of it, especially considering it was Shane’s first transfer. First time without Montreal.
Those people are good, they welcomed him very warmly while knowing that he’s Ilya's husband. No one was looking at him like he was a disgusting piece of shit. No one accused him of throwing the game like fucking Montreal. And he even played with his husband, not against him! He should be happy!
And yet, that somehow isn’t enough. He...
“But you barely eat.” Ilya’s voice starts to carry a hint of concern.
“Jesus Christ, it’s a nutritionist’s plan! How many times do I-”
“Okay, but did your nutritionist tell you that you can’t have a burger? Like, ever?" He asks carefully. "That you have to work out that much?”
“What? I…” Shane sputters. “I’m not arguing with you about this.” He says, shaking his head as he gets out of the kitchen.
“I’m not trying to argue, I am trying to-”
“You don’t understand.” He spits before Ilya can finish and walks towards the stairs.
Ilya doesn’t follow him.
✵✵✵
They don’t talk afterwards. Shane goes to their gym downstairs to do some yoga he missed earlier. On the way, he can see Ilya sitting on the couch and doing something on his laptop, but he can’t bear to pay much attention to that.
Doing yoga always helped Shane wind down and gather his thoughts. This time he can’t quite focus, and he chews on his cheek for most of it, until a faint taste of blood gets on his tongue.
He ends up doing another quick workout. Drinks a nutrient shake. Takes a shower.
Ilya’s towel is damp and crumpled on the bathroom floor. Shane’s jaw works before he picks it up and spreads it neatly on a drying rack. Ilya has already showered. Ilya is probably in their bedroom. And Shane freezes for a moment, looking at himself in the mirror.
He thinks about Ilya’s questions, trying to gather his thoughts before going in.
Ilya worries. Why does Ilya worry?
Shane can easily recall his meeting with the nutritionist, because he always pays extra attention to those things.
First, they talked about his goals. Then she explained the diet plan. Then she provided recommendations…? Recommendations. “Try to prioritize… Ideally… Most of the time...”
And Shane has to really think Ilya’s question through. “Did your nutritionist tell you that you can’t have a burger? That you have to work out that much?” And, for just a second, his fingers grip the sink more tightly, his knuckles white.
Because his nutritionist hadn’t.
She had given him a plan. She had given him guidelines. Targets. Recommendations. Things meant to support his training.
She hadn’t told him he couldn’t eat outside the schedule.
Shane feels a twist in his stomach. For a second he battles his own thoughts. Because either some things were given and didn’t need to be spelled out. Or that part had been Shane all along.
He slowly opens the door to their bedroom. It's dimly lit, the only source of light being a lamp on Ilya's bedside table, that Shane insisted on buying a week after they moved in. The big lights are icky.
Ilya is lying under the covers. He's holding a book he got in a birthday package from Svetlana four months ago. The cover is in Russian and Shane realizes he never really bothered to ask him about it. But he doesn't think Ilya is reading it at the moment; he surely acknowledged Shane coming into the room.
Fights aren't some novelty in their relationship. They had fought before. Quite a lot. Shane thinks it's because both of them have strong characters. Both can be stubborn.
But. Since they got married the fights were... less heated. First, because there wasn't a possibility of anyone walking out for good; they share a home now. A life. There's nowhere to storm off. Second, they know each other better. A lot has happened between them before they got married. Shane likes the thought of a silver lining; that every time they overcame another struggle, another problem, they came out a little closer on the other side. Their communication got better. Third... Shane is taken aback by the thought that a lot of that progress came from Ilya.
Of course Shane made progress too. He doesn't underestimate the work he's done. He knows how far he’s come. But Ilya seemed to be better at handling some things that Shane still didn't know what to do with. And Shane hates to admit, even to himself, that it kind of stings. It makes something uncomfortable twist in his chest. Because Shane is used to being the one who knows what to do. And now he has no fucking idea what to do.
Shane takes slow steps towards his side of the bed, and gets under the covers. He doesn't say anything, fidgeting with his fingers for a long second.
"I'm sorry." His voice comes out small.
Shane can see from the corner of his eye that Ilya has put the book down.
"Me too." He says quietly.
There's a long silence afterward, but it's not so loaded with tension anymore.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Ilya's voice is open, but Shane can hear a hint of hopefulness in it.
He swallows. His chest has been heavy since the barbecue. Like someone is sitting on it. And he hates that he doesn't understand what any of this means.
"Not tonight."
Ilya nods carefully and looks at Shane, eyes full of something he's unable to read. He hates that too. But then Ilya's arms open slowly. And the simple gesture of Ilya inviting him into this space makes his chest ache.
Because they didn't solve anything. They didn't talk. Ilya doesn't understand. Shane doesn't understand.
Shane gets closer and rests against Ilya's chest, pressing his cheek against the warm, bare skin. The cold crucifix creates a nice contrast.
"That's okay, sweetheart." Shane feels lips pressed against his head. "That's okay."
The words are simple, but something in Ilya's voice makes him think that it may be okay for now. Enough, as they simply exist together for a long moment.
Shane doesn't know how long they've been lying like that before Ilya picks up the book, inserts a bookmark, and closes it carefully.
"What book is it?" Shane's voice is quiet but there's less tension.
Ilya flinches lightly at the sudden question, but then huffs a quiet laugh and holds up the book, with its cover facing them.
"It's Ivan Goncharov's Oblomov." He says, and the Russian accent makes Shane's heart flutter. "I read it at school, it was... obligatory." He paused, finding the correct word. "But I liked it when I read it earlier. And now I see it... differently." He nods.
"What is it about?"
"It's about a guy who doesn't want to get out of bed."
Shane blinks.
"That's it?'"
"More or less." Ilya hums, the corner of his mouth tugging upwards.
"You read, what..." Shane reaches for the book and flips through the last pages. "Four hundred pages about a guy lying in bed?"
He feels Ilya's chest shake beneath him in a quiet chuckle.
"Russian literature, solnyshko." He sighs with a smile, and puts the book carefully onto his bedside table. "This guy, Oblomov, he... he likes to live in his own little world. Doesn't want to change because things outside seem difficult. He knows he should change but it's not enough." Ilya's hand starts stroking his back, grounding.
Shane tilts his head to look at him. "And you like it?"
"When I was seventeen I thought it was funny. Now I think it's sad." Ilya's smile fades slightly.
Shane's palm lands on his husband's pec. "What happens to him?"
His voice is quiet against Ilya's chest. He doesn't know why the question comes out. Maybe he's just curious. Or maybe talking about something that has nothing to do with the barbecue feels easier.
"You really want to know?" Ilya glances at him, as if surprised by Shane's sudden curiosity.
Shane nods. "Does he ever get out of bed?"
Ilya's lips twitch.
"Sometimes." He lets out a long breath. "He falls in love."
"While in bed?"
"Mostly."
Shane stares at him for a moment. "Impressive."
That makes Ilya laugh again, and something in his chest loosens. Small. But it's there.
"But he tries to change." Ilya continues. "His friend wants him to. He tries to make him more active, more... engaged in life."
"Does it work?"
"No."
Shane huffs. "Well that's some bullshit."
Ilya's chest shakes under his head once again.
"It's not bad, listen. So the girl he fell in love, Olga, dumps him because she realises that she can't change him. But then he find someone who wants the same things he does. Comfortable. Nothing too difficult."
Shane is silent for a moment and absently traces Ilya's skin with his fingers. "So basically, he spends four hundred pages without anything changing. That still sounds pointless."
Ilya nods with an amused sigh. "Russian literature."
Shane turns his head back and gives him an unimpressed look.
"Don't look at me like that. You read two hundred pages about American hockey players." He grunts as his arm stretches to turn off the bedside lamp. "Come on, Hollander. We gotta get you your beauty sleep."
✵✵✵
Shane wakes up at exactly six fifty. He's glued to Ilya's side, who's snoring and obnoxiously wrapped in a duvet, leaving very little for Shane. But Shane looks at him, his eyes scan the relaxed face, and he decides it doesn't matter.
He leans in and starts a soft trail of kisses on Ilya's shoulder. The man grunts before barely opening his eyes. "What is it..." He mumbles, voice hoarse from sleeping.
"Wanna go for a morning run with me?" Shane asks and moves the kisses to Ilya's jawline.
Ilya is quiet for a long second, his eyes closed, and Shane is almost completely convinced that he fell asleep again.
"Are you going to wear those little shorts?"
Shane snorts. "What, is that a condition?"
"Mm, noo, Hollander..." Ilya lets out a low hum and lets his arm fall limply around Shane's waist. "It is motivation."
So Shane puts on the shorts and a warm hoodie, because he doesn't mess around with morning Ottawa weather mid-September.
Their run is good. Ilya is grumpy and whiny at the beginning, complaining about the cold, the hour, and the fact that Shane apparently has no respect for his need for sleep. But then Shane picks up the pace and pulls ahead of Ilya. The complaining stops soon afterward.
Shane looks back and sees the familiar shit-eating grin.
"You're disgusting." He says with a smile tugging at his mouth.
"I do not know what you mean, Hollander."
"Oh you know exactly what I mean."
They race a bit through chilly morning Ottawa and then return home. Anya welcomes them with a loud bark.
"Yes, moya sladkaya devushka, we're back." Ilya squats in front of her, fingers ruffling the soft fur. He opens the door and lets Anya out to hop around the lawn. Before Shane can move forward, Ilya catches his wrist and swiftly pulls him towards his chest to kiss him.
"No, no, definitely not, Ilya. You're all sweaty, we need to shower."
So they take a shower. Together, of course, because Ilya demands "a reward because I am such a good husband" for waking up early and joining Shane in his morning run. Shane rolls his eyes but five minutes later he's on his knees, sucking the loving god off his husband. By the time they emerge into the kitchen, Shane is warm, a bit sleepy, and considerably more willing to push his morning routine around slightly. Which, he supposes, is Ilya's fault.
Shane sits down at the kitchen island for a second, hair still damp from the shower. Anya is sprawled comfortably across the kitchen floor.
"What do you want for breakfast?" Ilya asks as he moves effortlessly around the kitchen to make coffee.
Shane looks at the spreadsheet carefully attached to the fridge. And then he stops for a second. Ilya notices the pause but doesn't say anything.
"Ilya?"
"Hm?"
"Can I ask you something?" Shane starts carefully.
Ilya nods. "Sure." His voice is light and warm as he turns around to face Shane, a coffee pot in his hand.
"What did you think happened yesterday?"
Ilya is quiet for a second as if he's choosing what to say.
"I thought you were overwhelmed."
Shane swallows. "But you said I had a panic attack."
Ilya puts their mugs on the kitchen island, and slowly pours steaming coffee into each.
"I said I thought maybe you had one. I don't know if it was one." He sets the pot down. "I am not a doctor."
Shane gives him a brief look. "Why did you think that...?"
"I just saw you." He shrugs lightly. "You couldn't breathe. You were shaking. Looked scared."
"I wasn't scared."
Ilya nods slowly. "Okay."
A simple acceptance of it settles weirdly in Shane. It's a bit irritating. He's not sure what to do with it. Shane looks away. For a moment, there is only the hum of the refrigerator and the faint sound of Anya licking water from her bowl. Shane closes his hands around one of the mugs and pulls it closer.
Then Shane continues slowly, "About the burger..."
Ilya's expression changes almost imperceptibly.
"What about it?"
"Yesterday. You asked me if my nutritionist actually said I couldn't have one."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Ilya looks at him as if the answer is painfully obvious. "Because you looked like the idea of eating it would actually kill you."
Shane's throat tightens immediately.
"I didn't. I was tired, the smoke was getting into my eyes, and I couldn't do my yoga because we were at the dumb barbecue." He grips the mug tighter. "Why are you making such a big deal about a stupid burger?" He gets defensive, almost immediately. He doesn't want to. Realistically, he doesn't want to get mad at Ilya. But his answer makes his stomach twist.
"I am making a big deal because I love you." He sighs and takes a slow step towards Shane. "Can I be honest with you?"
The question makes Shane's eyebrows raise but he nods weakly.
"I don't care if you eat burger or salmon or entire fucking cow, Shane. I care when you look terrified because someone suggests you could eat something different. Out of..." he pauses. "Out of schedule."
Shane's eyes drop. For a long second he doesn't say anything at all. He looks at the tiles in their kitchen and follows the horizontal lines with his eyes. Shane hates that. He hates the silence. He hates that Ilya isn't arguing with him. He hates that some part of him already knows Ilya might have a point.
"The nutritionist." His voice is small and unsteady. "She... I don't think she did."
Ilya's eyebrows draw in with confusion. "What?"
"Yesterday. Your question. You asked if she told me that I can't eat it. I-I don't think she did that." Shane gets so quiet that he's not sure if Ilya can hear him.
Something moves through his chest. Not relief. Not exactly. Something worse.
Because suddenly he can remember the appointments. The spreadsheets. The conversations about training. The recommendations. Prioritize protein. Make sure you're eating enough around workouts. Try to keep meals consistent. Ideally, limit— No. Shane closes his eyes. There had always been a plan. There had always been rules. But maybe not all of them had been hers.
"Shane?"
He opens his eyes. Ilya is watching him in a way that feels like a punch to Shane's stomach.
"I think..." Shane starts. Then stops. He looks down at his hands. "I think I might have misunderstood something."
Ilya doesn't say anything. He pulls Shane to his chest, and then makes breakfast according to the neat spreadsheet on their fridge.
✵✵✵
The next few days go by calmly, without anything big happening. Shane wakes up at seven. Sometimes they go for the morning run together. Shower. Breakfast. Gym. Prepare lunch. Get lazy on the couch. Eat. Workout. And so on. Peaceful. Like nothing happened.
They don't talk again. Shane thinks it might be either because there's not much more to say out loud, or because Ilya gives him space. To think. And Shane does. Not all the time, it comes back to him in particular moments.
He met up with Rose the other day. She wanted to go shopping and Shane ended up being more than a mere supporter of her clothes choices, as he initially thought.
"Oh god, you have to try these jeans on." She said with a hanger in her hand.
Shane rolled his eyes but the next second his hand touched the jeans reluctantly.
"I told you I don't want to buy anything, I've got enough clothes. And these are synthetic."
He decided to buy the jeans. Because his ass did look kinda good and, it was a bit embarrassing to admit, he was kinda excited to show them to Ilya.
"This is a perfect date outfit." Rose nodded after she made Shane try on a couple more shirts.
It was a whitish, flowy button-up shirt, and Rose insisted on leaving a couple of buttons undone.
"We don't go on dates. And I don't wear things like that." He huffed, fumbling with the shirt. But maybe it did look good. And even though he didn't wear things like that, maybe it was okay. To try something different. Shane felt something weird in his chest.
Rose's eyebrows shoot up, and then draw together after a second. "Wait, what do you mean you don't go on dates? You're public now and you're married so what's the issue?"
Shane stopped for a second and looked in the mirror. The shirt sat well across his shoulders.
"It's still like... We don't want to... I don't know." He mumbled. "Anyway. I'm gonna change into my clothes now." He rushed into the changing room again and pulled the grey curtain thing.
"Are you gonna buy it?"
"...Maybe."
Afterwards, Rose insisted on going to this cafe that opened last week, near the shopping mall. It was neat-looking, mostly shades of beige and brown. Cozy. Not many people. Shane liked it.
It didn’t bother him that he and Ilya didn’t go out very often. They were mostly at home, or meeting up with other people, but never went out like this, just the two of them in a romantic context. Dates. Shane didn’t even think about it till now. Should they do dates? All normal couples do dates. Maybe they got too good at being private.
Shane looked at the cafe menu. Coffees, teas, some sweets, usual stuff. And no carbs or fats written down next to them. Oh, salads. Yes, salads look good. If he asks for the one with rice but asks for no sauce, it could work. Or maybe-
“I’m getting the cinnamon thing.” Rose nodded, scanning the menu Shane’s holding.
“That’s basically butter and sugar.”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m getting it. And you?”
Shane laughed quietly at the response, but then his smile fell slightly and he frowned. He’d like the cinnamon thing. He’d really fucking like the cinnamon thing.
“I’ll just get a coffee.” Rose sent him a look. “You know it’s pre-season, I’m on a diet. I can’t.”
“Oh come on, we haven’t seen each other in two months because of me filming.” She whined with a smile and grabbed his shoulder, shaking it lightly. “Indulge me, split something with me. I’m sure you don’t eat like that every day, you’re the most disciplined guy I know. What’s the point of being so disciplined if you can't fully enjoy an outing with your amazing friend?”
That moment, something in Shane’s head clicked. Rose’s comment was innocent. She didn’t know about the barbecue, about the fight. And yet she says something so relevant.
He wants to eat the cinnamon thing with Rose. He wants to go on a date with Ilya and enjoy a night at the high-end restaurant, not calculate how to remain under his daily allowance.
For a second, he imagined himself eating the cinnamon pastry. He enjoyed it. And then felt the sting of guilt immediately after. And that was somehow more frightening than he expected.
✵✵✵
“Shopping was good?”
Ilya’s leaning against the corridor wall and eating a strawberry yoghurt. Some of it gets on his lip, and Shane wipes it with his thumb as he passes by to the clothing rack with his jacket. He battles himself before licking the yoghurt off his thumb. His stomach twists a bit at the realization.
“Yeah, I guess. I’m exhausted. Rose made me buy some clothes.”
Ilya’s face lights up. “So? Come on, Hollander, show them.” Shane can see a smirk on his face, even in the dim light. “Make a little fashion show for me.”
Shane rolls his eyes, but pads to the bathroom with a shopping bag in his hand. He puts the jeans and the button-up on, fixes himself in the mirror, and he has to admit, he looks good. And he’d like it to be a date outfit.
The bathroom door opens slowly, and Shane sees Ilya waiting on the couch. Shane hears his breath hitch as he turns around awkwardly.
“Rose thinks these jeans make my ass look good.”
Ilya nods slowly. “She is smart.”
Shane chews on his lip for a long second.
“She also thinks we should go on dates.”
Ilya looks up at Shane and his eyebrows raise slightly.
“Wow. Where is this coming from?” He asks, clearly surprised.
“It’s just…” Shane sighs. “I tried this on, she said it’s a date outfit. And I said we don’t go on dates… I don’t know, she was surprised. And she had a point, kinda. I think. She said that we’re public and married now, so…”
Ilya reaches with his hand and gestures for Shane to come closer. His wrist gets caught swiftly, and Shane falls into Ilya’s lap with a huff.
“And what do you think?”
Shane thinks of course. “I… I think it could be nice. We could try. I know we never had the possibility, but if we look into logistics and choose a place where fewer people could see us… I mean, we’re not secret, but I still like us being private. Maybe a date could be nice…?”
Ilya watches him, and there’s a grin tugging at his mouth. Shane frowns. “What?”
His husband’s hand tightens around his hip.
“You want a date, Hollander?” His grin grows. “We’re gonna go on a date.”
✵✵✵
Shane spends the next few days researching. He goes through all of Ottawa’s top-end restaurants, checks the menus, the reviews, looks them up, makes a spreadsheet, calls some of them to ask about the privacy aspect. Ilya teases him about it (“Hollander. It is a date, not a military operation.”)
Shane ends up making a reservation at the one with a fancy French name that Ilya struggles to pronounce correctly. They offer the best option: separate dining boxes with frosted glass panels and movable acoustic screens.
“Is this another of Rose’s date outfits?”
Shane looks up at Ilya and the corner of his mouth lifts, as he reaches for the menu. He feels his cheeks warm up.
“Yes… Is it good?”
Their table is beside the floor-to-ceiling windows on the twenty-ninth floor. Shane looks down at Ottawa. At this height, the city is strangely orderly. Streets become clean lines of light, buildings form neat blocks, and everything that usually feels busy and complicated seems almost still. He likes it.
Maybe that's why he doesn't mind sitting there with Ilya, even though the restaurant is more public than he would usually prefer. For once, he doesn't feel the need to calculate how long they should stay.
“Good?” Ilya repeats and Shane looks at him again. There’s a smirk playing on his lips as he drinks Shane in. “Hollander, if this restaurant wasn’t so nice, I would take you home this second.”
Shane’s neck flushes. “Shut up…”
“Oh, you like it, I know so.” Ilya waves his hand dismissively and takes the menu himself. “What are you gonna get?”
Shane looks down and scans his options. They are very limited. Even though he checked the menu a million times online, and counted everything beforehand twice, he still feels his chest tightening. He swallows, as a cold realization flows through his head.
He can’t even enjoy a date with his husband properly. It’s their first date. Ever. And all he has been able to think about all day was which meal, out of the three that he could choose, will fit into his plan. Which one would be good enough with all of his modifications. Maybe even a bit enjoyable.
His breathing quickens, and fingers tighten around the menu. He looks at Ilya, who is still reading his own menu, completely unaware.
The thought hits him harder than it should.
This is supposed to be a date. He’s supposed to be here with his husband. First date. Thrilling experience. And somehow, all he can think about is food. His chin trembles slightly.
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
Shane stands abruptly and heads towards the bathroom. He already scanned their surroundings when they came in, and looked for it with his eyes for convenience. The heavy door closes behind him, he turns the lock and stills.
The bathroom starts to get blurry. He leans against the cold wall, trying to take a deep breath, as his head hits the tiles behind him.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” Shane’s voice is shaky as he whispers, pressing the palms of his hands against the eyes.
Their first date. And he will ruin it. He already does. It’s supposed to be their night, he’s supposed to focus on Ilya, on how good his arms look with the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up. How Ilya styled his hair, used the perfume Shane likes so much, has been so excited the whole day. Of course Shane ruins it. If only he didn’t care so much, maybe it would be different. Maybe if he chose a different restaurant, something with more of his options on the menu, then it wouldn’t be such an issue, maybe-
A knock on the door makes him freeze.
“Shane? It’s me.”
Shane frantically wipes his face, but a quick look in the mirror reveals that he certainly won’t be able to hide the red-rimmed eyes. He carefully reaches the lock and turns it.
Ilya slips into the bathroom and closes the door behind him. There’s a beat of silence as he scans Shane’s face, and something in his husband’s expression makes Shane’s heart ache.
“Are you okay?”
The question lands like a rock against his chest. Yes. Yes, of course he’s okay. He’s fine and nothing is happening, he just needed to use the bathroom, that’s-
“No.” It slips Shane’s lips before he can stop it, quiet and shaky.
Ilya steps closer carefully and reaches his hands to gently palm Shane’s arms.
“What happened?”
“I.. I’m ruining our date.” Shane’s voice is small. He looks up at Ilya, and all he can see is devastating worry.
“What? No, moya lyubov...” Ilya wraps his arms around him, pulling close to his chest. “You’re not ruining our date, why would you think so?”
Shane bites down on his lip until it draws blood, his eyes filling with moisture. A long silence follows Ilya’s question. Shane closes his eyes.
“I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me.” His voice trembles. “I can’t fucking do anything. The fucking barbecue, cafe with Rose, our date. I’m supposed to be here, I’m supposed to like it, a-and…” His voice cracks as he rambles. “And all I can think about is fucking food. How do I make it fit the schedule, how do I not go over on calories, what if they mess up my order, what if I accidentally eat too many carbs, what modifications will they be able to do, what can I…” He stops, breath catching.
Shane shakes his head, overwhelmed by the sheer number of thoughts still racing through it.
“I can’t even-”
“Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay.” Ilya hushes him softly, arms tightening around him. “Breathe, just breathe. It’s okay. I’m here.” He sounds calm, but Shane can hear how his voice slightly breaks for a second.
And Shane breaks. Completely. An ugly sob escapes his mouth, and as much as he tries to stop it, the warmth of Ilya’s arms around him and the comfort of his voice make the dam break.
Shane doesn’t cry. Not often. When he was growing up, people around him often called him brave and mature because of that. When he scraped his knee on the ice real bad, the camp coach patted his shoulder with a heavy hand and smiled at him. When the camp got cancelled a couple days before. When his grandmother died. When his first girlfriend broke up with him. You’re such a brave kid. You’re a strong guy. Such an easy kid. That’s very mature, son. You handled it so well.
He had always been good at being okay.
But now, Shane lets out another shaky, loud sob. He cries and trembles in his husband’s steady arms, in the Ottawa’s top restaurant’s bathroom. For once, nobody tells him to be brave or easy or to handle it. Ilya just holds him. And he thinks that crying might be okay now.
Shane doesn’t know how long it takes until he calms down, but his head hurts and he feels that Ilya’s shirt is practically soaked under his face. He slowly pulls back a little and looks at Ilya. His eyes have watered as well, and it makes Shane’s stomach twist.
“I don’t know what to do, Ilya.” He admits and clears his throat, voice hoarse from crying. “I feel like a mess.”
Ilya reaches to wipe his cheeks, and his cold hands are a cool reprieve against the flushed skin.
“Well…” He starts, voice calm and quiet. “For starters, you are not alone. You are my mess. You can be a mess.” He stops for a second and takes a deep breath. His thumb brushes beneath Shane’s eye. “Second… Can I be honest with you, Shane?”
Shane tenses, as if bracing for impact, but nods slowly.
“I think… I can see that you struggle. And that whatever is happening here-” He gently taps Shane’s temple. “Might be very heavy. I can see that.” The cold hand settles on Shane’s cheek again. “And… and, honestly, I think maybe you could… It could be good for you to talk. To someone”
Shane frowns.
“I am not saying there is something wrong with you. Or that you need… fixing. But, look. I go to Galina. And she really helps me. And the heavy stuff gets lighter. Easier. So I think it could help you too.” Ilya’s voice is careful, but his hands are steady on Shane’s cheeks. “You do not have to. Just… maybe something you can think about. Okay?”
Shane stares at him for a long moment. “Okay.”
It comes out barely louder than a whisper, but Ilya nods and the corner of his mouth lifts gently. “Okay.”
For a few seconds, they stand there in the quiet bathroom, holding each other. The muffled sounds of the restaurant drift through the door. Shane takes a shaky breath.
“Do you still want to go back?”
Ilya smiles and leans in to kiss Shane’s forehead with a fairly loud smooch.
“Of course.”
And somehow, that makes the knot in Shane’s chest slowly untie. For once, he doesn’t need to know the answer. He doesn’t need to know how the rest of the night is supposed to go.