Chapter Text
“Hey,” Ilya, stretched out across the couch, nudges his bare foot against Shane’s shin. Shane glances up from where he’s curled up at the other end of the couch, book in hand.
This is maybe the third time Ilya’s interrupted Shane’s reading, and he's expecting another come-on or meaningless question about loons or Yuna Hollander’s pasta sauce recipe.
Instead, Ilya gestures to his phone. “You heard of this?”
“Heard of what?” Shane’s eyes flick up briefly before returning to his book, determined to make it at least one chapter in before giving up. Ilya, for all of his positive attributes, has the attention span of a goldfish, and he frequently makes it Shane’s problem.
“This!” Ilya shakes his phone a little, pushing it forward. Shane squints, pushes up his glasses. There’s an Instagram ad filling the screen. “This… the Olive Garden?” The words come out a little stilted, a little unpracticed, clearly a new string of words for Ilya.
“Olive Garden?” Shane echoes. He pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling more like he’s having a conversation with Hayden’s kid than his professional athlete boyfriend. “Yes, of course I’ve heard of Olive Garden. What’s your point, Rozanov?” He looks back down at his book, loses his place and tries to start from the top of the page again.
“They have this–” Ilya’s sitting up, and Shane pulls his glasses off with a sigh. He sets his book face down on the side table, resigned to indulge whatever Ilya wants.
A phone is being shoved into Shane’s hands as if he’s found the eighth wonder of the world. “This eat all you want. Pasta.”
“All you can eat,” Shane corrects gently, his earlier annoyance melting away into something between fondness and exasperation.
“Yes, yes. Thank you, moy lyubovnik. All you can eat pasta.”
“Yeah,” He passes the phone back to Ilya. “That’s, like, their whole thing. Their shtick.”
“Shtick,” Ilya echoes, brows furrowed.
“Their… marketing thing. What they’re known for.”
“Ah,” Ilya nods solemnly. “How you are known for your weak backhand. Is your shtick. And I am known for my incredible passes and my impeccable leadership and my stunningly good looks.”
“First of all, I don't even know where you learned half of those adjectives. Second of all, I can go into my room with my book and you can–”
“No, no, Hollander, wait–” Ilya’s whining now, reaching out and grasping Shane’s ankles, holding him in place. “This all you can eat pasta. I want to know more.” Ilya leans down and presses a kiss into Shane’s shin, fingers caressing the skin where his sweatpants are bunching up. “Tell me about this Garden,” he murmurs, looking up at Shane through blond lashes. “Please. Sounds magical.”
Shane snorts and tips his head back. “It’s not. It’s fast-casual Italian food. The pasta isn’t particularly good, and everything comes frozen. They heat them up in industrial microwaves in the back, I bet. There’s, like, unlimited salad and breadsticks too, but we could go to Nonna Rosa’s down the street and get authentic, hand-rolled pasta made from scratch–”
“They give you child’s portion at Nonna’s.” Ilya wrinkles his nose. “Is not enough for anyone. And is so expensive.”
“You’re a millionaire,” Shane reminds him, that familiar fond exasperation blooming in his chest again, leaning a little more toward exasperation now.
“Is morals, Hollander. I will not spend forty dollars on three raviolis.”
“But you’ll spend, like, fifteen for premade pasta that’s mediocre at best?” Shane raises an eyebrow. His lips twitch despite himself.
“Yes, yes. See, you get me. Please, please take me to Olive Garden, Hollander.” Ilya’s eyes are wide, pleading, hands clasped in front of him like a true child begging for candy at the grocery store checkout.
Shane feels his resolve crumbling. “What do I get in return?” He crosses his arms over his chest and quirks an eyebrow.
“Mr. Negotiator, huh?” Ilya’s hands creep up Shane’s legs, blunt fingernails digging into soft skin. Shane drags in a deep breath, his head getting a little jumbled the way it always does when Ilya’s got his hands on him. “Hm, if you take me to Olive Garden, Hollander, I will come home and give you amazing blowjob.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “You’ll need a fucking nap after all those carbs, Rozanov.”
“Fine. Will lay down, give you peace and quiet, to read boring book–” Ilya gestures to the book now long-forgotten on the side table. “-and then I will blow you all the way to next Tuesday.” Ilya wiggles his eyebrows.
“You’re such an asshole.”
An hour later, a teenager is leading them to a little booth in the back of a nearly empty Olive Garden. It’s the weird in-between lunch and dinner, so neither one of them have to worry too much about being recognized, but they’ve both got ballcaps on just in case and requested a secluded spot.
Ilya slides into the little booth and takes off his hat, smooths down his button-down shirt ("Must look good for the Olive Garden, Shane," he had explained when he was changing) and looks around, taking in the warm lights and the cheesy decor, eyes bright and awestruck like he's at the Louvre rather than an Italian fast-casual chain.
The kid hands them their menus and disappears without a word.
“Holy shit,” Ilya’s eyes roam the menu. “There is so much pasta here, Shane. Look at this. Amazing Alfredo. Fried mozzarella. Lasagna. How have we never been here before?”
“Because we have a perfectly good, authentic Italian spot–” Shane cuts himself off as their waiter walks up to their table with a smile.
“Hi, welcome to Olive Garden. I’m Alex and I’ll be your server today. Can I get you started with some drinks?”
“Hi, Alex.” Ilya beams, nearly bouncing in his seat with glee. “Yes, I will have a Coke, and he–” Ilya gestures to Shane, who’s looking exasperated again, “will have a ginger ale. I think we are also ready to order?” Ilya looks over to Shane, who shrugs noncommittally.
Ilya gestures toward Shane, who gives the waiter a polite smile. “I’ll just fill up on the salad and breadsticks, thanks.”
“Sure,” He nods before turning to Ilya. “And for you, sir?”
“I will have your–” Ilya looks back at the menu, double-checks that he’s saying it right. “Your Never-Ending Pasta Bowl. With chicken and marinara. Please. And also, an order of the fried mozzarella. And, uh, the toasted ravioli. Thank you so much.” Ilya snaps his menu shut and hands it over.
When the waiter walks away, Ilya turns his attention back to Shane. “You think Yuna will be mad? I feel like I am cheating on her.”
“I think she’ll survive,” Shane responds dryly. “You’re running her pasta inventory dry, anyway. She mentioned last week that she needs to stock up.” Shane gives him a faux-glare.
Ilya puts a hand on his chest, affronted. “I am growing boy, Hollander.”
“Sir. You are twenty-six.” Shane levels him with a look Ilya can only liken to an angry kitten.
“Growing boy who needs to be strong on ice,” he insists, knocking his foot against Shane’s under the table, grinning stupidly.
With the charity gaining so much media attention, no one would bat an eye at them eating together, but Shane itches to reach his hand out and stroke the back of Ilya’s hand. He settles for wrapping his leg around Ilya’s under the table.
They share a small smile, and Shane feels oddly domestic, sitting here with his boyfriend at the fucking Olive Garden of all places.
Twenty minutes later, Shane has a small portion of Ilya’s pasta on his plate next to his salad and breadsticks. Across the table, Ilya has an unholy amount of pasta – and cheese – piled high, and he’s shoveling it in like he’s carb-loading before a tournament.
Feeling Shane’s gaze, Ilya looks up and gives him a smile, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. Sparing a glance around the room to make sure no eyes are on them, Ilya reaches out and squeezes Shane’s hand, his expression all warmth.
“Thank you for taking me to Olive Garden, Hollander. I think this is best day of my life. I may never leave here.”
Shane rolls his eyes, but he can't fight the smile that tugs at his lips. “We need to leave at some point," He lowers his voice. "You owe me a blowjob.”
Ilya nods, salutes, and goes back to shoveling pasta into his mouth with Shane gazing at him fondly across the table.
Shane thinks he would be okay if they never left this spot, let their bodies rot in this Olive Garden booth forever, if Ilya could stay this stupid and silly and carefree for the rest of their lives.