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Shane isn't sure what he was expecting when he arrives at Ilya’s apartment on December 31st, but a Christmas tree isn't among the options.
“Bit late to have one of those, isn't it?” he asks, setting his bag carefully away in the corner it usually slots into.
“Perhaps for you. Technically our Christmas is 7 January,” comes Ilya's voice from the kitchen. “We celebrate on 31 December, though. Because Soviet Union and such.”
“Makes sense.” Shane hangs his coat on his usual hanger.
He takes a second to bask in the familiarity of it all. Things aren't perfect, they're still hiding from pretty much everyone, but in the privacy of their own homes they're together. In Ilya's apartment he has his own spot for his luggage and his own hangar in the closet. Likely, he still has some clothes hanging in the closet in the bedroom. And Ilya is cooking him dinner after his flight.
The spruce tree in the corner of the living room is small, with a few scant ornaments. The small dining table they barely use has a nice-looking red tablecloth spread across it, and resting on it is some plates of salads Shane sort of recognizes from Russian food reels he's seen on Instagram.
He's done some research about his boyfriend's country. Not as much as he could have, sure, but some.
His boyfriend… Shane doesn't ever think he'll tire of the word. Getting here has had its ups and downs to be sure, and it certainly hadn't been easy, but he wouldn't trade any of it if it meant he would have life with Ilya Rozanov as his partner.
He wanders into the kitchen to see the man himself, clothed in a red apron and monitoring a pot of something that smells delicious.
A red apron and nothing else.
“What's that?” Shane asks, trying to appear curious when his attention is solely focused on Ilya's bare ass.
Ilya peeks behind him and smirks, knowing exactly where his attention truly lies. “Pelmeni,” he answers anyway. “And yes, you can eat. I used whole grain dough and chicken filling. It is not so traditional, but I do it for you.”
Taking that as the invitation it is, Shane closes the distance between them and embraces Ilya from behind, tucking his head into the crook of Ilya's neck. Floating in the pot are some dumplings colored a sad brownish color, as whole wheat tends to be. On a napkin next to it are the remains of freshly chopped vegetables and a chicken.
Ilya is gently stirring the dumplings - pelmeni, apparently, which Shane has definitely heard about in one of the aforementioned reels - with a spatula in one hand. With the other, he reaches behind him to slide a hand down Shane's side and attempts to slip it into his pants. When he gets stuck at Shane's belt he makes a noise of disappointment.
“After dinner,” Shane promises.
“Now?” Ilya asks. Begs, more like.
“You are actively cooking right now.”
Ilya sighs heavily, but his wandering hand changes directions to rest against Shane's cheek and his fingers scratch at the side of Shane's head. Shane presses a kiss into Ilya's cheek as a reward.
Soon enough, Ilya extracts the dumplings from the pot and places them on a napkin, then carefully moves them to a plate. Shane follows his movements, clinging to his bare back.
Ilya turns off the stove. “There. No more cooking.” He turns around with a hungry look in his eye. “Now you are ready?”
Shane steps away with a smirk. “But isn't it better to eat pelmeni fresh?”
Ilya throws his hands in the air. “You are killing me, Hollander! Fine. We will have such domestic life first, and then we will fuck.” But he's smiling too, softly and gently, in a way Shane knows he would never have done in front of him merely a few months before.
Ilya takes Shane's hand with one of his and the plate of pelmeni with the other and drags them into the living room. He puts down the plate next to one of the salads and points at it. It looks like a mess of boiled vegetables. “This is called Olivier salad. It should have mayonnaise, but I omitted this for you. Because I love you.” Before Shane can react to the declaration, Ilya moves on to the other salad, this one covered in a layer of what appears to be beets. “This is - ah, you call it herring in a fur coat, I believe. Also without mayonnaise.”
“Why do you cover all your salads with mayonnaise?” Shane asks.
Ilya shrugs. “Tradition? It has always been like this.”
Shane is deeply, deeply touched that Ilya is trying to share his cultural foods with him despite his dietary restrictions. He can't help but pull Ilya into a deep kiss, letting his hands rest on that perfect, naked ass.
Ilya chuckles into his mouth when they break apart. “You were correct, the pelmeni tastes better warm.”
This time it's Shane's turn to sigh deeply.
Contrary to his words, Ilya pushes Shane back until he hits the wall, and tugs his shirt out from his pants. Shane lets him slide it over his head, though he feels some type of way when Ilya tosses it onto the floor. Ilya distracts him with another deep kiss, using his hands to touch Shane's bare chest, almost as if he can't get enough of it. Shane grabs Ilya's hips and pulls him closer, feeling his hardened length through the thin fabric of the apron. Ilya moves his hands down to Shane's waist and undoes his belt, eyes closed and locked into the kiss. He's done this so many times now, Shane feels he could undress him in his sleep. And he would let him.
Ilya successfully rids Shane of his belt and pushes his pants down so they fall to the ground, underwear coming with them. He gently tugs Shane to the side so he has to step out of them, and Shane focuses on the kiss so he isn't thinking about his pants left haphazardly on the floor. Ilya does a very good job of distracting him. His hands, free of pants duty, wrap around Shane's cock with a familiar ease, and he strokes in the exact way he knows Shane likes.
Shane throws his head back in ecstasy, gasping for breath, while Ilya presses kisses into his neck.
All too soon, Shane feels the rush of his orgasm, likely only the first of the night, if he's being honest. He gasps against Ilya's lips which have captured his own again, and feels them twist into a self-satisfied smirk.
Shane lets out a weak chuckle. “Can we eat now, maybe?”
Ilya's own cock is still hard against Shane's leg, but he magnanimously steps away and heads back to the table. Shane quickly gathers his clothes and folds them neatly on a chair by the door, then joins Ilya, who has now discarded his apron somewhere, at the dining table.
It's a very idyllic scene, sitting at the smartly decorated table, with food somehow still slightly steaming, and a small Christmas tree twinkling gently to the side of them, though it's somewhat tempered by the fact that both of them are stark naked. Ilya has his heat on blast, so Shane isn't cold, and he's almost astonished to feel comfortable enough after all this time that he doesn't even register their nakedness after the initial observation.
Ilya serves the two of them off his plates and they eat, chatting casually and catching up despite having texted each other about everything in their lives already. Not a day goes by, these days - in fact, not even a minute - without one texting the other with even the most inane of thoughts. But somehow there is still much to talk about, and they do, over Ilya's freshly cooked meal. Which, despite the many alterations he complains about in detail, still tastes quite good.
Shane gestures at the tree as they're eating. “So what's the deal with that? Why's it so tiny? You could probably fit a full size one in this apartment.”
Ilya smiles ruefully. “We always had a small tree at home.”
Shane tenses and sits straighter at the mention of Ilya's past. Despite their promises to be honest with each other, Ilya finds it difficult to speak about his family. Shane respects his hesitancy, but is desperate to soak up any information he can get. Any glimpse into Ilya's life story, small as it may be, is a chance to know his boyfriend that much deeper.
Ilya stares at the small tree, his posture more slack and less jovial as he reminisces. “My father did not like Novyi God - New Year's. My mother did. The solution was a very tiny tree, and not so many ornaments. I still do not do more than this. I brought her ornaments from Russia with me, and that is all I have ever had.” He takes a deep breath. “I do not celebrate for myself, usually. I celebrate for her. So I decorate as she did.”
Shane takes a closer look at the tree. The ornaments are simple. A few nesting dolls - matryoshka, he thinks they're called - and a couple snowflakes. Not too much variety, and they look like they were bought as cheap sets. Still, with the added context, it's quite beautiful.
“Thank you for sharing your traditions with me,” Shane says softly, earnestly. He reaches across the table and rests his hand softly on Ilya's.
Ilya flips his hand around to grip Shane's tightly. “Thank you for coming. And for listening.”
As one they lean across the table to share a quick kiss.
When the food is finished, Shane helps Ilya clear up the plates and put them in the dishwasher. From the way Ilya almost can't help himself, brushing up against and touching any part of Shane he can reach with the slightest provocation, Shane knows they're on the same wavelength - it's time for sex. The dishes loaded, they make their way to the bedroom, as they have so many times before.
Later, they relax comfortably on the bed facing Ilya's TV. Shane's head is resting on Ilya's chest, Ilya's hand in Shane's hair and almost absentmindedly stroking it. They're both breathing hard, exhausted.
Ilya picks up the remote from where it had gotten tossed to the side and turns on the TV, flicking through a few options until he finds what he's looking for. It's a movie, Shane thinks based on the time stamp - wow, three hours? The title is in Cyrillic, which Shane can't read.
“Irony of Fate or Enjoy Your Bath,” Ilya supplies. He starts the movie. It begins with a charming animated explanation of Soviet housing. Thankfully it has English subtitles, though Shane isn't really following along, still somewhat out of it after his several orgasms. And Ilya isn't helping, the way his hand has left Shane's hair and is now stroking his side, dangerously close to his ass.
“Russians watch this movie every year on New Year's,” Ilya goes on. “This, all Russians agree on. Even my father enjoys.” He slides a hand between Shane's ass cheeks, gently brushing his abused hole, and then goes on as if nothing is happening. “It is quite good. You will enjoy it.”
Shane finds he does enjoy the movie. It's cute, if somewhat slow. Which means he doesn't miss much when Ilya gets tired of teasing him and rolls him back over to slot himself back inside, continuing from where they left off as the pretty Russian lady and the surly Russian man in her apartment circle around their growing feelings for each other for the eleventh time.
There's even a song. Something about a wife and an orchestra and taking risks in life. Shane doesn't quite follow, finding it difficult to focus on the subtitles as he cries out while Ilya holds his shoulders down and slams himself into him.
Ilya, for his part, doesn't last as long either, coming quickly after Shane, as he tends to do these days. He slumps against Shane's back, pressing gentle kisses against it as they both gasp for breath. Shane finds the strength to tilt his head back and meet Ilya's mouth with his own. They kiss deeply, at the same time as Zhenya and Nadya finally live their truths and reconcile in Zhenya’s apartment.
Shane chuckles. “It's not even New Year's yet. You're supposed to kiss me at midnight.”
Ilya's eyebrows come together. “This is a strange tradition. I want to kiss you now. So I do.” He leans forward and does just that, a quick peck. Despite its simplicity compared to their previous activities, Shane feels his heart flutter. He feels elated in a way even his previous orgasms couldn't get him to. This is Ilya's love, not his lust, and Shane can feel the difference.
The credits roll and the two softly embrace, pressing soft kisses against each other's skin. Midnight comes and goes but Shane can't bring himself to care. All he knows is Ilya's arms around him and his mouth on his and his beating heart and the love that radiates from him in every movement. Ilya has brought Shane into his life for the holiday, has shared a piece of his culture and his past. Shane is so overwhelmed by the feeling of love that he almost feels like crying.
Ilya notices, because of course he does. He gently rubs a finger under Shane's eyes, brushing away the wetness. “What is wrong?”
“I love you,” Shane replies, in lieu of an answer and simultaneously the answer in and of itself.
Ilya smiles, though it's clear he doesn't fully understand. “I love you too,” he says anyway.
Shane buries his face into Ilya's chest and simply breathes in his scent. It's musky and sort of gross from all the sweat he's accumulated throughout the evening but Shane can't bring himself to care. “I love you,” he says again.
Ilya laughs. Shane feels his chest vibrate. “I love you too,” he says again.
His arms wrap around Shane tightly. Shane feels safe, protected in his embrace.
He falls asleep like that, warm and comforted by the man he loves.
And then, on the first day of the new year, Shane wakes up to the sight of Ilya's face, relaxed and soft in sleep, and knows that he will wake up to this for the rest of his life, if he can help it. This man, this beautiful, loving man, is all his, and he will do anything it takes to keep him.
So this is what love is.
Think for yourself, decide for yourself, to have or not to have