Chapter Text
“Why in the world did they put the utensils in the same box as the baking sheets?”
Shane can already feel Ilya’s eyes on him before the words are fully out of his mouth. He doesn’t even need to look up from where he is currently laying out each fork, spoon, and knife in neat piles along the kitchen counter to know that Ilya is gearing up to tease him. After over a decade together, Shane can feel the cogs turning in Ilya’s brain like a sixth sense.
It doesn’t stop him from looking up at his husband anyway, unable to keep himself from sneaking a glance. For as disciplined as Shane is, he’s never been able to school that particular impulse. And now, fresh off their month-long Spanish honeymoon, he doesn’t even have the desire to try.
It had been four blissful, sun-soaked weeks of nothing but lazing with Ilya in various states of undress across assorted boats, beds, and beaches. You’d think after all that time that they’d finally be ready to peel themselves off one another. But the reality is that Shane’s never felt needier – more like crawling into Ilya’s skin more.
It’s a feeling that couldn’t even be dampened by the tedium of unpacking.
Yuna had offered to oversee the team hired to pack and clear out Shane’s house in Montreal while they were away. Shane had protested at first, not wanting to pass the responsibility off, but Ilya had only laughed at the all too familiar, determined look in Yuna’s eye and said “I know that look. Give up fighting now,” and “If we try to do it when we’re back it’ll take us a week. She will get it done in a day. Day and a half, tops.”
Yuna had gotten to the house with the movers the first Monday after Shane and Ilya’s departure. The house was empty, clean, and on the market by Wednesday night.
It had ended up being a much-appreciated belated wedding gift. Even though returning home to dozens of moving boxes lined up along their hallways and tabletops had felt like they were being flung back into the deep end of reality. But they were taking it in stride, still lingering in the happy haze of their honeymoon.
Even when the deep end of reality includes things like baking sheets and utensils being in the same box.
Shane lifts his chin and his suspicions about Ilya’s next move are immediately confirmed by the set of Ilya’s lips alone. He looks like he’s just barely biting back a smile as he looks pointedly between the cardboard box set in front of Shane with the word KITCHEN scrawled in large, blocky letters across the front and Shane himself with a quirked brow.
Shane huffs what he will claim is an exasperated sigh, though the sound that actually escapes him ends up sounding much too bright and delighted to resemble anything like exasperation.
“Fuck off,” Shane says, his sunny smile negating the words as he says them. “I know they both belong in the kitchen. But the baking sheets go with the oven stuff. The utensils go with the plate stuff.”
“Ah, of course,” Ilya replies, surrendering in his battle against himself and finally letting the large, hopelessly fond grin bloom across his face.
Shane pulls his gaze away from his husband by sheer force of will. They have to keep to the strict timetable Shane’s put together to make sure that they get through all of these boxes before the season kicks off next week. So, he chooses to focus on the intricate, swirling marble veining that stretches across the countertop instead. Each utensil makes a satisfying clinking noise as it joins its proper pile. The metallic flecks embedded in the cool granite reflect off the shiny, chromed finish of the silverware. It’s almost enough to distract from the heat of Ilya’s gaze boring into him. Almost.
Clinging to the timetable by the flimsiest, rapidly fraying thread of his ironclad self-control, Shane pivots and grabs the knob to the drawer behind him, pulling it open to finally start slotting the utensils into place alongside the set Ilya already has. Except Shane yanks it open, only to come screeching to a halt as his brain catches up with him.
Shane stares down at the drawer full dish towels and is immediately hit with the same low-level, buzzing wave of annoyance that he’s been hit with every other time he’s gone to open this drawer over the past two years.
Shane’s spent at least fifty percent of his time at this house since Ilya made the move to Ottawa and he’s still never been able to train his mind around this particular curve ball. Because it just doesn’t make sense. This is the drawer right below the cabinet with the dishes. The utensils should live here. The towels should be by the sink. It’s not about the four extra feet that he has to walk to get both the dishes and the utensils when he’s setting the table. It’s about the itchy feeling he gets at the back of his brain because it simply isn’t right.
Acting on pure instinct, Shane’s hand juts out to scoop up the towels and finally make the switch he’s been dying to make all along. He doesn’t fully realize just what he’s doing until his fingertips land on the soft, well-worn fabric of a familiar green dish towel.
It has a cartoon pickle sewn into the front. It has wobbly little arms and legs and wears a pair of sunglasses. The words ‘Kind of a Big Dill’ are embroidered along the trim. It had been a gag gift from Ilya’s coach back in Boston. A housewarming present when Ilya had bought his first house. Ilya loves the thing.
Shame, cold and prickly, crackles to life in Shane’s chest.
Shane is aware that Ilya’s brain doesn’t operate like his does. He’s aware that most people’s brains don’t do things like obsessively catalogue thirty years’ worth of hockey stats or prompt you to stay up until three in the morning making ten-year plans or create elaborate timetables for unpacking. Even now, slowly descending into crisis, there is still a tiny piece of his mind that is unwaveringly fixed on how the forks must have been scraping up against those baking sheets for the entire ride from Montreal to Ottawa.
It bothered him more when he was younger. He’s largely made peace with his quirks as he’s settled into adulthood and his relationships, both with Ilya and his closest friends.
But this isn’t the same.
Because this is Ilya’s house, that Ilya set up how he likes, and Ilya’s already given up so much and bent over backwards for Shane so many times. It doesn’t matter that the stupid drawers set his teeth on edge.
A familiar hand, still tanned a lovely shade of golden bronze from their vacation, comes into Shane’s line of sight just as he’s about to force himself to close the drawer. He watches in awe, half convinced that Ilya’s developed some form of telepathy, as he gently nudges Shane’s fingers away and starts to scoop up the towels.
Shane’s face snaps up to try and catch Ilya’s eye. He can’t quite get a good look at him head on at this angle, but he can still read Ilya’s profile pretty well and sees no annoyance there. He’s perfectly calm and relaxed, as if he were completing any other household task.
“Yes, I’ve been meaning to change this but then we sit down to eat and I forget,” Ilya explains quietly, not even looking up from his task. He speaks as if this is something they’ve mentioned to one another a dozen times before.
But Shane knows he hasn’t said anything before.
“What do you mean?” Shane asks, feeling like he must have missed something.
“The drawers,” Ilya says casually, plopping the towels down beside the sink and yanking open the current utensil drawer. “They drive you crazy.”
Shane certainly feels crazy right now.
“What’re you talking about? I don’t care about the drawers.”
The lie doesn’t even sound convincing to his own ears. Ilya’s raises his brows and fixes Shane with a look that says ‘Really?’ without having to say a single word.
“Yes, you do,” Ilya elaborates when Shane still doesn’t back down and admit the truth. “You make the face.”
“What face?” Shane asks, completely bewildered.
“The yuck face,” Ilya replies, as if it’s obvious.
“What? Like a toddler?” Shane asks bitterly, bristling at the implication. The image of a dismayed kid who’s just discovered that their parents have hidden broccoli in their mac and cheese comes to mind and he hates it. Hates the thought of having to be handled with kid gloves. The shame and the guilt swirling inside him only grows.
“No, not like toddler,” Ilya replies, tone measured and carefully neutral. It’s obvious that he can tell that Shane is getting agitated. Ilya takes a moment to look him over, choosing his next words carefully before continuing.
“It’s the face you make when you order a shirt online and you realize you don’t like the material when you finally go to put it on. Or when the music is too loud at a party. Or when the big light is too bright.”
Shane processes that information slowly, bit by bit, equal parts touched and mortified as he glares down at the now empty drawer in front of him.
He’s not shocked to hear that Ilya noticed. Ilya is uncannily perceptive and a dedicated study when his heart is in it. And even if Ilya was half as perceptive as he is, Shane hasn’t felt compelled to hide bits of himself from Ilya for a very long time. He knows that Ilya would never ask Shane to be anything other than himself. That doesn’t stop the little voice at the back of his head that whispers he wouldn’t have to do all this if you were just normal.
Immersed in the task at hand, Ilya is a beat behind in noticing Shane’s turmoil. Shane tries to school his face and summon a thank you, but he knows that Ilya will see through it immediately if he tries so he just stays silent.
He watches as Ilya pulls the plastic caddy that holds the utensils out of the drawer by the sink and deposits it into the drawer in front of Shane. Quick and easy and without a second’s hesitation.
And Shane is grateful, so grateful for Ilya that he could weep with it.
But the thought that he might be something that has to be tended after makes him want to crawl out of his own skin.
With the task completed, Ilya finally looks back to Shane for his reaction. He looks so pleased with himself at first, like the cat that got the cream.
But just as Shane predicted, it takes all of two seconds for Ilya to catch on.
“Shane? Why are you freaking out about the drawers?”
The question is asked with the familiar bite of Ilya’s gentle teasing, but it’s paired with a look so intense that Shane thinks that maybe Ilya has actually developed some kind of mind reading ability. Shane clings to the teasing, rolling his eyes and huffing and hoping that they can fall into their usual back and forth so they can just move on.
But then Ilya, softer and more sincere, follows up with “Did I get it wrong?”
And the words hit Shane like an arrow straight through the heart, releasing all the embarrassment and frustration in one sharp snap. He’s left with nothing but all the soft, tender things he feels for his husband, all pretense having melted away.
“I don’t want to feel like you have to make concessions for me,” Shane confesses, words pouring from his mouth, rushing forth to ease Ilya’s doubt. “You’ve done so much for me already. And this is your house-”
Ilya had let Shane have his say, nodding along with all the guilty words rushing out of him with nothing more than concerned furrow between his brows. But the second your house slips out, he immediately cuts in with a quick, decisive, “It’s our house.”
And Shane knows that. He knows what that marriage license they signed means. But it doesn’t change the issue at the heart of all this.
“It’s not right, Ilya. It’s not fair.”
Shane lets the words hang in the air for a moment, waiting for Ilya’s rebuttal. Ilya doesn’t say anything. He just continues to pin Shane with that intense, assessing stare of his. He doesn’t know what exactly Ilya is searching for, but Shane knows what he has to do.
Shane’s already plotting step eleven in his multi-layered plan To Be a Better Husband, eyes fixed on specific backsplash tile right over Ilya’s shoulder, when Ilya seems to finally find whatever he was looking for.
Ilya’s fingers are warm and firm as they grasp Shane’s chin and gently redirect his gaze back to Ilya’s.
“Shane, look at me,” Ilya says, warm and kind but brooking no arguments.
Shane, who has always been powerless against that specific tone of Ilya’s voice, obediently snaps to attention. All ten and a half steps of his elaborate plan immediately evaporate into the ether as every cell in his body dutifully falls in line.
“Who sat me down and walked me through all the boring, confusing insurance paperwork after we got married? Who bought me my pill box and put it next to the coffee maker, so I never forget my pill? Who made the fancy shared calendar so that we know who has to be where? Was any of that a burden?”
Based on the way he speaks, voice laced with nothing but love and awe, Shane would think Ilya was describing some grand romantic gestures rather than a bunch of color-coded, laminated paper and a five-dollar pill box he picked up at the pharmacy.
“No, it wasn’t a burden,” Shane says. “But you make it easy, Ilya.”
“And so do you,” Ilya counters, smoothly and without hesitation. “We take care of each other. That’s the deal, yes?”
Shane opens his mouth to fight some more but then he suddenly realizes that he doesn’t actually have a valid counter argument.
From Shane’s point of view, the way Ilya cares for Shane seems so much grander and more substantial in comparison to the things Ilya just rattled off. It seems unfair.
But then, when he really thinks about it, maybe those things are grand gestures to someone like Ilya. Someone who hasn’t had a home to share or someone to take care of him in these little, everyday ways in almost twenty years.
With Ilya’s thumb pressing into his chin, firm and grounding, and love pouring every pour in his body, Shane is struck with the realization that there is no terrible imbalance that needs to be righted. They may show up for each other in different ways, but what matters is that they show up.
The last remaining knot in Shane’s chest finally unfurls.
“Yeah,” Shane whispers in agreement.
Because it was the deal. It was the whole damn point.
Shane leans in, like a magnet helpless against the invisible pull guiding him closer to Ilya. When he’s so close that he can feel the warmth of Ilya’s breath against his cheek, Ilya hits him with one more arrow to the heart in the form of a sweet declaration.
“I would move mountains for you, lyubimiy,” he tells Shane, with the faintest tinge of desperation around the edge. “And I know you’d do the same for me.”
Shane uses his hip to gently knock the new utensil drawer shut with a soft click before immediately pinning his husband up against it and reeling him in for a searing kiss.
Fuck the timetable. They can make up the time tomorrow.