Chapter Text
“My boyfriend likes to fuck my brains out on our kitchen island. Which tile would you recommend for that?”
― Alice Clayton, Rusty Nailed
When Shane had marketed the cottage to him as "so private" and "no one will know"—it was quickly proven false when David caught them in the act.
Ilya is not petty. He understood what Shane meant.
A place just for them to be together.
And yet—all lies.
Because what the pretty brochure did not mention was that the place was apparently held together by about four pipes, one suspicious underground tank, strange light switches, and Shane Hollander’s personal sense of responsibility.
Ilya did not care about any of those things. He cared about his husband.
Which was why they were currently on the couch, and everything had been going very well.
Shane’s hand was warm at the side of his neck. His mouth was slow and soft which meant he was actually relaxing instead of thinking about hockey or groceries or taxes or whatever boring responsible thoughts lived inside Shane Hollander’s brain.
Ilya had one hand hooked into the collar of Shane’s shirt, pulling him closer.
The lake outside was quiet. The afternoon sun was warm. Shane was exactly where he belonged.
Drip.
Ilya ignored it.
Drip.
Ilya ignored it again.
Drip.
Ilya kissed him deeper. Shane made a quiet sound into the kiss that Ilya approved of greatly.
Drip.
Shane stopped.
No.
Ilya grabbed the back of his neck.
“No.”
“There’s a leak,” Shane said.
“I do not care.”
“It’s been dripping all afternoon.”
“Let it drip.”
Shane hesitated.
Ilya could see the exact moment responsibility began ruining everything.
Shane sighed.
“Five minutes.”
Five minutes. Five, so he says.
Ilya released him very slowly, a man being betrayed.
Shane kissed him once more, apologetically.
“I’ll be quick.”
Then he disappeared into the kitchen.
Cabinets opened.
Metal clinked.
Water ran.
Ilya stared toward the doorway.
Five minutes. Bah.
He leaned back against the couch cushions and waited.
One minute passed.
Two.
Three.
More cabinet noises.
Ilya reached for the remote and turned on the TV to whatever cartoons were still on. The selection was garbage.
Even Anya was still asleep.
If the world was going to betray him, he would watch cartoons about a baby hitting things with a hammer. This was acceptable.
Ten minutes passed.
Then twenty.
Then forty.
Ilya slowly slid down the couch until he was half lying there, one arm draped over his face, cartoons flashing across the screen.
This was neglect. Extreme neglect.
By the time the door to the kitchen finally opened again, two full hours had passed. Ilya did not move at first. Then he peeked through his fingers.
Shane stood in the doorway. And Ilya immediately sat up. Because Shane had changed shirts.
The new one was white. And tight. Very tight.
It clung across Shane’s shoulders and chest, obviously designed by someone who understood Ilya Rozanov’s interests.
Oh.
Oh that was very nice.
Ilya sat up slowly.
Shane was talking. Something about pipes. Something about fittings. Something about how the leak had been worse than expected. And whatever else that pretty mouth was saying.
Honestly Ilya heard none of it.
Because the shirt was doing extremely interesting things when Shane moved his arms.
Shane wiped his hands on a rag.
“There might be another issue though,” he said.
Ilya stood.
“What issue.”
Like the one growing in his pants?
“The well pressure dropped earlier.”
Ilya blinked.
“The what.”
“The well,” Shane said, gesturing vaguely toward the window. “If that’s connected to the leak it could mean—”
Ilya walked over and grabbed his shirt.
That shirt.
His hands flattened against Shane’s chest.
Yes.
Very good.
“Hi,” Ilya said.
Shane smiled a little with a hint of confusion.
“Hi.”
Ilya leaned in.
He was fully prepared to ruin this man. Completely. Messily. Right here if necessary.
Shane kept talking.
“…so if the pump’s acting up I might have to—”
Ilya kissed his jaw.
“…call a few numbers.” Shane stepped away. “I just want to check something before it gets worse.”
He was already walking toward the basement.
“I’ll be right back.”
The door swung behind him.
In silence—Ilya stood there.
Lips still slightly pursed. Hands empty and pants tight.
He remained like that for a few seconds. Then slowly he turned. His eyes landed on the kitchen sink. The sink looked back at him.
Still dripping quietly. Innocently.
Ilya narrowed his eyes.
The sink was likely homophobic—actually the entire house was starting to look extremely suspicious.
First the sink. Now the well. What next? The roof? The pipes? The floorboards?
This house was taking time away from them. Time that should have been spent doing extremely important husband activities.
Ilya crossed his arms and stared at the sink.
The sink continued dripping. Exactly like a homophobic sink would.
“—and what do you think I can do about it?”
Marlow’s voice crackled through the car speakers.
Ilya shifted one hand on the wheel of his hot rod, white muscle shirt on paired with his favorite sunglasses, guiding the car down the quiet road toward town. Anya in the back seat enjoying the wind.
“It’s a fucking house, Roz.”
Ilya scowled at the windshield like the cottage might somehow be hiding behind it.
“Then how is it taking away our together time?”
"I don't fucking know. Shit contractors—" Then a loud thump.
“Shit—fuck—hang on,” Marlow muttered. “I dropped my coffee.”
That sounded like several objects hitting the floor.
“Let me call back.”
“Mmkay.”
The line went dead.
Ilya continued driving.
Thinking.
And thinking.
And thinking.
Because something was clearly wrong. Every time he and Shane had a moment—something broke. Sink. Well. Something about the septic system that Ilya had already decided was a deeply offensive topic.
The house was suspicious. Very suspicious.
And now Shane was somewhere on the property talking to contractors and numbers and pipes instead of being inside with him where he belonged.
Which meant Ilya had left with Anya. For thinking. And also because he was hungry. And Shane was not here to say things like that’s too much soda or maybe eat something with a vegetable in it.
The devil clown's playground appeared ahead.
Ilya turned into the parking lot. The drive-thru curved around the building like a lazy snake. He rolled up to the speaker.
A burst of static. Then—
“Welcome to McDonald’s, how can I help you?”
Ilya leaned toward the window.
“Yes.”
He ordered his usual. A Burger, large fries, large Coca-Cola; The essentials.
The intercom went quiet for a second. The voice returned with the total and asked him to pull forward to the first window.
Ilya rolled the car ahead. Still thinking.
Because the situation still required a solution.
During winter they were barely home. Hockey... Games... Travel... Then summer came and suddenly there were camps—Hockey school. Children everywhere. Very small children who screamed when they fell down and then wanted Shane to help them skate again.
Which meant the time they actually had to themselves—was already limited. And now the house was stealing it.
The window slid open. A teenager leaned out. They started with the standard customer service smile. Then they actually looked at him. The smile vanished. Instantly. It returned a second later, slightly crooked and clearly panicking.
“Hi—um—your total is—”
Ilya handed over his card.
The teen took it like they were holding something radioactive. They ran it through the machine.
“Just—uh—hold on a moment.”
Ilya leaned back in his seat, Anya sniffing the back of his ear. His hand mindlessly patted her.
Thinking again.
Maybe the solution was simple.
Maybe... he could sue the contractors that built the house.
"Yes. I could sue..."
A short yelp came from the window.
Clearly something had been done wrong. Very wrong. Pipes should not interrupt marriages. That felt like grounds for litigation.
The teenager returned his card then passed him the bag and the drink. Their hands were shaking slightly.
“Have a nice day!”
“Mm,” Ilya said, already taking the cup. “Thank you.”
He pulled away from the window, took a long sip of his Coke, and continued thinking.
Because if the house thought it was going to keep interfering with his husband time—it had another thing coming.
Things got worse.
Significantly worse. Because the well had been only the beginning.
The septic tank—something Ilya had previously believed was a distant, theoretical concept—turned out to be a very real problem. A horrifying problem.
Apparently the...leach? Yes. The leach field had been done improperly. The tank itself had been placed wrong.
The pipes had not been accounted for properly when it came to Canadian winters and the ground expanding and contracting like the country itself was breathing.
Which meant now—there was a man digging up their yard. A very loud man. An extremely old man.
Ilya stood on the back steps of the cottage with his arms crossed, staring at the scene unfolding in the grass.
The man looked ancient. Not elderly, like Scott Hunter. Ancient. Like he had personally witnessed the invention of plumbing.
He had a shovel to inspect the ground. He was digging with the slow, steady determination of someone who had been fixing other people’s mistakes for at least a hundred years.
The truck parked in the driveway looked just as old as he did. The entire situation smelled terrible. That was the worst part.
The smell rolled across the yard in waves so powerful Ilya had briefly wondered if something had died. Unfortunately nothing had died. This was apparently normal.
Shane stood next to him, hands on his hips, staring toward the excavation with the expression of a man mentally reorganizing an entire plumbing system.
Ilya leaned closer.
“Shane.”
“Yeah.”
“Zero out of ten stars—It smells like shit out here. ”
Shane sighed.
“I know.”
The old man stabbed the shovel into the dirt again. The smell intensified. Ilya gagged.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered.
Because this had been another attempt. Another evening. Another moment where things had almost worked out. They had been inside. On the couch. The windows open to the lake breeze.
Shane had been leaning down toward him again—and then the smell had drifted inside like an evil spirit. Shane had pulled back instantly.
“Nope.”
Ilya blinked.
“What.”
“I’m not doing this.”
“Doing what.”
“Having sex while there’s a fucking contractor digging up our septic tank ten feet away.”
Ilya gestured toward the window.
“He cannot see.”
“That’s not the point.”
“The point is he is older than fuck.”
“The point,” Shane said firmly, “is the smell is horrible.”
Which brought them to this moment, standing outside—watching the man dig up their yard.
The old man eventually straightened, stretching his back with a series of alarming cracking sounds and loud old people noises. Then he walked over toward them, wiping his hands on a rag.
He squinted at the ground—then at the pipes—then at the cottage—then he shook his head slowly.
“Well.” Shane approached politely. “What do you think?” he asked.
The old man snorted.
“What do I think?”
He pointed at the ground.
“Whoever installed this thing didn’t know what the hell they were doing.”
Ilya brightened slightly.
Yes.
Blame someone.
Good. More to sue.
The old man kept going.
“Leach field’s wrong.”
He pointed again.
“Tank’s placed wrong.”
Another point.
“Pipes weren’t laid right for frost movement either.”
Shane nodded.
“Makes sense.”
The old man grunted.
“If it were my job,” he continued, “I would’ve done it completely different.”
He began explaining how. In detail. Very long detail—something about soil drainage, about pipe angles, about how young contractors these days rushed everything and didn’t respect the craft.
Shane listened attentively. Nodding. Smiling politely. As if this conversation were not happening next to a pit that smelled like the end of the world.
Ilya on the other hand slowly lost the will to live.
The old man eventually stopped talking. He squinted at them both—and he tilted his head.
“Say…”
Shane looked up.
“Yeah?”
“Are you two queer?”
Shane stiffened immediately.
Ilya did not.
“Yes,” Ilya said calmly. “And?”
He was fully prepared to fight. Even if the man looked older than dirt itself, he was not above punching the elderly.
The old man blinked—then suddenly laughed. A huge booming laugh.
He slapped Shane hard on the back.
“Oh, to be young!”
Shane nearly stumbled forward.
“I remember back in the day,” the man continued happily, “the boys couldn’t leave me alone!”
Shane turned bright red. Ilya blinked.
“What.”
“Different times!” the man went on, waving a hand. “Glad to see things are a lot more open now. Good for you boys.”
He nodded approvingly.
Then immediately went back to rambling about septic systems.
Shane stood there.
Flushed. Embarrassed. Still nodding politely.
Ilya slowly deflated.
Because he had been ready to throw hands, to defend their honor. Ready to fight an elderly man beside a septic shit pit if necessary.
And now—nothing.
The old man was cheerful and supportive. Still talking about fucking pipe placement.
Ilya crossed his arms again. The fucking smell rolled across the yard once more.
The house stood behind them. Silent and smug.
Stealing yet another evening.
Ilya narrowed his eyes at it.
Fucking asshole house.
.
.
.