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Ilya isn’t going to pretend he isn’t tense the first few times he spends around Shane’s parents. He tries very hard to keep his shoulders loose, an easy smile on his face, allowing Shane to lead conversations and respond only when he’s brought into the conversation. His back is like a rod straight down his spine; he knows this. Because at one point Shane guides his hand down while rubbing circles, pressing on certain muscles until he relaxes. Ilya’s gaze finds his boyfriend’s and Shane’s soft smile conveys a silent message—it’s okay.
It’s not until the sixth dinner he’s brought to that Ilya finally gets it. He’s never been in a family that’s felt like this, where there’s no fear of the other shoe dropping, where a compliment turns into a jagged reminder to push harder next time, where he constantly feels like he’s too much yet not enough, where he’s silent because no one wants to hear him speak, where he feels cold and it has nothing to do with the temperature.
Everything is different here; he’s surrounded by reminders of that.
Yuna and David cook too much food but that just means him and Shane get to take home leftovers. Their house feels warm and smells like cranberries and cinnamon, music playing low from the kitchen where dessert is still cooking. There’s laughter and jokes and there’s no tension in which Ilya feels like a rubberband about to snap. Shane’s hand rests on his knee, smoothing back and forth, absently; as easy as breathing. David pulls him into conversations about hockey, about vodka, and then about dogs, until Ilya is walking into discussions himself, without invitation, because he was always welcome to.
It’s easy and unlike anything he’s ever known and he can’t dwell on it for too long or an emotion will lump in his throat.
“More mashed potatoes, Ilya?” Yuna asks because she’s started to clear the table. Shane stands wordlessly and picks up empty dishes.
He shakes his head, hand over his stomach, “I can’t fit another potato, I may become one.”
David smirks, “You know it’s good to take leftover potatoes and make potato cakes. That’s what we usually do with them. You do it in a pan with butter and some shredded cheese—I’ll text you about it.”
Ilya hums thoughtfully, utterly warmed by the concept that Shane’s father is willing to text him about potatoes. He especially loves the idea of making some sort of cake-like structure from leftovers and then eating it in bed with Shane (because obviously that’s what should be done with it). He tucks this thought away for later. He stands from the table and reaches for dishes but Yuna makes a clicking noise with her tongue hitting the roof of her mouth,
“You’re a guest, Ilya.”
“No, he’s not,” Shane teases, coming back into the dining room to grab something else, “He’s bypassed that. Let him carry dishes, mom.”
Ilya smiles, leaning over to plant a kiss on Shane’s cheek. Regardless of it not being said, the implication is there—a guest is someone who comes and goes and Ilya is there to stay.
Yuna smiles as she glances between them, a gentle thought not said but felt. “Why don’t you both go outside and enjoy the new firepit we got, David and I can handle the dishes.”
David huffs out a sound, about to protest, but then a dish is shoved into his hands. Ilya smirks, looking over at his boyfriend, who holds his mother’s gaze just to make sure. She nods, waving them in the direction of the deck,
“Hopefully you’ve saved room for dessert, it’ll be ready soon.”
Ilya intertwines his fingers with Shane, allowing him to lead them out of the dining room, “Dessert goes to the heart, not to stomach.” He says over his shoulder and Ilya holds onto the way it makes Yuna laugh long after they’ve gone outside.
—
Shane positions himself into the corner of the outside couch on the patio of his parent’s place. The new firepit is blazing with a fire, the night just cold enough that it’s enjoyable. He glances down at Ilya, who has molded himself against his chest. He’s tucked between his legs, chest resting against Shane’s abdomen, head resting underneath his chin. Shane rubs solid circles along his spine, dipping his chin until his nose and lips bury themselves in his curls.
“You warm enough?”
Ilya nods wordlessly, his nose pressing into Shane’s chest. He’s pretty sure that even if he was cold, he wouldn’t say anything. One, because he doesn’t want either of them to move, but also because he’s used to just…being uncomfortable and having to deal with it. That’s something that reaches directly into Shane’s chest and squeezes his ribs together.
It’s like the first few times they had meals with his parents; he could tell Ilya was uncomfortable. This was the same man that flourished on the ice delivering chirps and blows into the boards and not giving one single fuck what people thought about him. Or just allowed them to believe the worst. A mask that Shane has seen come off his face, having to be forcibly peeled, taking skin with it. Ilya does care, deeply, about everything. He’s been told that those emotions are something he has to be ashamed of, to bury. But Ilya doesn’t have to pretend here, with Shane, with his parents. He finally seems to have learned that, softening around the edges.
Shane tips his head back, closing his eyes for a moment, memorizing the warmth and weight of Ilya against him. He lazily threads his fingers through his curls, playing with a few between the pads of his thumb and ring finger, only opening his eyes when he hears the patio door slide open.
His mother steps out with a blanket, a soft smile on her lips, “I was going to tell you dessert is ready but…” She motions down at Ilya.
Shane knows before he looks; can feel the deep, even breaths of his boyfriend fast asleep against his chest. He presses a kiss to his hairline, “Food coma.” He jokes with a whisper.
Yuna smirks, “That’s what I like to hear.” She tucks the blanket around the both of them, reaching out to squeeze Shane’s other hand, which is resting on Ilya’s back. “I’ll make sure to pack you some up to go, no rush.”
Shane smiles, nodding as his mother heads back inside. He adjusts the blanket so it’s over Ilya’s shoulders, drawing in a deep breath as he settles into the patio cushions. He’s glad that his boyfriend feels comfortable enough now, which is such a drastic difference compared to before, to do something as vulnerable as falling asleep—surrounded by people who care about him.