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“Shane, why don’t you go bring your mother a cardigan?”
Ilya watches Shane.
His eyes are filled with tears. He’s strung out so tight, tighter than Ilya’s ever seen him. He looks small, and he looked scared, and Ilya does not know what to do.
Shane nods.
He gets up, and he walks out.
Only when Shane leaves the room does Ilya feel himself taking a breath. It hits him all at once that this is not just Shane’s coming out. He is also being outted. He had been so worried about Shane, about how he was taking it, that maybe he had forgotten to check himself. Worry about himself.
It was not unheard of. He knew this would be forgotten when Shane came back in, again. There would be another time to worry about himself. Probably.
He reaches his hand out, fingertips grazing the handle of Shane’s mug, where he had left it.
When he looks over, David Hollander is already looking at him. Ilya does not know what the look means. It shakes him down to his very bones. He doesn’t know what the looks mean in this house, and therefore, he finds, he doesn’t know how to act accordingly.
His father had died mere weeks before. He did not think he would be in front of another father so soon.
“So,” he sniffs, speaking softly. “You read the New Yorker.”
He supposes it’s a good guess.
He did years ago, and if he was boring like—fuck.
David Hollander keeps looking at him. His eyes drop to where Ilya’s hand was still caressing the handle of Shane’s mug. Where Shane’s hand was mere moments ago.
“The summer before,” he says. Ilya does not know what to do with that.
“Yes,” he decides to say. It feels like a safe choice.
“You say you love my son.”
“Yes.” It worked once. Surely, it will work again. It has been a long time since he had to guess
David shifts his head. Ilya’s hand shakes. He wraps his hand around Shane’s mug handle. “I have loved him for a long time, Mr Hollander,” his voice barely above a whisper, “Maybe since…” He shakes his head. Drops his hand from the mug and wraps it around himself.
“Kid—”
“I am the crybaby in our relationship,” Ilya tries to joke. Wiping at his tears. “I am sorry.”
“Kid, it’s alright.”
He shakes his head. Wipes his tears again.
“I just,” he sighs. “I am just trying to understand.” He leans forward. It takes everything in Ilya not to flinch. He manages. David’s eyes soften. Maybe he does not manage as well as he thought he did. “I did not mean to offend you when I said that you have a reputation. I just want to understand.”
David Hollander thought he knew everything about his son until about two hours ago.
And yet, while that was surprising, it was not as surprising as the image of Ilya Rozanov in front of him right now. He was practically fucking shaking. He looked like he was planning his escape route, deciding which way was safest for him to dart out of the room.
David felt he was stuck in between a rock—deciding that Ilya Rozanov was a good man, and was a good partner to his son—and a hard place—calming him down, assuring him that he was safe.
Ilya Rozanov blinks. “The first time Shane and I met, he shook my hand twice.” and he looks surprised with himself that he said this.
Something like a shiver, but not quite, runs through David’s body. His mind immediately whirring with the concept of Ilya Rozanov remembering this. Remembering such a small moment from a decade ago when he met Shane.
“I thought it was the most… kak vy… cute but makes you feel warm?”
“Endearing?” he tries.
“Da! Yes. I thought it was most endearing in the world,” he continues. “The first time that we, um…” Ilya flit from place to place as he seems to be looking for another word to properly describe what he was trying to say. Distantly, David wonders how hard it must be to not even have the words to express yourself. Surprisingly still, he finds his heart twisting for him. “flirted,” he decides. David almost calls bullshit, but he lets it slide. “He was so nervous, he dropped his shoe as he tried to put it on. Pretended nothing happened, too, it was…” he shakes his head, the smile genuine on his mouth.
Ilya seems to be refusing to look at him as he speaks. Like he’s afraid to find out what look he has on his face.
“His favorite hoodie to wear is a Bears one. I forgot it in his apartment once years ago. He says it is the perfect shape that it does not bother him around his,” he motions with his hand around his neck and collar, “And the sleeves are the perfect length.” He sniffs, “He did not say this last part. But I notice he likes to hide his hands in the sleeves of his hoodies. The ones he gets from the Metros are not good for that. I suspect that he liked that it smelled like me in the beginning, but I have never asked him.”
David hums.
“He likes when tea has honey in it. He never puts any himself because of his stupid eating habit, but I always sneak a spoonful in when I make it for him. He hates the feeling of his dripping hair out of the shower. It feels weird on his neck. His favorite color is purple but he pretends he doesn’t have one.”
David laughs softly.
“He is a little afraid of butterflies, but does not admit it. He, um, likes it when I massage his wrists. He says it grounds him. I did not know what that meant for long time.”
“He felt safe with you, Ilya.” David says, not having planned to stop him from speaking. But it comes out of him like the seams have finally ripped apart and spilled all the contents in front of them on the table.
It was a marvel to David. And it had been surprising to realize he did not know his son as well as he did, but now he was being hit with the full weight of how sad it was, too. He was being loved so deeply, so meaningfully, and him and Yuna had no idea. It broke his heart to know that Ilya maybe was alone in that, too.
That is finally when Ilya looks at David.
His shoulders droop when he catches his eyes in David. It’s the first time since they had walked into the house that he’s seen Ilya relax, even marginally.
David whispers a silent prayer to himself, hoping it keeps his tears at bay, “You really love my son.”
Ilya nods, “Yes. I did not know I could love like this before Shane.”
“Ilya,” he whispers, frowning.
“I am a fucked up man, sir. Sorry,” he winces. David shakes his head, he was more than used to cursing, and he expected it from a player like Rozanov. A player, who he was now realizing, was only parading around like that because it was probably easier than doing anything else. “When I told Shane I am in love with him, I said it while knowing in my heart of hearts that he would not say it back. But then he did. He said it back, and I…”
David leans further forward, reaching out his hands to hold Ilya’s. “I trust you with his heart, Ilya. Okay?”
Ilya blinks fresh tears away from his eyes. “You do?”
He smiles. Nods. It’s firm, and it seems to make Ilya squirm in his seat. “You said my name right,” he whispers, so softly he barely catches it. He squeezes his hands and leans back.
Then he says, “I do read the New Yorker.”
Ilya laughs, carefree and calm. “Still?”
“Hey, what did you and my dad talk about?” Shane asks him, that evening.
His back was pressed against Ilya’s chest. His hands were playing with one of Ilya’s. Ilya makes a mental note to ask Shane not talk about his parents—or any parents—while they are naked and freshly fucked, ever again. But seeing as today was stressful for him, he lets it slide, just this once.
Just this once, he answers the question, “I think he wanted to give me are you good enough for my son talk.”
Shane shifts to look at him in the eye, “What? Really?”
Ilya smiles, kisses Shane’s shoulder. “I passed.”
“Did you now?” Shane smiles, amused.
Ilya hums.
Kisses his shoulder again.
“Oh yes, once I told him how I jerked off at you in the shower,” Shane practically yelps, “and that your dildo is purple, he was immediately won over.”
He shifts further away. “You did not.”
“Of course I did not,” Ilya rolls his eyes, “Do you think I am crazy?”
“I would not put it past you, Rozanov.”
Ilya tugs him back into his chest. Shane goes willingly, tucking himself into Ilya, like he belongs there. Ilya was starting to really truly believe that he did. “No, I did not tell him that. I would not.” Shane hums, seemingly not fully believing him. “I told him how crazy in love with you I am.”
“Fuck off, Rozanov,” he says.
Ilya is confused. “What?”
“You really got to tell him how crazy in love with me you are? And I didn’t get to do the same?”
Ilya’s laugh erupts out of him before he can stop it, “I am sure he will get to hear it at some point, babochka.”
“What does that one mean?”
“Butterfly.”
Shane shivers in his arms. Ilya smiles to himself.
Then Shane pushes his hips back into him. “Hollander, you are insatiable.”
“Who is teaching you these words?” Shane says, already pushing Ilya on his back and climbing on top of him.
He smiles up at his boyfriend, “It was the answer to a New Yorker puzzle. Always wanting more. Ten letters. Insatiable.”
Shane hums, “Nerd,” he says. Whines softly when Ilya pinches his hips. Then, he starts climbing down Ilya’s body, “I do not see you complaining.”
Ilya only tuts. “I would never, sweetheart.”