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Shane has seen many different versions of Ilya over the years—parts of him that stick together to build an overall picture. A piece of stained glass, a mosaic; bright colors and shapes refracting off of one another to tell a story. There are feelings that are more nuanced, that live directly under his skin, but Ilya, if anything, lives his life loudly. It bleeds into everything he does.
He’s seen him incredibly pissed off, where his fingers draw into his fist, where he smiles with too many teeth, when clipped English isn’t enough. He’s known him horny; completely blissed out, lips wet and gaze lidded and his breath catching his chest. Shane’s seen him soft, and gentle and vulnerable, where he shares fragments of himself that he’s never allowed anyone else to perceive. He’s seen Ilya happy—genuine happiness, he thinks, that neither of them thought they’d ever get to have; the soft smiles, the protective gestures, the gentle touches that are now ingrained in everything that they are to one another.
He’s had him tired and goofy and nurturing and thoughtful and kind and a million other ways that can’t be counted on his fingers.
But this, Shane considers as he helps his husband into the cottage, might be one of his favorites.
“Extra step.”
Shane tilts his head down, squeezing Ilya’s waist to support his weight as he closes the front door with his foot. “What?”
“There is extra step. Before front door.” Ilya rubs a hand over his face and sighs heavily, like this might be the weight of the universe on his shoulders.
Shane smiles just a little, “You think I…what, exactly? Added an extra step to our front door after my conference call? That’s what I did with my time?”
“Da.” Ilya insists like Shane is the one who’s crazy and waves a hand out at the top step that’s always been there, which almost throws them off balance. “This is obvious.” He holds onto him like a barnacle, another huff leaving his mouth and yes, Shane thinks, this tracks.
Ilya is dramatic and clingy because he’s drunk; a fun outing with the Centaurs that Shane definitely would have been a part of if he hadn’t had a conference call with Reebok right after the game they played. But alas. Apparently his husband thinks he was installing an extra step to their entryway in his spare time while he waited for him to come home.
Shane locks the door with his spare hand, “C’mon, you weigh a ton.”
“YA logok, kak ptitsa.” Ilya mumbles.
Shane smirks out a laugh. Light as a bird? “Big fucking bird, maybe.”
He squeezes his hip, guiding him towards the stairs, towards their bedroom. It takes a few practiced steps to get them there, pausing every so often because Ilya says the room is spinning. He leans into Shane’s chest at one point and whines in a way he shouldn’t find so endearing.
“I know, baby,” Shane presses a kiss into his hair, “Almost there.”
When they get to their destination, Shane takes him into the bathroom first, sitting him on the closed toilet seat. He carefully unbuttons his shirt, tugging it off of him. He’s not going to get him into the shower. As much as that’d probably help sober him up, he’s way too wobbly on his legs, like Bambi, and Shane doesn’t want to risk it. Despite that, Ilya’s sticky with a bit of sweat, so Shane does the next best thing. He wets a washcloth in warm water and drags it over his shoulders and neck. His husband’s hands lazily find his waist, holding on, as if grounding himself.
Shane then stands between Ilya’s legs, tipping his chin up,
“Privet.” Ilya whispers.
Shane smiles, “Hi,” He replies, pausing to glide his fingers through his curls, gently scrubbing at his scalp. Ilya keens into the touch, practically purrs from it, making his stomach flutter. “Did you have fun tonight?”
Ilya nods, letting out a slow sigh. He’s quiet for a few moments, eyes closing when Shane begins to run the washcloth over his forehead and cheeks. He almost thinks he’s fallen asleep until he starts talking,
“Would be better if you were there.” He opens his eyes then, a bright blue that always reaches directly into Shane’s chest and squeezes. Ilya is so astoundingly beautiful; it somehow still takes him by surprise, even after all this time. He leans down and presses a kiss to the bridge of his nose.
Ilya swallows, clearing his throat, “Was looking for you. Troy does not know how to dance, practically embarrassment.” Shane smirks lightly, shaking his head, dragging the washcloth over his curls once before tossing it towards the hamper.
“I can’t claim to be much better.”
Ilya’s fingers slide under his shirt, not hinting at anything more, just wanting skin to skin. Shane understands the feeling. “Was hit on,” He admits, which isn’t a wild occurrence when they head to a bar or club together but there’s a crinkle to Ilya’s nose this time. Shane smiles again, lifting his thumb to run down the bridge,
“I told them I have husband; best in league.” He tips his head back again, holding Shane’s gaze, biting down on the inside of his cheek.
Shane can tell when the moment shifts, when Ilya begins to get emotional. It’s like this sometimes when he drinks, a pendulum sliding from right to left in what version he might get. On the one side, he can be horny and flirty, cocky and demanding, but on the other side is this, being cuddly and teary. Shane loves them both; he’ll take any version of Ilya, every version.
“You weren’t there.”
Shane cups both sides of Ilya’s face then, leaning down to kiss him. It’s slow and intimate and he bites down on a moan when Ilya slides his tongue into his mouth. He knows this is just something automatic, a comfort, rather than anything else. Ilya also isn’t saying these things about his night to guilt trip him; he’s just stating a fact. He missed him. He missed the time that they could have spent together. After years of being forced apart, Shane understands where he’s coming from.
“I know,” He repeats when he pulls back. He threads his fingers through Ilya’s hair again, enjoying the feel of his curls against his palm, “I’m here now, okay?”
Ilya nods, sniffling, shifting back just a little and wiping a hand over his cheek. Shane takes a step back, his fingers grazing his shoulder, thumb brushing over his collarbone.
“You gonna be sick?” Ilya shakes his head, “Want to go to bed?”
He waits until Ilya nods before helping him off the toilet, making sure he has his balance. Regardless of this, his husband leans into him fully, arms around Shane’s waist. Ilya squeezes him, smiling in that soft, affectionate way that makes his chest tighten.
“Gimmie kiss.”
Shane smirks, playing with a curl near his ear. “I just did.”
“Drugoy.” A pout of insistence.
Another; like Ilya is not above begging. Shane hums lightly, pressing their noses together before he kisses him. He keeps a firm hand on Ilya’s back, keeping their balance, and allows him to pull away first. There’s tangled Russian tumbling from his mouth, some that Shane recognizes, other phrases he doesn’t. Definitely an ‘I love you’ mumbled into his neck when Ilya’s forehead finds a home on his shoulder.
“C’mon,” Shane presses a kiss to his temple, guiding him into the bedroom. He unbuttons Ilya’s jeans before sitting him on the corner of the mattress, tugging the fabric down. Shane crouches, lifting each of his legs to get them off.
Ilya reaches out, touching Shane’s hair, dragging his fingers along his jawline before gently clasping his chin. “Shane.”
Shane smirks, kissing his fingers, “Ilya.”
He sighs out softly, leaning down until their foreheads touch. Shane rubs his hand along Ilya’s thigh, gently pressing soothing circles into his skin, “YA tak sil'no tebya lyublyu. YA khochu na tebe zhenit'sya.”
A laugh rumbles in Shane’s chest. He loves Ilya, too, “Well I got good news for you, we are married, Rozanov.”
Ilya pulls back, raising his eyebrows, like this is somehow new information even though he was telling everyone at the bar that would listen about his husband. Shane’s heart hammers in his chest and he can’t stop himself from cupping Ilya’s face again, peppering kisses everywhere until he feels Ilya smile.
He encourages him back into bed, tucking him under the blankets. When Shane pulls back, Ilya reaches for him, fingers curling around his wrist, “Stay.”
Shane soothes his fingers along his forearm, “I’ll be right back, I just want to get you some water.”
That seems to placate him for a moment and he moves quickly to the bathroom to grab him a glass, searching through the medicine cabinet for Aspirin as well. By the time he makes it back, Ilya is fast asleep, face pressed in Shane’s pillow, starfished in the middle of the bed. Shane can’t help but smile, crawling under the covers beside him, stretching his arm over Ilya’s back. He slides his leg between his and Shane’s lips find his shoulder, gently pressing his nose into Ilya’s skin and breathing him in before closing his eyes.