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He woke up before his alarm to the weight of Anya stretched across his legs and the familiar warmth of Ilya curled against his back. The bedroom was quiet except for the gentle hum of the air conditioner and Anya's tiny snores.
He stayed there for a minute, staring at the ceiling while Anya's tail thumped lazily against his calf.
"Good morning," Ilya mumbled behind him. His voice rough with sleep.
Shane smiled. "Morning."
Ilya pressed a kiss to the back of his neck.
Anya immediately shoved herself between them.
"Jealous little princess." Anya wagged furiously.
They took Anya for a walk before practice. Afterward they came home and made breakfast together.
Shane scrambled eggs. Ilya made toast.
The counter held meal prep containers stacked neatly from Sunday's cooking marathon.
Today he felt relaxed enough to bend one of his own rules.
He reached for the strawberry jelly.
Ilya noticed immediately.
"Ooo."
"Don't."
"You are having jelly."
"It's one tablespoon."
"Still."
Shane rolled his eyes. "It's not illegal."
Ilya grinned. "Definitely not."
He watched as Shane spread the jelly across his toast.
The bright red color looked cheerful. Like it was smiling at him for indulging just like his husband.
For a brief moment Shane felt almost carefree.
The toast tasted good. The sweetness was pleasant. He doesn't feel that clamminess in his hands. His shoulders stayed loose.
Nothing felt wrong.
No voice calling him disgusting.
Fine,
--------------
After breakfast they started cleaning up.
Ilya was loading dishes while Shane wiped the counters.
Anya sat beside the refrigerator staring at it with deep concentration.
"She wants something." Ilya looked down at her.
"Probably."
"Blueberries?" Anya's ears perked up instantly.
Ilya laughed. He crossed to the fridge and pulled open the door.
The blueberries had gotten shoved toward the back behind several meal prep containers.
He reached deeper.
His fingers brushed cardboard.
Something soft. Wet.
Ilya frowned.
The instant he pulled it forward, his stomach dropped.
"Oh."
The raspberries were unrecognizable. The entire carton was covered in thick gray-green mold. One side had collapsed into itself. There were dark patches creeping across the cardboard. Even worse, mold had begun spreading onto the back wall of the refrigerator.
Not much. Just enough.
Enough to be—
Ilya immediately glanced toward Shane.
Shane was still wiping the counter.
Thankfully facing away.
Good.
Excellent.
Maybe he could fix this.
Without his husband ever knowing.
Not really lying.
Ilya carefully started backing away.
Unfortunately, Shane had spent over a decade learning every variation of Ilya's body language.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You made a face."
"No."
"You absolutely made a face Ilya."
Ilya considered lying.
The problem was that Shane's suspicious expression was already appearing.
The angry kitten face.
It worked on him every time.
"What happened?"
"Nothing important."
"What happened?"
"Shane."
"What happened?"
Ilya sighed. "Do not freak, is okay." The words were out before he could stop them.
Immediately he regretted them.
Because there was no phrase in the English language more guaranteed to make Shane freak out than don't freak out.
Shane's eyes narrowed. "Ilya."
"It's fine."
"Ilya." The warning was unmistakable.
Ilya held up the carton.
Shane looked and froze like he had been electrocuted.
Everything inside him stopped. Like an absent seizure.
His stomach dropped.
Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting.
The kitchen suddenly felt too small.
WHAT IS THAT. WHAT IS THAT. WHAT IS THAT.
The mold was touching the carton.
The carton had been touching the blueberries.
WERE GONNA DIE
The blueberries had been touching other food.
HOW COULD YOU LET THIS HAPPEN
The food had been touching containers.
ILYA WILL GET SICK AND DIE
The containers had been touching shelves.
YOU WILL GET SICK AND DIE
The shelves were in the refrigerator.
The refrigerator held all their food.
All their food.
All of it.
Every single thing.
Jelly.
Shane made a choking sound.
Ilya immediately stepped forward. "Hey."
"No."
"It's okay."
"No!"
The smell hit him.
Maybe it wasn't even strong.
Maybe he imagined it.
His stomach lurched.
Shane turned toward the sink.
The first gag came hard enough to make his eyes water.
"Oh, sweetheart."
Nothing came up. Just violent retching.
His entire body rejecting the thought.
How long had it been there?
Days?
Weeks?
Months?
What if—
His thoughts spiraled instantly.
Ilya threw the carton into a trash bag.
"We'll clean it."
"How long.....what is."
"I don't know."
"You don't know."
"No."
"Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck fuck."
Ilya could hear the panic building.
Shane's breathing was getting shorter. His hands had started shaking.
The image wouldn't leave his head.
Mold.
Growing.
Spreading.
Invisible spores.
Food touching food.
Containers touching shelves.
Everything connected.
His breakfast suddenly felt like poison.
The strawberry jelly sat heavily in his stomach.
The sweetness became sickening.
Another gag escaped him.
"Shane."
"I ate.....that fridge."
"We both did."
"Why...you?"
"Because moldy raspberries don't mean the apocalypse Hollander."
Shane stared at him. "You think i'm overreacting."
Ilya immediately regretted the wording. "Bad choice."
Shane looked like he might cry.
Ilya moved carefully.
"We will clean it."
"The mold is on the fridge."
"I know."
"The fridge."
"I know."
"The fridge."
"I know, solnyshko."
Shane swallowed hard.
The panic remained like a splinter in his brain.
He walked into their hallway bathroom muttering to himself. "Fridge..the fridge."
Getting Shane to practice required nearly an hour.
Normally Shane was punctual.
Today he stood in front of the refrigerator staring at it like it had personally betrayed him.
"We should throw everything away."
"We are not throwing away four hundred dollars worth of groceries."
"How do you know they're safe?"
"Because they are sealed."
"What if they aren't?"
"They are."
"But what if they aren't?" Ilya rubbed his face.
Eventually Ilya got Shane into the car.
The drive was quiet.
Shane spent most of it staring out the window.
Ilya did not comment on Shane pressing his fingernail into his palm.
--------------
At practice he wasn't much better.
His timing was off.
His concentration was worse.
Passes bounced off his stick.
He missed cues.
Lost track of drills.
His teammates noticed.
Everyone noticed.
By the end of practice his nerves felt shredded.
The refrigerator followed him everywhere.
Every break.
Every conversation.
Every moment of silence.
DISGUSTING. YOU'RE GOIND TO DIE. IT'S GOING TO KILL YOU. DISGUSTING. YOUR FAULT. YOU'RE GOING TO DIE.
Round and round like a Farris wheel.
-----------
The air has mold shower often or you will get sick and die.
When he got home he went straight to the shower.
He scrubbed himself until his skin turned pink.
Then red.
Still not enough. Disgusting. It's in the air.
He stayed in the shower so long that Ilya knocked on the door.
"Shane?"
"I'm fine."
"You've been in there forty minutes."
Shane didn't answer.
Eventually he emerged.
Ilya was waiting. "So."
"We need to clean."
"We will."
The longer you wait the more germs grow on you and Ilya. You both will die. Disgusting.
"Now."
Ilya hesitated.
Shane's jaw tightened. "Now Ilya, cmon."
"Okay." He threw his hands up in resign.
The kitchen became a restricted zone immediately.
Shane practically barricaded it.
No food preparation.
No eating.
No touching anything.
Anya was banished after trying to wander in.
Shane emptied the refrigerator.
Every shelf.
Every drawer.
Every container.
Everything.
The counters disappeared beneath carefully organized piles.
Ilya tried helping.
At first.
Then Shane started reorganizing the things Ilya had already organized.
Twice.
Wrong
Then three times.
Wrong.
Then four.
Wrong.
Ilya recognized the signs.
The way Shane's anxiety attached itself to a task and transformed it into an unending cycle of chasing release.
Hours passed.
The refrigerator was already spotless.
Most people would have considered it immaculate.
Shane disagreed.
He scrubbed again.
Then again.
Wrong.
Then again.
You all will die fuckface, Again.
The smell filled the house.
"Shane."
No response.
"Shane."
Nothing.
He was scrubbing a section that had already been cleaned six times.
"Shanya."
Still nothing.
Ilya approached carefully.
The rag moved faster.
Harder.
More pressure.
Like Shane was trying to erase the memory itself.
"You got it."
"No."
"You did."
"No."
"It's clean."
"No." His voice cracked.
And suddenly Ilya understood.
This wasn't about the refrigerator anymore.
It was the fact that something had existed in his carefully maintained system without him noticing.
That possibility terrified him.
Ilya crouched beside him.
"Shane."
The rag stopped moving.
"I can't stop thinking about it." The admission came out small.
"I know."
"What if there was mold everywhere?"
"There wasn't, was small dot."
"What if we ate it?"
"We probably did not eat enough to kill us."
Shane looked horrified.
Ilya immediately winced.
"Bad phrasing."
Shane made a distressed noise.
Ilya reached for him.
Shane winced away.
The germs are in the air. They are on him too. If he touches you we have to shower again.
"The point," Ilya said carefully, "is that we're okay."
Shane's eyes remained fixed on the refrigerator.
"We're okay."
"Yes. Now can we go sit down and relax?"
Shane went quiet again.
"Shane."
Shane shook his head slowly.
"What is your head telling you?"
"We are gonna die. We are gonna get sick 'n die. It's in the air and it's on our clothes and its seeping into the walls and we are going to die slowly and horribly and it's all my fault because I always know the due dates and things because I always read the labels but you have to rip them off because I have a stupid fucking eating disorder but that doesn't even matter now because i'm never eating from this fridge again and-"
Ilya was touching him.
Shane looked up to see Ilya had wrapped his hands around his wrist where his hands were yanking at his hair.
Shane groaned but didn't pull away.
"Breathe."
Shane closed his eyes and complied best he could.
"You are safe."
Shane looked down at the floor while nodding.
"Say with me, we are safe."
"We are safe."
"We are safe."
"We are Safe" Shane repeated.
"We are not sick."
Shane held back tears. "We are..."
Ilya squeezed his wrists "We are not sick."
"We are not sick."
They stayed like that for some time until Shane's breathing evened out. Then he got to take a shower with Ilya's supervision and have a short call with his therapist.
Later for dinner they had to order out because as strong as Shane was, he could not eat from their fridge just yet.
Now, curled up with Ilya he was being coaxed to sleep while his husband tried to quiet his brain.
"We are good." Ilya said into Shane's neck from on top of him.
"We are okay, the house is okay. You are good."
Shane hummed content with sleeping like this.
Disgusti-"You are good, we are good." Ilya pressed feather light kisses into his neck.
I am good.