Chapter Text
The sun is sinking low over the lake when they get back to the cottage, and Shane feels like he ran a fucking marathon in the last four hours. Ilya’s hands land on his shoulders as they cross the threshold back inside, and Shane leans back into the touch gratefully. Twenty four hours ago, Ilya was talking about wanting to leave Boston. Now, there’s a plan for him to move to Ottawa and Ilya loves him and Ilya knows Shane loves him and Shane’s parents know all of it.
It’s too early to go to bed, really, but Shane doesn’t complain when Ilya steers him by the shoulders to the bedroom, pushing him onto the mattress and then stretching out on top of him, heavy and comforting. This is why people like weighted blankets, Shane thinks, although you probably can’t buy them as heavy and warm as Ilya.
“Okay?” Ilya asks him.
Shane considers the question maybe more seriously than Ilya intended, but eventually he nods. “Okay.”
“Very brave. I told you so.”
The brave thing, Shane thinks, would’ve been to tell his parents at any point over the past seven years. But that ship has sailed, and at least it’s done now.
“Do you still feel like you will die?” Ilya’s face is so soft, the same way he looked at Shane while Shane spiraled about what he was going to say to his parents, how he was going to face them after so many years of lying.
“No,” Shane says. “That’s gone away.” Ilya kisses the underside of his chin, just because, and Shane smiles. “Can we get under the covers?”
“Of course,” Ilya says, rolling off of Shane and pausing to pull his t-shirt off over his head, tossing it in the general direction of the hamper in the corner of the room. He spilled tomato sauce on it at dinner, and Shane makes a mental note to treat it with a stain stick before putting it in the wash tomorrow. Ilya only brought about three shirts with him. (Shane’s not complaining. He likes Ilya in his clothes almost as much as he likes Ilya in no clothes.) Ilya shucks his shorts off too and lifts the duvet to slide beneath it. Shane gets with the program, unbuttoning his linen shirt and resisting the urge to fold it only because it’s already a wrinkled mess. He does fold his shorts before crawling back into bed, letting Ilya tug him close and pull the duvet up to his shoulders.
“You are cold,” Ilya says and Shane nods.
“Always, when I’ve been anxious.”
Ilya wraps both his arms around Shane, hauling him so close he’s basically just lying on Ilya’s chest and god it helps. He’s like a furnace. Shane tucks his face into Ilya’s neck and breathes in a shaky breath. Ilya smells like butter and onion from making dinner with Shane’s dad. It’s weird. It’s perfect. Shane’s brain doesn’t really know how to process it.
Ilya moves his hand up and down Shane’s back, soothing, and Shane closes his eyes, melting into the touch.
Shane doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but he’s not entirely surprised that it happened when he wakes up. The room is dim when he opens his eyes again, lit just by the last purpley streaks of the sunset. Ilya is awake when Shane looks, and he smiles the smile that’s just his mouth lifting slightly in the corners, like he’s so relaxed anything more than that is too much effort.
“Better?” Ilya asks him, hitting both syllables deliberately in a way he normally wouldn’t. Shane frowns, confused. “That’s how you said it, in the hospital,” Ilya explains. “Was very cute.”
Shane huffs a laugh. “I don’t remember saying it any kind of way. I thought I was being very normal.”
“So normal,” Ilya agrees. “But you are feeling better now, yes? You look better.”
Shane nods. “I think my brain just…hit its limit. I needed to crash.”
“Are you hungry?” Ilya asks.
“Not enough to move. You?”
“No. I ate so much pasta.”
“I noticed,” Shane says, grinning.
“It is good, yes? Now that they know? Your talk with your mom was okay?” Ilya asks, frowning. “I know that you did not want to tell them about me but—”
Shane lifts his head so quickly the room spins and he wonders if maybe he isn’t fully recovered from his concussion yet. “What?”
“Is what you said,” Ilya says, his face doing the flat, blank thing he does when he’s trying to prove he doesn’t care and it’s been days since Shane has seen that face. Since Ilya’s first day here, maybe. Oh shit.
“Ilya, no,” Shane says so vehemently that Ilya blinks. “That’s not what I meant. I didn’t tell them because I was scared, obviously, but also because I couldn’t imagine how to tell them I’m gay without telling them I’m also so fucking in love with you and I didn’t want to tell them that without telling you first or knowing where we stood and I didn’t want to out you to them either. It was easier to keep both secrets than to tell them a half-truth and feel like I was hiding the most important part. I used to fucking daydream about you meeting them.” Shane feels his face get warm, admitting this. “Maybe not after my dad walked in on us but…Ilya, the best part of today is that you met them. I promise.”
Ilya’s eyes go soft and wet. “You are sure?”
“Yes, Ilya. So sure. I went out to lunch with them the week after the tuna melts and they gave me at least two different chances to tell them. There have probably been like four conversations a year since I was seventeen where they were trying to ask without asking. And at first I wasn’t ready to talk about it, and then it was just…us.”
“Hollander,” Ilya says, like he did last night, and Shane pulls him closer, lets Ilya hide his face in Shane’s neck and pets his hair. He can’t help it. He loves touching Ilya’s hair, now that he feels like he’s allowed to.
“So much crying. How are there more tears?” Ilya mutters and Shane laughs.
“You’ve been saving them up for years.”
Ilya sighs. “Yes. Probably.”
“Do you want some water?” Shane asks.
Ilya shakes his head. “No. I want to kiss all your freckles and give you hickey right here,” he taps a spot below Shane’s collarbone, “and suck your dick until you forget anyone else exists.”
That already happens to Shane just being in the same room as Ilya, but of course Ilya knows that.
“Yeah. Okay. Sounds like a good plan.”