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He’s never had to think about it before. It’s always been performance diet this, low calorie that. No one has ever questioned him on it before. His mom plans meals around him, and his friends make separate options, and if he can’t find anything that fits, he just doesn’t eat. It’s a simple as that.
Simple as that– until Ilya came along. Until he’s right in the middle of a loving relationship with a beautiful man whose love language is food of all things. Cooking and sharing and perfecting his mom’s recipes. Shane’s never felt so on edge before.
Everyone has their vice. For some it’s alcohol, or drugs, or sex. It’s self destruction and poisoning their bodies. Shane likes to think he’s not like that. He likes to think he has better outlets that those things. He likes to exercise and count macros. There are worse vices. At least, that’s what he tells himself. He gets to control how much and when and what. He gets to decide if he goes to bed with a cold, empty stomach. If he deserves a full meal or just a cup of tea for lunch. It’s his decision. His control.
They’re on the couch, one day. Ilya is in Boston, and he has a suite on the top floor of the finest hotel in the city. Shane came over after the game, and they’re sitting side by side now. Ilya is shirtless, eating chips straight from the bag. Shane is pressed against his chest.
“You want?”
Ilya holds a chip out. Shane considers for a moment– really considers. Then shakes his head. Forces a small smile and says no. He watches Ilya process it, like he can’t fathom the idea of Shane not wanting a chip. But they’re greasy and thick and Shane can literally see the salt dusting Ilya’s fingertips. It makes his stomach flip.
“You are very particular with when you eat,” Ilya says, finally.
Shane tilts his head, moderately offended as he scrambles to say, “No, I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not–”
“It is not question, Hollander,” Ilya says, and there’s no room for discussion. He’s moving on, popping another chip into his mouth. “It is fact.”
Shane doesn’t know what to say to that. Doesn’t know what he can say that will satisfy Ilya’s already working mind. He’s not particular. He just knows what food works for his body. He just knows when his body digits best. One chip, and he’s thrown his internal clock off completely. So Shane doesn’t say anything, and neither does Ilya. They watch TV and Ilya keeps snacking. Shane tries to get comfortable again, but it feels different. Like he can’t breathe fully. Like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
When he kisses Ilya next, he can taste the salt and vinegar on his lips.
Ilya leaves it alone for a few months. He asks questions, makes small comments. What did you have for lunch today? That looks gross, and healthy. I’m working on my mom’s cookie recipe, will you try? And Shane always answers honestly. He has boiled chicken and green beans for lunch. He’s eating pickled beets when Ilya comments on the smell. He would love to try the cookies, but he has to go to the gym. Ilya nods with each answer, each excuse. He’s patient. Shane doesn’t know why.
They’re in bed together one night. It’s dark and comfortable, and Ilya is breathing into the nook of Shane’s neck. He’s got his arms wrapped around Shane’s waist, and it feels good. His hands move, after a while. Run the length of Shane’s torso, landing at his hips. Shane can practically feel Ilya draw his eyebrows in. Can feel the question that’s coming as Ilya squeeze’s Shane’s hips.
“You are sharp.”
“I’m sorry?”
“No, no,” Ilya shakes his head, cursing the language barrier. “You– you are skinny, Hollander. I feel your hips.”
“That’s called a body, Rozanov,” Shane scoffs, hoping the eye roll is enough to distract Ilya. Playful enough to tease him back to peaceful bliss. “You have one, too.”
“Yes, but mine is not sharp.”
He moves his hands again, and this time they land around Shane’s ribs. If Ilya’s hands weren’t so warm, so soft, Shane thinks he’d protest. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t falter when Ilya grazes his skin, feeling the divots between each of Shane’s ribs.
“I’m an athlete, Rozanov,” Shane says. “I’m fit.”
“You are too thin.”
“Ilya.”
It’s short, tired. One word, enough power to end the conversation completely. As domineering as Ilya is, Shane knows he has the upper hand. He doesn’t use it often. He knows better, would never want to take advantage of Ilya’s love for him. But he can’t help it right now, because he’s tired. He’s exhausted, and his body aches, and it feels like they’re bruises underneath Ilya’s fingertips. So he says Ilya’s name and he knows that enough to make it stop.
“I worry, Shane. About you. So much.”
Shane swallows hard, and Ilya doesn’t say anything else. They fall asleep in each other’s arms, and they wake up in the same spot. Ilya makes breakfast the next morning. Shane’s protein shake that he has everyday, but there’s a plate of sliced oranges beside it. Ilya eats an english muffin with two fried eggs and bacon and cheddar cheese, and Shane wishes he could turn off the calorie count that’s happening in his brain. He can’t, though. Ilya watches him like he knows. Like he can see also see the eggs adding up with the bread and the bread adding with the bacon. Like he knows he math Shane is doing.
He doesn’t say anything though. He finishes the sandwhich and snags another piece of bacon from the skillet. His finers are greasy, and he licks them off without thinking. Shane swallows hard. He wishes it's because he's turned on, but he's thinking about oil instead. The protein feels like cement in his stomach as he takes a big sip. Ilya cleans up the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He pinches Shane’s cheek when he finishes the shake and the orange, and kisses him goodbye when he leaves for practice.
Ilya comes over for dinner with Shane’s parents when the news finally breaks. It’s safe and warm, and Shane feels good. Ilya is surprisingly good with parents– specifically Shane’s parents. They laugh like they’ve known each other for years, and Ilya brings one of his mom’s recipes from when he was a kid. Yuna works on it with him, and it’s how Shane ends up watching them chop onions at the kitchen counter. He sits on the bar stool, elbows leaning on the counter as he listens to Ilya’s voice.
“She was very kind,” Ilya says, pausing to answer Yuna’s question about his mom. “She was the best cook.”
Yuna runs a hand along Ilya’s arm, squeezes his shoulder with a smile.
They finish cooking and Shane sets the table. He tries a bite of Ilya’s plate, but he eats his steamed salmon and broccoli instead of the potato based delicacy his family has cooked up. Ilya says it tastes just like he remembered, and begs Shane to try just a bit. Shane realizes he can’t say no, and he tries it. It’s incredible. Buttery and salty and rich. He wants more. He knows he can’t.
He tries to ignore the frown on Ilya’s face, the way his dad watches him eat. His mom telling him to try more, that he trains too hard. He ignores it all. He eats half his salmon and calls it quits. Yuna and David sit on the porch while Shane and Ilya finish the dishes. Shane washes while Ilya dries.
“You do not eat very much.”
“You made so much fish,” he says with a laugh.
Ilya smiles, shrugs. “I guess. But even so.”
“I eat just fine.”
“You are perfect,” Ilya says, suddenly. He stops drying, sets his dish towel on the counter. Shane looks at him, eyes wide. “Why do you think otherwise?”
“I don’t think anything.”
Ilya sighs, presses his hands into the counter. His back clenches, his muscles tense. Shane watches him bite his lip, and then he faces him again. Takes Shane’s chin in his hand, so gentle and soft. He looks sad. Eyebrows drawn in and lips pressed into a frown.
They finish the dishes in silence. Shane can still feel the warmth of Ilya’s hand on his chin, even after it’s long gone. The same way he can still taste the butter on his tongue. David and Yuna make Shane promise to call, and Ilya tells them he will. They hug them both tightly, and they go home.
They’re in bed when Shane feels it in his chest. This heaviness, like a weight sitting on top of his lungs. Ilya is pressed into his side, almost asleep. He can tell by the way his breathing slows, the way his arm drapes over Shane’s torso. But Shane can’t sleep, because he can’t breathe. He wants to puke. His stomach feels heavy and he feels anxious in his bones. His body, buzzing like he’s drunk. He pushes Ilya’s arm off of him, sits up to press his hand against his heart. It’s pounding.
“Hollander?”
“Shane,” Ilya’s voice isn’t enough to cut through the static in Shane’s ears. Not until he’s hugging Shane so tightly that it breaks through the panic. “Baby, breathe.”
“I can’t–” Shane chokes on his breath, tries to control it. “God, I can’t.”
“Alright,” Ilya says gently. “That is alright. I will do for you, yes? In and out.”
He places Shane’s hand on his own chest, just so Shane can feel his lungs. And he breathes. One breath at a time until Shane is matching it. Careful and steady, and the panic slowly dissipates. The heaviness doesn’t. It sits in his stomach like a weight, and it’s when Shane realizes what’s happening. Ilya seems to know first.
“One bite does not change you,” he’s saying, and Shane feels the tears streaming down his cheeks. They're hot and heavy, but Ilya is wiping them away so carefully. His thumb soft on Shane's cheeks, like Shane is made of glass. Like he's so in love with Shane, and he just wants him to feel whole again. “One new food. It is not end of world.”
“It is.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
Shane nods into Ilya’s chest, and he gets it. For the first time since he became an athlete, the first time since he became the best. The first time since performance diets and never ending work outs and Ilya Rozanov. It shouldn’t be this way. He thinks he gets it, and he thinks he’ll be okay.