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It had become tradition since living together, one that Ilya didn’t care for all that much, but he knew it made Shane happy. At the end of the day, many of his decisions were taken with consideration of the degree of happiness it could cause his husband.
Before leaving for their yearly cottage getaway, Shane liked doing a “spring clean.” He would donate stuff he was given from sponsors, clean out his closet and reorganize it, and vacuum every last corner. Ilya did his part too, even if he didn’t get rid of that much, but it made Shane happy, so it made him happy. A good bonus was when he could lay on their couch and watch Shane dance around their home, tiny shirts clinging to his thighs as he cleaned. Better than any skimpy maid costume they could get, although that was not a bad idea, something he would pocket for later.
Shane had pulled out some boxes from their storage system below the house and had laid them all out in their large bedroom, sitting on the floor with his legs tucked under him as he went through each box. Ilya had joined him a while later, having gotten bored from watching some hockey podcast that Shane was listening to. Instead he opened a box and began snooping through it, trying to find something that would entertain him for a while.
Most of the boxes were filled with clothes, some that had laid forgotten since they had moved in, others that they didn’t want to get rid of just yet. Ilya found the shirt he had convinced himself had been lost during a trip, one he had bought specifically to mess with Shane. It was a cropped t-shirt (it hadn’t come like that, but the choice to crop it had made Shane’s reaction even better) with the phrase “I’m his puck bunny” written in pink cursive on the front. He had worn this last time Shane won his second cup. He could still remember the vibrant crimson that spread across Shane’s cheeks and chest when Ilya opened the door in that, and boxers.
Ilya had obviously kept the shirt and would threaten and tease Shane with getting it out, loving how flustered it made him. After their brief falling out after the tuna melts in his Boston home, Ilya had shoved it in the back of one of his drawers, willing to forget it, but not having the heart to throw it out.
“Maybe we should go on a run,” Ilya tsked, taking the shirt completely out of the box and taking his own shirt off.
“Not right now though, maybe later tonight,” Shane answered, his eyes barely shifting from where they assessed the pairs of sneakers in front of him.
“What about if I wear this, would that change your mind?”
Shane’s head turned quickly, intending to roll his eyes at whatever Ilya had found and decided to put on. His eyes locked on the shirt that clung tightly to Ilya’s chest, clearly being about two sizes too small. His mouth instantly watered and went dry, the task on hand threatening to be forgotten.
“Should we get rid of it? Hasn’t been used in a while, no?” He looked down at his chest and then back at Shane.
“Don’t you dare.” Shane spoke finally, picking his jaw up from the floor.
“Like what you see, Hollander?”
“Fuck you, put that in the bag to take to the cottage.”
Ilya smiled and took the shirt off, leaning I down to gently kiss Shane’s knee. He opted to keep the shirt off for two reasons : one, he’ll probably have to try on something else and two, it distracts Shane just the smallest bit.
Shane’s pile is much bigger than Ilya’s but he has a way of wanting to keep things out of sentimentality. For instance, the new shirt currently in his hands had been the one they had given the players as a souvenir at his first All Stars game he ever participated in. There was also the annoyingly floral shirt he’d worn in Florida when Shane finally came back to him.
For such a long time, he’s struggled with owning things that truly meant something to him, when the only things that did were very few. Since his mother died, Ilya had truly only been attached to the few items he had of her, like the cross he never took off or the tiny picture of both of them he kept in his wallet next to Shane's picture. When Shane came into his life as a barreling ball of freckles and anxiety, Ilya felt his heart shift and make space for things.
In the very beginning of their relationship he obviously couldn’t keep anything from Shane, not until Shane was running out of his Boston home in Ilya’s clothes, leaving his own behind. Ilya remembers that day like it was last week. He remembers the painful turn in his stomach as Shane kept from the couch and began spiraling. He remembers his immediate switch to calling him “Hollander” again, begging Shane to let him take it back. He remembers the soft click of his front door as Shane left, leaving him frozen in his sofa with both of their cum on his stomach and a twisting wave of nausea that swarmed his senses. He stayed on his couch for what seemed like hours, not wanting to get up and shower, knowing he’d be washing the last few remnants of Shane he had left, but he eventually did. Later that night, after the game, after pretending Shane was nothing but his rival, the man that was meant to mean nothing to him, Ilya came back to his room and cried silently when he saw Shane’s neatly folded clothes on his dresser. He remembers picking up the white t-shirt and smelling it, clutching it in his hands like a precious artifact as he fell asleep on his unmade bed.
He still had that t-shirt, he kept it in their trophy room, which annoyed Shane, but it truly was an accomplishment for Ilya. It symbolized a warm afternoon in each other's arms, then, the feeling of loss and love, until it finally became a memento of the shift in their relationship that would eventually lead them back to each other.
Ilya was nearing the bottom of the box when he felt the soft plush of a familiar fleece. He stilled for a moment before pulling it out. As he sees the white Sherpa with the red lettering and the maple leaf on the side, Ilya is transported to Sochi, to seeing Shane’s sad eyes at the rejection and cold demeanor Ilya gave him.
He had been a shell of himself, barely there at all. The loss against Latvia and the ultimate failure of the Russian team had destroyed him, not only because his own country looked at it as his fault, but because it highlighted every insecurity his father brought out in him.
Never good enough.
Too lazy.
Too many excuses.
Not working hard enough.
And then he had his father’s words also swirling around in his head, the never ending look of dissatisfaction and disappointment he felt. Even when his mind had been slipping away from him, Ilya’s inability to meet his expectations was always present.
When he saw Shane there was nothing else he’d rather do than talk to him, hug him, kiss him. Yet Shane also represented another way Ilya had failed his father. Instead of marrying a nice and rich Russian woman or even Svetlana, Ilya had fallen for the Japanese-Canadian man with kind eyes. He knew, even back then, that he was barreling down a tunnel with no stop, that eventually he would be in love with that man. He’d done everything he could to stop it, even if deep down he knew it would be fruitless.
Shane had also represented a distraction from what he had to do to prove his worth. He needed to be the perfect son, the best player, the Russian player in America. He needed the cup in his hands as much as he wanted Shane. So he worked like a psychopath to get it, made sure to have no distractions, he was like a horse with blinders on. Every single minute of free time was spent training, analyzing and perfecting his craft. It wasn’t until he held the cup in his hands with his teammates around him celebrating that he finally felt some sense of worth. With his mom’s name on his lips he finally felt like he could be worth caring for.
Shane turned to face Ilya once he realized he had gone extremely quiet for the last five minutes. His gaze landed on the sweater Ilya was squishing in his hands, eyes glazed over with unshed tears.
“Oh baby,” Shane sighed out, uncrossing his legs and moving to bring Ilya’s head to his chest. He kissed his curls, inhaling the scent of lavender and pine from us shampoo and hair products.
“You know,” he began, voice trembling as he pulled away from Shane’s embrace to look him in the eyes. “I really wanted to kiss you that day.”
“You did?”
Ilya nodded and moved his head back to rest against Shane’s chest. “Da. I had shitty day, shitty week, and you looked so happy to see me.”
“It’s okay, Ilyusha.” The nickname made Ilya burrow his head further into Shane’s space, as if he would be able to make way into his chest and stay there. “Here. Let me put it on.”
Ilya moved enough so that Shane could slip the warm sweater on, not caring that it was scorching outside and way too hot for a sweater, let alone a sherpa one.
“Shane, is too hot. It’s okay.”
Shane pulled his head through the hole and kissed Ilya's cheek, standing up to turn on the AC and putting it lower than usual. “There, now it’s cold.”
Ilya smiled and stood up, holding Shane’s hand shyly, as if they weren’t married. He moved into Shane’s space and hugged him properly, resting his chin against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of Shane’s skin with the mixture of a sweater that has been in storage for years. He would most likely get allergies from it, but he didn’t care.
Shane pulled away and dragged him back to bed, opening his arms, inviting Ilya back into them. A coy smile spread against his husband’s face as he crawled across the bed and let himself drop into the embrace. “Let’s take it to the cottage, I’m sure it will come in handy during the cold nights.”
Ilya answered with a barely audible “okay.”
“We will make new and better memories with it, no more sad ones.”
“Ya tebya lyublyu.” Ilya spoke against Shane’s freckled skin.
“Love you more.” Shane settled into Ilya's embrace too, knowing that the cleaning and organizing could wait longer. Besides, what could be better than taking an afternoon nap with his husband and no worries in the world. He knew that later on Anya would make her way into their room and jump on the bed (even if she knew Shane wasn't fond of it), curling herself across Ilya's legs and nap with them.