Chapter Text
“Stop splashing me!” Shane grumbled, popping one eye open. He sat cross-legged on his paddleboard, breathing deeply in through his nose and out through his mouth. The afternoon was hot, almost stiflingly so, but Shane wasn’t willing to admit that he didn’t mind the cool relief the water offered—wasn’t ready for Ilya to tackle him into it, which he would surely do if he got bored enough.
Ilya wrinkled his nose. “Not splashing. Paddling. Is what you do on a paddleboard, Hollander. Not… whatever you’re doing.”
“I’m meditating, asshole. Or trying to, at least.” Shane responded, reclosing his eyes. When another bout of water splashed across his body and Ilya’s raucous laughter ripped through the air, he decided he was left with no choice. He cupped his hands by his lips, inhaled, and blew.
In moments, the reinforcements he called for sent Ilya frantically waving his arms before plunging headfirst into the water. That was a splash Shane could handle.
***
Ilya Rozanov ✅ | @ ilyarozanov81
I have best balance of all time 🏄🏼♂️
Image Description: a close up of two Polaroid photos. In the first, Ilya stands on a paddle board; sunscreen glistens on his back, and he grins maniacally at the photographer, paddle raised like a weapon. The threat of the first picture is negated by the second, which shows Ilya—arms outstretching, the loon tattoo practically taking flight; bending over backwards; eyes wide in fear—plummeting sideways. Barely visible in the corner of the frame is the black head and beady red eye, placidly floating by. Scrawled along the bottom of the pictures in splotchy pen is “paddle boarding - 8/14/2019” and “threat to my life - two minutes later.”
~
“Can I help?” Shane ventured to ask, though he already knew the answer.
Ilya glanced up from the sticky mixture of flour and yolk on the counter, affronted. “No! You think I can’t follow recipe, Hollander?” He clapped his hands together, snorting as flour rained down on the island.
Shane dodged the shower, laughing. “That’s exactly what I think, Rozanov. You’re not great at following directions.”
Ilya huffed, though his voice was smug as he muttered, "That's not what you said last night.”
“Hey!” Shane sputtered, fighting to keep his cheeks from burning a bright pink.
He lost.
Ilya smirked, but the look was quickly replaced with a squawk as Shane lunged across the kitchen, hands full of flour.
Because Shane hated mess, but he loved making Ilya Rozanov smile more.
***
Ilya Rozanov ✅ | @ ilyarozanov81
recipe is a family secret 🤫🍝
Image Description: a close up of a Polaroid photo. In it, Ilya stands in the midst of chaos: flour on every available surface, including his cheeks; various bowls and egg shells litter the counter; a clump of pasta dough sticks in his curls. His eyes are narrowed in concentration, glaring at the strings of spaghetti the pasta maker is slowly, painstakingly churning out. Scrawled along the bottom of the picture, beside a blotchy red stain, is “H’s Pasta - 11/2/2019.”
~
“So we just stand here and stare at it?” Ilya scowled at the water.
Shane bit back a smile. The conversation—Ilya’s joking hatred for the boringness of it all—never got old. But this time, Ilya was in for a surprise. “Yes, we just stand here and stare at it.”
“Canada is fun.” Ilya kicked at a rock, and it skittered over the ledge. Behind him, the falls rushed by, but he seemed decidedly uninterested. Shane had been to Niagara once before, with his parents, and the constant spray of water and roar of force had quieted the parts of his mind that were always a bit too loud. He hadn’t expected Ilya to like the falls—anticipated it, even, because Ilya didn’t like the stillness of nature, even when it was in constant motion—, but knew that what came next was what he would love.
Ilya stamped his foot a bit. “Hollander, I’m cold. Is almost midnight, and we aren’t watching ball drop.” With a pout, he added, “And I can’t even give you kiss here.”
Shane glanced at the throng of people gathered nearby. Around them, everyone’s eyes were trained on the falls or their watches, and he risked a quick kiss to the corner of Ilya’s mouth as the crowd shouted, “Three, two, one, HAPPY NEW YEAR!”
Behind Ilya, the sky exploded into blues and pinks and purples. Ilya’s eyes softened; he stood stock still, taking in the view. “Oh.”
He didn’t say anything else, but he didn’t have to.
Shane smiled; he hated fireworks—the sound, the smell of smoke, the pulsing lights—, but his chest was burning with them as he whispered back, “This is how I feel when I’m with you. Happy New Year, Ilya.”
***
Ilya Rozanov ✅ | @ ilyarozanov81
с Новым Годом 🎆
Image Description: a close up of a Polaroid photo. In it, Ilya leans against a railing. His arms are thrown open wide in response to the dazzling explosion of purple fireworks behind him, but he only has eyes for the person behind the camera. Scrawled along the bottom of the water-speckled picture is “Niagara Falls - 1/1/2020.”
~
“And then I was thinking we—”
Shane was interrupted by a loud snore. He looked over from where he’d been idly scrolling on his phone; at the other end of the couch, Ilya and Anya were intertwined, both breathing deeply and snuffling. Shane’s heart constricted in his chest as he gently reached over to remove the Coke can that was still clutched in Ilya’s hand and placed it on the coffee table. In the soft light of the setting sun, Ilya looked gentle.
He looked happy.
Careful not to jostle Ilya or Anya, Shane pulled a blanket out of the ottoman and tucked it around the two of them. Anya rolled in her sleep, letting out a whine, and Shane paused to scratch her stomach. He’d never been much of a dog person—or an animal person, for that matter—but already he could see the love that Ilya could hold for another living thing. It was a privilege, he realized with a pang, that their distance and their secrecy and their lies didn’t allow of him.
He stroked Ilya’s face with his thumb, tracing his Cupid’s bow and crooked nose from one to many fights before tangling his hand in Ilya’s hair. Ilya leaned into the touch and relaxed further.
In the quiet light of evening, Shane allowed himself to love Ilya, both silently and as loudly as possible. Soon, they wouldn’t have to hide. Soon, they would be a family of three, and the world would know.
Shane was just glad that Ilya had Anya to get him there.
***
Ilya Rozanov ✅ | @ ilyarozanov81
meet my daughter 🐶
Image Description: a close up of a Polaroid photo. In it, a small dog’s pink, pink tongue poked out between her teeth and completely surrounded by discarded toys. She’s asleep, paws up and ears flopping sideways, on Ilya’s stomach; with his eyes closed and mouth slightly open, he looks much younger and softer than usual. Scrawled along the bottom of the picture is a sloppily inked paw print and “Anya’s Fur-st Family Photo - 4/24/2021.”