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One day, when they’re at Shane’s parents’ house, a few months after they got married, Shane catches Ilya peering closely at the cabinets in one of the rooms.
It’s the room that Yuna and David refer to as ‘the guest room’, and Shane refers to as ‘Oh my god why do you have all of this stuff here why couldn’t you put it in the basement people have to stay in here and stare at it all every day’, because it’s full of carefully-organised parts of Shane’s past. There are photos, pucks from goals he scored, hockey sticks lying on their sides across the shelves, even tickets from games pasted on white board and popped into frames. The Museum of Shane Hollander.
Ilya’s looking at a group photo from around the time Shane was eight.
‘That was when I was in U9 hockey,’ Shane says, and watches as Ilya jumps.
‘You scared me,’ Ilya says, whirling around.
‘You weren’t expecting me? To be in my own parents’ house? When we came here together?’ Shane teases, and Ilya waves a hand at him. It seems he’s recovered well from the fright, because he turns right back to the photo.
‘Very cute,’ he says. Tiny Shane is barely visible through the helmet, the hockey jersey, and the thick gloves, but Ilya’s eyes look soft anyway. And then he moves down the cabinets towards the window, looking at the next thing along: Shane’s first pair of skates.
‘They weren’t hockey skates,’ Shane says, even though Ilya has eyes and can clearly tell the difference between the two types of skates, even when they’re kid-sized. ‘I just liked being on the ice at first. I always wanted to see how fast I could go.’
‘Of course you did.’
‘And then my parents took me to a hockey game a little while after, and then that was history.’
‘They’re so small,’ Ilya says. ‘Baby Shane. Do you have photos from then?’
‘Uh, yeah,’ Shane says, and moves further away from Ilya towards the side of the cabinet closest to the door. He’s never understood why these weren’t arranged chronologically, even though his mother’s told him multiple times that it’s for the cohesion of it all, or something.
‘The photo in the living room is pretty close to when I was that age, but this is me on skates,’ Shane says.
He’s not sure why he’s feeling so generous about showing Ilya his past. Usually, this stuff would embarrass him enough to want to run away immediately, but there’s something about how Ilya is so intently studying everything that fills his chest with something warm. Ilya wants to know this stuff about Shane, because he’s in love and he takes that seriously. How could Shane not respond to that with appreciation?
‘When we have kids, maybe we can put their first skates in this room, too,’ Shane offers, gently nudging Ilya’s shoulder with his own. ‘Any trophies they win, too.’
His attention is caught by another photo. There’s a kid with a mohawk in the front row of the photo, and Shane can’t remember who he was, but it’s kind of hilariously tall for an eight-year-old. But then he looks up, because Ilya’s been silent for a while, and Shane can’t read the expression on his face.
‘You want to have kids with me,’ Ilya says, and it’s phrased like a question but it’s definitely not delivered like one.
‘Yes?’ Shane asks, and he probably shouldn’t have phrased his answer like a question. Oh well. What is that expression on Ilya’s face?
‘Really?’ Ilya asks, and Shane’s heart breaks, just a little. Because it looks like disbelief, maybe a bit of fear, and just the tiniest bit of hope.
‘Yeah, of course,’ Shane says. Of course he does. ‘You’d make a great dad.’
Ilya looks back to the case, but not before Shane can catch a glimpse of his eyes. He’s tearing up, just a little. So Shane puts into play his usual manoeuver whenever Ilya starts to tear up and immediately tries to hide it.
‘Hey, hey,’ Shane coos, trying to be as gentle as possible as he puts a hand on Ilya’s face, turns it towards him. ‘No crying alone. What’s in your head?’
Ilya responds as he always does, moving in to kiss Shane. It’s delicate, just their lips moving against each other, before it deepens as Ilya wraps his arms around Shane’s waist.
Shane moves the hand that was cupping Ilya’s face towards his hair, running his hand through the dirty blonde curls a few times before coming to rest at the nape of Ilya’s neck, cradling his head in his hand like it’s the most precious thing Shane could ever hold. Because it is.
His love, his life.
When they part, Ilya immediately tucks his head into the nook between Shane’s neck and shoulder. It’s one of his favourite spots when he’s feeling overwhelmed.
‘What’s up?’ Shane asks, trying to be as non-pressuring as possible. Ilya’s shuddering imperceptibly, so it takes a little while for him to resurface. When he does, his eyes are red-rimmed.
‘I always wanted kids,’ Ilya starts, and Shane brushes a thumb over his cheek with the mole. Ilya’s arms tighten a little. ‘But it was dream I left behind long ago. I don’t know. I have history with mental illness, depression and dementia and all of it. It made it seem not possible. Too much pressure on a small child.’
Shane pauses. It’s not technically wrong. And he immediately feels like an asshole for even thinking that, for reaching for logic instead of the piercing, heartbreaking truth of it all - that Ilya feels like he can’t have the family he wants, because of things completely outside of his control.
‘I understand,’ Shane says softly. ‘I wish it wasn’t like that, and it’s horrible that that’s something you even have to think about, but I understand.’
Ilya makes a motion that’s not quite a nod, because he’s nestled back into Shane’s shoulder and he can’t move his head that much.
Shane spends a little time moving his fingers through Ilya’s hair. This dear, dear man. It feels selfish, he knows, but it still feels sad to let go of the thought of a little child with these golden curls, those bright blue eyes, that smile that Shane saw for the first time so many years ago and hasn’t let go of since.
‘And for long time I didn’t have anyone to have kids with, anyway. Not important to think about. But if you want kids, Shane-’
Ilya presses a kiss to the spot on Shane’s shoulder where his forehead had been a moment ago, and lifts his head again. And there they are, those stunning eyes.
‘We can adopt, or maybe we can have little Shane Hollanders running around,’ and it’s like Ilya’s had a weight lifted off him. It’s like his entire being has brightened. ‘It is possible, maybe. If you want?’
‘I want,’ Shane says, imitating the slight Russian lilt in a way he knows Ilya won’t take offense at.
He’d probably say yes to anything, just to see that sparkle in Ilya’s eyes, that’s settled on his skin. But the truth is, Shane would love to have kids. He thought about it often when he babysat Hayden’s kids, wondering if he’d ever have his own rugrats running around underfoot. He had such amazing parents that the idea of becoming a parent was intimidating - and his perpetual anxiety didn’t really help matters - but something that he just felt he’d want to be part of his future.
It just never felt possible, with the growing realisation that he’d never fall in love with a woman. That a cocky Russian teenager had locked eyes with him in a locker room shower and that was it, that was going to be his life forever, one way or another.
So maybe Ilya and he had yet another thing in common. It hadn’t felt possible. But now, Shane feels this current of excitement and nerves curling around each other like DNA strands, and he can see it reflected in his husband’s eyes.
Shane shifts on his feet, feels himself settle more solidly onto the ground. ‘Ilya,’ he starts.
‘Shane,’ Ilya replies.
‘Let’s have a kid.’