kitchen - hollanov - @taylorswiftmicrofic - mentioned NSFW - word count: 439 - click here for my hollanov microfic archive on ao3
Shane lingered at the door to Ilya’s kitchen, doubt and discomfort making his stomach flip a little.
He’d been here a few times, now. They’d written over the memories of that disastrous afternoon with the Tuna Melt, Shane coming to Ilya’s before and after Boston games to spend as much time with him as possible.
But this was the first time he was here alone.
He’d already been on his way, tired after an afternoon game, when he’d gotten the text:
Lily: Got stuck in captain meeting. Let yourself in I will be home soon. Code is 0510
He’d nearly cried in the Uber, seeing what Ilya’s code was, but he was able to keep it together until he’d arrived. Still, typing in the numbers to his own birthday had been an overwhelming reminder that things were different now.
He and Ilya were together.
But when he toed off his shoes and walked in, he still paused. How much ownership did he have over this place? This was Ilya’s space, not his. Could he, for example, get something to drink? Turn on the TV? Was that overstepping?
He practically heard Ilya’s voice in his head.
‘Hollander, I have had my tongue in your asshole. Go get a drink and sit on damn couch.’
Unable to stop himself from smiling, he moved, opening the fridge.
And there they were, another reminder: cans of Ginger Ale, just for him.
Grabbing one and cracking it open, he moved to the couch, throwing his bag down next to him and finding the remote.
But as he turned the TV on, he paused, looking around; noticing.
A weighted blanket on the couch. Dimmable lights and a subscription to Shane’s favorite Canadian sports network. A few books on a nearby shelf that Shane had mentioned once, and boxes of some of Shane’s favorite, healthy snacks on the counter. The goddamn door code.
Ilya’s place had, somehow, become more like theirs.
It was nothing damning, nothing that could prove their relationship if anyone saw, and yet it was everything.
Before Shane could do something stupid like cry about it, he heard the door open and the unmistakable sound of muttered Russian, Ilya’s (not removed) shoes squeaking across the floor until–
“Hi,” Shane greeted his boyfriend, suddenly breathless as he got to see him without hockey pads or pretenses between them for the first time in weeks.
Ilya beamed back even more brightly. “Shane,” he murmured, nearly running towards the couch and enveloping him into a hug. “Is good to come home to you.”
Shane just pulled him closer, heart racing. Yes. It did feel like home.