HR Prompt - maybe a cute snippet to go with Mina’s farmers market fanart? 💕
word count: 1465 words
rating: gen
did you hear? my prompts are open!
fic is based on this gorgeous art by @mina-logan
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It's not fair that the farmers market is in the morning, and it's a downright injustice that Shane insists on being there right when it open at 8 AM.
That's the only reason why Ilya hauls himself out of bed at 7 AM during the offseason. He downs a cup of coffee before brushing his teeth, then brings a second cup as Shane gets into the driver's seat.
It isn't until Ilya is three-quarters done with his coffee and they're halfway there that he realizes Shane hasn't spoken a word. His husband is staring resolutely out at the road, squinting against the bright morning sun. The gold light washes out his freckles, catching on the glasses that the doctor told him to wear more diligently, and obscuring his expression.
Ilya leans forward in his seat so Shane can catch his raised eyebrow. "Shane?"
"Yeah." Shane still keeps his eyes on the road.
Ilya waits a beat for Shane to say more. When he doesn't, he lets out a soft scoff. "What, did you forget the list, and are going over it in your head?"
"No, I didn't make a list."
"What, you're gonna do shopping with no list?"
Shane shrugs with one shoulder as he pulls into the parking lot. "I just thought we'd see what they have, you know? I haven't been to one of these since I was a kid."
Ilya hums as Shane parks the car and unbuckles his seatbelt. The minute stretches long as they wait for the other to make the first move.
Ilya breaks it and reaches over to reassuringly squeeze Shane's shoulder. The muscles are tight under his thumb and pointer, tensed until Shane slowly relaxes under Ilya's hand. Ilya turns Shane's chin for a close-mouthed kiss, and Shane hums into it for one moment before pulling away. His nose wrinkles in distaste before he opens the door and gets out.
Ilya pops a mint into his mouth from the stash in the glovebox before getting out, giving an exaggerated stretch as Shane rounds the car. He doesn't miss the way Shane's eyes flash down as his shirt rides up.
"Nope." Shane says in response to Ilya's smirk, grabbing the reusable bag from the backseat before marching towards the market entrance, not waiting for Ilya to follow.
Ilya catches up when Shane is at the first stall, inspecting the rows of tomatoes and carrots like he'll be tested on them later. Ilya smiles in hello to the vendor sitting in a plastic chair in the corner of the stall, propping a chin on Shane's shoulder and reaching over to grab the closest vegetable.
"Wow, what are they feeding cucumbers in Canada?"
"That's a zucchini, Ilya." Shane grabs the one from Ilya's hand and one more from the stand before dropping it in the bag, passing a bill to the vendor before shrugging Ilya off his shoulder and moving on.
Ilya wanders away from Shane to stroll the other stalls, stopping to browse rings made from sterling silver and embedded with tiger's eye or amethyst. He spends an embarrassingly long time at one stall smelling all 28 candles for sale, internally comparing each scent in accuracy to the picture on the label before moving onto the next candle as the vendor smiles wanly at him. He compensates for the loitering by buying one that smells plant-fresh with a name he can't pronounce, cradling it in one hand as he turns to look for Shane.
It doesn't take him necessarily long to find him again. He's standing in front of a stall full of what looks like scraps of wood, talking to the owner. As Ilya gets closer he can make out the rigid line of Shane's shoulders and his knuckles pale where they tightly grip the bag's handles. Ilya steels himself for an encounter he's not fond of having, but when he draws up to Shane's side he can see that Shane is smiling, though it's close-lipped and tight at the corners.
The vendor- an old man with more coarse white hair on his upper lip than on the top of his head - barely spares Ilya a glance and continues telling how everything is handmade from driftwood, that he personally collected while on walks with his grandson, and handpainted with varnish, and did he mention that it’s all driftwood-?
Finally, Ilya gently cuts him off, saying that they would take one of the large picture frames. "For the cottage, no?" He turns to Shane. "Or perhaps over the fireplace."
Shane furrows his brow. "We don't have a fireplace."
Ilya shrugs. "We will build one then."
"Oh, are you two gay?"
Immediately, Ilya turns back to the vendor, his hackles rising. A million possible phrases teeter on the tip of his tongue, yes, they are gay. So what? He feels Shane go still beside him, and can sense the hundreds of internal walls they've spent years dismantling ready to rebuild at a moment's notice.
The vendor doesn't seem to notice their discomfort as he finishes wrapping the frame in paper. "My grandson is gay! Wonderful. That'll be forty-five dollars.” He gives a wide smile.
"The sign says sixty." Ilya points out as Shane fishes out his wallet.
"It'll be forty-five." The vendor says again with a well-meaning wink. Shane silently hands over three $20 bills and waves it off when the old man starts to fish in his register, shifting the produce bag to Ilya so he can take the frame in both hands as they trek it back to the car.
"We could have paid forty-five." Ilya says as he opens the hatchback so Shane can load it in.
"We're millionaires, Ilya."
Ilya shrugs. "Yes. But we could have paid forty-five."
"Didn't know you were such a Scrooge." Shane closes the hatch, grabbing the produce bag back from Ilya and heading back to the market.
"As long as Scrooge is hot, I don't mind." Ilya follows, reaching his hand out to trail from Shane's elbow and down his forearm to thread their fingers together. Shane doesn't verbally acknowledge the gesture, but his hand squeezes back.
It's a different vibe, now, then when they had first entered the farmers market. It's still new, being out in public as a couple. In the early morning in rural Ontario, there wasn't a high chance of being recognized amongst the elderly couples or mothers with a gaggle of toddlers in tow, but every step outside was a step forwards for them. The decade of secrecy had taken its toll, and some days, Ilya's first instinct was still to hide when someone in public deduced that he and Shane were together. He felt that draw in Shane, too; the moment of hesitation in the car as he gathered his courage.
Now, Shane doesn't let go of Ilya's hand as they dodge the other patrons as the market slowly filled, bringing him alongside the fruit stalls as they pick out a carton of apples and cherries. He keeps their fingers entwined even as he inspects the peaches, brushing his free hand along one and gently prodding for bruises. He has to let go of Ilya to load up their bag, and to distract his hand from feeling cold Ilya takes the opportunity to pay. As soon Shane picks out enough peaches and Ilya's wallet returned to his pocket, their hands find each others again.
The market has filled in the hour they have been there, bubbles floating by from a machine as children giggle at the sight. A busker is playing a rendition of some pop song on their violin, and Shane roots around in his pocket for loose change awkwardly with one hand to drop in the open violin case as they pass, and Ilya's heart feels so, so full.
It brims up and over when Ilya tugs Shane behind a food cart selling lemonade, the smell swirling around them with the lingering scent of peaches.
"Ilya, what-" Shane's weak protest dies as Ilya draws him in for a kiss. His glasses nudge against Ilya's cheek as he immediately reciprocates. Ilya sweeps his tongue in as Shane’s mouth opens on a soft sigh, tasting warmth and the muted remnants of toothpaste. He cups Shane's jaw to deepen the kiss further, the stubble that Shane lets linger in the summer scratching against his fingertips.
"What was that for?" Shane asks when they finally part, his eyes slowly fluttering open. His nose is red and his lips are wet, and Ilya feels a pull in his gut that has nothing to do with the fact that they haven't had breakfast yet, and all because he is married to the beautiful man in front of him for the rest of his days.
When Hudson opens his eyes, everything is a blur. The cloudy sky above is muddled, the grey misting into the dark treeline as half-hearted raindrops sprinkle down. He blinks, the floating blobs in his vision slowly attaching themselves to bodies, eventually making out the faces of Jacob and Connor staring down at him.
“God, are you okay? I am so sorry, I told you-“ Connor starts, his face pale, eyes wide and glistening. Was Connor crying? Why was Connor crying?
Jacob shushes him, and when he turns to Hudson his voice is calm. “Hudson, how many fingers am I holding up?”
Hudson squints, letting the hand Jacob is holding up slowly sharpen into focus. “4?” And, because he’s an asshole, he snaps a grin, holding up both hands, folding his fingers so just his middle fingers stick up. “How many am I holding?"
Tension releases from the air like a popped balloon. Jacob’s brow relaxes, and Connor lets out a relieved laugh. They sit back on their heels, and it’s not until then that Hudson finally registers the abrasive edge of the cottage's deck steps along his spine.
He swallows, his tongue feeling like soft fruit inside his mouth. “What happened?”
He doesn’t miss the quick look Jacob and Connor share. Oh. Was it that bad?
“How much do you remember?” Jacob says carefully as Connor worries his bottom lip between his teeth.
Hudson throws his forearm over his eyes, inadvertently covering his wince as pain flinched throughout his skull. Memory seeps back in like a wave, and he adds to the dramatic effect with a whiny sigh. “Connor cheated."
“I did not-“ Connor immediately squawks.
Hudson lets his arm fall to articulate a pronounced roll of his eyes. “You knew you couldn’t beat me otherwise.”
“I didn’t,” Connor spluttered, defensive palms up as he sent begging looks to Jacob. “He was the one who wanted to wrestle.” He points an accusing finger at Hudson’s nose, and Hudson nips at it, grinning when Connor draws it back with a yelp.
Jacob pinches the bridge of his nose, as if he has escaped fatherhood for 46 years to just be saddled with them now. “Just- try not to kill each other, yeah?"
“Yeah, if Connor ever learns how to grapple and not trip me-"
“It’s slippery.” Connor snipes, grabbing Hudson’s outstretched hand to haul him to his feet. Hudson closes his eyes against the burst of light that whites his vision, grabbing Connor’s full bicep for support. The thick muscle jumps under his palm. Jesus.
“I don’t know, Hudson.” Jacob sounds doubtful. “I think we should take you to the ER.”
“What? No,” Hudson gives his best impression of a dismissive wave, almost smacking Jacob in the process.
“You might be concussed.” Jacob insists, gesturing to one of the assistants to come over. “That’s it for the day. No more filming. Start packing up."
“Aw, c’mon Jacob, I’m fine-"
Jacob cuts him off with a swipe of his hand. “Yeah, nah. We’re not doing that. I’ll meet you at the car in five, alright?” He walks off, leaving the rest of Hudson’s protests to die on his tongue.
Instead, Hudson turns to Connor with a scoff. “I’ve had five concussions. You’d think he’d trust me to know."
Connor’s face is still pale. The rain has turned into a steady drizzle, making his curls frizz, glistening droplets dripping as he shakes his head quietly. “You didn’t see yourself fall, Huddy. You hit the deck hard. You scared me.” Connor finishes lowly, a tremble to his voice and chin.
Hudson swallows, running his hand up Connor’s shoulder to his neck, giving the junction of throat and clavicle a soothing squeeze.
Connor breathes deep and pulls Hudson in for an embrace. Connor’s chest shudders against his, one hand splayed against the back of his ribs as the other slides up to gingerly touch the back of his head. Hudson hisses a breath, burying his nose into the rain-damp skin of Connor’s neck. Ok, yeah. Maybe a doctor’s a good call.
“This is nothing,” Hudson says when they pull apart, hands trailing between to tangle together as Connor follows him to Jacob’s jeep. Jacob is already waiting, one hand on the hood and the other propped on his hip- may as well be tapping his foot as he glares at them to hurry it up.
Still, Hudson watches his step, conscious of the way his vision blurs at the edges if he walks too fast. His thumb rubs along the skin of Connor’s palm. “Did I ever tell you about how I got the scar on my shoulder?"
