Ilya was elbow deep in a plastic tote when he was caught.
“What are you doing?” Shane asked.
Ilya stood quickly, nearly hitting his head on the metal rack. “Nothing.”
Shane narrowed his eyes. “Why are you looking through my closet?”
“Our closet soon, moya chernika,” Ilya reminded him, smoothly stepping out of their closet.
“Blueberry?” Shane translated, tilting his head like Anya when she was curious. He looked adorable.
“Good job,” Ilya praised, raising a suggestive eyebrow.
“You’re not going to distract me that easily.” Shane gave him a stern look. “What are you doing?”
Ilya hesitated. There wasn’t much point in lying anymore after he was so clearly caught. Besides, he’d done enough lying to Shane for a lifetime. “You know the Olympics?”
A wry smile tugged at Shane’s lips. “I’ve heard of them.” Anyone who said he wasn’t funny was a liar.
“The 2014 ones,” Ilya clarified. “Team Canada wore this sweater.”
Shane eyed him suspiciously. “The fleece; I remember.”
“Why?” Shane asked, crossing his arms.
“I want to see you in it.”
“Why?” he asked again. Ilya decided to stop dancing around the subject.
“Because you were so cute in it,” he cooed, running his hands over Shane’s arms. “You looked so soft and—what is word—snuggly.”
Shane rolled his eyes but he was definitely blushing. “Oh my God.” He began to walk away. “No.”
Ilya followed him, tugging at his shirt. “Please,” he begged. He sounded whiny, even to his own ears.
“Shane.” Ilya dragged out his name.
“No,” Shane said again. He turned around, annoyed. “You should’ve told me how I looked when I was wearing it instead of telling me to fuck off.”
Ilya was hit with the sudden memory of their conversation years ago in the Sochi arena. He’d been cold, dismissive, much too cruel to Shane Hollander in his adorable team Canada sweater. “Ok, I am asshole,” Ilya agreed. He was ready to get on his knees and beg. “I’m sorry.”
“You weren’t then.” It wasn't true but it was easy to see why Shane thought that. The last of his irritation faded as he began to walk away again. “Come on. I’m hungry. Let’s make dinner.”
Ilya groaned dramatically but still followed. He’d have to try again another day. Shane was going to wear that fleece, one way or another.
“I’m home,” Ilya called as he shut the door behind him. He kicked off his shoes, muddy from his morning run.
“In here,” Shane called from the living room. He'd skipped their run to catch up "work," whatever that meant. Ilya followed the sound of his voice and saw the man he loved sitting on the couch, Anya beside him, and wearing a familiar white fleece. He looked up, his glasses slightly askew. “How was your—oof.”
His sentence was cut off by Ilya practically jumping over the couch and tackling him in a hug. “You wore it,” Ilya exclaimed. Anya huffed and moved to sit elsewhere, offended by the sudden intrusion.
“Well,” Shane said shyly. “I happened to be digging through some old boxes and found it.”
“So this is not for me?” Ilya teased. Shane furrowed his brows comically.
“No, of course not.” He smiled and oh God, Ilya loved him. He took his face in his hands and peppered dozens of kisses all over his freckled cheeks, exactly what he wished he could’ve done in 2014.
“Thank you,” he whispered. He felt Shane’s smile grow wider under his lips.