unraveled like a poem💖

Which is definitely why Shane is doing his best to ignore the way his eyes won’t stop itching. 

Both he and Ilya have seasonal allergies, so this is nothing new, but for some reason he just thought the universe would work with him instead of trying to kill him on this fine afternoon. Death by scratching his eyeballs out, apparently, just like that fucked up fairytale Cinderella was based off of. That’s what it feels like right now, like birds are poking at his eyes. 

He sniffles, bringing the hand up that’s holding onto Ilya’s to rub his thumb along his eyebrow. His husband squeezes his fingers when he lets their shared hands fall between them, crossing the street towards the farmer’s market. 

“I want a pumpkin.” 

Shane kind of blinks at him, “What are you going to do with a pumpkin?” 

Ilya purses his lips, smiley and giddy in a way that always makes Shane’s stomach flip. He’s happy—which he knows isn’t a one-off occurrence? But he feels like he collects Ilya’s smiles like small treasures. There was a time in which it didn’t always bloom so easily on his face. Like it took him far too long to relax, to be comfortable within himself and who they were to one another. Like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop or a door to close or for Shane to tell him that he just…didn’t love him anymore. That this wasn’t what he wanted. 

As if Ilya could get rid of him so easily. 

“Maybe make bread.” 

Shane raises his eyebrows, “A pumpkin bread.” 

“Da.” 

He shakes his head, a small pull of amusement to his lips. He rubs at his left eye again, his sunglasses getting in the way. Jesus. It won’t stop running at the one corner, “They’re not in season, baby. Maybe try for zucchini.” 

Ilya scrunches his nose at this, displeased. 

“You can still make bread.” 

“I do not want any other bread.” 

A laugh rumbles in Shane’s chest as they enter the market, “Okay.” 

“Insulting.” 

Shane tugs him closer with their shared hands until Ilya tumbles a bit into his chest. He plants a kiss on his husband’s cheek and the sourness Ilya had painting his face over the lack of pumpkins quickly disappears, replaced with a soft smile that’s just for Shane. 

The market is lined with tented vendors selling a variety of homemade goods and fresh fruits and vegetables. There’s a live band playing somewhere down the line, he can hear the soft tune of instruments mixed with people laughing and conversing about what’s being sold. Everything from candles, fat yarn scarves and patchwork bags, to local honey, coffee bean roasters, cruelty-free body lotions and woodwork for signs, ornaments and more. It’s an explosion of something that feels quintessential summer to Shane and this is the first time he’s been able to experience it with Ilya. 

“I usually start down the left side and then come back up the right.” Shane says and gently tugs Ilya in the direction of where the fruit is, despite the haziness of his left eye. 

He refuses to let seasonal allergies ruin this for him. 

As suspected, it’s beautiful bringing Ilya here. He’s dressed in a pair of jean shorts and a flowy, short-sleeved white button down. It’s a little sheer, but mostly just when the sun hits it and half the time Shane can’t stop himself from staring at just how gorgeous his husband is. His curls are wide and golden, skin sunkissed, eyes bright and smile disarming. He’s talking to absolutely anyone managing whatever tent they slip under, confident and comfortable in his own skin in a way Shane never really has been. Not really. It’s not a mask. 

“You’re gorgeous, you know that—right?” 

Ilya turns his head at Shane’s comment, raising his eyebrows. Not because it’s seemingly come out of nowhere but because what he says surprises him. As cocky as Ilya is, as much as he probably knows how beautiful he is, there’s still something vaguely vulnerable and intimate to hear someone he cares about say it to him. 

Ilya tugs him close, brushing a kiss over his cheek, “Yes,” He says, “You are.” 

Shane rolls his eyes but his smile is small and warm. 

They move lazily through the market, never really letting go of one another’s hands. Even as Ilya buys two small baskets of strawberries that they don’t really need and Shane rubs at his left eye again, a bit of wetness clinging to his cheekbone. He sighs a little impatiently, like he could somehow lower the pollen count by sheer force of will. 

“Why are you crying over tomatoes?” 

Shane huffs, turning his head to look at Ilya. He narrows his eyes, trying to resist itching at his left one again, “I am not crying.” 

Ilya purses his lips, pushing his sunglasses up into his curls, “Your eyelashes are wet.” 

Shane sighs, irritated with himself, “Why would I cry over tomatoes of all things?” 

His husband hums, looks at the perfect selection of the vegetable in front of them before seeming to agree with this, “We could complain that lack of pumpkins at farmer’s market made the best player in league, Shane Hollander, cry—” 

“Oh my god, I’m leaving.” But Shane is smiling, especially when he pretends to move and Ilya hooks his arm around his waist with a grin. 

Ilya presses their bodies together, his front to Shane’s back, an intimate bubble being created where they’re the only two people on this street. In this city. In the world. There’s a playful nip in the form of a kiss at Shane’s neck, “Why didn’t you say your allergies were bothering you?” 

There’s the end of a whine that leaves Shane’s lips, leaning back into Ilya’s chest. He rubs at his left eye with zero abandon, not even trying to hide it anymore, "Because I’m annoyed at how itchy I am,” He pulls back a little, turning to face his husband. “And I didn’t want to ruin the day.” 

Ilya’s eyebrows draw together as he shakes his head, moving to gently take Shane’s sunglasses off his face before he clasps his chin between his fingers, “As if you could ruin anything.” He presses a kiss to Shane’s crinkling nose. “Did you take meds?”

Shane winces, “I didn’t think it was going to be that bad.” And honestly, he had been focused more on this. On spending time with Ilya, on getting a bunch of fresh goods that they didn’t need but were going to take home anyways. 

Ilya hums lightly, a small smile pulling the corners of his mouth as he reaches into his shorts pocket and pulls out a foil square of allergy meds, “I know, I know,” He clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth, “What would you do without me?” 

A soft laugh rumbles in Shane’s chest as he plucks the allergy tablet out of Ilya’s fingers, “Probably have less strawberries.” 

Ilya huffs as Shane takes the pill without water but then his husband is reaching into one of those small baskets he has in his hands and takes a strawberry out. It’s perfect, bigger than ones he might see tucked in plastic at a grocery store. 

Ilya holds it up to Shane’s lips to take a bite, and he does. “We could make so many desserts with these to eat in bed.” Priorities, of course.  

Shane smiles, licking his lips as some of the juice sneaks down his chin. Ilya follows it, leans closer and totally snags it with his tongue. Shane squirms, another laugh erupting from his chest, as if he’s not somehow more in love with Ilya every day over ridiculous and mundane things just like this. 

“I love you,” Shane says after a moment, the tips of their noses brushing. 

Ilya smiles, something warm and wholeheartedly touched, even after all this time. “I love you too,” He replies, reaching into the small basket for another strawberry. He bites into it, “Not more than these. Probably.” 

Shane laughs, shoving his chest, stepping around him with a fond muttering of asshole before finding the woman working in this tent to take home some of the tomatoes to make a fresh spaghetti sauce. 

His husband comes up beside him and slips his hand into Shane’s again and the next time they share a small kiss, Ilya’s lips taste sweet; like summer and home. 

---

When those five minutes pass, Shane carefully and slowly pulls himself from bed. He tugs on a pair of workout shorts, a long-sleeved white tee, socks and his sneakers. Runs are always about an hour, the work-out bike and weights when he gets back home is around thirty to forty-five minutes and then he’s making a smoothie and eating oatmeal with a banana. Sometimes he’ll switch up what he has for breakfast if his brain decides that he hates certain textures that day.

Shane’s favorite part of this routine, however, is coming back into the bedroom. He takes a shower, pulls on a pair of briefs and a t-shirt and then lays himself back on top of the bed, next to a still-sleeping Ilya. He brushes a kiss over the bridge of his nose, knowing it’ll take a lot more than that to wake him up. 

But he enjoys this softness to him, this gentle vulnerability; the way his skin is warm and smells like home and the wild frizziness to his curls. There’s no greater intimacy, in Shane’s opinion, than being able to fall asleep next to someone else. To feel so safe. 

Shane inches closer, running a hand down his bare back, circling some of his moles with his fingertips. He presses lazy kisses to his arm, along his shoulder, his neck and then finally his cheek. Ilya shifts lightly, his breathing changing, and Shane knows he’s awake even though his eyes are still closed. 

“Are you awake yet?” Shane asks anyways, smiling at the furrowed brow as Ilya pushes his face into his pillow. 

“Depends,” His voice is muffled and gravely from sleep, accent a bit thicker, Russian mixing in with English because he’s too tired to translate in his head, “Kotoryy seychas chas?” 

Shane moves his hand through Ilya’s curls again, playing with a few between his fingers, “Almost nine.” 

Ilya crinkles his nose and Shane’s stomach flutters at how cute that is, gently nipping at the skin of his arm under his elbow so he doesn’t graze his nose with his teeth instead. “Ty prosypayesh'sya ran'she solntsa.” 

A laugh rumbles in Shane’s chest and he shakes his head. He’s getting better at the whole Russian thing, loving moments like this where Ilya hasn’t completely switched to English because it gives him instances to practice. It’s a little easier for him to hear Russian and comprehend it than it is to speak it, 

“The sun is awake now,” Shane insists, slipping down in bed a little so he can press a kiss underneath Ilya’s armpit, knowing he’s ticklish there. His boyfriend jerks, huffing, swatting at him but turning over on his back. 

Shane plants himself on top, a lazy grin on his face. Ilya shakes his head but he’s smiling, it’s small and fond, his hands moving to run along Shane’s shoulders and through his hair. Shane presses a kiss to his chest, 

“Are you going to get up? I’ll make you breakfast.” 

Ilya purses his lips, “Those are conditions? If I get up?” 

Shane leans up a little, slotting his body more on top of Ilya’s, sinking a bit between his legs. One of Ilya’s hands finds his hip, “No crumbs in bed.” 

Despite still being sleepy, there is mischievousness sparkling in Ilya’s eyes, “I think you will make me breakfast anyways. Because I am cute.” 

“Oh really?” Shane laughs. 

“Yes, very. You called me ‘cutie’ the other night.” 

Shane feels his chest flush; there had been wine involved. He spins the conversation in a different direction; he doesn’t remember calling Ilya ‘cutie’ to his face, “Who told you that?” 

Ilya tips his head down, their noses brushing as he drags Shane’s lower lip into his mouth with his teeth. At the same time, his hand sneaks down to palm Shane’s ass, “Your dick.” 

Shane shakes his head, an eyeroll making an appearance as if he isn’t half hard against his boyfriend’s leg. As if he doesn’t feel Ilya’s morning erection pressed against his inner thigh. “Well part of you is definitely awake.” 

Ilya hums, lifting his other hand to cup Shane’s cheek, his thumb tracing the bone before gliding down to press on his lower lip. “Does that count enough for breakfast?” 

Shane licks his lips, taking the tip of Ilya’s thumb into his mouth. He sucks for a moment, rolling his hips. A sharp breath is drawn into Ilya’s lungs before he clasps Shane’s chin to draw him into a proper kiss. It’s long and languid and Shane feels a moan live in the center of his chest, escaping as he pulls away.