Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Angst, Fluff and Angst, Arguing, Smoking, Married Couple, Feels, Angst and Feels, Non-Graphic Smut, Married Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Domestic Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Miscommunication, Guilt, Protective Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-06 Words: 5,365 Chapters: 1/1

secondhand

Summary

He gnaws at the guilt of his own actions the way Anya does her chew toys for days after, Shane clearly picking up on something going on with him but also giving him space to work it over in his head until he’s ready to share.

Right up until they’re out at team dinner and the two other smokers at the table excuse themselves for a smoke outside and Shane looks to him expectantly-

-only to frown when Ilya stays where he is.

(how and why ilya finally gives up smoking)

Notes

hello friends. so a problem i faced even at chapter 4 of reheating is that chapters got waaaay longer than i expected, so from here on out, anything under 5k will go there and anything over 5k will stand on its own. idk what i'm going to do yet about the chapters that are already longer than that but published in reheating already. stay tuned.

for this one, based on this post https://www.tumblr.com/penandinkprincess/813145183923372032/really-ilya-better-thank-his-lucky-fucking-stars about ilya finding it much harder to keep smoking when it dawns on him that secondhand smoke is a thing and will impact shane, too.

pls to enjoy some guilt and minor marriage disagreements.

It’s not that Ilya hasn’t heard plenty of horror stories and scare tactics about smoking over the years: mouth cancer, lung cancer, throat cancer, heart disease, a hundred different ways this particular vice will likely come back to haunt him later. It’s also not as if he hasn’t heard plenty of pointed comments from Shane about the smell over their years together, either. In all of that time, though, he’s never really made the connection between him smoking and Shane being impacted, not beyond anything that can’t be fixed with a change of clothes and a gargle of Listerine. 

Not until the new physician’s assistant for the team who’s doing his medical clearance doesn’t even look at him when she says the words, “And really, not to get preachy about it, but it’s not just you. Anyone around you is also breathing in secondhand smoke, and that can be deadly, too. My uncle never touched a cigarette in his life, but he still paid for my aunt’s habit. He died two years ago of lung cancer. She quit smoking after his diagnosis, but the damage was already done by that point.” 

When she looks up, something on Ilya’s face must point to the way his head is spinning slightly, because her expression softens by a degree, and she pats him on the shoulder. 

“Just something to keep in mind, you know?” 

Well, Ilya doubts he’ll be keeping much of anything else in his mind after that, frankly. 

*

An immediate problem he faces while trying to process the situation as he gets into his car is that the stress of the idea that he could be hurting Shane with his own bad choices makes him want a cigarette fiercely.

He has the pack out of his console and one in hand before he’s even thought about it, thumb on the wheel of his lighter, before he pauses two clicks in and slowly pulls the cigarette away from his mouth, looking at it in a new light. 

Really, he’d have to be more stupid than he is for it to have never occurred to him that other people being around smoke would be bad for them, too, but it’s never been a conscious thought, really. Why would it have been, after all? Aside from Svetlana, no one has ever really been in repeated, regular contact around him while smoking, and she’s always partaken with him, pulling the cigarette from his fingers to take a drag of her own or just pulling his hand closer by the wrist to help herself to a puff or two while he’s still holding it. He’ll smoke on a night out, especially after a couple of drinks, but that usually involves being shuffled away to whatever dark little corner has been earmarked for the nicotine-inclined. He’s never had to think about accommodating a non-smoker before, not beyond trying not to smell of cigarette smoke enough to make Shane wrinkle his nose and pull back instead of kissing him.

He makes it home on autopilot and doesn’t even realize it until it dawns on him that he’s staring at the garage door of his house with Shane, still idling in the driveway, unlit cigarette still between two of the fingers on the hand holding the steering wheel. It should possibly be concerning, suddenly being home with no memory of how that happened. 

In the moment, though, other worries are a little louder in his head. 

He flicks the cigarette carelessly into the backseat in favor of freeing his hand up to grab his phone, and after only a moment’s hesitation, he pulls up Google and types in “secondhand smoke.” 

*

He’s not actually sure how much time has passed when he nearly jumps out of his skin at a tap to the window by his face, turning sharply to find his husband standing there, eyebrows raised and hand still lifted from knocking. 

“Are you okay?” Shane asks, raising his voice slightly to be heard. “You’ve been out here for almost an hour. Anya’s been going crazy inside.” 

Head still reeling with statistics and regret-filled testimonies from smokers, Ilya can only nod. 

At least, he thinks he does. He means to, at least. His head is still a little full to be sure that he actually did it. 

Shane waits, clearly expecting him to get out of the car, and when he doesn’t, he just rounds to the passenger side, using the spare set of keys from inside to unlock it and climb in. He sits down and shuts the door before half-turning to face Ilya. 

“What’s going on?” He asks, very clearly trying to sound calm, and Ilya registers in a very distant way that he’s probably acting in a way that’s more than slightly concerning. When Ilya doesn’t answer, Shane leans forward, hand moving up to cup his face. “Hey,” he says, eyes searching. “What’s wrong? What happened?” 

“Nothing,” he responds on autopilot, and Shane makes a face. 

“Yeah, clearly,” he says flatly. “That’s why you look like you’re about to pass out and have been loitering in our driveway for an hour instead of coming inside.” He shifts slightly, biting the inside of his lip for a moment as he clearly tries to formulate how to ask what he wants to ask. “You had your medical clearance today,” Shane says slowly, and it’s the edge of fear in his voice that finally manages to get through the fuzz in Ilya’s head, Shane being scared of something cutting cleanly through his own turmoil, “did they-” 

“No,” Ilya says, pulling Shane into a kiss and then speaking against his lips before going for another. “No, no, everything is okay, I promise. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, luchik.” 

“Mm,” Shane says into the kiss, not pulling back for a moment, and not going far even when he does. “Okay, so then what’s-” 

“Let’s go inside, yes?” Ilya says, already starting to move. “It’s cold out here, and you aren’t wearing a jacket.” 

“You’re just wearing a hoodie and you’ve been out here forever,” Shane shoots back, clearly a little annoyed at being scolded when Ilya was the one acting strangely, but he still follows. 

Ilya tries not to make connections to other problems, Shane following along even when he has concerns. 

He doesn’t really succeed. 

*

Thanks to the normal, boring, comfortable rhythm of winding down for the day together, Ilya manages to mostly shuffle his horrible new information to the back of his mind to process on his own time, after Shane has stopped shooting him concerned little looks that he clearly doesn’t think are as obvious as they are. They make dinner together–a rare Friday treat after a week of meal preps because their schedules during the season rarely allow home cooking on a weekday–and settle down to watch House Hunters International, which mostly consists of Shane heckling real estate choices and Ilya pretending not to enjoy listening to the heckling as much as he does. He gets up when Shane is mid-monologue about the stupidity of a swimming pool with no safety gate with small children in the family, leaving him with an affectionate kiss to the cheek and pushing him back down to take the plates back to the kitchen to let Shane continue to enjoy himself. 

“Say it louder,” he goads over his shoulder, “maybe they’ll hear you.” 

“Fuck off,” Shane calls back affectionately, “I’m just saying, if you’re going to have a thousand fucking kids, you probably should think about not letting them drown in your new house-”

Ilya rolls his eyes fondly, shaking his head as he returns to the kitchen to rinse their dishes and stack them into the dishwasher. Craving something sweet as a chaser for dinner, he makes a face and tsks in annoyance when he opens the freezer only to remember that he already finished off the ice cream two nights ago, perking up when he remembers his little stash of candy that Shane has banished to the cabinet their medicine and first aid kit lives in, probably to remove his own temptation by sticking it next to medicine and bandages. Snorting at Shane’s loud protest against xeriscaping in Seattle, Ilya swings the cabinet open, hoping there’s still a Snickers or two among the stash-

-and stopping short when he sees the inhaler still in there, lined up next to the cough syrup and acetaminophen. 

The inhaler of broncho-something-or-other that Shane was prescribed a month and a half ago to help him kick a bad case of bronchitis that had left him wheezing between coughs, annoying more than anything, but enough that Ilya had pestered him to go back to the doctor after the initial diagnosis to insist on getting something to actually help. 

The inhaler that Shane had used for a couple of weeks–giving Ilya lots of good teasing material, especially when he used it while wearing his glasses and thus looking like the nerd character from every high school movie ever–before finally kicking the virus and stashing it here in the cabinet just in case. 

The inhaler that makes Ilya think of the words “increased risk of conditions including bronchitis” from his extensive Googling earlier. 

The inhaler, Ilya realizes with a sick little swell of dread and guilt, that he probably contributed to Shane needing in the first place. 

He shuts the cabinet way harder than he means to and returns to Shane on the couch, grabbing him with enough force to make Shane give him a slightly alarmed look as he’s manhandled into a cuddle, Ilya pressing his head down against his shoulder with enough force that Shane finally gives up on fighting, instead wrapping his arms around Ilya’s chest and consenting to use him as a pillow. 

“You okay?” Shane asks, the words as much a rumble of vibration moving from his chest to Ilya's as it is sound. 

“Fine,” Ilya says shortly, one hand pressed to Shane’s back. 

He counts each breath and listens to the smooth flow of air of each one through another hour of television that he barely even registers. 

*

He gnaws at the guilt of his own actions the way Anya does her chew toys for days after, Shane clearly picking up on something going on with him but also giving him space to work it over in his head until he’s ready to share. 

Right up until they’re out at team dinner and the two other smokers at the table excuse themselves for a smoke outside and Shane looks to him expectantly-

-only to frown when Ilya stays where he is. 

He gives a half-smile to the other two but shakes his head slightly to say he’ll be staying, and they nod back, abandoning him to get their fix. Shane, at his side, stares at him like he’s done something truly bizarre, conversations still moving around them while Shane remains completely still, checked out of talking to others in favor of focusing on Ilya in a way that would be endearing and flattering if it weren’t currently something Ilya would like to avoid. 

“You’re not joining them?” Shane asks, glancing over to where the pair is slipping out of a side door, as if Ilya might have just missed the silent invitation. 

“No,” Ilya says without looking right at him, noting Shane’s empty glass and catching the waitress’s eye to gesture to it, giving her a small smile of thanks when she nods and moves to get a refill. This restaurant is one of the few near them that has ginger ale on tap, and Ilya always enjoys playing cup monitor for Shane’s benefit, making sure it never stays empty for too long. 

Right now, though, Shane doesn’t seem charmed by the consideration, too busy staring at Ilya like he’s stood up on his chair and starting yelling instead of quietly passing on the chance to go smoke outside. 

“But you always-” Shane is clearly determined to pursue this right here, right now, so Ilya pursues the easiest option to stop him short. 

Mainly by grabbing him gently by the jaw and pulling him into a kiss, ignoring the immediate catcalling it prompts from the team and only releasing his husband when he’s sure Shane is probably dazed enough to grant him a couple of seconds of talking without interruption. 

“Later, okay?” He says quietly, pulling back after kissing Shane’s cheek, which prompts an even louder round of both aws and gagging noises, prompting him to toss balled-up napkins at the worst offenders until they stop, laughing and making kissing noises of their own before they go back to talking to each other. 

When he glances back, Shane doesn’t look happy, but he holds his peace about it, leaning enough to press their shoulders together and sipping at his freshly-refilled ginger ale quietly. 

Ilya puts an arm around him and pulls him in a little closer. 

*

In a shocking display of patience from Yuna Hollander’s son, Shane waits until they’re home that night to pounce, though he still only makes it until they’ve gotten through the door and let Anya out into the backyard, turning on Ilya the second she’s taken off after something in the twilight and left them standing at the threshold. 

Looking at the determination in Shane’s eyes, Ilya half-considers trying to run after her. 

“What’s going on with you and smoking?” Shane demands, always subtle as a battering ram. 

“Nothing’s-” Ilya starts, but Shane lets out an annoyed breath, flicking hair back from his face in irritation. 

“Don’t lie to me,” he says, voice hard. “You got back from your medical clearance acting weird, you haven’t smoked since, you keep fucking-grabbing me out of nowhere like you’re afraid you’re never going to get to touch me again, and tonight, you didn’t go out to smoke even though you always smoke when we’re out.” 

“I don’t always-” Ilya starts, but again, Shane interrupts him, looking so much like his mother in the moment that Ilya is hesitant to make a joke through the sheer force of the resemblance intimidating him into better behavior. 

“Yes,” Shane says, unamused. “You do. You don’t smoke as much at home anymore, but you always go smoke with other people.” 

“Maybe I’m just trying to make better choices,” Ilya hedges. “Aren’t you always the one saying how bad it makes the laundry smell?” 

“Yeah, and then you keep doing it anyway,” Shane says. “But now you’re not. Right after medical clearance.” He stresses the last sentence. He shifts his weight slightly, and Ilya sees a flicker of real fear cross his face before he gets it under control. “Is it…?” He trails off, like saying the words out loud will make them real. 

Ilya, who has said the word “dementia” out loud maybe four times in his entire life, can relate. 

“No,” he says, but Shane’s lips are still pressed together tightly, arms folded across his chest like he’s trying to hold himself together when he’s confused and worried, and Ilya reaches out, chafing his hands along his biceps gently before squeezing. “I promise, lyubimyy. I’m fine.” 

“Swear it on Anya,” Shane challenges, and despite himself, Ilya snorts. Shane, though, remains deadly serious, and Ilya sobers, squeezing his arms again gently in apology. 

“I swear on Anya,” he says solemnly. “Nothing happened at medical clearance. I’m totally fine.” 

He feels it when a little of the tension leaves Shane’s body at that, though his eyes are still intense, trying to find an answer to the problem of Ilya suddenly acting strangely. 

“I just-” Shane starts, but because she is the best girl in the entire world, Anya saves Ilya from any further questions by barking up a storm, sending them both into the yard to find out what’s made her excited enough to raise such a racket. 

Thanks to the efforts of Anya and the raccoon she managed to tree, Ilya is spared having to look his husband in the eye and admit that he’s potentially contributed to shortening his lifespan. 

It turns out dogs really are man’s best friend. 

*

He attempts to distract Shane with sex that night, starting in the shower by dropping to his knees before his husband can try and get him to use his mouth for different things. Shane tries to make a noise of protest, but making him focus on keeping his balance by tossing one of his legs over Ilya’s shoulder works nicely. 

A judicious application of a soap-slick finger certainly doesn’t hurt the cause, either. 

“Fuck, fuck, Ilya,” Shane pants out in bed later, face down on their mattress and driving himself back into every thrust as much as he can with the way Ilya has him pinned. Shane makes a beautiful noise when Ilya closes his teeth gently against the soft skin of his neck, and Shane tosses his head back to give him more room, as much as he can when they’re pressed together so tightly. 

“I love you,” Ilya pants into the reddened skin when he releases him, soothing over the sting with his lips, his tongue. “Fuck, Shane, I love you. Ya tebya lublyu.” 

“Ya-ya tebya-oh fuck.” 

Ilya grins when Shane’s voice falters, going breathy and strained, hiding his smile against the warm darkness of his husband’s neck. He slides a hand under Shane’s belly to get a hand against his cock, and Shane curses again, trying simultaneously to rock against Ilya’s hips and his hand, chasing sensation on both sides. 

Ilya makes it easy for him, laying more heavily over him and thrusting in short, rocking motions, knowing he’s putting pressure right where it needs to be when Shane’s breath leaves him in a shaking shudder, and one hand gets a fistful of the sheets, squeezing tightly-

-and the other seeking one of Ilya’s, tugging it out from under his chest and squeezing tightly, like he needs Ilya to anchor him to earth. 

“Come for me,” Ilya breathes into Shane’s ear, earning a desperate little whine and a harder squeeze of Shane’s hand in his. “Come on, kotenok, give it to me, I want to-” A closed-mouth moan and a rush of warmth against the hand he has under Shane’s hips says he’s been obeyed, and he nuzzles at Shane’s head with warm approval. “There we go, dorogoy. That’s it.” 

Shane goes slack under him, breathing heavily, and the sight of him, pleasure-slack and content, is enough to pull Ilya after him, lasting only another three thrusts before his hips stutter, and he comes as well, resting over Shane as he catches his breath. 

It’s one of his favorite things, this particular position, Shane captured under him. Ridiculous as he knows it is when they’re basically the same size, it feels like he can hide Shane under him like this, tuck him away from the world, cuddled close and hidden, protected from everyone and everything else. It satisfies something deeply rooted in him, the idea of Shane tucked away safe, and he floats in the comfortable haze of it until Shane starts shifting in a way that says lust is giving way to discomfort with mess, and then he pushes himself up with a last kiss to Shane’s shoulder, rising to grab a washcloth. 

*

Ilya avoiding the conversation Shane wants to have lasts until approximately the exact moment he opens his eyes the next morning to find his husband wide-awake and staring at him with an intensity that says he’s been doing it for a while. 

“Good morning,” he says anyway, voice sleep-rough, stretching and rubbing a hand over his eyes. 

“Why did you stop smoking?” Shane asks, determined and newly-refreshed from a good night’s sleep. Really, Ilya thinks wryly, perhaps he shouldn’t have fucked him quite so thoroughly. 

It’s left him far too rested now. 

“Anya-” Ilya starts, a desperation play, but Shane shakes his head and then even pushes Ilya on his back to straddle his waist. 

“Has already been out,” Shane says. “And fed breakfast. She has her frozen Kong ball full of peanut butter right now, so she’s set for at least an hour.” 

Well…fuck. 

“Shane,” he still starts, an edge of a whine to his voice, but Shane has apparently spent the morning making his mind up, and he pins Ilya’s wrists to the mattress by his head when Ilya starts to lift his hands to try and shift Shane off of him. He opens his mouth with a raise of his brows to tease Shane about the position, but Shane just shakes his head sharply. 

“No,” he says, final. “No getting out of it. Tell me what the fuck is going on with you.” 

“Would be easier if you weren’t playing this game with me,” Ilya tries to tease, but Shane just presses down harder when he tries to lift his arms, eyes flashing. 

(Really, if Ilya had ever had any doubts that he’s only able to overpower Shane in bed because he allows it for his own pleasure, they’re being proven wrong now, Shane’s hands immovable as iron as he keeps Ilya pinned beneath him. It’s a pity Shane isn’t willing to let this turn into a seduction, honestly. The realization is doing some good things for Ilya.) 

(Some good things that also die a quick death when he realizes that Shane has trapped him into confessing things that he desperately doesn’t want to.) 

“Tell me,” Shane demands, leaning his weight forward more like a threat. “I can sit here all fucking day, asshole.” 

Ilya lets out an annoyed breath, knowing this isn’t an idle threat. When he’s got his mind on something, there’s not a goddamn thing in the world that can take Shane Hollander’s eyes off the prize. 

He just desperately wishes it wasn’t this particular prize that he’s so determined to get right now. 

“I’m making you sick,” Ilya says, the first thing that comes to mind, the thesis of what’s been happening in his head since the day it was first introduced. 

Shane looks like Ilya has presented him with a riddle. 

“What?” He asks, clearly perplexed. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“Secondhand smoke,” Ilya says, feeling small and miserable and so, so guilty. “Doctor at the medical clearance, she brought it up. I hadn’t-I didn’t-” He cuts himself off, annoyed at the limitations of English. 

And annoyed at himself for the fact that he doesn’t even know what to say here. 

He feels stupid, frankly, about never making the connection before, for never thinking about how his willingness to play with his own life meant he was playing with Shane’s, too. All of their years together, the rings on their hands, their shared home, and he’d still been the fucking idiot risking it all for the sweet rush of nicotine, never thinking about the fact that a shared life means shared consequences, too, never thinking about how he might not be the one who pays the cost in the end. 

About how he might one day have to face burying Shane knowing that he was the one who put him in the ground. 

“Hey,” Shane says, something on Ilya’s face alarming him into releasing his hands. “Hey, hey-oh.” 

Shane flails slightly when Ilya sits up suddenly, shifting them enough to pull Shane into a hug, burying his face against Shane’s shoulder, pressing his cheek hard to the soft, warm skin there. Shane’s arms come around him, one hand moving to cup his head, fingers sinking into his hair and pressing tight to his skull, firm and grounding. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, a pitiful offering, but all he’s got. 

“Shh,” Shane soothes. “It’s okay.” 

“It’s not,” Ilya argues, unwilling to be absolved. “You got sick before already because of me. I made you sick. You wouldn’t have needed inhaler except for me.” 

“I mean, unless you hired someone to curse me, I don’t think you control viruses, Ilya,” Shane says, sounding fond, but Ilya shakes his head, once. 

“Is a risk factor of secondhand smoke,” he persists, hands going a little tighter on Shane. Saying it out loud just makes it feel even worse, just makes the whole thing sit heavier, the reality that with his own two hands, he could be responsible for losing the most beautiful thing in his life. 

One fucking cigarette at a time. 

“I mean, yeah,” Shane says, sounding puzzled by this response but not surprised at the statement. “Why do you think I got so many air filters for the house?” 

Ilya blinks. 

And then pulls back, frowning. 

“What do you mean?” He demands. “You knew it was dangerous?” 

Now it’s Shane’s turn to frown. 

“I mean, yeah?” He says. “Do you know how many times we had anti-smoking assemblies in school? I’m pretty sure those pictures of damaged organs are burned into my brain forever.” He makes a face, like he’s picturing them now. 

Ilya stares at him. 

“I know you’ve seen the pictures on the cartons here,” Shane says, looking at Ilya like he’s trying to work something out to understand where the disconnect between them is coming from. “I don’t know if it’s the same in America or not, but there are some fucking gross pictures on the cigarette cartons here in-” 

“Yes, for smokers,” Ilya says, mind whirling about the idea of Shane, exact about every fucking thing in his life down to the exact proportions of his protein smoothies each morning, knowing that Ilya was hurting him and letting it happen. 

The idea, frankly, makes him a little angry. 

“You just let me hurt you?” He demands, and Shane’s head jerks back in surprise. His hands leave Ilya’s shoulders to fold his arms across his chest. 

“I mean you were hurting yourself,” he says, annoyed. “That was the-” 

“No,” Ilya says. “That is different. You knew I could make you sick, and you let me do it?” 

“Why the fuck is this my fault suddenly?” Shane demands. 

“I could give you cancer,” Ilya says. “You make us use glass cups because plastic has chemicals, and you still let me smoke around you?” 

“No, no, no,” Shane says. “You’re not going to make this my fault when you’re the one-” 

“-told me to fucking stop-” 

“-grown ass man, make your own fucking choices-” 

“-said ‘Ilya, I would like to not die from cigarettes, please,’ and-” 

“-not good for you, either, asshole, so I don’t know why-” 

“-fucking husband, I should-” 

“Fuck you!” Shane finally snaps, loud enough to cut Ilya off. He’s breathing hard, glaring, and after a moment, he lets out an angry huff of breath and climbs off of Ilya before hopping off of the mattress. “Fuck you,” he repeats, tossing it over his shoulder before he storms out of the room. 

Ilya watches him go and then drops backwards, pulling a pillow over his face to groan into it. 

Fuck, he wants a cigarette. 

The thought just makes him groan louder. 

*

The degree to which Shane manages to avoid him all day is honestly impressive for a man who loves routines as much as he does. 

The fact that he’s changed them enough to avoid Ilya, though, says nothing good for his immediate future, not when Shane giving up his routines is apparently less upsetting than having to face Ilya right now. 

“Papa popal v bedu, malishka. Kazhetsya, mne pridotsya razdelit's toboy tvoyu sobach'yu lezhanku,” he tells Anya, who wags her tail but continues gnawing on her chewtoy, not seeming very concerned about the whole thing. 

Ilya watches her and wishes he had something to occupy his mouth with as well. 

Maybe she’ll share her Kong toys if he asks nicely. 

*

The cold, forbidding side glance Shane shoots him when he manages to finally catch his husband in the kitchen that night is a very clear signal that he’s still in trouble, but he dares to get closer anyway, pressing close to Shane’s back and hooking his chin over his shoulder. 

“I’m still pissed at you,” Shane says flatly, dislodging him when he starts to turn with his water bottle in hand to refill it. 

Ilya steps back, unwilling to make him feel trapped, but he stays close, leaning back against the counter, hands gripping the edge. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to sound like I was blaming you this morning. I should have said it better.” 

The apology earns him another side eye as Shane fills his water bottle from the fridge dispenser. He sighs and drops his head forward, wishing he’d used the day to come up with a better way to translate the thoughts in his head into words. 

“I just didn’t think about it before,” he says, studying the tile in front of his feet. “My whole family always smoked. I didn’t think about living with someone who doesn’t before.” 

“And what?” Shane asks, leaning against the opposite counter. “You suddenly got scared straight when you realized other people also breathe around you?” 

Ilya pulls a face at the snark, but he doesn’t rise to it. 

“I didn’t think about what it means before,” he says. “We live together, we spend all of our time together. It is not just a choice for me, anymore. It affects you, too.” 

“Well, yeah,” Shane says, like Ilya has said something incredibly obvious. 

Which, he thinks with no small amount of embarrassment, he kind of has. 

“Why do you think I always make you go outside?” Shane asks, hopping up onto the counter and kicking his feet idly. “And have the air filters inside? It’s not perfect, but it’s something.” 

“You still breathe it in,” Ilya points out, looking up now. “It’s still dangerous.” 

“Damn,” Shane says, tilting his head slightly in consideration. “Canadian middle school anti-drug assemblies would have really fucked you up, huh?” 

Ilya tosses a dishcloth at him, accepting it when it gets returned and tossing it to the side. Shane extends a hand to him, and Ilya heeds the summons, letting Shane reel him in and wrap his legs around his hips, arms draping over his shoulders. 

“I don’t want to be something that hurts you,” Ilya confesses. “I didn’t think about it before, but then the doctor at medical clearance said her uncle died because of her aunt’s smoking, and all I can think about is what if that was us? What if one day you get sick because of me? If you-” He can’t finish the sentence, but he knows Shane hears it anyway. 

“I mean, I’d prefer if you’d quit because it’s better for you, too,” Shane says, brushing a curl back from Ilya’s face and then kissing the spot before pulling back. “I know me bugging you about it is annoying, but we wasted so much time before we got together. I don’t want to lose any of the years we still have because you want to look cool.”

“Like I need smoking to look cool,” Ilya teases, but his heart isn’t in it, not really. His hand moves up, resting against Shane’s neck, thumb stroking gently along his jaw. “I forget, sometimes, that it isn’t just my life anymore. We share it now.” 

Shane’s responding smile is so shy and obviously pleased that Ilya has no choice but to kiss him in response, and he nudges Shane’s nose with his affectionately before he pulls back. 

“It’s good to make healthier choices just for you, you know,” Shane says. “I don’t think Galina would like you still just doing things for me.” 

“Mm,” Ilya hums. “For this, I think she will be fine with it, maybe.” A beat. “But I will maybe not tell her.” 

Shane snorts. 

“Should I be flattered?” Shane teases. “Being the thing that finally makes you kick the habit? I feel like I should be flattered.” 

“I’d do anything for you,” he says, and though he means it to come out a joke, it still lands earnest. 

He doesn’t take it back. 

Shane smiles and pulls him into another kiss. 

It feels better than any drag off of a cigarette he’s ever taken.