Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Original Characters, Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander

Additional Tags:

Soft Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Knits, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Knitting

Language:

English

Series:

Part 4 of the knitsey scale

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-27 Updated: 2026-06-18 Words: 6,104 Chapters: 2/?

soft enough to wear

Summary

He pauses a moment, abruptly shaking his arms out once–twice and takes a deep breath at the same time the patio door explodes open, the door slamming hard into the siding of the house. A zag of blonde trailed by a blur of colors streaks down the steps, and all the air he inhaled to center himself is forced out of his lungs as the streak slams into him.

“Hello, Poppy. Is nice to see you again,” Ilya gets out, wheezing slightly.

OR

Ilya goes to Anne's. Brace for beanie.

Notes

FYI This takes place immediately after "i wanna hover with no shape". In that author's note I call out the fact that I decided to make "hover" a one shot since it felt weird to go from smut into the hard pivot of "yarn shop with my middle aged ladies", plus if people are in it for the fluff I want to give them the option to not engage! All you really need to know is that Ilya decides to make Shane a beanie, asks Anne for help, and they make plans to meet up. But if you want to read ilya's reaction to seeing paparazzi pics of shane in his knitwear then mosey over there! also this rating is liable to change as i write the story.

I will note that the timeline in the "knitsey scale" universe is slightly off. Ilya's father is still alive, but Ilya and Shane are closer. He's been to the cottage and met yuna and david. i'm not really sure, i haven't put a ton of thought into the timeline. i'm going off ✨vibes✨ and i guess the vibe is that i need ilya and shane to be more official but for gregori to still be terrorizing the narrative subconscious! 🤷🏼‍♀️

lastly, hey 👋🏼 i changed my username because i just wanted a little separation from the username i use on other accounts. this is still circsam, but i'll be posting under thistleskull now! ty for being here!

 
lastly lastly, chapter title is from "lights out" by santigold. lastly lastly lastly thank you mistyfeathers for the beta read and our daily discord server vibes!! good luck on finals 🫡🫡

Chapter 1: darlin' don't got to worry, you're locked in tight

From there it’s fairly simple to make plans to meet up with Anne later in the week. Shane is on the road right now tearing up the West Coast, and Ilya has an early practice on Wednesday and then no practice on Thursday since they have a home game that evening. He lets Anne know that he’ll drive to Salem around 11am on Wednesday. Ilya’s stomach lurches surprisingly, but not uncomfortably, when he promises Anne he’ll text her when he’s on his way.

The prospect of seeing Anne again forces a litany of physical feelings not only relegated to his stomach. Ilya’s heart picks up as his chest tightens thinking about it. What would it even be like? To travel to see her? Ilya wants to see Anne again. He has been coveting their limited text thread as proof that he has a friend and a friend due to that friend choosing him, not obligation, but is he really sure of that? Is he really?

Ilya can't even remember the last time he had even been at, much less invited to and hosted in, someone’s home. Sure, he had been to his teammates’ houses but that was always within the context of a group of burly men and their girlfriends and wives. The commotion of a full house was so much easier to navigate. It would not be that way at Anne’s. No, Ilya and only Ilya is being invited into someone’s home. Plus going to Anne’s would be Ilya getting invited into someone’s home for being a less brash version of himself.

Anne didn’t meet The Russian Menace on the flight back from Moscow. She met a boy coming back from his family home who was conscious of the fact that his father’s mind was leaving him in slow and unpredictable ways, but also that his father was a cruel and brutal man regardless. Even as parts of his awareness were lost to dementia he, seemingly instinctually, knew exactly how to cut Ilya down.

When Anne met Ilya, he was exhausted and raw. He felt like an exposed wire. The drive to the airport with the family chauffeur had been silent—no one from his family bothered to take him to the airport, not that Ilya would have wanted to ride with Alexei, but still. The airport had been overwhelming, the cacophony of voices and beeps and announcements. Ilya hadn’t even spoken that day until he woke up to the food Anne had saved for him. He just didn’t have the energy to play the man that everyone seemed to “know” he was.

The closest anyone has come to seeing a quieter version of Ilya was Shane, and their time was so disparate and limited that Ilya never really wanted to mar the scant hours they had with his problems. His time with Shane was a blissful bubble, where Ilya could feel like a more real version of himself; powerful, in control, desirable—without it all being weighed down by his bleak home life and the lasting impact of being raised by Grigori Rozanov.

His connection with Anne on the flight had happened quick enough and far enough outside of the typical English social scripts that Ilya took such diligent note of, that there was a rare moment of timid earnestness from him that Anne gently caught and supported throughout the plane flight. This was the Ilya that was being invited into her home, and that version of Ilya is much more vulnerable. Ilya could admit to himself that being in Anne’s home, out of his comfort zone, away from the groups that knew him as loud and lewd, made him nervous. It was a feeling that he’d only really ever “leaned into” with Shane. But also, aside from making him a tuna melt, Ilya’s less ostentatious overtures have always been rewarded with Shane. And even with the tuna melt, Ilya knows had nothing to do with the sandwich itself and everything to do with the double whammy of the tender intimacy and broad daylight, but Ilya loves to joke about it being because of the sandwich. Shane was Shane though, who’s to say Anne wouldn’t respond differently when Ilya arrived, peeled back and exposed?

Before he can begin to spiral, Ilya taps the top of his phone screen, sending him to the very beginning of his text thread with Anne. He takes the next minute to scroll through their texts.

While their correspondence over the last few weeks hasn’t been incessant, Ilya revisits warm message after warm message; little tidbits of Anne’s life, windows into her day-to-day that Ilya never returned. Honestly, it reminded him of Shane who also keeps up a similarly innocuous text thread with Ilya. He stares down at the phone thinking about how the small little tendrils of both their lives are repeatedly reaching towards Ilya through a screen. Anne was so open and Ilya…was not. Like things with Shane, something about going to Anne’s felt…charged? Ilya chewed his cheek. Maybe that wasn’t the right word. Not charged in the way that being with Shane was charged of course. Ilya feels heat prick behind his ears as he blushes.

But Anne, like Shane, makes Ilya feel exposed; small and young and fragile and worthy. Ilya is scared of how badly he wants to soak that attention up, how badly he wants to bask in it. This deep deep need is the kernel that Ilya instinctively shies away from, has spent every day of his life since twelve years old loudly and brashly covering it up with drink, with clubs, with sex, with cars, with hockey. This small deep-seated rotten nucleus of too much, you are too much, you want too much, you are a hollow man doomed to consume those that even show a modicum of interest in you because you cannot help yourself is what haunts Ilya any time he gives himself a moment to think about it.

More than that, Ilya is terrified of how he would feel if he missteps and this explodes in his face. Ilya thinks implode would be a better word. He imagines himself being compacted into a small dense cube, all his sharp angles crushed in on themselves, finally smooth.

He sniffs, running his thumb underneath his nose as he continues to stare blankly down at his phone. He forces himself to follow the thread of his thoughts, to not cut away from them with a distraction.

Meeting Anne feels significant, like meeting up with Shane the first time felt significant. Because it was significant in the way that Ilya’s subconscious, whatever part of himself decided on this emotion, recognized it as the opportunity to define some aspect of himself on his own terms. Anne wasn’t connected to him in any way. She was free of any obligation to be in his life, and that it makes his burgeoning friendship with her feel slightly monumental. Having Anne felt like Ilya was reclaiming some agency in his life. Just like knocking on the hotel room door almost a decade ago felt significant; Ilya taking something for himself and coveting it, because he wanted. Ilya is still working on the deserving portion of wanting.

And…if he’s being honest with himself, he is excited to see her. It’s been a few weeks since he came back from Moscow and he wants to see Anne again, to make sure that she was real and that they aren’t like Shane and him…forced to live out the majority of their relationship through a screen. If it was to be that way, it would be because Ilya didn’t take the next step. He wants to take the next step. He thinks that taking the next step might be good for him. He needs some portion of real life, his life away from the cameras and the rink, to be out and “normal.” He wants to be in the sun, and driving to Salem to knit with Anne seems like good practice, especially for possible future more declarative steps with someone...else.

Ilya looks down at his phone, scrolling through his text thread with Anne, little snippets of her life sliding by under his thumbs: her current project, slightly out of focus photos of Tim zooming down the stairs, a tin of muffins. He stops biting his cheek as his lips twitch into a smile. Ilya pockets his phone and goes to get ready for the drive to Salem.

Ilya feels his hands tighten on the steering wheel as he turns onto Anne's street, the distance to his destination shortening with every second as he comes up on her house. Following Anne’s directions he pulls into the driveway and gets out of his car. The honk of the Urus locking reaches his ears like he’s underwater. Suddenly, Ilya can hear every breath being jerkily dragged into his lungs. He pauses a moment, abruptly shaking his arms out once–twice and takes a deep breath at the same time the patio door explodes open, slamming hard into the siding of the house. A zag of blonde trailed by a blur of colors streaks down the steps, and all the air he inhaled to center himself is forced out of his lungs as the streak slams into him.

“Hello, Poppy. Is nice to see you again,” Ilya gets out, wheezing slightly, discreetly trying to inhale much needed oxygen despite the arms that are squeezing his midsection. Nevertheless, his arms come around Poppy automatically as she continues to hug his middle.

Upon pressing down the massive stovetop knit cap currently obstructing his field of vision, Ilya is able to see Anne gazing fondly at the pair of them from the porch. She raises her hand in a small wave. Ilya feels a grin break out on his face and he laughs as he tightens his arms around Poppy, lifting her easily and spinning in a circle as she shrieks. “You glad to see me, yes? You have been waiting for Ilya Rozanov to make it to Salem?” Poppy’s grin widens as he lowers her to the ground, releasing her from his hold. She moves from foot to foot momentarily, grin splitting her face, hat smashed to her head. Looking up at him, her eyes sparkle from behind slightly lopsided glasses.

“Yes of course, you big oaf!” She grins up at him before swatting at his chest, "but I can’t believe you smashed my hat.”

“Oh, hat? That is what that is? I will have to learn to make a hat such as this, will replace the one that I squashed because it added a foot of height to you. I apologize to the hat.” Ilya leans down to eye-level with the misshapen cap as Poppy reshapes it, “I am sorry to this…hat.” Ilya finishes, eyebrow arching. He receives Poppy's answering shove good naturedly, allowing himself to be pushed backward slightly, grinning as he hikes his backpack higher up on his shoulder.

“Are you two ever going to leave the driveway or do I have to come down there?”

Poppy bounds away towards his car as Ilya starts making his way to the porch. “Wow wow wow,” her voice trails around the car as she takes it upon herself to inspect the Lamborghini. Ilya can still hear her muttering as he lopes up the steps to scoop Anne into a hug. “Hello Ilya,” he hears as Anne’s arms come around his back and he relaxes, her coffee and cardamom scent enveloping him. He squeezes her a little tighter as a tension he didn’t even know he was carrying slides from his shoulders. Eventually, he pulls away from Anne. She keeps her hands on his forearms looking up at him, “It’s so good to see you! Come inside, we’ll have some lunch and find a pattern you like and then we can go from there.” She gives his arms a shake before turning back towards the house. “Poppy! Time to come inside.”

Ilya snorts as he hears Poppy and all her rhythmic tinkles from jewelry and keychains and all the accoutrement that makes up Poppy, jangle up the steps behind him.

Anne’s house is foreign territory to Ilya. Foreign in the same way that Yuna and David’s house was foreign when he first stepped foot in it. Ilya is used to being in hotel rooms and houses, but rarely homes. And Anne’s house, like Yuna and David’s, is definitively a home. It’s undeniable in the familiar way that Anne and Poppy move through the space; the way that there are little piles of things on the stairs or the end tables; the way that there’s a bowl on top of the shoe cabinet by the door, two wallets and keys thrown into it with a few matchbooks and loose change. He sees it in the way that the coat hooks on the wall have 3 coats each like neither woman could ever be bothered to take a coat back to the closet. They walk past the bannister that Poppy flung herself down on FaceTime a few weeks ago. Ilya notices how worn the wood is, decades of hands sliding along its surface making the material smooth and shiny. A line of family photos follows the stairs up the wall.

Whenever Ilya finds himself in a space like this, inevitably he thinks about his childhood “home”; the massive gaping rooms, austere and oppressive in their silence; the echo of his feet in the endless hallways; his mother floating through the spaces in life and in death.

With a wince, he realizes that maybe he’s recreating that in his home in Boston. The lighting is warm there, but it illuminates the sleek lines and sharp angles of his modernist home. Looking around at the homey clutter and lived-in nature of Anne’s house, Ilya thinks that maybe, just maybe, he has chosen the version of “luxury” that is insulatory, the type of luxury that has guests asking if they can sit on the couch. But aside from deciding to purchase something with some color for his couch, Ilya treats these thoughts like a stone skipping over the surface of a pond—the ripples are there, but they dissipate quickly and don’t disturb the current peace. Ilya is happy to be here at Anne’s and he will not let anything, especially not his upbringing, overpower how good he feels in this moment. He will address it later, when he’s not at risk of missing an ember of warmth from Anne and Poppy.

“Oh come on now, let’s get into the kitchen,” Poppy huffs as she pushes him from behind, impatient with the way that Ilya has paused and taken the house in, wide-eyed, around him. Ilya leans back and lets more of his weight fall into Poppy’s hands. He huffs as he hears her swear as she stumbles back a step or two before doubling down. Still chuckling over Poppy’s muttered swears, he allows himself to be pushed down the hallway and through a double archway into the kitchen. Ilya’s mouth parts as he takes in the room in front of him, barely conscious of the “oof” as Poppy runs into him, not prepared for the sudden stop. She hip checks him lightly as she makes her way around his bulk and into the kitchen.

Anne’s kitchen isn’t ostentatious, but it is large and undeniably based around a comfort that feels distinctly maternal. There is a round table in the center of the space, a half full teacup with a newspaper folded next to it. Light streams in from two large windows in front of the sink, one of them open to let in the cool breeze. All of the walls, except the one with the windows on the sink side, are yellow. The contrasting blue of the sink side makes the whole space seem open and airy. Ilya can see his car parked in the driveway from the window. He smiles thinking about Anne standing in this spot, watching him park.

“Sorry for the mess! Although it’s always a bit like this,” Anne professes, a little embarrassment evident in her tone.

Ilya jumps at the chance to eradicate it. “No! Ah no—no. I love it. Is very warm—inviting.” The corners of Anne’s lips tick up into a smile, her crow’s feet making her eyes sparkle.

There’s a slight pause, but before it stretches any longer she claps her hands together once. “Okay so I figured we could have a light lunch while we figure your pattern out and then we could go to Circle of Stitches and get everything you’ll need! I have some little finger sandwiches—”

“She’s making this sound so casual but we spent over an hour in the store agonizing over pumpernickel versus sourdough so don’t let this Martha Stewart schtick fool you,” Poppy interrupts turning from the fridge with a pitcher of cucumber water and placing it on the table. Anne huffs in fond exasperation as Poppy artfully dodges her slap, snickering as she opens the fridge again to emerge with a mountain of sandwiches. “We just ended up getting a little bit of everything.”

“Yes, well. Nothing wrong with having culinary options for a guest,” Anne mutters as she opens a cabinet for some glasses. There isn’t a pair in the bunch when she sets them down on the table. “Can I get you anything else, Ilya? I’m going to click the kettle on for some tea. Want some?”

Ilya, still coming to terms with the mountain of sandwiches currently occupying the majority of the table, starts, realizing a beat too late that the question was directed at him. “Oh—no I’m—actually, yes. Tea sounds very nice. Thank you.” Ilya bows his head slightly, hands clasped in front of him to stop himself from fidgeting. He feels very large in this kitchen and these two women seem very small. Ilya worries that he is going to crack something in half with his bulk. The women move around each other with practiced grace; a familiarity with each other and their space that is learned over years. Ilya’s thoughts dart to Shane and him on the ice, the way that they know where the other is at all times, like a sense memory.

Ilya feels a shallow swoop in his stomach, like missing a small step on some stairs, thinking about the day that he and Shane can navigate the kitchen like Anne and Poppy, domestic in an unstudied way. The cottage does feel like a home, but they don’t get enough time there to have learned each other's domestic rhythms so well. Ilya flattens his hands against his thighs, patting his left thigh twice before letting the thought gently drift away. Ilya smiles thinking about Shane (in a flannel he would promptly steal) stiffly standing in front of a grill with too many burgers for too few people.

“Can I do anything?” he asks after realizing that he’s been standing awkwardly in the kitchen for the last thirty seconds.

“Oh no, you’re fine dear. Sit down, I’m sure you’re hungry after practice.” Anne waves him away as she busies herself with adding tea bags and sugar to the waiting mugs.

He takes a seat at the table, overly aware of his bulk, his knees pressing against the bottom of the tabletop. Anne smiles at him from across the room, the kettle hissing and clicking off. Soon her and Poppy join him at the table, chairs scraping against the floor as they adjust and find their places around the table, accommodating the larger figure now seated. Mugs are placed and plates are passed and eventually they all tuck in. Ilya feels warm.

Later after the food is cleared and Ilya has bullied his way to the sink to wash the dishes (“Honestly we have a dishwasher!” “I do not care. I am doing the dishes Anne.”) Anne and Ilya sit back down at the table in front of her laptop, a website called Ravelry pulled up. There’s fresh tea and a few small scones that Poppy set down before floating out of the kitchen. A semi-rhythmic banging and whirring comes from upstairs. Anne ignores it so Ilya figures it must be a standard occurrence in the house.

“Okay so you mentioned wanting to make a beanie. Is there anything specific you had in mind?”

What did he want? What did he want for Shane? Ilya only gets a split second to think before the answer pops into his mind, like someone flipped on a light.

“It cannot be itchy. It must be soft enough to wear, but warm. Also I would like for it to be blue, but a dark blue. But, yes, most important is that it is not itchy. Must be comfortable to have on your head. All of that." Ilya trails off with a wave of his hand as he leans back on the kitchen chair, eyes cast up to the ceiling. Anne hums in acknowledgment and pokes at a few keys on her computer.

“Okay so I’m thinking super-wash merino wool might be our best bet for the fiber…what if we…” Anne trails off as she squints at the computer screen, fumbling a pair of reading glasses out of her breast pocket. Ilya, who was ever so slightly balancing on the chair's back legs, slowly lowers back down to all four as waits apprehensively. Maybe Ilya had mistakenly assumed that he was at the skill level to make a beanie. Maybe he should make another scarf, make sure he really knows what he is doing before he tries something else. Shane should have something beautiful not—

“Perfect, found one that I think will work. Who’s it for?” Anne asks, interrupting his thoughts. Ilya pales, his eyes widening slightly. He hadn’t thought of this. He doesn’t honestly think Anne would mind that he was making a beanie for a man, but he hasn’t talked to Shane. They haven’t come up with a list of “first-to-know” people. Shane doesn’t even know about Anne as a person who could theoretically know! Panicked, Ilya realizes that he hasn’t even really thought this through himself.

“Umm, well—” His chest feels tight and suddenly the prospect of laying out his relationship with Captain-of-the-Metros-Shane-Hollander has the acidic taste of adrenaline dripping sharply in the back of his throat. Ilya feels the first pricks of sweat underneath his arms.

“—I’m mainly asking, like, what size do you think they would be?” Anne interrupts, placing her hand delicately over Ilya’s, which had begun to clench slightly on the table as his thoughts scraped against the barbed wire of his brain. She presses down on his fist slightly, the light pressure acting as a release for Ilya. He unclenches his hand, lying it flat on the table. Anne’s hand stays over his for a moment longer, the pressure grounding.

“Ah. Yes—Ok. Probably my size? Maybe a size smaller? Could it stretch? I know the scarf stretched,” Ilya gets out in a rush. He forces his shoulders to lower, inhaling and exhaling slowly through his nose. Not too loud, but enough to relax himself slightly. Ilya watches the bun on the back of her head nod up and down as she rummages around in a bag at her feet.

“May I?” She sits up, holding a little tape measure in the shape of a little dog.

He laughs, his anxiety breaking as he reaches out to take it from her, “Yes of course, but first may I?” He takes the little tape measure from her, holding it in his hand, oddly delighted. “Is cute!” He pulls the tape out of the roll. It’s pink, like the dog’s tongue is sticking out. He lets go of it and presses the dog's nose, causing the tape to slide back into itself. He returns it to Anne with a loose grin. “I must have one of these.”

“I know right? I couldn’t resist it last time I was picking up yarn! I bet they’d still have some in stock when we go. We’ll add it to the list.” She takes the tape measure and pushes back from the table, coming to stand behind Ilya. Ilya holds stock still while she measures the circumference of his head. Anne hums as she marks the measurement on her computer.

Craning his head back to look up at Anne upside down, Ilya asks, “Oh no, is my head too big?” She tugs on a curl, laughing, as she moves back to her seat, tape measure thwipping back into place. Deep from the yawning chasm in his chest, something tender curls into existence, rising through his sternum to spark playfully, reaching for the warmth. Wanting to stubbornly maintain this warmth, Ilya falls into a familiar character, lolling his head to the side as his gaze follows her back to her seat. His curls flop across his forehead. “Is okay. You can tell me if I have Neanderthal head. It won’t hurt my feelings,” he grins at Anne’s profile.

“Oh I wouldn’t say that even if you do, milyy.” She pats his arm absentmindedly, peering at the screen as she takes some notes in a small notebook. Ilya huffs a surprised laugh, glee at the chirp lighting up his face.

“Let’s get on our way then. I think I’m going to have to move my seat back for you to fit.”

“Ah yes, because that is how my mother raised me, to let kind lady drive me around town like chauffeur. Please. You sit in my seat. I drive—and not like Poppy,” Ilya interrupts before Anne can even retort. “Do not worry, sound barrier will stay unbroken with me.”

He smirks as he stands up from the table, his keys twirling around a finger. Anne laughs as she rises to join him.

BONUS:

Chapter 2: i see myself in you, in my mind

Chapter Summary

Anne: Okay I’m bringing in a VIP on Wednesday and he’s a little shy and I’m going to need you all to keep your cool
Anne: I am begging you all to be somewhat normal or I swear I will shoplift my next project from Hobby Lobby

---

A short interlude before the yarn shop.

Chapter Notes

This portion is from what was going to be a longer Chapter Two but I've been so swamped with work and some travel that I haven't had a chance to get it all written. Today is my birthday and this has been sitting waiting in the drafts while I tinker with the HTML and I just want to get it into the world + need ya'll to know you've been so nice and I haven't forgotten you!

I cut this portion out into it's own little chapter and hopefully in the coming weeks I can have some time to sit and write. Also if any of ya'll have any brainstorm / story plotting programs or tips I'd be much obliged. My Google Doc is starting to look crazy.

Also make sure you have Work Skins on! Your girl is getting better at this HTML stuff 😎 title is from a Geese song!

Anne and Ilya barely make it to the driveway, Ilya’s Urus unlocking with a beep as the front door slams open, banging off the siding as Poppy stumbles out.

“What the hell! I can’t believe you were going to leave me! Were you going to leave me? I’m upstairs and you’re just leaving!!” Poppy’s chest is rapidly rising and falling as she simultaneously tries to push her arm through the sleeve of a multicolored jacket and make her way down the front steps. A neon pink bag with a smiley face bangs into her side from where it hangs on her arm. Poppy continues to yank at the garment, unaware that the bag is keeping it from sliding up her arm.

Ilya watches Anne’s face change in an instant. Her eyes widen as she turns away from him and towards Poppy, who is still trying to get the jacket on and in real danger of tripping down the stairs. Ilya freezes next to his car, unsure how to handle the sudden shift in dynamic. He watches Anne—her back already to him, arms extended towards Poppy—smoothly adjust, not faltering in the slightest.

“Poppy, hon, no. I’m sorry. I knocked and I could hear you working through the door. When you didn’t answer I thought you were in your rhythm. I’m sorry, come here, come here.” Anne stands at the top of the driveway, her arms out, motioning Poppy towards her.

“Let’s get you situated,” she murmurs as Poppy joins her in the driveway, her eyes downcast as half her jacket hangs off her shoulder. Anne takes Poppy’s bag into the crook of her arm while she helps Poppy into her jacket, smoothing the fabric across her shoulders, her hands coming to rest at the top of Poppy’s arms. Ilya sees her give the blonde a slight squeeze. He watches Poppy’s shoulders rise with an inhale and fall with an exhale, looser than before. Her eyes have cleared, no longer pinched with panic behind her frames. Anne gives Poppy’s shoulders a fond little shake and pushes the orange frames back up her nose, her thumb smoothing out the crease between the other woman’s brow.

“PKW?”

Poppy chuckles, “Haha yes yes. Phone, wallet, keys. I have them all don’t worry,” she grumbles good naturedly, looking down at her multi-colored sneakers, avoiding eye contact with Anne.

Anne deftly tucks Poppy into her side, leaning down to whisper something in her ear that causes a smile to break across Poppy’s face. Ilya hears Poppy cackle as they cross toward the passenger side of his car.

Ilya is left standing by the driver’s side in a daze, washed up on the shore after getting decked by the wave of Anne and Poppy being Poppy and Anne. He feels slightly gobsmacked with the way Anne met Poppy in the driveway, her worries and emotions finding a home in Anne’s gaze. How assuredly Anne addressed them and tucked them into her chest, diffusing any fears at being left behind, at being forgotten. All done with minimal fanfare and in the span of a few seconds. Honestly, Ilya has a bit of whiplash from how quickly the situation shifted on its axis and then was righted. Ilya hasn't quite sussed out the extent of the older women’s relationship, but that doesn’t mean he’s not watching, not noticing. Regardless of the nature of their relationship, it’s obvious it’s built on a bone-deep familiarity with each other.

Ilya can’t help it, his thoughts snap to this past summer. He’s caught in the undertow, dragged from the shore back out to sea.

Shane’s head in his hands as he hunched over a plate of spaghetti, You’re good here, the breathing evening out before it even had a chance to become ragged. A watery smile in response, a forkful of spaghetti raised to full lips, chew chew swallow, the gentle clink of glassware as the meal moved on, a part of Ilya and Shane crystallized in broad daylight. Ilya—finally in orbit around his sun—sparing a glance across the table. Do you see? I know him. I know him. I know him to his core and we are radiant.

Anne opens the back seat for Poppy as Ilya turns towards the car. He is buoyed by the ocean swell. It lifts his torso out of the sea as the undertow slows and begins to reverse direction and the forward push towards shore begins:

Ilya smoking a cigarette at three in the morning in the moonlight on a very specific night in August as Shane wordlessly joined him, the silence made visible by the cigarette smoke hanging in the air around them. Shane loosely linking his pinky around Ilya’s as he leaned back and looked at the moon. The man said nothing the rest of the night, not even when Ilya’s last cigarette was stubbed out in the ashtray, smoked to the filter. Ilya exhaling his final lungful of smoke out into the night, standing abruptly—OK. Let’s get inside. Thank you my Shanya. Ilya helping Shane up from the ground, Thank you.Tears escaping his lashline, forging delicate tracks down his cheeks and still Shane had said nothing. Just a hand around Ilya's waist as he was guided up the stairs towards their bedroom. Shane held him all the way back into bed, crawling over Ilya so he could keep an arm around him instead of separating to walk around the bed. He hadn't stopped touching Ilya the rest of the night; his hand, his arm, his leg, any and every part of him a steady presence warming Ilya. He had blearily surfaced into walkefulness to see Shane returning to their bedroom with a cup of coffee—milk with a splash of vanilla creamer. Ilya had drank it sitting up in bed while Shane read a tattered paperback, his thumb rubbing circles on the back of Ilya’s hand, intermittently coming up to gently smudge the tear tracks silently making their way down Ilya's face. He had stayed in bed with him until the sun was high in the sky. He knows me. He knows me. He knows me. He knows me to my marrow.

Reaching for the car door, Ilya, bolstered by the wave, feels himself careening towards the shore, barely keeping his head above water. He feels like he’s flying.

His hand touches the car door.

He knows Anne loves Poppy so much because he sees her orient herself around the woman the way he orients himself around Shane. He sees the women adapt to each other, not because it’s a responsibility, but because it’s a joy to do so, to stretch yourself towards another, taking on a new and exciting shape of being. It’s a joy to hold another person so closely, to know their emotions and their fears and their likes and their intricacies and to meet all of those with open arms, to crumble and be reborn underneath the onslaught of all that you cherish about another person. He crashes on the shore, the force of the wave knocking the wind out of him. Ilya is flat on his back; beached and dazed but exultant.

This is the first time Ilya sees his relationship, his partnership, reflected in another couple.

His hand tugs on the door handle, opening it.

Does it fucking kill you too?

Hundreds of miles away and he's bursting with how much he loves Shane. So much, so much. And he knows that Anne and Poppy need to meet him. And they will. Soon.

Anne closes Poppy’s door and gets into the passenger seat. Ilya kicks his tire once, twice, and smiles to himself in wonder as he ducks his head to get into the driver’s seat. He makes eye contact with Poppy through the mirror. Despite the tinge of embarrassment behind her eyes, she stares defiantly back at him. A pink flush has not yet drained from her cheeks, the physical evidence of panic still lingering on her countenance. Ilya meets her eyes in the mirror and cracks a grin before angling towards her in the back seat.

“Ah—sorry Poppy. I do not have that little seat for child. Do you know the one? Will you be alright?” he asks, eyes wide and guileless, eyebrow artfully raised.

“Oh shut up!”

Turning his attention back to the front, Ilya snickers as he feels a sharp kick to the back of his seat. Still chuckling, he turns the car on and smoothly pulls out of the driveway, yarn shop in the maps and ABBA on the playlist.