saw this post by themoonandmyman and lost my mind. anyway here's words about it (title from i like watching you eat dinner by leith ross) (rated m because, as my dear friend put it, this contains lines that are "like the tasteful sideboob of smut" rather than smut itself)

The first few times Ilya had gone out without him, when they’d settled enough into their life that every night together didn’t feel stolen or precious and Shane could tell Ilya to go out with the team, have a good time, he didn’t mind being left at home, Shane had tried to sleep. He really had—he never did anything by halves so he’d gone upstairs, done his whole routine, gotten into bed—but then he’d slept like shit and Ilya had burst into the house at 2:45 yelling for him and he’d had to get up anyways. 

Now, Shane waited on the couch, and that was better.

That night, they’d won at home against San Fransisco. Ilya always liked to beat them, even if he refused to admit he was reliving his glory days, and Shane was nursing a bad bruise from a few days before, courtesy of a defenseman from Minnesota. Ilya had kissed him thoroughly in the parking lot before heading out in Dykstra’s stupid muscle truck. The rule was pecks only, at work, but the parking lot was a gray area that Ilya loved to exploit, and Shane had been giddy enough from the win that he’d given as good as he’d gotten. 

All that to say, Shane was dozing on the couch when the door flew open and Ilya tumbled inside. Anya didn’t bark, but the skitter of her paws on the floor would have been confirmation enough if Ilya weren’t also yelling “Shane, lyubimyy!” and then, immediately after, the thud that meant he’d kicked his shoes off against the wall. 

“I’m on the couch,” Shane called back. He arched his back against the cushions, feeling the stretch roll through him. “Did you have fun?” 

Ilya always leaned on things—walls, counters, plenty of other surfaces that really should not have been leaned on—but drunk, he somehow managed to do it while walking, which never ceased to amaze Shane. “Rihanna was there,” he answered as he slouched towards the kitchen. “Singing, ah, zontik.” 

And Shane could only swing his feet over the side of the couch and smile at his husband. He loved every version of Ilya, but he sometimes missed when he’d been young, accent thicker, words harder to find. He especially missed being able to supply them, was so happy to say “umbrella” and watch satisfaction take over Ilya’s face. 

“Yes!” was the response, and a big smile, all teeth. “Umbrella. Hazy knew all the words. There was a bachelorette party, they loved him.” 

Shane wasn’t surprised—women loved Wyatt, because he was nice and goofy and showed them pictures of Lisa on his phone when it seemed like they were hitting on him. They also typically loved Ilya, if he was in a good mood, because he was nice to look at and generous when it came to buying people drinks. “Did you sing anything?” Shane asked, even if he already knew what the answer was going to be. 

“I did,” Ilya confirmed. “Bood put his hand over my mouth. He said I was bad.”

“You are,” Shane said, and then when Ilya pouted, he added, “I love your voice, I promise. But it’s pitchy.” 

Ilya slouched over to where Shane stood by the couch. “Oh, like you could sing better,” he said, and then undermined all the annoyance in his tone by draping himself over Shane entirely. His head slotted into the divot of Shane’s shoulder, Shane’s arms coming up automatically to support his waist. 

“I know I couldn’t,” Shane admitted. “It’s why I don’t try.” 

There was a long pause where Shane held Ilya and was afraid he would sing, but instead he pressed his face against Shane’s neck and said, “I missed you.” 

So much was hidden in those words, the hot wet breath against Shane’s skin. Now that they didn’t have to hide, woke up to each other every day, it was a feeling they didn’t always get to have. Shane knew Ilya was feeling a sense of delicious, painful nostalgia, because he was feeling it too. But, still, he said, “It was only a few hours,” just to feel Ilya frown against his neck. 

“Don’t make fun,” Ilya muttered, “is because I love you,” and so Shane turned to press a kiss against his ear. 

“I love you too,” he said, because it seemed like Ilya needed to hear it. “Should we maybe go to bed?” 

Ilya straightened up a little, drew back so he could see Shane’s face. “I need to ask you something,” he said. His breath smelled like lemons and sugar, underneath the smoke. It meant someone had let LaPointe buy lemon drops for everyone even though no one but him liked them. But Ilya was a good captain, and despite most evidence to the contrary, a good friend, which meant it was likely he’d taken more than a few. “I know is late, but this is very important.” 

Shane leaned forward and indulged in a quick kiss, the barest press of his mouth against Ilya’s. “Of course.” 

And so Ilya said, with all the gravitas he could muster, “Will you grill me a cheese?” 

There was a second where all of the choices that led Shane to that question in that exact moment in time flashed before his eyes: shaking Ilya’s hand in that freezing cold parking lot in Regina, telling Ilya his room number in Toronto, falling in love with him in countless hotel rooms, setting up hundred of electric candles to propose, all of it leading to him getting out the good skillet—hand wash only—to make a grilled cheese at one in the morning. Of course he said yes, and of course he wouldn’t change a thing about his life, but it was nice to imagine a version of himself that wouldn’t have to do dishes before he went to bed. 

Ilya followed Shane to the kitchen, peering over his shoulder as he pulled the ingredients from the fridge and set the pan on the stove to heat up. He started kissing Shane’s neck as Shane was buttering the bread. Shane would’ve stopped him if he’d been cooking for anyone else, but this was Ilya, and drunk Ilya at that. If Shane handed him a slice of cheese on untoasted bread and he’d call it the greatest sandwich of all time. But Shane loved him, and so he shrugged him off once the pan heated up so he could do a good job. Or, at least make something approximating the grilled cheese Ilya had asked for. 

Ilya grumbled at the loss of contact and settled back against the kitchen island to monitor from a few feet away. The bread sizzled when it hit the pan and Ilya perked up to watch Shane layer cheese on it. It was a mixture of whatever they had lying around in the drive and probably wouldn’t melt well, but Shane turned the heat down on the pan just in case he was wrong. When he turned around, Ilya was staring at him hungrily. “You are very sexy when you cook for me,” he said, and Shane exited the world he’d briefly inhabited in which Ilya was horny for a grilled cheese instead of for his husband. 

“Yeah?” Shane asked. Ilya nodded seriously. “Well, I think you’re sexy when you drink an entire glass of water.” 

“You’re manipulating me with lies,” Ilya said on his way to the sink. He didn’t bother with a glass, just bent over and drank from the tap. 

By the time he was finished, Shane figured he could flip the grilled cheese. It was a little burned, and the cheese looked mostly solid still, so he turned the heat down even more and asked, “What would we have done? If I’d come with you tonight?” 

Ilya turned, braced his hands behind him against the lip of the sink. “Everyone was dancing,’ he said. He was still clearly tipsy, a little breathless, but his voice also had within it the low, dangerous note Shane had been searching for. “Dykstra met a girl and they were- we would have showed them, I think.” 

Shane swallowed and said, “I don’t like dancing.” 

“Ah, but you like me.” 

“I love you.” 

Ilya smirked as he said, “Same thing,” and then he tipped more than walked towards Shane until they were kissing. He tasted a little like lemonade and a lot like cigarettes, and Shane wasn’t going to scold him because it reminded him of the early years, getting Ilya in snatches of time too short and frantic to bother with asking him to brush his teeth, the aching shame of it confirmed by the taste of nicotine and smoke on Ilya’s breath. 

Shane closed his eyes and tilted his head and let himself be kissed. Ilya always kissed Shane like he was trying to get him on his knees right then and there, but it was even more obvious after a few drinks. His hands wandered and pinched and tugged, thumb working under the waistband of Shane’s joggers as he made little noises into Shane’s mouth, the high bitten-off moans that always drove Shane crazy. Shane gave himself a minute to get lost in it and then he pulled away, one hand in Ilya’s hair and the other flat on his stomach. “Your food,” he said as Ilya leaned forward to chase his mouth. 

“I do not want my food.” 

“You do,” Shane breathed, and then, a little steadier, “I promise.” 

It was unclear whether or not Ilya believed Shane, but he went along with it anyway, took a step back to let Shane turn around and slide his grilled cheese off the pan and onto a plate. It was one of the old plastic Raiders ones he only used when someone was drunk and couldn’t be trusted with the usual dishware, which had been a gift from Yuna and David and was apparently very expensive. 

He offered it to Ilya, who shook his head. “What?” 

“I want triangles,” Ilya said, and jerked his head toward the knife block.

“You’re a child,” Shane groaned, but he went anyways, got out the fancy bread knife and transferred the sandwich to a cutting board so he could slice it into quarters. “Is that better?” 

“Da,” Ilya said, and then, “lyubimyy,” although it was unclear whether it was addressed to Shane or the food Shane was handing him. 

Shane watched as he took his first bite. He’d been pleasantly surprised with himself—he wasn’t the best cook, especially not without a macrobiotic recipe—and Ilya seemed to agree, judging by the noise he made as he stuffed the whole triangle in his mouth and chewed. It must’ve shown on Shane’s face, because Ilya looked at him and raised an eyebrow, a silence what is it? clear in his expression. 

“The noises you’re making are pornographic,” Shane admitted. 

Ilya grinned and then said, mouth full, “Mm, mine are probably better. Sounds from porn are less genuine.” 

And Shane had to know if Ilya was fucking with him or not, so he reached across and grabbed the second triangle from Ilya’s hand. He took a bite and handed it back right away, but still Ilya made an outraged noise and started demanding another sandwich to make up for what was stolen. Shane didn’t answer, too busy chewing, trying to imagine what the food would taste like if he was drunk. 

Finally, he said, “I see where you’re coming from. This is really good. How many more do you want?” 

Ilya melted immediately, much faster than the damn cheese, and he insisted on feeding most of the rest of his sandwich to Shane, and then helping him butter the bread for more. “A tomato,” he said before Shane could put it in the pan, “add a tomato,” and of course Shane got another knife dirty to slice up a tomato from the crisper that was supposed to be for Thursday’s salads. And of course Ilya was right, and it tasted amazing, and they devoured it and immediately made another one. Ilya dozed off while eating the third sandwich and Shane insisted they call it a night.

“Thank you for cheese,” Ilya said as Shane pushed him gently into bed. 

This time, when Shane leaned down to kiss him, he tasted like spearmint. “I love you, too,” Shane told him, and it was okay if he was already half asleep, if he didn’t hear it. Shane would say it again in the morning, and then again in the afternoon, and then again whenever he needed to hear it. And probably, he would keep grilling him cheeses whenever he asked, but he wasn't going to advertise it. He was going to wake up and quietly do the dishes and make a very healthy breakfast without any cheese at all, and that was all a version of I love you, too.

ok that's all! come find me on tumblr (also eemolu) and know that comments and kudos are like grilled cheeses to me. love you bye