Summary:

"What happened?" "I missed the edge of the table." Shane curled inward a little more, tense. "No shit," Ilya said, unimpressed. "How did Montreal's number one scorer miss this big table?" Now Shane cracked an eye at him. "Fuck off, Rozanov." "Shane." He sighed. "I can't really see right now." Shane gets a migraine at the cottage. Ilya learns how to help. Shane returned to wakefulness slowly in the late afternoon sun, lake water long since having evaporated from his swim trunks as he napped in the lounge chair. Content to remain in the blurry, quiet space between sleep and alertness, he kept his eyes closed and just breathed. His towel was soft and sun-warmed where he had tossed it over his bare chest and arms for sun protection before sliding on his sunglasses and conking out. Romping and splashing in the lake with Ilya like Hayden's twin children had tired them both out. He shifted slightly, wincing at the stiff pull of his neck after sleeping too long in the outdoor chair and cracked one eye open. His boyfriend was sprawled, loose-limbed, in the chair beside Shane's, but turned the wrong way around. Ilya lay on his stomach, head pillowed on his towel at the foot of the long chair, his strong back curving appealingly over the wooden slats. One arm was bent around his head, flattening half of Ilya's fluffy wet-then-dried curls. The other was draped across the distance between their chairs, his big hand resting warm and possessive on Shane's ankle. Shane huffed lightly, amused. He pried the other eye open and rolled his head to the left to admire the expanse of warm, golden skin as Ilya basked in the warmth of the afternoon. (He was only a man, after all.) Then, because he was also a little shit sometimes (and he wanted to see Ilya's eyes when he woke up), he flexed one leg and wiggled the ankle that Ilya's fingers loosely cradled, jostling him. "Ilya. You're going to burn." "Nyet," his boyfriend replied, not opening his eyes. He squeezed once, tightly, thumb rolling over the knobby bone of Shane's ankle. "You need sunscreen. Or a shirt," Shane said, wobbling his ankle again. This time, Ilya inhaled deeply with annoyance and aimed a sleepy, slitted glare at Shane. Shane couldn't help but smile at him. "You just want me covered because I am too beautiful to look at," Ilya lamented, releasing Shane's ankle and rolling dramatically to his side. "Is ok, Hollander. Many people tell me this." Shane blinked a few times to try and clear away the blurriness of sleep. He really shouldn't have allowed himself to nap - he always feels like he woke up in another dimension. Ilya swung his feet to the ground and stood, stretching until his spine popped. "I'm hungry. Ready to go in?" Shane nodded, regretting that he hadn't brought a water bottle out to the chairs. His mouth felt cottony. "Yeah. Let's go." He toed on his slides and trailed behind Ilya up the stairs to the cottage, still feeling blurry around the edges, but content with the prospect of the evening ahead. They had plenty of easy options for dinner, and they were slowly working through the catalog of terrible action movies on Netflix. Though Ilya had asked on the way to the cottage, eyes sharp and laughing, if their plan was really to relax, they had been taking the chance to just spend time in each other's presence without rushing. Now, Shane knew that Ilya got short-tempered and nonverbal if he didn't have coffee within 30 minutes of waking, and Ilya had learned that Shane had a visceral, full-body reaction to stepping in a puddle on the bathroom floor if Ilya forgot to use a shower mat. They were learning each others' orbits. Ilya opened the back door and stepped aside, brushing a hand lightly on Shane's lower back as he stepped in. "Sandwiches ok? I will shower, then we eat?" "Sure," Shane said. "I got the pickles you like. I'll start getting things out in a minute. He slipped off his dark glasses and rubbed his eyes roughly, internally cursing the sun's afterimage still lingering in his vision. "I just need to grab some water." Ilya nodded, eyes lingering briefly as Shane made his way around the kitchen to grab a glass, hand trailing on the island countertop. "You ok?" "What? Yeah, fine. Just didn't drink enough today, I guess." Shane selected a glass and turned on the tap, watching the water slowly fill. It really was good water. Ilya padded over behind him to press a smacking kiss to the back of Shane's bare shoulder, squeezing his hip. "You sit, I will be gourmet sandwich chef after I shower." Shane laughed. "Okay." He turned and kissed Ilya back, reveling in the ease which has come with familiarity and time. "Go shower." Ilya smacked him lightly on the ass, eyes fond and warm and maybe anticipating what would likely happen when they got bored of the movie (Shane would never admit that watching a movie on the couch with Ilya in his soft sweatpants and long sleeves made him unspeakably handsy.) Grabbing his towel, he headed for the shower. Shane made his way down to the living room and dropped onto the couch with a sigh, water still in his hand. He tipped his head back until it rested on the cushion. He also should shower the lake water off, but he couldn't quite blink the sun spots from his eyes from their long afternoon outside. And he really needed to hydrate. He raised the glass to his lips and drained half of it, eyes still squeezed shut, and focused on breathing slowly to abate the vague nausea that was rising. Shane heard the shower turn off in the master bathroom. He needed to get moving before Ilya came out and saw him sitting in the living room with the lights off like a lunatic. He opened his bleary eyes and leaned forward to place the glass on the coffee table so that he could make his way to the shower, starting to lever to his feet when— CRASH. Shane flinched and leapt to his feet, startled by the noise of his glass shattering on the floor. Shit. Cold water splashed onto his bare feet and shins, but his vision was still weird, hazy around the edges and a little wavy like sun on concrete in the summer and where was the edge of the coffee table and— The sound of bare footsteps in the hall, quick. "—what—Shane—fuck—no, do not move—"