Summary:

“Well, if it’s not too much trouble,” Shane begins, offering his cell phone to one of Santa’s helpers who remains on standby. “Can I—can we get a couple of photos with you?” “Oh, but of course,” Santa cheers happily, clasping both gloved hands together as Shane moves to sit on his left thigh. “I would be honoured to snap a photo with the Shane Hollander.” Ilya, on the other hand, nearly goes into cardiac arrest. It's days after Christmas and Santa Claus is still working dutifully at the mall. There's just one problem, though: Ilya Rozanov is fully convinced that Santa Claus wants his man. It’s been a little over five months since Shane and Ilya have been official, and it’s almost inconceivable how... easy it has been for them. Opposites attract. Soulmates. Ilya has always believed those two sentiments were rather cliché, terribly intangible things, pathetic worldviews that took shape entirely from skewed perceptions and damn-near daunting desperation; but now that he’s living it—now that he’s nothing more than a walking testimony, it would be foolish of him to deny the harsh truths that manage to dismantle the solidity of his nervous system every day. Truthfully, it can be described as a puzzle piece that fits perfectly—two kindred souls that were fated to meet, destined to be in each other’s lives, their union that was seemingly written among the stars above. And here Ilya’s kindred soul stands before him—a bashful smile tugs at Shane’s lips as he raises a hand to press a wrinkle from the lapel, a palm smoothing over the material before he adjusts the article of clothing that hugs his body just right. But there’s just one thing that Ilya cannot ignore. He feels the warmth against his palm and cocks his head to the side, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I thought you said you hired a stylist, Hollander?” The implication cuts through the air like a knife, the sharpened edge of it aimed straight for Shane’s jugular— —but it all comes from a place of love, of course. There’s something about the fashion choices themselves (yes, plural) that Ilya cannot get behind. Shane slowly spins, as if he’s giving Ilya a chance to get a good fucking look at him, as if he’s allowing Ilya to recognise his greatness and to take back what he said. Come on, look at me! Shane’s eyes seem to say, glinting with offence that Ilya refuses to take seriously. Why would I need my damn stylist? “Uh? I did?” Shane huffs, throwing both hands up in mild exasperation. “They’re—I gave them two weeks off for—for obvious reasons. It’s the holiday season, and I don’t have anything important going on. Why?” ‘Why, he asks. Ilya closes his eyes. Opens them. Then closes them again. This is going to be a long day. “Two weeks off, huh?” Ilya sighs, nursing his cup of hot chocolate. “Of course you did.” Shane raises an eyebrow. “What? You don’t like it?” The outfit in question... well. Ilya glances at the baby blue wide-leg slacks that Shane somehow deemed appropriate for the occasion and frowns visibly, grunting with a shake of his head. He lifts his gaze to the white dress shirt that’s been buttoned all the way to the top, the crocheted, dark grey scarf around his neck and the beige blazer that, arguably, fits him well—but that’s about it. The colour of the material leaves much to be desired. As does everything else. “Ah, don’t worry, Shane,” is what Ilya settles on. “It is endearing, rather than. Stylish. Or interesting.” Shane appears to be mildly horrified. “Endearing.” “Yes, endearing,” Ilya affirms, leaning to the side to place his cup on the surface of the end table. “You look like a twelve-year-old going to a uh—a school dance or something. Trying to impress friends and all that. Or perhaps... trying to impress a crush. So, yes—I think it’s endearing.” Shane frowns. “Rozanov.” “Ilya,” he corrects him firmly, knowing full well that Shane has a tendency of calling him by his last name when he has decided that he’s annoyed with him. Ilya swallows around the lump in his throat, watching as Shane swiftly swaps his horrid fashion choices with his sponsored Lululemon set that does very little to combat the harsh wintry chill on the outside. “Where are you going?” “Where do you think?” Shane snaps, grabbing his wallet on the countertop. “I’m going to the mall.” “The mall?” Ilya asks, puzzled. He takes a step closer and shoves both hands in the pockets of his joggers. “It is colder than Grandfather Frost’s ass crack outside. Why are you going to the mall?” Shane slowly turns to look at him. “What do you mean by why? You just insulted the clothes I was planning on wearing to dinner with my parents tomorrow,” Shane speaks through gritted teeth, gesturing to the clothes that have been tossed carelessly on the cushion of the sectional. He couldn’t even be bothered to fold them—that’s how Ilya knows he’s pissed off. “I need something else to wear, obviously.” The room falls silent.