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Yuna stands abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. She doesn't look at either of them as she heads for the kitchen, but the sound of the heavy glass door sliding open and then clicking shut tells the story.
Shane is up before the door even finishes latching. Eyes wide, breaths shallow, and chewing on his bottom lip. He looks like he might vomit.
Ilya reaches out. He doesn't grab; he just rests a heavy, steady hand on the small of Shane’s back. It’s an anchor. He feels the tension vibrating through Shane’s spine and leans into it slightly, a silent reminder: I am here. Breathe.
Opposite them, David Hollander is a statue of calm. He doesn't stand, but he reaches for the cardigan Yuna left draped over the empty chair. He holds it out toward his son. He doesn't say a word, but the gesture is a command and a comfort all at once. Go to her. Keep her warm.
Shane takes a deep breath, then accepts the knit fabric with a distracted nod and disappears through the door.
Ilya watches the door close, then slowly retracts his hand, feeling the loss of warmth. He looks back at the table, glances at his vodka, and finally meets the eyes of the man across from him.
David.
Shane’s parents are adamant that Ilya use their first names, but it feels wrong. In Russia, he would have used a patronymic to show respect; even his father, who only spoke acceptable English, had drilled into him that Westerners use titles. By stripping away "Mr. Hollander," Ilya feels like he’s losing the linguistic armor that allows him to show proper deference to the man who raised Shane. He feels exposed, disrespectful, and small.
He notes, with a bit of a pang, that David is the quiet caretaker. He doesn't need to shout to be heard; he just knows what people need before they ask. Another reminder that Shane had a different upbringing. He feels both grateful and envious.
"They are close?" Ilya asks. His voice sounds too loud in the quiet room. His eyes dart toward the garden. He wonders how his mother would have reacted if he told her he was in love with a man. He reaches for his cross and holds onto it tightly. He clears the lump in his throat and looks back at David.
David’s smile is soft, almost sad. "Extremely." He rotates the glass in his hand absentmindedly. "I'm sure she's hurt, but she'll bounce back."
Ilya frowns. He hates this. The way his presence feels like a wedge. "I do not wish to be..." Ilya sighs, frustrated at that English words don't come easily around Hollanders, "the cause of distance between them."
"They love each other," David states firmly.
He looks at Ilya, his eyes calculating and steady. Ilya nods and returns David’s steady gaze. He feels like a balance sheet being scrutinized. He makes sure to mask his features, refusing to break eye contact. He is a professional hockey player; he knows how to face off against other men. This is too serious to fail, and Ilya will not let a single "error" show in his composure.
Silence doesn't make Ilya uncomfortable. He has spent too many years growing up either alone or lonely. He waits, letting the quiet sit between them until David is satisfied with the data he’s collected.
Finally, David’s expression shifts. Not quite a smile, but a softening of his features. He gives a single, decisive nod, the kind of nod that signifies an audit has passed.
"I bet you boys haven't eaten in a while?" David asks.
The pressure in Ilya’s chest suddenly vents. He feels a wave of relief so physical it’s almost dizzying. He stands when David does, his movements slightly stiff as he tries to match the older man’s composure.
"Need help?" Ilya asks.
David pauses, looking Ilya over one more time. "Do you like pasta?"
Ilya suppresses a laugh, thinking of Shane’s earlier offer of hotdogs or pasta just minutes before they were caught.
"Pasta is favorite," Ilya says, the lie coming out smooth.
David’s eyes crinkle, full of warmth. "Come help me chop the vegetables, then."
In the kitchen, David moves with a quiet, practiced efficiency. He washes his hands, then hands Ilya a chopping board and a chef's knife. He doesn't just let Ilya go at it; he pauses, watching Ilya’s grip.
"Wait," David says softly. He reaches over, his fingers cool and steady as he adjusts Ilya's hand on the handle of the knife, showing him the proper "pinch" grip for better control. "Like this. It’s safer. More efficient."
Ilya looks down at David’s hand on his. It is a small, technical correction, but to Ilya, the casual touch means everything.
David is explaining the optimal way to dice an onion just as Shane and Yuna walk back into the house.
The sliding door clicks shut, and Ilya looks up from the translucent cubes of onion. Shane and Yuna stand in the threshold, the garden air clinging to them. Shane’s eyes are red-rimmed, but the vibration of panic has left his frame.
David doesn't stop his knife. He just looks at Yuna, the unasked question hanging in the quiet rhythm of the blade against wood.
"We are fine," Yuna says. Her voice is thick, but the edge is gone.
Ilya watches her exhale, seeing the way her shoulders finally drop. He tracks her gaze as it sweeps the room, first to David, then to the counter, and finally to Ilya himself. He doesn't look away. He lets her see him there, standing exactly where her husband put him, doing a domestic chore as if he belongs. He sees the moment she registers the absurdity of it; a small, weary smile ghosting across her lips. It’s not an invitation to hug, but it’s a ceasefire.
Ilya feels the knot in his stomach loosen.
Yuna moves to the counter and reaches for a bottle of red wine. "I need wine. David, you want some?"
"Please," David murmurs.
Ilya sets his blade down and turns his full attention to Shane. He can see the crash coming; the adrenaline is leaving Shane’s system, leaving him pale and hollowed out.
"You want ginger ale, Hollander?" Ilya asks.
The name feels pointed in this room. Shane snorts, a genuine, wet sound of amusement. "Yeah. Thanks, Ilya."
As Ilya moves to the fridge, he feels the need to make conversation now that the initial shock has worn off. He wants to bridge the gap properly, to show Shane's parents he cares about Shane.
"I hear you played hockey at McGill?" Ilya asks, glancing at David over the fridge door.
Shane lets out a sharp, incredulous snort as he takes the ginger ale. He shoots Ilya a warning look, one that says don't you dare start. "Ilya, don't. I know what you're going to say." He looks at his father, his voice turning defensive and proud. "He was a 'stay-at-home' defenseman. It was all... positional soundness."
Shane turns back to Ilya, chin tilted up. "It was effective. He was a wall."
David doesn't look offended; he looks quietly amused by his son's rush to defend him. "It’s about minimizing risk, Shane. Something you could stand to learn." He looks back at Ilya, his gaze steady. "I wasn't fast, but I was rarely out of place." David hands Ilya some parmesan and a grater wordlessly.
Ilya nods solemnly, recognizing the mindset. He catches Shane's eye and offers a tiny, wicked smirk. The kind of smirk that says I’m definitely going to call this boring later just to see you get mad.
"There is value in being where you are supposed to be," Ilya says, meeting David’s eyes with genuine respect before turning his focus to the cheese. He starts grating dutifully.
"Exactly," David says, pointing a piece of celery at Ilya before tossing it into the pot.
Ilya looks around the warm kitchen. He watches Yuna lay out four wine glasses and start pouring, watches David slide the onions Ilya chopped into the pan with a satisfying hiss, and feels Shane’s shoulder still heavy and trusting against his own.
He is exactly where he is supposed to be, too.