Chapter Text
It was stupid, that Ilya was so excited. It was just–he got irrationally happy about spoiling Shane, about showing his love for the other man, after years of stuffing his feelings down into his toes and pretending they didn’t exist. Now that he was allowed to love Shane, he couldn’t stop himself from doing it in every way–even the most cliché, childish, ridiculous ways.
So when he went on a walk one afternoon while they were at the cottage, allowing Shane to sleep after a long morning workout, he was thrilled to find the flowers.
Maybe it was a little silly. Men didn’t like flowers, did they? He’d certainly never received flowers from anyone, nor had any of his male family members shown any interest in getting floral arrangements. Hockey players didn’t really get flowers—maybe for retirement or something like that, but it just wasn’t very…normal. The only person he’d ever given flowers to was his mother. In his youth, he’d often stopped along the side of the road to grab an errant bud, only to hand it to his mother and watch in delight when she slid it into her hair or behind her ear.
But as soon as his eyes paused on the images of the bright, cheerful blossoms, he wanted nothing more than to bring them back to Shane. To coax that stunning smile from those perfect lips by bringing those splashes of sunshine to the man he loved more than life itself. To show his love in such a simple, earnest way.
Plus…he was a man, and he wouldn’t mind receiving flowers, so maybe others felt the same.
So he began to bend and collect only the most perfect of stems, taking his time to pick the brightest colors, the buds with little spots that reminded him of Shane’s freckles, the flowers with petals as soft as Shane’s skin.
And when he returned to the cottage, his stomach flipped with ludicrous nervousness because…what if Shane hated this? What if he thought the flowers were stupid, or too feminine, or a waste?
It was with a bit of uncharacteristic shyness that he presented his hand-picked bouquet to his boyfriend when he found him at the table.
“For you,” he murmured, syllables clunky, eyes on the ground.
“Oh…Ilya.”
But Shane didn’t seem mad or upset or turned off. Instead, he gazed at the flowers like they were the key to Ilya’s heart.
They kind of were.
“Where did you find these?” Shane asked, eyes still on the blossoms.
“Um…I walked very far while you were sleeping. Around the lake, I found…what is word? Meadow? It had many beautiful flowers. They made me think of you. These ones, here…they have freckles, like you,” Ilya muttered, gesturing to the white flowers with orange specks on them. “And these, they are the color of your face when you blush. And these–”
But he cut himself off because he realized how mortifyingly vulnerable he was being, and would continue to be, if he admitted that he’d picked that flower because it was the exact color of Shane’s lips after they'd kissed for a while.
“-these were cool,” he finished lamely, shifting from foot to foot.
Shane beamed, looking up at him, but there was something troubled in his expression. Immediately, Ilya hesitated. “You hate it,” he guessed, wanting to throw himself into the lake. “I can throw out, I–”
“No! No, I–” Shane swallowed, and it looked like he was trying not to laugh. What? “Ilya, they’re beautiful, I just…I have to say…across the lake? There’s a wildlife conservation park. We’re not supposed to touch anything in that area, it’s like…a law.”
Ilya felt his eyes bug out of his head. “Oh…shit,” he laughed, relieved that Shane liked the flowers but shocked at his own mistake. “I am a criminal.”
“Finally living up to your bad boy image,” Shane teased, laughing as well.
“I…will not do again,” Ilya sighed, feeling a bit disappointed. It had felt oddly good, to spoil his boyfriend like that.
Shane, however, placed the flowers on the table and moved to pull Ilya into a hug. “You should,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to his neck. “I…I like getting flowers from you. It was sweet. Just next time, maybe go to a florist?”
Beaming, proud of himself that he’d made Shane happy, Ilya nodded. “Alright,” he agreed. Maybe a florist would know the name of the white-and-orange flowers.