The dacha doesn’t forgive sloppy work

The dacha doesn’t forgive sloppy work “Sometimes love is just a desire for the other person to have a little more greenery in their life.” The July heat lazily flooded the terrace of Hollander's cottage. Ilya and Shane, who had already made it a habit to spend their vacations here, stretched out in deck chairs, exposing their skin to the sun. “You know, your cottage”, - Ilya broke the silence, “is almost as beautiful as the moment when I score the winning goal for you. The key word is ‘almost.’” Shane just smiled broadly, but then asked a question that for some reason had never occurred to him all these years: “Ilya...” “Yes?” After taking a sip of his protein smoothie, Rozanov turned to his husband. “I never asked, but... did you have a cottage in Russia?” Ilya thought for a moment before answering: “You know, we usually call it a dacha.” “Dacha?” Shane wrinkled his face comically, trying out the new word. “Is it very different from our cottages?” “Perhaps in those cottages are designed for relaxation, while dachas are for hard labor,” Ilya smiled. “Wait... so Russians don't go out of town in the summer to relax and sunbathe?” Holland rose from his deck chair in surprise. “To relax? Holland, you're hopeless,” Rozanov sighed. “We go there to suffer. It's like a national sport. If you don't come back from the dacha with a sore back and a bucket of worm-eaten apples, you're not Russian.” “I haven't claimed that title yet,” Shane grumbled. “It shows,” Ilya smiled. “Although I didn't get such a beautiful ass just from training. The garden beds helped a lot. If you want, I can give you a master class.”It's good for you — otherwise your Canadian buns will get too relaxed on those deck chairs. But be warned: you can look during the day, but only touch in the evening. “Can you wiggle your butt after a hard day's work?” Shane snorted. “And what are garden beds anyway?” “Well...” Ilya thoughtfully twirled a strand of hair around his finger. “Simply put, it's an elongated flower bed. Only instead of flowers, potatoes and zucchini grow there.” Shane's imagination immediately conjured up something between a labor camp and a battlefield. And yet the idea stuck. For the rest of the day, the Canadian kept coming back to Ilya's stories about the dacha. Perhaps working in the garden beds was a good way to immerse himself in Russian culture. And to build muscle, if Rozanov was to be believed, he thought. By evening, the couple was cooking dinner together in the kitchen, bickering a little. “No, Ilya, we're not making chicken with Parmesan today,” Shane said calmly. “Is it your healthy food day again?” Rozanov protested. “We've been married for so many years, you should be used to it by now,” Hollander kissed him on the cheek as she took vegetables out of the refrigerator. “I swear to God, Shane, I'm going to file for divorce soon!” “No, you won't,” Shane narrowed his eyes, and Ilya immediately realized that the argument was lost. “Do you know why?” “Why?” “Because you love me more than anything.” Rozanov snorted but gave in: “Fine. Give me your… argoolia”. “Arugula. A-ru-gu-la.” “Yeah. Her too.” Grunted Ilya. Noticing his husband's reddened eyes, Ilya sent him to rest. The house was filled with silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock and the sounds from the kitchen. If potatoes and zucchini can be grown in Russia... then arugula probably can too, Shane thought. And it's less hassle. I should give it a try. He opened his browser and looked at photos of garden beds—narrow strips of land neatly fenced in with metal. “Ilya!” “Yes?” “Can you come here? I have a question.” Instead of answering, Rozanov walked into the living room and kissed him lightly. “What did you want to ask?” “Is this what garden beds look like in Russia?” Ilya didn't understand at first, then smiled broadly. “Exactly. Why?” “No reason. Just curious,” Shane lied. “I think you're lying to me,” Ilya narrowed his eyes, but just ruffled his husband's hair and returned to the kitchen. By this time, a plan had already formed in the Canadian hockey player's head. Tomorrow he would go to the store and buy everything he needed to create a garden bed. But the main difficulty was that Rozanov shouldn't know anything about Hollander's plan; it had to remain a surprise. The next morning, Shane woke up quite early, trying not to wake Rozanov, who was lying next to him, snoring softly. For a while, he just looked at him, listening to his steady breathing, and then carefully got out of bed. The hockey player didn't take long to decide what to wear for this trip: his “outing” had no particular reason. It was a normal morning with normal plans at least, that's what he tried to convince himself. Holland left the house wearing a short-sleeved shirt and light pants, got in his car, and headed to Rona North York (a hardware store in Canada). On the way, Shane caught himself thinking that he was taking this venture too seriously. After all, it was just a garden bed. Just arugula. And yet he wanted it to work out — not perfectly, but for real. When he arrived, he quickly found a parking spot and headed inside the store, hoping to buy everything he needed in one trip. Shane had originally planned to buy regular metal sheets for the frame, but when he noticed the galvanized edging, he lingered at the rack longer than he had expected. They looked neat and sturdy, as if they could last more than one season. Shane searched for soil for a long time, going from row to row, until he finally found what he needed in the gardening section. He picked up a bag, then paused and added a bag of fertilizer to his purchases. Just in case. What if it really was important? He put the bags on the trolley and headed for the checkout. All that remained was to choose the seeds—and it was at this moment that Shane first really thought about how Ilya would react to the whole idea. On the one hand, he might like the idea of growing his own greens; he might even be pleased that Hollander was embracing the culture of his country. But Shane knew Rozanov too well not to consider the other side of the coin: Ilya had already spent a lot of time at the dacha, and a simple vegetable patch might remind him of the dark moments of his past, which he was desperately trying to leave behind. Still, the Canadian hoped that his beloved would like the idea of a small vegetable garden, even if it was only for one season. Shane walked up and down the rows of the gardening department several times, but couldn't find what he was looking for. Finally, he gave up and asked a sales assistant for help. It was from him that Hollander learned that the necessary items were, for some reason, displayed at the checkout. When he finally saw the shelves with seeds, Shane's mouth opened in surprise for a moment: he had never seen such a variety of colorful packages before. After about seven minutes of careful searching, he managed to choose what he thought was the best packet of arugula seeds. Adding his purchase to the rest of his groceries, Hollander headed to the checkout. After waiting in a short line, despite it being a weekday, he paid for his purchases and returned to his car. The trip took about thirty to forty minutes, and considering the distance to the cottage, Shane realized that Ilya would surely be awake by the time he returned. The Canadian was most concerned about how to get the tools into the garage, as the likelihood of being spotted by Rozanov was too high. On the way, Hollander decided to stop by the grocery store—some items at home were running low. When he pulled up to the cottage, Shane immediately noticed Ilya. He was standing at the window in his shorts, his arms crossed over his chest. Hollander tensed involuntarily at the sight, but almost immediately a plan formed in his head. First, he took only the grocery bags out of the trunk and headed into the house, hoping that Ilya would help him unload the purchases. Rozanov met him leaning against the doorframe: a little sleepy, disheveled, but clearly attentive. “Where was my husband so early in the morning?” Ilya asked with a slight squint. “We ran out of protein,” Hollander hastened to explain. “And other groceries. I also bought you some Snickers bars.” Rozanov looked at Shane suspiciously, as if trying to detect insincerity, but after a couple of seconds he dismissed the thought. After all, he had no reason not to trust his husband. Shane handed him the bag and, while Ilya was sorting through the purchases, went back outside, mentioning over his shoulder that he had left his phone in the car. As soon as the door closed behind him, Hollander almost ran to the trunk. He had no more than three minutes—exactly how long Ilya usually spent at the refrigerator—to perform the fastest unloading in NHL history. Instead of dragging the bags of soil and metal barriers through the front door, Shane pressed the garage door opener button on his key ring. The metal clinked quietly as he tossed the barriers from the trunk into the far corner. The bags of soil followed. Holland quickly covered them with old boxes from sports equipment and other junk, trying to make everything look as inconspicuous as possible. His heart was beating faster than usual, but after closing the trunk, Shane allowed himself a short breath. So far, the plan was working. Besides, after lunch, Ilya had to leave for a short while to meet with one of his teammates, which meant Hollander would have time to build the garden bed. Time flew by unnoticed. The couple didn't get to spend much time together, and soon Rozanov had to get ready to leave. As soon as Ilya's car disappeared from view, Shane headed to the garage, determined not to waste a minute. He unpacked the boxes and took out today's purchases. He managed to find a more or less suitable spot not far from the house. Holland had to fiddle with the instructions for the metal sides a bit, but after a while, the frame was ready. Suddenly, a car horn sounded. Shane turned sharply, fear flashing in his eyes. His premonition was right—Ilya had indeed returned earlier than he was supposed to. Rozanov noticed the man crouching down and poking around in the grass. “Shane?” Ilya approached him. “What are you doing here?” Holland became nervous, but realized that he could no longer hide it. “I... I decided to build a garden bed,” the Canadian admitted sheepishly. “I hoped you would like it.” “A garden bed?!” Rozanov laughed. “And what are you planning to plant?” “Arugula,” Shane replied, still uncertain. Ilya sat down next to him, carefully examining the metal box and the soil inside. The amusement on his face gave way to his usual Russian practicality. He sighed heavily. “Holland, who does that? You bought the wrong soil. Nothing will grow in this sand. Let's figure this out together.” “Hmm,” Shane said with a smile. “Maybe you could give me a master class?” The Russian looked the Canadian up and down, assessing his appearance. “Sure,” Ilya smiled back. “But first, you need to change your clothes.” After a light slap on the buttocks from his spouse, Hollander headed for the cottage. At the same time, Rozanov pulled off his T-shirt, revealing the six-pack abs that Shane had known for a long time. And yet, noticing Ilya's body, the Canadian couldn't resist running his strong hands over the slightly tanned torso. After several unsuccessful attempts to dig up the ground on his own, Hollander finally asked his husband for help. “Come on, Shane, you're doing everything like a chicken with its feet. You have to be more careful, with love.” “But chickens really do have feet,” the hockey player said in bewilderment. “It's a Russian idiom,” Ilya sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I'll explain it to you later.” To demonstrate how to dig a garden bed properly, Ilya pressed his chest against Shane's back, covered his hands with his own on the shovel handle, and buried his nose in his neck. “Is that a new perfume?” Rozanov asked. Hollanders just nodded, trying to focus on the ground and the shovel. Ilya guided his movements, forcing him to dig the tool deeper into the soil. Shane felt every tension in his husband's muscles behind him. Rozanov's breath burned his ear as he whispered quietly: “Deeper, Hollander. The dacha doesn't forgive sloppy work.” “The last time I heard those words, it was in a slightly different context,” Shane smiled. After digging up the garden bed, they decided to take a short break. Ilya noticed a dark spot on the brunet's cheek and, taking a step forward, wanted to wipe away the dirt, but instead simply kissed the Canadian. Slowly and sweetly, as if the kiss tasted like honey. Pulling away, Shane remembered that the soil needed to be watered before planting the seeds. However, Rozanov found the garden hose first and had already connected it. To Hollander's surprise, the first jets of water did not hit the garden bed at all, but hit him directly. The T-shirt instantly clung to the Canadian's body, emphasizing the relief of his muscles. Shane was not going to give up without a fight and desperately tried to snatch the hose from Ilya's hands, only getting wetter and wetter. They played with water like teenagers, but in this “battle,” Rozanov still won. He deftly knocked Shane down and leaned on top of him. “You know, I think the master class is over," Ilya said, looking at his husband's wet face. “Yes, I think I've learned a lot,” Hollander replied and pulled his spouse toward him. This time the kiss was more eager and passionate, as if the struggle was still going on — only now for power and domination. Drops of water ran down their hot skin, drying almost instantly under the hot sun, but the kiss itself was much hotter. Pulling away, they caught their breath and, exchanging glances, decided to return to the house. A week later, Ilya woke up to the sound of noise in the backyard. Approaching the window, he couldn't believe his eyes at first: Shane was installing a greenhouse on their property — a small one, but a greenhouse nonetheless. Going outside, Rozanov immediately headed for his husband. “Hollander, we're hockey players, not farmers,” he said, kissing his spouse on the temple. “You yourself said that gardening is a national sport,” Shane replied calmly. “And I want to win gold in this discipline.” “Are you going to plant everything with arugula?” “No,” Hollander smiled. “I want to try growing cucumbers.” “Then I'll have to teach you how to pickle them,” Ilya smiled. “And if you also distill moonshine, you'll become a real Russian wife.” “I don't mind,” Shane replied and rested his head on Ilya's shoulder. By the end of the summer, the garden bed by the house was no longer just an experiment. The arugula had grown lush and stubborn, and next to it, contrary to Shane's doubts, the first cucumbers had appeared. Ilya, looking like a strict mentor, checked the soil, trimmed the excess, and each time grunted as if all this had been expected from the very beginning. Shane watched him with a quiet smile, catching himself thinking that this was exactly how he had imagined their future together — without loud promises, but with shared activities and habits. One evening, they sat on the porch with mugs of hot tea. Ilya drank silently, pensively, and then suddenly said that he hadn't felt so calm in a long time. Shane didn't answer — he just intertwined their fingers, realizing that sometimes care speaks louder than any words. When the sun disappeared behind the trees and the yard was enveloped in soft twilight, Hollander thought that putting down roots didn't mean getting stuck. Sometimes it just meant choosing a place where you felt good. And who you were with.