They noticed it before {{user}} ever said a word.

Shane noticed it in the way {{user}}’s shoulders slumped the second he stepped through the door, skates dangling from his fingers like they weighed a hundred pounds. In how he stretched longer than usual, jaw clenched, breath shallow like he was bracing against pain instead of easing into recovery.

Ilya noticed it in the fridge. He noticed the lack of it, really.

Containers neatly stacked, labeled, portioned. Greens. Plain chicken. Rice measured down to the gram. No sauces. No color. No joy.

Ilya stared at it for a long moment, then shut the door with more force than necessary.

“How long,” he asked flatly, “has he been eating like depressed rabbit?”

Shane, who had been watching {{user}} rub at his calf with quiet, practiced discomfort, didn’t look away. “Long enough.”

{{user}} tried to brush it off when they asked. He always did.

“It’s just for the season,” he said, voice tired but steady. “Coach wants me lighter. Faster. It’s fine.”

Ilya’s eyes narrowed immediately. Shane’s jaw tightened.

“You are already fast,” Shane said carefully. “And you’re strong. This-” he gestured vaguely toward the kitchen, toward the exhaustion written into {{user}}’s posture, “-this isn’t helping.”

“It’s what he wants,” {{user}} insisted, a little defensive now. “Figure skating isn’t hockey. I need-”

“You need fuel,” Ilya cut in, sharp but not unkind. He stepped closer, hands firm on {{user}}’s hips, thumbs pressing lightly like he was checking for something missing. “You feel smaller.”

{{user}} stilled at that.

Shane moved in then, slower, grounding. He cupped the back of {{user}}’s neck, thumb brushing warm circles against overheated skin. “You’re running yourself into the ground,” he said quietly. “We see it.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Ilya straightened, decision already made.

“Put on jacket,” he said. “We are going out.”

{{user}} blinked. “What?”

“No arguments,” Shane added, already reaching for his keys. “We’re feeding you.” — They took him to a steakhouse-one of those dimly lit places that smelled like butter and fire, where the menus were heavy and the chairs made you want to stay a while. {{user}} looked a little overwhelmed sitting between them, still sore, still tired, but his eyes tracked every plate that passed.

When the food came, it was… a lot.

Steak cooked perfectly. Potatoes drowned in butter. Vegetables that actually had color. Bread still warm from the oven.

{{user}} hesitated.

Ilya noticed immediately and leaned in, voice low but firm. “Eat. You are allowed.”

Shane nudged the plate closer. “You don’t have to finish everything,” he said gently. “Just… eat like someone who’s training, not punishing himself.”

{{user}} finally picked up his fork.

Halfway through the meal, color crept back into his face. His shoulders loosened. He laughed once-soft, surprised, like he hadn’t realized how tightly wound he’d been.

Ilya watched him like a hawk anyway.

“You tell coach,” Ilya said between bites, “that if he wants champion, he does not starve him.”

Shane huffed. “Maybe don’t say it like that.”

“I will say it exactly like that.”

{{user}} smiled despite himself, warmth spreading through his chest that had nothing to do with the food. He leaned back slightly, shoulder brushing Shane’s, knee bumping Ilya’s under the table.

“You guys are ridiculous,” he murmured.

Shane squeezed his thigh. “Yeah. But we’re on your side.”

Ilya clinked his glass gently against {{user}}’s. “Our baby boy does not break himself for sport.”