Chapter Text
An emphatic Fuck! rang through their Ottawa condo one evening, prompting Ilya to peek his head into the living room where his now-love/once-nemesis/freckled-reason-for-living was found growling at his phone screen.
“Who is pissing you off?” Ilya asked, voice even but undeniably curious. Depending on Shane’s answer, this could be an opportune moment to tease him a little, to bring some pink into those very kissable cheeks of his…or, if his profanity was brought on by some troll-ass cyberbullying tabloid bullshit, it would be a great moment to enact the concept Ilya recently learned that was called “doxxing.” No one makes my Shane shout “fuck” except for me.
Shane sighed. “It’s this stupid purple owl.”
Purple owl? “Who?”
“Har-har. Very funny, Ilya,” he said with a roll of his eyes.
“I am being very serious right now. Where is this bird you need hunted down? And where would you like its head to be hung up when I am done with it?” Something like a giggle bubbled from Shane’s chest and his gaze grew warmer. Ilya tried his best (and failed) at resisting the frisson of adoration rippling through his body. The things he would do for his man. (Like shoot down a bird.)
“It’s not an actual owl, y’know. Lemme show you.” Shane held his phone up, prompting Ilya to come closer to the sofa. The overly plush cushions sank—collapsed, almost—as he sat down, pulling the two men closer. “It’s LingoDash, an app that people use to learn new languages and stuff.” Ilya leaned in even closer to inspect the screen, nearly touching cheek-to-cheek. Shane could smell the fresh post-shower scent of his boyfriend and it practically knocked him back into monolingualism. Who needs to learn a new language from some dumb app when he could just absorb it through Ilya? (And who was to tell his lovestruck self that that wasn’t how languages worked?)
“Oh. You are learning Russian.” Ilya’s reaction was a fraction too measured, it seemed, but right before Shane could hastily lock his phone and mumble something about having too much screen time, Ilya’s face cracked into a smile. It was genuine—it was broad—it was beautiful. “Thank you for learning my language.” Overcome with a stirring of pleasure and embarrassment, Shane turned his gaze downward and tried to ignore the arm around his shoulders.
“I’m not doing too great, though,” he murmured abashedly. He pointed to the red-highlighted phrases in Cyrillic script. A cartoon character of a goth-looking girl shook her head in consternation, and in the top right corner of Shane’s screen, a battery icon glowed glaringly red. Ilya was fascinated—and not insignificantly touched as well. So this was what Shane was up to while he was off by himself. This is how Shane chose to show his love. He was now muttering his best attempt at a Russian phrase under his breath while simultaneously gnawing at the end of his hoodie drawstring in the corner of his mouth. Ilya watched intently.
“Dobro podjalovat’,” Shane said a little louder. The phone emitted a di-donk sound of error, seemingly mocking his subpar pronunciation. “Dobro podjalovat’.” Di-donk. Louder now: “Dobro. Podjalovat’.” Di-donk. The goth girl might as well have said Screw you, Shane Hollander. Sensing his boyfriend’s frustration, Ilya stepped in.
“Here. Here is how you say it.” He turned to face Shane fully. “Dobro pozhalovat’.” The words flowed from his tongue neatly, the dj sound in “pozhalovat’” turning into a smoother zh.
Shane’s eyebrows furrowed. “Wait, say that one more time.”
“Dobro. Pozhalovat’.”
“Again.”
“Dobro. Pozhalovat’!”
A crowbar couldn’t take his eyes off Ilya’s lips. Shane smiled deviously. “No, say it like you did last time, like, slow and sexy.”
Ilya laughed. What a flirt his man was. Gently, he leaned in closer, almost nuzzling him. Their lips grazed each other’s, breath warm and sensuous. “Make your mouth follow mine: dobro”—a kiss—“pozhalovat’.”—another kiss. Shane’s smile bloomed ever wider.
“You’re such a good teacher,” he said softly.
“And you are good student.” With one last kiss, Ilya grabbed the phone again. “Try one more time.” Shane gave his best attempt—truly, his best yet—and a green icon popped up with a ba-ding! of success. Ilya’s heart swelled with pride. “See? Now I don’t have to kill any owl.”
“Shut up,” Shane replied in a voice that indicated he didn’t want Ilya to shut up. He watched the corners of his boyfriend’s mouth turn up even more and dedicated the glimmer of his eyes to memory. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that Ilya was easily amused, that what he appreciated between them was the snappy banter. But in their attempts to be more sincere with each other, to uncover the most tender parts of themselves, Shane had come to know a different truth: Ilya did love him—Ilya loved him so, so much. And what could Shane do in return? Well, for one, he could learn Russian. Though they both spoke the language of body and heat so, so well, Shane always knew that Ilya’s tongue and mind moved the swiftest in his native language. There was still so much more to understand about him. Shane wanted—needed—to know this precious part of him. And so, here he was, struggling through LingoDash and feeling very stupid and very in love.
“Why you are learning Russian from silly app? What can your phone teach you—” here, a sly smile appeared on Ilya’s face, “—that I cannot?”
Shane considered this genuinely. Why, indeed, had he not gone to Ilya first? Was it the fact that he would feel bashful fumbling through the most basic vocabulary? Maybe it was because he didn’t want to burden Ilya. Or, perhaps there was a third and exceptionally vulnerable option…
“I, um, I decided that—I mean—I guess that I just. You know. Wanted to make you, um, happy? And…proud? Of me?” he finally managed to say. Once again, Ilya went quiet, and once again, his heart surged with delight.
“Shane. I will always be proud of you.” With a fixed gaze that told Shane he meant every word, he took Shane’s hand and kissed the back of it reverently. “It would be an honor to teach you my language.”
A blush. A smile, this one almost relieved but mostly adoring. And another kiss on his hand.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. And also, I can teach you words that actually matter.”
“Like…what?”
“Like…” Ilya dropped Shane’s hand with a crooked smile and swung a leg over his lap, sitting in a straddled position. “Faster. Harder. Please, more. Don’t stop.” Shane let out a heavy breath. He gripped Ilya’s hips and with the barest restraint ground them against his groin.
“Sounds—like really—oh, god—really useful,” he panted as Ilya reached between his legs.
“Mm, yes. But no lesson right now. Right now is time for another lesson.”
“Teach me. Show me. Give it to me.”
Ilya needed no other command. Their mouths met again in a wordless language, a language that only the two of them spoke, a language that was all tongue and slick and sweetness and desire.
And, on the floor, lay the glowing screen of a forgotten smartphone, a green icon showing the achievement of learning a new language.