Chapter Text
Some days are easier for Ilya than others. Some days the words flow into him and out of him with little effort. He feels awake, capable, and like he belongs in the world of Hockey, playing for the Boston Raiders, speaking English and living in America.
“You played a decent game today but were saved a last minute goal from Hayden Pike as he went offside. Had he hadn’t gone offsides do you think you could have taken him?”
Fuck-what? Ilya balks for a moment, confused on what the man is asking him underneath all the conditional tenses. The press room waits expectantly.
Ilya swallows, his mouth dry. He coughs lightly and responds. “Well I would have caught him, no? Is not like Pike is Speedracer.”
The press room chuckles and Ilya sits back, pleased with himself.
While not perfect, his English and comprehension is a far cry from rookie season…
“Question for Ilya first but it'll be the same for Shane. Boston is an original six legendary team that has struggled to get to the playoffs for the past three seasons. How much pressure do you feel from the fans, and from the hockey world in general, to restore Boston to its former glory, and how much of that do you take on personally?”
Ilya remembers the hard mass of dread that slammed down into his stomach, forcing his throat closed. What? Fucking what? What the fuck was he asking? He had had no idea what that man was asking. One year into his career and everyone was going to know that he was stupid, stupid, stupid. The light tap against his shoe felt like a lifeline, a small piece of driftwood in the sea of Ilya’s panic.
“Sorry, not to jump the gun here, but with Rozanov’s permission…”
It’s been years and Ilya now understands what the man was looking for when he asked, in many many more words than were necessary for a question that essentially boiled down to “Are you going to work hard?” After that presser and for days afterwards, Ilya had watched the tape repeatedly until he knew what the reporter was asking, what it meant, and how he would answer if he was ever asked it again.
And such was how Ilya learned English. Repetition, repetition, repetition, along with conversational situations, some more high pressure than others, and retreating into his room to watch interviews every night; to understand how reporters asked hypotheticals in English, when they were complimenting him, when they were being presumptive or rude. Eventually he became more comfortable, understanding that the reporters wanted Ilya the Brash, Ilya the Cocky. Ilya learned to contradict the reporters, to take his questions outside the locker room shirtless, and to wink at the camera before ending the interview.
None of that changed the fact that, in the early days, he learned the most from Shane’s interviews. It was obvious that he had been media trained from a young age. Young Shane answered the reporter’s questions seriously, with a straight face, his tone even-keeled. Lots of the time, Shane made an effort to restate, or rethread, the reporter’s original question back into his response. Ilya found this very helpful. If the first presser with him and Shane was the one he watched the most when he was younger, well, now Ilya knows the reason why. Even to this day, the way that Shane smiled as he gently took over for Ilya, his foot lightly tapping the Russian’s, to answer the reporter's question makes something warm glow in his chest. Ilya knows it was one of the first times in America that someone was kind to him without expectation.
Even now, rookie season long over, as Shane and Ilya are traversing a new, lighter, brighter, better portion of their relationship after the cottage, Ilya loves the way Shane speaks English. He is always facing Ilya, his mouth pointed right at him so that Ilya can see his lips move. Shane is always so clear in his speech and his diction. His responses are level, no flitting inflections at random parts of the sentences. Every word said in the same measured cadence…most of the time. Ilya blushes thinking about the times that Shane loses his cadence, the times when Shane is flushed, a sheen of sweat, muscles taught in his neck as he loudly exhales from his mouth, the words coming out breathy and disjointed as Ilya buries his nose in the hair at the base of Shane’s cock, as Ilya pushes his hand upwards, up, up, up until he can grab Shane’s tit, and watch his head throw back into the pillows, a hiccuping coming out of his mouth as words fail him and Ilya sucks him down down down. Translating this language is easy, effortless. Ilya has never had to think.
But some days were harder for Ilya than others. Some days the English and the Russian get jumbled in his head–onne word running into another, “Must get this razogret' etu yedu, it needs to be hot on the pech’ , ya tebya lyublyu.”
Ilya knew when he awoke the morning of the MLH Gala that it was not going to be a “language clarity” day. He already felt the words winding together in his head as he stumbled up towards the bathroom to piss.
Need to brush zuby. Shit, where is my zubnaya pasta.
Groggily, Ilya remembers that his toothpaste was in the shower. When he was last in this apartment he and Shane had showered together before going their separate ways.
Ilya remembers brushing his teeth in the shower as Shane finished cleaning up, meticulously scrubbing his armpits and groin while Ilya looked him up and down, smirking around the toothbrush hanging out of his mouth.
“You are clean now, no? Skin will be gone soon and I will miss the freckles.”
“Shut up Rozanov,” Shane huffed, cheeks turning a light shade of pink. Ilya shrugged and continued to brush his teeth, eventually spitting towards the drain, dangerously close to hitting Shane’s feet.
“Hey! Watch it!” Shane retorted, his eyes widening as Ilya glanced up at him, feeling his lips stretch into a smirk as he slowly crowded him towards the shower wall. Soon his bulk was blocking out the water, caging in Shane with his arms. Shane didn’t balk, if anything he stood up straighter, forcing his mass into the space between Ilya’s biceps. His eyes contained a spark of humor as they met Ilya’s. Satisfied pleasure at the reaction oozed down, settling in the base of Ilya’s stomach. He felt himself harden slightly. Ilya gently pushed his hips into Shane’s.
“Relax Hollander. Besides, no toothpaste in my mouth means is much better to kiss you. Minty fresh–ahh.”
Shane, eyes glazed, had less than a second to react to Ilya exhaling right into his face, before Ilya swooped in, his arms surrounding Shane, and started hastily pressing minty kisses all over his chest. Shane guffawed as he tried to squirm away, laughing. “Ilya stop! I’m gonna slip, I’m gonna–” Ilya steadied him with a firm hand on his bicep, eyes shining.
“No worries. I hold you.”
“Asshole.”
Shane smiled as Ilya closed the gap between them, their mouths meeting, the kiss wet and fresh and entirely too short before they made their way out of the shower to pack up Shane’s suitcase, the toothpaste forgotten. Ilya would be seeing him in a few weeks at the gala.
Humming to himself, Ilya thinks about how good he felt that day, about how the lingering scent of Shane’s body wash (now a permanent resident in Ilya’s shower) and minty toothpaste made Ilya smile to himself when he came back inside after walking Shane to his car.
Moy kotenok. Ilya smiles to himself as he pushes aside the shower curtain to get the toothpaste off the shelf. He will be seeing Shane at this gala. While Yuna and David are aware of their relationship, Ilya and Shane both agreed to keep it to themselves for a bit longer. They are just getting used to being them unencumbered and in the sunshine. Neither is ready to bring more people into that...yet. Ilya gives himself a slight shake to bring himself back to the present, determined to get through this gala, because what is waiting for him at the end of the night is much better. He finishes his bathroom routine and gets dressed for the gym.
The gala is not going…well for Ilya. He thinks he manages alright. He smiles when he is supposed to. At least he thinks he does. Americans are always smiling. They smile about everything. It is a struggle to know when they mean it and difficult that at points they can speak through their smiles, denying Ilya the access to their lips moving, the words leaving their mouth meaning one thing when their face is saying another.
But just Americans is one thing, that is a night of only English. An effort, but only one track that Ilya must ride. No, tonight there were Russians too. Russian dignitaries and coaches and many businessmen involved in the world of hockey. Throughout the night, Ilya has found himself bouncing between Russian and English, back and forth back and forth, never feeling like he was able to have a full conversation in either before someone else was vying for his attention, and he would be forced to reorient his brain to that language.
As the night goes on, Ilya starts to feel more and more frayed. His brain is buzzing. His Russian, usually such a comfort to fall into, is leaving him almost without conscious thought. His words feel loose, ill-defined around the edges, especially as they start to push into his English phrases.
His English is much worse. It’s like every time he tries to get a word out there is a stoppage in his throat that he needs to get past. His responses are studdered, vowels and pronunciation and tenses haltingly coming out of his mouth. Ilya can feel the way that his accent is heavier, falling from his mouth to land on the floor of these conversations, people speaking at him, glasses in hand, unaware of his struggle to get his mouth to form the word “narrative.”
Question.
“How’s the season going? Are you finding yourself acclimating and becoming used to American customs?”
Response.
“Ah–yes. Boston–is cold. Not like Russia though.”
Question.
“What are you doing in your leisure time?”
Response.
“I watch documentary and train.”
These answers are not what Ilya wants to be saying. He has so much more to say. He could speak about how Boston is not as cold as Russia but sometimes when he is walking the streets he wishes it was warmer. He wants to say how he has almost made his way through all of Planet Earth, which he watches while he rolls out his hamstrings and stretches before bed, (Russian subtitles on with English narration, he must always be practicing, especially after seeing the way that Shane lit up when Ilya pointed out a cardinal outside the cottage). He could be saying all of these things, anything to make him seem like he’s not just a Russian hockey player who still hasn’t learned English 9 years later. But these words don’t make it out of Ilya’s mouth. They falter somewhere on their way out, getting lodged in his throat, costing him more than he has to leave his mouth.
On top of it all, Ilya can feel Shane’s eyes on him at various points throughout the night. Ilya is grateful that they haven’t been in any conversations together. He doesn’t want Shane to see how he is struggling tonight. The frustration he is feeling is making Ilya feel small and brittle, disproportionate with his size and the way that he is expected to carry himself in these situations; Upright, cocky, and self-assured. He feels frayed, like he can’t think straight, can’t even think clearly enough to decide what he wants in this moment. He feels like he is going to snap. Ilya imagines Shane finding him in an abandoned corner, his brain thunking out of his ears, babbling like a fool.
Enough. Nuzhna vodka.
After excusing himself from another conversation, Ilya makes his way over to the bar, his shoulders dropping slightly as he’s able to make his way through the crowd, people’s conversations weaving all around him.
“Eto dolzhno proizoyti v Rossii v sleduyushchem godu.”
“I think it’s the Metro’s year this year.”
“Vam nravitsya eta yeda?”
“What can I get for you?” Ilya startles, gaze snapping to the bartender who’s looking at him somewhat expectantly. Ilya blinks and realizes that he must have made his way to the bar in a daze.
“Vodka. Rocks,” Ilya gets out, his mouth refusing to pronounce the the forced friction of the English “v of vodka,” instead moving around the wider, heavier, bulkier Russian vuod sound. He sighs as he props his elbows on the bar, head hanging heavily between his shoulders for a moment. The bartender puts his drink down next to him shortly after.
“Spasibo,” Ilya murmurs as he turns away from the bar, spying the double doors that lead to the balcony across the ballroom. He scans the room for a set of eyes that he knows will find his. Shane catches his gaze from across the room. The lighting of the ballroom makes his skin look warm, rich and glowing. Shane’s eyes carry a nugget of concern as his eyebrow ticks upward minutely.
You good?
Ilya looks down and takes a sip of his vodka as he moves towards the doors. He knows that Shane will join him shortly.
Ilya makes his way across the room, “Proshu proshcheniya–thank you. Excuse me.”
“Da, is very nice being here with passionate hockey people.”
“Happy to play for Boston, is good team. I am grateful.”
Eventually he makes it through the double doors, inhaling as he steps out onto the patio, the cool night air calming him. Still holding the inhale, Ilya lets it drain out of him as he approaches the balcony, elbows on the railing, ending the exhale as his posture sinks and he supports himself on his elbows, looking down into the roundabout below where the valets purposefully walk, retrieving guests’ cars. Little ants with an easy script for the night.
“Ticket?”
“Yes, right away sir. Give me a moment to get your car.”
“Ticket?”
And on and on Ilya watches them. A boring job, yes, but he would never stumble here. The rules are basically the same every night. Ilya bets he wouldn’t even have to think–just deliver people’s cars when told, a clarity of expectation conveyed through language and action. Ilya inhales again and takes a sip of his vodka, the familiar burn pulling him out of his wayward thoughts as his eyes wander around the rest of the grounds.
Ilya feels his approach, the shift in the air, the way he can feel the bubble of calm expanding to envelop him. These nights aren’t easy for Shane either, Ilya knows this, but Shane remains a steady presence in Ilya’s life, their discomforts coalescing around each other so that one is always what the other needs in the moment. Ilya fights the urge to lean back into Shane as he feels him come up behind him.
“How are you feeling?” Shane asks him quietly, as he walks up to join him a respectful distance away, elbows resting on the balcony, mirroring Ilya’s posture. Ilya grunts.
Shane shifts next to him, edging slightly closer.
“Hey,” he says quietly. Ilya senses him turning to face him. “Look at me.”
Ilya slowly turns, his sleeves catching slightly on the rough stone of the balcony, to meet Shane Hollander’s brown eyes, brilliant as they catch the ambient light. They crinkle around the edges as Shane’s smile grows when Ilya drags his eyes up to meet his gaze.
“Hey,” he states again, Ilya’s eyes flit down to his mouth as he repeats, “How are you feeling?”
Ilya smiles to himself, a tendril of tension unraveling with the question–every word perfectly enunciated in the same way. No weird accented letters or inflections, just a steady, direct question stripped bare of any type of hidden meaning. A simple sentence solely for Ilya’s comprehension and Ilya’s simple and true response. Despite his exhaustion, Ilya’s chest tightens as a warmth spreads throughout him. He feels himself relax further.
“Am fine. Tired. Lots of language today with many words in many orders.”
“Ah.”
“Da. ‘Ah,’” Ilya responds wryly, a slight smile fighting against the downturn of his lips. Shane gazes back at him softly.
“I’m probably going to head home in the next thirty minutes or so.”
And this was new. Home. After the cottage, Shane had begun using that to describe wherever he and Ilya would meet. Whether it was a hotel room on the road, or Ilya’s apartment in Boston, or Shane’s apartment in Montreal, Shane referred to it as home. Every time he heard it, it made something expand in Ilya to the point of feeling like he was flying. He felt so full and so incapable of expressing it.
“But I’ll wait up for you.”
Ilya exhales shakily. “Da, ya tebya lyublyu.”
Shane’s eyes shone as he glanced down, a blush blooming across his cheeks, making his freckles stand out in stark relief.
“I ya tebya,” he says quietly as he turns away and Ilya’s heart skips a beat. Shane briefly squeezes Ilya’s shoulder before walking towards the patio doors to melt back into the crowd.
Ilya sighs, looking out at the valets scurrying back and forth as he grins down into his vodka, the ice clinking softly against the sides. Worth the scrambled brain. Every day.
Eventually, Ilya drifts back into the room, feeling lighter than he had an hour ago. He watches as Shane makes his goodbyes, artfully extricating himself from conversations and groups as he slowly makes his way towards the exit. Shane doesn’t catch Ilya’s gaze before he leaves, but Ilya never expected him to. Ilya could feel Shane weaving his way through the masses, catching a glimpse of the back of his neck through the crowd. He notes, with satisfaction, the slight flush at the base of Shane’s neck. Ilya smiles to himself. Eventually the energy in the room shifts, imperceptible to anyone but Ilya. Shane has left and the countdown begins in Ilya’s head. Soon.
Ilya stays long enough to make sure that everyone that wants to talk to him has a chance. He muscles through coaching strategy discussions, questions about team dynamics, “How’s Marleau adjusting to his knee surgery?,” questions about fundraising, questions about brand opportunities. He makes his way through all of it. Around the time that Ilya notices the majority of guests were starting to gravitate towards the door, coat check, and inevitably their cars, Ilya thinks he’s made it through enough that he’s earned the right to go home.
He deposits his empty glass at the bar and drops a hundred dollar bill in the tip jar. Already feeling lighter with the prospect of heading home, Ilya puts his hands in his pockets and walks purposefully across the ballroom to join the wave of people making their way to the exit.
Ilya retrieves his coat, another bill in another tip jar, and why shouldn’t he? Everyone here worked to make this night for people like him go seamlessly. Ilya is aware that so much of his life goes seamlessly due to the labor of others. Ilya is many things, but stingy is not one of them.
He checks his phone while waiting in the valet line, thumbing open an unread text from Shane. A photo of Coke can next to a small wrapped plate of pelmeni, with a small bowl of sour cream with dill greets him. Ilya can see the tips of Shane’s bare feet in the bottom of the frame, toes poking out from loose sweats. Shane has showered and is comfortable in their home, their home. Ilya feels his heart clench as another small hardened part of himself cracks and falls aside.
Ready for you.
The pelmeni is from the Russian bakery that is thirty minutes away from the apartment, but Shane and Ilya make the trip every time they are home–in this home. It’s routine at this point and Ilya treasures that thirty minute drive, Shane behind the wheel with Ilya’s hand carding through his hair, catching up and reconnecting and realigning towards each other’s orbit for however long they have that particular visit. It’s the best start to every visit and Ilya never wants it to stop.
The screen goes blurry and Ilya realizes that his face feels flush and there’s a stinging behind his eyes. He sends a heart and quickly drops his phone into his trouser pocket. He sniffs and rubs his hand across his nose, settling back into Ilya Rozanov, Boston Captain, as he approaches the valet attendant.
“Ticket?"
Ilya passes the valet stub to the younger man with a nod.
“Right away Mr. Rozanov. One moment.”
Ilya stands with his hand in his pocket watching as people migrate towards their vehicles and pull out of the parking area. The line of red tail lights curves around the corner and out of sight as people make their way to the highway.
“Here you go!” The attendant hands him his keys.
“Thank you and here, this is for you,” Ilya says as he presses a bill into the man’s hand.
“Oh no sir, I couldn’t possib–”
“No. I insist. This is for you. Thank you.” Ilya drops his hand leaving the man standing with a crumpled hundred dollar bill as Ilya makes his way to his car, keys swinging.
Easiest conversation he’d had all night.