Work Text:
Understanding
The first thing Shane notices is the crumbs.
Not the suitcase by the door.
Not the wet skates left on the mat.
Not the jacket slung over the back of the dining chair.
The crumbs.
They’re everywhere.
On the counter. On the stove. On the floor in front of the sink like a careless constellation. A torn loaf of bread sits open on the island, knife abandoned in butter, crumbs pressed into the wood grain Shane oiled by hand last spring.
He stands in the doorway, gym bag still over his shoulder.
The cottage is quiet except for the kettle hissing and Ilya humming something low and tuneless from the kitchen.
Shane inhales once.
Slow.
He sets his bag down in its place. Hooks his keys on their hook. Aligns his shoes carefully against the mat.
The crumbs are still there.
“Ilya.”
No answer. Just the scrape of a chair.
Shane steps into the kitchen.
Ilya is barefoot, hair still damp from the shower, wearing Shane’s Ottawa shirt — the red one. It hangs loose on his frame, sleeves pushed up, hem brushing his thighs. When he turns slightly, Shane catches the bold lettering stretched across his back.
HOLLANDER.
His name.
The sight hits him in the chest before the rest of the scene does.
Ilya is cutting tomatoes directly on the counter. No cutting board. Juice streaks toward the edge, threatening the floor.
“Ilya,” Shane says again, tighter now.
Ilya glances up. “What?”
Shane gestures vaguely at everything.
“What is this?”
Ilya follows the motion of his hand like he genuinely doesn’t understand the question. “Food?”
The tomato slips. Seeds scatter.
Shane’s jaw tightens.
“You’re not using a board.”
“I wash counter.”
“That’s not the point.”
Ilya shrugs and keeps cutting.
The knife scrapes against the wood.
The sound makes something in Shane’s spine pull taut.
It’s not just the counter. It’s the pattern breaking. It’s coming home and the space not feeling like it’s supposed to. It’s the shirt on Ilya’s body — his name on Ilya’s back — and the counter underneath being ruined at the same time.
Shane steps forward and stills Ilya’s wrist.
“Stop.”
Ilya freezes, surprised.
“You’re making a mess.”
There’s a beat.
“I am cooking.”
“You’re making a mess,” Shane repeats, voice sharpening. “The bread is open. The butter’s out. There’s water on the floor. You left your skates by the door again.”
Ilya pulls his hand back slowly.
“I will clean.”
“That’s not how this works.”
Ilya straightens. The shirt shifts on his shoulders. HOLLANDER stretches as he moves.
“What does that mean?”
“It means things have a place. There’s a system.”
“Yes, I know.” His tone shifts — faintly edged. “System.”
Shane misses it.
“You can’t just—” He gestures helplessly at the counter. “—do this.”
Ilya stares at him for a long second.
Then he says, still in English, careful and tight, “It is bread and tomatoes, Shane. Not a hurricane.”
The kettle clicks off.
The silence after is worse.
Shane grabs a cloth and starts wiping the counter in sharp, precise strokes. He doesn’t look at Ilya.
“It’s not about the bread.”
“Then what?”
“You wouldn’t get it.”
The words land wrong.
Ilya goes very still.
The shirt hangs loose now as he shifts his weight. Shane’s name on his back feels suddenly too intimate. Too exposed.
“Try me,” Ilya says quietly.
Shane scrubs harder. “It’s just— things are supposed to be where they belong.”
“And I do not belong?”
Shane looks up, genuinely startled. “What? That’s not what I said.”
But Ilya’s expression has already changed.
He switches.
“Ты всегда так.” His voice drops, faster now. “Всегда всё должно быть по-твоему. Всё под контролем.”
Shane catches always. Control.
He hates that he knows those.
“Ilya—”
“Я стараюсь, Шейн,” he continues, frustration rising. “Но я не могу быть идеальным на английском, идеальным здесь, идеальным—”
Too fast.
Shane understands trying. Perfect. English.
He doesn’t understand the rest.
“Stop,” Shane snaps. “Stop switching.”
Ilya laughs once, sharp and humorless.
“Why? You do not like when you do not understand?”
“I wear your name,” Ilya continues quietly. “And you are worried about wood.”
Shane opens his mouth.
Closes it.
“It’s not about the counter,” he says finally, but his voice sounds wrong. Too sharp. Too defensive.
“Then say what it is.”
“I just need things a certain way.”
“Yes.” Ilya nods once. “I know.”
The way he says it isn’t agreement. It’s indictment.
“You need things clean. Straight. In lines. You need quiet. You need order.”
“That’s not a crime.”
“I did not say it was.”
“Then stop acting like it is.”
Ilya exhales through his nose. His shoulders rise and fall under the red fabric, HOLLANDER stretching with his breath.
“You think I do not try?” he asks, English tightening. “You think I do not notice how you look at things?”
“I’m not looking at things.”
“You are always looking,” Ilya snaps. “At what is wrong.”
The word wrong sticks between them.
Shane latches onto it automatically.
“I didn’t say wrong.”
“You do not have to say.”
Ilya turns away for a second, presses his palms flat against the counter — the counter Shane is so upset about — like he needs something solid.
When he speaks again, it’s in Russian. Faster.
“Ты хочешь, чтобы всё было правильно. По правилам. По твоим правилам.”
Shane catches правильно.
Right. Correct.
Rules.
He hates that he knows those words.
“You want everything correct,” he says carefully.
Ilya’s head snaps up.
“Yes.”
His voice cracks on the single word.
“And when I am not correct—” He gestures to himself. “When my English is not correct, when I choose wrong word, when I speak too fast or too slow—”
“That’s not—”
Ilya cuts him off, switching fully now.
“Я думаю о каждом слове.”
(I think about every word.)
“Каждом.” He presses the word harder. “Прежде чем сказать.”
Shane understands each. Before. Say.
“I think about every word before I say it,” he translates quietly.
Ilya’s breathing shifts.
“And you,” Ilya continues, slipping between languages now without noticing, “you speak and it is easy. It is clean. It is sharp. You always know exactly what you mean.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
He steps closer again, not aggressive — desperate.
“When I fight with you in English, I am slower. I am stupid. I cannot catch up.”
“You’re not stupid.”
“I feel stupid.”
That lands heavier.
He switches again, softer now, but more intense.
“Я чувствую себя глупым.”
(I feel stupid.)
Shane understands that one fully.
He feels something twist low in his stomach.
“And when I am tired,” Ilya continues, Russian quickening, “я устаю переводить себя. Переводить мысли. Переводить эмоции.”
Translate.
Thoughts.
Emotions.
Shane’s pulse jumps.
“I get tired of translating myself,” he says, almost involuntary.
Ilya stops breathing for a second.
“Yes.”
His voice is barely audible.
“And when I stop translating,” Ilya continues, “when I just speak how it comes—”
He gestures at the room. At the counter. At the cottage.
“You look at me like I made mistake.”
Shane shakes his head immediately. “No.”
“Yes.”
The word is quiet but firm.
“You say it is not about the counter. But it is about control.”
“I am not controlling you.”
Ilya laughs — not cruel, just tired.
“You control space. You control schedule. You control where things belong.” His eyes flick to the floor. “And when I do not fit inside that system, you panic.”
The word hits too close.
“I don’t panic.”
“You do.” Ilya’s English frays again. “You get this look. Like something is wrong and you must fix it.”
He steps even closer.
“And sometimes,” he says softly, “I think you are trying to fix me.”
The cottage goes silent.
Shane’s brain scrambles for logic. For correction.
“I’m not trying to fix you.”
“Then why does it feel like I must be smaller here?” Ilya asks. “Quieter. Straighter. Less.”
Less.
The word echoes.
Ilya switches again, and this time his Russian isn’t fast. It’s deliberate. Controlled in a way that hurts more.
“Я не беспорядок.”
(I am not chaos.)
“Я не ошибка.”
(I am not a mistake.)
“Я просто…” He falters. “Я просто по-другому.”
Different.
Shane understands that one without thinking.
Different.
The worst part is — Shane never thought chaos meant Ilya.
He thought it meant crumbs.
He thought it meant sound and texture and pattern breaking.
But standing here, with his name on Ilya’s back and that look in his eyes, he sees how it could feel the same.
“I didn’t mean you,” Shane says quietly.
“But I am here,” Ilya replies. “In your house. In your space. In your system.”
His hand presses briefly against his own chest.
“And when you say chaos… I hear me.”
That’s the fracture.
Not the counter.
Not the crumbs.
The language.
The gap between what Shane says
and what Ilya hears.
The fight doesn’t end.
It just… cools.
Dinner is quiet. The counter is spotless. The cutting board sits out like proof of compliance.
Ilya doesn’t switch languages again.
That might be the worst part.
Shane walks back to his room after dinner, the quiet of the cottage pressing around him. He leans against the doorframe for a moment, watching Ilya move through the apartment, calm and precise, like nothing had happened.
The crumbs, the counter, the words—they all feel heavier now, tangled with something larger he can’t quite name. He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair, and mutters a few of the phrases Mikhail taught him under his breath, testing them, tasting the syllables. Я не пытаюсь тебя исправить… Ты не ошибка…
Each word feels like a small bridge he’s building, a way to cross the gap without breaking the fragile quiet between them.
—
The next afternoon, Shane stays late after practice.
Mikhail is still in the locker room, headphones half on, scrolling through his phone.
“Hey,” Shane says.
Mikhail looks up. Grins. “Hollander. You need something?”
Shane hesitates, then sits on the bench across from him.
“How do you say… ‘I’m not trying to control you’?”
Mikhail raises an eyebrow. “Uh-oh.”
“Just tell me.”
He does.
Shane repeats it until the syllables sit right in his mouth.
Then:
“And ‘You’re not a mistake.’”
Mikhail’s expression shifts slightly at that one.
He translates anyway.
By the time Shane leaves, his Notes app is full of phonetic spellings.
He doesn’t realize Mikhail finds the whole thing faintly adorable.
—
Later that evening, their apartment in Ottawa is quieter than usual.
Ilya is on the couch, scrolling through something on his tablet when Shane’s phone buzzes on the coffee table.
He doesn’t look at it at first.
Then it buzzes again.
Ilya glances over automatically.
The screen lights up.
Mikhail 🇷🇺
Ilya’s brow furrows slightly. Of course he knows Mikhail. The kid stalls next to him in the locker room. Still calls him “Rozzy” like he’s earned it.
Another buzz.
The preview expands.
Ты мой хороший 😉
Practice was brutal today.
Ilya stills.
Another message follows immediately.
Люблю тебя, Шейн 😂
You survived bag skate.
His chest tightens.
He knows exactly what those words mean. He’s said them. In a different tone. In different moments.
They don’t look like jokes on a locked screen.
Shane comes back from the kitchen wiping his hands on a towel.
“What?”
Ilya doesn’t answer right away.
He just picks up the phone and turns it toward him.
Shane’s stomach drops.
“It’s not—”
“Mikhail?” Ilya says evenly. “Our Mikhail?”
“Yes.”
“The one who cannot even cook pasta without Googling it?”
“Yes.”
“And he calls you мой хороший?”
Shane steps forward, flustered. “It’s not like that.”
Ilya stands.
“He is texting you ‘I love you.’”
“It’s a joke.”
“Is it?”
The tone isn’t explosive. It’s controlled. Which is worse.
“He’s helping me,” Shane says.
“Helping you what?”
Shane hesitates — and immediately sees the damage that pause does.
Ilya’s jaw tightens.
“You fight with me about language. About not understanding. And then you go to him?”
“I didn’t go to him like that.”
“How did you go?”
Shane runs a hand through his hair. “I asked him how to say things.”
“Things.”
“Yes.”
“What things, Shane?”
The apartment feels small again. Like the cottage did after the crumbs.
Shane exhales sharply. “I asked how to say I’m not trying to fix you.”
The air shifts.
Ilya doesn’t move.
“And,” Shane continues, quieter now, “you’re not a mistake.”
Silence.
The jealousy doesn’t disappear — it reshapes.
“You could have asked me,” Ilya says finally.
His voice isn’t angry now.
It’s hurt.
“You were already frustrated,” Shane says. “Every time I ask what something means, you think I’m criticizing how you said it.”
Ilya flinches slightly at that.
“That is not—”
“It is,” Shane insists. “You get defensive.”
“Because I am trying.”
“I know.”
“Then why go to him?”
Shane struggles for the answer.
Because I didn’t want to get it wrong in front of you.
Because I wanted to surprise you.
Because when you look at me like I don’t get it, I feel behind.
Instead he says:
“I wanted to understand before I spoke.”
Ilya stares at him.
“Understand what?”
“When you switch.”
A long pause.
“I don’t want you to have to translate yourself every time you’re upset,” Shane says quietly. “I don’t want to be one more place you feel behind.”
That lands.
Hard.
Ilya’s shoulders drop just slightly.
But there’s still something raw there.
“He calls you мой хороший,” Ilya says again, softer now.
“You’re the one who taught me that one,” Shane replies.
“That does not mean I like seeing it from someone else.”
There’s something almost childish about the jealousy. Honest. Unfiltered.
Shane steps closer.
“He’s teaching me vocabulary,” he says. “Not replacing you.”
Ilya’s gaze searches his face.
“You should let me teach you,” he says finally.
Shane hesitates.
“Not when we’re fighting,” he says.
That’s the truth of it.
And that’s what makes Ilya inhale sharply.
Because that’s the real wound.
That night, they don’t talk about it again.
Not directly.
Ilya showers first. Steam fills the bathroom. Shane hears the water shut off and counts to ten before going down the hallway.
Ilya is sitting on the edge of the bed when Shane walks in, towel slung low around his hips, hair damp and curling at the ends. The room smells like soap and cedar.
There’s still something careful between them.
Not broken.
Just fragile.
Shane stands there for a second, watching him.
“I practiced,” he says finally.
Ilya looks up slowly. “Practiced what?”
Shane swallows.
The syllables feel heavy in his mouth, but he forces them out anyway.
“Я… не пытаюсь тебя исправить.”
The accent isn’t perfect. The grammar is slightly stiff.
But it’s understandable.
Ilya freezes.
Shane keeps going, quieter now.
“Ты не ошибка.”
You’re not a mistake.
The room goes very still.
Ilya’s eyes flick over his face, searching for mockery, for hesitation.
There’s none.
“You asked Mikhail for that,” he says softly.
“Yes.”
A beat.
“But I’m saying it to you.”
Something shifts in Ilya’s expression — not dramatic, just subtle. Like a door unlocking.
Shane steps closer.
“And,” he adds, voice rougher now, “я… хочу понимать тебя.”
I want to understand you.
That one he practiced alone.
Ilya exhales slowly.
“You sound very serious,” he murmurs.
“I am serious.”
Silence stretches between them.
Then Ilya reaches out and hooks his fingers in the fabric of Shane’s shirt, pulling him closer until their knees bump.
“You missed one thing,” Ilya says quietly.
Shane frowns slightly. “What?”
Ilya switches to Russian, slow and deliberate.
“Ты не пытаешься меня исправить… но иногда ты пытаешься контролировать.”
You’re not trying to fix me… but sometimes you try to control.
Shane processes it. Not every word — but enough.
“Sometimes,” he admits.
Honest.
Ilya studies him for another long second.
Then, softer:
“Но ты учишься.”
But you’re learning.
Shane lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
“I am,” he says.
Ilya’s gaze drifts across his face, lingering.
“You know what I like?” he says, switching back to English.
“What?”
“These.” Ilya lifts a hand and brushes his thumb lightly over Shane’s cheek. “Your freckles.”
Shane’s face warms instantly. “What about them?”
“They look like someone spilled constellations on you.” His accent thickens slightly around the words. “Very messy.”
Shane snorts despite himself. “Messy?”
“Yes.” Ilya’s mouth curves faintly. “And I like them anyway.”
The tension cracks.
Shane leans in without thinking.
The kiss isn’t rushed. It isn’t desperate.
It’s careful.
Like testing the new shape of something.
Ilya’s hands slide to his waist. Shane’s fingers tangle in damp hair. Their mouths move slow at first — then less careful. Then not careful at all.
When they finally break apart, Ilya rests his forehead against Shane’s.
“Ты мой,” he murmurs.
Shane understands that one perfectly.
“You’re mine too,” he replies.
—
The next morning at practice, everything feels almost normal.
Almost.
Mikhail is at his stall when Shane walks in.
“Hey, Hollander,” he grins. “Did the Russian work?”
Shane shoots him a look. “Shut up.”
Mikhail laughs.
Across the room, Ilya watches the exchange.
He knows there’s nothing there.
Logically.
Emotionally? Different story.
During drills, he skates past Shane and bumps his shoulder harder than necessary.
“Careful,” he says lightly. “Would not want you distracted by language lessons.”
Shane rolls his eyes and his angry kitten face appeared . “Oh my God. Fuck off”
Mikhail glides over during a break. “Hey, Rozzy, I was just helping him with—”
“I know what you were helping him with,” Ilya says smoothly, but with narrow eyes.
Mikhail blinks.
Shane glares. “Don’t start.”
“I am not starting,” Ilya says innocently. “I just think it is very sweet. You teaching him pet names.”
“It wasn’t—” Shane begins.
Ilya leans in slightly, voice low enough that only Shane hears.
“If he calls you мой хороший again, I will make him bag skate until he cries.”
Shane stares at him.
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Yes,” Ilya agrees calmly. “I am.”
A beat.
“But you are still mine.”
Shane feels heat crawl up his neck — even in full gear, even under fluorescent lights.
“You’re impossible.”
Ilya smirks.
“And you understand that word.”
He pushes off and skates away.
Shane watches him go.
He understands more than that now.
The next few days are quieter.
The apartment hums with routine. Shane keeps practicing Russian when Ilya isn’t looking — phrases, pronunciation, little things he wants to say right, not just memorized words. Every so often, Ilya catches him murmuring under his breath and teases him lightly, fingers brushing over Shane’s freckles. Shane swats him away, laughing, but his chest feels full every time Ilya laughs at him — that mix of affection and frustration, soft and hot at the same time.
Sometimes, they lie on the couch after practice. Shane leans against Ilya, warm and steady, and whispers the new words he’s learned.
“Я не пытаюсь тебя исправить.”
“I’m not trying to fix you.”
“Ты не ошибка.”
“You’re not a mistake.”
Ilya smiles, brushing his thumb over Shane’s cheek. “You sound… softer when you say that.”
Shane swallows. “I’m trying to be better at understanding you.”
And it hits him one night, lying there, listening to the quiet hum of the apartment — white noise in the background, the warmth of Ilya against him, the freckles he still can’t stop looking at. He wants to understand Ilya. Completely. Not just the words. Not just the feelings he can translate. All of it. Every single thing, forever.
He rolls onto his side, brushing his hand over Ilya’s shoulder. “Ilya,” he says, tentative.
“Hmm?” Ilya hums, eyes half-closed.
Shane takes a deep breath. “I… I’ve been practicing. Russian. Not just… words. For us.”
Ilya raises an eyebrow. “For us?”
“Yes,” Shane says, voice tight but steady. “Because I want to… understand you. All of you. Every day. My whole life.”
Ilya turns to look at him, eyes softening. “Even my chaos?”
Shane nods, smile a little crooked. “Especially your chaos.”
“Come with me!”, Shane gets up and extends his hand to pull Ilya out of their bed. He walks with him together, only sweatpants on, outside on the balcony. Rain is pouring on to them. For a moment the are just staring at each other.
There’s a pause. Then Shane leans in, cupping Ilya’s face gently. “And… before I say I do…”
Ilya blinks, confused, and Shane lets out a breath, almost laughing at himself. “…No ring, Hollander,” he mutters, because it feels silly, but necessary.
Ilya chuckles softly, breathless while the rain is dropping out of his blond curls. “No ring. You think I’m that easy girl to get?”
“No ring,” Shane repeats. “Just… me. Saying this. I want to say it right.”
He presses his forehead to Ilya’s, heart pounding. “Ты выйдешь за меня?”
Ilya freezes, eyes wide, then his lips curve into a small, incredulous smile. “Hollander…” he whispers, voice thick.
Shane tilts his head, searching for an answer in Ilya’s face.
“Yes,” Ilya says finally, voice breaking a little, “I will.”
Shane grins, relief and joy flooding him, and pulls Ilya close. Their laughter mixes with the noise of the rain.
The rain has slowed to a steady drizzle, tapping softly on the patio roof. Shane and Ilya are wrapped in a single hoodie, shoulders pressed together, heads leaning. Shane’s still murmuring Russian under his breath, practicing quietly.
Ilya smiles, brushing a wet curl off his forehead. “Still getting the pronunciation wrong,” he teases, but his fingers linger on Shane’s cheek.
“I’m trying,” Shane says, voice muffled against Ilya’s shoulder. “I want it to be perfect for you.”
“It doesn’t have to be perfect,” Ilya whispers. “It just has to be you.”
Shane tilts his head up, catching Ilya’s gaze. “You mean all of it? Even my… chaos?”
Ilya laughs softly, warm and low. “Especially your chaos.”
They stay like that for a long moment, listening to the rain, the hum of the lights overhead, the quiet world around them. Shane thinks about all the fights, all the misunderstandings, the jealousy, the crumbs, the mispronounced words. And he realizes that none of it matters now. None of it ever mattered as much as this — the quiet, steady understanding between them.
He murmurs a line he’s been practicing for weeks, softly, in Russian:
“Я хочу понимать тебя всю жизнь.”
(I want to understand you my whole life.)
Ilya presses a kiss to his temple. “And you do,” he says simply. “Every day, you do.”
Shane smiles, and for the first time, he feels like he truly does.
They move inside, shedding wet shoes and hoodies. The apartment smells faintly of rain and cedar and home. Shane leans against the counter while Ilya begins making tea. Words spill between them, half-English, half-Russian, all meaning.
At the table, Shane watches Ilya carefully fold the corner of a napkin, align the cups just so, and for a moment he remembers the fight, the counter, the chaos. But now it feels different. Safe. Loved. Lived-in.
Ilya catches his gaze and smiles, freckles and damp hair catching the light. “You’ve been practicing too hard,” he teases.
“Never hard enough,” Shane replies.
Ilya laughs with a suggestive smirk, "You know what else will be hard later." They both laugh.
Outside, the lights twinkle over the balcony, rain patters softly. Inside, there is warmth, there is quiet, there is fullness. There is understanding.
And Shane knows — finally — that no matter what language they speak, no matter what chaos life brings, this is home. This is forever.
They sit together, sipping tea, talking, laughing, leaning into each other. The world continues outside, but here, under the glow of simple electric lights and the gentle hum of rain, there is nothing else. Just them.
And it is enough.