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When Shane had first come over to view the spare room, he had asked precisely two questions- does he need any rental references, and does Ilya mind if he brings his air fryer?
Ilya, the senior student subletting the empty room in his apartment, had asked two questions back - is Shane fine with him smoking an occasional cigarette on the balcony, and what date does he want to move in?
In between all that, and the logistics of setting a move-in date and exchanging contacts and bank account details and what utility bills needed splitting, it does not organically come up that Shane had studied Russian for five years in high school, because the other language option was French and that was boring as Shane had already gone to a French immersion primary school.
After all, they’re busy college students with separate lives. Their only conversations will revolve around whose turn it is to take out the trash, reminders to pay the electricity bill, and maybe an occasional argument about someone eating the other person’s yogurt.
It should not matter at all that Shane speaks Russian. Not one bit.
-
“What a perfect ass.”
When it happens the first time, Shane is bent over unloading the dishwasher, and his brain takes two seconds to translate the Russian into English.
Shane is speechless for a moment, frozen with his face still half-buried in the dishwasher. This would be a great time to tell Ilya, his new roommate who is Russian, that Shane can in fact speak and understand Russian, and currently also has a 539-day streak on his Russian lessons on Duolingo. Sure, it will be a little awkward, considering what Ilya has just commented, but they’ll probably just laugh about it and then move on with their lives.
Instead, Shane straightens up and turns. Ilya is leaning in the kitchen doorway, an empty bowl in one hand, and a half-drunk glass of vodka cradled in the other.
"What was that?"
“Oh, nothing,” Ilya replies casually, a small, crooked smile on his face. “Thank you for clearing dishwasher.”
“Yeah, sure,” Shane says. He turns back and busies himself with sorting out the cutlery. Surely it doesn’t mean anything, he thinks.
-
Shane knows his roommate is really fucking hot, not just because he’s gay, but because he has, like, eyes. One afternoon, he bumps into Ilya in the hallway. Ilya has just come out of their shared bathroom after a shower and is wearing nothing except a towel wrapped around his waist.
Shane knows he’s staring, but Ilya has broad shoulders and frankly obscene abs, his chest still glistening wetly from the shower. They both freeze, just staring at each other until Ilya huffs out a soft laugh and says under his breath in Russian, “Very cute when you blush.”
Shane blinks. For a second, he’s stuck thinking of what to reply, when he realises he’s not supposed to understand a word. Shane had brushed aside the comment Ilya had made in the kitchen the other day, thinking it was just a joke or he’d misheard, but a second time can’t be a coincidence.
Before Shane can do anything, Ilya walks past him and disappears into his room, leaving him standing confused and red-faced in the hallway.
-
Shane has taken over the dining table with his laptop, five Psychology textbooks, a rainbow of highlighters and a 1.5 litre bottle of Canada Dry. His assignment is due in exactly five days, and while some of his classmates might think that’s plenty of time, he’s busy spiralling about only having written 3100 words of the minimum 5000-word limit the professor had set.
Ilya strolls into the kitchen wearing jeans and a black tank top, his curls pushed back. He’s clearly about to head out for the night and looks like absolute sin. Shane, on the other hand, is wearing his glasses and an old hockey team t-shirt, so worn that the letters across his chest are half-faded and now say ‘OTTWA HICKEY.’
Ilya stops short in the doorway, his eyes fixed on Shane’s face and his mouth falling open a bit.
“Sorry,” Shane apologises, gesturing to his mess across the tabletop. “I can tidy up if you need to use the table…”
Ilya blinks and shakes his head like he’s snapping himself out of a daze, and says, “No, is fine. I am going out.”
He then adds in Russian, “Of course you wear glasses too.”
Ilya opens the fridge and sticks his head in, still muttering softly under his breath as he rummages around. Shane hears him say, “Fucking glasses, and fucking freckles. He wants to kill me.”
Shane frowns down at his textbook, pushing his glasses up his nose self-consciously. What the fuck does this guy have against glasses, and freckles for that matter?
-
“Did you use my milk again?”
Ilya looks up from his phone to find a carton of soy milk being thrust into his face. He smirks slightly. “That is not milk. Tasted like shit.”
“It’s soy, it’s supposed to be healthier,” Shane snaps. “Anyway that’s beside the point. You can’t just drink my stuff and finish it and then leave the empty carton in the fridge!”
Ilya’s smirk grows into a full-blown grin. “Котенок.”
Kitten. Ilya has just called him a kitten. Shane narrows his eyes. “What did you just say?”
“Kotenok,” Ilya repeats. “You’re like a tiny angry kitten.”
Shane is this close to breaking. He’s about to let loose a volley of Russian and tell Ilya exactly where he can stick the carton of milk when Ilya suddenly stands and takes it from Shane’s hand.
“It means, sorry, I will buy you new milk tomorrow.” He takes it to the sink and rinses it out, then pointedly places it in the recycling bin as Shane watches. “See? Am very good roommate. Caring for the environment and everything.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”
“Are you still angry?” Ilya asks, tilting his head and looking solemnly at Shane like he’s really asking.
“No,” Shane says petulantly.
“You are.”
“Am not.”
Ilya shoots him a pleading look. “I make you dinner tonight to say sorry.”
“I’m on a macrobiotic diet right now, for hockey. I can’t just eat instant mac and cheese like you do.”
It’s now Ilya’s turn to roll his eyes. “I know what you eat Shane, I see you with your sad rabbit food everyday.”
“It’s not sad, it’s healthy,” Shane huffs. “But fine, if you want to cook dinner, go ahead, I didn’t get to the grocery store today anyway.”
He tells himself he agrees because he’s curious to see what Ilya, who Shane has not seen eat a single fruit or vegetable since he moved in six weeks ago, will cook, and not because he wants to know what it’ll feel like to sit down together and share dinner with his very confusing but hot roommate.
He’s pleasantly stunned when Ilya sets down a bowl of salad with grilled chicken in front of him an hour later. He doesn’t even know where Ilya had obtained the vegetables from. The food is actually delicious, and Ilya looks very smug across the table as Shane tucks in.
“Thanks for cooking,” Shane says.
“You’re welcome, zaika,” Ilya replies with a smirk.
Bunny. Shane has to almost bury his face in his bowl so Ilya won’t see how red he is.
-
Hayden has convinced Shane to join some of the guys on the team for drinks at a nearby bar, and Shane agrees because he’s ahead on all his assignments and readings and doesn’t really have any plans for the night. He puts on jeans and a light blue button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, feeling self conscious about not wearing sweats or athletic wear for once.
“You look pretty.”
Shane pauses by the front door where he’s pulling on his shoes.
“Sorry, what did you say?” He hopes Ilya doesn’t notice how his face heats up. It’s starting to become a little inconvenient, the way he automatically blushes every time Ilya speaks to him in Russian. Before long, it’s going to give him away, and that wouldn’t that be fucking embarrassing.
“I said, hot date tonight?” Ilya asks, leaning nonchalantly against the kitchen entryway and staring blatantly at Shane.
“Just having drinks with some of the guys from the team.”
“Hmmm, okay. Have fun.”
It’s a Friday night and the bar is packed with students letting loose for the weekend. The guys force him to do one shot, before Shane switches back to ginger ale. He’s left alone in their booth for a brief moment when J.J’s at the bar getting more drinks, Hayden’s in the corner chatting up a girl from his Econs class that he’s got a crush on, and the rest of them are on the dance floor.
A guy who looks vaguely familiar slides into the seat next to Shane- he thinks he’s seen him around campus before. He’s handsome, with green eyes and light brown hair, and is clearly interested in Shane. He flirts back a bit, but when the guy invites him back to his place, Shane politely turns him down.
It’s almost 2am by the time Shane gets back after wrestling a drunken J.J into an Uber and dropping him off - Hayden had disappeared earlier with Econs girl - and he comes into the apartment to find Ilya knocked out on the couch and snoring lightly. There is a documentary about dinosaurs playing loudly on the TV and an empty pizza box on the coffee table.
Shane picks up the remote and turns off the TV, and is about to head to his room when he hears a small groan. Ilya is sitting up slowly and blinking blearily at him.
“You’re home.”
“Yeah,” Shane says softly. The room suddenly feels very quiet. “It’s late, why aren’t you in bed?”
Ilya looks blankly at the TV. “I was watching…something. I fell asleep.”
“Okay. Well, goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Shane.”
Shane is halfway to his room when he hears a quiet “I’m glad you came home,” from behind him.
Shane is exhausted, but he lies in bed unable to sleep for a long time, very aware of Ilya in the room right next to his, with only a thin wall separating them.
-
A few weeks later, Shane comes back from hockey practice feeling absolutely disgusting, because the change rooms at the rink are under maintenance and no one had been able to take a shower after practice. He couldn’t bear to put on a clean hoodie over his sweaty skin and he had walked all the way home in his gym tank top and sweatpants.
When he comes into the apartment tiredly dragging his duffel bag, Ilya looks up from the dining table and does an almost comical double take.
“Fuck, I want to lick the sweat from your neck.”
Shane stops in his tracks and his mind stutters to a halt. He thinks he’s heard wrongly, but Ilya is staring at him so intensely that for one heart-stopping second, Shane thinks he knows, knows that Shane understands every word, even though he hasn’t done a thing to give himself away. He’s even been doing his Russian Duolingo lesson every night burrowed under his comforter with the volume turned down low, just so Ilya won’t hear it through the wall between their rooms.
It hasn’t gone unnoticed to him that Ilya has been dropping more Russian into their conversations lately. He calls Shane kotenok or zaika, tacking it on to the end of random questions. He makes comments about the state of Shane’s hair in the mornings, which he apparently thinks is adorable. He curses under his breath every time he catches sight of Shane wearing his glasses.
Shane can no longer ignore the swoop in his stomach with every comment Ilya makes. He has realised he doesn’t want Ilya to stop, actually, and he has no idea what to do about it.
Shane belatedly registers he’s still frozen in the doorway, his duffel dangling limply from his hand. Ilya still hasn’t taken his eyes, smouldering and dark, off him. A mental image flashes traitorously in Shane’s head. Ilya, his lips on Shane’s neck, the hard muscles of his bare chest pressed against his own.
He promises himself he’ll tell Ilya soon. He will. He breaks his gaze with llya’s and heads to the bathroom to take a very cold shower.
-
Shane had learnt soon after moving in that Ilya loves to watch stupid action movies, at a very loud volume, and he also learnt that he loves eating family-sized bags of popcorn, which he sometimes mixes with M&Ms or some other candy, while watching said movies.
He’d almost had an aneurysm the first time he had walked in on Ilya sprawled on the couch, shovelling sticky, caramel popcorn into his mouth and spraying crumbs all over the cushions and the carpet while one of the John Wick movies blasted on the TV.
Shane couldn't go to sleep that night until he had vacuumed the living room, and Ilya had walked in on him and remarked in Russian that he should put on a sexy maid’s uniform the next time, and Shane had just froze there, half turned-on, and half wanting to throw the vacuum cleaner at Ilya’s head.
“Do you want to watch the new Fast and Furious movie?”
Now, Ilya is looking at him earnestly from the couch, and Shane can’t bring himself to say no, even though he never understands the storyline of these kind of movies.
“Sure,” he agrees, and settles down next to Ilya, who’s smiling at him like he’s just won the lottery.
“Give me two seconds,” Ilya says and bolts off the couch and into the kitchen. He comes back a few minutes later with a large bowl of popcorn.
“Is plain,” Ilya says as he sets the bowl down. He shoots Shane a wink. “Healthier for you, yes?”
“Thanks,” Shane replies, and he feels something warm bloom in his chest.
In the middle of the film, which has some convoluted plotline that actually has nothing to do with cars, Shane’s phone pings sharply from the coffee table. He picks it up and reads the notification - Shane. Do your Duolingo, followed by a row of menacing owl emojis.
“You need to reply? I can pause,” Ilya says.
Shane sets his phone face-down back on the table. “Oh it’s nothing, just my Duolingo reminder.”
”That app where that green bird terrorises you if you do not do your lesson one minute after midnight?”
”Yeah, you use it too?”
“I used to,” Ilya scoffs, “For English, when I first came to Canada. I deleted because the bird was being very annoying.”
”His name is Duo,” Shane replies unhelpfully.
“What language are you learning?” Ilya asks curiously.
Tell him, Shane thinks. Just fucking tell him already.
But then what if he stops talking to you in Russian, the traitorous part of his brain pipes up.
”Um,” Shane says, his heart pounding. “French.”
It’s a safe enough answer, that way if Ilya suddenly decides to test him on his French abilities, Shane won’t look like a complete moron. Ilya doesn’t press further, and they continue watching in silence, sharing the bowl of popcorn that Ilya has placed between them.
Shane ends up falling asleep twenty minutes before the end of the movie. He stirs half-awake when he feels a warm weight settling on him and realises Ilya is draping a blanket over him. His eyes are still closed and his mind thick with sleep, so he thinks he’s dreaming when he hears a quiet, “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
The soft brush of fingers across his cheek, however, feels very real.
-
Ilya sometimes talks on the phone in Russian and Shane always tries not to eavesdrop, going into his room and closing his door whenever he hears Ilya on a call. It’s one thing when Ilya speaks Russian to his face, but Shane isn’t going to like, purposely listen in on his conversations. There are occasional stilted phone calls with someone called Andrei, and louder, livelier ones with someone called Svetlana, who seems to be a close friend.
Tonight, Ilya is chatting with Svetlana in the kitchen, lounging in one of the dining table chairs, and Shane can’t escape because he’s meal prepping for the week and is elbow deep in peeling carrots with a massive pot of chickpea pasta boiling on the stove. And also, he was in the kitchen first.
Thankfully the conversation isn’t anything too private, Ilya is joking around about some date Svetlana had which apparently went horribly, and then they start chatting about restaurants in Boston, where Svetlana lives, and where Ilya promises he’ll come visit soon.
“Fuck, I miss proper Russian food,” Ilya says as he rocks back precariously on his chair. “Do you remember that little place in Moscow we used to go to? Yeah, the one with the ugly green walls!”
There is a pause while Svetlana says something and Ilya laughs.
“I would kill for some good pelmeni in Ottawa,” Ilya says. “Canadian food is fucking boring. They put cheese on french fries and call it national dish.”
Ilya hangs up the call after a while, and Shane wonders with a pang when the last time was that Ilya got to eat some proper home-cooked Russian food. Ilya doesn’t seem to like to talk about home or his family much, and his eating habits are frankly abysmal, so Shane knows he’s hardly cooking elaborate Russian dishes at home. The only time he had seen Ilya at the stove, stirring something in a pot, it had turned out he was melting Nutella to drizzle on his popcorn.
Shane knows for a fact there is a very good Russian restaurant in town, not too far from where they live. He’s about to tell Ilya this when he catches himself. He wasn’t supposed to have understood a word of Ilya’s conversation. Saying anything now would pretty much be an admission.
He brings it up three days later instead, when they’re both in the kitchen- Shane is at the sink washing dishes and Ilya is frowning in concentration at his laptop on the dining table.
“Hey, I walked past this restaurant in town today, Samovar, I think it’s Russian. Have you been?” he asks in his most nonchalant tone.
Ilya blinks at him. “No.”
“It looks pretty good. Maybe we could go sometime?”
Ilya is staring at him with an unreadable expression. “You want to go to Russian restaurant with me?”
Shane shrugs. “Sure. I mean, you must feel a bit homesick sometimes, right? Besides, I’ve never tried Russian food. Might be nice.”
“Okay, let’s go,” Ilya says, his voice soft and his lips stretching into a fond smile, making something clench in Shane’s stomach. He then adds, “But you are paying, because it was your idea.”
“Of course, I wouldn’t have expected anything less,” Shane snorts in exasperation but when he turns back to the sink, he can’t help the smile that spreads across his face.
-
Shane vows he’ll tell Ilya tonight, after he feeds him some Russian food and possibly some vodka, and then picks up the bill, to soften the blow a bit.
Ilya is chatting with the waitress in rapid Russian, both of them speaking so fast Shane can only pick up around half of what they’re saying. He studies the menu instead while they talk about which parts of Russia they’re both from. Shane does perk up at the end of the conversation though, when he catches the last half of the waitress’s sentence, “...you and your boyfriend would like to order?”
When he looks up, Ilya is staring down at the table, but he has a shy, pleased smile on his face. He doesn’t correct the waitress. Shane has to bite his lip to hide his own grin.
After he orders, Ilya beams at Shane over the table and asks teasingly, “No macrobiotic diet tonight, then?”
“I’m sure I’ll survive.” Shane rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling too. Ilya’s in such a good mood tonight, maybe being somewhere that feels like home, and it’s infectious.
“What did you order, anyway?” Shane asks, even though he had understood every word when Ilya had placed the order in Russian.
“Hmm, surprise. Don’t worry, will be all deep fried and covered in oil. Your favourite. Also ordered six shots of vodka, three for you and three for me.”
Shane knows Ilya had actually ordered pelmeni, borshct, Olivier salad, a Coke for himself and a ginger ale for Shane. His heart had skipped a beat in his chest when he realised Ilya had chosen all the healthier options on the menu, and added the ginger ale without even asking Shane.
“Fuck off, I’m not doing shots with you,” Shane laughs.
“Oh, come on, Hollander, tonight we are in Russia! You have to do at least one,” Ilya says, grinning widely. He reaches out, cups the back of Shane’s neck and squeezes playfully.
At the same moment an older man, huge, bald and covered in tattoos, walks past their table and catches sight of them. A sneer passes over his face, and he mutters in Russian, loud enough for the both of them to hear, “Fucking fags.”
Ilya freezes, his hand still wrapped around the back of Shane’s neck and Shane takes one look at the terrified expression on Ilya’s face, and sees red.
“What did you just say,” Shane says fiercely, jumping out of his chair. “What did you fucking call me?”
To some of his satisfaction, the man looks shocked, probably not expecting him to have understood anything, let alone respond. Shane belatedly realises it maybe wasn’t the best idea to confront a homophobic asshole in the middle of a Russian restaurant. Shane’s a hockey player and he works out, but this guy is massive, and could probably take him out in one punch.
Thankfully, before the man can do anything, a tiny older woman barrels in between them, a rapid stream of furious Russian falling from her mouth. Shane only registers a fraction of what she’s saying, but the man is definitely in the process of being told he’s a shame to his mother, his country, and also being permanently banished from the restaurant.
When Shane turns back to the table, Ilya is still frozen in his chair, staring up at him with his eyes wide and his face stricken.
“Blyat,” Ilya whispers. “Oh, fuck.”
It hits Shane at that moment that he just had spoken Russian. In front of Ilya. His heart sinks to his stomach. No, he thinks frantically, no, no, no, this wasn't how it was supposed to happen.
Shane doesn’t look at anyone as he slowly plops back into his chair. They sit in silence until the waitress comes over to hover anxiously over their table.
“Please cancel our order,” Ilya tells the waitress quietly, and Shane feels sick. “I think we will leave now.”
The tiny woman turns out to be the restaurant manager and she sees them to the door, apologising about a hundred times, even though they both reassure her none of it was her fault. She still insists on sending them off with two huge takeaway containers of steaming pelmeni, pressing them into Shane’s hands, and refuses to take money from either of them.
They leave the restaurant in tense silence, and once they are standing on the sidewalk outside, Ilya turns to face him and Shane braces himself, his heartbeat thundering in his ears.
“So. You speak Russian.”
Shane nods, looking down at the paper bag of food that he’s clutching tightly. He’s too nervous to meet Ilya’s eyes.
“How long have you…” Ilya trails off, clearing his throat.
“I studied Russian for five years in high school,” Shane replies miserably. “And I still do my daily Duolingo. I’m not, like, completely fluent or anything, but I know…enough.”
“Hmm. Enough to curse that man out pretty well.”
Shane finally looks up, a flare of anger in his chest when he remembers the man’s words. “He insulted me. Well, us.”
Ilya’s voice is small when he speaks again, and Shane hates it. “Enough to understand what I have been saying in front of you for the last few months?”
“Yes,” Shane whispers, “I’m so sorry.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Ilya asks softly, and it takes Shane a moment to realise he’s switched to Russian.
“I don’t know,” Shane replies slowly. It’s been a while since he’s spoken Russian out loud to someone, and it feels absolutely bizarre to be speaking it to Ilya after all these months of pretending he can’t understand a word. “At first I thought it was just a joke. Then it kept going and I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“I am sorry. If I made you uncomfortable,” Ilya says, frowning a bit and looking away to the side.
“Ilya, no,” Shane rushes to answer. He can’t stand the thought of Ilya even thinking that.
“I…I liked it,” Shane admits. “Maybe too much.”
“You did?” Ilya meets his eyes again and the cautious flicker of hope in them steals Shane’s breath away. Ilya’s gaze drops down to his lips and then back up again, and…fuck it.
For once in his life, Shane throws caution to the wind and reaches out to grip Ilya’s jacket collar, pulling him in so their bodies are flush, and presses his lips to Ilya’s. Ilya makes a small, surprised noise, but then he’s kissing Shane back hard, his large hands coming up to cradle Shane’s face and deepening the kiss. It’s good, it’s so fucking good, and Shane absent-mindedly wonders why the hell they haven’t been doing this the whole time.
When Ilya’s tongue traces the seam of his lips and licks into his mouth, Shane lets go of the bag of food, but he barely notices as it drops to the ground. His hands are too busy tangled in Ilya’s curls anyway. “
You have been driving me crazy for months,” Ilya whispers, pressing his forehead against Shane’s.
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying sorry,” Ilya laughs, abruptly switching back to English. “So Canadian.” He boops Shane’s nose with a finger, his expression so fond it makes Shane’s chest ache.
“Solnyshko,” Ilya murmurs, his eyes soft and his thumb sweeping gently across Shane’s cheek. “You know what that means, yes?”
“Da,” Shane replies, and he can’t resist leaning in for another lingering kiss, his hands clutching the back of Ilya’s jacket and pulling him in as close as possible.
When they finally pull apart, Ilya swoops down to pick up the bag of pelmeni from the ground and then reaches out for Shane’s hand, intertwining their fingers. “I am starving. Can we please go home now and eat this food and then make out on the couch?”
Shane is smiling so widely his cheeks hurt. He’s aware he probably looks like an idiot, but he squeezes Ilya’s hand and nods. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”
-
“You know, I think is good thing that you can speak Russian,” Ilya muses a bit later as they walk home hand-in-hand.
“Yeah?”
“Yes,” Ilya replies, bumping their shoulders together. “Think of all the dirty things I can say to you in public now, and no one else will be able to understand us.”
He laughs as Shane’s face progressively turns redder, imagining exactly how that’s going to go down.
“Oh, we are going to have so much fun, my little kotenok.”