Chapter Text

*** 1 ***

The first time Shane Hollander started suspecting his boyfriend was much, much, much smarter than everybody assumed was early on their official relationship.

The Montreal Metros had a rough week that time. So when Shane came home after their evening win and found Ilya waiting for him there with an unexpectedly early visit, Hollander was ecstatic (and they had animalistic, wild and loud sex, obviously), but completely unprepared. 

So the next morning, he left home to buy groceries, letting Rozanov stay in bed a little longer. As he was leaving, Ilya was arguing with Coach Wiebe, which wasn’t surprising. Sometimes Shane wondered if there exist anyone who argue more than his boyfriend.

Shane hated grocery shopping.

His mother had suggested he sign up for regular food delivery, considering he ate the same boring meals for weeks during the season, but Hollander couldn’t even stand the idea of somebody else choosing his groceries for him.

They’d definitely pick avocados that weren’t ripe enough, or bananas that were too ripe. Or quick oats instead of rolled oats. Or… honestly, Shane could spend the whole evening listing everything that could go wrong, but his mother would cut him off by the third example with I get it, you have to do it yourself.

Probably only Ilya would listen to him till the end, he thought warmly.

Ilya did, Ilya does, Ilya always will.

He would remember every one of Shane’s rules, all the bats in his belfry. Shane didn’t even need to mention things out loud. Ilya would notice on his own when Shane wasn’t okay with a certain food texture and would do everything to get it right the next time.

Thoughts about how much Ilya cared for him made Shane detour into the “healthy sweets” aisle to buy some treats that wouldn’t give Rozanov diabetes. He was comparing candies with the best ingredients when he got a text from Ilya asking if he could use Shane’s laptop.

It was mildly strange, but nothing too unusual, so Shane just replied with a quick sure, love and continued his mission.

When Shane came home, the first thing he saw was a noticeably displeased Ilya, wearing nothing but a T-shirt and underwear, standing by the kitchen island and grumbling at the computer. Which was already strange enough on its own.

But the moment he heard Shane, he jumped up, and a bright smile softened his face, turning him into an amused kitten. Or more like a puppy. Sometimes Shane was sure that if Ilya had a tail, he’d destroy all the furniture wagging it every time he saw him.

He hung his jacket on the hook.

"Come here, baby," Hollander laughed.

But Ilya was already there.

"You cold," he mumbled, pulling Shane closer and nuzzling into his hair.

"Yeah, it's freezing there. The humidity kills me."

Shane melted into the hug, slipping his cold hands under Ilya’s T-shirt to warm them against his back. Ilya shivered, but didn’t move an inch.

"Yes. I see. Your face turns pink and your freckles pop when it's cold," he said, kissing his nose and making him wince. "I love it."

"Better help me with bags," Shane said, unable to hold back a smile.

Reluctantly, Ilya let him go and picked up the bags.

"Ah. Lots of rabbit food. Go wash hands, I will put it in the fridge your way."

He playfully bumped their shoulders together before heading into the kitchen.

Don’t get him wrong, Shane Hollander loved sex with Ilya. A lot. But this… this domestic intimacy was so precious it almost made him want to cry from happiness. Maybe, some day, they would also go for a groceries together. And could walk Anya together. And just... live together. 

He had never believed he could share his living space with anyone. He got annoyed by... oh, so many little things made him feel out of place. The way towels were folded. The way the bed was made. The way shoes were left by the entrance. The way pillows were arranged on the couch.

And Ilya was pure chaos. His stuff was always scattered everywhere like a tornado had passed through. But he really tried to remember all the little things that made Shane comfortable without Shane ever having to mention them. Never making him feel like a burden.

Once, Shane mentioned that the soap smell was a bit overwhelming for him, and by the next time he came over, Ilya had already replaced it.

So if there was anyone he could trust to put the groceries in the fridge without getting anxious or feeling the itching need to control the process, it was Ilya.

"Why did you need my computer?" he asked, stepping back in the kitchen and seeing Ilya already closing the fridge.

Shane hugged him from the back and put his chin on his shoulder.

"What, you hiding your lovers, Hollander?" Ilya smirked, leaning against his chest and tilting his head back to kiss his cheek.

"Indeed. I met this nineteen-year-old European swimmer. Mmm, his shoulders," Shane said, closing his eyes in mock admiration.

"I know you are joking," Shane felt Ilya’s body tense in his grip.

“And another one. Underwear model,” he continued casually, pretending not to notice what Ilya was saying.

"Tell me you're joking," a flicker of panic appeared in Ilya's voice.

"And the third... he is a musician. Piano player. Y'know, his fingers..."

Shane couldn’t finish, because Ilya slipped out of his embrace only to turn around quickly and cup Shane’s face in his hands.

"Блядь. Is it real? Am not enough for you. Блядь. I knew, we are so far..."

And Shane laughed.

"Shane Hollander."

He laughed so hard his stomach started hurting.

“Ah, you asshole,” Ilya groaned, sounding almost devastated, and shut him up by crashing their mouths together in a deep kiss.

Shane kept giggling into the kiss, but when Ilya’s tongue slid deeper, he shivered with sudden arousal and gasped. A few minutes into the kiss, Shane felt Ilya’s hands gripping his ass and moaned.

"Fuck. I will show you, that you don't need anyone else," Ilya murmured against his mouth before lifting Shane easily, as if he didn’t weigh 200 Ibs. Shane wrapped his legs around Ilya’s waist while he stumbled toward the bedroom, never breaking the kiss.

Two hours later Shane was resting on his boyfriends shoulder, too lazy to shower now.

"Is your morning call with the coach somehow connected to why you needed the computer?” he asked, tracing flowers over Ilya’s bare chest.

"So now you're detective too?" Rozanov smirked, catching Shane’s hand just long enough to kiss his knuckles before letting it go.

“You’re avoiding the question.” Shane frowned, lifting his head to study Ilya’s face. “Is everything alright?”

"Yes," Ilya rolled his eyes. "Don't be dramatic. Some stupid shit. Come back here."

He tried to pull Shane back against his shoulder.

"I will only if you answer," Shane resisted.

"Oh god, Shane," Ilya sat up in bed and stretched. Shane got a little distracted staring at Ilya’s chest muscles. "It's some league seminar about mental health. What the fuck do they know about mental health," Ilya huffed, annoyed.

"Oh. Okay." He shook his head to stop staring and focus on Ilya’s words. Rozanov noticed it, of course, and smirked. "Is it long?"

"Too long for something shouldn't exist at all," Ilya shrugged and grimaced. "It's like one and a half hours. I am pissed off that instead of spending time with you, I have to..."

He left the sentence unfinished and grimaced again.

Hollander smiled. Ilya looked very cute in his anger.

"It’s okay. We can still spend time together. I’ll read my book, and you can watch this."

"No, no. No book. You read in your slutty glasses. I could never concentrate when you’re wearing glasses,” Ilya said, shaking his head emphatically.

"Okay," Shane rolled his eyes, completely amused. "Then I'll make us a lunch."

"Oh, it's still is hot, Shane"

“You pervert, does everything make you horny?” Shane laughed, pulling Ilya closer.

"Yes, if it's about you," Ilya smiled back, leaning closer before pushing Shane onto his back and hovering over him.

A wide, happy smile spread across Hollander’s face. Ilya licked it with a moan, as if it tasted like the best dessert he’d ever had, and immediately covered Shane’s mouth with his own.

One hour and one orgasm later, they finally settled down in the kitchen. Shane - because he was going to make them a healthy meal, Ilya - because he used every opportunity if not just to touch his boyfriend, but at least to be in the same room with him. He hated being alone and had already had enough of it during the work week.

Shane was chopping carrots with his earphones in, listening to an analysis of some old hockey game, when he suddenly felt arms wrapping around him from behind and hot lips against his neck. Hollander shuddered at first, but instantly melted into the embrace, pressing his back against a hot, solid chest.

Ilya carefully took one earphone out and purred to his ear. 

"Солнышко, where I can take some paper and a pen?"

"Ummm..." Shane tilted his head back, trying to process the question, and rested it on Ilya’s shoulder, almost as if he was deliberately exposing his neck. Rozanov didn't hesitate to take an advantage and pressed a warm kiss against it. “Paper…” He frowned. “It’s in the desk. Bottom drawer. Why?”

"Some note taking, is nothing. Thank you, baby," Ilya pecked his cheek, pulled away, put the earbud back in, and left behind a blushing Shane already missing the firm warmth of his body.

Hollander didn’t exactly like cooking, but somehow it always grounded him. Everything was strictly measured and organized, and he had been cooking the same meals for ages, but now he was doubling the portions, and the thought filled his chest with warmth.

Every time he glanced at Ilya while cooking, he found him frowning in concentration and listening carefully, occasionally writing something down. By the time the pot was on the stove, the rice cooker running, and the salmon in the oven, Shane couldn’t resist his curiosity anymore before starting to clean up and peeked over Ilya’s shoulder at the notes.

He let out a disappointed sigh. Everything was in Russian. And cursive.

Russian cursive drove him crazy. Somehow he had figured out how to write all the letters himself, but deciphering it? No way he’d be able to do that anytime in the foreseeable future.

Ilya rubbed the back of his head against Shane’s chest.

"Hey...Do you want me to clean?" he asked, closing his eyes.

"No, that's alright, I'll do it myself... is there a lot left?" Shane kissed his curls.

"About...half an hour," Ilya winced. "It's such rubbish."

"Rubbish? Did some Brit bite you?" Shane snorted.

"Uhm? Is it not correct?"

"It is. But sounds strange. Maybe okay for old Canadians, but definitely not in the US," he chuckled.

"Ah. That’s the word we learn in school in Russia. I learned garbage after moving to Boston. But rubbish sounds cooler," Ilya smirked. "What are we having for lunch? Rabbit food?"

"I'm not sure there are rabbits in Japan," Hollander let Ilya lean against him while stroking his shoulders. "It's salmon in Miso souce, called chan chan yaki. Mom loves it. So I wanted… I wanted you to try it,” he finished shyly.

"Mmmm... I'd love too, but you are still the best your mother delivered." Ilya grinned. "No offense."

"None taken," Hollander laughed. “Finish your seminar. I think I’ll be ready right around then.”

And he returned to his kitchen duties.

That evening Shane fell asleep smiling, replaying their disgustingly domestic, warm day together over and over in his head. He would love for life to always be like this.

Unfortunately, the next evening, Ilya would have to drive back to Ottawa. Shane tried not to think about it as he pressed himself closer to his boyfriend’s warm body.

But only a few hours later, he woke up in complete darkness, anxiety suddenly filling his chest. Ilya wasn’t there.

Throwing off the blanket, Shane went to look for him, still completely naked. And found him sitting in front of the computer, typing compulsively and biting his lip.

"Hey... baby, did something happen? Did I do something wrong?" his voice was hoarse with sleep.

"What? No," Ilya jolted slightly. "Did I wake you up?"

Shane shrugged. 

"Dunno. Maybe," he murmured. "Mostly the lack of you," he yawned. "What 'r you doin'?" 

He shuffled closer barefoot and rested a hand on Ilya’s back.

"I was pissed off. Couldn't sleep. You can't imagine how much nonsense was in this stupid seminar. Like it can really make more damage than help if somebody needs it," Ilya groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "I did some...umm...some summary. With points. Where they are wrong. And I found some... scientific references to prove my point. I want to sent them anonymous..." he frowned. "How do you say that? There should be some smart and non-whiny word for complaint?"

"You mean plea? Appeal? But complaint works too, it's correct."

Shane bended over Ilya's shoulder and scrolled through a document.

"You made it now?" his eyebrows lifted.

There were bullet points neatly written across several pages.

1. Real men don’t dwell on emotions, true winners compartmentalize. 

Comment: Suppression is not emotional regulation. Hockey already trains to ignore pain, exhaustion, fear, grief, until it explodes as rage, addiction, insomnia, reckless behavior, or depression. Research on emotional suppression consistently shows it increases physiological stress and worsens mental health over time.

[reference to research 1]

[reference to research 2]

[reference to research 3]

2. Confidence is a choice.

Comment: Confidence is only partly behavioral. But depression, burnout, anxiety disorders, sleep deprivation, repeated injury, concussion history, and chronic stress physiologically affect cognition. Confidence is built from evidence, preparation, recovery, and support. Your brain can be an asshole. 

[reference to research 1]

[reference to research 2]

3. Pressure is a privilege.

Comment: WTF??? Formulate.

4. Leaders never show weakness.

Comment: when leaders hide all distress, younger players learn to hide their problems which leads to wrong evaluation and lose.

There were 15 more points.

"Mental toughness means pushing through no matter what.”

"High testosterone men are naturally better leaders."

“Cortisol is the enemy hormone.”

"Oh god. This really is a disaster," Shane murmured when got to the last point.  

Some sections had fewer comments, some more. For over half of them, Ilya had written long explanations with several references attached.

In places where he had probably gotten too angry, there were a lot of fucks and bullshits. But the most… terrifying thing (in a good way) was that it was all formatted like an actual scientific paper. If it hadn’t been three in the morning, Shane wouldn’t have let Ilya go until he explained where the fuck he had learned to do this.

“And I don’t get it… we have a foundation for mental health, why didn’t they ask us?” Ilya hummed in agreement with his boyfriend's words and rubbed his face. He felt like his eyes were full of sand.

"They didn't want to. It's an uncomfortable truth."

"So you think I should not...?" Ilya asked, suddenly sounding unsure.

"No, baby, I think you should," Shane's reply was firm. "But how... how do you know all thit?"

"Ah. It's...basics for every normal human. And I read some things so I wouldn’t feel stupid when we opened our foundation,” Ilya said, suppressing a yawn.

“I’ll help you. But tomorrow. Right now, let’s go to bed.” Shane pulled lightly Ilya’s elbow, and he obediently stood up.

"Okay... I wanted to ask you. I am afraid my stupid english mistakes would make it seem less trustworthy." His accent thickened with exhaustion, making trustworthy sound more like trustworzy.

He followed Shane back to bed, clinging to his back and hugging him.

The next day, they finished the document together and sent it off. What surprised Shane was that he had really only corrected the grammar. The entire text - including all the references and arguments - had been written by Ilya Rozanov.

*** 2 ***

The second time happened a few months later.

"Shane, you're coming with us, right?" JJ called after the evening practice.

Actually, Hollander planned to. It was part of his responsibilities as captain to participate in team activities at least sometimes, even though he still hated clubbing. He thought he’d go for a while, head home early afterward, wake up early the next morning, and drive to Ottawa to spend a long-awaited weekend with Ilya.

But today… there was this aching feeling, pining for Ilya, bothering him since morning. He had some sad dream he couldn't remember. walked into the locker room, and the first thing he heard were slurs. Not directed at him, at least the team hadn’t meant them that way, but still.

More than anything, he wanted to fall into the embrace of strong arms and squint from soft kisses all over his face. Maybe even cry a little after sex. He was so fucking tired of all the hiding, the constant decisions, the masking, the pretending, the pressure to always stay strong. With Ilya, he could just… let it go.

So after an internal argument with himself, he answered JJ.

"No, sorry. Feeling sore after practice." He shook his head.

"Why?" JJ frowned. "It wasn’t that bad today, was it?"

"Dunno." Shane shrugged without looking at him. He felt overstimulated and slightly nauseous. "Probably coming down with something. I’ll go to bed early and get some rest."

"D'accord. You know you can text if you need anything, n'est-ce pas?"

"Yeah...Thanks." Shane smiled tiredly. "I really think I just need some rest. Have fun, boys."

He waved vaguely at everyone in the room and, to the sound of the team’s chatter and scattered goodbyes, left the training facility and headed for his car.

Yes, he would go home. But not Montreal, Ottawa. Their home.

Before starting the engine, he sent a text.

Lily

Today, 7:16 PM

Jane

Free in 2h?

Lily

да ❤️

at home

wanna sext?

Jane

Good. Miss you.

Lily

you ok, чебурашка?

Jane

Yes.

Just tired.

What is cheburashka? There is no such word in the dictionary.

Lily

Jane

...

Lily

miss you too, солнышко💓💦🤤

hear you in 2 hours

Jane

There is no such thing as "hear you".

Lily

ah

mr grammar

Shane smiled. At first, he’d planned to stop by his place to drop off his hockey bag and pick up some clean clothes, but after those messages, he headed straight to Ottawa.

After a two-hour drive filled with anxious, spiraling thoughts, he finally made it. While searching for his keys, he heard the click-clack of Anya’s paws on the other side of the door and let out a quiet snort.

She was going to ruin the whole surprise.

But he still turned the key quietly, closed the door behind him, and toed off his shoes. It was strange that Ilya still hadn’t reacted, but maybe he had fallen asleep on the couch, so Shane headed to the living room, where the lights were still on.

Some distant TV mumbling could be heard, so Shane was already preparing to mildly startle his boyfriend and drag him off to bed, but he wasn’t prepared to find Ilya sprawled across the couch with a book. Shane blinked.

Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, Ilya looked up and flinched.

"Еб твою мать!" he almost fell from the couch, and the book did, but he haven't even noticed. He nearly fell off the couch, and the book actually did, though he didn’t even notice. “Shane! What are you doing here? I was waiting for your call.”

He jumped to his feet, beaming. 

“What, you didn’t want to see me? Needed time to hide all your guests?” Shane teased gently, already moving forward to dive into the open arms.

"Yes. I have mental orgy here, don't you see?" Ilya chuckled, nuzzling Shane’s temple, and Shane had the strange feeling that he was one step away from actually purring.

"What, you read porn while I'm away? Did Pornhub block your card, or are you training your imagination?" 

"Meh. Don’t need porn. Your ass lives in my head rent-free every time I close my eyes."

Ilya winked at the teasing and finally pressed his lips to Shane’s.

Shane let out a satisfied moan, pressed closer, and tangled his fingers in Ilya’s curls.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa… someone’s needy,” Rozanov pulled away from the kiss with a fond smirk.

“Shut up.” Shane blushed. “And I am. I missed you so much. Needed you.”

"Did something happen there? You want to talk about it??"

He rubbed Shane’s cheek with his thumb and backed toward the couch, pulling Shane along with him before settling him on his lap face-to-face.

Shane shook his head.

"Just tired. And… usual locker room stuff. Pisses me off,” he winced and leaned closer.

"Oh, золотце. I am so sorry,” Ilya hugged him tightly and started swaying slightly, like he was soothing a child.

After some time, Ilya felt the tension leaving Shane’s body and pulled back slightly to look into his eyes.

"Better?" Rozanov mouthed, smiling.

"Yes, sir." Shane nodded and gave him a quick peck. “Thank you. Really… thank you.”

"I have you in my arms. Feels like I should be the one thanking you." Ilya winked. "Is good. I love to have you. Love that I can help."

Hollander’s freckles seemed brighter when his cheeks turned pink, which completely amused Ilya.

“Since when do you have paper books at your place?” he asked awkwardly, trying to change the subject.

“It’s our place,” Rozanov corrected pointedly with a smirk. “What, me reading turns you on?”

“Shut up. You didn’t answer my question.” Shane shifted on Ilya’s lap, quietly admitting to himself that yes, it absolutely did.

"Ah, I know it's bad for ecology, not green and all that. But I was grocery shopping for you so we wouldn’t have to leave the apartment tomorrow, and I saw this book I wanted to read since a long time ago, and I bought it. Killed time waiting for your call, liar,” Ilya laughed.

His mood was through the roof because Shane showing up tonight meant one more night of sleeping together, and waking up next to Shane was one of Ilya’s favorite things in the world.

“And if it’s not porn, what were you so eager to read then?” Shane stretched to grab the book without leaving Ilya’s hug.

"Umm, it is porn for my brain. Fucks me raw till I feel sore,” Ilya huffed, but didn’t stop him, only adjusted his grip to hold Shane more securely.

Hollander's eyebrows lifted when he saw the title.

“Wait. What. Mrs. Dalloway? You read Virginia Woolf? What. Why? And you call it porn?”

Ilya shrugged, scrunching up his nose.

“I told she fucks my brain," he chuckled. "So many questions, Hollander, don't know which one should I answer first."

But Shane kept staring at him with genuine confusion written all over his face. So Ilya gave up very quickly.

"Nothing special. Read her in Russian before. Didn’t really like it. People say English is better. Got curious.”

Shane kept staring.

“You read Virginia Woolf in Russian,” he repeated very slowly, word by word. “It’s not exactly… easy literature, y’know?”

Another shrug. 

“Yeah, no way," Rozanov chuckled. "I can see what she was going for. But yeah. Still not really for me. Kept trying, though. But same with Faulkner. And Proust. Not my genre, I guess.” He grimaced. “Sylvia Plath is better, honestly. But also exhausting. She should have learned from Anna Akhmatova.”

“…You have opinions on Sylvia Plath?” Shane blinked, trying to process what had just happened.

He knew Ilya was smart, but not casually-discusses-literature smart. God, almost nobody in Shane’s circle (except maybe his parents) would casually discuss Virginia Woolf and her comparison to Proust and Plath.

“It's nothing, everybody has opinions on Sylvia Plath, no? Isn't it, like, school program?” Ilya gave him a crooked smile. “Vonnegut best, though. Not so boring. Breakfast for Champions is masterpiece.”

Shane watched Ilya’s face. He looked at Shane with so much tenderness that there was no way he was joking.

So.

So.

His boyfriend reads classic literature and discuss it like a fucking English professor.

He would definitely think about this conversation later.

But right now, he leaned closer, searching for warmth.

“I have an opinion that you absolutely have to kiss me right now,” he whispered.

And Ilya obeyed.

***3 ***

The third time happened soon after. It was a February weekend.

They both were busy as fuck preparing for games.

Yes, being boyfriends took a lot of effort. Finding time. Hiding. But it was completely worth it.

Shane tried to drive to Ottawa every chance he got, and even though his parents still lived there, people had started asking questions. Fans - or stalkers, really - had noticed that Shane’s car was almost never parked outside his parents’ place anymore.

So this time, he and Ilya decided to meet directly at Yuna and David’s place so Shane could leave his car there. There was no way they could manage all this without his parents’ involvement, so Yuna traded her help for a family dinner before driving them back to their place afterward. Not that anyone was complaining.

When Shane arrived, the first thing he noticed by the entrance were those stupidly bright toxic sneakers. It meant Ilya was already there. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling.

He slipped quietly into the living room, expecting to find some peaceful domestic scene, but instead Rozanov was pacing back and forth, visibly annoyed, and muttering something under his breath.

The last time Shane had seen him this irritated was when Ilya got the news about Troy Barrett being transferred to his team. Who would’ve known they’d end up best friends? But Shane still had an eye on him.

David was the first to notice Shane standing in the doorway.

“Hi, son,” he smiled.

Ilya twitched and turned so fast he nearly stumbled, his face immediately softening into a bright smile.

"Мое солнышко! I missed you," he stepped forward, opening his arms, and Shane closed the remaining distance, pressing himself tightly against his boyfriend’s body and burying his nose in the crook of his neck.

"I missed you too," he murmured against the warm skin, inhaling deeply one of his favorite scents — the mix of soap, deodorant, and Ilya himself. Though the only thing better was pure Ilya’s natural scent. “What pissed you off so much?”

He pulled back slightly, searching Ilya’s face.

“Umm.” Ilya blushed, suddenly looking embarrassed. “Is nothing.”

Shane raised his eyebrows, unconvinced.

"Dad? Do you know?" Shane turned in Ilya’s arms to look at David and smiled, feeling Rozanov press his back against his chest, hands resting possessively on his stomach.

"We don't know, sweetheart." Yuna appeared from the kitchen, smiling too. They both loved having their boys here. He came in like this already and hasn’t said a word. We were waiting for you to talk it out of him. Hi, baby.” She approached, and Ilya loosened his grip so Shane could lean forward and receive Yuna’s kiss on the cheek.

“Spill it, kiddo. Those two won’t let you keep it bottled up,” David chuckled.

"It's really nothing, just..." he hid his face in Shane's hair. "Just stupid things on internet."

“Oh no!” Shane laughed. “Please tell me you didn’t start arguing with them. Harris is going to have a stroke.”

“No, because they do not actually listen.” Ilya pouted, and Shane rubbed his thumb across his lips before Ilya kissed the finger.

“Boys, dinner’s ready!”

Ilya reluctantly let Shane go, still gripping his hand.

“So what was all that about? What did the stupid people on the internet do this time?” David asked cheerfully an hour later, sipping caffeine-free tea after dinner.

Now Ilya was full, eating his ice cream, Shane's shoulder pressed to his. Everything stopped being so dramatic.

"Ah," he huffed. "Just little communist kids. They don’t know what they’re talking about."

“And you do?” Shane teased. “Dad, correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought the Soviet Union collapsed when you were, what, three months old?”

David just nodded.

"Солнышко, it's not like you should experience everything yourself to understand that something is wrong. I thought you should know considering your experience with girls," Rozanov smirked.

"ILYA!" Shane turned red, which only got worse when he heard his mother laugh.

It was obvious, that Rozanov is avoiding answering now. Shane Hollander had had enough bad experiences trying to push things out of Ilya when he wasn’t ready to talk, so the moment he saw his dad about to continue questioning him, he shook his head slightly, silently asking him to drop the subject.

Ilya would probably talk eventually, once he was ready. It was hard for Shane to predict which topics would suddenly become sensitive for him, so he had simply learned to stay close and wait until Ilya was ready to speak.

And he was right.

Some time later, a blizzard raged outside and the whole family had gathered in the living room around the fireplace. Yuna scrolling through something on her phone, David reading a newsletter, Ilya staring into the fire with his head resting on Shane’s lap while Shane stroked his hair. That momenr Ilya suddenly brought the topic back up.

“Shaney, what was your favorite book when you were a kid? Like when you were… seven or eight? I have no idea what Canadian kids read,” he rubbed his head against Shane’s muscular thigh.

“Uhm… I didn’t actually love stories, y’know…” His cheeks turned touchingly pink. “I liked books about urban stuff. Like… how pipes work, how buildings are built, how roads are designed…”

“Of course you did,” Ilya burst out laughing, hiding his face against Shane’s stomach. “Did you ever do anything like a normal child?”

Yuna tensed at the word normal.

Shane… her baby had spent so much effort trying to seem normal, and it was the one thing he had never really managed. It had always hurt him so much. But now he didn’t look offended at all.

Just deeply amused.

"What, I’m being boring again?"

"Yes. Adorable. I love your boringness so much.” Ilya lifted his heart eyes toward him and pulled Shane’s hand to his face, gently kissing his knuckles.

Both David and Yuna always felt a little awkward during moments like this, when it seemed like nothing else in the world existed for those two except each other. It created a strange mix of wanting to leave them alone and wanting to keep watching how happy and in love they looked together.

"Oh, shut up," Shane murmured under his breath with a chuckle, rubbing his thumb over Ilya’s cheek. "But why?"

"Mmmm?" Ilya half-closed his eyes, leaning into the touch.

"Why did you ask? What do the 'normal' kids read?"

"I don't know about normal," Ilya smiled.

“What was yours? I mean your favorite book. What was it when you were eight?”

David was now listening to their quiet conversation more than actually reading. For someone who had taken Russian literature as an elective in college, Ilya’s stories about Russia were always fascinating, even if they were sometimes a little… biased, of course.

"Ah. I loved adventures. Once my mother gave me a favorite book from childhood named... ughm..." He frowned slightly, and Shane’s fingers immediately moved to the crease between his brows, like he was trying to smooth it away. "It's like a marine knife. Dagger, more. It's Кортик in Russian. It was a trilogy, actually,"

He closed his eyes, letting Shane stroke his hair and face.

“All the books were about brave kids solving mysteries. Do you know how propaganda works?” Ilya asked a sudden question.

"Yeah. I do. It's... through news, TV... all this," Shane answered slowly, confused by the abrupt change of topic.

"Yes, that's right too, but in Soviet times it worked much... deeper. They knew they had to target kids. Kids are sensitive and they love adventures. Like I did. And in this book, there was so much of it! Evil white soldiers, who were fighting for even more evil Tzar Nikolai, who wanted to torture poor people. And good red guys, they were poor themselves, but they were always so helpful, ready to give away their last piece of bread for a person in need," he chuckled. "And these brave boys... they were saved by these red soldiers, and they helped them later. They felt like they are participating in something so big and so... good. And they found a treasure, and solved some murder, and of course, of course, gave everything for the need of the great Red Revolution, who should take all the money from unfairly rich people and give it to a struggling poor people. And suffering for the greater good felt... noble, yes?"

He went quiet for a few minutes, relaxing under Shane’s touch.

The room fell silent except for the soft crackling and popping from the fireplace.

Yuna had put her phone away and was staring into space above her boys’ heads with unfocused eyes. David’s newspaper rested carefully folded on his knees.

"I wanted to become a Pioneer too after I read that book," after a pause Ilya chuckled, joylessly. "Proudly wear this red... scarf, or napkin around my neck. Or whatever it's called. It's a red tie in Russian, but it looks nothing like a tie. Participate in good deeds. Imagine, you're only 10, but you teach poor orphan kids living on the streets and give them food generously provided by Soviet government."

He opened his eyes again, fixing his gaze on the red tongues of flame.

"Then I mother died. I couldn't touch this book for a while. Later, when I was 14 or so, I found out that this author, his name is Anatoly Rybakov, he had published two more books."

He smiled faintly.

"Heavy Sand and Children of the Arbat. I was so lonely, and my childhood ended so... abruptly," his fingers tightened slightly around Shane’s wrist. "I wanted something... as comforting as those stories of brave kids from my childhood. So I decided to read those books. And since I practically lived on Arbat, I thought…” He laughed quietly, as if the memory still hurt somewhere deep down, even if not so sharp anymore. “That turned out to be a huge mistake.”

“What was the book about?” Shane asked, almost whispering.

"It was about one very honest, even idealistic guy, Sasha. He lived in Moscow, studied in university, believed in communism very much. A Komsomol member. Activist."

Ilya paused as collecting himself and searching for words.

"He was doing... oh, you don't have this stupid communistic words in english, it's like a newspaper as a poster, to hang it on the wall, and he wrote an article there about..." he gestured his hand vaguely. "Doesn't matter. he didn’t want innocent people to be punished, and he believed honesty mattered more than politics."

He voice grew quieter.

"And for that he was arrested and... ah, I don't know words," Ilya rubbed his face tiredly. "Like, sent to Siberia. There were jails, like labour camps. For Anti-soviet activity. He spent few years in camps. He spent years there, and when he came back, he realized not only that his old life was destroyed, but also how the Great Terror actually worked."

In the total silence fire crackle sounded very loudly. After a short pause Ilya continued.

"Hundreds, maybe even thousands were arrested, tortured and exiled. Some of his old friends actually participate in tortures. Other..." he swallowed. "Lived in fear, trying to survive. Not all of them managed. And that horror turns everyone into rats. Everyone becomes willing to betray neighbors, friends, even family members, just to avoid being punished or killed themselves."

Ilya laughed bitterly.

"Did you, guys, know, that one of the biggest hero of Soviet pioneers was Pavlik Morozov? A boy who told to...uhmm... a boy who reported his own father to the authorities for stealing bread. Then evil relatives killed him.” He smiled without humor. “Such a wonderful little pioneer, right? Even if it was his own father, he was still honest and loyal. Died for communistic ideals.”

I

Ilya paused again, pressing Shane’s hand against his cheek.

Nobody interrupted the silence.

Partly because the things Ilya was saying were horrifying, and partly because it was so strange listening to him like this. For so long time, people had seen Ilya only as an easygoing ladies’ man, a joker, a showman. Definitely not someone with such intense and emotional opinions about historical events, backed by heavy books he had actually read as a child and thought about.

David made a mental note to ask Ilya for those books later. He didn’t trust himself to remember all the titles and authors.

“Well…” After a minute, Ilya let out a shaky sigh. “At the end of the book, Sasha dies in the Second World War.”

David made a quiet dissatisfied sound, and Ilya glanced over, slightly confused, as if he had forgotten there were other people in the room.

Then he chuckled softly.

“Sorry for the spoilers.”

Shane’s hand, slowly stroking through his curls, was grounding him down.

“Later I found out that the book was based on the writer's own experience. And it felt like…” he bite his lip, searching for words. “First, my whole pink-unicorn childhood completely ruined. Collapsed. And second, like everyone had been lying to me, because my father kept talking about how wonderful Soviet times were. For him I'm sure it was wonderful.”

Ilya smiled sadly.

“So I started digging deeper. As a teenager I read tons of books, both fiction and nonfiction, about everything.The Doctor Zhivago by Pasternak, The White Guard by Bulgakov, The Gulag Archipelago by Solzhenitsyn... others from him too. Konarmiya by Isaac Babel. Kolyma tales. The Sun of the Dead by Shmelyov. About everything. The Red Terror, Collectivization... In Russian there is word раскулачивание, and if to translate it fully it would be defisting."

Rozanov laughed quietly. After everything he had just said, he was still the kind of person who laughed when people called Richards - Dicks.

“That’s probably why English uses dekulakization instead. Stupid word. Кулак means fist.”

His eyes returned to the fire.

"And then the Great Terror came. Deportations. Doctors' plot... Endless blood, torture, repression. That’s the only way the Soviet Union could exist. One horror bleeding into another. There isn’t a single family in modern Russia untouched by repression. And if nobody in your family was imprisoned, it usually meant someone in your family was the one imprisoning people. Or torturing them. Or killing them. Or all three."

He huffed bitterly.

“And then some communist kids online start talking about how great it would be to bring communism back.”

"Darling, but they never actually say torture is good, do you understand that?” Yuna asked gently.

"Of course I do. That's why I call them stupid, not cruel. And I get that they grew up in places, where capitalism is fucked too," after such an emotional speech, Yuna didn’t even bother correcting the language anymore. “Canada’s not that bad, but the US…” Ilya shrugged. “Communism is never the solution. Socialism maybe can work. Communism? No. They don't get it doesn't exist without blood. For the greater good, of course.”

He shifted slightly against Shane.

“But it’s okay to have opinions. Thanks God, we live in a free, definitely-not-communist country.” That crooked grin flashed over his face. “Discussion is good. But if you want to argue about something serious, you should at least educate yourself and know your sources, no? That’s what pisses me off. Not the opinion.”

Shane listened to him like he was enchanted.

He loved listening to Ilya’s monologues. Ilya usually avoided talking publicly about things like this (Harris would probably have a stroke if he knew how many PR disasters Shane had quietly prevented over the years, especially when Ilya got emotional like he had tonight), but here, with family, he felt safe.

He felt safe with Shane's family. He was Shane's family.

And Shane was already thinking about how hard he was going to kiss those stupidly beautiful lips the second they got home.

Later they chatted a little more about far less emotional things, and eventually Ilya was laughing again, hiding his face in Shane’s hand.

Old cold hands of fear wrapped around his heart when he suddenly remembered how his father had shouted at him, taking off his belt. The last time fourteen-year-old Ilya had carelessly brought up this topic at home. It had been the last time his father ever hit him.

Shane’s warm hand rubbed slowly over his back until the tension finally eased.

When they were hugging goodbye at the front door, David gave Ilya a warm smile.

“Do you have any recommendations to read about that… defisting thing you mentioned?” he hid the grin.

“DAD!” Shane groaned.

"Ah!" Ilya laughed. "Yes. Read Zuleikha. It's new, very impressive, but not too terrifying. Good for your kind, soft and warm Canadian soul."

“Thanks, son.”

Ilya blushed faintly.

“Tell me what you think of it afterward. Good night.”

He stepped outside first, letting Shane talk to his parents for another minute, but Yuna and Shane appeared almost immediately afterward. Shane caught his hand, pulled him closer, and kissed him.

*** 4 ***

The fourth time happened in the summer.

It was a random lazy Saturday night in July. They were enjoying the offseason together, this time visiting David and Yuna for pasta.

They had eaten dinner together (like a real family, Ilya internally was kicking his feet). And now Yuna, following their long-established arrangement where David cooked and she cleaned afterward, was softly humming some song in the kitchen.

Shane and Ilya were stretched out on the sofa, Shane’s head resting in Ilya’s lap. Ilya was eating ice cream from a cone, one hand tangled in Shane’s dark hair. Some hockey game was playing on the TV, but they were only half-watching it, far more focused on the safe touches and warm atmosphere of home that were still so rare for them.

Actually, Shane was putting considerable effort into looking anywhere except Ilya’s tongue curling around the ice cream cone.

David was sitting at the table working on his traditional weekly New Yorker crossword puzzle. He frowned at a clue, mumbling under his breath.

“No, it doesn’t work.”

“What is it, darling?”

Yuna appeared from the kitchen, drying her hands with a paper towel and glancing around as if looking for something.

“Yuna, your hand cream is on the shelf right next to you. On your left.” Ilya answered faster than she could even ask the question, without looking away from the TV.

“Thank you, Ilya.” She smiled.

She hoped he understood how much she adored him. Because sometimes she worried that he did all this out of fear of being rejected. Like he was constantly trying to prove himself useful.

And Yuna was determined to give him all the love she could.

“Ilya, I know you’re perceptive, but how? I’ve lived with her for thirty years and still…” David chuckled.

David loved Ilya too. A lot.

He was fun to be around, loved Shane deeply, and despite David’s initial suspicion that Shane had chosen Rozanov as some kind of delayed teenage rebellion he never had, he had eventually realized that Ilya was basically a soft teddy bear with a warm heart.

And a terrifyingly sharp tongue.

And Yuna adored him.

So yes.

David was happy for their family.

He genuinely loved spending time with Ilya. By now, he mostly thought of him as a second son.

"Oh, it nothing. Yuna is like Shane. Loves everything to be in proper place. Can’t find anything if something’s not. Gets annoyed and unbearable.” He grinned. “In a cute way.”

The thing was, he wasn’t even flattering. He genuinely found it adorable.

“When we came in, I saw it there. You probably bought it and forgot to put it back where it belongs. It was logical that Yuna would want her hand cream after doing the dishes, because both she and Shane keep making me use it too,” he chuckled.

“I love you very much,” Shane murmured, amused by his boyfriend, leaning into his hand.

Ilya smiled and rubbed his cheek.

David and Yuna exchanged a glance, both clearly happy to see this.

They worried constantly during the season, watching their boys miss each other while pretending everything was fine. Their problems had never been about lack of love. If anything, there was maybe even too much of it. The real problem was the lack of time together and the pressure of the world around them.

And both David and Yuna were deeply grateful that, during this short summer vacation, the boys at least didn’t have to pretend here.

After finishing with the hand cream, Yuna put it back in the drawer where it belonged and sat down next to her husband at the table.

“What’s in your boring puzzle?” She was a strong supporter of teasing her husband the same way Ilya teased Shane.

Shane let out a slightly embarrassed laugh.

“Rozanov, look what you’ve done to my mother.”

“It’s just a crossword clue.” David looked dissatisfied. “There’s a clue here about the founder of existentialism. And Sartre doesn’t fit. Just the surname is too short, but the full name is too long.”

“Because it’s not Sartre,” a deep voice with a thick accent was a surprise to everyone.

Not that Ilya was usually quiet — far from it. But almost nobody expected him to join conversations like this.

“Sorry?” David looked over at him, confused.

“I said it’s not Sartre," Ilya shrugged without taking his eyes off the game on TV. "It’s a common mistake because he wrote… oh fuck…” he reacted to a sloppy hockey move on the screen, “sorry, Yuna. He wrote Existentialism is Humanism. That’s why everyone thinks he is a founder. But it reality it’s Kierkegaard. Sorry, but I have no idea how to spell it, he was from Denmark. Their spelling is even more horrible than English. I think it starts with K."

A goal happened on the screen and Ilya almost jumped, but remembered of Shane resting on his lap.

Then he continued like nothing had happened.

"This Kierkegaard, he just didn’t call it existentialism himself. But in reality he did what later was called religious existentialism. He did it while arguing with Hegel in his works. He was talking that a person cannot hide behind any system or society, everyone has to choose how to live themselves. With a total free will. And that a person can come to god not through mind but through understanding that they have a completely free will and a total responsibility to the god and people around."

Ilya rubbed his nose, still staring at the hockey game, and completely failed to notice that basically every member of the Hollander family was now looking at him with their mouths hanging open.

"And Sarte was only a founder of atheistic existentialism. But it also usually is described with a quote from Dostoevsky. Mmm... Если Бога нет, всё позволено," he hummed under his breath. "I cannot it translate pretty, but something like if there is no God everything is allowed. But it also is not a direct quote, more like a quintessential idea of The Brothers Karamazov book. And Fiodor Mikhailovich lived almost a century before Sartre, so,” he shrugged.

When he realized that a total silence was around him, he tore his eyes from the screen, looked over David and Yuna and blushed. He focused on Shane, who was staring at him with a very complicated expression on his face.

“I am sorry, my English isn’t good enough to discuss such topic," he finished quietly, sounding oddly guilty. “Didn’t mean to kill the fun.” He rubbed his nose again, slightly embarrassed.

Shane moved so suddenly that Ilya barely had time to react.

But only because Shane grabbed his face and crashed into him with a hungry, sloppy kiss, letting out a soft moan against his mouth.

David and Yuna immediately looked away with knowing expressions.

Somehow, they both completely understood Shane.

*** 5 ***

By the time the fifth incident happened, Shane had already gotten used to the fact that his boyfriend — actually, fiancé now — was a hidden bookworm.

Now, when Ilya was scrolling on his phone, Shane never knew whether he was giggling on his stupid TikToks about Russian alkies, reading some Mrs Fry's Diaries. Or, even worse, consuming obscure intellectual Russian satire..

Those contrasts, they were fascinating. 

But his Ilya was still just… his Ilya. His soft, kind, loving pain in the ass.

Sometimes Shane’s chest ached from how much he loved him.

And honestly, it only gave Shane more ideas for their roleplay games where Ilya was the strict professor and Shane the bad student who still hadn’t finished his essay.

Anyway.

The fact that Ilya knew books wasn’t surprising anymore.

But this time was different.

When Ilya came into the locker room from the rink, everyone was already there. Some guys were half-dressed, while two naked asses disappeared toward the showers.

But most of the team had gathered around Wyatt, who was currently whining in despair.

“I could handle it when it was just numbers in math, but then it started looking like fucking Elvish! She made me bring these papers with me so I could ask around if any of you know someone who can help.”

"Hey, boys. What's there?"

Rozanov’s deep voice made everyone turn and instinctively make space for him in the crowd.

“Cap,” Hazy greeted him with a crooked smile, looking more annoyed than upset.

“Good, Hazy. Glad you still remember I’m your captain. We’re only halfway to the Cup,” Ilya smirked. "What is there," he nodded towards the phone Hayes holding in hands

"Oh, shut up," he gave him a finger, and Roz grinned. "That's my no-sex-for-tonight," he grimaced.

Rozanov raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Is that the way you behave with your captain your wife is putting you on a sex ban?" he laughed. "Or what the hell did you do?"

Ilya sat down on the bench and started unlacing his skates.

"Not a sex ban. Maths," Hazy sighed.

Everyone in the room listened while lazily doing their own thing.

Somehow, this locker room felt like home to every player on the team.

Largely because of their Rozy.

He wasn’t exactly the center of team activities, but he was always there when somebody needed him. And not only in the hockey-captain sense. More like… an older brother. Even to the guys older than him.

And sometimes a suspiciously smart older brother. Almost weirdly wise.

But because he never repeated anything told to him in private conversations, almost everyone (and by this point all of them had ended up having at least one accidental therapy session with Rozy) kept their suspicions to themselves.

So yeah.

They loved him, and trusted him. 

Sometimes they felt shit watching him sad. Knowing they had no idea how to support him the way he supported everyone else.

"What?" Ilya laughed. "Your wife told you she wouldn’t fuck you until you learned how to count to twenty?" 

"Shut up, man." Hazy blushed. "It's not like this. It's her sister."

Ilya’s eyes widened theatrically in horror.

"No! No, shit, no!" Hazy shook his head quickly. "Her sister has some college deadline tomorrow. Math assignment. And she doesn’t get it. Lisa doesn’t get it either, but she’s determined to help Eve finish it on time. So my evening is basically going to be spent watching them Google stuff and bringing coffee," he huffed, finally pulling the rest of his gear off..

"Ah. Lemme see that," Ilya extended a hand for the phone.

"Bro… with all due respect, I seriously doubt you know anyone doing college-level math."

Rozanov didn’t say a word. He just pulled off one leg pad, stood up, and extended his hand another inch while giving Wyatt the stare.

Wyatt had the sudden thought that maybe nobody in the world had ever refused this man anything when he asked like that.

Interesting.

Had he ever been rejected in a club? Even by men?

Wyatt seriously doubted it.

So he sighed, unlocked the phone, and handed it over so Rozanov could look at the assignment photo.

Baby Mistress 💗

Today, 6:45 AM

Lisa

Gonna do this

Do you know it?

Hayes

Jk?

Ofc not😫

"Oh, she's doing limits and integrals? Is fun." Roz quickly scrolled through the photo.

Someone in the room choked.

"Rozy… no fucking way you know how to do this shit," Hazy muttered. "Lisa has a college degree and she barely understands it."

"Ah, you underestimate me!" Cap winked.

"You can really help? Or at least know someone who can?"

"I def do know someone. Send me. I will bring back tomorrow solved and you have sex with your wife."

"Oh man. Thanks! I’ll owe you one."

"Yes, you will," Ilya smirked as he pulled off his shirt and underwear. "Maybe some day you'll save my sex."

When Ilya headed toward the showers, he heard somebody whisper behind his back:

“Guys… do you think he has some secret girlfriend doing all the math for him?”

The corners of his lips twitched into a smile.

When Shane finished his post-sex shower and returned to the bedroom, toweling off his hair, Ilya - already clean and refreshed - was sitting on the bed writing something.

One pillow supported his back, while another rested on his lap with one of Shane’s books underneath the paper he was writing on.

“What is it this time? An essay about the history of communism? Or another seminar you hated and decided to personally fix?” Shane teased as he crawled back into bed.

Ilya opened one arm in silent invitation, and Shane immediately dove into it, settling comfortably against him.

"No. Protecting Hazy's sex," Rozanov laughed.

Shane choked.

“Baby, I know you’re a good captain,” Shane said, immediately raising a hand when he saw Ilya about to interrupt him. “No. Don’t argue. Trust me, you are. You care about them way too much not to be.”

He kissed the knuckles resting against his shoulder and continued. 

“Sometimes I feel sad I can’t meet them yet, because you talk about them like they’re your babies. And I’m sure they love you too.”

Ilya almost looked overwhelmed for a second.

He gently tilted Shane’s face up by the chin and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

"I promise they will love you when you finally meet. Honestly, I bet half of them have a crush on you."

Shane blushed.

"Stop."

"Is true."

“Or maybe they have a crush on you.”

“Well, they probably do,” Ilya grinned, and Shane rolled his eyes. “But on you too. Because you’re hot. Extremely hot.”

“Yeah, sure.” Shane let out a quiet laugh.

He was always both amused and flattered by the sheer admiration in Ilya’s voice whenever he complimented him. Like Shane being hot, and pretty, and smart, and the best was somehow the only undeniable truth in his world.

“But in the end, you’re the only one who gets to have me, you know that, right?” Hollander moved closer.

“And you’re the only one who has me,” Rozanov murmured before finally closing the distance between them and pulling Shane into a long, tender kiss.

“Wait.” Shane asked a few minutes later, breathing heavily after Ilya’s tongue had explored every corner of his mouth. “Were you distracting me from my question again?”

“But you’re too easy and fun to distract.” Ilya gave him one of his insufferable smirks.

“Yeah. Because it’s you,” Shane huffed. “But Ilya, answer my question, please. What does ‘protecting Wyatt’s sex life’ even mean?”

“Mhhhm.” Ilya hummed, glancing back at the papers resting on his lap. “It’s something for his wife’s sister. She has a deadline tomorrow, and Lisa needed to help her, but they don't know maths. So I... kinda volunteered. It would take hours fom them.”

Shane blinked at him slowly.

“And you’re trying to tell me you actually know math? Like… that kind of math?”

Shane picked up one of the papers and rested his head on Ilya’s shoulder while looking it over.

“Well, yes. Kinda?” Ilya shrugged carefully with one shoulder so he wouldn’t jostle Shane’s head. “It's maths. No language there. Universal.”

Sometimes Ilya felt about Shane the same way people felt about cats.

Do not move while the cat is sitting on you, or it might leave.

And he definitely didn’t want that.

Shane’s head felt far too nice resting there.

“If it’s math, then why are there more letters than numbers?” Hollander muttered, still trying to process the fact that his Ilya had written all this shit on the paper. “Looks more like magic formulas.”

He had already gotten used to Ilya’s… social sciences knowledge. After getting over the initial shock, Shane had to admit it made perfect sense for someone who could get under literally anyone’s skin. He had always suspected there was more behind it, because Rozanov was too good at it.

But this?

“It’s mathematical analysis. Limits.” Ilya sounded completely casual about it. “It’s like sudoku, but more fun. Very logical. You just use known rules. And have pretty and easy answer."

Shane could feel his cheeks turning red.

It was kinda hot. 

"Sure. Easy-peasy," Shane hid his burning face in the crook of Ilya’s neck. "Just casually eating analysis or whatever the fuck this is for breakfast,” he mumbled against his skin.

Ilya laughed.

"I just loved maths. And now Hazy will owe me." He smirked. "So next time you surprisingly show up to my hotel, he should cover."

Shane let out a frustrated whine against his neck, somewhere between arousal and affection.

“Fifteen minutes and I’ll finish this. And then I’ll make you finish again.”

“What’s next? Am I going to find out you secretly speak seven more languages?”

“Ah, no. Only Russian and bad English.” Ilya chuckled. “The only thing I'm bad abour.”

"Sure. Only that."