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Shane heard it first at a charity function, which seemed unfair. Grand personal revelations should not happen in rooms with wine and canapés.
They were standing near the edge of the reception while Shane pretended to care about a donor’s thoughts on youth hockey, and Ilya stared into the middle distance with the expression of a man politely calculating how quickly he could find the exits. Then someone behind them said something in Russian, and Ilya turned.
An older man smiled, offered his hand, and Ilya took it. He said something quick and warm, all rapid-fire Russian, and Ilya smiled back, returned the handshake, and said, “Илья Розанов.”
Shane recognised it as Ilya’s name, obviously, but it landed wrong in his head because it was not the flattened, hard-syllable version sports commentators used, the arena-announcer version shouted over the ice, or the overconfident fan version mangled from behind the glass. It was warmer than that, quicker, shaped differently in Ilya’s mouth, and Shane realised with a horrible drop in his stomach he had been saying it wrong for fucking years.
By the time they got back to the hotel room, Shane had gone quiet in a way he knew was not subtle, because Ilya had the extremely annoying habit of knowing him too well.
Ilya was undoing his cufflinks in the mirror. “You are thinking very loud.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. You have thinking face.” Ilya waved a hand in Shane’s general direction. “Is very sad.”
Shane took off his watch and set it down with unnecessary care. “Why did you never correct me?”
Ilya looked at him in the mirror. “For what?”
Shane hated that he had to say it. “Your name.”
For half a second, Ilya did nothing; then he smiled.
Shane pointed at him. “Don’t.”
“I am doing nothing.”
“You are enjoying this.”
“Yes.”
“I’m trying to apologise.”
“I know. It is why I enjoy it.”
Shane exhaled through his nose. “I have been saying your name wrong.”
“Yes.”
“Why the fuck would you not tell me?”
“Everyone says it wrong.”
“I am not everyone.”
“No,” Ilya said, turning from the mirror. “You are my husband who says it wrong.”
Shane’s face went hot. “I’m an asshole.”
“Sometimes.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“But honest, yes.”
“Ilya,” Shane said, and hated he heard it. Il-yuh. Flat and wrong.
Ilya visibly winced, but his face remained fond.
“Oh, fuck off.” Shane dragged a hand over his face. “I have been saying your name like some ESPN idiot with a poorly written pronunciation guide.”
“Very confident idiot.”
“I feel terrible.”
That took the sharp edge off Ilya’s smile.
He came closer, his dress shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled messily up his forearms, unfairly beautiful for a man who had just allowed Shane to discover he was apparently a shit husband.
“You say it wrong, yes,” Ilya said. “But you say it like you love me.”
Shane stared at him.
“That is extremely manipulative.”
“Is romantic.”
“It is romantic in a manipulative way.”
“Best kind.”
Shane wanted to stay annoyed, but the guilt had softened into something warmer and stupider in his chest. “You still should have corrected me.”
“All Americans say my name like they chop wood.” Ilya cut one hand through the air, blunt and dismissive. “After many years, I do not care.”
“I’m Canadian.”
“Ahh.” Ilya gave a dismissive wave. “Same thing.”
Shane stared at him, and Ilya appeared magnificently unconcerned by the murder in his husband’s eyes.
“Say your name for me,” Shane demanded.
Ilya’s eyebrows rose.
“I want to say it properly.”
“Shane, do not worry. It is fine,” Ilya sighed.
“Just say your name, asshole.”
“Илья Розанов.”
Shane watched his mouth, entirely to see how his tongue and lips wrapped around the letters and not because Ilya was standing close enough that Shane could smell his cologne and warm skin.
“Eel-YA,” Ilya repeated, slower this time. “Not Il-yuh. Ra-ZA-nuf, not RO-zan-ov.”
Shane tried. “Eel-YA Ra-ZA-nuf.”
Ilya considered him gravely.
“Well?”
“Is acceptable.”
“Acceptable?”
“Cannot expect miracle.”
“It’s your name, not fucking rocket science.”
“And yet you suffer.”
“I am suffering because my husband is a smug bastard.” Shane tried again, slower, more careful. “Илья Розанов.”
Ilya’s face changed.
“Good,” he said, rough and low, eyes darkening.
“Actually good?”
“Yes.”
Shane was smiling now, because apparently, there was no version of himself dignified enough to resist Ilya looking pleased because Shane had said his name properly.
“I am sorry,” Shane said. “I should have asked.”
“Yes.”
“You could have told me too, asshole.”
“Yes.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Also yes.”
Shane laughed despite himself and caught him by the front of his shirt. “Say my name wrong and see how I feel.”
“Shane Hollander,” Ilya said, perfectly and smugly, right against his jaw.
“Show-off,” Shane sighed.
“Yes.” Ilya kissed the corner of his mouth. “Now let us practise.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Will be thorough.”
Shane narrowed his eyes. “How thorough?”
Ilya’s grin turned filthy. “By end of night, you will scream my name correctly.”
Shane stared at him, face burning all over again as he pulled Ilya towards the bed.