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Shane speaks French. Ilya knows this - has known this since the very first world juniors when he watched the small Canadian boy switch between two languages for some local reporter.
As Ilya became more accustomed to English, he could hear the difference in Shane’s voice when he spoke French, the stilted nature of it - like it was slightly less comfortable. He spoke slower, his tongue less practiced on the silly vowel ridden words of the French language.
Ilya had been to France twice now in the off season. It had beautiful beaches, and wine, and women, and women who liked to sun bathe nude on the beaches drinking wine. It was a very developed country in his opinion - far more fun than Canada. There, words rolled sensually from equally sensual lips. Sentences lilted in a song-like cadence. It was the language of romance after all.
Shane did not speak like the French girls in Ilya’s memories. His French was different, sharper. It came from the roof of his mouth, not the depth of his throat, and it held his jaw open as the letters cut from the edges of his mouth.
Quebecois - Shane had tried to explain once. It’s still French, but it’s a different dialect.
He was always speaking it for post game interviews in Montreal. Canada had apparently decided that a single one of their province thingies needed to be special and have an extra language. It made going out in Montreal a hellish ritual of translation; French to English to Russian. The stupid city loved Shane, loved his French or Quebecois, his Canadianess.
His interviews always sounded the same. Shane would cycle through familiar words, probably parroting the exact things he would say in his boring english interviews.
"C’est tout le temps le fun de jouer chez nous. Nos fans sont juste débiles, les meilleurs de la ligue, pis on veut vraiment performer pour eux autres""It’s always fun playing at home. Our fans are just incredible—the best in the league—and we really want to put on a show for them".
Or
"C’est un sport d’équipe, pis à soir on a joué en équipe — une meilleure équipe — pis au bout du compte, c’est ça qui fait la différence"."It’s a team sport, and tonight we played as a team—a better team—and in the end, that’s what makes the difference".
Ilya had a favourite french word. He didn’t know how to spell it, so he couldn’t figure out what it meant but it sounded like his name. Whenever the sound fell from Shane’s lips Ilya would shiver. With a french accent it sounded almost how it did in Russia - with the emphasis on the yah sound. Nobody in America ever said his name right. Only Sveta.
He knew Shane wasn’t randomly calling him by only his first name to the media, but he found himself tracking Montreal’s home games and turning on ESPN to watch Shane’s inevitable interview - en francais. Sometimes he said it, sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes Ilya had to immediately go find someone to fuck so he could prove that he wasn’t as obsessed with perfect Shane Hollander as it seemed.
So he knows that Shane can speak French, but for some reason it doesn’t register with Ilya for many years that Shane Hollander speaks French. Because Ilya never hears it when they’re together. French is something Shane keeps for the cameras. Ilya has always put it on the same level as his media smile - fake and not a part of the real Shane. The Shane that he gets to know. Sometimes.
…
Montreal - Boston, La Centre Bell, 2013
There are 11 minutes left in the third period. Boston is leading by one point and Ilya can see Shane is annoyed by the way he rolls his shoulders and clenches his jaw at the ice from the bench. The Voyagers crowd is shouting, mostly French words that Ilya assumes (and hopes) are disappointed curses at him. He loved embarrassing teams on home ice. Thrived on the hate that a hostile crowd channeled towards him.
Eight minutes left and he meets Shane for a face off in Montreal’s zone.
“Time for one more I think?” Ilya digs the blade of his right skate into the ice. He can see Marleau on his left, setting up a play that will hopefully leave Montreal sobbing into their headache-inducing bright blue jerseys.
“Time to even it up” Shane grits back. He chews on his mouthguard and Ilya watches his mouth.
“Ah,” Ilya grins even though he can tell Shane is focusing on the puck the ref is holding between them, “but every minute of overtime is one less minute we can use later”.
The comment is risky, but Ilya is relatively sure the referee isn’t immediately jumping to the conclusion that they’re fucking each other. Ilya wishes he could see the shock on Shane’s face, the inevitable blush over his freckles mixed with fury and agitation, but the puck is dropped and Shane wins it.
Ilya spins, eyes following the pass to… Pike, of course. He chases the other man down the ice, as Pike tries to score on a breakaway. It’s almost disappointingly easy to catch up with him. He knows Shane is nearby, likely trying to line up near the net for a pass.
The pass from Pike will never come though because Ilya checks him into the boards and steals the puck back. He turns, ready to cross back into the neutral zone but is immediately pulled to the ice.
“What the fuck!” Ilya shouts at the surprise. His hipbone is shooting pain through his abdomen from how he slammed onto his stomach.
Pike, the little shit has the gall to scoff. The puck is already on its way to Hollander’s tape. He’s right beside the net, just like Ilya knew he’d be. Ilya tries to scramble up from where he is now laid out on his stomach but the whistle comes and play stops.
“Montreal - Number 35 has two minutes for tripping”
Ilya smiles up at the player above him who is now being jostled towards the box by a ref.
“Not enough ice time to know NHL rules by now?” he chirps at the already pissed off Hayden Pike. The game is basically won now. Montreal will have little to no chance to score with half their remaining time being wasted on a penalty kill. It’s obvious to Pike too that his mistake might have cost his team a game.
By the time Ilya is back on his feet Hollander is already there, pushing an angry shoulder into his. Ilya has to bite over his lip to keep from smiling even wider. A pissed off Hollander is very fun after games.
Ilya has already been looking forward to their plans later that night, but now everything is even more exciting. He is going to embarrass Montreal, maybe score on the power play just to rub it in a little, and then he is going to go to Hollander’s creepy murder building and let take it out on him.
The referees are already there, pulling the two apart as if they were about to start a scuffle. It was a ridiculous worry. Perfect, good sportsman, golden boy, Hollander did not fight. No matter how much Ilya has tried to get him to crack over the years.
“Alright boys” one of the stripes says, his voice heavily accented.
“Du calme, Hollander” the other pulls Hollander away by the back of his jersey - ugly and blue. Shane would look better in Boston black.
Hollander is muttering now to the ref as he yanks himself from the grip, his gloved hands gesticulating wildly. Ilya leans on the top of his stick, watching with interest as both of their voices raise.
"C’est d’la bullshit. Y’a zéro pénalité là. Rozanov s’est enfargé tout seul. Check la reprise. Check la reprise""That’s bullshit. There’s absolutely no penalty there. Rozanov tripped over his own feet. Check the replay. Check the replay"., Hollander was almost yelling now.
Ilya doesn’t care what the referee is saying back. The call has already been made and there’s no way it will be overturned. But he is enjoying the show that Hollander is putting on.
Hollander rarely loses his cool on the ice. The French is also…interesting. Despite Ilya’s habit of watching Hollander’s French interviews he has never heard it spoken so freely from him. It’s always stilted media talk. Now, as he argues with the ref, the words fly unrestricted from Hollander’s mouth. It’s cutting and almost whiney in a way Ilya’s heard the Montreal fans sound before.
Another referee intervenes, speaking in rapid fire French back at Hollander. Ilya can’t understand what they’re saying, but it’s no less entertaining.
“Ouais!” Hollander exclaims and hits the blade of his stick on the ice, “Il y a un probleme”."There is a problem",
And there is that word. It makes Ilya shiver. He swears that Hollander’s eyes flick to him as he says it. Ilya is no francophone but one of the words sounded like ‘problem’. It sounded like Hollander had said; Ilya is a problem.
Hollander backs off pretty quickly at what Ilya can only assume is the French threat of a misconduct. He skates off towards his bench, the scorned captain, as the penalty kill hops over the boards. The glare he sends over his shoulder makes Ilya’s stomach twist in that deep and excited way.
It’s only once Ilya is being signalled off the ice for a line change that he realizes he hadn’t so much as chirped Hollander during the entire interaction. What a waste of an opportunity.
Ilya does end up scoring on the power play. He gloats about it too long on the ice for extra measure. Even so, he can’t get the echo of Hollander’s French out of his head.
Il y a - Ilya. It stirs a very deep and desperate need in him. He wants to hear more of that. The whiney tones of this language that Hollander seems to keep hidden. It lights a familiar fire in his stomach.
So that was new.
…
Montreal, Murder Building, 2014
Hollander’s murder building was always dark when Ilya saw it. There was a haunting emptiness to it, knowing that they were the only ones in the entire structure. If he wanted to, Hollander really could kill him. Nobody would ever think to check for Ilya’s body here.
When Ilya arrived, Hollander greeted him by pressing a palm over his mouth. For the tiniest of excited seconds Ilya thought Hollander was about to launch them into some kinky shit, but then he noticed the phone pressed to Hollander’s ear.
He followed Hollander up the familiar stairs into his sex apartment - which was not as kinky as it sounded - as the boy nodded along to whoever was rudely interrupting their time together.
Ilya threw himself over the leather couch. They had fucked there a few months ago after a particularly heated game; Boston had won of course after Ilya pulled a penalty from Pike. Hollander had been spitting mad, hardly said a word to him before he tangled his hands in Ilya’s sweatshirt and pressed their lips into a biting kiss (where he did genuinely bite Ilya’s lip painfully hard). He hadn’t even let Ilya get to the bedroom, pushing him onto the couch and muttering expletives into his neck.
Now, too many months later, Ilya was alone on the couch. Hollander was far away, leaning against the granite island of his kitchen.
Ilya huffed, loud enough to catch Hollander’s attention and make it known that he was not appreciative of being ignored. Boston’s goalie had let in four goals that night, Montreal’s goalie had a shutout. Ilya was already in a mood about the embarrassing game, and he was pissed at the team’s defence, and he had run his mouth in the media so badly that coach yelled at him afterwards, and he wanted to fuck Hollander. Now.
“J’te l’ai déjà dit, J.J, c’est pas moi qui décide”"I already told you, J.J., I’m not the one who decides", Hollander sounded annoyed.
Ilya immediately felt a stirring in his gut. He sat up, watching as Hollander took to pacing back and forth in his own kitchen. It had never occurred to him that Hollander might speak french outside of a hockey rink. He thought back to their previous game in Montreal, when Hollander yelled at the referee in angry French. It was a memory Ilya visited more often than he cared to admit, especially when he was alone.
“Non, j’ferai pas ça. Si t’as un problème avec ça, parle-en au coach””No, I’m not doing that. If you have a problem with it, talk to the coach”.
Ilya stood from the couch. He needed to be touching Hollander, he needed Hollander to get off the phone, but he also didn’t want to stop listening to the high pitched tones of his whining french, and rolling tongue.
When Hollander realized Ilya was approaching he froze against the counter and glared in Ilya’s direction.
“Écoute mon chum, faut que j’te laisse… non, j’suis pas… y’a personne ici…”.“Listen, buddy, I’ve gotta go… no, I’m not… there’s no one here…”.
Ilya crowded Hollander into the cold granite, taking pleasure in the press of their bodies and the way Hollander’s words came out breathily. The other boy mouthed a stern ‘stop’ at him, his glare intensifying as Ilya reached down to pull his own shirt over his head.
“Désolé, ouais, j’t’écoute encore”“Sorry, yeah, I’m still listening”. Ilya pressed a kiss to Hollander’s collarbone.
“Arrête-tu de parler de ma vie sexuelle avec Hayden, s’te plaît?”“Can you stop talking about my sex life with Hayden, please?”
“Mm, sexual?” Ilya repeated a word he could recognize in any language against the base of Hollander’s neck. He could feel the flutter of Hollander’s quickening heartbeat underneath the heat of his skin. He was rewarded with a hand in his hair, tugging his head from the crook of Hollander’s neck.
They were eye to eye now. Ilya let the corner of his mouth twist upwards into a smirk. Hollander’s eyes were wide and already partially clouded, his cheeks were pink and so were his lips. Ilya leaned forward, hovering their faces centimeters apart. He wondered how much longer Hollander would wait. If he would let Ilya suck him off right there, while he cursed out pretty french words into the phone.
<
“Va donc chier, parle au coach demain matin. J’raccroche”.“Go fuck yourself, then—talk to the coach tomorrow morning. I’m hanging up”. Hollander’s lips brushed against Ilya’s while he spoke. It sends waves of pleasure, too much pleasure for something so chaste, through Ilya’s body.
“Are you trying to get us caught?” Hollander spitted out as he slammed his phone on the counter.
The sudden switch to English felt like whiplash. Ilya missed the French, wanted Hollander to glare and mutter those words at him while Ilya pressed him into his mattress.
“What were you talking about?” Ilya tried to sound innocent, but his hand was already pushing its way past the waistband of Hollander’s sweatpants.
“It was J.J”
“You talk about sexual with J.J? Who the fuck is J.J?”
“He’s on my team, asshole,” Hollander went rigid for a moment before grinning, “are you jealous?”
“No” Ilya lied.
“I think you’re jealous” Hollander looked far too smug. It reminded Ilya of the look he sent over the ice after the night's humiliating loss.
“Fuck who you want Hollander, but right now I am supposed to be doing the fucking yes?”
…
Boston, Ilya’s House, 2015
“Do you like when I speak Russian?” Ilya asked one afternoon. He’d been wondering about it for a while.
Above him Hollander was still coming back into himself, a hand tangled in Ilya’s curls - a little too tightly. Ilya rested his head on Hollander’s thigh to ease the tension on his roots, and shifted his weight so his knees were no longer digging into the hardwood.
“Huh?” Hollander squinted down. His eyes were slowly losing that cloudy look that Ilya loved to watch him slip into.
“When I speak Russian,” Ilya prompted. He had to hold back a sound of displeasure when Hollander’s hand slid from his hair. The other boy righted himself on the couch and had the audacity to look confused.
“Just some people have said they enjoy it,” Ilya was starting to feel dumb under Hollander’s scrupulous gaze.
Does the sound of my foreign words make you as pathetic as desperate as yours make me? He wanted to ask. But Ilya wouldn't dare admit he was so infatuated with something as simple as another language.
“People,” Hollander deadpanned.
“Girls”
“You fucking asshole” the skin between Hollander’s eyebrows folded. Normally Ilya loved teasing Hollander. He loved getting him annoyed and pissed off, but that hadn’t been his intention here.
“You are mad” Ilya pulled himself from the floor and sat beside Hollander on the couch so their arms were pressed together.
They still had an hour before Hollander had to leave for a pre-game meeting, and he did not want to spend it arguing. He had better plans for them, plans that involved more of his bedroom, and less of the hardwood floor.
He probably shouldn’t have done that; pushed Hollander to the couch the moment he arrived and slipped between his legs only hours before they played a game. The pointy bone beneath his knee joints were likely to bruise from the heavy way he had fallen to them.
He would still beat Hollander of course. He had played through broken fingers and seizing ribs. But at least with those injuries Ilya wasn’t thinking of the way a certain French speaking Canadian’s mouth parted as he tossed his head back in pleasure.
“I didn’t come here to compare the way you talk to other people in bed” Hollander was trying and failing to conceal a pouty look on his face. Sometimes Ilya had no clue how the other man managed to lie to people about their… situation, when his expressions were as readable as a book. Not an English book of course, a proper Russian one.
Ilya let himself think for a few seconds before responding. There were lots of ways he could tease Hollander. He could get him jealous and annoyed and maybe even get in his head before the game… but he didn’t want that. He wanted to look straight into his eyes while they faced off that evening and feel that secret thrill of danger and excitement when Hollander looked back.
“Ah,” Ilya tutted, he clasped Hollander’s hand and pulled them both to their feet, “tell me, what did you come for then?”
Boston won the game. Even if Ilya’s left knee in particular was sporting a pretty vibrant bruise.
…
Michigan, Marriott Hotel Bar, 2016
Jean-Luc coming to Boston from Montreal was a surprising trade for nearly every person who followed hockey. The boy was basically still a rookie, a third line defenseman that was not happy about the sudden trade from his home team.
He came in brooding, with many of Montreal fans calling him a traitor online - despite the guy having no say in the matter. He was a decent player, and a good addition to Boston. He also had a mouth on him, chirping away at opposing players and drawing a fair bit of penalties.
Ilya liked him, maybe saw a bit of himself in him.
So Ilya, being the good captain that he was, made it his mission to show Jean-Luc how much better Boston was, and little by little the defenseman started to open up.
“Bagsy buddy slow it down, I can’t understand a fucking thing you’re saying” Marleau tossed an arm over Jean-Luc’s shoulder nearly toppling all three of them into the bar.
“Calice Marleau” he swore, “I have already said not to call me that”.
“Sorry Bagsy,” Marleau shrugged and gave him a hard clap on the shoulder, “rooks don’t get to choose their nickname”
“I am not a rookie…putain de merde” Bagsy was the unfortunate short form of Baguette.
Ilya had suggested ‘Pou’, short for poutine of course, but it was apparently already taken by a Canadian woman’s player.
“These fucking American’s” Ilya reached to flick Marleau in his ginormous forehead. “I think the more they drink the more deaf they get”
As if to prove a point Marleau inched closer, “what?” he yelled over the music and raucous noise of hockey players at the bar.
“Where I come from they are the ones with the fucking accents” Bagsy complained. Even the indirect comment about Montreal made the few men around them boo.
“You’re a Bostonian now bud,” Hammersmith grinned, “no more of this Montreal Francais bullshit”.
“Roz still gets to be Russian,” Bagsy defended.
“Is different” Ilya said, and the others agreed. “Russia is more sexy. No proper Boston girl will fuck you if you come at them with this…weird French”.
Ilya had actually learned a fair bit about Quebec, and its dialect, in his research on the language. Very light research of course. It was basically preparation for Montreal games if anything. Nothing at all to do with Shane Hollander.
“Osti de criss de tabernacle…” Bagsy continued to mumble what Ilya assumed were French curses based on how many familiar words Montreal fans hurled at him. The other players chuckled at his outburst.
Ilya bent down, keeping his voice low so only the kid could hear him. “Fuck Montreal, fuck the Voyagers, they fucked up giving you to us, they don’t know what they lost yes?”
“Fuck you Rozanov” the rookie replied, but he was grinning.
“Next game, we destroy them. We show them how much they fucked up”
“Okay”
“Not good enough” Ilya tsked, he sat up and raised his voice, “next game against Montreal we fuck them!”
“Fuck them!” there were a few choruses of various ministrations against their rival team.
“Capitaine, I think you mean, we’ll fuck them up” Bagsy snorted.
“Yes and that too” Ilya nodded and accepted another drink from the bartender. Her name tag said ‘Jamie’. She was pretty, and they had been catching each other’s eyes all night. Ilya wondered when she got off for the night. Just as he was about to ask he was distracted by Hollander’s name being thrown into a conversation beside him.
“...nothing” Bagsy was saying, “never came out with the team. Only saw him drink a beer once at a pre-season barbeque”
“Guy’s a fucking robot” Connors shook his head.
“He’s gotta have some personality in the locker room at least?” Hammersmith goaded.
Despite the rivalry between the two teams, and Boston’s somewhat played up hatred towards the Montreal captain (which was mostly Ilya’s doing he thinks), it was obvious the boys were still curious about Hollander.
He was, at the end of the day, considered to be one of the best players in the league. His stony demeanour, and seemingly impenetrable focus on the ice was annoying. It was hard to get under a guy’s skin if you had nothing to go off of, and even more frustrating when they didn’t seem miffed by whatever you were chirping at them.
“Quiet mostly, but…” Bagsy shrugged. Then he paused, his mouth opening and closing like he wasn’t sure if he should say whatever he was about to.
“C’mon kid spit it out,” Marleau huffed.
Ilya could tell the poor kid was struggling to betray whatever lingering loyalty he had to his prior captain, but Ilya was too interested in what he had to say to step in.
“He does have this girl…”
“No fucking way,” Conners shook his head.
Ilya felt like he might throw up.
“Ouais,” Bagsy nodded, “Lily I think is her name. She’s always on his phone before a game. Hayds - uh putain - Pike I mean, he thinks she’s a Boston girl”.
Ilya ignored the relief that washed over him. He couldn’t contain the grin that spread across his face, “of course she is. Good girl, good choice”.
“Pike thinks she's a Boston gal?” Hammersmith prodded, “you never met her?”
Bagsy seemed to be free of whatever guilt he was harbouring before, and basked in the attention of the growing group of men.
“Well that’s the thing” he continued, “Hollzy - er Hollander - is super weird about her. The only time I ever saw him get mad was when Drapeau was giving him shit over his girl”.
It fell silent for a full moment. And then it was like a sudden lightbulb had formed above the small huddle of hockey players.
“Fuck me fellas. Start planning your chirps for next week. I wanna see Captain Boring drop his gloves”.
…
9:00 PM, Boston, TD Gardens, 2016
Montreal was up by two.
Ilya gave a rousing and somewhat angry speech before they headed back out for the final period, hoping a little fire under their asses might be able to pull them into overtime.
In hindsight, Ilya’s speech might’ve been responsible for what happened next. Particularly the part where he said, “the refs are tough tonight, take them down with words boys, be the beautiful assholes you are”.
So really, Ilya had himself to blame. Hollander was going to kill him, that's if he ever elected to speak to him again.
“Hey Hollander. Lily asked me to tell you hi” Marleau chirped as both teams skated to the center line.
Ilya watched as Hollander froze. It was only a second before he managed to pull himself together but it was obvious enough. They dropped into their face off positions and Hollander wouldn’t look at him.
Fuck. He probably thought Ilya had told his team something to fuck with him.
“Hollander I-” Ilya began but the puck was dropped. He won it easily.
Hollander’s attempt at the puck was delayed and uncharacteristically sloppy. Ilya shot it down the ice to Connors and chased his way to the goal. When Marleau fired the puck back at him, Ilya easily flicked it over the goalie's shoulder. The puck dinged as it hit the corner of the post and flew into the back of the net.
Instead of pride, or relief at climbing back up the scoreboard, Ilya felt guilty.
Bagsy joined Ilya’s line on the ice in the last few minutes, filling in for an injured defenseman. He glided up to where the boys were waiting for the commercial break to end. A few Montreal players skated along the blue line spewing taunting French sentences at Bagsy. Hollander was among them, but he only gave his old teammate a respectful nod.
“Thought we are supposed to destroy them tonight capitaine” Bagsy spit after another Montreal player called something at him.
“One more goal, then we take them in overtime,” Ilya shrugged. It was certainly possible with five minutes left on the clock. It wouldn’t be easy though.
“Need to draw out a fucking penalty” Marleau eyed the other team like they were prey. “Hollander seemed pretty shaken about that Lily chirp eh?” He elbowed Ilya and Bagsy.
Commercial break was almost over so they started making their way to their starting positions.
“On se demande ben gros si Lily existe pour vrai ou si elle va à une autre école?”“We wonder if Lily really exists or if she goes to another school?” Bagsy said as he passed his old captain. The only word Ilya knew was Lily.
Hollander’s eyes flicked only briefly to Ilya, flaring with anger and maybe… hurt?
“Je vois que tu t’habitues bien à Boston”“I can see you're settling into Boston well”. he focused back on Bagsy. As usual, the accented language made Ilya’s stomach flip.
“Quand tu perds le match à soir, capitaine, viens pas brailler après ta blonde. Lily va être ben trop occupée avec son équipe d’icitte”“When you lose the game tonight, Captain, don't come crying to your girlfriend afterward. Lily's going to be way too busy with her team here”.
“Ferme donc ta crisse de gueule rookie”“Shut your fucking mouth, rookie”. Hollander spit on the ice.
He rarely did that. He thought it was gross. He told Ilya that much himself. The crispness of his French was angry, he was swearing at Bagsy - Ilya recognized one of Bagsy’ favourite words - crisse.
Ilya wanted to remember this moment. He captured the angry Hollander, spitting, and cursing in French, in his mind and saved it for later. At some point he was going to have to confront this, the feelings that arose in him whenever Hollander wrapped his tongue around a long French vowel, but not now, there was a game to win.
The ref between them gave them a stern warning and Ilya pulled Bagsy back by the loose fabric of his jersey. “No luck getting a fight from him, kid, try Boizeau”.
Montreal won.
…
11:20PM, Boston, Ilya’s House, 2016
“You came”
“I said I would” Hollander stepped his way into Ilya’s house, lightly brushing their chests.
“Close the door!” he hissed when Ilya failed to move. He was surprised that Hollander had come at all, let alone that he hadn’t immediately started yelling.
“You are not mad?” Ilya frowned and finally put himself into motion shutting the door behind him.
“Why would I be mad? You’re the ones we beat tonight” Hollander slipped off his shoes and lined them up carefully by the door - the neurotic freak.
“Yes but all the boys were saying-”
“-I assumed Luc would start chatting shit eventually” Hollander was far less bothered than Ilya thought he would be. He was certainly thrown off the first time Marleau tossed the name ‘Lily’ on the ice tonight.
“Luc?” Ilya questioned. He felt like Hollander was leading him through his own house as he followed the other boy through the living room and towards the stairs.
Hollander turned, his facial expression unreadable in the dark light, “Jean-Luc? My old defenseman?"
“Yours?” Ilya questioned. Now that the shock was out of his system, it was being replaced with a familiar buzz. Against his will, his mind flashed back to the sneer on Hollander’s face as he chirped at Bagsy.
“Ohhhh” Ilya feigned as he backed the other boy into the wall, “you mean Bagsy”.
“Sure, Bagsy” Hollander rolled his eyes but his hand had quickly reached out to pull Ilya in by the waist.
“It means baguette, because he’s French” Ilya didn’t really care about what they were saying now. He was too focused on the way Hollander’s cold hand had wormed its way up the back of his shirt.
“Baguette is French, like Europe - not from Quebec" Ilya let himself relish in the accent that easily infected the inflections of the French words.
“Mmm” Ilya mumbled into the warm skin of Hollander’s neck, he pulled the coat off the other boy’s shoulders - he hadn’t even offered to take it at the door.
“Teach me more,” he said.
Hollander slid out of Ilya’ grasp, ducking down to quickly fold his coat over the back of the couch.
“Have you ever heard of Google?” Hollander asked wryly.
“Why google when I have you?” Ilya pulled Hollander back towards him and the other boy stumbled into a bruising kiss.
“More,” Ilya demanded, despite being the one clutching Hollander’s neck and holding their faces together.
“Upstairs then” Hollander panted.
Ilya dodged his next kiss, “more French - teach me”.
They were flipped now, and Ilya let his head tip back against the wall. He could see the gears in Hollander’s head spinning predictably, as they always did while he tried to figure out if Ilya was fucking with him.
He narrowed his eyes; “cesse de me”"Stop" Hollander said slowly (and slightly agitatedly). He waited for Ilya to repeat. It predictably sounded strange mixing with Ilya’s accent.
“Taquiner”"teasing me" Hollander backed away from Ilya.
Tak - i - ner. Ilya tried.
Hollander shook his head, “ta” - tah - his voice was breathy but in control, “qui” - ki, “ner” - neigh.
Ilya watched his tongue form the words as he slowed down the pronunciation and exacerbated the sounds with the shape of his mouth. His heart was pounding unbearably fast. Ilya was transfixed, he had never been more turned on in his life. Why the fuck was he not taking Hollander upstairs?
“et emmène-moi”"and take me" - et em-awn-eh moi
“à l’étage”"upstairs" - ah le tahghe.
“Cesse de me taquiner et emmène-moi à l’étage”"Stop teasing me and take me upstairs" Hollander said the full phrase.
“What does it mean?” Ilya started up the stairs, his mind swimming, and his skin feeling hot.
Hollander waited until they got to Ilya’s door. He leaned in, looking a bit sheepish - at least Ilya could still get him to blush like that.
“Cesse de me taquiner et emmène-moi à l’étage” Hollander mumbled, much faster than he had been speaking downstairs.
“Quit teasing me and take me upstairs”.
Well fuck.
…
Quebec, Middle of Nowhere, 2017
Ilya could tell Shane was nervous by the way he was gripping the steering wheel. When Ilya had finally admitted that he was starving, and getting a headache from his caffeine withdrawal, Shane suggested they stop at the next Tims.
The plan had been for Ilya to slouch down and Shane to go inside, but it turns out that the only Tims for kilometers was a drive through only. So Ilya was still slouched, sunglasses and hat pulled over his face, while Shane pulled them up to the speaker.
“What do you want?” Shane asked while he maneuvered the car around a tight corner. Honestly, who designed these places? Tim Hortan himself?
“Coffee,” Ilya repeated. His head was starting to pound unkindly.
“Yeah but how do you take it?”
“We have been fucking for 8 years and you do not know my coffee order?” Ilya gasped in mock dramatics. In actuality, he didn’t expect Shane to know. It wasn’t like they had ever made it through to a morning before.
The joke must’ve flown over Shane’s head because he sucked in a sharp breath and his grip tightened on the steering wheel. Shit. Ilya was always saying the wrong things. He considered taking it back, making another joke, anything to fix the guilty look on Shane’s face.
Just then, a warm hand clasped over his, taking him out of his head. Ilya looked down to find Shane rubbing at his knuckles.
“I’ll learn,” he said with the conviction he always had about things.
Ilya had to push down the strange panic that fluttered in his stomach at the intensity of Shane’s words.
“I’ll bet you take your coffee black” he decided to tease, “no sugar, and boring”.
Shane released Ilya’s hand to put it back on the wheel, exactly at 10 and 2, like the responsible driver he was.
“I don’t” Shane was smiling again, small and controlled, “I bet you take yours with heaps of sugar”.
“Yes,” Ilya nodded, unable to keep the matching grin from his lips, “and two heaps of cream”.
The speaker beside them crackled to life and the conversation was quickly abandoned for ordering.
“Bonjour, hello” a woman said. And oh, oh. Shane was responding in French. How had Ilya not realized they were in Quebec?
Shane communicated easily, exchanging what Ilya assumed were a few pleasantries with the woman at the window when they pulled up to get their food.
Ilya thought back to the versions of French Shane he had met before; angry and spitting at the ref, annoyed and whiny with his teammate, teasing and controlling with Ilya, and now… pleasant.
The light tone didn’t make Ilya’s gut twist in that devastating hunger the other versions of ‘French Shane’ did, but that fluttering sensation returned. It was a mix of panic, and curiosity, and also maybe Ilya was a bit turned on (sue him it had been months since the last time he’d had sex).
Ilya was about to go to Shane’s cottage. His ‘favourite place on earth’ according to the documentary that Ilya definitely hadn’t watched over 20 times since it first released. He was going to see the sheets on Shane’s bed, the way he organized his closet, the small intimate parts of him that Ilya had never been allowed to before.
It was all going to be new. Just like this new version of Shane that he was encountering now. For a split second Ilya had the harrowed thought; oh god what am I thinking?
Then Shane was passing him a hot red cup and fixing him with those endlessly deep eyes - still visible through the shade of his sunglasses.
As they rejoined the long empty road, Ilya took a sip. The coffee was pretty terrible, and bordering on too sweet. He drank it anyway.
“It’s a double-double” Shane informed him, “for in case you get stuck at a Tims again” he blushed and turned suddenly shy as if the notion of Ilya returning was a possibility best unspoken.
“You drink these?” Ilya’s eyebrows shot up. The coffee was nearly too sweet for him to bear. Shane wouldn’t even drink full sugar coke!
“Oh god no” Shane scoffed, “I value my arteries unclogged thank you very much”.
“So what is this then? Tea?” Ilya flicked the mostly untouched cup in the console between them.
“Coffee,” Shane deadpanned.
Ilya peered through the small opening in the cap, “it is black Hollander, I knew it. I know you”.
He watched Shane bite back another grin, “I take it with honey”.
“No sugar?”
“The sugar is in the honey”
“You are so boring. You will kill me with your boring this week I think” Ilya groaned.
“There’s actually interesting research about the anti-inflammatory affect honey has on the body” Shane physically perked up in his chair, “I’ve been looking at building an apiary in the yard of the cottage, though bees can be quite complicated, and the equipment requires…”
Ilya leaned back into the sun warmed leather seat, and watched the muscles move in Shane’s forearm as he drove. He listened as Shane listed off every piece of apiary equipment one needed to start their own, the benefits and risks, the financial burden, and everything else that Ilya would never ever need to know about.
Ilya didn’t even know what ‘apiary’ meant, beyond having something to do with honey. Shane might as well have been speaking to him in French, for all he understood.
Ilya would listen forever if he could.
…
Ottawa, Yuna and David Hollander’s House, 2018
David’s parents - Shane’s grandparents - were exactly as Ilya had imagined them. Perfectly old but not too old, enjoyers of the New Yorker. After their brutal and public outing it was inevitable that Ilya was going to have to meet the entire Hollander clan (not that they were a large bunch). David and Yuna were both only children and Yuna’s own parents lived in Japan and Shane had said they weren’t very close with them.
"Ah non mon cher McGill, c’est une bonne … a good school. Very good hockey” Yvonne - Shane’s grandmother - gave Ilya a pat on the knee.
He returned her smile, albeit a bit nervously. Shane hadn’t mentioned that his family was so… french. It happened slowly at first, before Ilya became a common fixture of the Hollander’s family sphere. David would mumble something in distracted French and Shane would respond, or Yuna would scoff at some French article and spark a debate in a language Ilya couldn’t follow. The trio seemed to exist in a strange constant bilingualism, mashing French and English together in half sentences, slipping in and out of different accents and tones like it was normal. And it was normal. When one of them realized they were doing it they would blush and apologize to Ilya before everybody returned to a slightly more aware version of the English language.
Shane’s grandparents were even harder to keep up with. Shane had warned him that they usually only spoke French with them - especially Yvonne. Ilya couldn’t even pronounce her name, she thought it was a great laugh when he struggled with the vowels. Ei - van, when it came from his mouth.
“Appelle-moi Evie, ma chérie”"Call me Evie, my dear" she had grinned.
“She wants you to call her-” Shane leaned in to translate.
“-Yes Shane, Evie, I am not so stupid” Ilya had rolled his eyes, but it was making him feel nervous.
Dinner had gone well, and now they were all lounging in David and Yuna’s living room sipping wine and talking - mostly about hockey. Shane was still rather stiff with him, he was always so uncomfortable showing affection around new people, but Ilya was deciding to stay patient. This was already a big step.
“And t’es sûre you don’t want a wedding planner?”"And are you sure you don’t want a wedding planner?"
“Non mémère, ça va être pretty small. Juste la famille, some friends, pis some teammates” No, Grandma, it’s going to be pretty small. Just family, some friends, and some teammates". Shane flipped between the two languages smoothly, as if he were throwing a bone to both his grandmother and Ilya at the same time.
“Pff, men” Yvonne clicked her tongue,“je pensais that you might surprise moi"."I thought you might surprise me".
“Evie, they did shock a lot of people — "t’oublies""you forget" Thomas - Shane’s rather quiet grandfather said fondly.
It was hard to follow along with the conversation, so Ilya let himself watch. It felt odd to see a family so perfectly normal about their relationship. If Ilya’s father had been around when the fanmail incident occurred he would not have been so gracious. If his grandfather had been around… Ilya didn’t even want to think of the danger he might have been in.
Yet here Shane was, surrounded by people who loved him, who - once they got past the initial shock - didn’t bat an eye at the queerness of it all. He was pulled from these thoughts when Shane nudged a knee into Ilya’s thigh.
“Okay?” Shane asked, his deep brown eyes worried and searching.
“Lots of words” Ilya nodded, “I cannot tell sometimes which ones I should know and which I shouldn’t”.
Shane’s arm found its way around Ilya’s waist and Ilya felt himself instantly relax. He hadn’t realized how tense he was holding himself, and how much he was missing the physical grounding of his fiancee's touch. Ilya pushed it a little further and drew Shane closer, so they were pressed side by side, with Ilya in the corner of the couch. He could feel Shane go rigid for a moment, before thankfully loosening against him.
It was no different than the way Yuna’s ankle was crossed with David’s where they hung from the couch, or the easy hand that Thomas had been resting on Yvonne’s knee.
“Sorry” Shane said, his voice rumbling into Ilya’ chest now that they were pressed together.
“Is okay” Ilya muttered, he was getting sleepy and wanted to pull Shane fully into his lap and bury his head into the nape of his neck.
“Is sexy when you speak French,” though he couldn’t see Shane’s face well, Ilya knew he would be blushing.
"Comment?"What?" Shane directed his attention back to Yvonne who fired off some rapid French question.
"Kids? C’est too early to think à ça mémère! We only juste de commencer à figure things out”"Kids? It’s too early to think about that! We’ve only just started figuring things out" Shane sounded slightly mortified as he spoke, but Ilya knew it had something to do with children - he could catch a few words here and there. But mostly, Ilya was trying not to think too hard about the way Shane’s English was overtaken with a French lilt when he was worked up and rapidly switching between the two.
Ilya loved French Shane, he got to see him so irregularly, but he had never heard English Shane with a French accent. It was bringing him back to his days on Paris beaches and the beautiful people and the way they twisted their English words like Ilya did.
“Ilya” Shane hissed and rolled his shoulder.
Ilya turned to look at his fiancee who had a confused and slightly annoyed look on his face.
“Are you trying to break my ribs?”
It was at that moment that Ilya realized he had been gripping Shane’s waist with such intensity that his own hand was cramping. Fuck, he really wanted to get home.
“I am sleepy,” Ilya said simply. He had had enough of ignoring that insatiable need that arose in him whenever Shane flipped to French.
Shane narrowed his eyes, obviously not buying it. Ilya tried his best to communicate via eye-contact about all the things he was going to make Shane say to him once they got home. Horribly dirty, naughty, non-family appropriate things… and now he is getting turned on at his fiancee’s parents house. Ilya had to stop thinking about it.
He couldn’t. Shane was spitting out straight French now, his arm growing tighter across Ilya’s back. “... so we should be heading home” Shane finished in English and Ilya almost let out a whoop of relief.
He let Shane pull him to his feet before giving Thomas a strong handshake, “it is very nice to meet you both,” Ilya told the couple sincerely.
“We will see you at Christmas next” Thomas nodded. Ilya had to bite over his smile as he nodded his confirmation at the older gentleman. It was the way he had said it, not asked it, like Ilya was already part of the family and to assume anything else was out of the question.
“No-elle” Ilya tried the French word for Christmas. It wasn’t even close to impressive but he felt Shane stiffen beside him and Yvonne clapped her hands delightedly.
“So you like it when I speak French?” Shane asked the second they got into his boring car.
“Shut up and drive Hollander,” Ilya squeezed Shane’s thigh as if to press it onto the gas pedal.
“Oui, monsieur”
“I will fuck you in your parent’s driveway” Ilya threatened. He was only half joking, and already half-hard.
Shane finally seemed to get the severity of the situation, but he laughed to himself as he started the engine. “All these years and I could have had you desperate with just a few french words…” he sighed.
“Ah” Ilya was glad his house was only a few minutes drive, “I have been desperate for you always Моя любовь. Is embarrassing for me”.