Work Text:
1.
Ping.
Shane's phone was somewhere in the depths of Ilya's couch, completely ignored.
Normally he'd have brought it to the bedroom, but Ilya had been so eager when he walked through the door, pushing him down onto the sofa for a kiss before they'd even made it past the entryway. The phone must have slipped out of his pocket then, lost in the cushions.
As for now, they were thoroughly, completely fucked out on Ilya's bed.
"Ilya..." Shane gasped, lifting a hand to wipe away the sweat threatening to drip into his eyes. Ilya caught his wrist instead, pinned it to the pillow above his head. The next thing Shane felt was a tongue, warm and wet, tracing the path of that same drop of sweat.
"Oh, Shane. You're amazing." The word came out wrapped in a thick Russian accent, and Shane shivered—actually shivered—because the sound of it detonating right next to his ear nearly sent him over the edge right there.
"Ilya."
"Hm?"
"Ilya."
Ilya slowed his rhythm, brow furrowing. "What's wrong? You okay?"
"Ilya... Сильнее, я твой, я тебя люблю."
Harder. I’m yours. I love you.
Ilya went completely still for half a second. Then he moved, driving into him so hard and deep it felt like he was trying to rearrange Shane's insides, like he was putting every ounce of his fucking soul into it.
Shane was pretty sure the bed frame scraped across the floor.
They came apart together, breathless and trembling, still connected, still close, that sweet post-orgasm haze washing over them in waves.
"You can't do that." Ilya dropped his head to Shane's shoulder after a minute, voice muffled. "That's cheating. That's such cheating."
Shane laughed, breathless, still trying to remember how to form complete sentences.
Ilya pressed a kiss to his sweat-damp forehead, then another, then another, like he couldn't stop. "When did you learn that. Who taught you that."
"I was waiting for you to teach me." Shane's voice came out rough. "You were right, though. Some words really do come in handy."
Ilya made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan and collapsed next to him, dragging Shane against his chest. They lay there in the quiet, trading lazy kisses, until the sticky heat became too much and Shane announced he was showering.
"Пойдём вместе, дорогой?" (Want to come with, darling?)
Ilya's eyes went wide. Then he was moving, scrambling off the bed and grabbing Shane's hand, pulling him toward the bathroom. "Your little accent is so fucking cute."
"Like your English?"
"My English doesn't have an accent. Perfect pronunciation."
"Say something in French, then. Bonjour, je parle français sans accent." (Hello, I speak French without an accent.)
Ilya, already reaching for a towel, turned and gave him a Look. "That sentence isn't romantic at all, Shane."
Shane opened his mouth to ask why, but then Ilya was on his knees in front of him, mouth right there, and every single thought in his head evaporated.
On the kitchen island, another phone went ping.
No one noticed that one either.
2.
Shane had started learning Russian about six months ago.
He hadn't told Ilya. It wasn't a thing, okay? People learn languages. It doesn't have to be some big romantic gesture.
He'd just downloaded that stupid green app, done his lessons in the mornings before practice, finished them at night before bed. Kept his streak alive. Simple.
Сильный. Strong.
Твой. Yours.
Люблю. Love.
The words lived in his phone, in his head, in his mouth when he practiced pronunciation alone in hotel rooms. He started listening to Russian podcasts on his way to the rink, understanding maybe every fiftieth word, but that was fine. That was the point.
He wasn't planning to use any of it. He just wanted to understand, next time Ilya whispered something in his ear. That's all.
3.
Ilya was late.
Shane leaned against the kitchen island, watching the door. 1:15 a.m. Forty-five minutes late. No text, no call, nothing.
He told himself it was fine. Traffic. Practice ran long. Whatever.
The lock clicked.
Ilya walked in looking like he'd just fought the Montreal winter and lost, curls wind-tossed, cheeks flushed from cold. He stopped when he saw Shane, like he hadn't expected anyone to be waiting.
"Traffic at this hour?" Shane asked mildly.
Ilya didn't answer. Just tossed his keys on the console, hung up his coat, movements slower than usual. Shane waited for him to come over, to push him against the wall, to kiss him like he meant it.
Instead, Ilya went to the couch, picked up the remote, and started channel surfing.
Shane raised an eyebrow.
"Eat dinner?"
"Yeah."
"I got that stuff you like—"
"Not hungry, Shane."
The TV flickered through channels before landing on a French news station. Ilya frowned at the screen, brow furrowed like he was trying really, really hard to understand.
Shane watched him for a moment. Then he went and sat down next to him.
"What's going on?"
"Nothing."
"Ilya."
Ilya finally looked at him. There was something in those grey-blue eyes that Shane couldn't quite read—not anger, not exhaustion, just... something.
"You did an interview today," Ilya said. "In French."
Shane blinked. Yeah, pre-game presser. So what? He played in Montreal. French was the language of the city.
"Yeah?"
Ilya didn't answer. Just turned the volume up. The news anchor was talking fast about something political, and Ilya stared at the screen like sheer willpower alone would make the words comprehensible.
Shane watched his profile and suddenly remembered, two weeks ago, walking into Ilya's place to find him on the couch with his phone, that familiar Duolingo owl sound effect playing. Ilya had flipped the phone over so fast, launched himself at Shane so enthusiastically, that Shane hadn't thought twice about it.
Now he got it.
"You don't understand it," Shane said. Not a question.
Ilya's thumb paused on the remote.
"So why are you watching it?"
Silence.
"You don't understand it, but you've got it turned up like this?"
"Listening practice," Ilya muttered.
Shane laughed. He couldn't help it. "Listening practice?"
"What's so funny."
Shane looked at him, at that carefully blank face, at the faint flush creeping up his ears. Something in his chest went soft and warm.
"I'm not mad," Ilya said suddenly. "I just—" He stopped. Started again. "You sound different. When you speak French. Different from English."
"Different how?"
"Just... different." Ilya's fingers tapped restlessly on the remote. "More relaxed. More like... you."
Shane didn't say anything.
He remembered the first time he'd heard Ilya speak Russian. Not in bed—those moments were hazy, half-remembered, words he'd later look up in secret. Earlier than that. Before they were together. After a game, passing by the visitors' locker room, door slightly ajar, hearing Ilya inside talking to someone in rapid, fluent Russian.
He'd sounded different too. Sharper. More alive. More himself. The careful English he used with media, with teammates, with everyone—it fell away, and there was just... Ilya. Real Ilya.
Shane had stood there in the hallway, not understanding a single word, and thought: I want to know that version of him.
Now he knew. Ilya wanted the same thing.
"You want to know what I said?" Shane asked.
Ilya looked at him. Hope flickered in his eyes before he could hide it. "Whatever."
Shane bit back a smile and shifted closer, pressing their shoulders together.
"First question: season goals. I said make the playoffs, go deep."
Ilya hummed.
"Second question: about our rivalry." Shane used air quotes. "They asked if, after all these years going head-to-head, there was any particular... feeling there."
Ilya's fingers stilled. "What'd you say?"
Shane met his eyes. In the blue glow of the TV, they looked almost silver. "I said that's for the ice. Off the ice, we're not close."
Ilya's expression didn't change. But Shane saw the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
"Not close," Ilya repeated flatly.
"Yeah. Not close."
"So you're sitting on my couch. At one in the morning. With someone you're not close to. Explaining your interview."
"That's right."
"You're insane, Hollander."
Shane grinned. He leaned into Ilya fully, pressing against his side. Ilya didn't move away. His face was still set in that stubborn line, but Shane could feel the tension bleeding out of him, muscle by muscle.
"Third question," Shane continued. "What I'd do after hockey."
"What'd you say?"
"Maybe become a translator."
Ilya turned to look at him. His eyes had gone bright, a spark lighting them from inside.
"Translator?"
"Yeah. English to Russian. Russian to English. French to Russian, maybe." Shane paused. "I think my skills are getting pretty good. Didn't say that part out loud."
Ilya stared at him for a long moment. Then he looked away, back at the TV. But Shane saw his ears go red—all the way from the base to the tips, impossible to miss in the dim light.
"You're not that good yet," Ilya said, but his voice had gone soft.
"Then teach me."
"Why would I teach you?"
"Because." Shane leaned closer, lips nearly brushing Ilya's ear. He pulled the words from memory, shaped them carefully. "Я хочу понимать каждый звук, который ты издаешь."
I want to understand every sound you make.
Ilya went completely still.
Shane watched it happen—something breaking behind his eyes, then reforming, stronger. Surprise. Disbelief. Something deeper, something that made Shane's chest ache.
Then Ilya threw the remote onto the coffee table, grabbed the back of Shane's neck, and kissed him.
It was desperate, almost aggressive, like he was trying to erase the last hour of awkward silence with his mouth. Shane let himself be pushed back into the cushions, hands finding Ilya's shoulders, feeling the tension there slowly, slowly dissolve.
When Ilya finally pulled back, they were both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.
"That thing you said," Ilya murmured, voice rough. "Your pronunciation was wrong."
Shane laughed, low in his throat. "Then correct me."
"The stress. It's not 'каждый,' it's 'каждый'—actually, your tongue was in the wrong place. Never mind."
"Show me, Professor Rozanov."
Ilya opened his mouth. Closed it. His eyes narrowed. "You're messing with me."
"No." Shane made his face innocent. "I really want to learn."
Ilya watched him for a long moment. Then he sighed and sank back into the couch, one arm still around Shane's shoulders, warm and solid.
"That interview," Ilya said, eyes on the TV. "The last thing. What was it?"
Shane thought back. The reporter's parting words as he'd turned to leave.
"He said, 'Good luck this season. Especially with the Ottawa games.' And I said, 'Merci, mais je préfère ne pas en avoir trop.'"
Ilya's eyebrow twitched. "Meaning?"
"Thanks, but I'd rather not have too much."
Ilya was quiet. Then the corner of his mouth curved up, slowly, like sunrise.
"French is so complicated," he said. "So many words for such a simple thing." He turned to Shane, eyes gleaming. "Russian is easier. Удачи, но не сильно. Four words. Same meaning."
Shane processed. "Удачи... that's 'good luck'?"
"Yeah."
"но... 'but'?"
"Yeah."
"не сильно... 'not too much'?"
Ilya's eyes widened. "You're fast."
There was pride in his voice, like Shane's progress was somehow his doing. Shane didn't say anything. Just watched him, watched that face in the flickering TV light.
The news was still playing. Neither of them was listening.
After a long moment, Ilya spoke again. "You really do sound different. In French."
Shane waited.
"When I first met you. Your English interviews. So correct. Boringly correct. Every word perfect. Every sentence complete." Ilya smiled, remembering. "I used to wonder. What does he sound like when he's not performing? Is he this boring then, too?"
Shane remembered those early years. Nineteen years old, terrified of saying the wrong thing, every word measured and careful.
"Then one time," Ilya continued, "I saw you by the boards. Talking to a teammate. In French. You were laughing. This stupid, goofy laugh. And I thought—oh. There he is."
He paused.
"And after that. Every time you did an interview in French. I couldn't understand a word. Just watched the screen and guessed what you were saying."
Another pause. Softer: "Drove me crazy."
Shane's heart clenched.
He thought about all those late nights with Duolingo. All those Russian podcasts he barely understood. All those moments he'd watched Ilya speak his native language and thought—I want in. I want to understand.
They'd been doing the exact same thing. The whole time.
"Well," Shane said quietly. "You don't have to guess anymore."
Ilya looked at him.
"Anything you want to know what I said. Just ask. I'll tell you." Shane smiled. "Or. You know. Keep learning French. Until you can understand it yourself."
Ilya's eyes danced. "You teach me?"
"Sure."
"Where do we start?"
Shane thought about it. Then he leaned close, lips brushing Ilya's ear. Felt him shiver.
"Je t'aime." He said it slowly, deliberately. "Remember this. It means—"
"I know." Ilya's voice was rough. "I've known that one for a while."
Shane blinked. "Since when?"
Ilya didn't answer. He just pulled Shane close and kissed him—soft, this time, but full of everything. Every interview he couldn't understand. Every hour apart. Every look across the ice that said more than words ever could.
On the TV, the anchor said something about tomorrow's weather.
Didn't matter.
On the kitchen island, two phones lit up simultaneously.
Ping.
Ping.
Duolingo reminders. Lessons incomplete.
No one moved.
Outside, Montreal was dark and quiet, winter stars scattered across the sky.
Inside, on a couch in a warm apartment, someone had just learned a phrase that needed no translation at all.
END.