Chapter Text
Shane looked in the mirror, smoothing out his button down shirt and tentatively unhooking a fourth button. After a few seconds of careful review he decided against the shirt entirely, digging through his closet for the fifth time for an alternative. He swiped through a number of Ilya’s items, unable to stop himself from grinning when he thought of the times he’d seen him lounging around the cottage in each of them.
A loud bang came from the kitchen where Ilya prepared one of his favorite recipes, a Russian meat dumpling known as pelmeni. He had already prepared the meat stuffing and was in the assembly stage, deeply focused on the repetitive task at hand. Shane wasn’t surprised to hear him trip over the garbage can as he paced the kitchen between steps.
The entire house already smelled of the beet borscht he made for their first course, and Ilya did a surprisingly good job of not staining their entire countertop red from the beets. The trial attempt two weeks prior resulted in an afternoon of scrubbing the kitchen top to bottom to rid it of the pale pink remnants.
Shane called out with yet another offer to assist with the preparation, feeling a familiar restless anxiety settle in as the evening progressed. He straightened out his shirt a final time before making his way out of their bedroom.
“If I need help boiling chicken breast I will let you know,” Ilya teased, deep voice carrying across the foyer to where Shane stood in the doorway.
“Hilarious,” Shane said dryly.
Ilya smiled to himself, hands covered in flour as he rolled the dumplings. Shane bought him a mold for Christmas that would make the process significantly easier, but Ilya preferred doing them by hand instead. Some days he spent hours in the kitchen, freezing enough to last the whole season as a quick meal between travel games. Shane did his best to assist when possible, but couldn’t manage to keep from ripping the dough when he attempted to add the stuffing.
Shane approached Ilya from behind, counting the finished pelmeni in twos as he wrapped his arms around his waist. There were already at least twice as many as a group of three could reasonably finish in a few hours with about a quarter of the filling remaining. Shane eyed the reject pile, keenly aware that several of the pelmeni Ilya deemed unacceptable were better than any of those he managed to put together himself in the past.
“Let me do something,” Shane sighed, nuzzling into the crook of Ilya’s neck, “I’m trying to make a good impression.”
Ilya’s chest rumbled with his laughter. Shane squeezed his eyes closed, focused on the warmth of their embrace. Truthfully, the last thing that he wanted was to spend one of their few nights together late-season with anyone else. If Shane had it his way they wouldn’t have gotten out of bed for more than a few microwave meals and bathroom breaks until he left for his flight tomorrow.
But when Ilya told him that Svetlana finally had a gap in her work schedule to come visit on a night they would both be in Ottawa he couldn’t say no. It had been months of back and forth, one always unavailable when the other two could make it work. And Ilya was so excited to introduce them, even though the thought of sitting across the dinner table from her made Shane nauseous.
“Sveta is easy,” Ilya shrugged, “But there is one thing I know she will appreciate.”
Shane nodded eagerly, ducking around so that he got a better view of Ilya’s face. He could see the playful smirk he tried to stifle down, but instead of scolding him for his taunting Shane played along.
“She loves a man that does the dishes,” Ilya shrugged.
“Oh, fuck off. You used half the kitchen,” Shane groaned, gesturing to the piled pots and pans in the sink.
“And you will be thankful when you eat my food,” Ilya assured him.
Shane pressed one final kiss to Ilya’s neck, fluttering his eyelashes against the sensitive skin before he made his way to the sink. They worked alongside one another, the silence comfortable and needed before a long night of socializing. Shane craved nothing more than time for the two of them to be alone together, but he knew how important Svetlana was to Ilya.
She was the last remaining piece of home Ilya had, and they saw each other far less now that he didn’t return to Russia in the off season. Shane often heard them chatting on the phone during the summer, Ilya speaking rapid Russian until he was breathless. Usually it was from laughing hard enough to shake the couch he sprawled out on. But, every once in a while, Ilya ranted about something that angered him to the point of panting.
Shane occasionally sat in the adjoining room and focused on the breadth of Ilya’s emotions when he spoke in his native language. He was trying to learn Russian, but it was taking longer than he first expected. Their time spent apart made it all the more difficult, limiting Shane’s speaking opportunities. Ilya assured him that he would rather have a real conversation when they finally found time to speak while traveling, but a quiet guilt still gnawed at Shane’s insides when he thought about it too hard.
It was, in truth, one of the reasons he was most nervous to meet Svetlana.
Ilya finished folding the pelmeni and glanced at the clock, foot tapping nervously. Their guest would arrive any minute, and Shane could see the sharp spike of Ilya’s anxiety now that he had nothing in his hands to focus on. Shane stepped towards him, taking Ilya’s face in his hands as he kissed him.
“It’s going to be great,” Shane gently tugged the hair at the nape of his neck.
“You must remember she is Russian,” Ilya reminded him for the tenth time that evening.
“Ilya, I know,” Shane traced his thumb along Ilya’s cheekbone.
“You Canadians are so fragile,” Ilya continued, speaking more so to himself than to Shane, “Her teasing is all for fun, yes?”
Shane nodded, spending the next few minutes peppering reassuring kisses to Ilya’s jawline. He reached around to untie the apron from his waist and hung it on the hook beside the pantry, making a mental note to throw it in the wash before bed. Ilya kept his cheek pressed to Shane’s shoulder, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.
Before Shane had the opportunity to comfort him further they heard the sound of tires on the gravel outside.
“She is here,” Ilya grinned, the nerves seemingly vanishing as excitement took over.
He looped his arm around Shane’s waist and tugged him forward. Ilya hurriedly led them to the front door, throwing it open just as a tall woman raised her hand to knock. Her eyes met Shane’s first as they stood directly across from one another, and though he had seen pictures of Svetlana before her beauty in person was enough to fluster him.
“Ilyusha,” she exclaimed, the raised hand fluttering to her chest.
Svetlana spoke again, this time in Russian, and Ilya laughed in delight. He disconnected from Shane to pull her into the house by her hand, greeting her in Russian too speedy for Shane to make sense of. His expression faltered against his best efforts, and he hoped that no one else noticed his minor reaction. Ilya appeared too excited to think about anything other than their guest, shutting the door behind her the second she stepped over the threshold.
“Hello, Svetlana,” Shane smiled, awkwardly sticking his hand out for her to shake, “I’m very happy to finally meet you. Ilya has told me so much about you.”
Svetlana paused, slowly raising her arm to take Shane’s hand in her own. Her eyes, however, slid to Ilya questioningly. She pointed to Shane with her free hand and said something else in Russian, the words quick and easy off of her tongue. Ilya continued to grin, but Shane noticed his smile twitch.
“Shane is still learning Russian,” he explained, lifting a hand to squeeze Shane’s shoulder, “Is best to speak English for the evening.”
“Ah,” Svetlana nodded, eyes flicking between them, “Very nice to meet you, Shane Hollander.”
She dropped her voice slightly to exaggerate his name, emphasizing the formality. Shane tensed, sensing a joke in her tone but unsure of its meaning. Ilya seemed to scold her, again in Russian, but she feigned a look of innocence and gestured between the three of them.
“You just said we must only speak English, Ilya,” she exaggerated his name the same way she had Shane’s.
Svetlana held out a bouquet of eleven purple peonies, their stems wrapped in white tissue paper. They matched the glittery thread of her jacket, shining in the low light of the entryway. She appeared ethereal in their home, her delicate features staggering compared to Shane and Ilya’s bulk.
Shane thanked her, but it was overshadowed by Ilya attempting to turn down the gift graciously. Shane looked at him curiously, watching Svetlana demand that Ilya accept the flowers. Ilya laughed when he refused again and Svetlana threw up one of her hands in exasperation.
“Well what the fuck else am I supposed to do with them,” Svetlana huffed, pushing them into Shane’s arms before he could deny them as well.
Ilya grinned and shook his head, leading the group into the living room. Shane noticed how he tugged at his left earlobe, hand anxiously running through his hair to break up the pattern every so often. Svetlana tipped forward as she walked, linking her arm with Ilya’s after a few steps. Shane did his best not to let it bother him.
“You built this house yourself, yes?” Svetlana turned to smile at Shane behind them as they walked.
“I hired an architect,” Shane nodded.
“Big word, Ilyusha,” Svetlana leaned into Ilya tauntingly, “It is the person that designs houses.”
“I know what an architect is, Sveta,” Ilya nudged her back, rolling his eyes but grinning so wide Shane wondered if his cheeks ached.
Ilya retrieved three glasses and set them up around the table while Shane searched for a vase for the flowers. He settled on a large glass jar from a pasta sauce Ilya liked to drink out of, somewhat embarrassed that he didn’t have a vase in the home. When he saw Ilya sniffing the bouquet he immediately resented himself for never buying him flowers in the past.
Ilya poured the individually requested beverages in each of the cups he grabbed from the cabinet. Shane sipped his ginger ale, not wanting to feel even the slightest hangover on his flight to California in the morning. Ilya poured wine for himself and Svetlana, a heavy hand for each.
“It is a beautiful home,” Svetlana said between sips, “Very humble for Canada’s star hockey player.”
“Excuse me?” Ilya scoffed.
Shane sat up straighter, happy to have Ilya come to his defense. Yes, the cottage was modest compared to some of the other players’ homes, but he doubted anyone else would refer to it as humble. Shane spent a lot of time with the architect and the builders to make his home sleek and sophisticated, the perfect hideaway, though he knew that would sound less pretentious coming from Ilya than himself.
“You forget I play for Ottawa now,” Ilya leaned back in his seat, “Hollander is old news in Canada.”
Svetlana laughed, shaking her head so that her curls bounced. Shane raised a hand to his own hair, drawing his fingers through the length that Ilya continuously praised. He tried not to let the perceived insult bother him, knowing that he was being particularly sensitive. It irritated him that Ilya played along so easily, even though that type of joke would usually elicit at least a smirk from Shane.
“Well, you are certainly the star of the Centaurs,” Svetlana shot back.
“They’re doing well this season,” Shane said quickly, “Ilya has been a great captain.”
“It is a good thing you won the Cup when you played for Boston,” she continued, seemingly ignoring Shane’s interjection, “You will be lucky if you see the playoffs again before you retire.”
Shane clenched his jaw, ready to argue back, but Ilya only chuckled beside him. He appeared unbothered by Svetlana’s blunt observation. Of course the Centaurs were a less successful team than Boston, there was no debate there, but with Ilya at the helm they had just as good a chance as any other team in the league. Shane knew he would make it work. It would just take a few years of losing more than they won.
“The team is improving,” Ilya declared confidently.
“They could not have gotten much worse,” Svetlana agreed.
The conversation lulled briefly and Shane took the moment to catch his breath. Ilya and Svetlana bounced so easily off of one another he felt as though he was five steps behind, doing his best to keep up. He glanced at the clock, wondering just how long Ilya planned on chatting before they brought the food out. He chewed the inside of his cheek, eager to move the evening along.
“Are you hungry, Svetlana?” Shane asked, his well-practiced smile now back in full force.
“Oh, you are a mind reader, Shane Hollander,” she grinned.
Ilya popped up from his seat, dashing to the kitchen to retrieve the round loaf of bread he made that afternoon and a small salt cellar. He placed it in front of Svetlana on top of a white cloth and gestured to the loaf. Shane was about to remind him where he kept the bread knives, but Svetlana ripped off one end with her bare hands before he had the chance. She dipped it in the salt and took a large bite, humming in approval.
“It is Russian custom,” Ilya explained.
“You are supposed to greet me at the door with it,” Svetlana swallowed.
“Always something with you,” Ilya waved his hand, grabbing a chunk of bread for himself.
“Some for Shane Hollander?” Svetlana held the loaf in his direction.
Shane saw Ilya open his mouth to cut in, likely to explain his macrobiotic diet, but he ripped off a small hunk and mirrored Svetlana’s dip into the salt cellar. Ilya appeared pleased, hand dropping to rest on Shane’s thigh as he chewed. After a few bites he excused himself to retrieve the borscht, taking a moment in the kitchen to calm himself down.
Ilya appeared delighted with the evening so far, bouncing off of Svetlana’s minor insults with ease. He had warned Shane several times about the cultural differences between Russians and Canadians, but he still expected something more polite for at least the first hour. Svetlana seemed comfortable straight away, something Shane always had trouble with in his own life. He knew it wasn’t fair to resent her relationship with Ilya, but he struggled to push past the unwanted feelings of jealousy.
When he approached with the tray of stew he heard Ilya and Svetlana chatting casually, back to Russian. He paused to allow the conversation to naturally taper, but after a minute of waiting he strode into the room to interrupt them. Ilya stood to help him, ushering Shane into his seat as he set Svetlana’s bowl in front of her.
“This is the recipe I sent you?” Svetlana asked, lifting the spoon to her lips.
Ilya nodded, his fingers drumming along the table. He had already had a few bites himself to taste test, but he clearly valued Svetlana’s opinion far beyond his own. She took her time tasting, taking an extra bite and tilting her head back and forth as if deep in thought.
“It’s amazing, Ilya,” Shane encouraged, hand rubbing Ilya’s back, the muscles rigid beneath his fingers.
“It is good,” Svetlana confirmed, and Ilya’s shoulders relaxed straight away.
They discussed more neutral topics, like Svetlana’s job and Ilya’s interest in expanding his cooking skills. Shane retrieved the pelmeni, unsurprised to hear that their conversation shifted back to Russian with him out of the room. He tried to fight off his guilt but ended up angrier than before, keeping quiet for the most part as he picked at his dumplings and the steamed vegetables Ilya made alongside them.
“Oh I can not take you seriously, Ilyusha,” Svetlana laughed as Ilya detailed the Centaurs’ latest loss, “Hearing you speak English, it is like watching you on TV!”
Shane’s heart skipped, eyes sliding over to check Ilya’s reaction. He appeared embarrassed, cheeks blushing as he muttered through something noncommittal. Svetlana continued to giggle, one hand reaching across the table to cover Ilya’s for just a second or two. Ilya didn’t even look at Shane for his reaction, instead using his free hand to take another sip of his wine.
Shane flushed red hot from both embarrassment and irritation. Was Svetlana implying he didn’t know the real Ilya? Of course there were misunderstandings that arose from the language and cultural barriers, but Shane thought they had overcome most of those issues. He was learning Russian, it was just taking a little longer than expected with the hockey season in full swing.
The more defensive he became in his own head, the more he was convinced Svetlana was targeting him intentionally.
“You are just jealous that I have caught up to your skill,” Ilya accused, tipping his head back to hide the blush.
“Ah, and for this your Russian has suffered,” Svetlana tutted.
Ilya chuckled, shaking his head. Shane smiled when he stretched his arm over the back of his chair and urged him to scoot a few inches closer. Ilya kissed Shane’s cheek, nuzzling against him for a few seconds before he returned to his dinner. Shane wondered if this moment, this display of affection, would be what showed Svetlana that they were a good couple, that it was so obvious how in love they were.
“I’m really going to buckle down this summer,” Shane forced a smile, “It’s tough to keep up with it on the road.”
“We have such little time during the season,” Ilya sighed.
“How often do you practice with each other?” she asked, swirling the wine in her glass.
Ilya and Shane exchanged an uncomfortable look, neither wanting to outright admit that the amount of conversations they shared in Russian could be counted on one hand. Svetlana quirked an eyebrow, realization dawning on her face as she glanced between them.
“Oh, Ilyusha, tell me you are not speaking English during sex,” Svetlana exclaimed.
Shane’s jaw dropped, shocked at how openly she discussed the topic of their sex life. It made it all the more difficult to push the image of Ilya and Svetlana from his mind, the two of them having slept together more recently than he wanted to acknowledge. Ilya shot her what appeared to be a warning, but she didn’t seem to notice, turning to Shane instead.
“You are missing out, Shane Hollander,” she leaned forward, flashing a grin across the table, “Ilya had such a way with words in Russian.”
“Sveta,” Ilya cautioned, voice tense.
“What?” Svetlana threw her hands up, “He cannot possibly know how smart you are if he’s just hearing your shit English all the time.”
“Ilya’s English is fantastic,” Shane interjected, but the second the words left his mouth he realized it had been the wrong thing to say.
Svetlana didn’t press further, returning to her meal. Ilya shifted the conversation to his upcoming game against Boston, promising to send her the details of the post-game bar the team decided to visit that night. Shane listened halfheartedly, his own mind working too hard to focus fully on the conversation happening around him.
He was so used to being on the other side of the conflict, the side that Ilya resided in now. He thought of the dinners assuring his friends of Ilya’s tender heartedness hidden behind blunt humor amidst gentle scolding and good natured laughter. His stomach twisted, wondering if Ilya felt a similar way when he just couldn’t click with Shane’s friends off the bat. In the past he had little trouble getting along with others, but every time Svetlana’s gaze shifted to him he felt the weight of her judgement.
“It is so kind of you both to invite me over for your one night together,” Svetlana thanked them, setting her silverware down.
“Ilya was very excited to have you visit,” Shane said, voice stiffer than intended.
He saw Ilya’s head turn in his direction from the corner of his eye, a frown crossing his face for the first time that evening. Shane blushed, stammering out something kinder about his own excitement, but knew the damage had already been done. He had gone into the evening so confident of his own performance that he never questioned the consequences of his jealousy bleeding through as obviously as it had.
“I wish you both luck in your games this week,” Svetlana pushed her chair back, standing with her dishes.
Ilya admonished her, grabbing the cutlery from her hands and scooping up Shane’s to bring the dirty plates to the kitchen. He looked frantically after Ilya, not having expected a moment alone with the two of them. His mind raced with the possible apologies he could offer for his behavior, but the stubborn anger in him refused to comply with the remorse he knew he should feel.
“It was nice meeting you, Shane Hollander,” Svetlana extended her hand.
“The pleasure was mine,” Shane returned, cursing himself for his stilted formal response.
Svetlana smiled slyly, but she didn’t point out his stiff reply. Shane wondered if that was worse, if it meant that he had been a poor sport. He heard Ilya’s footsteps returning in their direction and knew it was his last chance to make up for his awkward behavior throughout the night.
“I, uh, am glad you joined us. Ilya talks about you all the time,” Shane admitted quietly.
“Yes,” Svetlana nodded, “He speaks of you often as well.”
Shane let Ilya walk her out on his own, happy to give them a few minutes alone. As they traveled down the hall towards the door he was unsurprised to hear them speaking Russian, no longer needing to worry about including Shane in their conversation. He focused on clearing the rest of the table and starting on the dishes, ignoring the tears pricking his eyes as he scrubbed.
Ilya entered the kitchen after nearly fifteen minutes, just as Shane finished wiping down the counter. He approached him from behind, holding Shane the same way that he held Ilya just a few hours before to offer comfort.
“It was fun, yes?” Ilya questioned quietly.
“Yes, I,” Shane swallowed past the lump in his throat, “It was great.”
Ilya turned Shane around to get a better look at him, hands cupping his jaw. Shane knew he wore his emotions too openly after a long day, and he couldn’t help but frown. Ilya kissed him gently, shushing him as if he understood. Shane wondered how many times Ilya longed for the same reassurance, even if he never asked for it outright.
“It is okay. These things take time,” Ilya ran his fingers through Shane’s hair, “Remember our dinner with the Pikes?”
“Yeah,” Shane said softly, secretly resentful of the comparison.
Hayden had every reason to believe Ilya was the asshole the league portrayed him as when they started spending time together. And Ilya purposefully antagonized him, even if he was mostly kidding. Svetlana, on the other hand, disliked him from the second he spoke without real reason.
But deep down Shane knew the anger he felt for Svetlana was really his own shame.