Work Text:
December 23, 2008
“Ilya Rozanav?”
Shane could not give a very concrete answer for why he needed to go introduce himself to his media-assigned rival. Just something in his chest that feels a little like bravery and a little like something is tugging him towards Rozanav.
“Shane Hollander, I wanted to introduce myself.” Rozanav stares at him. Pushing forward he continues, “You’re an awesome player to watch.”
Rozanav takes his extended hand and Shane feels something in him loosen, like he did something right. Then he sees the cigarette and can’t stop himself from saying, “Oh, I don’t think you’re supposed to smoke here.”
Rozanav doesn’t look like he cares much, and lights the cigarette anyway. After taking a drag, he simply says, “okay.” in a rough accent and continues to stare at Shane. He wonders if there’s something there, or if Rozanav is just being rude.
“Is there something on my face?” He can’t stop himself from asking. Rozanav blinks a few times and blushes, finally pulling his eyes from Shane’s face and trying to find something else to rest his eyes on. They successfully end up back on Shane’s face. Oh. Maybe he wasn’t being rude. “What?”
Ilya stares at Shane Hollander. Or, more accurately, at Hollanders freckles. Little dots across his nose and cheekbones. He doesn’t expect to get caught, and looks away as he tries to will the blush away from his face. There is little success in the action and he just ends up looking back at Hollander. Hollander, who is still staring, looking a little confused. But his freckles are now highlighted under pink cheeks, so maybe Ilya isn’t the only one who feels like there is a roller-coaster doing loops through his heart and stomach and maybe his brain because Ilya doesn’t think he can remember any English. That wouldn’t be good, because if he can’t speak English then Hollander will think he’s an asshole and walk away and never talk to him again. Hollander has asked him a question, so he forces himself to find an answer.
“Vesnushki,” is what he finally manages. Hollander just looks more confused, and attempts to repeat what he just heard, as it's own question. Ilya has to immediately tamp down the swarm of butterflies at the rough attempt. Jesus Christ.
“You…” Ilya attempts then gestures to his nose, “You have vesnushki. On face.”
“Vesnushki? On my face?” Ilya watches Shane’s nose wrinkle trying to figure out what Ilya is saying. Ilya nods, unsuccessfully ignoring the second, better attempt.
“Da krasivyye vesnushki. I don’t know in English.” Hollander’s hand comes up to touch his face, which lights up in understanding.
“Freckles?” He askes and points to the dots on his cheekbones. Ilya nods in agreement and commits the word freckles to memory. “You like my freckles.” The blush is back when Shane realizes what he said.
Ilya has the sudden thought that this moment is important, a voice in his head that might sound like his mother, or might be his own that says, don’t fuck this up, not this one. Ilya decides very suddenly that he is going to listen, and against every instinct ingrained in him, decides to be honest.
“Da, Hollander. You walk up to me and say hello. You make me forget English with your krasivyye vesnushki and expect me to say hello back. Then you try to speak Russian and you are perfect Canadian with no accent. You cannot do this to me, Hollander.”
Hollander just looks amused under the reinforced blush, “Do what? Distract you? With my freckles?”
“Da. No distracting me with vesnushki. Freckles.” Ilya grumbles.
Shane watches Rozanav blush, disgruntled, but not displeased with the turn of the conversation. He can’t help the grin that takes over his face. He feels that tug again, the one that led him over here. It’s that, he thinks, that makes him say next,
“Well, I'll try not to distract you with my vesnushki on the ice. I don’t need you distracted to beat you.” It’s the right thing to say, Rozanov goes pink again.
“We will beat you.” Is all he says. Shane extends his hand again, delighted when Rozanav only hesitates a moments before shaking it.
“You can try.” He says, before backing away to head inside. Sparing one last glance, he catches Rozanav’s eye with a grin before the door closes behind him.
June 27, 2009
Shane let his chest heave with the force of his breathing as he watched Rozanav take drink from the water bottle he had.
“What a fucking day, huh?” Rozanav’s eyes seemed to flick constantly between staring into Shane’s and trailing across different, other body parts.
“Yeah, totally.” Shane felt his eyes drift down, neck, chest-
“Was it everything you dreamed of?” Asshole, with an asshole smirk. Shane brought his eyes back up.
“Almost.”
“Sorry.” He didn’t look sorry. Shane grinned at him.
“No, you’re not.” Ilya grinned back, delighted to have been caught, and took another drink. "Montreal is nice, yes?"
“Yeah, its awesome.”
“Boston is nice, too.” Shane thought he heard a question there, but couldn’t quite parse it out.
“I think so people like it there,” is what he settles on.
“We will be seeing each other a lot.” The way he says it sounds like it could mean several things. A jolt went down his spine at the thought of seeing Ilya more, getting to play against him.
“Yeah,” Shane agrees, “Boston and Montreal play each other often.” Shane trails off as Ilya takes another long drink, holding eye contact. After a moment, Shane let his eyes drop to their shoes. A water bottle enters his eye sight, and he declines the silent offer. It’s shaken by the man holding it, and when Shane glances up, is offered a reassuring smile. Ok he thinks, and feels fingers brush his when he takes it and drinks.
More he sees Ilya mouth across from him, and Shane surprises both of them with how fast the water bottle is back at his mouth. Their fingers touch again as Ilya scoots forward briefly to take the bottle back. Shane watches him take another drink, his eyes flickering across Shane’s face. Shane blushes when he realizes Ilya is looking at his freckles again.
Water bottle back on the floor between his legs, Ilya looks like he’s trying to find something to say. That same feeling engulfs Shane again, the one that feels a little like courage.
“You forget English again, Rozanav? Are my vesnushki that distracting?”
Ilya laughed, caught off guard. “So you know Russian now, Shane Hollander?”
“I might have looked up freckles,” he admitted, “after last time… and maybe a few other things.”
Ilya was giving him a look, “What other things? Fuck you Hollander. You look up Russian words I tell you and remember them and have no accent and you expect me to remember English? And then you go and tell me you have learned more words? Tell me the more words Hollander, I want to know."
Shane was trying to smother a laugh into his palm. He didn’t understand the last part, but Ilya was cute, ranting in his native tongue at Shane. Ilya glares at this and stops talking.
“Ok, tell me words.” Ilya must find enough English to speak again, “What words?”
“What words did I learn in Russian?” Ilya nods, trying to control the speed at which he did so. He was partially successful.
“krasivyye vesnushki.” Shane starts, “I looked up freckles, but i had to figure out the first word. And then how to pronounce it correctly.” Ilya could only stare at him. “Then I was curious and the website I was on had some other ones so I learned how to say those…” He trailed off, cheeks pink.
“I called your freckles beautiful so you decided to learn my language?” Shane's cheeks only got redder, he refused to make eye contact with the man across from him. So what if Russian was sexy and so he had googled Russian adjectives for two hours until he found what he was looking for. So what if he had practiced saying those words for hours in the mirror until they sounded right.
“Hollander.” Shane caught Ilya’s gaze in the mirror. “Hollander. What else can you say?” His tone was equal parts teasing and earnest. Shane grabbed onto that first one.
“Fuck off. Maybe I don’t remember anymore.” He couldn’t force the corners of his lips down. He likes it.
“Because I am distracting?” Ilya’s eyebrows did a little wiggle.
“Asshole. Yes. Maybe.” Shane looked away. Undeterred, Ilya scootched forward again until the outside of his thigh was pressed to Shane’s and their arms brushed. Shane turned his head back to look at him, smiles still playing lightly on both of their lips. “Maybe I remember one thing.”
“Just one?” Shane raised one eyebrow, and Ilya’s mouth shut. Shane flicked his eyes from Ilya’s to his lips and back.
“Uh,” He hesitated, then pronounced slowly, “potselovat'”
“Potselovat?” Ilya’s voice was a little more like a whisper as he repeated after Shane.
Shane, taking the good sign he was given, continued, going slow to make sure he said it right, “Ty khochesh' menya potselovat?” do you want to kiss me?
Ilya realized that his face was already only inches from Shane’s. He leaned forward the rest of the way and breathed da into Shane’s mouth as he pressed their lips together.
Ilya felt like he had been electrocuted. They both pulled back at the same time to stare at each other. Shane had an easy grin on his face, and he leaned forward again, ever so slightly, and Ilya caught him with another kiss. Ilya’s hand came up to Shane’s jaw and tilted it to fit their mouths together.
A door slamming a floor above them pulled them apart. Both breathing heavy, wide eyes staring at each other, remembering where they were.
“I should… we need…” Shane was fighting to catch his breath, so Ilya nodded in agreement and stood. He reached down to pull Shane to his feet. Once they were both balanced, facing each other, Shane bit his lip.
“I should get back to my room.”
“Uh, yes, me too. Early flight.”
“Yeah.” Ilya watched Shane worry his lip between his teeth like he couldn't quite decide how to leave or hoping an excuse to stay would magically appear. Ilya hoped one did, he hoped the world froze except for him and Shane Hollander so they could keep kissing forever. Fuck he had to say something. Force any words out of his mouth that would let him keep talking to Shane Hollander.
“Mozhno mne vash nomer?”
Shane squinted at him, catching one word and using context, “Can you have what?”
Ilya blinked back at him, like he was surprised at the words. He was. Both that he had managed to actually ask, even if it had come out in Russian, and that Shane had figured out what he was asking. Ignore the butterflies it's fine he only managed to understand you come on Rozanav pull yourself together.
“Phone. You have, yes?”
Shane pulled his phone out of his pocket, “Are you asking for my number, Rozanav?”
He nodded, ignoring the swoop his stomach did at that, just focused on saying the words that would get him that phone number. “Yes.”
Shane opened his contacts and handed it over. Ilya created a new contact with his phone number and send himself a text, before handing it back.
“Lily?”
“Yes. Is less… сомнительный. With girl name.”
Shane looks at him. “Conspicuous?” Ilya tilts his head from side to side in thought, then shrugs, unsure of the translation. “Ok. Then who am I? If you’re Lily?”
Ilya types something into his phone.
Jane: hi :)
Lily: hello, jane ;)
“Jane? Really?” Ilya grins.
“Yes. Really.” Shane smiles back.
“Well, then I guess I’ll see you next year… Lily.” He starts to back away towards the door. His mind is already racing through the events of the last hour, while simultaneously, running through each kiss on back-to-back replays. He knows he needs still needs to shower, and sleep, and think about the kissing again. Maybe not in that order. Or maybe exactly in that order, later when he's in bed and grinning at the ceiling like an idiot.
Ilya reaches out to stop him one more time, and tugs Shane in for another kiss before letting him go and pushing him towards the door. He wiggles his fingers at Shane.
“Goodbye, Jane.”