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The room is dark except for the thin blue wash of Ilya’s phone screen.
Shane is asleep beside him, half on his stomach, one arm flung lazily over Ilya’s waist, face pressed against the wrinkles of the sheet. His breathing is slow and even, warm against the skin of Ilya’s side. Every so often he makes a small, soft noise in the back of his throat – not quite a snore, but not quite a sigh either.
Ilya should be asleep too, they have an early skate in the morning.
Instead, he’s staring at his mentions.
He tells himself he won’t look. He always tells himself that. And usually, he’s good at it. After he and Shane had come out – been outed, actually – he’d offloaded apps during the season or would hand his phone to Shane. He distracts himself with games or music or literally anything else that isn’t the small blue screen.
But tonight he didn’t. Tonight he typed his own name into the search bar on Twitter.
“It’s X now, Ilya,” he can hear Shane saying.
“Is stupid name for app. I like the bird.” his own voice replies.
The search results start normal enough. Clips of goals. Slow-motion replays. Fire emojis. Goat emojis. People arguing about technique. A video or picture of him and Shane grocery shopping.
Then–
He’s insanely talented but every interview makes me lose brain cells.
I swear he sounds like he doesn’t understand the question half the time.
Why does he talk like that?
It’s like listening to a toddler try and explain physics.
Ilya’s thumb pauses mid-scroll. He’s used to these comments, used to being called dumb or stupid, but his jaw tightens anyway. He scrolls again.
At least he can skate because apparently English class wasn’t his thing.
Bro sounds dumb as hell.
Does he even know English?
That one had thousands of likes. Thousands.
He speaks two languages. Three, technically – he’s conversationally fluent in French. He moved across the world as a teenager. He negotiates his own contracts. He studies plays and memorizes systems. He reads defenses and goalies in real time at full speed on two sharpened pieces of steel. And sure, sometimes he sounds dumb. He forgets words, doesn’t speak using contractions, doesn’t always put ‘a’ before words.
Beside him, Shane shifts, tightening his arm unconsciously, fingers grazing Ilya’s hipbone.
Ilya glances at him.
Shane’s hair is a mess, sticking up at impossible angles. There’s faint creases marking his skin from the wrinkles in the sheet. His mouth is parted slightly, soft and unguarded in the way he only is around Ilya.
Shane hates interviews too, maybe more than Ilya has grown to. But no one ever calls Shane stupid for his accent. They call it charming. Polite. Boy-next-door.
Ilya presses his lips together. He scrolls again even though he knows it’s time to stop. Time to go to bed.
Someone had clipped a moment from tonight – when he had paused, mid-answer, in search of the right English word. Now it was a rarer occurrence for him, but an occurrence nonetheless. He remembers this moment. He knew the Russian word immediately. But, in English, it hovered just out of reach, slippery.
He’d laughed it off. Filled the space. Reworded what he’d wanted to say.
The clip is accompanied by the words: lights on, nobody’s home.
It was an odd phrase. One Shane had taught Ilya forever ago. Ilya had laughed at it, and then promptly used it to describe Hayden playing hockey.
The comments underneath the tweet were just as mean.
Man's buffering.
Why do they let him talk?
Skates good. Talks bad.
There was a strange buzzing settling behind Ilya’s ribs. It wasn’t loud or dramatic, just heavy. He lowers the brightness on his phone, like that might lessen the burn of the words. He reads one more.
Someone get this guy a dictionary.
Ilya exhales slowly through his nose. He carefully whispers the word to himself.
“Di-ction-ar-y.”
His accent curls around it, round and heavy on the vowels, the syllables falling in the wrong place. He tries again, flattening it.
“Diction-ary.”
It sounds wrong in his mouth, thin and forced and garbled.
He swallows.
Very quietly, so he won’t wake Shane, he mouths a few more words.
What.
Think.
Girls.
Cat.
He hears it – the way his vowels open wider than his teammates, than Shane’s. The way the ‘wh-” sounds like a ‘v.’ The way ‘think’ sounds like he’d mumbled the word ‘sink.’ ‘Girls’ sounds like there’s an ‘o’ in the middle. Cat comes out with an ‘e’ not an ‘a.’
He thinks about the way interviews tend to lean closer as their brows furrow in confusion. The way they simplify questions with shorter sentences, easier words, slower cadence. He hates that the worst part is that sometimes he appreciates it. Because sometimes he’s so busy translating in his head while he smiles politely. Because sometimes words get stuck and he sees that split-second assumption.
Dumb.
Stupid.
His throat burns as he locks his phone, jamming the charger into the end. The darkness rushes back in the absence of the glow. For a few seconds, he lies, unmoving, just staring at the ceiling and listening to Shane breathe.
He could ignore this. He usually does, letting the words roll off his back like waves breaking on the shore.
But tonight, the comments won’t detach from his skin. He grabs for his phone and unlocks it again. Goes to Google and jabs at the searchbar.
How to lose accent.
Hundreds of videos and articles appear. Speech coaches, tutorials, programs.
“Neutralize Your Accent Fast.”
“Sound American in 30 Days.”
“How to Stop Sounding Foreign.”
Foreign.
The word lands heavy. He opens the article.
“Start by identifying problem vowels.”
Problem.
His accent is the problem.
Next to him, Shane squirms in his sleep, crawling his way against Ilya to rest his head in the crook of his neck, pressing his face into Ilya’s shoulder.
“Illy,” he mumbles in his sleep.
Just that.
Illy.
Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
Ilya turns his head, resting his temple to his dark hair. Shane’s eyelashes rest against his cheeks, his expression completely peaceful and blissfully unaware of Ilya’s own internal turmoil.
Shane has never once asked him to repeat himself. Never once laughed at the wrong moment, even when Ilya uses idioms wrong. Never once correct a single vowel. He says he likes how Ilya says his name. Says it sounds softer. Warmer.
“Sheyn.” he murmurs quietly, cringing at how the ‘a’ becomes a gruff ‘e’ sound.
He swallows hard, shoving the phone back to its place on the nightstand.
He should sleep now. Close his eyes and pretend like everything is fine. But instead he stares into the dark and picks a word to practice silently.
About.
About.
About.
He tries to shape it like Shane does. Flatter and shorter. Trying to clip the ‘t’ until it’s breathy and silent.
He imagines answering interview questions without a single hesitation. Imagines the comments disappearing. Imagines not being the punchline of some joke that’s not even funny.
Shane’s hand drifts higher on his waist, thumb now brushing absent circles against the curve there. Protective, even when unconscious.
Ilya closes his eyes.
He doesn’t realize he’s still whispering words until Shane shifts again and sleepily mutters, “What’re you doing?”
Ilya freezes.
“Nothing,” he says quickly.
The words come out thick. He sounds like he’d said “not sing.”
“Wrong, wrong, wrong,” he thinks.
Shane hums, unfazed by Ilya’s word. “C’mere.”
He tugs Ilya to his level without opening his eyes.
Ilya goes.
This time, he presses his face into Shane’s shoulder, hiding there, in the dark, where no one can hear how he sounds. But even with his eyes closed, tucked away where he’s safe, the tweets replay behind his eyelids.
He speaks two languages.
He crossed an ocean.
He built a life.
And somehow, tonight, all he can hear is “Sounds dumb.”
⋆˙⟡♡
The morning light filters in streaks, soft and grey.
The curtains are half-drawn, letting the thin wash of winter turn everything silver. The world outside is quiet – the early lull before everything begins to wake up.
Ilya has been awake for nearly an hour. He hasn’t moved. Shane is still asleep, curled toward him, their legs tangled. One of Shane’s hands is tucked up under his own cheek, the other resting loosely against Ilya’s ribs, rising and falling with each breath.
Ilya studies him.
He studies the way Shane's mouth curves slightly, the bow of his lips drawn up, like he’s dreaming of something pleasant. He studies the freckles scattered across his nose, his cheeks, like something precious.
Shane looks so certain in the early morning light.
Certain of himself. Of the day ahead. Of Ilya.
Ilya feels like he’s built out of loose threads. The words from last night still linger in his subconscious, a layer of film over everything.
He slides carefully out from under Shane’s arm.
The absence is immediate.
Shane frowns in his sleep, reaching instinctively, hands patting over empty sheets, finding nothing.
“Il,” he mumbles.
“Here,” Ilya says, too quickly. His voice is rough with sleep, his accent heavy and thick.
He clears his throat before walking to the bathroom, closing the door softly and turning on the faucet to smother any sounds.
He looks at himself in the mirror.
His hair is a mess. There’s a faint pillow crease by his eye. He looks young like this. Softer than he feels. He braces his hands against the cool porcelain of the counter.
“About,” he says quietly.
The mirror version of himself says it back, accented and rounded. “Ah-baoot.”
He tries again.
“About.”
It’s flatter, but still warped and rough. He shifts the shape of his mouth, exaggerating the way he’s heard Shane say it.
“About.”
It still sounds wrong, like he’s chewing the word too much. He pulls up one of the videos from last night.
“Focus on minimizing rounded vowels,” the woman says cheerily.
Minimizing.
He repeats a few more words under his breath.
“Water.”
“Vah-dah,” his reflection mimics.
“Better.”
“Beht-tehr.” Close.
“Hockey.”
“Khok-key,” Ilya cringes as his reflection repeats the word. He can’t even say his own sport.
“Husband.”
“Khaz-band.” Ilya wants to cry. Is this what Shane hears when he listens to him?
He watches his mouth as he continues to speak, studying the way it moves like it’s a problem to solve. He doesn’t notice how tense his shoulders are until they begin to shake. A soft knock on the door startles him.
“You alive in there?” Shane’s voice asks, still sleepy.
“Yeah.”
The word comes out automatically.
Shane pushes the door open a few inches anyway, peering in through heavy-lidded eyes.
“You’ve been gone forever.”
“I was just–” Ilya hesitates. Just what?
Practicing how to not sound like himself?
“-thinking?” he finishes. It comes out like a question.
Shane leans against the now-open doorframe, hair mussed, wearing one of Ilya’s old Boston t-shirts. It hangs loose on him, one collarbone exposed, hem wrinkled over his thighs.
“Dangerous,” Shane says lightly.
Ilya huffs a small laugh.
Shane watches him a second longer than usual. “You okay?”
The question is careful, but not careless. Shane is always like that. Sharp tone and easy eyes.
“I am okay,” he says quickly.
Shane hums, unconvinced, but doesn’t push. “Coffee?”
“Yes.”
That word is safe. Simple.
Shane disappears and Ilya can hear his footsteps retreating down the stairs.
Ilya looks at himself one more time.
“Normal,” he mutters.
“No-mal,” his reflection mocks.
He’s not sure he knows what it means anymore.
He follows Shane’s path downstairs where the kitchen smells like coffee and toast.
Real coffee – the good kind that Shane insists on buying from the small shop down the street. The grinder was far too loud for six in the morning, and Ilya winced when Shane had turned it on, but now the scent is filling the room, warm and rich.
Sunlight spills across the hardwood floors in rich, golden stripes. The windows over the sink are cracked open just enough to let in the cool winter air.
Ilya stands at the counter, hands wrapped around his own mug even though he’s yet to take a sip.
Shane is leaning back against the island, socked feet sliding against the floor as he talks.
“-and then he just leaves the lane completely open,” Shane is saying, animated now, gesturing with the crust of his toast. “Like completely commits to the wrong side. I don’t even know what he thought was happening.”
Ilya makes a vague noise in response.
Shane keeps going for another moment before his movements begin to slow. “...Hello?”
“I am here,” Ilya replies.
Shane tilts his head like a confused puppy. “You’re not.”
Ilya stares into his coffee, the surface still and dark. Reflective. Like the mirror.
He shrugs, aiming for casualness. “Teach me to talk like you.”
Shane blinks.
“...Sorry?”
“To talk like you,” Ilya repeats. “Like…Canadian.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“I don’t– what does that even mean?”
Ilya lifts one shoulder. “You know. You say things funny.”
Shane straightens. “I do not.”
“You do,” Ilya insists, finally glancing up with a half-smile like this is just a joke. “Is cute.”
Shane narrows his eyes. “Are you making fun of me right now?”
“No!” Ilya cries quickly. Too quickly. He forces a wider grin. “I want to learn.”
He ignores the way it comes out as l-yorn. The way his ‘r’ rolls.
“Learn what?”
“How you say words.”
Shane stares at him, trying to decipher his husband.
“This is about the ‘aboot’ thing, isn’t it?” Shane questions slowly.
Relief flickers through Ilya. Yes. Good. Let it be about that.
“Yes,” he says immediately. “Exactly. I will say aboot. I will become ultimate Canadian. I will apolgize for everything. Drink maple syrup maybe.”
Ool-tee-met. A harsh ‘t’ sound. An ‘ul-’ that comes out as ‘oo.’
Ah-pal-loh-dzhahyz. A hard ‘r’ and a sharp ‘zh’ instead of a soft ‘j.’
Shane snorts despite himself, oblivious to Ilya’s internal grammar lesson. “We do not say aboot.”
“You do,” Ilya insists.
“I don’t!”
“You do a little.”
Shane rolls his eyes despite the smile that’s tugging at his lips. “Okay,” he says finally. “But why?”
It’s not a joke-question. It’s quiet. Direct.
Ilya shrugs.
Because I’m tired of the comments.
Because I’m tired of the way people slow down and use easy words to talk to me.
“Because it would be funny,” he says instead. “Imagine. Next interview. I talk exactly like Shane Hollander.”
Shane laughs, shaking his head. “You could not.”
“I could.”
“You absolutely couldn’t.”
“I could,” he insists, stepping closer to Shane, leaning his hip against the island playfully. “Teach me.”
Shane’s gaze lingers on him.
“You don’t need to talk like me,” he says quietly. “I like how you talk.”
“I know,” Ilya says. “But I want to learn.”
There’s a pause. The refrigerator hums. A car passes outside. Shane’s eyes flicker, desperate to find the true meaning.
“You like how I talk?” Ilya teases. Deflects. Before the silence stretches too long.
Tolk. An ‘o’ where the ‘aw’ sound should be.
“Yeah,” Shane says without hesitation.
The immediacy hits Ilya harder than he expected it to. Shane pushes off the counter to face him.
“I like how you talk too,” Ilya says, looking down at his mug again. “But, still,” he says, forcing lightness into his tone. “Teach me.”
Shane sighs dramatically. “Fine, but when you embarrass yourself, I’m pretending like I don’t know you.”
“I never embarrass myself.”
Em-ba-rahss. Sharp ‘e.’ An ‘ah’ sound. His ‘r’ rolling.
Shane just stares at him.
“Oke, maybe sometimes,” he concedes.
Shane laughs and nudges him with his shoulder. “Alright. Say about.”
And there it is.
“About,” he says carefully.
Shane’s lips twitch. “That was…intense.”
“Intense?”
“It was very rounded.”
Ilya swallows and tries again. “About.”
Shane shakes his head, “You’re thinking aboot it too much.”
“Am I?” he asks.
“Just say it normal,” Shane coaches. “Like you’re not trying.”
Normal.
The word presses tight against Ilya’s ribs. He listens carefully to how Shane says it. Short and flat and somewhat silly.
“About.”
Shane’s eyebrows jump. “Oh my God.”
“What?”
“That was actually kind of close.”
Something sparks inside Ilya, sharp and electric.
“About,” he repeats quickly.
Shane laughs. “Okay, do water.”
“Water.”
Vah-dah. Too much ‘v.’ No ‘r’ sound. Ilya’s cheeks heat.
“Water,” he tries again.
“Less ‘wah.’ Shorter. Like–I don’t know. Don’t stretch it.”
“Water.”
They both crack up when Ilya deliberately overdoes it the next time, turning it into something exaggerated and ridiculous.
For the moment, it’s exactly what Ilya had framed it as. Light. Fun. Stupid.
“Alright, last one. Say sorry,” Shane challenges.
“Sorry.”
Sore-ee. No, that’s not right.
“Sorry,” he repeats in a dramatic imitation.
Shane points at him. “You sound ridiculous.”
“Good ridiculous?”
Ree-dee-kyoo-lus. Again with the rolled ‘r.’ A tensed ‘ee’ where the ‘i’ should be. A too-sharp ‘k’ and an incorrect-sounding ‘u.’
“The worst ridiculous.”
Ilya grins.
But even when he’s smiling, he’s paying attention. Every subtle shift in Shane’s words. The way he holds his mouth. The way he says his vowels. He stores them away carefully in a folder he’ll thumb through late at night.
He mumbles words under his breath as Shane rinses their plates and mugs.
“You’re really trying,” Shane says.
“I like to be the best at things.”
It’s the most honest thing he’s said all morning.
Shane’s gaze softens as he steps into Ilya’s space, grasping the hem of his shirt. He tugs him forward until their foreheads bump.
“You’re already good at talking,” Shane says quietly.
Ilya lets out a soft, humorless laugh. “Debatable.”
Deh-bah-tah-buhl. His vowels shift. A crisp ‘t.’ A sharp ‘e.’
Shane doesn’t smile.
“I mean it.”
There’s something steady in his voice. Protective even when he doesn’t know why.
Ilya looks away first. “We have skate. Let’s go.”
Shane’s gaze sits heavy on his back, even as he walks away.
⋆˙⟡♡
The game that night was fast.
That’s the only thing anyone will remember about it.
Fast and sharp and relentless. Clean tape-to-tape passes. A Hollander breakaway in the second that has the crowd on its feet.
Ilya scores twice, assists another.
He laughs on the bench at something someone says. He shoves a teammate lightly after a missed opportunity. He looks alive in the way he only really does on the ice. And with Shane.
They win.
The arena roars.
And then it’s over.
The locker room afterwards is humid and loud.
Music thumps from someone’s speaker. Gear hits the floor in heavy, damp piles. The air smells like sweat and adrenaline and victory.
Ilya sits on the wooden bench of his stall, unlacing his skates with steady hands. On his right, Shane is mid-story with Hayes, hands flailing dramatically.
“Rozanov, you’re up for media,” their PR manager calls from the doorway.
An uncomfortable tightening curls in his stomach. He nods once, fishing his slides from his hockey bag. “Oke.”
Shane studies him as he trudges – somewhat unwillingly – out of the room, following their manager down the hallway.
The area they’d set up was too bright. The cameras are already positioned, a small cluster of reporters waiting with expectant smiles. Microphones branded with logos all pointed towards him. Sitting expectantly, waiting for him to screw up.
“Great game tonight,” one reporter from ESPN starts. “How did you see that opening on your goal late in the second period tonight?”
Ilya nods once. He knows the answer to this one. He’s given this answer dozens of times.
“We were reading their coverage.”
His words are tighter than usual, less space in them. He speaks slower, concentrating on every sound of the letters.
The reporter nods. “You seemed really patient out there. Is there something new you’ve been working on?”
Patient.
He repeats the word in his head before answering.
“I think I have just been trying to trust the play more,” he answers carefully, picking over syllables and vowels. “Trying not to rush it.”
He can almost hear Shane’s voice in his head.
Ilya’s answers continue. More efficient. Trimmed down. Precise. He slows himself, trying to eliminate his search for words. To shape them into something less...stupid.
He flattens about.
Clips water.
He feels like he’s holding too much tension in his jaw. Like he’s swallowing too much. Like he’s speaking through a hazy filter. The reporters nod along. No one looks confused.
Another reporter speaks up, “Your English has improved significantly. Have you been working on eliminating your accent?”
The compliment lands sideways. “Thank you,” he says. He doesn’t mention he’d been near-fluent for years.
Another question.
“You made a really smart decision on that assist. What did you see developing?”
Smart.
There’s that word again.
Ilya answers cleanly. Logically. Measured. He can feel himself performing competence. Making sure there’s no hesitation long enough to be clipped and circulated and picked apart later.
Behind the journalists and the cameras and the microphones and the lights, Ilya catches movement.
Shane.
He’s dressed casually, a towel slung over his shoulders, lingering off to the side. He’s watching Ilya, his expression neutral at first. But then, something shifts. His brows furrow slightly as another question is asked.
“Do you think this win says something about where the team is right now?”
Ilya nods. “Yes, I think we are–” He stops himself, mentally adusting. “We're building something consistent.”
Kuhn-sees-tuhnt. He cringes at the garbled syllables rolling off his tongue.
He continues speaking that way and no one in the room seems to notice. Except Shane. Shane always notices. It’s such a subtle change that most people wouldn’t recognize. But Shane notices how Ilya’s cadence has changed. The way his words are coming out slower and tighter. Like he’s sanding down the edges of himself mid-sentence.
Shane’s jaw tightens as another question is launched at his husband.
“What’s been the biggest adjustment for you this season?”
Ilya inhales.
The word – adjustment – lingers in the air like it’s mocking him.
“Just adapting,” he says carefully. “Learning to read things faster.”
Faster.
He almost says it wrong. Fah-stuh. Except that’s not wrong, is it?
Shane shifts his weight. He knows that voice. He knows what Ilya sounds like when he’s relaxed. When he’s teasing. When he’s frustrated. When he’s half-asleep and perfect.
This isn’t any of those things.
This is a straining effort to be…what exactly?
“You’re articulating really clearly,” Shane hears a reporter note.
Ilya smiles. “Thank you.”
Shane’s stomach drops. Because Ilya looks proud. Like he’s doing something right by changing himself like this. Like he’s doing something that’s working. Shane’s mind whirs back to the morning in their kitchen. Ilya asking him to teach him how to talk. Shane thought it was a joke. That Ilya was just trying to find another way to tease Shane. But this?
The realization that Ilya wanted to change the way he spoke. That he wanted Shane’s help to adjust one of his favorite things about Ilya. It broke Shane’s heart.
Another question is half-out of a reporter's mouth when Shane starts to move.
He doesn’t storm in or make a scene.
He just steps forward, weaving through the maze of cameras and lights and people.
“Hey,” he says gently.
It cuts through the rhythm of the interview.
The reporter falters. “Oh– Mr. Hollander, we just have a couple more–”
“Sorry,” Shane says politely, softly reaching for Ilya’s elbow. “Just one second.”
His fingers clasp around the fabric of Ilya’s sleeve. It’s gentle and grounding.
Ilya blinks at him, surprised. “What?”
Shane leans in, body turning slightly so the microphones don’t catch what he says next. So the cameras can see them, but not hear.
Up close, Shane can see it clearly now – the tension in Ilya’s jaw. The way he’s holding his mouth like it’s breakable.
“Why are you talking like that?” Shane asks quietly.
“Like what?” it comes out equally quiet.
And there – and those two words – his real voice slips out. Rounder, warmer, unfiltered.
Shane’s chest tightens.
“Like you’re trying to edit yourself out,” he says carefully.
Ilya’s eyes flicker away.
“I am not,” he says.
Shane just looks at him. He doesn’t push. He just waits.
It only takes a few seconds.
“I am tired,” Ilya admits, barely above a whisper. His accent is fully there now, bleeding softly back into his tone where it belongs. “I am tired of people thinking that I am stupid.” His throat works. “I am tired of them talking to me like I do not understand.”
Shane’s expression shifts instantly. Something soft and fierce in his eyes.
“You are not stupid, Ilya.”
“I know,” he says quickly. “But they do not.” His voice waivers slightly. “And if I talk like this,” he gestures weakly, “maybe they stop.”
The simplicity of it lands harder than any check Shane had ever taken on the ice. He exhales slowly through his nose, reaching to cup Ilya’s face, thumbing over the lingering tension in his jaw.
He presses a firm, steady kiss to his mouth.
It’s not rushed or dramatic. Just intentional and strong and sure. When he pulls back, he presses their foreheads together.
“You are not stupid, okay?”
Ilya lets out a watery laugh and nods. “Oke.”
“I love you, and I love your voice. You are smart, the way you speak doesn’t change that.
“Oke,” Ilya whispers again.
Shane straightens and turns to face the cameras. He squares his shoulders and sets his jaw.
“Sorry,” he says calmly to the reporter he interrupted. “We’re all good now.”
There’s an awkward pause.
“Just to be clear,” Shane starts again, “if anyone out there thinks an accent makes someone stupid, that’s a you problem.”
The room goes very still.
Ilya’s eyes widen comically.
“He speaks Russian fluently. He speaks near-perfect English. He’s conversationally fluent in French.” Shane’s counting languages on his fingers now. “In case anyone needs a number that’s three languages.”
The room remains silent, Ilya still standing just behind Shane.
“He moved across the world, alone, as a teenager. He reads plays faster than most of us even see them develop.” Shane finds Ilya’s hand without looking. “So if you’ve ever talked down on him – and this goes for anyone watching at home – if you’ve ever talked down on him, or called him dumb because of how he sounds, maybe try learning a second language before you open your mouth.”
A reporter shifts uncomfortably.
“There is nothing wrong with how he speaks,” he says. “Not a single thing.” He looks back at Ilya then, a warm expression on his face. “I like your voice,” Shane murmurs quietly even though the microphones can definitely pick up on what he’s saying.
“Yeah?” Ilya asks, accent untouched now.
“Yeah,” Shane beams. “It’s my favorite.”
Shane looks towards the reporters once more, polite and calm.
“You can keep going, but he’s going to answer however he wants.”
He doesn't let go of Ilya’s hand.
And this time, when Ilya approaches the microphones, he doesn’t flatten a single vowel.