Tatani



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    Shane’s eyes snap open. Wait a second.

    “Ilya,” Shane says, propping himself up on his elbows. “Ilya, wake up.”

    Ilya makes a pained noise, eyes still shut. “I shut curtains already.”

    “It’s not that. Ilya, hey. Don’t go back to sleep.” Ilya tries to bury back into Shane’s chest, but adrenaline knifes through Shane’s hangover long enough for him to peel Ilya off and roll him into his back. Ilya blinks blearily up at him, starfished in the sheets. Beautiful and naked and missing his mother’s cross.

     

    OR: When Ilya’s cross goes missing after the Centaurs celebrate their first Stanley Cup win, Shane is determined to get it back. And so are the Centaurs. And the rest of Ottawa.

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    28 Feb 2026

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    Ilya’s soulmate seems to care a lot, about some very, very, specific things. Ilya tries to imagine what it’d be like to be on the receiving end of that kind of focus, that intensity.

    He thinks of Hollander staring him down during their last face-off. Hollander had looked like he wanted to rip Ilya’s stick from his hands and beat him with it. It was kind of hot, if Ilya’s being honest. It was even hotter when Hollander won the face-off.

    Christ. Ilya really needs to stop fucking thinking about Shane Hollander.

    or:

    ilya rozanov has been ready to meet his soulmate since he was ten. he thinks it'd be great if they also got the memo, because he’s running out of space to keep all their ginger ale.

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    26 Feb 2026

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    Shane’s immediate reaction is to say that he doesn't know when it started. He doesn’t know who his soulmate is. This is what he’s been telling himself for years, because if he stops for more than a second to think about how long he's been collecting little pieces of Ilya Rozanov, he thinks he'll spiral out of control.

    He'll hit the deck like a firecracker dropped unceremoniously onto the sidewalk, burning wildly and spiralling haphazardly, until he's fizzled out with nothing left to show for himself but smoke, ashes, and the knowledge that his soul is bound to Rozanov's.

    or:

    shane hollander spends twenty-five years not thinking about his soulmate. the drawer in his apartment filled with cigarettes, toothpaste, and awful t-shirts says elsewise.

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    26 Feb 2026

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    In the quiet of night, twenty minutes after Darya turned twelve, her mother hands her a present with a blank name slip.

    “These are from your uncles, they love you so much. Uncle Ilya misses you.”

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    24 Feb 2026

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    “You will not be so nice when we beat you,” Ilya told Shane Hollander, holding onto his hand, not letting him pull away. Not yet.

    But Hollander’s brow furrowed, not in anger but in confusion. “Ah, um, sorry,” Hollander said. “Merci. My English is bad. Worse… than you. Maybe slower?” And he leaned in, like that would help him understand.

    Ilya’s eyebrows rose, and his smile widened.

    Or, Ilya Rozanov grew up in Russia. Shane Hollander was raised in France. When they first meet, neither of them can speak English very well. Somehow, it’s easier to understand each other when words aren’t getting in the way.

    (Stand-alone remix of “I’m Reading Your Lips (You’re Speaking My Language)” but this time neither of them are native English speakers, and learning a new language is sort of like falling in love, if you think about it.)

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    23 Feb 2026

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