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1.
Ilya sometimes really hated the English language.
It wasn’t because he didn’t know it - he did. He’d studied it for years, lived in North America for even longer, and could hold his own in interviews. He’d once learned to say ‘grandstanding’ just to annoy Shane. He could argue, flirt, trash‑talk, and give surprisingly poetic compliments when he felt like it. All in English.
But English had… traps.
Little ones. Sneaky ones. Words that wore two or three meanings, like disguises, waiting for him to pick the wrong one so they could laugh at him. Words that pretended to be straightforward but actually required psychic powers, or a lifetime of guessing correctly.
Russian didn’t do this to him. Russian was honest. If a word meant something, it meant it. If it didn’t, it didn’t. No surprises. No hidden second meanings lurking in the shadows like gremlins.
English, though? English was chaos in alphabet form.
Sometimes he felt like every sentence Shane said came with a secret bonus meaning that only native speakers could unlock. And Ilya would stand there, analyzing the words like a bomb technician, trying to figure out which interpretation wouldn’t make him sound like an idiot.
They were sentences that snuck up on him like ninjas. Never to be expected, but always there.
Ilya and Shane had just gotten to the rink when Troy bypassed them, and the conversation that brought up another one of these ambiguous sentences began.
“Morning, Troy,” Shane greeted. The other only waved and grumbled something under his breath. “Tired?” Shane asked due to the reaction he had gathered from Troy. “Yeah, I’m wiped. I haven’t even unpacked yet.”
Shane placed down his hockey bag and began to take out their gear.
They had a game in San Francisco, and by the time they had returned home the previous day, it was already the middle of the night. Ilya doubted that any of them were incredibly rested. This was also why they had optional practice today. But they were all machotists when it came to hockey and practice, so Ilya had already known prior to showing up that everyone would be at the rink. “I unpacked this morning. We arrived late last night, so I just went straight to bed.”
Ilya cocked his head. What was Shane talking about? Once they returned to Ottawa, they went straight to their house and to bed. Did they go somewhere, and Ilya forgot? Why was he acting as if they’d shown up after curfew? Unless Ilya had gone to some party where one of the guests invented a memory wiper, he was certain that they had gone directly home. And you can’t be late when returning home. You are welcome to come and go at any time.
He turned slowly toward Shane. “No, we did not arrive late.” Shane blinked. Troy blinked. Shane blinked again. “Uh… yeah, we did?” Shane said cautiously. “No,” Ilya insisted, crossing his arms. “We have no curfew. We cannot be late. We come home when we want.”
Troy made a small choking sound, like he was trying not to laugh.
Shane shot him a quick look before turning back to Ilya. “Ilya… I meant late at night. Not late like we missed something.”
“Oh.” Ilya frowned, still clearly unimpressed. “Then say that. Your language is too sneaky.” Troy pressed his lips together, his shoulders shaking once before he got himself under control. Shane huffed a quiet laugh. “I’ll be more specific next time.”
“Good,” Ilya said, picking up his stick. “We arrived at peak night. Very different.”
He walked off toward the locker room, muttering in Russian about English being a conspiracy, while Shane and Troy exchanged a look, half amused, half fond, before following after him.
2.
“Wear that one shirt you like with black jeans and sneakers,” Shane called out to Ilya, who was rummaging through his closet, looking for outfit ideas.
The Russian stopped his searching to send a confused look to his husband. “I don’t have any black sneakers.”
Shane raised an eyebrow, confused. “I didn’t say black sneakers, I said black jeans,” Shane repeated slowly, unsure what Ilya had misunderstood this time.
Ilya’s eyebrows shot up. “You said ‘black jeans and sneakers.’ That sounds like both are black. Jeans black, sneakers black. It sounds like whole outfit is black. Like theme. Like dress code.”
Shane blinked. “That’s… not what I meant.” He couldn’t help but giggle slightly at Ilya’s misunderstanding.
“Well, that is what it sounds like,” Ilya said, throwing his hands up. “Your sentences just put everything together in one big pile. No separation. No warning. Just-” he made a chaotic swirling gesture “-word soup.”
Now Shane did really laugh. Ilya’s beef with the English language was never not funny. “I meant black jeans… and sneakers. Any sneakers.” He explained to his husband, his shoulders still shaking.
“Any sneakers?” Ilya repeated, offended. “Then why not say that? Why not say ‘black jeans and whatever sneakers you want’? Why not say ‘sneakers that are not black because you know I do not own black sneakers, you confusing, beautiful man’?”
“Ilya-” Shane was smiling brightly now, laughter escaping him every couple of seconds.
Ilya then cut him off. “No, you listen here, moya lisichka,” Ilya said, pointing at him with dramatic intensity. “You give me one color in a sentence. One! And you expect me to magically know which part it belongs to? Am I supposed to guess? Am I supposed to have psychic outfit‑choosing powers?”
Shane stared at his husband lovingly. “I’ll phrase it differently next time, alright?” He offered. Ilya just huffed. “Yes, thank you,” he raised his hands into the air in exasperation and mumbled something in Russian. Shane was able to catch something along the lines of ‘glupyy yazyk’.
Shane crossed the room and encircled Ilya’s waist. “Come here,” he murmured, still smiling. “You’re getting worked up over nothing.” He chuckled and planted a kiss on Ilya’s earlobe. Ilya huffed but didn’t move away from Shane; actually, he leaned a bit closer to his husband.
“It is not nothing,” he mumbled. “You told me to wear non-existent sneakers.” Shane chuckled again. “Okay, I will never bring up non-existent sneakers again. My mistake.”
Ilya’s expression finally cracked, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “You make many mistakes,” he said, turned around, and finally kissed Shane on the lips, and then leaned in until their foreheads touched. “But you are still cute.” Shane let out a quiet laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love me,” Ilya said simply, smug and warm. Shane kissed him again. “Yeah,” he murmured against his lips. “I really do.”
3.
Ilya had started to understand these traps better with practice, but sometimes he was convinced his husband was purposefully wording things in a way to make him misunderstand. He hated it when he misunderstood the meaning.
But at least when Shane was learning Russian, he was the one who sounded stupid - even though Shane was picking up Russian much faster than Ilya picked up English. And no. He wasn’t jealous that his husband was great with languages. Whoever told you that was a liar.
Shane and Ilya both sat in their kitchen as Shane looked down at the piece of paper in front of him. Ilya had given him a sentence to translate, and Shane had written it down to make it easier for him - rather, he transcribed it, as he had yet to start learning Cyrillic. “Could we start with maybe less complicated sentences?” Shane wondered.
Ilya arched an eyebrow. “No, I am not giving you less sentences.” Ilya was, honestly, not even sure why Shane had asked him to do that. He had only given him one sentence thus far, and Shane was not aware of how many Ilya had planned to give him.
But then Shane blinked, and Ilya knew this was another one of those traps. And he had managed to get himself stuck in it. Great. “No... I meant like easier sentences, not fewer. And then we can gradually move on to the harder ones. Please?”
Ilya stared at him. Of course, that was what he meant. Of course. Why did he always fall into these pitfalls?
He hated this language.
“I knew that,” Ilya said immediately, straightening in his chair. “I was testing you.” Shane’s mouth twitched. “Oh yeah?” His tone indicated that he clearly did not believe a word that came out of Ilya’s mouth. “Yes. To see if you would notice distinction.” Ilya gestured vaguely between them. “It is important. Precision.”
Shane smiled in that slow, knowing way that made Ilya feel like he was being gently dissected. “Right. My bad.” Ilya narrowed his eyes. “You think I do not know difference between easier and fewer?”
Shane held up both hands. “I think you absolutely do. I just also think you thought I meant number instead of difficulty.” Ilya crossed his arms. Shane waited. “I do not like when your language does this,” Ilya muttered finally. “You could’ve just asked what I meant,” Shane said softly.
That made something twist in Ilya’s chest. Because that was the problem, wasn’t it? It wasn’t that he was embarrassed about asking, or that he would have to admit he didn’t understand. The problem was in the fact that when Shane said these sentences, he did not know that there was a second possible meaning.
Ilya looked away, jaw tightening just a little. “I cannot ask what you mean if I do not know there is something to ask about,” he said finally, voice low but not angry. “You say sentence, I hear sentence. I do not hear… hidden version.”
Shane’s expression softened. “Hey,” he murmured, placing a comforting hand onto Ilya’s knee. “I’m not trying to trick you.”
“I know,” Ilya said, though it came out more defensive than he intended. “But sometimes it feels like your language is trying to trick me. Like it is waiting for me to choose wrong meaning so it can laugh.”
Shane reached out and brushed his fingers over Ilya’s hand. “Ilya. I’m not laughing at you.”
“You should,” Ilya muttered. “I sound stupid.” Shane’s thumb stilled.“You don’t sound stupid. You sound like someone who spends every day thinking and feeling in a second language and still manages to say exactly what he means.”
Ilya’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t look up. “And,” Shane added, “you sound like someone who cares about getting things right. Which is… honestly kind of adorable.” Ilya finally glanced at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You think I am adorable?”
“I think you’re brilliant,” Shane corrected gently. “And sometimes dramatic. And sometimes wrong. But never stupid.” Ilya exhaled, the tension in his shoulders loosening. “Your language is still stupid,” he grumbled. Shane laughed. “That’s fair.”
Ilya uncrossed his arms and tapped the paper with one finger. “Fine. Easier sentences. But only because I am generous teacher.”
“Very generous,” Shane agreed, smiling. “And because you are bad student,” Ilya added. Shane snorted. “Wow. Okay.” Ilya smirked, finally fully himself again. “Write this down,” he said, leaning over the table to scribble a new sentence. “We start with something simple.”
Shane looked at the paper, then at Ilya. “This is simple?”
“For Russian child,” Ilya said proudly. “You are adult. You will manage.”
Shane groaned, but he was smiling as he picked up his pen. "Why did I ever agree to this?"
4.
When Ilya had come to America for the first time, he had felt exposed. He could barely communicate with people there, and he could barely read the signs that weren’t in Cyrillic, but were also in English. In the first couple of months of living here, he had gotten lost more times than he wanted to admit, solely for the reason that he did not understand. And it was one of the worst feelings he had ever felt. And as his English progressed, as he spent more time with native speakers, he always understood more and more.
But no matter how deeply he was surrounded, he could never fully escape the feeling that the language was always a step ahead of him, waiting to reveal some hidden meaning he hadn’t noticed yet. Words could be simple one moment and a complete maze the next, like they had secret doors that only native speakers could open without thinking. Even when he thought he had mastered a phrase, Shane could toss a sentence his way, and suddenly he was back at square one, heart hammering, cheeks warm with the familiar mix of frustration.
He was reminded of this fact when he and Shane were curled up on the couch, watching a documentary about volunteers rebuilding homes after a storm. Shane was relaxed, warm against Ilya’s side, half‑watching, half‑scrolling.
And then he opened his mouth.
“It’s amazing,” he mumbled, “how much good people can do.” Ilya froze. Shane half mumbled the sentence, so he had to strain his ears to hear him properly. And then when he started to translate in his mind, he was not sure what exactly Shane wanted to say with it. “I mean... other people can do things also. Not just good people.” He spoke slowly, a little scared that maybe this was another one of those two meaning sentances.
Shane blinked, confused. “What?” He looked away from his phone and towards his husband, his head slightly cocked.
“You said only good people can do so much.” Ilya clarified. “But that is untrue. Everyone can do much. Not just people who are good.”
Shane stared at him. “Ilya, I didn’t say only-” But Shane wasn’t able to finish his sentence because Ilya immediately cut him off. “Yes, you did,” Ilya insisted, sitting up straighter. “You said, ‘It’s amazing how much good people can do.’ Meaning only good people. Meaning everyone else does nothing.”
Shane opened his mouth and then closed it and then opened it again as his brain was slowly putting together the puzzle pieces Ilya was giving him. “That’s... not what I meant.”
Ilya crossed his arms. “That is very rude to say. Very judgmental. Very discriminatory.”
Shane didn’t know if he should look shocked or laugh. “Ilya-” He said, trying to bring his husband back from this hyperactive state.
Ilya ignored him and continued. “You think only good people can do so much? That is stupid. Bad people do things all the time.”
Shane then lost it and let out a laugh. “Ilya, sweetheart-” Shane scooted closer. “And now, you are laughing a them-”
Shane leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Shane, I said-” Shane kissed him again, this time on the jaw. “Stop that.” Another kiss followed Ilya’s ‘protests’. Ilya sighed dramatically. “Fine. You may continue.”
Shane rested his forehead against Ilya’s temple. “Ilya. I meant good things that people can do.”
Ilya blinked. “That is not what you said.” Ilya immediately protested. “That is exactly what I said.”
“Well, you’re wrong then,” Ilya stated. Shane shook his head. “Okay. Fine. I’m wrong.” Ilya smirked. “Yeah. You are.”
Shane laughed again and finally kissed Ilya on the lips. Ilya grabbed Shane’s waist.
The documentary could wait.
5.
Being on the same team as Shane always filled Ilya with such giddiness. He just couldn’t believe it some days, how they had gone from seeing each other every couple of weeks, hiding in the dark, keeping their relationship secret… to this. To walking into the same locker room. To sharing a bench, a jersey, a life. To loving each other in the open, with no one to hide from anymore. It still felt unreal.
Shane had stopped by the bathroom before heading to the locker room while Ilya took both of their gear bags inside. “Hey, Roz!” Bood greeted as the Captain entered. “Hey, did you lose Hollzy or something? Where is he?” Wyatt asked as he noticed Ilya had come by himself.
“Bathroom,” Ilya said, setting the bags down. “He will be here in minute.”
“Ah,” Wyatt nodded. “So he didn’t ditch you.”
“He would not dare,” Ilya replied, deadpan.
Across the room, Troy let out a laugh. “Man, you two are attached at the hip,” Ilya pivoted to look at the man. “We are married,” Ilya said simply. “That doesn’t mean you have to walk in like synchronized swimmers,” Luca chimed in from his stall, pulling on his shirt.
Nick snorted. “Give them a break. They’re still in the honeymoon phase.”
Ilya ignored all of them and took off his jacket. The room buzzed with the usual pre‑practice chaos. Boyle was arguing with Young about who stole his stick tape, Tanner complained loudly about the cold, and Holmberg hummed off‑key to whatever was blasting in his headphones.
And then Shane walked in, eyes instantly finding Ilya like they always did. The smile that spread across his cheek was so soft and warm, and Ilya wanted nothing more than ravish him. After practice, though.
“There he is,” Wyatt said. “We were about to send a search party.” Shane rolled his eyes. “I was gone for thirty seconds,” he protested, placing his coat on his stall’s hook. “Long time,” Ilya said, crossing his arms like he was scolding him.
Shane blinked. “Ilya, what?”
“Long time,” Ilya repeated, stubbornly. Troy snorted. “You two are unbelievable.” Shane just grinned and bumped his shoulder against Ilya’s. “Missed me?” He could see Ilya trying to repress a smile, but his husband was not very successful in his endeavour. “No,” Ilya said immediately. “You were just slow.”
“Right,” Shane said, amused.
Luca shook his head. “Married people are weird.”
Ilya ignored that too. He was too busy watching Shane pull off his hoodie, too busy soaking in the simple, stupid miracle of being here together.
And then Shane ruined it by saying, “It took longer because Evan hit a guard with a cup, and his coffee spilled everywhere.”
“Oh no, I don’t know who I feel worse for, the guard or Evan,” Bood chimed in. “I mean, Evan does have a ruined shirt now,” Young said, responding to Bood’s statement. “I feel bad for the guard; he doesn’t have his coffee now.” Boyle also added.
At first, Ilya was able to follow along with the conversation, but that was until Young and Boyle had chimed in. Why were they talking about the guard’s coffee? The guard didn’t have the coffee, Evan did...or did he? Fuck was this another one of those sentences?
He replayed it in his head, ‘Evan hit a guard with a cup, and his coffee spilled everywhere.’ Evan used a cup to hit the guard. But no, that would mean the cup belonged to Evan, but Young and Boyle clearly indicated that the guard had the cup.
Conversation continued around him, but Ilya was completely stuck in his head, trying to decipher this. Which was also why he didn’t see Shane approach him and jumped when he placed his hand onto his shoulder.
“Hey,” Shane said softly. “You good?” Ilya blinked up at him, eyes slightly unfocused. “Whose coffee?”
Shane frowned. “What?”
“Whose coffee spilled?” Ilya clarified, lowering his voice, really not wanting anyone else to hear him. “Evan’s or guard’s?” Shane stared at him for half a second, then realization dawned. “Oh. The guard’s.”
Ilya narrowed his eyes. “But you said ‘his coffee.’”
“Yes,” Shane answered. “Okay, before this goes any further. What didn’t you understand? What part of the sentence is ambiguous for you?” Shane asked as he had learned up to now that Ilya struggled with ambiguity in sentences. “‘His’ can mean guard or Evan,” Ilya insisted. “Guard is male. Evan is male. ‘His’ is unhelpful.”
Shane’s mouth twitched. “I meant the guard’s coffee,” he replied slowly. “Then you should say the guard’s coffee,” Ilya replied immediately. “Names exist for a reason.”
Behind them, Troy piped up from where he was lacing his skates. “What are we debating now?”
“Possessive pronouns,” Shane said. Troy blinked before shaking his head. “Of course we are.”
Ilya crossed his arms. “He said Evan hit guard with cup, and his coffee spilled. That is unclear,” he huffed. Shane placed a hand on Ilya’s cheek. “Ilya, we’ve talked about this. If you find something unclear, just ask.”
“I did ask,” Ilya pointed out, huffing, but he didn’t pull away from Shane’s touch. “Yeah, when I coaxed you to tell me what’s wrong.” Ilya’s jaw tightened. “I was thinking.”
“For three minutes,” Shane pointed out gently. “It is efficient to think before speaking,” Ilya defended himself.
Shane smiled at that, soft and fond. “You don’t have to analyse every sentence, you know.” He brushed his thumb once over Ilya’s cheek before dropping his hand. “If something’s unclear, just ask. I’m on your team.” The words settled somewhere deep in Ilya’s chest. On your team. Man, he loved Shane.
Across the room, Wyatt clapped his hands. “Alright, lovers and linguists, let’s get moving. Practice starts in 5, and you’re all only half dressed.” The locker room erupted into movement.
Once they were all geared up and ready, Shane bumped his shoulder lightly against Ilya’s as they headed toward the rink doors. “The guard’s coffee,” he whispered.
Ilya rolled his eyes but let his hand briefly catch Shane’s wrist before they stepped onto the ice. “Next time,” he muttered, unable to stop the small smile tugging at his mouth, “just use names.”
+1
“Hey, Shane, do you think you can lift an elephant with one hand?” Ilya and Shane were at home when Ilya asked this question. He had his head in Shane’s lap, Shane’s hand in Ilya’s hair, scratching his scalp. It was Ilya’s favorite position when they were at home, relaxing.
Shane hummed before answering him. “Elephants don’t have hands. Especially not only one,” the Canadian responded. And his response sent Ilya into overdrive.
Ilya had asked Shane if he could use one hand to lift an elephant, but Shane... Shane had misunderstood him. A feeling of pure, vicious delight spread through Ilya. Finally, he was the one who had created the trap. And Shane had fallen directly into it.
“What? What is it? Shane wondered as he saw the delightful expression on Ilya’s face. “I never said the elephant has one arm.” Shane lifted an eyebrow, confused. “Yes, you did. You asked if I think that I can lift an elephant with...” Shane wanted to repeat his sentence, but as he heard it one more time, he realized his mistake.
Ilya had already lifted his head and was looking at him with a smile on his face. “You misunderstood me, Moya Lyubov.” Shane just blinked a couple of times. “Oh.” And that sound was the best thing Ilya had heard all day. “Yes,” he said, savoring every syllable like it was dessert. “Oh. Exactly.”
Shane blinked again, cheeks flushing as the realization fully settled. “I… misunderstood you.”
“Yes,” Ilya repeated, delighted. “You misunderstood me.” He pressed a hand to his chest, dramatic. “This is historic moment.” Shane groaned, tipping his head back against the couch. He was never going to hear the end of it. “Ilya-”
“No, no,” Ilya cut in, waving a finger. “Do not ruin this for me. I wait years for this.” Shane laughed helplessly. “Years?”
“Yes. Years,” Ilya insisted. “Your language tricks me every day. Every hour. Every minute. And now?” He leaned in, eyes gleaming. “Now it tricks you.” Shane dragged a hand down his face. “Okay, okay, I get it. I walked right into it.”
“You sprinted,” Ilya corrected. “Full speed.” Shane looked at him, exasperated and fond all at once. “You’re insufferable,” he said, but there was a smile on his face, anyway. “And you love me,” Ilya said, smug as a cat in a sunbeam. Shane cupped his jaw and kissed him, slow and warm. “Unfortunately,” he murmured against Ilya’s lips, “yeah. I really do.”
Ilya’s grin softened into something warm and victorious. He settled back into Shane’s lap, head returning to its rightful place, Shane’s fingers sliding back into his hair.
“Next time,” Ilya said, eyes closing contentedly, “I will make even better trap.” Shane groaned. “God help me.” Ilya hummed, pleased. “He cannot save you now.”