Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Original Characters

Additional Tags:

Ilya Learns to Knit, Soft Ilya Rozanov, No Carpal Tunnel, chance that rating changes in later chapters, Shane will be more present later on, mentions of dementia

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of the knitsey scale

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-23 Completed: 2026-01-26 Words: 7,735 Chapters: 2/2

the knitsey scale

Summary

“Um, I am sorry. What are you doing?”

Anne’s eyes widen. “Oh I’m sorry, is it bothering you? Let me just–I can–” She moves to start wrapping the yarn up.

“No!” Ilya states a little too loudly in the hush of the cabin. He feels his face warm as he coughs again slightly, “No. I don’t mind. I was just wondering what–what is it? What are you doing?”

Anne’s face relaxes, smiling warmly at him as she turns towards him in her seat. “I’m knitting. A sweater for my niece to be specific.”

 

OR

Ilya Rozanov-Captain of the Boston Raiders, the Beast from the East-learns to knit.

Notes

Will probably be iffy on Canon Timeline but don't overthink it!

 

Also I did the most cursory of glances at flights from Moscow to Boston. Didn't see any nonstop (due to the war, Slava Ukraini ) and the route looks long as hell. If anyone knows a quicker way and I've somehow tacked on 10 hours to a flight, well, whoops. Also ignore time frame here as well since this is I guess set sometime around 2016…but with 2026 issues. In the words of Looper Bruce Willis, “I don’t want to start talking about time [travel] because if we start talking about it then we’re going to be here all day talking about it, making diagrams with straws.”

Cheers!

Chapter 1: under and over and through and off and repeat

Chapter Notes

After so many years, Ilya isn’t used to the flight from Moscow to Boston per say, but he does expect his reactions in some sense. Moscow has never been…simple for Ilya, but with the amount of time he is spending in America and the feelings he can no longer deny for a certain Metros player means that Moscow becomes complicated and real in a way that it wasn’t previously for him. The stakes feel higher now, adulthood mingling with his upbringing mingling with his own desires mingling with that of his father and his homeland. All this means is that when Ilya trudges onto his first flight, a red eye into Abu Dhabi because there are no direct flights into Boston, he is an odd mix of high-strung, the leftover anxiety leaving a copperlike taste in his mouth, and exhausted. 

Fuck, he’s tired. Ilya has known, deep down, that something was changing within his father. Over the years, he has noticed that the moments where his father’s usually sharp gaze would become distant, the piercing blue eyes taking on a watery, glazed quality have been growing in number. But Ilya had fervently hoped that it was something that would resolve itself, that someone else would notice and take charge. But this summer it was undeniable. The distance was there more often than it was not. Something was wrong with his father and no one was stepping up to address it. So Ilya did. 

In between conditioning and training, Ilya had spent countless hours on the phone with doctors, then specialists, then hired help, then wrangling Polina to show some shred of caring about the man she married. Worst of all was brother. Alexei who knew, who knew, something was going on and involved himself just enough to be able to throw it in Ilya’s face at any opportunity. He’s like a child sometimes. I have my own daughter. You’re never fucking here Ilya. 

Memory loss. Agitation. Inability to perform multi-step tasks. Disorientation. Dementia. Dementia. Dementia. Dementia.

Ilya feels an ache in his right hand. He unclenches it on the seat and takes a deep breath, pushing down the guilt, the guilt not only about leaving his father but the sick dark guilt about the absolute selfish relief he feels in leaving. The relief of having an excuse to leave Russia. The relief of having an excuse to leave his family. How do you afford your life, Alexei? How the fuck does anyone here afford their life? I need to leave. 

Ilya takes a deep breath and puts in his headphones. The noise cancelling muting all the sounds of passengers loading and the plane going through its final checks before taxiing. Ilya doesn't even bother to turn music on, he just tilts towards the window and pulls his hood up as the plane starts to move down the runway. He’s asleep before the plane takes off.

Ilya wakes up some time later to the dawn cresting in through his window. He glances at the screen on the seatback. They are about 3 hours away from Zayed International. He takes a deep breath, knowing that the sound of the plane is going to come rushing back as soon as he removes his headphones. He takes them off and rolls his shoulders, stretching his legs out, the corner of his mouth turning up at the relief it brings. Perks of first class, he thinks smugly. Immediately after that thought, Ilya notices two things: one; that his table is down and there is sparkling water, a small plate of covered food, and some snacks on it. Those definitely were not there when he fell asleep back in Moscow and two; there is a rhythmic clicking coming from the seat next to him. Before he can address either, a voice speaks from his right.

“You slept right through the first service and I thought you might want something to eat. It’s the only thing that makes these flights feel somewhat normal.”

The slightly accented voice belongs to an older woman sitting next to him. She is maybe in her sixties, her brown hair, a stick of some sort holding it in a bun at the base of her neck, is streaked with grey. The few flyaway strands frame her face making her brown eyes flash from beneath dark lashes, the crows feet around them only highlighting their warmth. She’s wrapped up in a plum-colored shawl, two sticks like the one in her hair and some yarn resting in her lap, her hands wrapped lightly around the sticks. 

Ilya blinks, abruptly struck by the way that she’s considered him, a stranger, no more than a hunched shape in the seat next to her with his hood up, and took the initiative to provide for him. After the summer he has had, the small gesture makes something well up in his throat. Ilya pushes that emotion down, leaving himself slightly embarrassed that he has potentially come off so rude to someone who has done something so nice for him. He sits up straighter, adjusting in his seat so that he is facing towards her.

“Um, thank you.” His accent is thicker with the hesitancy he feels and the fact that he is still shaking off sleep.

“No problem at all! My name is Anne.”

Anne. Simple but whole. It fits her. “Ilya,” he responds, lowering his hood, running a hand to loosen up the curls that have become stuck to his head from his hood.

“Mhm,” she responds noncommittally before going back to the yarn and sticks in her lap. Her fingers lightly hold the sticks while the tail of yarn is wrapped around her left pointer finger. Her hands move deftly as she wraps the yarn around the right needle, over and under and off, the sticks clicking slightly as she moves along. Ilya watches her for a moment before turning back to his food, his stomach rumbling quietly. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. It makes sense though, the hours leading up to his departure were busy with acclimating the new in-home caregivers and ensuring that Alexei and Polina understood Papa’s new schedule (It’s very important that it is followed every day. Routine is important Alexei–Easy for you to say, you will be gone!). He had forgotten to eat today, yesterday—whatever.

Ilya peels back the plastic wrap on a modest sweet potato gratin with some sides, quietly grateful that Anne didn’t get him something with meat. While Ilya will eat almost anything, he’s really never willing to risk food poisoning because he ate random meat on a flight. It just wasn’t worth it to him. He hums as he eats the food, the sweet potato maintaining its flavor despite being cold. Eventually, he finishes his food and drink, the trash safely deposited in the attendant’s bag when he makes his round. Ilya shifts in his seat as he scrolls on his phone, the soft click click click of her sticks next to him a pleasant metronome to his wandering thoughts. Ilya catches himself looking at her hands moving deftly across the yarn. He’s surprised to see that the object in her lap has grown in width and length, the ribbing at the bottom almost looks like it could be part of something. Ilya coughs slightly. Anne’s hands stop.

“Um, I am sorry. What are you doing?”

Anne’s eyes widen. “Oh I’m sorry, is it bothering you? Let me just–I can–” She moves to start wrapping the yarn up.

“No!” Ilya states a little too loudly in the hush of the cabin. He feels his face warm as he coughs again slightly, “No. I don’t mind. I was just wondering what–what is it? What are you doing?”

Anne’s face relaxes, smiling warmly at him as she turns towards him in her seat. “I’m knitting. A sweater for my niece to be specific.”

Knitting. It’s called knitting. Knitting knitting knitting. Ilya blinks in disbelief. “That will be sweater?”

Anne laughs. “Yes, that's the idea. This is only the front part though, see?” She holds it up in front of her, one stick hanging off the side and the rest of the garment attached to the other stick. As it hangs, Ilya sees it. It does look like the front portion of a sweater. 

“Wow. Yes I see it now.”

“Yes! So basically I will finish this portion and cast it off the needles, and start the back portion. Then I’ll knit them together and start on the sleeves once they are joined.”

Needles. Ilya files that away. Not sticks, but needles. Needle in her hair and needles in her hands. As for the sweater, Ilya was having trouble picturing this process, but Anne seemed confident. 

“Will take you long?” He asks. He really had no frame of reference for this. 

Anne tilts her head to the side, thinking. “Hmm shouldn’t take me too long. I have this flight, plus the next into Boston. I don’t see my niece for two more weeks so I should be done by then.”

Ilya feels a small amount of excitement trickle into his stomach. “Wow–ah you are flying into Boston? You live in Boston?” For some reason, Ilya hopes they will be on the same flight. Despite having just met her, he likes Anne. She is comforting, maternal in a way that Ilya is drawn to but also shies away from. Like pressing on bruised ribs, you need to push through to break up the tissue, it hurts while you do it, but relief from the action follows. His own constant maternal bruise feels fresh and all the more tender after his summer in Moscow. Ilya takes a deep breath, inhaling the feelings, and exhaling the pain, leaving him with a small flicker of warmth from Anne’s attention.  She seemed kind, and it didn’t appear she recognized him. The anonymity felt like a balm at this moment. It would be nice to be near someone that could seemingly talk to him but was also fine with his silence.

“I live in Salem…a little outside of Boston. What about you?”

“I live in Boston. Will be catching the 1pm flight out of Abu Dhabi.”

“Me too!”

Ilya smiles. “Is good! Maybe we can sit next to each other.” Anne blinks, eyebrows raised. Ilya hastily backtracks, “Ah no—no sorry. Or not, I did not mean to presume—”

“No, that would be nice. I would like that, moy dorogoy” Anne smiles softly at him, her crows feet deepening. She lightly pats his arm on the arm rest. The gesture, alongside the endearment, makes Ilya swallow loudly and look away. He coughs lightly and he hears the click click click pick back up. Anne is smiling down at her work, tactfully giving Ilya space.

“Ah, so you speak Russian?”

Click click cli– 

Maybe Ilya should shut up. Maybe she’s annoyed with how often he’s interrupting her. Maybe she was looking forward to her flight in silence. He fidgets in his seat and forces himself to look at Anne. She smiles at him, a little sheepishly.

“Ah—no, just some. I picked it up from my late husband. He was Russian, but passed a few years ago. I was back this summer to see his siblings and their children. We are close, and well, they are family.”

“Ah.” Ilya feels stupid. He fervently hopes she doesn’t ask him anything about Russia. He doesn’t want to have to sidestep the myriad of feelings he has about the place and his family to a stranger. He looks back down at her knitting needles. “I’m sorry–why? Why do you do this?”

Anne huffs out a slight laugh and places the needles back in her lap. “Would you like to learn?”

Ilya hesitates, caught off guard by the directness of the question. “Oh–uh no is okay. You don’t—I was just wondering. Have never seen someone—is fine. Do not worry,” he peters out, pitifully in his opinion, and looks down at his lap, ears pink.

“Oh no, it’s no worry! Look,” Anne bends down to rummage in the bag at her feet, coming back up holding two extra needles and some maroon yarn. “I have extras! Come on, it will be fun!”

Ilya feels a grin break out on his face, cheeks still warm. “OK. If you do not mind. Yes, I would like to learn.”

For the next 3 hours Anne shows Ilya the basics of knitting. She starts the swatch for him (We’ll deal with casting on in a bit). He learns how to hold the needles (“I’ll be teaching you continental style Ilya with circular needles but ignore the connecting string for now, you’ll thank me later when you become an expert knitter. English is the way to hurt wrists.”), how to wrap the yarn and keep the tension around the pointer finger of his left hand, and how to push the right needles into the loop and wrap the yarn around it, sliding the right needle under and sliding the stitch off. By the time they announce their descent into Abu Dhabi, Ilya hasn’t had this much fun on a flight home ever, and that’s including the time Marleau had food poisoning and spent the flight running to and from the bathroom. On top of that, he feels relaxed? Ilya never realized how good it could feel to make something with his own hands, watching it weave into existence from his own movements. Even if that something is currently, a slightly irregular, 5 inch by 5 inch square.

“Ah we’ve run out of time to show you casting off. No matter, we can go over that later.” Anne digs around in her bag once more and comes out with little silicone animals, sloths Ilya’s mind supplies (thank you Planet Earth), in her hand. Ilya stares at them resting in her palm, sleepy eyes looking up at him. She shakes her hand slightly for Ilya to take them.

“What are these?” He asks as he reaches out.

“They are point protectors. For your needles! And they make sure that your work doesn’t slide off the needle when you put it away.” 

Ilya takes the sloths, noticing that they each have a small hole at the base. He pushes his needles into the hole and then laughs as he smiles broadly down at his work. The two sloths look up at him from his swatch. Ilya hadn’t even thought about the fact that his work could slide off the needles. He finds himself inordinately pleased at the slightly raggedy whimsy in his callused hands. Ilya feels like a whole soft world is opening up before him. He smiles as he gently puts his work away in his duffel, making sure the zipper doesn’t catch on any of the yarn.

The plane lands and taxis to the gate. Once the attendants give the okay to deboard, Anne stands to grab her bags from the overhead bin, but Ilya is too fast.

“Ah, no. You do not do this. Allow me.” He stands up and maneuvers around her in the aisle. Anne cranes her head up to make eye contact, looking slightly surprised at Ilya’s height, like she didn’t realize he was quite so hulking until he unfolded himself out of the seat and into the aisle, but she steps aside making an “as you wish” motion with her hands. Ilya grabs her bag, throws his duffel over his shoulder, and walks down the aisle and off the plane, Anne at his back.

When they get out of the tunnel and at the gate, he turns to her, also slightly bemused at how far he has to look down. It makes him smile. 

“Do you have a place to wait? Layover is like 3 hours?”

“Oh, um no. I was just going to grab a coffee and sit at the gate.” Ilya cracks a grin, elated that he will be able to do something nice for the woman that made his long flight so enjoyable. Plus, she shouldn’t be sitting in the uncomfortable gate chairs.

“Oh this will not do! Come, come! I show you where I wait it’s very–,” Ilya cuts himself off, suddenly nervous that maybe he is forcing her to wait with him. It’s one thing to talk to someone you are sitting next to on a plane, it’s another to follow said six-foot-four two-hundred-fifty pound man through the airport to the private airport lounge. Ilya cringes internally. “I mean you don’t have to, is just airport lounge but I understand if you want to–no problem either way.” Ilya stumbles over the words in a panic to make it clear that he isn’t trying to whisk Anna away or be weird. He can feel his face flushing from embarrassment. 

“Oh no, yours sounds much nicer. As long as they have coffee I’d love to. Besides, I want a place with some space to show you how to cast off!”

“There is coffee. Delicious coffee. Come I show you,” Ilya smiles down at her, pivoting on his heels and walking off towards the north end of the airport. Anne follows next to him chatting about how she prepares her coffee versus how Russians prepare theirs and how she’s never been in an airport lounge before. Ilya keeps his head tilted towards as the walk. He feels good, feels tall, his back straight and chest out for the first time in three months.

The next three hours are some of the most enjoyable Ilya has ever had in Abu Dhabi. Usually, he just sits in the lounge, scrolling on his phone, waiting for the time to pass. But this time, he’s hunched over a small table, coffee and plates with sandwiches scattered about, watching as Anne shows him how to cast off his swatch. He observes as she knits the first stitch, and then the second, getting two stitches on the righthand needle. Brow furrowed, leaning forward slightly more, he watches intently as she inserts her left needle under the first stitch on the right needle and brings it up and over the stitch she just knit. Anne continues the process for a few more stitches and Ilya watches as the edge of his swatch tidies and grows. Ilya has the strange sensation of wanting to clap his hands together like a child. He did that!

“Okay here, you do the last half.”

Ilya takes the swatch from her and loosely holds the needles in his hands, trying to mirror the way that Anne held them. He knits another stitch, takes his left needle under the bottom stitch on his right needle, then brings that stitch up and over the second stitch and slides it off the needle. 

“Perfect! Good tension too. That edge is going to be neat, I can tell.” Ilya hums as a response and starts on the next stitch. To his side he hears Anne pick up her project. The light click click click of her needles making him smile privately to himself, chin on his chest as he focuses on his work.

A short while later Ilya just has one stitch left, the even edges of his cast off side making him feel proud. 

“—Sorry. What do I do now? There are no more stitches.” 

“Oh! You went right through that. Okay this is the easiest part. Basically, pull your right needle to the side so that the—yes that’s it—so that the stitch gets really big. Okay now—hang on.” Anne rummages in her bag and pulls out a small pair of scissors. “Don’t tell anyone. I don’t think I’m technically supposed to have these on the plane but I hide them in my toiletry bag and no one has caught me yet,” she says as she grasps the yarn tail still connected to the ball and cuts it about 6 inches from Ilya’s swatch. “Okay, perfect now just pull the needle out.”

Ilya slowly pulls it out, choosing to trust that his whole work isn’t going to become unraveled immediately. “Good,” Anne says, “Now just thread the end of that tail in through the last stitch and pull it tight. Yup. Just like that. Now look! You have your finished swatch!”

Ilya looks down at the knit square in his hands. Anne gently takes it from him, threads the tail onto a needle (a different needle with a hole in it, the type of needle Ilya thought were the only types of needles until knitting) and then deftly weaves the hanging tail through the stitches, making it disappear. 

“You can learn that later, but look! All done!” She exclaims as she hands the swatch back to him. Ilya runs his thumbs over the soft square in his hands, quietly marveling at the fact that he made this. A small part of him knows he’s being slightly ridiculous because this is basically useless as an object, but he made it! He made it with his own hands and doing that means that someday he could probably make a sweater just like Anne is making. The thought makes Ilya excited in a way that he hasn’t felt, maybe ever? This is something that would just be his. Something that he decided to pursue on his own and with no external value placed on it. Ilya would just be knitting to knit. There is a sense of ownership that makes him feel warm inside. 

Ilya twitches slightly as he remembers that Anne is next to him, tactfully, once again, letting him have his moment as she clicks clicks clicks away. Ilya is struck by the need to convey his gratitude to her.

“Anne. Thank you—for showing me this and for being...patient with me.”

Anne glances up at him, quickly masked surprise at the admission. “Oh, it was my pleasure Ilya,” the American syllabic pronunciation making him smile quietly, thinking about Shane, “you were easy to teach. Now do you want to learn to cast on? Might even have time to learn to purl.”

The next stretch of the layover is Anne showing Ilya how to measure out the length of yarn he would need to cast on a scarf and how to cast it on (under, over, through, off, under, over, through, off).The boarding announcement makes them both jump, having lost track of time, but they both pack their respective kits up, Ilya dutifully sliding his point protectors onto his needles. He realizes suddenly that he’ll have to get his own stuff in Boston…that what he’s cast on is, unfortunately, going to go back into Anne’s yarn bag. Ilya is unexpectedly okay with this. He has his swatch and is a fast learner. He can make it up again when he gets home.

He grabs Anne’s bag and holds the lounge door open for her and they head towards their gate. If he happens to check on the proximity of local yarn shops to his house after he texts Shane that he’s boarding, well that’s nobody’s business but his. 

Chapter End Notes

Obviously Anne lets him keep her needles and yarn. She's kind like that.

 

I have plans for this! There will be more chapters to this story and...if I maintain, possibly a series. So yeah, definitely more chapters and either my series "plan" will be more chapters. OR more chapters and a series! Regardless, there will be more.

Also yes, I knit. Did I have my knitting next to me as I described how I knit? No. So don't use this as instructions on how to knit. Also I will not be writing on Ilya having to learn how to knit with circular needles because the separated needles gave him carpal tunnel. Also I will not be writing on him learning Continental because English gave him carpal tunnel. I will also NOT be writing on him learning Norwegian purling to start and then having to switch to regular purling because Norwegian gave him carpal tunnel. How did I have the forethought to write him out of these situations? Readers will never know...All I can say Anne, in her infinite wisdom, decided to skip teaching him all of that and immediately set him up on Continental style, with circular needles.

There will be NO carpal tunnel in this story.
 

also i couldn't for the life of me come up with a title. there's a chance it changes but its already growing on me soooooo it'll probably stick!

Chapter 2: bring to the front, closer to the chest

Chapter Summary

“Oh Anne, something has–ah happened."

“Hmm? Oh moy dorogoy, looks like you lost track of your knitting and purling,” Ilya’s face falls. So what now? Will he have to start over? “But no worries you’ll just have to frog that bit and then restart it on the right track.”

Ilya blinks, positive that he’s misunderstood.

“What, sorry, what did you say I am to do? Frog it?” Ilya seriously feels like he misheard. Maybe he fell asleep and is having a fever dream.

Chapter Notes

The flight to Boston goes by just as fast as the previous hours. A man was nice enough to switch his first class seat with Ilya so that he could sit next to Anne (Ilya made sure to send him a round of drinks as a thank you). Anne and Ilya get settled, the plane takes off, and fairly quickly they both bend down to get their projects out of their bags. Ilya is excited. His project (fingers crossed that it materializes into a scarf) is cast on and the first row knit. He waits patiently as Anne gets her project out, setting up her various tools, making a little station for herself out of the backseat table.

She adjusts herself in her seat and turns towards Ilya. “Okay, so. Purling. It’s basically the other foundational stitch that you need. Once you know this, you can pretty much make anything.” Ilya’s leg starts to bounce. Anne smiles and lays her sweater portion flat on the table.
“So look at this, do you see how the rows lay flat? Now look at your swatch,” Anne motions towards the swatch on his table. Dutifully Ilya looks down and inspects it. “Do you see how the rows are sort of raised and squiggly?” Ilya nods. “That’s because you were only knitting. Also I should tell you, a knit stitch is also called a ‘garter stitch.’” Ilya nods his head and mouths the word. Garter. Garter garter garter.

“Look at mine, see how they lie flat, and like little v’s?” Leaning closer, Ilya does notice that her sweater portion has a different look than his swatch, the stitches making little uniform v’s all pointing downwards. “That’s because I’m alternating between knitting and purling my rows. So I’ll knit one row and then purl a row and then knit a row on and on and on. Now look here,” Anne motions towards the ribbing at the base of her sweater. “This is also from purling. Instead of alternating every row I’m knitting two stitches and purling one, over and over and over. See how it makes that rib?”

Despite feeling a little lost, Ilya nods along with everything she is saying, quietly grateful that he has a physical example in front of him.“Okay makes sense.”

Anne hums and then picks up her needles. “Okay so look here. Purling is basically the opposite of the knit stitch. Don’t overthink it though,” she says kindly as her needles start to click against each other.

Ilya watches as she brings her left pointer finger, the finger with the yarn wrapped around it, in front of her needles, closer to her chest. She pushes the working yarn down and out of the way with the middle finger of her left hand, inserts the right needle down and into the stitch on the left needle. Anne pauses to look up at Ilya’s face, his brows furrowed. He glances her way and then nods, a slight jerk of his head. She turns back down to her work. “Okay so now we have the beginning of the stitch. I’m going to take the yarn, the working yarn, and wrap it up and over the right needle,” Anne narrates as she slowly performs the actions, “Then I slide the right needle into the stitch, finish it, and let it slide off.” Ilya blinks as she slides it off the needle.

“Uh…”

“Don’t worry,” she laughs lightly, “It’s less confusing than it looks. Here, it’ll make more sense if you do it yourself. Go ahead and pick up your needles. You already have a row knit after the cast on? Good good, let’s get into it. Now first…”

Ilya clumsily goes through the motions of purling his first stitch, Anne narrating each step. He does one stitch. Then another. Then another. Every once in a while her hand will come out and gently tap his finger, bringing to his attention where he might be dropping a stitch or he didn’t wrap it around his needle correctly. She is gentle with her corrections and a word or two of praise always follows, almost absentmindedly, at his corrections. Ilya feels clumsy and young, his massive hands holding the thin needles, trying to learn a dexterity that he has never needed before. Anne’s casual warmth next to him, her slight perfume hanging in the air as she leans over to make sure that Ilya finished a stitch correctly makes Ilya feel really small despite his massive frame.

Ilya is unexpectedly struck by the fact that he cannot remember the last time he was around a maternal type, or any older woman for that matter. It is an energy that is distinctly missing from his life. Despite being famous, in fact maybe because of it, his world is so insulated. Everyone around him is young, hungry, skating and fighting and eating and drinking and fucking and carving out their individual space in the world, mania with an underlying organizational structure to get to the top. Anne is devoid of that energy. She feels still and whole next to Ilya, not casting about for the next thing that will get her one rung higher. Her space is made, has been made for decades. More than that, she has warmly invited Ilya into it. Ilya who cannot deny that he is soaking up the warmth and tranquility like a man presented with a jug of water after crawling through the desert. The back of Ilya’s neck prickles and he swallows audibly before taking a deep breath and refocusing on his stitches.

“Hey look at that! You did this row! Okay so knit this next row and so on and so forth!”

Ilya sends a hesitant smile her way and quietly turns back to his work. ClickClick click clickclick, the sound now a doubled staccato. Him and Anne knit silently for a while, and Ilya lets his mind wander, his thoughts floating along wherever they decide to go. This is–honestly? It’s nice. He feels like he’s thinking but not really thinking? Just drifting along in his head. Ilya is not quite used to this sensation. He usually has something demanding his attention in front of him; hockey, his phone, a woman, a coach, his family, Shane. Ilya’s thoughts catch on Shane. Shane Shane Shane Shane. It’s not that Shane is demanding, well most of the time. Ilya smiles to himself thinking about the moments when Shane is demanding. When he gets a little bratty, pushing Ilya towards the bed, finally done with the blonde’s teasing, yeah Ilya is fine with that, he loves to fulfill those demands. So no, Shane isn’t demanding in a way that Ilya begrudges.

Outside of their more heated moments, the few scant moments when Shane first walks in the door or when they linger after, the sheets tangled around their legs, Shane is incredibly undemanding. He has the uncanny ability to let Ilya set the pace, set the tone, while not making it feel like it’s Ilya’s responsibility, that whatever Ilya will give him will be enough, and lately…well lately Ilya doesn’t feel like he’s giving enough. The few hours they get in between weeks of not seeing each other, he can’t deny that it is weighing on him. Ilya knows that Shane deserves more than stolen moments, and maybe it’s his mind wandering around his newfound hobby, or Shane’s unwaveringness in being in Ilya’s orbit, or even Anne’s quiet acceptance of him, or even just coming off one of the worst summers of his life, but Ilya is starting to feel like he deserves more than a few scattered hours between the weeks as well. Regardless, as it stands, it would be a few weeks before Shane and him saw each other, but Ilya already feels more settled hurtling towards the same continent as Shane, the same time zone. The structure of their relationship is clearer when Ilya is in the States than when he is in Russia and, simply put, Ilya misses him. A new season means no more Russia means more hockey means more games means more Shane. Ilya’s mouth quirks upwards, his needles continuing to click against each other as his thoughts continue to wander.

Ilya glances down at his scarf and pauses. It has grown but it looks…not right. What happened? It's like the first half he’s knit is flat and perfect and then somewhere right in the middle of his portion the whole scarf is raised.

“Oh Anne, something has—ah happened.”

“Hmm? Oh moy dorogoy, looks like you lost track of your knitting and purling,” Ilya’s face falls. So what now? Will he have to start over? “But no worries you’ll just have to frog that bit and then restart it on the right track.”

Ilya blinks, positive that he’s misunderstood.

“What, sorry, what did you say I am to do? Frog it?” Ilya seriously feels like he misheard. Maybe he fell asleep and is having a fever dream.

“Hmm?—oh!” Anne starts laughing when she sees Ilya’s befuddled expression. “Sorry, yes—no the term is weird, but you heard right. Frogging. If you have to undo a number of rows, or your whole project, knitters refer to it as ‘frogging.’ Because you ‘rip it rip it.’” Anne says the last bit throatally. Her eyes are bright, looking up at him from her seat, a portion of his scarf in her hands. Ilya feels the verbal wordplay slowly dawn on him, the glee opening up before him. He giggles, and giggles some more, a snort unexpectedly coming out from behind his large hand. This reaction only makes more laughs bubble out of Ilya. Anne’s face breaks into a grin as she starts to laugh as well.

“No, frogging! I get it! Is very clever! I love English,” Ilya chuckles. “Okay okay, how do I frog this then?”

Shoulders still shaking with a suppressed laugh, Anne takes the needles from him and promptly pulls the stitches off the needles.

“Ah—No!,” Ilya exclaims, his hand reaching out in an aborted motion to save his work as the stitches fall off the needle.

“No no, don’t worry, don’t worry! Trust me.” Anne places a placating hand on his forearm, patting lightly before going back to his, now off the needles, scarf. “Watch.”

Ilya watches as she holds the project flat with one hand and then pulls the yarn tail with the other. He watches as row after row comes undone, until the scarf is back to where it was before the raised ridge began. She does one more row for good measure after that.

“Okay now watch carefully.” He leans over the armrest to peer over her shoulder at what she’s doing. Belatedly, he notices that she smells like coffee with an undercurrent of cinnamon. It’s warm. Ilya watches attentively as Anne takes the left needle and carefully rethreads it through all the raised loops.

“Tada!” She holds his work up with a flourish. Shorter than it was a few moments ago, but back to having flat even rows. “You just had a slight misstep that you didn’t notice. You knit two rows in a row instead of alternating. I frogged you back to a purl row, so you should knit next. But for the sake of an example, purl the next few stitches.”

Ilya takes his work back from her and dutifully purls the next five or so stitches.

“Okay so look at it now, look closely at the stitches you just wove into your scarf. Do you see how those five stitches are raised and don’t really fit with the others?”

Ilya nods.

“Well, there you go. That’s because you are purling two rows. If you can catch it there, before you do a bunch of rows, you just have to take a few stitches out, not frog a bunch of rows. Do you know what knitters call it when you just undo a few stitches?”

Ilya shakes his head, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“You ‘tink’ the stitches. Because you work back the knit. So it’s just knit spelled backwards.”

Ilya and Anne look at each other for a moment in silence before Ilya laughs.

“Ah this is good too! Not as good as ‘rip it rip it’ frogging, but yes, ‘tinking’ I like that.”

Anne shows Ilya how to tink the stitches and he’s quickly back to growing his scarf.

The flight passes decently fast. Ilya and Anne don’t knit the whole time. At some point service comes around and they put their projects away to eat. Afterwards, Anne pulls out a tattered paperback and Ilya browses the movie selection.

As the credits roll on Thief, Ilya looks over and sees Anne sleeping, her head resting on her shawl bunched into the corner of the window. He turns off her overhead light and starts Zoolander. He’s asleep before the model trashes the school for ants.

Ilya wakes with a start to the plane beginning its descent into Boston. Their flight is coming to an end. Suddenly finds himself a little melancholic at the thought of leaving Anne and not seeing her again. Ilya had had really, truly, an incredibly nice time with her these last 12 hours. It would not be so weird if they exchanged numbers, no? Ilya shakes his head, no. She was only being nice—she wouldn’t want Ilya texting her, what would he even text her about? Questions about which material is best for people that are particular about how clothes feel on their body his mind traitorously supplies. No. It’s fine. Ilya will give her back her needles and yarn (another small pang at the thought of frogging his scarf and having to start over) and will just buy his own materials soon. He could start a new scarf tonight and there was always YouTube for any questions. Ilya doesn’t need to be in contact with her. But, if he was being honest with himself, he wants access to that line of communication. Even if he never messages her, having her name on his phone—someone who was just…Ilya’s. Obviously she has a family and people she cares about, but the only other time Ilya can remember having such a spontaneous connection with someone was Shane. And if Ilya was being even more honest with himself…he wants a friend, or at least another one. Ilya knows he has Svetlana and his teammates and that is all well and good. He loves them, really, he does, but they come with attachments of history and his persona. It would be nice to have someone that isn’t wrapped up in any part of Ilya’s life. Someone that is completely neutral. The 60's-something woman on the flight who spent the time with him and taught him how to knit feels like an uncomplicated bet, a good bet.

Ilya kinda feels like he experienced a revelation on this flight. He feels lighter than he has in months, and not just including summer, the weeks leading up to leaving for Russia had also weighed heavy on Ilya. Taking a deep breath, steeling himself, Ilya turns towards towards Anne—

“Coul—”

“Do you want to exchange phone numbers?” Anne blurted out. “I understand if not, and truly my feelings won’t be hurt, but if you have any other questions about knitting or anything really, I wouldn’t mind you asking.”

Ilya sagged, exhaling in relief. “Was just going to ask you the same. Yes—here is my phone.”

They exchange phones, Ilya putting his name in simply as “ilya.” When he gets his phone back he sees that Anne has put her name in as “Anne - Boston Flight,” like Ilya might forget who she was and how they met.

“Also don’t worry about the yarn or needles, you can keep them,” Anne states as she zips up her project bag and stows it beneath the seat in front of her. “And yes, really. I have so many needles and balls of yarn. Truly you’d be doing me a favor. I’m actually surprised they let me fly with all of these,” she said, gesturing down at her stuffed project bag, the zipper pulled tight against the seams.

“Ah—thank you Anne. I am very excited to finish.” They smile at each other and Ilya puts everything into his duffel and under his seat. They continue to descend into Boston.

“Wait do you have ride home?” Ilya pauses outside of the terminal, Anne’s checked bag that he insisted on pulling coming smoothly to his side.

“Yes, my friend is picking me up—Actually, I think that’s her coming down right now.”

Ilya has about half a second to turn around before a neon blue Kia Soul is plowing into the pickup area, wheels locking as the car skids to a stop at the curb in front of them. Anne waves excitedly from his side, shifting happily, as a brightly colored streak zooms into her, embracing Anne tightly.

“Annie!! Yay yay yay!!! I missed you! I missed you SO much! I am so glad you’re back!”

Ilya shuffles his feet, feeling awkward and long-limbed. He’s unsure of what to do in the face of such unreserved energy and because this woman seems like the exact opposite of the Anne he thought he had come to know on the flight. Ilya deflates slightly realizing that regardless of what Anne and him shared on their flight—she is still essentially a stranger.

Pulling out of the embrace, the former streak, an older woman, maybe a few years younger than Anne, is dressed in a variety of colors; a green plaid jacket over a vibrantly purple shirt, black and white checked pants, and a long knit multi-color scarf wrapped haphazardly a few times around her neck and shoulders. Unbidden, the term firecracker passes through Ilya’s mind. This new woman seems like a firecracker, and not just metaphorically, there are so many colors happening in front of Ilya’s face that he feels like he should be shielding his eyes.

Finally, she seems to notice Ilya standing awkwardly next to Anne’s suitcases and turns towards him, her gaze slowly traveling from eye level at his chest up to his face. Ilya watches the shock of platinum blonde hair swivel back as she cranes her neck up towards his face. As she looks up the sunlight glints off, and Ilya’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, multiple nose piercings. Ilya looks down into her blue eyes, enlarged by orange oversized glasses. Upon meeting her gaze, the woman’s mouth curves into a sharp smile, her blue eyes flashing mischievously. Feeling offkilter Ilya swallows and tries to arrange his features into something that looks welcoming.

“Ohhhh-ho-ho! Hello there. And who is this?,” Poppy spins gleefully towards Anne. “Annie, do you know who this i—” Not so subtly, Anne stomps on the other woman’s foot, interrupting her.

“Poppy, this is Ilya. We met on the flight out of Moscow.” Anne gestures to Ilya, “and Ilya this is my best friend Poppy.”

“Is nice to meet you.” Ilya puts his hand out. Poppy, shaking out the foot Anne stomped, hesitates just long enough for Ilya to start to feel foolish before she grasps his hand, her other coming over his. “Pleasure to meet you Ilya,” putting significant emphasis on his name. She smiles up at him, her eyes dancing but her smile sly but welcoming, bringing Ilya in, like her and Ilya are already in cahoots. Now Ilya understands her and Anne’s friendship. Beneath the mischief, Ilya sees the exact same warmth and friendliness in her eyes as he did in Anne’s when he first woke up to find food on his seatback table.

Holding his gaze for a second longer, Poppy drops his hand and spins on her heels. “Let’s get you loaded up, Annie.”

Anne hands her carry-on to Poppy who goes to load it in the front seat, moving the chair back so that Anne will have space to sit. Ilya walks with Anne to the back of the car to load her suitcases.

“So you—ah, you know who I am?”

Anne casts her gaze upwards and then to the side, smiling crookedly. “Yes. I live thirty minutes outside of Boston, have strong ties to Moscow, and ignoring all of that, my husband was obsessed with hockey. His brothers still are. So yes, I was aware that you were the Ilya Rozanov when I sat down next to you on the flight from Moscow.”

Ilya is silent as he lifts her suitcase into the trunk of the car. He turns around towards Anne after shutting the lid, steeling himself for what he might find on Anne’s face now that he doesn’t have anonymity to hide behind.

Anne slides her eyes over towards him, smiling, “And even if none of that was true you're wearing a Boston Raiders hoodie and your duffel bag says Rozanov #81 in bright yellow letters.”

“Ah. Yes,” Ilya responds, torn between embarrassment and relief that nothing seems to have changed between him and Anne. “Well…I get concussions for a living, you must excuse me.”

Anne and Ilya are laughing when Poppy comes around to their side of the car.

“Is that everything?” she asks, smiling at them both.

“Yes, just about,” comes Anne’s reply. She turns towards Ilya, holding her arms out. He swoops down to engulf her, squeezing tightly, his curls pressed up against her face. “Thank you…for everything,” he says.

Anne squeezes him a little tighter. “I will be legitimately disappointed if I don’t get updates on the scarf from you. I’m serious. I will be expecting texts.”

“Yes, yes. I will text you. I promise. You will see raggedy scarf with many holes.”

Anne is grinning as she pulls away. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again. I just know it.”

Ilya opens the passenger door for Anne and she gets into the car, noting with no small amount of relief that she buckled her seatbelt (Poppy’s driving was…exhurberant) as Poppy turns the car on. She rolls the window down, “Dancing Queen” blasting from the speakers. Ilya sees Anne turn it down slightly, smiling. “Bye Ilya!,” Poppy yells, leaning over from the driver’s side, “Preseason next week! We’ll be watching!” Anne rolls her eyes towards Poppy, but grins at Ilya from the passenger seat. Ilya laughs as he watches Anne get pressed into her seat with the speed that Poppy takes off from the curb, “Dancing Queen” trailing behind them.

He’s still chuckling to himself as he lights a cigarette, pulls his phone out, and finds Anne’s new contact. He deletes the “Boston Flight” portion of it, instead adding the yarn ball emoji. Pocketing his phone, he shakes his head, exhales a plume of smoke to the sky, shifting his duffel higher onto his shoulder as he heads towards long term parking.

Chapter End Notes

I hope you enjoyed! I think that's it for this specific work, but I have plans to make this a series! So there should definitely be more :)

Also, if something looks wonky...let me know. I was fine until I decided that I absolutely HAD to have a tweet and then the HTML...went berserk. Anyway, thanks for following along! Ya'll's comments have made me so happy :')