sooo my debut into this space is a bunch of vignettes #perusual. i hope you guys enjoy this because i enjoy them.

this is set in the winter after ep6. it does not follow any kind of canon so do not expect that here!

@sidneycrosby do not sue me!!!!!!!!!

“Do you want to go visit the Sports Hall of Fame?” Shane had asked. “It’s not very impressive, but they have a little display about me. It could be kind of funny to check it out.”

They go, but it isn’t funny. There are piles of people all looking at artifacts of Shane’s childhood. Ilya doesn’t know anything about being a saint, but they canonized Shane preemptively.

Shane keeps his head down, although it doesn’t help much. Most attendees are polite, and the rest of them have children who want T-shirts signed. Ilya keeps his distance and only receives off-handed Welcome to Canada comments. He isn’t forgiven for Boston yet.

He paces the tiled hallway, stops in front of a baby bottle encased in a display box. A scratched Metro’s logo is worn in on its hardened clear plastic. Loving hockey from the start says the caption, printed neatly on a plaque. His stomach rolls over. The nib of the bottle is chewed up. The nib of Shane’s bottle. For one moment, anger flashes at Yuna and David for giving any of this over to strangers. Shane probably doesn’t think it’s a big deal. He probably thinks it’s nice for the community — probably is mostly, humbly, embarrassed.

In the stale hallway of the Sports Hall of Fame, he understands the cottage more. He has to wander down unpaved paths for privacy.

Ilya looks over at the growing crowd around Shane. There are things to learn, he decides. There are things to learn that cannot be kept behind glass in this wretched museum.

—

“I get Tim Hortons,” Ilya calls out, kicking the front door closed with his foot. He shakes the snow off of his boots, which Shane would’ve liked him to do on the porch, but then he sets the drink carrier and crinkled take-out bag on the sleek, walnut credenza. Fumbling with his laces, he yanks his boots off, one by one, and calls out again: “Shane?”

“Back here!” His voice worms through the cottage. Ilya pads through the hallways, his socks only a little damp, and finds Shane leaned over their clunky desktop computer in their home office. “What’d you get?”

Ilya shrugs. “I don’t know. Lady says, ‘These popular, get these,’ so I get.”

Shane pauses the video — Ilya spots his own 81 in Centaurs crimson and black — and peers up at him. “Open the bag.”

Ilya does, tilting it towards him. There’s powdered, iced, glazed donuts inside, all inside their own thin parchment. Shane pulls the bag open wider and furrows his brow. His fingers poke around inside and he examines each pastry. Then, he pulls his hand out and wipes remnant icing sugar on his pants. “It’s not in my diet. I’m good.”

“It’s a by week. You can have Tim Hortons,” Ilya says and shakes the bag a little. “Is like, almost Christmas.”

But Shane waves him away and restarts the tape. Ilya slurps his Caramel Iced Capp, presses a kiss into his hair, runs a hand down his back, and leaves him be.

Their dinner that night is fresh halibut and bok choy in a warm miso glaze. They sit at the dinner table, but Shane pulls his chair close to Ilya’s and shoves himself into his side. He picks up his bowl and eats slowly, taking time occasionally to lean further into Ilya’s shoulder before getting too uncomfortable, or too hungry.

“What you want to do tonight, hm?” Ilya asks in between bites.

“I don’t care too much,” Shane says. His voice sags with sleep. “Movie?”

“Hm. I don’t know. Only if it's Fast and Furious.” Ilya doesn’t care about what movie they watch.

Shane turns and bites Ilya’s shoulder through his sweater. Ilya yelps. He grins back, victorious in a nonexistent battle, and says, “Sure.”

“You motherfuck– that hurt.”

“Did not,” Shane informs him before settling in again and finishing his meal.

Snowflakes are still falling steadily, but it's supposed to lighten up after tonight. He hopes at least — Ilya hadn’t planned to be cooped up for days. But the food is rich and nourishing, and his boyfriend is close and sweet, so he forgives the weather slurps down the ends of his broth.

“I get the dishes,” Ilya tells him as the meal dwindles.

“I can do it,” Shane tells him.

But Ilya takes his bowl and shakes him off. “You go put sexy PJ on. Look nice for nice car movie.”

Shane obliges, looking warm and content under the lamplight. As Ilya loads the dishwasher, he spies the half-full Tim Hortons bag tucked in the corner of their countertop. He takes his phone out and texts Yuna carefully. He slides the final bowl into its place and hopes his English translates well.

“You ready?” Shane, as promised, is in blue and white pinstriped pajamas pants and one of Ilya’s ratty Juniors sweatshirts, cyrillic painted across his chest.

“Yes,” he replies. “And you look very nice.”

“Really?” Shane asks, low.

“Really,” he answers, honest.

–

The snowfall gave up its fight overnight, so by the time Ilya wakes up, Shane is pulling on his running shoes. “Good morning, baby.”

Ilya groans. “Back to bed.”

“Nope.” Shane grins. “You have plans today?”

“Gym, errands,” Ilya says through the pillow. “Meeting.”

“Wasn’t on the Google Calendar,” Shane says, pulling on his fleece headband.

“I forget these things. You know.”

Shane leans over, kissing him tenderly on the crown of his head. “I know. See you later, Rozanov.”

Ilya waits until their front door slams before he drags himself out of bed. He takes his time, picking a nice pair of dark jeans and his good Nikes. Light cologne. Combs his hands through his curls like Sveta taught him. He texts Yuna again before pulling on his puffer jacket, taking the keys to the Range, and locking the door behind him.

The Hollanders still live in their family home. It’s a humble, cookie-cutter sight with a one-car garage and a Canadian flag hanging outside the front door. Looking at it, Ilya aches. He bets they’ve never asked for more. No pushing, pushing, pushing.

The screened door opens, Yuna pops her head out. Her greying hair is in twin braids, and she looks to be in a cream knit. She beckons him in.

“I have to say, I was surprised last night, Ilya,” she says, taking his coat. “Can I get you tea?”

“Sorry to text late. And yes, if you do not mind. Is cold now, yes?”

“Very. Peppermint okay?”

He nods and settles into the couch. Their living room is a shrine to Shane: baby pictures, peewee trophies, shots of his Juniors team. The frames don’t match and some are hung unevenly. Ilya bites back a question about a baby bottle behind glass.

Yuna comes back with a steaming ceramic mug. “I don’t really get why you’re over here for Shane’s Tims Horton’s order.”

Ilya shrugs. “I brought it home. Lots of it. He didn’t eat any.”

“You know his diet,” she replies easily, settling into the worn armchair.

“Yes,” he agrees. “But he looked through the donuts. So I am wondering.”

“Oh,” she laughs and sips her tea. “He likes Old Fashioneds. Unglazed. Nobody else does though, it’s kind of a joke that they have to throw them out en masse.”

“Because they are plain?”

She shrugs. “I don’t think so. He always liked them since he was a baby and they’d have stale boxes out at peewee practice.”

“What was he like? As baby?”

“He was so smiley. He acted like everything was just brand new. I guess it was, for him. But he’s always been Shane. A particular, sweet kid.”

“Was it hard?”

“Well, there was the bullying,” she says, matter-of-fact. “It wasn’t easy, you know, being his mother. It is the greatest joy of my life. But back then when he was so small and so kind and so serious,” she sighs. “And the world was so mean. He didn’t understand and I couldn’t do anything about it. All I could do was tell him, ‘show them how good you are. Show them what you can do.’ I don’t know if it helped or made it worse. Eventually, well, you know the rest, I guess. But the kids were cruel. The parents were cruel.” She laughs humorlessly. “They couldn’t take it having this kid two years younger beat their loser kid’s ass.”

“He’s best player,” Ilya affirms, heart aching in his chest. “Best person.”

Yuna looks him up and down. Suddenly, Ilya tastes summer on his tongue again and the uncertainty of meeting Shane’s parents for the first time.

“He is,” she says carefully. “The best of us.”

They discuss Ottawa's rebuilding strategy and the Leafs’ scoring slump before Ilya thanks her for the tea. He then drives back to Tim Horton’s. He brings Shane — who’s freshly showered and smelling of santal and velvetier — an unglazed Old Fashioned.

“How’d you guess?” He asks, grinning with his mouth full.

“I am smartest boyfriend. Just know these things.”

—

“Ya roboto,” Shane repeats. Ilya keeps his eyes trained carefully on his phone. “Tui robotayesh.”

“Your accent is bad,” Ilya finally yells out from his perch on the couch.

“Shut up,” Shane yells back. “I didn’t say shit about your accent.”

“Because is sexy. Not like your bad Russian.”

“Whatever,” he grumbles, then goes back to repeating whatever the computer tells him to.

Ilya remembers finding the bright yellow box two months ago. What’s this? He asked, shaking it teasingly. It’s nothing, Shane replied, snatching it back, hiding it away with more shame than he did a sex toy. Ilya raised his eyebrows. It’s Rosetta Stone, he conceded. It’s supposed to be good.

So you will learn Russian for me?

Shane looked at him like he’d grown two heads. Yeah, of course. I know you’ll miss Russia. So, I’ll just… you know.

He crawls up off the couch and slinks into the office. “Malysh,” he calls.

Shane ignores him.

“Malysh,” he says again, drawing out the end of the word. He leans down and kisses Shane’s hair. Then the top of his ear, then leans further into his neck. Breathes him in, feels the hitching of Shane’s breath in return. “Your bad Russian is very,” kiss “very sexy.”

Shane shoves him off in an instant. “Fuck off.”

Ilya laughs his way back to the couch, settling back in to listen to Shane butcher the genitive case for another hour.

—

Ilya makes borscht and Shane scrunches his nose up at the texture.

“Add more sour cream,” he orders.

He does. “This is better. But sour cream is heavy.”

“Hush, eat.”

So he does, and Ilya makes a note, Extra sour cream.

—

Shane asks, three days out from the holiday: “Are we doing Christmas presents?”

Ilya shrugs. “We do not do Christmas like that. We do New Year’s – that is the big holiday. But I’m guessing… I’m guessing your family does?”

“Yeah, but um.” Shane moves his butternut squash soup around in nervousness. “Do you want to make a new tradition? Or we can split. Or maybe I can just do Christmas with my family, if you don’t want to come, and we can do New Year’s together.”

“Hollander, bozhe moy, is okay. We can do both.” He pauses. “But maybe… I can see some of the Russians in the league for New Year’s. Sometimes it is nice to be around them.”

“Of course. Do you want to… we could have a Foundation event? It’s a little late, but we could throw something together —”

“Shane,” he laughs. “They will think it's funny. No need for excuse, just invite Canadian boy to be around, who? Is like… Ilyusha and Sergei. Nobody, really.” He scrapes his spoon against the bowl.

“Don’t do that,” Shane says pointedly.

“The spoon?”

“That,” he agrees. “And the other thing. I want to meet them, your friends.”

“You know them.”

“You know what I mean,” Shane says. “Your people are as important as mine, Ilya.”

Their socked feet touch under the table. Ilya is very much in love.

—

I want to keep you, Ilya says in Russian as he fucks slowly into Shane. Shane hooks his leg around Ilya, pulling him closer and closer.

In the afterglow, he kisses Shane’s chest and repeats, I want to keep you. I hope I never give you reason to stray. If mama was here, she would tell me how to keep you. But she isn’t, so I pray. I pray and pray.

“My Russian isn’t there yet,” Shane mumbles into Ilya’s curls.

“Then I still get some secrets,” Ilya whispers back.

—

Slowly, the list in Ilya’s phone grows and grows.

Shane’s eyes light up as Ilya automatically turns the car volume to 14. “You remembered that?”

I keep a list of things about you, he wants to say. I watch you and remember you.

Instead, he says, “You do not like loud music. Very boring.”

—

Their holidays pass.

On New Year’s Eve, before they head to Sergei’s ridiculous party, Shane brings him a small black box.

“It’s not that,” he assures, a little like he’s convincing himself as well.

Ilya nods, and opens it carefully. A gold coin sits on a silk padding.

“It’s, um. Okay. It’s a Canadian dollar, obviously, but it was minted in 1981. Like your number? I had it plated, to match your cross,” he explains. “Well, hopefully it’ll match your cross, if you want to wear it. We can get a different chain.”

Ilya just looks at the coin, then back to Shane.

“I want it to sit right, to feel right,” he continues, firm. “I want you to know that this is a promise to you. And you don’t have to wear it —”

“I wear it,” Ilya says. The words are catching in his chest, his fingertips trace the etchings in the coin. “You…” His number, his new home. His Shane, taking this little piece of metal to a jeweler. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Shane answers. “I love you too.”

—

“Did you always want to play hockey?” Ilya asks in the dark. They lay, limbs entangled, puzzle pieces.

“No,” Shane admits after a moment. “For a year or so, I wanted to be a hairstylist. What about you?”

“No,” Ilya agrees. “I think for a long time, I just wanted to be a kid.”

—

“Do you have that email from Farah?” Shane calls from the kitchen. “I can’t find it in my inbox.”

“Don’t know, probably, yes,” Ilya calls back, zipping his pants back up and catching his breath. Shane had just sucked the life out of him and then popped right back up. Called it stress relief. Ilya starts thinking of dead animals so he doesn’t need to go another round. “Check phone, is on counter.”

He wanders into the kitchen. Shane frowning at the screen. “What?”

“Ilya, what is this?”

He scrunches his face up. “What?” Shane turns the phone. It’s his list, his Shane list, written out in painstaking detail. “Ah, fuck.”

“You… what is this?”

“I just… I keep track.”

“‘Golden Edge Granola. Only one he eat,’” Shane reads out. “‘Like borscht with sour cream. Find low fat option. Maybe put socks in dryer. Likes warm socks. Never not sext on game day. Is ritual now. Only crunchy peanut butter.’ Ilya.” Shane looks up at him, teary-eyed. “Ilya.”

“I just.” Ilya walks over and searches Shane’s face for an answer. “I didn’t mean… it’s…”

Shane locks his phone and sets it on the countertop. He looks so beautiful, cheeks still flushed, so Ilya summons all of the bravery in his body.

“I get so scared that one day I will be like papa,” he starts. Shane opens his mouth, but Ilya continues, “I know, I know, I do not think it works this way. But maybe one day, we will get old, and I will still have lists and lists about Hollander’s favorite chocolate candies and how he does not like broccolini all that much.” He shrugs. “I want to know you. I have spent too much time not knowing you.”

“You do know me,” Shane counters.

“More,” he argues back. “More and more, I want everything. I saw, stupid fucking baby bottle, shouldn’t even be there, and wanted to know all these things not in your interviews.”

“You don’t… you know me most in the world.” He says it like it hurts.

“And I am saying, listen. I am saying I want more. I am greedy. I want to know this all, all little superstitions and how you only like dressing on the side. And I will keep it for myself, on the list. Not ever in museum.”

It dawns on Shane. “The Sports Hall of Fame?”

“Yes, the fucking, oh my God, Hollander.”

Shane starts laughing, tears pushing down his face for another reason altogether now. “I don’t even — I don’t even remember that Metros bottle. It’s like, I never even think about that.”

“I know,” Ilya says, defensive. “But I do.”

Shane sobers. “You do.” It’s soft.

“I do,” he repeats. “I think of you always.” Then, he thinks of the Rosetta Stone, the coin pressed against his neck, and Sergei’s party. He pulls Shane close. “You think of me too.”

Shane buries his face into Ilya’s neck. “Of course.”

Ilya’s hands grip him tight.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane whispers into his skin.

“Is the only thing you can say right,” Ilya lies. One day, inevitably, Shane’s Russian will be functional. One day, Ilya will make pelmeni for him like his mama did. And one day, Ilya will ask him to marry him, to be kept forever.

For now, he holds him close and kisses the crown of his head, gentle.

hi everyone thank you for reading i hope you guys liked my meditation on being known and learned. i will probably be back with some other language related thing soon.

yes i did steal sidney crosby baby bottle from him. it made me unimaginable sad to think about his little baby bottle in there. anyone in my life can tell you i have been relentlessly sending the picture of the habs bottle in the museum. ok bye

PLEASEEE comment i love to engage in a community discussion board. ok love yall keep it classy