Work Text:
It starts, like any good small talk does, about the weather.
Jane. I am dying.
Shane is still in bed, spending his last hour before practice clicking endlessly through YouTube, when he gets the notification. With no one there to see, he lets the smile settle comfortably as it spreads, and switches apps. He’s about to shoot down Ilya’s latest attempt at desperate seduction when another text arrives.
I will play next game with no feet because cold took them.
This... was new. Usually texts between them were insults or pure filth (on Ilya’s part). Not... whatever this is.
I thought Russians were supposed to be good with the cold?
This country stupid. Walls like paper.
Cold so bad your sentences are devolving.
English can fucking die in hole.
‘Like you want to in mine?’ Shane starts typing, before his eyes go wide and his thumb spams the backspace. Jesus Christ. Ilya texts normally for four messages, and he almost loses his entire mind.
How cold even is it in Boston?
-10
[Screenshot of Weather app, displaying ‘-18’]
Weak.
Fuck you.
Shane brings his thumbnail to his mouth, laughing around it. Is this how Ilya feels all the time, when it’s the other way around? He can’t help himself.
Imagine if Russia knew the truth. Rozanov, brought down to his knees by a mild winter day.
The phone rings, the loudest sound Shane has heard since he woke up, and he nearly drops it on his own face. In his panic, his finger brushes against the screen and accepts the call.
Before he can say anything, Ilya is letting out a stream of Russian, angry and hating, what Shane is sure amounts to something like, “Fuck you, your mother, your continent, your language, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.” Or at least, that’s what he imagines.
Ilya hangs up ten seconds later, when Shane still hasn’t spoken a single word.
Jesus Christ. I feel like you just cast a curse on me.
Da. You lose next game.
We play New York next. You really want Scott Hunter to win?
Oh fuck.
Ilya calls again, and Shane answers mid-laugh.
“Sorry for curse. I take it back now.”
Shane’s laugh cuts off immediately. Ilya’s voice is deep and rumbling; he hadn’t fully noticed it when Ilya was speaking Russian, but now that it’s English, he can feel the warm tone of it wash over his chest like hot water.
“Oh, really?” Shane says, a little choked. He expects Ilya to just hang up again, but the call stays connected, and he can hear steady breaths on the other end. The thought hits him that he’s never heard Ilya in the morning, so soon after waking.
Ilya hums, and fuck, that goes straight to Shane’s dick. He glances sidelong at his clock, briefly considers making the call more interesting, but ultimately shoots the idea down. Besides, he’s not going to be the one to bring something like that up; Ilya would keep using that ammunition for months.
“You can not lose to old man like Scott Hunter. Would be embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing like a Russian complaining of the cold while still inside, in a warm bed?”
“You are devil.” Then, lighter, “How did you know I was in bed?”
Shane’s eyes dart across the ceiling, wondering how to get himself out of this one. “Because I am?”
He waits for Ilya to take the easy bait. Instead, Ilya just sighs and makes a sound that immediately brings to mind a small animal burrowing into a cozy den. “Are you warm?”
Shane blinks. “I mean, yeah.”
“How many blankets you sleep with?”
“Uh, three? One’s a duvet.”
“Sounds nice. I have only two.”
And it’s such a simple conversation, that Shane can’t help but find it extremely complicated. “Um.”
“You have practice today?”
Shane grasps for the topic change; finally something he knows how to talk about. “Yeah. I actually should start getting ready to leave soon.”
“Hm. Me too. But it is too cold outside of bed. Don’t want to.”
“Should we stand on three?”
Nothing but silence from the other end. Shane cringes, hiding his eyes behind his hand.
“Yes,” Ilya says, like a sigh that catches in Shane’s own throat. “Three is good.”
Pushing himself to an upward sitting position, Shane counts them off like the beginning of a race. But there’s no competition to this, is there?
On three, Shane’s feet hit the cold hardwood floor and he sucks a breath in through his teeth.
“Is cold?” Ilya asks.
“I need to get a rug.”
Ilya laughs, Shane laughing at himself with him.
“Fuck off, it’s colder in Montreal. And you were the one complaining first.”
“Good luck in game, Hollander. You must beat my curse, yes?”
“I thought you took that back.”
“Mm, can not take back all the way,” Ilya teases. “Does not work like this.”
“Oh, great. Thanks for that.”
“Sorry,” Ilya says in that mocking way of his, and Shane’s smile reaches the edge of his phone.
“Bye, Rozanov.”
“Bye, Hollander. Stay warm.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
After Shane finishes breakfast, there’s a text from Lily waiting for him.
[Link to a website displaying various luxury rugs, some going for over $10,000]
I like these. Maybe you like, too?
Expensive taste, Lily.
I only like the best.
***
After that, it’s like the floodgates open.
Jane... The coffee person messed up my order (((
There is parade outside today. So much green. Why does everyone keep pinching me?
Marly snores like Zamboni. I will go crazy and stuff his mouth with toilet paper while he sleeps.
Shane almost misses the filth. Almost.
***
Of course, the dirty texts still happen. But they’re interspersed with mundane details of Ilya’s dinners, the stupid drivers he encounters on the Boston roads, and interesting things he sees around the city.
There’s a picture of a calico cat rubbing against Ilya’s clothed legs when Shane gets out of his workout.
Whose cat is that?
Mine, if I steal her.
Will you?
No. She would get sad and lonely when I am on road. ((
She belongs to Russian bookstore in Boston I like.
Shane leans his forehead against the gym locker door, eyes crinkling.
You like to read?
Yes. But only in Russian.
Don’t blame you. French books make my brain feel like it's seeping out of my skull.
So descriptive. Maybe you should write book.
It would have to be in English, though. So you wouldn’t read.
I can make exception.
Shane feels the blood rise in his face, ears warm. He glances around the locker room to be sure he’s alone, then shakes his head at himself. Why was he acting like there was anything remotely risky about these texts?
Do you like cats?
Yes. They are sweet, but have their own minds. Like you.
Ah, so not a dog person.
I like dogs! They are both good in own ways.
Is there anything you don’t like? Besides reading in English.
Mice. Too small and fast, find good hiding spots. Is why cats are good, yes?
[Another picture of Ilya and the calico cat, this time with Ilya sat fully on the floor, surrounded by high bookshelves, with the cat sitting in the lap of his folded legs and stretching its face up to sniff at Ilya’s chin. His smile is so wide his eyes fall almost completely shut.]
Oh. Shane twists his head, pressing his temple to the cold metal of the locker in an attempt to cool his skin, and focuses on his breathing.
Cute.
He lets Ilya assume he means the cat.
***
Jane
Jane
Jane Jane Jane Jane Jane Jane Jane Jane
Jesus Christ, what?
Hi )
Hi.
I am bored.
Okay?
Entertain me.
What am I, a jester?
A minute passes, where Shane assumes Ilya is googling the unfamiliar English word.
Yes. You would look good in this hat, no?
[Picture of a particolored floppy jester hat, complete with golden bells at the ends]
You would ring every time you moved.
It immediately comes to Shane’s mind, Ilya fucking him from behind with a hand pressing between his shoulder blades, Shane sounding like a fucking sleigh every time Ilya drives into him, jingling all the way.
Like a cow )
Oh. Shane glances up at the mirror in front of him, toothbrush stalled against his teeth.
Sweet, yes?
Toothpaste foam drips from the corner of Shane’s mouth and plops onto the counter.
Please sweet cow, entertain me.
Fuck off.
He ends up telling Ilya all about Hayden and Jackie’s latest lover’s spat, all while trying to drive the images of hands and skin and bells completely out of his mind.
***
Merry (early) Christmas. )
Shane picks up his phone, having already gone bankrupt in his family’s game of Monopoly.
Early?
Your country gets calendar wrong.
It is January 7.
Shane covers his mouth with his hand as he types, sending a quick glance up to his parents. David stares at the board in pained reflection, watching his own piece land directly on Yuna’s hotel; Yuna already has her hand outstretched in triumphant expectation.
Well, then.
Merry early Christmas.
Before he can think not to, he raises his phone and snaps a quick picture of the scene in front of him.
Ah Jane, you are losing, aren’t you?
Only at this. See you on Tuesday.
Ilya surprises him and doesn’t ask where they’ll meet. When the reply comes, there’s no text at all. Just a picture of Ilya and three kids smiling at the camera, an impressive snowman complete with a Rozanov jersey in the background.
My neighbor’s kids say you will lose terribly.
Tell them that snowman will be wearing my name next time it storms.
Not likely, bankrupt boy.
Shane puts his phone away before the smile on his face can become any more obvious. His parents are oblivious, as Yuna has just absolutely demolished David in Monopoly, leaving him groaning with his head in his hands. Merry early Christmas, indeed.
***
One time Shane mentions that he’s about to go on a run, and Ilya texts, Without me? (
Shane shakes his head at it, but the next time, he calls Ilya up.
“Hollander?”
“Leaving for a run in five minutes. Still want to come?”
There’s rustling on the other end of the line, then the sound of a door opening and fabric brushing against itself. “Yes. I will change.”
It was easy enough to run with Bluetooth headphones; he sometimes did it while on the phone with his Dad, while David told him the latest from the New Yorker. Ilya, though, sounded like he was struggling.
“Alright over there?” Shane asks, laughing.
“This is hard. How do you do this while holding the phone?”
Shane slows around a corner, confused. “You didn’t grab headphones?”
Ilya curses in Russian.
“Oh my God, you idiot.” It comes out a lot fonder than Shane meant it to.
“Was distracted. You only gave me five minutes.”
Shane stops at the curb, waiting for the crosswalk signal to change. “So you’re running around Boston right now, with a phone pressed to your ear like a crazy person?”
“I am not crazy,” Ilya grumbles.
“Let me know when your hand goes numb.”
They run together for over an hour. Ilya never lets him know, but he still complains the whole way through.
***
Bring me egg.
What?
Bring me egg. I’m out of eggs. Need egg.
I’m literally a five hour drive away.
Don’t care. Bring me egg.
Don’t you have other hockey players to ask about eggs? You know, like your teammates who live in the same city as you?
Not as fun to annoy. So no egg?
You’re insufferable.
At their next shared game, Shane skates out to their face-off with a flat expression to meet Ilya’s smirk.
“Ready, Hollander?”
“Duck or quail?
Ilya’s smirk twitches, confusion clouding his brow. “What?”
“Which egg?”
The whistle blows and Shane steals the puck easily, racing off towards the goal, Ilya’s surprised laugh chasing right behind him.
***
Shane goes to a restaurant in Boston on Ilya’s recommendation, then declines his offer to meet.
Ilya sends him a picture of his morning wood, poking up against the sheets, and Shane wants to book a flight to Moscow.
Every time they text he feels like he’s about five seconds away from losing control, and then Ilya sends a quip about pickles in the grocery store, and he loses it in a completely different way instead.
***
Too hot. Why is Boston in hell right now?
Too cold, too hot. Just like a fussy baby.
You would be too if you were in this sun.
Wear a hat.
More skin than just on head.
Sunscreen exists.
Still hot. (
Your face gets more freckles in the summer, no? They are darker at the beginning of season.
I mean, yeah. And my shoulders too.
Very rude to say that and then not send picture.
It’s only May, Lily. They’re not out yet.
Boo. Send anyway.
Shane shakes his head, but takes a picture of his sleeveless shoulders anyway. He and Hayden are out in a park with the kids, where they’re all currently clamoring at an ice cream truck.
So pretty, Jane.
Shane waits for more, like ‘I want to lick them,’ or something equally ridiculous and frustratingly arousing. But nothing comes. Hayden is wrangling three kids and even more ice cream cones, while Shane waits for a quip that never arrives.
It’s not as hot in Montreal, but he’ll blame the sun for his actions if anyone asks.
Maybe I’ll show you next season, when they’re back.
Sun will be worth it, then.
Hayden shoves an ice cream into Shane’s hand, breaking the moment.
“Eat it before it melts, bud, because I know I won’t get a chance for mine.”
Shane puts his phone away and complies, licking at a trail that has already begun dripping past his knuckle, definitely not thinking about Ilya Rozanov’s own tongue. Maybe the heat really is getting to him, too.
Once all the kids are happy and still, Hayden turns back to Shane. “Who was that, by the way?”
Shane freezes. “What?”
“Who you were texting. With a stupid smile on your face. And sent a selfie to of your arms when you thought I wasn’t looking.”
Jesus Christ. Hayden was way too observant for someone with three small children to distract him. “No one,” Shane says.
“Oh, so you text your Mom hot shots of your biceps?”
“Shut up.”
Hayden nudges Shane playfully with his elbow. “What’s her name?”
Shane swallows down a sour feeling. “None of your business.”
“Fine, fine, keep your secrets.” Hayden leans in conspiratorially. “Just tell me: is she hot?”
Shane thinks about all the words he would use to describe Ilya Rozanov, and how many have been added to the list over the past two years. “Yeah,” he says, to make it simple. Because God knows it was a lot more complex than that.
“Good for you, texting a hot girl with those puppy eyes. Someone would think you were in love.”
Shane pushes Hayden full off the bench where he falls, to the ground, cackling.
“Just wait,” Hayden says. “Life comes at you fast, kid.”
“We’re practically the same age.”
“Just saying. You love her, and next thing you know you’re married with three demon spawns who jump on you in the early morning before you can even have sex with said hot girl. And they don’t avoid your balls. Go straight for ‘em, even. Evil bundles of joy.” Hayden presses a kiss to his youngest girl’s temple.
“I think I’m safe,” Shane says.
“Oh, yeah? That’s what I thought, too.”
Shane’s phone buzzes in his pocket. On pure reflex, he takes it out.
You ignore me ((
So mean (((
I will not tell you about Marly’s girl drama if you leave.
Hold on the drama, I’ll be home in like an hour.
Okay )
“Oh, yeah, you’re fucked.”
Shane looks up, remembering where he is and who’s with him. “I’m not...”
“Sure,” Hayden says, patting his knee. “Sure.”
Counting down. Drama expires in 59 minutes.
Shane feels himself smile, immediately wipes his face of any expression, and ignores the screaming laughter pouring out from below him.
Be there in 58.
In truth, he makes it with seven minutes to spare.