Shane and Ilya will often ask each other to explain little cultural things. For Ilya, it’s the odd English word or Canadian phrase. For Shane, it’s translation of Russian media or a pop culture reference.
So when they’re lying in bed one day after a long evening practice, scrolling on their phones, Shane turns towards Ilya and asks, “what’s a ‘slavic stare’?”
“What?”
Shane turned his phone screen towards his husband. It’s a list of ‘Top 10 Athletes with Best Slavic Stare’.
“I am only number four?” Ilya frowned.
“What is it?” Shane pressed.
“Is this,” Ilya tossed his phone aside and rolled over on top of his husband. He had himself propped up on his hands, strong arms bracketing Shane’s head.
Shane looked confused at first. Ilya closed his eyes and set his features. When he opened his eyes, they were gazing up at Shane, chin tilted down. His jaw was set tight with a hard line at his brow. All playfulness had fled his features.
It was the same expression Shane had seen during important games. Games where Ilya wasn’t just trying to win, he was trying to destroy the other team.
“Ilya?” Shane breathed.
But Ilya just stared. It was intense, focused, like his world narrowed down to a single task.
It felt like… how Shane imagined a rabbit would feel caught in the eyes of a wolf.
“Ilya, stop it,” Shane wiggled, hands on Ilya’s chest to push him off. The fact he used about 10% of his strength to do this meant nothing.
Ilya grabbed both of his hands in one of his and pinned them above his head.
He said something in Russian that Shane only caught fragments of. His voice was deeper like it got when he spoke his native language. Shane got “you” “wanted” “good boy” and “me” but it was enough for him to vaguely catch onto the meaning.
“Ilya, I’m…,” Shane whined and unsuccessfully tried to yank his hands back. “I’m tired. I just wanted an…explanation.”
“But you are hands-on learner,” Ilya said in English but with a thick accent, not dropping the stare.
Shane squeezed his eyes close as Ilya dipped to capture his prey.
Fuck.
