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“Blyat!”
Ilya’s harsh yell made Shane’s eyebrows furrow as he entered their home, still sweaty from his morning run. Opening his mouth to admonish his husband, he was immediately cut off by a voice that was just as firm but admittedly much more adorable.
“Swear jar, Papa!”
Grinning and chuckling under his breath now, Shane shucked his shoes at the door and shuffled inside, pressing a kiss to the head of the small girl sitting on the oversized couch in the living room before continuing into the dining room where Ilya sat, still cursing under his breath.
Shane’s concern immediately shifted from his husband’s wellbeing to the disaster spread across the large wooden surface. “Ilya!” he hissed, eyes flickering to where Alina was still being swallowed by couch cushions, watching a rerun of one of their old games, “what the fuck are you doing?” He mouthed the word ‘fuck,’ careful not to let their daughter hear him swearing. Their glass mason jar on the kitchen counter, labelled ‘Stop Swearing, Assholes!’ had been created by Rose and was overflowing with bills and coins, mostly from Ilya when he got mad watching games. Shane prided himself on the fact that he didn’t contribute to the jar nearly as much as his husband…though that also had to do with the fact that he only swore in one language, while Alina had somehow memorized curse words in two.
“Am decorating,” Ilya muttered, gaze locked on the mess in front of him.
Shane blinked, unsure of how to respond to that. It was clear that Ilya was certainly trying to decorate in some way. He held what looked like an industrial-grade glue gun in his hand, little hairy strings of dried glue hanging from the end and clinging to his shirt, his fingers, and random surfaces like spider webs. Random gems and jewels were spread like confetti around the table, making the surface glitter in a way that was both beautiful and slightly frightening. A few of the tiny objects even stuck to Ilya’s glue-covered fingers, glazed-over with hazy, hardened glue.
And Ilya? He looked more determined than Shane had ever seen him, which was certainly saying something. Sure, Ilya’s expression had been ferocious during their old Montreal versus Boston games. He’d given looks of pure, stubborn, single-minded resolve during playoff games, looks that had made grown men shiver and turned Shane to molten lava. But now, as Ilya glared down at the tiny, bubblegum-pink piece of fabric in front of him, glue gun in his coated fingers and face covered in sweat, Shane had to hold back a bubble of laughter.
“Decorating?” he repeated, risking a step closer, not wanting to ruin Ilya’s…masterpiece.
“Yes,” Ilya nodded seriously, glancing up at Shane like the answer was quite obvious. “Lina is skater, she needs skater outfit.”
Again, Shane bit back a laugh. After a grand total of three Mini-Mite hockey practices, five-year-old Alina had announced that she did not want to play the same sport her fathers were known for. Though this had been quite a disappointing blow to both Shane and Ilya’s dreams (they’d made bets for a long time about what position their child would be, and when she would become the first girl to play in the NHL), they’d quickly recovered, thrilled that she’d been comfortable enough to tell them what she wanted without fear of their reactions.
Of course, the sting of the blow was also lessened substantially when Alina had followed this up by deciding she wanted to be a figure skater, because that seemed like much more fun, and she wanted ‘pretty dresses.’
She’d now had one figure skating lesson, during which her coach had called her ‘a natural.’ Apparently, Ilya had taken the compliment to heart.
“You know that they sell skating outfits, right?” he asked, lips flicking upwards as he watched his husband continue to fail at gluing rhinestones to the fabric. “Like…with the glitter and stuff already on? I’ve seen the magazines and websites, we can put in an order, let her pick whatever she wants.”
“Is expensive,” Ilya scoffed, not looking over.
Shane really did laugh this time. “Ilya, you own five different cars. We’re currently at our second house. We’ve won the Stanley Cup multiple times–both together and separately. I think we can afford a dress for our kid.”
But when Ilya looked up at him, there was a ferocity in his eyes that Shane had always adored. “She will have what she needs,” he said, hands shaking a little. “We are her parents, we will provide. She will never–never wonder if we do not–do not support her. We will make sure she knows: We believe in her. She can be a good skater.”
If Shane hadn’t known Ilya for so many years, he might have mistaken it for a desire to spoil their daughter. He might have thought Ilya was being unreasonable or rude, in the way he forced the words from his perfect lips, eyes glued determinedly to the table like the crystals that surrounded him. But Shane knew that Ilya wasn’t just thinking about the tiny outfit in his hand. He was thinking about his mother, who had always faithfully supported him in his dreams. His mother, who had cheered him on and attended his games and made sure he had the equipment he needed, the love he needed. He was thinking about his father, who had done none of that when his mother was gone, who had only torn him down and berated him, made him feel like he was worthless. Creating this dress for Alina meant something to Ilya, whether he had the words to say so or not.
So he sighed, affection and adoration for his husband radiating through every cell in his body as he wished he could somehow go back in time and find the younger version of Ilya, give him the love he so obviously deserved, “Alright,” Shane murmured, slowly sitting in the seat next to his husband and reaching for the glue gun, taking it from Ilya’s hand. “She knows, though. She’s always known.”
Hazel eyes flickered to meet Shane’s gaze and Ilya sent him a small smile that had never failed to make him weak in the knees. “Thank you,” he mumbled, communicating a thousand messages with only two words.
Shane leaned in for a quick kiss before squinting his eyes to make sure he was pinching the gemstone correctly as he raised it to the glue gun. Pulling the trigger of the device, he made sure to give only the slightest bit of pressure–
“Fuck!” he yelled, a stinging heat shooting through his finger as the liquid glue melted over the jewel and touched his finger. He flailed his hands desperately, but the glue, of course, did not budge.
“Swear jar!” Ilya and Alina yelled at the same time, Ilya chuckling a little thickly.
Shane scowled, putting the glue gun on the table. “Yeah, this is all you,” he muttered, standing to go join his daughter on the couch.