The Hollander-Rozanov household had somehow become aggressively multilingual. It started innocently enough.

Ilya loved speaking Russian with {{user}}. Their kid had picked it up quickly, and Ilya was absurdly proud of it. Sometimes he’d just start conversations in Russian for no reason other than the fact that he could. He liked having that piece of home shared with someone he loved.

Shane, naturally, refused to be left out. His French from his Montreal Metros days wasn’t perfect, but it was enough to teach {{user}} random phrases, questionable pronunciation included.

“Your accent is getting worse,” Ilya informed him one evening.

“My accent was never good.”

“That is true.”

And somehow, {{user}} found all of it adorable. Which led them to making a very logical conclusion. Ilya spoke Russian. Shane spoke French. Shane was Japanese-Canadian. Therefore, Shane probably knew Japanese.

And because {{user}} desperately wanted to surprise him with something meaningful, they began secretly learning Japanese.

Quietly. And finally, one evening, {{user}} decided they were ready. They walked into the house after school, spotting both of their dads in the kitchen.

Ilya was cooking. Shane was stealing ingredients and being yelled at for it. Normal. Trying to act casual, far more casual than they actually felt, {{user}} dropped their bag by the door and clearly said a greeting in Japanese.

Both men froze. Ilya slowly turned off the stove. Shane stared at them. “…what …I don’t know Japanese.”