Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types, Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Wyatt Hayes, Zane Boodram, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Hayden Pike, Jackie Pike, Luca Haas, Troy Barrett, Dallas Kent, Svetlana Vetrova, Brandon Wiebe, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Rose Landry, Harris Drover

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Hockey Teammates, POV Ilya Rozanov, Secret Crush, Shane Hollander Has a Crush on Ilya Rozanov, Oblivious Ilya Rozanov, Anxious Shane Hollander, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Homophobia, Eventual Smut, Top Ilya Rozanov, Bottom Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Doesn't Know He's Bisexual, Shane Hollander is Ilya Rozanov's Bi Awakening

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-20 Completed: 2026-09-27 Words: 90,381 Chapters: 5/5

i wish i knew (you wanted me)

Summary

Not proud of it, but man enough to admit it: Ilya Rozanov loves a bit of locker room gossip.

That is, until he discovers that his overly disciplined, no-nonsense hockey captain has a crush on him—and can’t seem to think about anything else.

Chapter 1: you can't surprise a gemini

Chapter Notes

i've been lurking on hrtwt and love seeing the rise in appreciation for shane being ilya's bi awakening so i thought i'd contribute to the cause :)

i got the motivation to write this after reading As the Romans Do by kooksie & m2m by pookiewookie111 , so if you haven't read either of these amazing fics yet i would highly!!!!!! recommend <3

fic + chapter titles are from bad habit by steve lacy

APARTMENT 1221

marly
bro
guys
you won’t fucking believe what i just heard

bood
!!!!!!!!!
???????

hazy
you gossipy bitch
what is it

marly
nawww i can’t tell you now
this is IN PERSON gossip boys

hazy
dude ur annoying as hell

bood
what’d you even hear?

marly
bro i just said i can’t tell you over text
i need to see your reactions irl

roz
marly wtf
i have been in the car for 10 minutes
hurry the fuck up we have practice
gossip can wait

hazy
you of all people saying that is CRAZY btw
bood reacted with 😂

marly
chill out roz
you sound like hollander rn

roz
do not insult me like this ever again marleau
be in the car in 2 mins or i leave without you

hazy
BORING!
roz reacted with 🖕

marly
chillllll i’m coming

bood
that’s what she said!

hazy
bood we’re walking to the rink tg after ur class right

bood
what class
i’m already there w luca

hazy
WHAT
SO WHY HAVE I BEEN WAITING OUTSIDE UR LECTURE HALL FOR THE PAST 20 MINS?

bood
bro idk
but i never have class on tuesday afternoons

hazy
fuck my stupid chungus life
@roz can u stop by campus and give me a ride too

marly
he says no

hazy
BRUHHHH

═══════

Ilya Rozanov is a lot of things. He’s Russian, which means he can outdrink every single pathetic American and Canadian on the hockey team. He’s hot, obviously, so he can sleep with pretty much anyone he wants, whenever he wants. He’s pretty smart, he supposes, and he’s great at hockey, of course. He’s a whole bunch of things.

One thing he isn’t, however, is patient.

Which is exactly why he’s tempted to crash his car the second Cliff Marleau gets into it, grinning like a madman.

“You’d better start driving, Roz,” he says, nudging Ilya’s elbow with his own, before reaching forward to crank up the radio. “Thought you didn’t wanna be late for practice?”

Ilya rolls his eyes and sets the car in reverse, tires crunching against the gravel as he pulls away.

“I don’t want to be late because Wiebe will lose his shit if we are late again, and will probably bench us,” he reminds his friend, thinking back to a couple of weeks ago when they were forced to do ten sprints for every minute they were late, which was 17, thanks to Wyatt not being able to find his fucking helmet for ages. He hasn’t forgotten how Marly almost puked after that incident.

“Please,” Marly scoffs, shrugging his shoulders carelessly. “He loves us too much to actually bench anyone.”

Ilya furrows his eyebrows. “He benched Hazy for showing up four minutes late last month.”

“Yeah, ‘cause Hazy’s a fucking idiot and showed up to practice smelling like weed,” Marly replies, then reaches forward to crank the heat up another notch. “That’s an actual reason to be benched.”

Ilya merges onto the main road, snow banked high along the curb. He knows the route to the rink so well by now that he could do it with his eyes closed—or at least without really paying attention, which Marly knows, and is thus why he keeps on talking.

“So are you gonna fucking tell me or not?” Ilya says, growing frustrated.

“Nah, bro, I told you,” Marly says with a shake of his head. “I need all of you there, in person. It’s better that way.”

“Better for who?”

“For the drama, Roz,” Marly says, like it’s obvious. Like Ilya is the one being unreasonable. “You gotta give the story the telling it deserves.”

“Whatever the fuck that means,” Ilya snorts, hitting the indicator and taking the turn toward the rink maybe a little too fast, just because he can. He loves driving, especially fast—gets a real kick out of the risk of it all.

“I’m a terrific storyteller, Roz,” Marly goes on, thankfully ignoring the way Ilya drives through a stop sign. It’s one of the reasons Ilya continuously lets him get a free ride to practice—besides the obvious fact that they live together. He never comments on shit like that, unlike someone like goody two shoes Shane Hollander, who would surely be disapproving.

“Fine, keep your fucking secrets,” Ilya says. “But if this is about Dykstra hooking up with that German girl, I already know, and that is not interesting gossip.”

“It’s not about Dykstra.”

“And if it is about my hookups, I also know this, and it is still not interesting.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but it’s not about you,” Marly says, but there’s something slightly off in the way he says it that makes Ilya wonder if he’s lying. His words come out too fast, and he sounds almost pleased, which makes the hairs on the back of Ilya’s neck stand up for no reason at all. He’s used to being gossiped about—spoken about in general, really—and he’s never cared, so he’s not sure why Marly’s words feel unsettling now.

When Ilya pulls into the parking lot of the rink, they’ve got 8 minutes to spare, which is really cutting it fine, but they’ll be okay, he thinks. The lot is mostly full already, familiar cars parked all around Ilya’s Mercedes. Ilya turns off the engine and Marly is out of the car before Ilya even manages to get his seatbelt off, bag slung over one shoulder and grinning at him over the roof of the car.

“C’mon Roz. Chop chop, or Wiebe’s gonna kill you,” he taunts, amused. “Or worse, Hollander’s gonna make you run extra drills.”

“I fucking hate you,” Ilya tells him wholeheartedly, and follows him inside.

He walks into the locker room, throws his bag down, and immediately starts to get ready for practice. It’s so familiar, like everything else about his life, which over the course of his three and a bit years at McGill University, has settled into an easy routine of class, hockey, parties, repeat. It isn’t boring—quite the opposite, actually—but it’s easy, easy to breeze through life being as well-liked on campus as he is. And it’s not like he intended to become like, popular, at university or whatever, but Ilya’s found that the secret to getting everyone to like you is to not care if they do or not, which is pretty much his entire mentality.

Most people at McGill know a lot about Ilya, not that he cares. They know he’s 21 years old, that he’s a hockey player—alternate captain on a team that’s ranked 7th in the country, which is respectable enough for him. He’s majoring in psychology, a degree he’s coasting through surprisingly easily, and has been breezing through life with broken English and no contact with his family, though not many people really know about that. He leads a busy, social life on campus, then heads home every night to an apartment two blocks off campus that he shares with Marly, Bood, and Wyatt—the four of them crammed into a place that’s definitely too small to fit all of their hockey crap, but is home all the same.

Ilya’s also, by most accounts, a player—or fuckboy, whatever the hell people like to call it. He doesn’t care that people know this either, and doesn’t take offense to it. He likes to fuck lots of pretty girls, and doesn’t believe that’s something to be ashamed of.

He shrugs off his sneakers, socked feet cold against the tiled floor, and starts the familiar ritual of getting ready for hockey practice. It’s muscle memory by now, to the point where Ilya doesn’t even have to think about it anymore. Around him, the locker room is full of familiar faces, most of which are already fully dressed and ready to go. He notices Troy Barrett in the corner with one AirPod in, hidden from his best friend, Dallas Kent, who’s currently talking his ear off about something dumb, knowing Kent. Ilya huffs a quiet laugh of amusement to himself at the sight, and continues tying his skates.

Marly is loud, as per usual, and even taller in his skates, which aggravates Ilya to no end. He’s bouncing around excitedly, casting Ilya these little side glances that aren’t at all subtle, nor are they doing anything to help Ilya shake the weird feeling he has about Marly’s gossip. Why wouldn’t Marly just tell him in the car? They’re best friends—Ilya could’ve just faked a surprise reaction later.

Ilya decides to ignore him, which is a skill he’s mastered by now. Instead he shifts his gaze to the far left side of the locker room, almost out of habit, to where Hollander is lacing his skates with the kind of grim, focused precision he seems to bring to literally everything he fucking does. As if tying a simple knot requires that much attention. Beside him is J.J. Boiziau, saying something that Ilya can’t hear from where he’s sitting, and Hollander nods in response without looking up, mouth twitching ever so slightly, not quite reaching into a smile, before it flattens back out.

Shane Hollander is their captain. Of course he is. He’s so fucking obsessed with hockey, Ilya can hardly believe it. He probably irons his jersey before every practice.

Ilya has never really understood him, if he’s being honest. Three years on the same team and he still can’t figure out what goes on behind that permanently composed, serious face. Sometimes, he wonders if there’s anything behind it at all, besides hockey—wonders if Hollander really is exactly how he appears: overly disciplined, humorless, and allergic to fun. He is a good captain though, Ilya will give him that much, albeit grudgingly. He’s every hockey coach’s wet dream personified into one 6-foot tall, 21-year-old human that Ilya is convinced might secretly be a robot. He half expects Hollander to run out of battery one day at practice and just…shut down, eyes glowing red as his voice box slurs out an error message—but even that would probably be too expressive for Hollander.

In Ilya’s opinion, Hollander’s also an exhausting person to be around, in a way. Being around Hollander is a constant reminder of every mistake you make, communicated via the specific type of silence he gets whenever he disapproves of something. He doesn’t even have to say anything, just look at you and narrow his eyes, like he’s almost baffled by your actions, which always makes Ilya want to do something even more reckless just to piss him off.

Hollander’s got all these freckles too, not that Ilya’s looking. They make his face look uncharacteristically boyish, he now realizes, like a cute baby animal. Ilya’s face scrunches in disgust at the thought, and he shakes his head at himself, as if that’ll shake the image away.

Luckily, Ilya doesn’t have to think about it for much longer, because Coach Wiebe is clapping his hands and barking out “Let’s go, let’s go!”, which gets everyone moving swiftly to the ice. Ilya too grabs his stick, and follows the rest of them out.

Like everything else in Ilya’s life, practice goes the same way it almost does. Wiebe and Hollander have them doing the same drills that are slowly but surely becoming boring but annoyingly, work, and soon enough, all of them are sweaty and panting on the ice. Ilya likes hockey practice an embarrassing amount, more than he’d ever admit to anyone. He loves the way his head goes (mostly) quiet when he skates, the way everything narrows down to just the puck. It’s pretty much the only time his brain ever goes fully quiet, not plagued by the horrid thoughts of his family—his alive relatives more haunting than his dead ones.

Hollander acts as if it does the same for him, except Hollander’s version of his brain relaxing looks much more rigid and stressful than Ilya’s does. He looks so…grimly focused, and it’s kind of admirable but mostly just deeply unsettling. Hollander won’t do anything unless he’s doing it perfectly, especially Wiebe’s drills. When he corrects a freshman’s technique, he does so in maybe five words, flat and clipped, already skating away before the other guy has finished nodding in understanding.

At some point in his third or fourth shooting drill, Ilya wins the faceoff against Troy so easily that he receives an angry insult of curses in return before striking the puck right into the goal, past Wyatt, whose jaw drops open in shock at how fast it flew by. Ilya grins as he skates away to the back of the line, passing Hollander as he does so.

“Show-off,” Hollander mutters under his breath, skating past. He doesn’t even sound the slightest bit out of breath, which is annoying. Apparently normal human cardiovascular limits don’t apply to him.

“Don’t be mad that you cannot do this, Hollander,” Ilya chirps back.

Hollander doesn’t answer that—doesn’t even glance over, actually. He just gets into position, jaw set, brown eyes narrowed with complete focus. It’s nothing new though, this lack of reaction. Hollander doesn’t chirp back, ever, which Ilya knows because he’s been desperately trying to get a reaction out of him since freshman year and has only succeeded maybe four times. It’s not even fun when Hollander does respond, because his chirps are so dry and awful that it makes Ilya feel less accomplished than if he’d just been ignored.

Hollander’s indifference to him used to really bother Ilya, for whatever reason. These days, however, it’s just background noise to him. Mostly.

They run the drill a few more times, and Hollander wins every faceoff, no matter who he goes against. Of course he does.

When they finally have a water break, Ilya drifts over to the bench with the rest of the team, like always. Hollander does too, but he always seems to hang around at the end of the bench, like he’s trying to stay unnoticed by the rest of the team. He avoids conversation unless it’s with J.J. or Hayden Pike—who currently isn’t here, thanks to an injury Ilya can’t even pretend to care about—and even with them, his friends, he barely says 10 words. Today, he says one thing to Luca Haas, a Swiss freshman who’s recently joined the team, and the kid lights up like he’s just been acknowledged by the fucking King of England, and Hollander’s mouth does that weird thing where it looks like it wants to smile but can’t quite manage it.

But that’s the full extent of Hollander’s social battery, apparently.

The water break ends with Wiebe yelling about their next drill, and everyone takes a while to get going again—except Hollander, of course, who’s at center ice within about 5 seconds. They run the drill a hundred fucking times, it feels like, and people are starting to groan with annoyance, the way everyone starts to once they get tired and irritable.

“Let’s go again,” Hollander mutters, flat and instructional. God, he sounds like he’s talking to a fucking whiteboard.

Unsurprisingly, his words don’t land. No one really listens, and Ilya can immediately see the way Hollander’s body tenses up at the lack of compliance. Ilya considers it for a moment, but ultimately remembers his role on the team, and decides to intervene.

“Okay, dipshits!” he calls out, loud enough to catch everyone’s attention. “We’re running the fucking drill again. I wanna eat dinner before ten tonight, so let’s go.”

And it works, of course. The team resets, a couple of them chuckling at his words. Ilya moves too, catching sight of Hollander in the corner of his eye. He’s not glaring, not annoyed, exactly—Hollander’s face isn’t expressive enough for him to tell—but he’s gone very still. His jaw is tight, and his gaze flicks from the team doing the drill, to Ilya, and then away again. It’s quick, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t, and then it’s gone.

Ilya furrows his eyebrows in confusion, wondering what the fuck that’s supposed to mean. He just gets back into position, and they run the drill again and again and again, until Ilya thinks his feet might fucking fall off—and then practice is finally over.

As always, the locker room after practice is loud with chatter as the team begins to peel off the layers of their hockey gear. Most of the freshmen players shower fast and bolt, eager to prove that they’re dedicated whilst simultaneously not trying too hard to be liked. The upperclassmen, on the other hand, take their sweet time, always blasting music too loud until a member of staff at the rink yells at them to turn it down.

Hollander is one of the first people out, same as always—showered, dressed, and leaving with his hair still damp. He’s saying something low to J.J. on his way toward the door, which makes his friend laugh out loud. Hollander smiles at that, warmer than he ever looks, and then the door swings shut.

With only them and a couple freshmen gone, pretty much everyone else is still in the locker room. Ilya is surrounded by Bood and Wyatt, the former borderline ranting about how much he likes this girl from his economics class, Cassie or something, while Wyatt half-listens as he unlaces his skates. Ilya averts his gaze, only to find Dallas Kent still shirtless, flexing at his own reflection at the end of the locker door. Ilya grimaces and turns away again.

The room is loud, as per usual, and Ilya has a small half-smile on his face until Marly—who’s practically been vibrating all practice—finally, finally cracks.

“Okay, okay,” he says, voice loud enough to cut through the noise. “Okay, now I can say it.”

“Fucking finally,” Wyatt says, giving up on his skates for now. “Jesus Christ, Marly. It’s been like, what, three hours?”

“Well, timing is everything,” Marly replies with a grin.

“What the fuck are you guys yelling about?” Troy grumbles, and Ilya resists the urge to roll his eyes.

Marly briefly glances toward the door, like he’s worried someone who left is about to materialize at any moment—Hollander, perhaps, who certainly wouldn’t approve of Marly’s gossiping. Most other people in the room have their attention on him now, looking at him with impatient interest, wondering what Cliff Marleau of all people could possibly have to announce.

“Okay, so, I was in the library earlier—” Marly starts.

“The library?” Bood interrupts with a scoff. “You can read, Marly? Congrats!”

“Fuck off,” Marly shoots back.

“Just let him tell his fucking story so we can all leave,” Ilya says, shutting the both of them up. The two of them give in a strange look for this, because everyone knows Ilya is always overly eager to hear locker room gossip. Truthfully, Ilya isn’t really in the mood today, though he doesn’t know why. His moods are always like this, though, up and down and back up again without explanation. He’s gotten better at ignoring it over the years, but today he can’t seem to shake it.

Marly nods, then clears his throat loudly. “As I was saying,” he starts, giving Bood a pointed look, “I was in the library, and I overheard some people talking— fucking whispering about something, and then I got closer and I realized it was Pike and his girlfriend.”

“Ugh,” Ilya groans loudly. “I thought you said this was interesting gossip.”

Wyatt laughs, and Marly shoots Ilya a glare.

“The gossip isn’t about Pike, you fucking donkey,” he says frustratedly. “Now, let me continue— uhh, where was I?” He frowns, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion, before his expression lights up again. “Oh yeah! Right, so, Pike and Jackie are talking, and I wasn’t even paying attention at first, but then Pike says Hollander’s name and I just have to pay attention, y’know, because when has that guy ever been the subject of anything remotely interesting—”

“Hollander?” Wyatt says, chewing at his bottom lip. “You have gossip about Cap?”

“Uh-huh,” Marly says with a smug smile. He takes a breath, genuinely milking every last second of attention, like he’s about to announce a fucking NHL draft or something. “Jackie was saying she felt bad for him, because apparently…Hollander’s got a crush on someone. Has for a while now.”

The room goes weirdly quiet.

“Is that it?” Bood says, sounding almost offended at how boring that is. Just as boring as Hollander, Ilya thinks to himself. “That’s the big reveal? Everyone likes someone, Marly, that’s not—”

“A crush?” Troy scoffs, joining the conversation now. “What are we, twelve?”

Marly sighs, clapping his hands together once. “That’s not the fucking gossip, Barrett. The gossip is who Hollander likes.”

He turns to look at Ilya then, who’s still sitting there, arms loosely crossed as he half-listens to the conversation. His stomach goes still at the weight of Marly’s gaze on him.

“You,” Marly grins. “It’s fucking you, Roz.”

For what feels like an hour but is only really a second, nobody says anything. Ilya can hear the collective inhale of everyone in the room, before the room explodes into a collection of laughter and gasps and exclamations.

“No fucking way,” Carmichael says, and then he’s cackling, doubled over with one hand braced against the bench. “No way. Hollander? Cap has the hots for Roz?”

“That’s what I said,” Marly nods, looking thrilled with himself.

“Wait, hold on—” Wyatt says, looking confused and simultaneously ignoring how Carmichael won’t stop laughing. “Since when? Is this a new thing, or—”

“Jackie made it sound like it’s been going on a while,” Marly shrugs. “Like, it’s not super new.”

“God, this is funny as fuck,” Carmichael wheezes, doubling over again. “Dude, uptight Hollander pining after someone like Roz…”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ilya frowns, and his voice comes out steadier than he expected, given that something underneath his ribs currently feels like it’s been dropped down a flight of stairs. 

Carmichael shrugs. “Hollander is boring as fuck and you’re not, man,” he explains, which makes Ilya’s eyebrows furrow unwillingly. Carmichael’s technically right, Hollander is dreadfully boring, but there’s something about the way he says it that doesn’t sit right with Ilya. Hollander’s boringness isn’t necessarily an insult, it’s just a matter of fact.

And then Luca Haas finally speaks up: “Did they say anything else?” he asks, nervous, like he’s afraid to speak. “Pike or his girlfriend?”

Marly shrugs. “I remember Pike wasn’t a fan of it,” he explains, which makes Ilya roll his eyes. Of course—Hayden Pike has never liked him, and Ilya returns the sentiment for their captain’s best friend. “And…” Marly goes on, “then Jackie said she feels bad for him. ‘Cause it’s not exactly easy to play hockey and be gay, y’know? It must be hard, being gay, captain, and having a thing for—” he gestures vaguely at Ilya. “—you know.” 

Once he says that, the atmosphere in the room shifts somewhat. The gossip no longer feels like gossip, doesn’t really seem funny anymore.

But then, further down the room, Dallas Kent laughs. It’s a short, ugly sound, entirely without humor.

“Fuck, of course he does,” Kent says, not bothering to lower his voice. “The guy’s already weird enough, and now he’s gotta make it weird for the rest of us too with his fucking gay crush on Rozanov.”

“Shut up, Dallas,” Wyatt says flatly as Troy snorts under his breath.

“I’m just saying, maybe don’t broadcast it in the locker room,” Kent grimaces, looking disgusted. “Some of us gotta shower next to the guy.”

Luca adjusts the towel around his waist and runs a hand through his damp, blond hair. He’s clearly still unsure if he’s allowed to share his opinions in the team yet, because when he speaks again, it’s to nobody in particular. “I mean— I don’t think it’s that weird. Or— it’s not weird at all, actually.”

It’s such an earnest yet badly timed thing to say while some of their teammates are still amused, that a few people laugh at that too. Luca instantly goes red and looks like he regrets opening his mouth at all. Ilya thinks to himself that the kid isn’t wrong, and is annoyed that he even cares about any of this.

Ilya isn’t really listening anymore, if he’s honest. The conversation keeps going, with people asking about Hollander and Ilya—lots of weird, little side comments about Hollander being gay being thrown around. LaPointe wonders aloud about whether this means Hollander’s been checking Roz out at practice this whole time, which makes him—and some others—laugh all over again. Ilya doesn’t.

Instead, he thinks about Hollander’s stern, freckled face frowning at him during face-off practices today, and wonders to himself if maybe Marly misheard Pike and Jackie. Yes, people develop weird crushes on all sorts of people, for all sorts of reasons, but Ilya isn’t sure he can believe this. He doesn’t want to agree with some of his less friendly teammates about Hollander being too much of a fucking robot to develop feelings for anyone, but a part of him has always kind of thought so. Hollander’s just so…serious, so much so that when he quietly came out as gay about a year ago, Ilya wondered how he’d figured that out. Hollander didn’t seem like the person to have romantic—or, god forbid, sexual—thoughts about anyone. Either way, it’s none of Ilya’s business. He’s not even into guys, but either way, this is exactly like when a girl likes him and he isn’t interested…he’ll just ignore it and hope that they move on.

So Ilya doesn’t understand, exactly, why his stomach is churning and he feels so sick. Something hot sits in the pit of his gut—amusement, or maybe disgust, which he hopes it’s not, but he doesn’t know what his subconscious might think. He almost feels like he’s been caught, even though he has no reason to, because he hasn’t done anything. Either way, Ilya feels deeply bothered, especially by the way most of his teammates are still quietly laughing with each other about this whole thing.

He wonders, distantly, whether this makes him a bad person. He’s not homophobic, or, he didn’t think he was—but now there’s a strange sensation of unsettlement churning in his gut, something ugly that he doesn’t want to look at directly because he’s scared to discover something bad about himself. Ilya has never thought of himself as the kind of guy who’d get weird about this. He’s slept in the same room as Hollander a dozen times, showered next to him more times than he can count, and he’s never once flinched at anything regarding Hollander being gay—not like guys like Kent, who can’t seem to handle it. So it can’t be that, he can’t be homophobic. He better not be.

There is no clear explanation for the feeling he’s got, just a weird, looping static under his skin that refuses to go away.

═══════

For the most part, Ilya forgets about the whole thing. Class, hockey, parties, and hookups continue as normal, his days blurring together along with his usual, familiar rhythm of life. He goes to his classes, mostly—and he goes to practice, always. He goes out on the weekends and often on weeknights too, and every once in a while his mind wanders back to the locker room, and how his stomach has dropped, but that’s just background noise. At least, he’s been ignoring it like it is.

Last week, his ethics professor announced that she was going on maternity leave. For the remainder of the semester, Ethics A and B would be merging into a single lecture, taught by whichever unfortunate professor is left to deal with double the amount of kids than they signed up for. Ilya isn’t bothered by it—doesn’t care for ethics and is comfortably passing the class anyway, which a change in professor (hopefully) won’t affect.

So, he now finds himself standing in the doorway of a significantly fuller lecture hall than he’s used to, scanning the rows for somewhere to sit. It’s definitely going to fill up more the closer it gets to the lecture actually starting, but by now it’s already full enough that the back, where Ilya usually likes to situate himself in lecture, is completely full of unfamiliar faces from Section B. Mildly annoyed by this, Ilya does a slow scan of the room with his eyes, weighing his odds of finding an empty seat somewhere as far near the back as he can get, so it’s less obvious—and therefore less embarrassing—that he’s sitting alone.

When his gaze reaches the middle of the room, maybe six rows back, Ilya finds none other than J.J. Boiziau, and next to him, Shane Hollander. Hollander’s already sitting down, his backpack slung over the empty seat next to him like he’s saving it for someone, though certainly not for Ilya, judging by the visible flicker of surprise that crosses over his face when Ilya starts to make his way over to them.

In a way, he gets it, because Ilya’s not exactly close with either of them. J.J., he supposes, he gets along with well—as well as you should with anyone you’ve spent almost every day with for the past three years. J.J.’s fun, too, always a good laugh at practice and a fellow lover of fast food. Hollander, on the other hand, is a different story entirely. Ilya’s fairly certain it’s not possible to be close with Hollander, just like it’s impossible to be close with a brick wall. Or a mannequin. They’ve spent three years on the same hockey team, and Ilya’s chirps and teasing—any attempts at conversation, really—have only ever been returned with flat non-reactions.

Still, familiar faces are better than sitting alone and looking like a loser, so Ilya keeps going until he reaches them.

“Is this seat taken?” he asks, gesturing down at the seat where Hollander’s backpack rests. Ilya glances at Hollander and catches his expression—the briefest widening of eyes, there and gone in less than a second, quickly smoothed back into the same composed nothing he usually wears. If Ilya hadn’t been looking at him directly, he’d have missed it, and only seen Hollander’s short nod as he removes his bag without making eye contact.

Ilya drops down into the seat, slinging his backpack under it, and only then does he remember Marly’s words from two weeks ago—Hollander, and his alleged crush on Ilya. The gossip that has been sitting in the back of Ilya’s mind and pointedly ignored since that day in the locker room.

He looks at Hollander again, but the widening of his eyes seems to be his whole reaction to Ilya’s presence. There’s no lingering stare, no fluster, absolutely nothing that would suggest he’s sitting next to his supposed crush. If anything, Hollander looks completely unbothered. Maybe a tad surprised, like you’d be if you saw a squirrel run across the quad, but that’s all. He goes back to unzipping his backpack, pulling out, weirdly, an actual physical notebook and a couple of pens.

His lack of reaction makes something in Ilya’s chest twist, somewhat uncomfortably. Marly must’ve been wrong then, because no one with a crush acts like that—bored and nonchalant about the object of their alleged affection sitting only six inches away. Ilya’s had people crush on him before, plenty of people (though not that he’s counting), and it’s never looked like this. Usually, there’s a lot of fidgeting and anxious eye contact, as well as laughing too hard at things that aren’t funny while they run their hand up Ilya’s arm and say things like you’re so funny, Ilya, oh my god!

People with crushes on Ilya usually don’t stay silent and calmly organize their pens by color on the desk in front of them, which makes Ilya pretty much 100% sure than Marly or Jackie or whoever else was wrong. Maybe they were talking about someone else, and Ilya’s name got tangled in the conversation somehow, you know, with gossip being gossip and changing slightly the more people repeat it.

It’s the only explanation, really, because it isn’t like Ilya has had any reason to think otherwise, either. He sees Hollander literally every single day at practice, and the guy is exactly the same as he’s always been. He’s focused. Stern. Completely absorbed in hockey and his captain duties and absolutely nothing else—to the point where Ilya’s stopped thinking about the gossip at all. If anything, it’s made him go back to his original theory, namely that Shane Hollander might actually be physically incapable of developing feelings for anyone, ever. Hockey seems to be the only love of his life.

“Rozanov,” J.J. says, leaning forward past Hollander to grin at him, considerably warmer than the other greeting Ilya just got. “Didn’t peg you for an ethics guy.”

“Is a part of my English language requirement,” Ilya says, settling back into his seat. “Wasn’t my choice.”

“Tragic,” J.J. replies, without any sympathy. "You planning on taking notes?" he asks then, gesturing to Ilya’s bare desk.

“Who do you think I am?” Ilya says, which makes J.J. laugh, loud enough that a couple of heads in the row ahead turn briefly to look. He’s always been one of the more likable guys on the team, Ilya thinks to himself, a genuinely warm guy that doesn’t care what other people think of him. It confuses him slightly, that J.J. and Hollander are so close, since they’re the complete opposite in that sense—but perhaps that’s why they work so well. Who knows.

Speaking of Hollander, he hasn’t said a single word since Ilya sat down. His notebook is open on a fresh page, and he’s sitting slightly angled away from Ilya, and he wonders if it’s purposeful.

“You good, Hollander?” Ilya asks, mostly because the silence is starting to feel targeted, like it’s all his fault. Also, Ilya’s never been able to resist poking at his captain whenever the opportunity arises.

“Fine,” Hollander says, without looking up from his notebook.

“You are very chatty today,” Ilya says sarcastically.

“We’re in class.”

“It hasn’t started yet.”

Hollander looks up at that, looking not exactly annoyed, but more like he’s contemplating if this conversation is worth his precious energy. He huffs frustratedly. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Rozanov.”

“I don’t know, anything,” Ilya tells him. “You could ask me how I am doing. Is usually something normal people say to each other.”

Hollander glares at him.

“How are you doing.”

“Wow. So enthusiastic.”

Hollander exhales sharply through his nose—not quite a sigh—and turns back to his notebook without further comment. After all these years, it’s something Ilya’s chosen to interpret as a kind of victory, that he’s successfully pissed off his captain to the point of being ignored. Hollander’s eyebrows have furrowed together like he’s irritated by the exchange, which isn’t surprising, because he seems irritated by most things Ilya says to him, like Ilya is an annoying mosquito that won’t stop buzzing around his face. Still, he did engage. He bit back, dry and clipped as always, which is more than most people manage against Hollander’s stone wall—which Ilya is usually quite smug about.

Today, however, being shunned so soon feels a little weird. Ilya feels vaguely embarrassed, like he’s a little kid trying too hard to get a laugh out of an older, cooler teenager. It’s a stupid thing to feel, obviously, given that Ilya doesn’t actually care what Hollander thinks of him. He just likes winning, and today, he feels like he’s lost.

The lecture hall continues to fill in around them, the ambient hum of chatter growing louder before the professor—young, probably a PhD student wanting some extra cash—clears his throat and starts fumbling through his notes. Ilya settles into his seat properly, preparing to do what he usually does in lectures, which is absolutely nothing. He just sits there, chin propped up by his hand, half-listening and absorbing only what he thinks might be relevant. It’s an unconventional method, he’s aware, but it’s worked for him so far, so.

Beside him, Hollander starts writing almost immediately. His pen glides across the page in smooth, unhurried strokes. Ilya notices it out of the corner of his eyes without really meaning to, and finds that Hollander’s handwriting is annoyingly beautiful. He writes in actual cursive, possessing penmanship that looks like it belongs to somebody’s grandmother more than a hockey player. It should look stupid, but for some reason, it suits him perfectly. Ilya should’ve expected it, really.

Hollander’s brows knit together slightly as he writes, with a kind of fierce focus. His nose scrunches too, crinkling the freckles that mar his cheeks. It makes Ilya notice something he’s never paid attention to before—the sheer number of freckles scattered across his face, much more than Ilya remembers ever seeing on him, more than seems statistically possible for one person to have—crowding across the bridge of his nose and high on his cheekbones, and darker where they overlap. Ilya wasn’t aware Hollander took school this seriously either, which he feels like he maybe should’ve known after three years of such close proximity. Yet, it’s just another thing he’s never bothered to notice all this time.

The lecture drones on about something or other—boring, mindless content that Ilya has only vaguely absorbed at this point in the course. He should definitely be listening properly, but he isn’t. Instead, he finds his attention yet again snagging on the movement of Hollander’s pen, filling up page after page with dense, orderly notes while Ilya’s own notebook remains in his backpack—or at home, wherever he left it last.

Maybe he can get notes off J.J. later. J.J.’s handwriting is objectively worse, but it’ll probably be legible, and J.J. is the kind of guy who’ll just hand them over without making it a whole thing.

A small, distant part of him wonders if Hollander would. He’s sitting right there, after all, with his perfect notes that are detailed enough to recite the entire lecture from the beginning.

Ilya dismisses the thought almost as soon as it arrives, because Hollander would probably just tell him to take his own notes or something. He’d use the same tone he always does—flat, unimpressed, probably throwing in something about personal responsibility for good measure. Goody two shoes Shane Hollander, who’s never missed an optional morning skate in his entire life, is not going to hand over his meticulously organized cursive notes to Ilya Rozanov out of the kindness of his heart. And it’s not like he’d want to, anyway—regardless of whether he has a crush on Ilya, which, again, he clearly doesn’t, given his complete indifference.

Ilya is about to ask J.J. for his notes when a girl in the row ahead of them turns around. The first thing that Ilya notices is her beauty—she’s very pretty, with long, dark hair pulled into a loose braid over one shoulder. She has a nice smile, too. Ilya thinks he’s definitely seen her around before, maybe in his stats class last semester, though he can’t say for certain.

“Sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all as she leans her arm along the back of her chair to face him properly. “You’re Ilya Rozanov, right?”

“Guilty,” Ilya replies, straightening in his seat.

“Thought so,” she says, her smile widening. “I’ve seen you play. You’re really good.”

“I know,” he says, and grins when she laughs, delighted with the attention.

They talk for a minute or two, not about anything substantial. It doesn’t require any effort on his part, mostly just eye contact and the right amount of teasing, all while the professor continues to drone on at the front of the room. This girl has a nice laugh, and Ilya wonders that he wouldn’t mind seeing more of her, later, not in an academic environment.

“Are you going to the Zeta Phi thing tonight?” she asks eventually, dropping her voice slightly, like it’s some sort of secret—despite the fact that half the university is probably attending.

Ilya considers it for a second. Bood had mentioned it a couple days ago, but to be completely honest, he’d forgotten all about it until now. He shrugs, easy and noncommittal. “Maybe,” he says with a smile.

It’s apparently the right answer, or at least a good enough one, because the girl giggles and bites back another smile. She flirtily says something about hoping to see him there, before she turns back around to face the front.

The second she’s fully turned away, J.J. leans forward across Hollander’s lap, grinning wide.

“We all know you’re gonna be there,” he whisper-yells, loud enough that Ilya has to shush him with a laugh, glancing over to make sure she hasn’t overheard.

“Obviously,” he says, not bothering to deny it. “You know I wouldn’t miss a party, Boiziau.”

J.J. laughs again, shaking his head, then nudges Hollander’s arm with his elbow. “You should come too, man.”

Hollander doesn’t bother looking up from his notebook. “No thanks.”

“Come on, capitaine,” J.J. complains. “You never come to anything.”

“We have practice tomorrow,” Hollander says, finally looking up—first at J.J. and then, for a beat longer than necessary, at Ilya. As he does so, something unreadable flickers behind his eyes, before he looks back down at his notebook and adds, flatly: “You guys should probably remember that.”

“Boo,” J.J. says, unbothered by the reminder. “You’re no fun.”

“Whatever, man.”

Ilya, for god knows what reasons, finds himself unwilling to let it go quite as easily. He turns slightly in his seat, arranging his face into the most exaggerated, pleading expression he can manage. He pulls out all the stops, widening his eyes and even pouting—the full performance.

“Come on, Hollander,” he pleads. “I will even promise not to drink too much…but only if you come.”

“Yeah, right,” Hollander scoffs.

“I’m serious,” Ilya insists.

“No,” Hollander says again, though there’s something faintly, almost amused tugging at the corner of his mouth, like he’s trying to fight it.

Ilya holds out his pinky finger then, entirely undeterred. He waggles it slightly in the space between them. “Pinky promise?”

Hollander stares at it for a solid three or four seconds, like Ilya’s making him a ridiculous offering, which he supposes he kind of is. Ilya is fully expecting him to just turn back to his notes and ignore the whole thing, when—with a long sigh and an exaggerated eyeroll—Hollander hooks his pinky finger around Ilya’s.

It’s such a small thing, so small that it shouldn’t feel like anything at all. And yet, something small tugs in Ilya’s chest, right as he watches the corner of Hollander’s mouth actually curve now, into something that might be called a smile, if you’re being generous. It only lasts half a second, just like earlier when his eyes widened, but it feels realer this time.

“There,” Hollander mutters, already retracting his hand, looking vaguely disgusted. “Happy?

“Delighted,” Ilya says, and means it.

“Let’s fucking go, cap!” J.J. grins, happiness written all over his face. “Your first party of the semester, baby, let’s go—”

“J.J.,” Hollander snaps, mortified, hunching slightly like he’s trying to physically shrink away from the attention. “Shut up, bro.”

“I’m just saying, this is a big moment for me.”

“It’s one party.”

“Not to me, Shane.”

“Fuck off,” Hollander mutters, though there’s no real heat in it, just quiet, embarrased fondness.

The professor thankfully wraps up the lecture a few minutes later, dismissing them with a reminder about next week’s reading that realistically, no one’s gonna do. The lecture hall grows loud with the rustle of everyone starting to pack up. Ilya slings his backpack over one shoulder, and falls into step with the rest of the crowd as they head toward the exit. He splits off from J.J. and Hollander at the aisle, heading toward the front doors while they head toward the library—which is probably Hollander’s favorite place, he thinks, besides the rink of course.

“See you tonight, Boiziau,” he calls over his shoulder.

“Wouldn’t miss it!” J.J. calls back, grinning.

Ilya pauses, then glances back toward them.

“Looking forward to seeing you there, Hollander,” Ilya says, unable to resist one last push.

Hollander rolls his eyes, though he doesn’t look annoyed, not really.

“Okay, Rozanov,” he says, and turns to go. Ilya watches him leave, then begins to make his way home, too.

The rest of his afternoon passes by unhurriedly. Ilya gets back to apartment 1221 a little after two p.m., and tosses his bag by the door where it’ll be ignored until Sunday at the earliest. He walks into the main room, finding Wyatt on the couch with a controller in hand, Mario Kart paused mid-race on the TV.

“Oh, it’s you,” Wyatt says, then tosses the second controller in Ilya’s direction. He snatches it out of the air with a scowl.

“Try not to sound too happy to see me, Hazy,” he remarks, and sits down. Wyatt says nothing, just laughs at his expense. Ilya chooses Bowser, as always, while Wyatt picks Wario (which is a weird fucking choice, but Wyatt’s kind of a weird guy, after all). They play longer than they probably should—one race turning into another, then into a full Grand Prix, which Ilya wins, obviously. He blue-shells Wyatt right on the last lap of Rainbow Road, before getting up and celebrating probably more than a 21-year-old college student should be doing after winning a game of Mario Kart.

“You’re the worst fucking person I know,” Wyatt tells him flatly, watching the replay of his kart spiral off the track.

“I think you mean I am the best,” Ilya counters. “Especially at Mario Kart,” he adds, setting his controller down.

Wyatt rolls his eyes, but doesn’t correct him.

Marly ends up getting back to the apartment around five, loud as always and letting the door slam shut behind him. Ilya, meanwhile, is hungry and has been scrolling through mukbangs on his phone for the past hour rather than getting up and making food. He sends Marly back out for McDonald’s no more than five minutes after he gets home, on the grounds that Marly still owes him gas money from two weeks ago and that getting Ilya a McChicken will be his way of paying him back.

“I’d rather just give you the money,” Marly complains, even as he’s grabbing his keys again.

“Don’t forget my McFlurry!” Ilya calls back.

“Fuck you and your McFlurry,” Marly shoots back, but he goes anyway, and comes back later with three big bags of fries, burgers, as well as Ilya’s McFlurry. Bood is also home by then, so the four of them eat crowded around the coffee table while Wyatt cracks open the first round of beers for pregaming.

They sit there for an hour or so, eating their food and drinking beer after beer, until it starts to get dark outside and the four of them collectively decide they should probably start getting ready to go. Tipsy, Ilya showers and gets dressed, going through the motions without really following them, guided by the sound of Bad Bunny echoing around the apartment. He’s positively buzzing by the time they’re finally pulling on jackets and heading out the door toward the frat.

═══════

The party passes by in more of a blur than Ilya’s used to—time moving strangely quickly once the pregame tipsiness morphs into Ilya actually being drunk. This was also helped (or not, Ilya isn’t sure yet) by the joint Dallas Kent offered him like five minutes after he walked through the door, and although Ilya can’t stand Kent—he’s loud and mean and laughs at things that aren’t funny and are instead just plain offensive, just like he did in the locker room two weeks ago—he still accepts. By the time he’s had two hits, the whole party has gone soft and fuzzy around the edges, and the music is thumping so hard in his ears that he feels like his whole head is vibrating.

Ilya loses his roommates somewhere around then. Luckily, he isn’t alone for too long because the girl from the lecture earlier, the one who invited him, finds him. Or, Ilya finds her—he doesn’t know, the details have gone a little slippery—but either way she ends up on his lap on one of the frat’s ratty couches, legs thrown over his while her fingers thread lazily through his curls. She leans close to his ear to say something that he doesn’t quite catch over the music, something about how good he looks tonight, maybe, though he can’t be sure. He hums back at her anyway, noncommittal, and she seems satisfied enough with that because she starts pressing kisses to his jaw and down the side of his neck, her lips warm against his skin as she mumbles her name to him: Shannon Hollis.

Hm.

And Shannon’s great, she really is. She’s stunning, and is clearly into Ilya, but he can’t seem to focus on that because some small, stubborn part of his brain won’t allow him to stop gazing around the room—scanning faces and subconsciously taking note of who’s here and who isn’t. He notices J.J. near the kitchen doorway, a red Solo cup in hand as he laughs at something alongside Hayden Pike. There’s a girl with them too, dark hair, pretty like a doll, who Ilya assumes is Jackie, Pike’s girlfriend.

He doesn’t see Hollander anywhere.

Which is fine, obviously. It’s whatever. Hollander never comes to parties, and it’s not like Ilya’s been counting on him actually showing up or anything, pinky promises aside. Still, his eyes do another lap of the room anyway, before he abruptly decides that he needs another drink.

“I’ll be right back,” he tells Shannon, easing her off of his lap carefully. When she pouts a little, he says, “Do you want anything?”, and she nods, handing him her cup.

It feels much louder in the kitchen, somehow, or maybe Ilya just felt detached from the party in the living room with Shannon. He pushes through the crowd of people doing shots at the kitchen island, spotting J.J. again along the way, still with Pike and Jackie beside him.

“Rozanov!” J.J. says, brightening immediately, raising his cup in what seems to be an attempt at a salute. “There you are.”

“Here I am,” Ilya says, grabbing a bottle of vodka off the counter and filling most of his cup with it.

Pike, beside J.J., appears much less enthusiastic. He only gives Ilya a short nod, which is understandable—they’ve never really gotten along. Ever since freshman year, the two have done nothing but clash, butting heads over the dumbest things. Admittedly, most of it stems from the fact that Pike is Hollander’s best friend and is fiercely protective over him for whatever reason—Hollander is a grown adult and can take care of himself for god’s sake—and Ilya loves to irritate their hockey captain more than anything.

“Have you seen Shane?” J.J. asks, leaning slightly closer to Ilya so he can be heard over the music. “He isn’t answering any of my texts.”

“Nah,” Ilya replies, shrugging, splashing a little more vodka into the cup than he probably needs. “Have not seen him all night.”

J.J. groans theatrically. “Of course he isn’t here. I should’ve known, but that fucking pinky promise lowkey convinced me.”

“Pinky promises mean nothing to Hollander, apparently,” Ilya says with a smirk, tipping his head back to chug half of his drink in one go. Then, without really thinking, he adds, “He is too boring to leave his room on a Thursday, probably.”

He truly, wholeheartedly means it as a joke, but it doesn’t land. J.J.’s face drops, and he looks both disappointed and offended at once. A flicker of a frown crosses his face before he looks away. Meanwhile, Pike doesn’t bother to hide his reaction at all.

“Shut the fuck up, Rozanov,” Pike says sharply.

“Whoa,” Ilya retorts, holding his hands up as he feigns innocence, though he does feel quite guilty. “It was a joke.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t funny,” Pike mutters.

Jackie rubs Pike’s arm, then shyly tucks a dark strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m sure he’ll swing by later,” she says, mostly to her boyfriend and J.J., though her eyes do flick toward Ilya too, for the briefest of seconds. “He said he was going to, right?”

“I dunno,” J.J. says with a sigh, though his mood seems to improve at her attempt to cheer him up anyway. “Maybe.”

He says this, though none of them look particularly hopeful. Ilya drains the rest of his cup, taking the silence as the unspoken understanding between the four of them that, no, Hollander isn’t coming. The pinky promise from earlier was clearly just a fluke, a way for Hollander to get out of the conversation easily, clearly holding less weight for him than it does for Ilya. He doesn’t want to sound like a fucking child, but c’mon—you don’t break pinky promises.

Ilya resists the urge to sigh and pours himself another drink, then grabs a second one for Shannon while he’s at it. On his way out of the kitchen, he accepts two shots lined up on the counter, and drinks them back to back, the burn of the liquor barely registering anymore as he heads back to the couch, where Shannon is exactly where he left her. She beams as Ilya hands her the drink, curling back into his lap while her mouth finds his ear again between sips.

Time starts to get away from Ilya again after that. He drinks more and more—another shot here, half a beer there…whatever he can get his hands on, really. Shannon’s fingers are curled at the back of his neck, and they feel nice and warm against his skin. At some point, though he isn’t entirely sure when, she pulls back slightly, a small smile pulling at the corners of her lips.

“You wanna get out of here?” she asks, and she’s so close that Ilya can feel the words more than hear them, lips grazing softly over his ear. Her hand trails down his chest. “My place is like, two minutes away from here.”

And Ilya does—or, at least he did, earlier, back in the lecture hall when she’d first turned around. For most of tonight too, if he’s being honest, her mouth tempting him for hours. Really, it should be an easy yes. It’s always easy to agree to go home with a pretty girl, and Ilya does it at every party he’s at.

Except, right as he opens his mouth to agree, an image surfaces in the foreground of his mind, so much clearer than his blurred vision: Hollander’s face in the lecture hall, flat and stern and littered with freckles, reprimanding him about hockey practice.

It’s a weird thing to be thinking about, because Ilya always has hockey practice. Sometimes he even gets tired of it, feels like hockey is the only fucking thing he does—but tonight it feels significant, somehow. He has practice tomorrow. He should remember that.

“Rain check?” he says instead, and it sounds silly even to him. “I have practice tomorrow. Early.”

Shannon blinks at him, visibly thrown by his words. She doesn’t look offended, just confused, like she’s completely misread the situation—which she has, but it isn’t by any fault of her own.

“Oh,” she says. “Sure, yeah. Okay.”

“Sorry,” Ilya says, though he doesn’t entirely know what he’s apologizing for as he eases her gently off of his lap and stands up. It takes slightly more effort than it should. “Next time.”

“Yeah,” she answers, still looking a little baffled by the whole thing. “Sure. Whatever.”

Ilya doesn’t stick around long enough to see whether she actually believes him. He just grabs his jacket out from the pile by the stairs, mutters something vague to Marly about heading home, then lets himself out of the frat house and into the cold. The night air hits him hard when he’s outside—freezing cold compared to the thick heat of the party. It almost makes his eyes water, and definitely sobers him up a tad, but not nearly enough. He starts to walk in what he’s roughly 90% sure if the right way home, feet unsteady against the icy sidewalk while his breath fogs out in front of him.

Somewhere around the second block, Ilya decides to cut through campus to get home, partly because it’s faster and partly because campus is much better lit than the street, which makes his way home feel less like an invitation to get mugged. It’s obviously desolate at this time of night, most of the buildings dark, and it’s so quiet that he can hear the crunch of his own footsteps against the crisp snow.

Although, his footsteps are only that loud because he’s stumbling a little—not much, but to the point where he’s walking with his head down, staring at his feet to make sure he doesn’t accidentally trip over one of them. The alcohol buzzing through his veins does little to ward off the cold, and by the time Ilya passes by the library, his throat is dry from the smoke, drinks, and cold air—and he decides he’s thirsty. Luckily, there’s a water fountain only a little bit further down the path, one of the outdoor ones the university has installed every few hundred feet along the main pathways, presumably for exactly this kind of moment, although Ilya is doubtful this particular case is what they had in mind. He walks towards it without any hesitation, then leans down to press the button. It takes a short moment for the fountain to sputter to life, before the faucet starts spilling with water. Ilya drinks straight from it, lapping it up like a dog, some of it running cold down his chin and down his shirt. It’s honestly kind of gross, because who knows whose hands and mouths have touched this exact thing over the years, but Ilya’s so thirsty that he’s happy to just ignore that right now, because this water is the best water he’s ever had in his life, he thinks.

He straightens up eventually, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, breath still fogging out in front of him. That’s when he spots him—a few feet down the path, sweaty and breathing hard, dressed in running gear that doesn’t look anywhere near warm enough for this weather.

“Hollander?” Ilya calls out, more out of surprise than anything else. His voice carries out loudly in the quiet.

Hollander jumps, actually jumps, his shoulders startling like he’s just been caught doing something illegal. His eyes are wide for half a second before he registers that it’s only Ilya. It’s such a not-Hollander reaction that Ilya almost laughs, except he’s too busy being startled himself, because he didn’t expect to run into anyone out here, let alone Hollander of all people.

He doesn’t run off, though—just stands there, chest still rising and falling from whatever exercise he’s apparently been doing at one in the morning. He stands and watches Ilya close the distance between them, wearing an expression that looks like he’s trying to appear calm but isn’t quite managing it.

“You broke your pinky promise,” Ilya says the second he’s close enough, folding his arms over his chest and hoping he looks offended.

Hollander blinks his big doe eyes at him, visibly surprised. “What?”

“The party,” Ilya clarifies. “You didn’t come.”

Something flickers across Hollander’s face, then—recognition, followed immediately by something sheepish. His shoulders lift in a small, apologetic shrug. “Uh, no,” he admits.

“Why not?”

“It’s not really my scene,” Hollander says, before looking away. His gaze lands on the path, his feet, anywhere but Ilya, really. “I wouldn’t have known anyone there.”

“J.J. was there,” Ilya points out. “And Pike, and his girlfriend.”

Hollander shrugs again, offering nothing else. Ilya finds it mildly infuriating, honestly, given the amount of effort that went into him getting that damn pinky promise in the first place.

“I would have hung out with you,” Ilya says, before he can really think better of it.

Hollander laughs out loud at that, a surprised gasp more than anything. Ilya frowns, furrowing his eyebrows.

“What’s funny?” he demands.

“Nothing,” Hollander says, still faintly amused as he shakes his head.

“I am serious about this.”

“Sure, Rozanov.”

“We pinky promised,” Ilya says, a little annoyed now, holding up the finger in question and gesturing to it. “You can’t break it. Everyone knows that.”

Hollander doesn’t look convinced in the slightest, and his mouth twitches at the corner, which is probably the closest thing to a smile he can muster. He doesn’t say anything, letting the silence hang between them alongside the fog of each other’s breath mixing in the air. The quiet starts to feel more awkward the longer it stretches, neither of them knowing what to say next. Ilya clears his throat, mostly just to break the silence.

“So, what were you doing?” he asks. “If you weren’t at the party.”

“I was gonna go to bed early,” Hollander says sheepishly, glancing down at himself. His eyes widen a tiny bit, like he’s forgotten what he’s wearing. “I couldn’t sleep, though, so I figured I’d run to tire myself out.”

That explains the panting and the sweat, as well as the flush still sitting high on Hollander’s cheeks from exertion. His dark hair is damp at the temples, beads of sweat dripping down the side of his face. Ilya lets his gaze drift over him for a second too long—can’t really help it, if he’s honest—and Hollander seems to notice, and he shifts his weight in a way that looks like he’s trying to shrink into himself, like he doesn’t want to be looked at quite so directly.

“You should have just come to the party instead,” Ilya says. “Would’ve been more fun than running around in the dark like a crazy person.”

Hollander laughs again, much quieter this time. The sound is almost sad.

“Maybe,” he says, then catches himself and straightens. “We have practice tomorrow, though.”

Right. Of course. How could Ilya have forgotten, when it’s the whole reason he left?

“Ah, yes,” Ilya agrees. “Is why I left early, actually,” he tells Hollander then, before he can stop himself.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ilya nods. “I did not drink that much either.”

Something must be funny, because Hollander giggles yet again. It’s a real laugh this time, enough that it changes his whole face for a second. His smile is very bright, Ilya notices, and his shoulders shake with the motion. For a brief second, he lights up the whole dark street.

“What?” Ilya says, a little defensively. “What is so funny?”

“Nothing, nothing!” Hollander replies with a shake of his head, but he’s still smiling. “I just don’t believe you.”

“Why not? I am being serious.”

“Uh-huh.” Hollander tilts his head, something teasing sneaking into the tone of his voice, something Ilya isn’t used to. “Did you strike out or something? Nobody wanted to go home with you, so you just left?”

Ilya is suddenly so offended, he almost gasps. “I did not strike out,” he tells Hollander indignantly. “I had a very pretty girl wanting me to go home with her, but I said no. Because of you, actually— because you kept saying we have practice tomorrow like it is the end of the fucking world, and it got stuck in my head.”

He says it mostly to win the argument, just to prove a point, but once it’s out of his mouth, Ilya registers how it sounds, laid out like that. It sounds far too honest for what he really intended.

Hollander’s eyes go very wide, like a deer caught in headlights. Color rises fast in his face, more prominent than the cold or his run could ever account for. His face flushes completely pink, and Ilya just watches it. And then, from the way Hollander’s hands have curled slightly at his sides, he half-expects him to say something. Anything.

But he doesn’t, and the moment stretches out, quiet and awkward, before Hollander clears his throat and averts his gaze. He stares at the floor once again, jaw clenched like he’s swallowing back whatever he might’ve been tempted to say.

“I should, uhh, get home,” he says instead, voice a little rough.

“Right,” Ilya says. He feels a stab of disappointment land in his chest, though he’s not sure why. “Me too. Practice tomorrow.”

“Practice,” Hollander agrees, already taking a step back and putting distance between the two of them. He hesitates, though, glancing back once. “Will you be okay getting home?” he asks then, voice quieter. More shy.

Ilya is almost tempted to lie, to say no and act as if he’s more drunk than he actually is, just to buy a few more minutes of Hollander’s presence so he can figure out the real, deeper reason he didn’t come to the party. But Hollander is already shifting his weight from foot to foot, fidgeting like he can’t wait to leave—so uncomfortable in the situation that the lie immediately dies on Ilya’s tongue.

“Yeah. I’m good,” he says.

“Okay, then,” Hollander says. “Night, Rozanov.”

“Goodnight, Hollander.”

And then Hollander’s gone, jogging off down the path quicker than Ilya would’ve expected—it’s so quick that it’s more of a run than a jog, bordering on a sprint, honestly. It’s like he can’t get away from Ilya quick enough, like he wants to put as much space between them as possible as fast as possible. Ilya just stands there for a second, watching him go, before shoving his hands back into his pockets and beginning to walk home himself.

Chapter End Notes

ilya thinking shane doesn't have sexual feelings not realizing the person that has a crush on him is literally the Mayor of Pervertville lol

Chapter 2: things happen for reasons i can't ignore

Chapter Notes

first of all, i want to say thank you SO MUCH for all the love on this fic so far! i am truly blown away by the fact that i only posted chapter 1 like 2 days ago and it's already received 3k+ hits & 250+ kudos, that is actually just insane :')

and i'm so grateful for all the comments, you are all so sweet <3 i haven't replied to every single comment cause i sometimes don't know what to say / am too awkward lol, but i have read every single one and am so thankful for all your kind words!! thank you!!!!!!!! :) :) :)

tws for this chapter: homophobia (no slurs, but it's implied) & blood

+ russian conversations are in italics

By the middle of the season, Ilya feels like the personification of Montreal: completely snowed under.

His life is jam-packed with class, studying, and hockey, hockey, hockey—which is taking over his entire life at this point. Not that it wasn’t a big part of it before, but now Ilya feels like hockey is the first thing he thinks about when he wakes up, and the last thing on his mind before he falls asleep every night.

He feels like Hollander. Jesus.

Speaking of Hollander, he seems to be occupying more space in Ilya’s brain as of late. It’s probably because they’ve been spending so much time together—practice five times a week, plus the optional morning drills (that are no longer optional, according to Wiebe), and ethics class. He’s started to notice how Hollander drinks his coffee black, with no sugar, milk, or cream (which, gross) out of the same battered thermos every single morning. Hollander also reties his skates twice before every practice or game, even though they’re always tied perfectly the first time. A kind of ritual of sorts, it seems. Ilya’s also picked up on Hollander’s physical habits, like the tick in his jaw when he’s stressed out, or how his shoulders slump when he’s exhausted from running drills back to back. More than that—and more than he cares to admit—Ilya has been noticing the freckles still, weeks later. There’s just such an absurd amount of them, he can’t get over it. Some are more visible on certain days in comparison to others, depending on how much time Hollander’s spent outside.

But none of that means anything, obviously. It’s just the proximity, and Hollander’s his captain—he’s meant to pay attention to him.

Still. He notices it all. Ilya is a particularly observant person, after all. As the team’s alternate captain, it’s his job to read the team and make sure everybody’s on the same page. Hollander just so happens to be the guy that Ilya’s observant eye lands on most often.

Which is why he’s noticed that Hollander has been unbearable lately. Not actually unbearable, or difficult—he isn’t like that, not at all—but extremely wound tight with stress. Ilya can’t help but pick up on it.

He supposes he gets it though, because they’re set to play Concordia next week, McGill’s oldest and biggest rivals. It’s the rivalry game, the most important game for them to win of the whole season. McGill’s season practically relies on this game, so of course, Hollander has been losing his fucking mind over it.

In the week leading up to the Concordia game, Hollander is at practice with his skates laced before anyone else has even made it to the rink yet. He’s the last one to leave too, running extra reps and drills even after Wiebe has closed practice and everyone else has filed off toward the showers. His jaw ticks more than usual, a small, involuntary clench when a drill doesn’t go the way he wants it to, for instance. Hollander watches the footage back with his eyes narrowed while he harshly chews on the inside of his cheek. He looks so stressed that Ilya wants to rip the phone out of his hands and tell him to go home and relax.

It’s none of his business though, so he doesn’t. Instead, Ilya tries something less extreme, and approaches Hollander after practice on Friday, the day before the Concordia game.

“You good?” he asks, catching him alone outside of the showers after practice, which ran twenty minutes longer than scheduled, courtesy of Hollander himself, insisting they run extra drills, just in case.

“Fine,” Hollander grits out, flat and automatic, already turning to go.

“You look like you are about to throw up, Hollander.”

“What?” Hollander’s face scrunches up in annoyance, like an angry kitten. “No I don’t.”

“You cannot see you,” Ilya insists, and Hollander exhales sharply through his nose, closing his eyes for a second.

“I just want us to fucking win,” he says after a moment, quieter than his usual chipped delivery, like admitting this costs him something. “It’s fucking Concordia. Our biggest rivals.”

“I’m aware,” Ilya replies, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He doesn’t want Hollander to get more mad than he already is. “I have been on this team for as long as you have.”

“I know,” Hollander says, jaw ticking again. His gaze flicks upward to Ilya, avoiding his face and instead landing on his shoulder. He sounds almost apologetic, voice quieter now. “I just— I want it to go well. For everyone.”

Ilya detects the hidden meaning behind his words. Obviously, he wants the team to win—for himself and as captain—but there’s something else. Ilya suspects it might have something to do with the team itself, and Hollander’s distance from everyone on it except J.J. and Pike. Perhaps he wants to prove something, and Ilya can’t help but pity him somewhat. He doesn’t show it though, because Hollander wouldn’t appreciate that, so he just claps Hollander on the shoulder once, the same gesture he’d give to any other teammate in this situation.

“We’ll be fine,” he says, trying to be reassuring and not sure if he’s succeeding. “We are better than that shit team, anyway.”

Hollander almost smiles at that.

“Yeah, okay, Rozanov,” he says, clearly unconvinced.

“What? Is illegal to have confidence now?” Ilya exclaims, pretending to be offended.

“Confidence, or arrogance?” Hollander chuckles, and Ilya mock-gasps, feigning offense.

“It’s called being a leader, Hollander. You should try it,” he replies.

That earns him an actual eyeroll, which Ilya secretly decides is its own kind of twisted, personal win for him.

═══════

Saturday’s game is, to put it lightly, a battle. Concordia are fast and physical in a way Ilya hasn’t experienced before, causing the ref’s whistle to go more than it usually does in the first period. By the second intermission, they’re tied at 2-2, with Hollander having scored both goals for McGill. The crowd is going insane, loud enough that Ilya can practically feel their cheers in his teeth every time they shout out.

Hollander plays like a man possessed—winning every faceoff, the fastest on the ice, and even blocking a shot that’ll likely leave a nasty bruise on his thigh by tomorrow morning.

The tension on the ice is building now that there’s only around three minutes left of the game, and Ilya’s usually reliable composure feels a little thinner than normal. He’s starting to understand Hollander’s previous worries, because Concordia are playing better than ever before, and while he thinks McGill is more skilled, obviously, things could change at any moment.

But then, one of Concordia’s defensemen turns the puck over, careless with it, and Ilya’s moving before he’s fully processed what’s happening, closing the gap and swiping the puck off the other’s stick. He moves fast, spotting Hollander move up the ice out of the corner of his eye, his bright red bright in comparison to the maroon and gold of the two opposing players following him. Ilya’s got a good shot from where he is—a decent one he could just sling into the top corner, the kind of shot he’d take without a second thought during practice—but instead he slides it across the ice right to Hollander, and watches Hollander shoot it past the goalie before the other guy even has the chance to blink.

The puck has barely grazed the net when the buzzer sounds, and the building erupts into a chaotic mix of screams, cheers, and chants, while all of the McGill team pile onto Hollander at the boards, gloves flying and sticks raised. Hollander, buried somewhere in the middle of it all, looks—for the first time all week, or maybe even the first time Ilya’s ever gotten the pleasure to truly see—completely unguarded and happy. His grin is wide and real, nothing composed about it for once, as J.J. bonks their helmets together.

He manages to peel himself away from the pile once it’s slightly broken up, and approaches Ilya as they’re heading back toward the bench.

“Thanks,” he says, simple and direct, though his eyes are unusually bright, with flickers of light in his onyx irises. “For the pass.”

Ilya doesn’t really know what to say to that, so he just shrugs, smiling ever so slightly. Hollander looks at him for a second, something unreadable on his face, and then Ilya’s being hauled into a hug by Bood and Wyatt and turned away before he can decipher it.

So McGill beats Concordia, with a hat trick from their captain. It’s a good win. A great one, honestly, giving the team the buzz they’ve needed all season. By the time they’re filing off the ice toward the locker room, the whole group is still riding the electric high of it all.

“Let’s go out,” LaPointe says the second they’re back in the locker room. His sweat-soaked hair is plastered to his forehead. “Non-negotiable. We just beat fucking Concordia, we gotta celebrate properly!”

There’s a general chorus of agreement at that. Marly is especially vocal about it, of course; he loves to party. Troy nods along too, and even a couple of the freshmen look excited at the prospect of a celebration—though Luca, in the corner, glances around like he’s checking whether he’s actually invited.

“L’Atelier?” Wyatt suggests, naming the nearby student bar that the team almost always goes to for this kind of occasion. It’s big enough to fit the whole team as well as their various plus ones, and it’s cheap enough that nobody complains about the tab and drinks as much as they want.

“Obviously,” Kent says with a huff, like it was a ridiculous thing to ask.

After tugging his jersey over his head, Ilya, without quite meaning to, glances instinctively toward the side of the room where Hollander is. He can’t help it; at this point, the habit has become fully entrenched. When his eyes land on Hollander, he catches something that he recognizes almost immediately, a tightness around Hollander’s mouth. He’s gone very still, but Ilya knows it’s not from the game. He’s happy about that. This looks more like dread.

It clicks in Ilya’s mind instantly: bars, clubs, loud rooms packed with people—Hollander’s worst nightmare. It’s the same thing as the Zeta Phi party he never ended up attending. It’s not really my scene, he’d said.

Ilya’s not sure what inclines him to act on his thoughts. “Actually,” he says, loud enough to cut through the general chatter of the room, “why don’t we just do it at our place?”

A few heads turn, including Bood’s. He’s midway through unlacing one of his skates, and looks up with a vaguely confused expression on his face. “Ours?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Ilya nods, then swallows. “We have space in the apartment, and we can grab beer on the way. It’ll be cheaper than L’Atelier.” He shrugs, keeping his tone light and casual, like the idea has only just appeared to him out of the blue rather than something he’s actually thought about quite carefully. “Then we can celebrate just us, without all the other randoms at the bar.”

“Boo,” Kent immediately retorts, unimpressed. “L’Atelier has a better beer selection.”

“Our place is free, though,” Marly points out.

“And messy as fuck, probably,” Troy adds, though his grin indicates that he’s joking.

“I will shove my mess into my room so no one has to look at it,” Ilya quips with a roll of his eyes. A ripple of laughter follows, and the room settles, clearly fine with the change of plans. It’s not like L’Atelier holds any sentimental value to anyone, and free beer is always the way to sway anyone, especially a group of hockey players who’ve just won their biggest game of the season.

“Fine by me,” Bood says, then glances toward Ilya. “Cassie’s around tonight too, can she swing by?”

“Sure, why not,” Ilya replies, then turns to address the whole locker room. “Bring whoever you want, guys. Just not, like, the whole campus please.”

The room mostly settles after that. Some guys pull out their phones to text girlfriends or plus ones about the change of plans. Ilya lets the noise wash over him, satisfied by how easy it was to get his way, before his eyes find Hollander again. He’s still over by his stall, quieter than the rest of the room, packing up his stuff with the same efficient movements he uses for everything.

Ilya makes his way over to him, weaving through a couple of guys to get there, then drops onto the bench beside him.

“Are you coming?” he asks, keeping his voice low. It makes the question unintentionally feel more private than it probably should. Hollander looks at him, surprise flickering in his eyes—maybe at Ilya’s presence, or maybe at the question itself.

“To your place?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Ilya nods. “Will be chill. No one will make you do a keg stand.” He pauses. “Unless you want to. I would not stop you.”

Hollander huffs out sort of a laugh, then zips up his bag slowly, like he’s using the time to think of how to respond.

“Um, I’ll stop by,” he says eventually. “Just for an hour or two. I’ve got—” He gestures vaguely, assuming Ilya knows what he does with his Saturday nights, which he certainly doesn’t. He doesn’t bother asking right now, though. “Stuff,” Hollander finishes.

“An hour or two,” Ilya repeats, chest blooming with satisfaction. “I will take it.”

Hollander grimaces at that, scrunching his nose in disgust. “Don’t make it weird,” he says, though there isn’t any real edge to his words.

“Me? Never,” Ilya grins.

Hollander’s subsequent expression is flat and completely unconvinced, but he doesn’t chirp back again. He just throws his bag over his shoulder and stands, and Ilya, feeling suddenly like he’s accomplished something, decides to press his luck one more time before Hollander can escape toward the door—or the showers, or wherever the hell else he’s in such a rush to get to.

“Pinky promise,” he says, holding out his hand.

Hollander pauses, and looks down at Ilya’s hand for a brief second before his eyes trail back up to his face. His expression is a mix of exasperation and fondness, which is something Ilya’s begun to recognize and also look forward to, if he’s being honest with himself—which he mostly tries not to be about this kind of thing, because, well, it’s just fucking embarrassing, isn’t it?

“We already did this,” Hollander sighs.

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “But you broke it, so we must do it again. So you learn how a pinky promise actually works at the grown age of twenty-one.”

“I know how it works,” he retorts.

“Clearly not. Pinky promise, Hollander.” Ilya wiggles his finger for emphasis. “Don’t break it this time, or I will have to tell everyone you are scared of a house party.”

“I’m not scared of parties.”

“Prove it, then.”

Hollander sighs—the specific, long, deep sigh that he always seems to use with Ilya, one that Ilya’s kind of grown fond of by now—and hooks his pinky around Ilya’s. It’s a brief and businesslike transaction, and he pulls his hand back almost as soon as their fingers touch.

“There,” he says. “Are you happy now?”

“Very,” Ilya says, and is then gifted with the satisfying sight of a tiny smile tugging at the corner of Hollander’s mouth before he turns and heads for the door.

═══════

ilyusha
party tn at my place

sveta
👍
tell marleau that if there’s no vodka i’m leaving

ilyusha
got it

Ilya has known Svetlana Vetrova since he was a kid, back when their families lived two streets apart in Moscow, before both of them decided to get the hell out of Russia and attend university in Canada. The friendship has had its ups and downs but never faded, and she’s the one person on Earth Ilya feels like he doesn’t have to perform for at all.

They slept together for the first time when they were 15 or 16—Ilya can’t even remember anymore—and kept up the casual hookups until their sophomore year of college, when they both decided that they made better sense as just friends. With so many people to sleep with at McGill, they could just get rid of the benefits side of their friendship. Occasionally they joke about it, but neither of them have ever brought up having sex again, to the point where Ilya barely thinks about it as more than a joke these days. What’s replaced it is better—a true friendship where he can speak as comfortably and openly as he desires, as Svetlana’s the only person here he knows here that speaks Russian. She knows more about hockey than anyone, too, courtesy of a father who spent a decade as a goalie in the KHL.

As he’s setting up the beer pong table, Ilya idly thinks that Hollander and Svetlana would probably get along. It’s a strange thought to have, firstly because they’re such different people but also because he’s never thought to introduce Hollander to anybody in his life before, though Sveta is the rare kind of person that could probably hold Hollander’s attention, given her encyclopedic knowledge of hockey. He files the thought away and considers circling back to it later, if the opportunity ever presents itself.

By about ten p.m., the apartment is full. All the lights are on, and the music is loud enough that the downstairs neighbor has already sent Wyatt a passive-aggressive text. The kitchen counter is sticky with spilled beer, and there’s enough Solo cups strewn around that Ilya knows this is going to be a good party—one of the best he’s ever hosted, for sure. It’s a good crowd—even Dallas Kent isn’t being too insufferable—and not a complete out of control mess that you usually deal with as the host.

Svetlana arrives fashionably late, as always, wearing a leather jacket that is definitely not warm enough for the weather, holding a bottle of Beluga vodka she procured from god knows where. She greets Ilya with a kiss on both cheeks before immediately frowning at the music playing.

“This is embarrassing,” she informs him, nodding toward the speaker, which is playing some house remix. “Whoever chose this should be ashamed of themselves.”

“That would be Marly,” Ilya replies.

“Of course,” she sighs, and heads straight for the kitchen to pour herself a drink. She greets Marly and Bood, who both grin at her adoringly and murmur simultaneous hellos back.

The two of them end up at the beer pong table not long after, which is mostly Wyatt’s doing. He’s somehow dragged Troy into it, through great persistence, Ilya assumes. Troy is grumpy about it, just like he’s grumpy about literally everything, standing with his arms crossed while Wyatt arranges the cups. He perks up, however, once the game is underway, his competitive streak kicking in the second Svetlana gets her first ball into a cup so easily that he looks genuinely offended.

“She’s not even on the team,” Troy says, aggravated as he watches Wyatt fish the ball out of the cup.

“She’s probably better than most of the team,” Ilya replies, grinning. He lines up his own shot.

“Damn right,” Svetlana agrees, clinking her cup against his before he throws the ball—a little superstition they’ve been doing since high school, although Ilya’s fairly sure by now that it’s just habit rather than actual luck. Albeit, his shot goes in just as cleanly as Sveta’s, causing Wyatt to groan theatrically. Under his breath, Troy mutters something about the game being rigged, which causes both Ilya and Svetlana, as well as a few other people watching from the sidelines, to cackle.

It’s a good game of beer pong—very close for a few rounds, drawing in a larger crowd of spectators. Wyatt pulls off a very impressive bounce shot, which has everyone around the table cheering, though it isn’t enough to beat Svetlana and Ilya’s fourteen years worth of combined chemistry, and they begin to pull ahead.

Ilya is mid-celebrating a particularly good shot, grinning at Troy’s betrayed expression, when he sees the front door open in the periphery of his vision.

Hollander’s here—standing just inside the entryway. He’s still wearing his jacket, looking like he’s unsure whether he’s made the right call showing up, judging by the way his shoulders are hunched and his gaze nervously sweeps over the room. J.J. spots him pretty much instantly, crossing the room and shouting out to Hollander enthusiastically, which makes his posture ease, if only slightly. J.J. claps him on the shoulder and says something that gets a small, reluctant smile out of him.

Svetlana, following Ilya’s line of sight, digs her elbow into his ribs.

“Is that Shane Hollander?” she asks, in Russian.

“Yeah,” Ilya mumbles distractedly, watching J.J. steer him toward the kitchen.

“He looks terrified.”

“He doesn’t really do parties.”

Svetlana’s eyebrows raise. “Then why’s he here?”

Ilya contemplates lying, for some reason. He decides against it, though, because Svetlana would see right through it. No point in making her suspicious of him for no good reason.

“I invited him,” he tells her truthfully. Upon seeing how Sveta’s whole face lights up with interest, he suddenly wishes he had lied after all.

“You invited him,” she repeats, delighted. “Since when do you personally invite Shane Hollander to parties?”

“We won against Concordia,” Ilya says with a shrug, trying to be nonchalant and knowing he’s miserably failing. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Uh-huh,” Svetlana hums, still watching him. There’s something sharp and knowing behind her eyes now, the way it always gets when she’s curious. “So go say hi.”

Ilya’s heart skips a beat. “I will. Later,” he replies.

“He’s right there, Ilyusha.”

“I know?”

“Then go say hi,” she says again, gesturing pointedly toward the kitchen. When Ilya doesn’t move, instead just taking a sip of his drink, she narrows her eyes at him. “Why aren’t you going over there?” she asks. Are you scared? goes unspoken.

Ilya hesitates. She’s asking a completely fair question, albeit one he doesn’t have a great answer for, even in his own head. He usually isn’t like this, not shy about approaching anyone—least of all someone he invited to his party. Yet, there’s something stopping him, and Svetlana knows it, and Ilya knows she isn’t going to let this go.

So he decides to tell her.

“Okay,” he says, lowering his voice and leaning in slightly. “You have to promise not to say anything.”

“I’m not promising anything until I know what it is,” she retorts.

“Sveta.”

“Fine, fine.” She rolls her eyes, though she still looks interested. “I promise. What is it.”

Ilya glances toward the kitchen once more, then back at her, dropping his voice further—half out of instinct and half because it feels, saying it loud, like something that shouldn’t be said too loud. “Hollander…he, um— apparently he has a…crush on me.”

There’s a beat of silence where Svetlana just blinks at him, seemingly processing the information, before she bursts out laughing. It’s loud and completely unrestrained, the kind of laugh that turns people’s heads, including—Ilya notices with a flush of mortification—Hollander’s, from where he is over in the kitchen.

“Sveta,” Ilya hisses, grabbing her arm. “Shut up.”

“Sorry, sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. In fact, she’s still grinning, though she is trying to get herself back under control. “Sorry, I just—” She shakes her head, genuinely amused. “I don’t believe that for a second.”

“It’s true!” Ilya insists, almost desperately.

“Shane Hollander.” She says the name slowly, like she’s testing whether it sounds any more plausible out loud. “Likes you?”

“That’s what Jackie said,” Ilya tells her, a little defensive now. Surely the thought of someone having a crush on him isn’t so ridiculous. “In the library, she was telling Pike. Marly overheard it.”

Svetlana still looks skeptical, though she seems to at least be entertaining the possibility now, glancing back toward the kitchen with fresh interest. “Okay…” she says slowly. “Let’s say I believe you. What is the big deal? He can have a crush on you, and you can still go say hello. Does having a crush on someone suddenly make him incapable of receiving a greeting?”

Ilya sighs, rubbing his face over his hand. “I don’t want to give him the wrong idea,” he says.

“What wrong idea?”

“I don’t know,” Ilya says, waving his hand about vaguely. “Like, lead him on, or whatever. Make him think I’m—” He doesn’t finish the sentence, not entirely sure how to.

Svetlana looks at him for a long moment. She wears an unimpressed expression on her pretty face that makes Ilya suddenly feel like he’s said something very, very stupid, without even realizing it.

“That’s bullshit,” she says, flatly.

“It isn’t—”

“It’s bullshit, Ilya. He clearly already knows you’re straight— he hasn’t made a move on you in however long this has been going on, has he?” She picks at one of her perfectly manicured nails. “You don’t seem to care about leading anyone on when it’s some girl looking at you the same way.” She gestures toward the kitchen, the beer pong table, in the general vicinity of every girl who’s looked twice and Ilya tonight. “You didn’t worry about giving that girl by the fridge the wrong idea an hour ago.”

Ilya stiffens. “That’s different,” he says.

“Is it?”

“Of course.”

“How is it different?”

Ilya opens his mouth, then closes it again—genuinely struggling to articulate an answer that sounds reasonable rather than prove exactly what Svetlana’s clearly already thinking. Her eyebrows are still raised, waiting.

“Ilya,” she says, slower now. Her tone is more serious. “Don’t be fucking homophobic.”

“What?” Ilya exclaims. “I’m not!” he immediately denies, genuinely stung by her accusation. “I’m not. Sveta, come on.”

“I’m just saying,” Svetlana shrugs. “That’s what it sounds like to me.”

“It’s not that. I’m not—” He shakes his head, frustrated by the fact that he doesn’t have a good answer. He hates it. “I don’t care that he’s gay.”

“Maybe you think so,” Svetlana says, not unkindly, although there’s still an edge to her words. “Maybe it’s one of those subconscious things.”

“I am not homophobic, Sveta. I promise you.”

She studies him for a moment longer, and whatever she sees—or doesn’t see—seems to satisfy her enough, for now, because she reaches up and pats his cheek, almost fond despite herself.

“Okay,” she says. “I guess I believe you.” She straightens, stepping back. “But I’m watching you, understand? If I find out you’re being weird about this— him, I will fucking kill you.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it, Ilyusha.”

“I know, Sveta.”

She holds his gaze for one more beat, long enough to prove her point, then smirks and grabs her drink off of the table. She turns to walk off toward the kitchen, presumably in the exact direction Ilya is expected to go now. She just leaves him, standing there by the beer pong table with a lot more to think about than he had five minutes ago.

And it’s not the accusation itself that bothers Ilya so much as the fact that he doesn’t have a clean rebuttal for it. Every time he tries to construct one in his head, it collapses, leaving him with nothing but a vague, uncomfortable feeling and Svetlana’s voice echoing in his head. It makes him decide, right then and there, that he’s going to find Hollander and say hello. Be normal about it, the way he’d be at any other party, with anyone else. If he doesn’t do it now, he’s going to spend the rest of the night with Svetlana’s words looping uselessly through his mind.

He doesn’t see him with J.J. anymore, which is the first problem—J.J. is over by the couch now, deep in conversation with a girl Ilya doesn’t recognize, and Hollander is nowhere in sight. Ilya does a slow lap of the main room, nodding along to a couple of conversations he’s pulled briefly into, scanning faces without much success, until he ends up—somewhat reluctantly—in front of Hayden Pike.

Who is probably the person Ilya least wants to see right now. Pike is injured for the season, so what the fuck is he even doing here? Ilya can’t believe he’s in his apartment right now.

“You seen Hollander?” he asks, trying to keep his tone as neutral as he can manage. Admittedly, it isn’t his strongest skill where Pike’s concerned.

Pike gives him an assessing look, a little suspicious, like he’s trying to figure out what Ilya could possibly want with his precious captain and best friend. He stares for a second, then shrugs. “Balcony, maybe?” he says, somewhat uselessly. “He said something about needing some air.”

“Thanks,” Ilya says, and doesn’t wait around for whatever terrible quip Pike is bound to throw at him next.

The balcony Pike was talking about turns out to be Ilya’s own—small, barely big engine ugh for two people, that Ilya uses mostly for smoking, or sometimes, staring blankly at sky and hoping his mother is looking down at him and liking what she sees.

He squeezes past a couple making out right outside his bedroom door and finds Hollander exactly where Pike said he’d be: leaning against the railing with his jacket still zipped up. He’s gazing outwards, and startles slightly when the door slides open, the same reflexive jump he’s been doing more often when Ilya sneaks up on him lately.

“Rozanov,” he says, straightening. “Sorry, I— what are you doing here?”

“This is my room,” Ilya tells him simply. At this, Hollander’s face falls, followed almost immediately by mortification, proven by the color rising in his cheeks. He turns bright pink, bright against the darkness of his freckles.

“Oh god. Sorry, I didn’t— J.J. said there’d be a balcony, I didn’t think about who’s room it’d be attached to.” He’s already half-turning like he’s preparing to leave. “Sorry. I’ll go.”

“You don’t have to go,” Ilya says, surprising himself with how fast the words spill out of his mouth. “Is fine. What are you doing out here?”

“I, uh…I just needed a minute,” Hollander admits, mortification seeping into something more sheepish. “Away from the whole—” He points at the open door, through which you can see the crowded living room. The noise is audible even from out here. “Party,” he finishes glumly.

Ilya feels something twist a little in his chest at that—an unexpected sense of guilt as well as a bit of uncomfortableness, seeing as the entire reason he’d suggested his own apartment over L’Atelier was specifically so Hollander wouldn’t end up feeling exactly like this.

“Sorry it is so crowded,” he says, leaning against the railing a few feet—not quite beside Hollander but close enough. “I did not mean for this, when I suggested celebrating here instead of the bar.”

Hollander glances over, his expression shifting into something akin to confusion, as if Ilya’s apology has caught him off guard. “What did you want?”

Ilya shrugs. “I don’t know. For you to have a good time, I guess,” he says, and then, aware of how that sounds, adds: “You deserve to celebrate as well. You scored hat trick, which is a big deal.”

Surprise washes over Hollander’s face at that, alongside something else Ilya can’t quite put a name to. He holds Ilya’s gaze for only a beat longer before looking away, back out toward the parking lot. His jaw is working slightly, like he’s silently trying to figure out what to do with Ilya’s words.

“For what it’s worth, I am having a good time,” he says eventually, voice quiet.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Ilya retorts. “You are out here hiding on my balcony.”

“I’m not hiding,” Hollander instantly responds, then sighs. “I just needed some air.”

“Right,” Ilya says, not enjoying being fed the same lie as Pike. He forces himself to grin then, unable to resist pushing at it a little. “So, does this mean I will be seeing you at more parties? Now that you have discovered the concept of fun?”

Hollander laughs half-heartedly, then shakes his head. “Maybe,” he says, which isn’t a no, and Ilya’s grin grows, swelling with satisfaction.

They fall quiet after that, and it’s not an uncomfortable silence, but a relaxed one. It feels natural, the two of them standing close together in the cold with nothing particularly urgent left to say. Though Ilya’s mind can’t help but wander back to the thought he’d had earlier in the kitchen—namely that Svetlana and Hollander would get along if he introduced them. Maybe then Hollander would want to socialize, if he knew he had someone to talk puck with all evening without them getting bored. He turns his head to say something about it, only to find Hollander already looking at him.

Really looking, too. Not the brief glances Hollander usually spares him, but something more deliberate. His bottom lip is caught between his bottom teeth in a way that looks almost unconscious, like he’s not fully aware he’s doing it. Ilya’s eyes dart down to his mouth, the way his bottom lip is plump and wet and slightly red where he’s biting on it.

The second their eyes actually meet, Hollander looks shocked, and his teeth release his lip immediately while his gaze darts away toward the parking lot again. His blush deepens, turning his face even pinker.

Ilya doesn’t say anything about it—doesn’t really trust himself to, honestly. There’s a strange awareness of Hollander’s face, his mouth, settling low in his stomach that he doesn’t feel like poking at. It burns more than any vodka could.

He wonders, not for the first time tonight (and certainly not for the first time in general), whether this whole crush thing is actually true after all—whether that’s what this is, Hollander’s lingering gaze, and his flustered retreat the second he’s been caught doing it. It’s not something Ilya has been able to confirm or deny since the whole thing came to light, mostly because Hollander’s default behavior has stayed so relentlessly and boringly normal. But there’s something about the quietness of the moment now, where there’s nobody else around to perform for, that the theory starts to feel a little more plausible.

He shakes it off, or tries to, forcing his voice back to something light and casual.

“You should meet Svetlana,” he says.

Hollander blinks, evidently caught off guard by the change of subject. “W-why me?” he asks.

“She would like you,” Ilya replies simply. “She is obsessed with hockey, maybe even more than you.” He grins. “Her dad is Sergei Vetrov. Goalie in the KHL. You know him?”

Hollander’s whole face changes then, his eyes blowing wide as his jaw drops. He looks unguardedly happy for the first time all night.

“Sergei Vetrov is her father?” he says, and his voice has actually raised a few octaves. He sounds so animated, Ilya’s never heard him like this before. “What the fuck? He was insane, had one of the best save percentages in the league. I used to watch clips of him all the time when I was a kid, he had this—” He stops himself, realizing how much he’s suddenly talking. Color flushes his cheeks again, though for an entirely different reason this time. “Sorry. You don’t— anyway.”

“No, don’t,” Ilya cuts him off. Without even realizing it, he’s been charmed by Hollander’s sudden burst of enthusiasm. There’s something endearing about how he opens up, both vocally but also physically, his posture much more relaxed than it was a moment ago. “It is cute, how you are suddenly a person instead of a robot.”

“Hey, I’m always a person,” Hollander snaps, glaring, but there’s no heat in his eyes.

“Hm, debatable,” Ilya hums, but he’s joking. Obviously.

Hollander rolls his eyes, though the flush of excitement remains under his skin. For a second, Ilya just watches him while something warm and a little unfamiliar blooms behind his ribs at having caused this expression of his. It doesn’t last long, though, because soon enough Hollander’s face starts to settle back toward its usual neutral composure—though something vaguely nervous lingers underneath it now, as his gaze drifts past Ilya and toward the open bedroom door.

“Where’d she go?” he asks, scanning what little he can see of the living room from here. “Your girlfriend.”

Ilya blinks. “My— what?”

“Svetlana,” Hollander says, like it’s obvious.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Ilya says quickly—faster than he means to, the words out before he’s had the chance to think about why the correction feels so urgent. Hollander frowns at that, confused.

“Oh. Sorry, I just— I thought—” he starts, then shakes his head. “Who is she, then?”

“We grew up together. Back in Russia,” Ilya explains. “She is my best friend. Basically family at this point.”

He doesn’t elaborate further than that—or, not right away, at least. He isn’t exactly sure how much detail is actually necessary to tell Hollander, or why he’s suddenly hyperaware of choosing his next words carefully. But Hollander’s just looking at him, his face open and confused, and it makes Ilya feel like leaving it half-explained would be worse than just admitting it. If he tells the full truth, at least Hollander can’t fill in the blanks with whatever horrible thing may come to mind.

“We used to fuck sometimes,” he adds. “In high school, and then for a while in university. But then we decided we are better just as friends.” He shrugs, trying his best to appear as casual as possible. “So, not girlfriend. Just Sveta.”

Hollander doesn’t react to that at all. He just nods, like he’s retained the information but is completely unbothered by it.

“Wow,” he says then, quietly. “I thought you guys had been dating for like, three years,” he adds. “I dunno why…I guess I just assumed.”

“We’re not,” Ilya tells him for the third time now, strangely insistent about it.

“Right,” Hollander nods again. “Sorry. I just thought—” He trails off, not finishing his thought, as his gaze drifts back over the railing instead.

The silence that follows lands heavily between them, charged with something Ilya doesn’t know how to name. They both just stand there in the cold, and Ilya is starting to wish he brought a jacket with him, but he doesn’t want to leave now.

“Are you?” he asks out of the blue, before he can really think better of it. He’s curious—plain and simple, except it doesn’t really feel plain and simple at all, but rather something he must know immediately. More than he’s needed to know anything in…a while.

Hollander glances over, knitting his eyebrows together. “Am I what?”

“Dating anyone.”

A flush of pink crawls up from Hollander’s collar, blooming across his cheeks and, once again, making the freckles there stand out sharper against his blush. He shakes his head, teeth catching his bottom lip again, chewing at it for a second before releasing it, the motion wetting it slightly. Ilya’s eyes follow the motion, tracking the slight sheen it leaves behind on his mouth.

“Uh, no,” Hollander says. “Obviously.”

“That isn’t obvious,” Ilya says truthfully. “You are very pretty.”

The sound that escapes Hollander is something between a scoff and a laugh, disbelieving as he shakes his head, like Ilya’s said something utterly absurd. “Fuck right off,” he chuckles.

“I am serious.” Ilya isn’t sure what Hollander finds so funny. He pushes further, part of him wanting to see the flush deepen, wanting to revel in the way Hollander squirms a little more under the weight of his words. “I am surprised guys are not lining up down the street for you.”

Hollander laughs again, properly this time—though there’s still a layer of disbelief to it, like the idea is genuinely ridiculous to him. “I’m very single,” he tells Ilya with a shake of his head. “Nobody is lining up for anything, believe me.”

He says it like the concept itself is crazy, and Ilya really doesn’t get that, if he’s being honest. Sure, Hollander can be a little boring sometimes, and painfully serious about hockey, but he’s also sweet under it all. He can be funny too, sometimes, with a dry sense of humor that’s always effective when he chooses to use it. And Hollander is—well. Objectively, if Ilya allows himself to actually look, he’d say that Hollander might be the most attractive guy he knows. He has big brown eyes that go soft and doe-like when he’s not got his guard up, eyelashes long enough that Ilya can see them from over three feet away, a mouth that’s full and pink and currently still damp from where he’s been biting at it.

And, of course: the freckles. God, the freckles…

“So, what?” Ilya says, working hard to keep his tone light and curious rather than anything else. “You just don’t date anyone? Do not fuck anyone, ever?”

Hollander’s flush deepens, going past the previous pink into a bright red—redder than Ilya’s ever seen him, even mid-suicide drills at the end of a brutal hockey practice, when his chest is heaving with exertion and he’s sweating all over. Hollander shifts his weight, gaze dropping briefly to the floor, and his fingers tighten slightly around the railing of the balcony.

“I do,” he says, so quiet that it’s almost mumbled. Then, quickly, like he’s just realized when he admitted to: “Not— not often. I mean. Sometimes.”

Ilya barely processes the correction. He’s still stuck on I do—the realization settling into his mind that, yeah, Shane Hollander has sex. It shouldn’t be a revelation at all, given that they’re both 21-year-old athletes and sex is, obviously, a completely normal and expected thing for a person their age to do. But somehow, it’s a shocking thing to think about for Ilya. He realizes that, in the three full years of knowing him, he’s never actually pictured Hollander in that kind of context before—as if some part of Ilya’s brain filed Hollander under a different category than everyone else he knows, one that doesn’t include sex. And now that he does know, he isn’t sure what to do with that information.

Not that he’s like…thinking about it, obviously. That would be super weird.

Except, Ilya can’t stop himself from wondering anyway—not about anything specific, but more the general sort of gist of it all. It’s a sudden kind of curiosity, one that’s so strong and abruptly prevalent in his mind that he couldn’t possibly push it down. Hollander’s so private about everything, to the point where Ilya genuinely forgot that he could have a sex life, which now that he thinks about it, is kind of insane. It’s such a stark contrast to the way things run at the apartment—Marly practically broadcasts his sexual experiences like a fucking podcast, Bood has been giving them constant updates about what’s going on with Cassie, and Wyatt occasionally chimes in about his hookups, too. Ilya knows exactly what all three of his roommates like and get up to in the bedroom, thanks to all the oversharing they do.

In comparison, he knows absolutely nothing about Hollander. Everything regarding Hollander and sex seems to be locked away in a room Ilya has only just discovered exists and will never get the key to.

Maybe Hollander likes sex slow and careful, like how he approaches everything else in his life. Or, maybe it’s the complete opposite—which could be plausible, since he’s so restrained about everything else. Maybe, somewhere private, that control breaks down, turning into something rougher and hungrier, allowing all of his carefully contained discipline to finally break loose.

Hollander does yoga, too—some weird ritual every morning before the optional skate, according to J.J., who talks about it with a kind of fond exasperation. Hollander’s probably flexible from all that, could probably fold into all sorts of positions without much effort at all—

Ilya blinks, cutting the thought off hard. An internal wall slams down over his mind mid-sentence, filling him with a burst of relief, like he’s been underwater all this time and has finally come up for air. Hollander in such…positions doesn’t make sense anyway—he’s big and built, with broad shoulders and a solid chest, the kind of guy who’d obviously be doing the folding of someone else, not the other way around. Logically.

So why is Ilya’s brain unhelpfully and uncontrollably supplying images anyway? Ones of Hollander’s face, pretty in a sort of delicate way, girlish around the eyes and mouth despite the rest of him being built like a brick wall, with long legs that probably look nice under the dumb track pants he always wears, legs that would probably look even better spread open—

And, um. Now that’s definitely too far—a thought Ilya has absolutely no business having about anyone, let alone his own captain standing three feet away from him. Especially not after he decided to ask said captain about his sex life like it was any of his business in the first place.

His face is burning. Ilya can feel it. There’s actual heat crawling up his neck, while his heart thumps rapidly in his chest. A sense of unfamiliar shame sits low in his stomach, and it feels almost like guilt, like he’s crossed some invisible line into something he has no business knowing anything about. It feels, weirdly, like an invasion of Hollander’s privacy, though Ilya has never felt that way when gossiping about any of his other teammates’ sex lives before.

He clears his throat, the sound coming out loud and awkward, then forces his face to do something normal again. God only knows what he looks like right now, mouth hanging open like an idiot.

“Cool,” he says, immediately regretting it. It sounds too clipped, too weird, like he’s grading Hollander’s sex life on some invisible rubric. He coughs again, poorly covering it up. “Cool. That’s— yeah, um…cool.”

Hollander looks at him now, face twisted in confusion and his brows furrowed slightly. He looks almost wary, like he’s bracing for Ilya to say something else—something worse. There’s a flicker of nervousness in his look too, Ilya realizes. Is Hollander actually worried about what Ilya thinks of this? Ilya thinks that yes, maybe, he is, because Hollander looks embarrassed at having said any of it out loud at all.

“Did you get enough air?” Ilya asks then, desperate to steer them toward literally any other topic of conversation. “You want to head back inside?”

Hollander considers it for a second, his ears still faintly pink at the tips, and still looking like he hasn’t really got a clue what just happened between them. He glances down at his watch, then nods.

“Yeah, it’s uh— it’s getting late,” he says. “I should probably head home anyway.”

Ilya deflates a little at that, definitely more disappointed than he should be. He should be grateful, really, that Hollander is here at all—that he didn’t break his promise this time.

“You are really leaving?” he asks, and hears the way he sounds a little too invested. It sounds an awful lot like he’s asking Hollander to stay, which…which doesn’t make any sense at all.

“Yeah.” Hollander nods again, though there’s something distantly sad in it, like he’s not entirely thrilled about the idea either. “I’ve got…stuff tomorrow.”

For once, Ilya doesn’t push. He already knows what the answer would be if he tried, because he knows Hollander well enough to recognize that he’s made up his mind. He’s lucky Hollander came for an hour, even if he just stood on the balcony and got flustered about hockey goalies and admitting that he has sex sometimes. It’s more than Ilya’s gotten out of him in the three and a bit years they’ve known each other and played on the same team.

“Okay,” he shrugs, then gestures toward the door, stepping aside. “After you.”

Hollander gives him a small, slightly confused look at the gesture, almost like he doesn’t entirely know what to do with it. It only lasts a second though, before he moves past and walks back through Ilya’s bedroom.

The hallway is louder than the balcony, albeit significantly quieter than the main room. They’re not fully isolated anymore, but it feels private enough that Ilya still feels like he’s got Hollander in his own separate pocket from everybody else. They both stop in the hall, further apart than they were on the balcony, and the awkwardness from the balcony still lingers between them.

“Thank you for coming,” Ilya says.

“Thanks for the invite,” Hollander replies, and it sounds genuinely sincere, which makes something behind Ilya’s ribs go very hot and tight all at once.

“Will you come to more? Now that you have proven you can survive a party without dying?” Ilya asks.

Hollander’s mouth twitches. His expression looks almost teasing now. “If you offer me a pinky promise, maybe,” he says, and it catches Ilya so off guard that he stumbles over his response—something that has happened to him so little in life that he can count on one hand the number of occurrences he’s been rendered speechless.

“I— yeah, of course. I’ll— we can…I’ll offer you one,” he says, then immediately winces at how badly that comes out. He wonders if he can blame his alcohol intake and the fact that English isn’t first language on the complete absence of his usual smooth delivery, and that’s why he just stammered and stumbled over his words like a total idiot.

Amusement flickers in Hollander’s eyes, wiping away the last of the embarrassment that has been lingering on his face. He doesn’t comment on whatever the hell that was, which Ilya is more grateful for than he’s willing to admit.

“Okay,” he says instead, a little awkward now too, both of them apparently having run out of anything else to say. “Bye, Rozanov.”

“Bye,” Ilya mumbles back, watching him turn and head back toward the main room. Hollander makes a beeline for J.J. and Pike, presumably to say his goodbyes before leaving.

Ilya doesn’t follow. He doesn’t trust himself to watch Hollander say goodbye to Hayden Pike of all people without doing something stupid, like staring too long. He can’t let anyone see whatever is currently sitting hot in his chest, so instead, he ducks toward the bathroom—mostly as an excuse to put a door and a couple walls between himself and the rest of the party, locking it behind him with more force than is really necessary.

He flips the light on, instantly catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the sink.

Ilya’s face is properly flushed, a deep shade of pink sitting across his cheeks and trailing down his luck. He knows it isn’t from the general warmth of the room, or the cold from the balcony, or the alcohol. He stares at his reflection for a second, genuinely startled by the sight. It kind of feels like he’s staring at a stranger’s face rather than his own.

Ilya Rozanov is blushing, which is ridiculous, because Ilya Rozanov doesn’t blush. Never once in his life has he gotten properly flustered around anyone, until now—until a conversation about Shane Hollander’s sex life.

What the fuck?

He splashes some cold water on his face, more to calm himself down than any real belief that it’ll help. He pointedly doesn’t look back up at the mirror before he lets himself back out.

When he returns to the main room, Hollander is thankfully gone.

═══════

The hall for his ethics lecture is already mostly full by the time Ilya gets there, and he groans as he weaves through the aisle toward his usual seat. J.J. is already there, his backpack resting on his lap rather than under the seat, but the space between him and Ilya is empty. No Hollander.

It’s not even a big deal, but it throws Ilya off nonetheless. The gap between him and J.J. sits there, stark and too noticeable, like when you’re a kid who’s lost a tooth and keep running over the gap in your gums with your tongue. Hollander’s always early, without exception—the kind of guy who’d rather sit in an empty lecture hall alone for twenty minutes than be even a second late for class. Ilya doesn’t think he’s ever seen the seat empty, actually.

So where the fuck is he?

“Uh, where’s Hollander?” he asks as casually as he can manage, glancing toward the door as if the man in question might suddenly materialize out of thin air.

J.J. doesn’t answer right away. He’s staring straight ahead at nothing in particular, with dark circles sitting heavy under his eyes. He looks like he hasn’t slept properly in days, which is weird for him—someone who’s always so animated.

“Boiziau?”

“Hm?” J.J. blinks, like he’s just remembering where he is. “Sorry. What’d you say?”

“Are you good?” Ilya asks, growing concerned. “You look like a corpse.”

“I’m fine,” J.J. replies, which is obviously a lie. His gaze drifts off again toward the front of the lecture hall, his mind completely elsewhere. Ilya observes him for a moment, before J.J. seems to catch himself, sitting up a little straighter and turning to face Ilya properly. There’s a newfound urgency to his movements that completely contradict how sluggish he appeared before.

“Okay. You can’t tell a single soul what I’m about to tell you,” he says quickly and quietly, eyes going wide. “I mean it, Rozanov. Not a soul.”

“Okay…” Ilya nods, intrigued despite himself. “I promise.”

Ilya’s tempted to hold out his pinky, to show he really means it, but he gets distracted by the sight of J.J.’s expression, which lands somewhere between mortified and vaguely nauseated. He’s breathing heavily, like he’s bracing himself to say something he wishes he didn’t have to.

“I, uh…heard Shane have sex last night,” he says all in one breath, then instantly winces, like the sentence physically pained him to speak aloud. “Through the fucking wall,” he adds, shaking his head, “and now I deadass don’t know how to act around him.”

Ilya’s eyebrows shoot to the top of his forehead before he can stop them, which J.J. obviously notices. His face pales, and then he’s holding up both of his hands, surrendering.

“I’m not homophobic,” he says defensively. “Obviously. That’s not— just…if you’d heard what I heard, man, you’d get it. It has nothing to do with him being gay, I swear.”

Ilya’s curiosity, already piqued, grows stronger upon hearing that. “What’d you hear?” he asks.

“Dude, I can’t tell you that.”

“Of course you can,” Ilya says. “I’m not going to tell anyone.”

J.J. groans, dropping his head down against the table for a second. Ilya can see him internally wrestle with himself, until suddenly, he raises his head again, then leans closer to Ilya and drops his voice even lower—as if the words will summon Hollander if he says them too loud.

“He was loud,” he tells Ilya. “Like— really loud. I’ve never heard a guy make sounds like that before. Ever. I didn’t know that guys, like, did that.”

A part of Ilya wants to ask when else J.J. would’ve heard other guys having sex, but it’s pushed aside by the other part of him that freezes, his stomach lurching at this new information. He should probably laugh, or try to make J.J. feel better about the awkward situation, but he can’t. Instead, he just sits with it, turning the thought over in his mind repeatedly, unable to quite let go of it in the way he knows he should.

“It’s just so…weird,” J.J. continues, though Ilya is barely listening anymore. “I can’t picture it— Shane having sex. He’s so, I don’t know, innocent, in my head. And then I’m lying there at like one in the morning hearing—” He shudders, cutting himself off. “Fuck. I don’t know how I’m supposed to look him in the eye ever again.”

Ilya feels a bit bad, because he’s not really listening, if he’s honest. His own thoughts are still snagged on the one detail J.J. won’t stop repeating—that Hollander’s loud, apparently making sounds Ilya has never imagined out of him, procuring a version of Hollander he can’t fathom. Perfectly composed, controlled, and endlessly disciplined Hollander is…loud in bed to the point where his best friend is losing his mind over it. No matter how hard Ilya tries to shift his attention literally anywhere else, it won’t budge.

What a strange thing to know about someone, he thinks. Then, it occurs to him that he’s now learned more about Shane Hollander’s sex life in the past three days—his party on Saturday, and now—than in the entire time he’s known the guy. It’s weird, kind of mortifying, and doing something to Ilya’s pulse that isn’t normal. No wonder he can’t stop thinking about it.

But Ilya doesn’t get to think about that much further, because the door of the lecture hall is opening once again, and Hollander walks in. He looks aggressively normal, eyes instantly drifting upwards to J.J. and Ilya. He smiles when he sees the two of them, and J.J. immediately reacts—eyes going wide as he grabs Ilya’s arm in a panic, hissing under his breath: “Don’t say anything. Don’t— act normal. Please. Rozanov, I’m begging you—”

Unable to control it, Ilya starts laughing. The sheer panic on J.J.’s face is just too funny, and the laugh spills out of him, unrestrained and loud.

“Shut up!” J.J. snaps, mortified, and sinks lower in his seat as Hollander nears closer and closer. “Shut up, shut up—”

“I am not saying anything,” Ilya reminds him, still laughing.

“You are laughing like a fucking maniac, Rozanov!”

By the time Hollander actually reaches them, dropping into his usual seat in the middle, J.J. has gone fully red. His shoulders are hunched as he refuses to make eye contact with either of them, while Ilya fights down the last of his laughter, shoulders shaking slightly as he continues chuckling under his breath.

“What’s so funny?” Hollander asks, glancing between them and looking suspicious.

“Nothing!” J.J. says, way too fast, then slumps forward, forehead hitting against the desk once again with a soft, defeated thud.

Hollander looks at him for a second, clearly not convinced, then turns to Ilya instead, eyebrows raised. Ilya bites back the rest of his laughter, forcing his face into a neutral expression, and shrugs.

“Nothing,” he echoes, and has to look away instantly, because if he holds Hollander’s gaze for a second longer, he’s certain he’s going to lose it completely.

═══════

Hockey practice is pretty much the same as always, with everyone taking turns running different drills. Ilya’s on the bench right now, wedged between Troy and Kent, all three of them watching as Hollander lines up for the next drill. His stick taps impatiently against the ice while he waits for the whistle.

“Jesus, look at him,” Kent says, watching Hollander with a sneer. “Bet he practices this shit in the mirror at home.”

Ilya doesn’t say anything, mostly out of habit—ignoring Dallas Kent has become its own kind of reflex over the years, especially when he gets like this, and especially when it's about Hollander.

Kent nudges him with an elbow, apparently not deterred by the silence. “Are you ever gonna put him out of his misery and ask him out, Roz?” he asks with a laugh.

“Shut up,” Ilya shoots back, though it comes out kind of mild, more reflexive than anything. He doesn’t want to give Kent the satisfaction of a real reaction.

It doesn’t work, because Kent just grins, clearly encouraged. He keeps on going: “Wow,” he says sarcastically, nodding toward the ice. “He looks like he’s about to defuse a bomb or some shit, not shoot a puck.”

Again, Ilya doesn’t engage with it. He doesn’t have a particularly strong opinion about Hollander’s hockey, so he says nothing—until Kent nudges him again, grinning in a way that immediately sours his mood.

“Are you still playing dumb about the whole crush thing?” he asks.

“Let it go, Kent,” Ilya says, really not in the mood for this bullshit right now.

“I’m serious, man. Do him a favor. I bet he’d be so pathetically grateful, would probably get on his knees the second you—”

“Dallas.” Troy’s voice cuts in loud from Ilya’s other side. “Shut the fuck up, man.”

Kent laughs at that—properly, sounding delighted—apparently finding something about this hilarious. Being told off by his own best friend seems to only encourage him further instead of giving him the hint to stop it. He’s about to say something else, likely another joke about Hollander that’s deliberately cruel, and definitely homophobic. It makes Ilya’s jaw tighten, makes something low in his chest ache in a way he doesn’t quite understand, before—

Troy’s gloves hit the floor, and before Ilya can register what’s happening, Troy has surged up off the bench, his fist connecting with Kent’s jaw hard enough that he actually stumbles sideways. Then they’re both on the floor, gloves scattered, a tangle of limbs and jerseys as Troy hauls Kent down and starts swinging again. It looks like years of something pent-up finally boiling over all at once.

Almost everyone’s head turns at the commotion, and someone starts yelling. Wiebe is already rushing over to them, blowing his whistle.

“Hey, boys! Break it up, now!”

It doesn’t work, though. Troy doesn’t stop, landing hit after hit before Kent can even raise his fist. The whole thing gets ugly and loud and completely out of control. Hollander rushes over then, faster than Wiebe gets there, dropping down beside them both, trying to physically wedge himself between the two bodies. His voice is raised in a way Ilya’s never heard from him before.

“Hey, hey— stop, both of you—”

It doesn’t work either. If anything, it makes it worse, Troy and Kent so tangled up in each other that Hollander nearly catches an elbow to the face trying to pull them apart. He stumbles back at the last second to avoid it.

Without consciously deciding to, Ilya moves. He’s assistant captain, after all, this is his job too. Kent sees him coming, however. Even mid-fight, even with Troy’s fist slamming into his ribs, he twists his head enough to catch Ilya’s eye. Something ugly crosses his face.

“Aw,” he sneers, quiet enough that only Ilya and Troy could possibly hear it over the noise. Blood has already started to well at the corner of his mouth. “Here to defend your boyfriend, Rozanov?”

Something white-hot flashes through Ilya’s chest—sharp enough that his hand actually curls into a fist. A part of him seriously considers closing the last few feet and slamming Kent into the ice himself.

Until Troy’s elbow catches him square in the nose.

It’s an accident, obviously—Troy’s probably not even aware Ilya is there, still fully absorbed in whatever he’s unleashing on Kent. Nevertheless, it still lands with enough force that Ilya’s whole head snaps back, a flash of pain shooting through his face, and then he’s stumbling, skates sliding out from under him before he lands hard on his ass, one hand flying up to his face on instinct.

His glove comes away wet, warm, and drenched in blood, before a gush of it comes flooding from his nose, running down over his lips and teeth, dripping down his chin, his jersey, and then pooling darkly on the floor beneath him.

“Aw, fuck! Roz—” Someone’s voice speaks, and it feels far away and kind of like it’s underwater. The whole rink has gone all weird and floaty, softening around the edges, and there’s a faint ringing in his ears.

Ilya’s still aware enough to know Bood is the first one to reach him. His gloves are off, hands under Ilya’s arms, hauling him up while someone else, maybe Wyatt, is pressing something against his face—a towel, jersey, or sleeve? He can’t tell.

“Roz, you good? Christ, that’s a lot of blood—”

“I’m fine,” Ilya attempts to say, though his voice comes out garbled, and thick with the blood pooling at the back of his throat. He has to spit some of it out onto the ice before he can try speaking again.

He says he’s fine again, though he’s not really looking at Bood. Ilya’s gaze shifts past him and Wyatt, past the rest of the crowd gathering around him, looking for the one face he actually wants to see right now—needs to see, an urgent part of him insisting that this is important, more important than the pain throbbing in his face.

Hollander. He wants to know if Hollander’s okay. That’s the whole reason he went over in the first place, to make sure Hollander didn’t get caught in the middle of the ugliness he has no business getting hurt over.

Yet, when he finally spots him, Hollander isn’t looking at Ilya at all. He’s hovering near Troy instead—Wiebe finally having wrestled the two of them apart, Kent being hauled off toward the other end of the bench by Chouinard and LaPointe, blood on his face too. Meanwhile, Troy just stands there, chest heaving and knuckles split, looking visibly stricken now that the adrenaline is draining out of him. Hollander’s got a hand on his shoulder, steering him gently but firmly away, saying something low into his ear while Troy nods along, shoulders slumping.

It stings a little, watching it—more than it probably should, given that Ilya’s currently bleeding all over the ice. He can’t quite place why it bothers him, exactly, except that some small, stupid part of him had wanted—expected, maybe—Hollander’s attention to land on him instead, since Ilya’s the one who ended up hurt, after all.

He doesn’t get much time to sit with it, because Wiebe is there almost immediately, crouching down beside Ilya to inspect the damage. Under his breath, he’s muttering something about it probably needing a look at, before declaring that Ilya’s headed to the first aid room.

“I’m fine,” Ilya insists, though the words come out thick and wet. Blood is still running steadily down his face.

“You’re not fine,” Wiebe snaps. “First aid. Now.”

Marly appears out of nowhere to help him with his skates, kneeling down where Ilya’s now been dragged back to the bench, carefully working the laces loose.

“I’ll bring you your shit later,” Marly says, once the skates are off, helping Ilya up by the elbow. “You good to walk?”

“Yeah,” Ilya says, though he doesn’t know if he really believes it, honestly—the room’s still slightly fuzzy around the edges when he moves his head too fast. He lets Marly guide him out into the hallway, socks slipping slightly against the rubber floor in the hallway, the noise of the rink fading out behind them as they make their way toward the first aid room.

The rest of the team, he gathers from Marly on the way, are going to be brought in one by one to talk to Wiebe about what actually happened—which strikes Ilya, even through a fog of a broken noise and maybe a concussion, as fairly pointless. He, Troy, and Kent are the only three people who actually know what caused the fight, and Ilya’s fairly sure none of them are going to be particularly forthcoming with Wiebe about the specifics of it. Certainly not Ilya, anyway. He’s not about to be the reason Hollander gets dragged into a conversation with their coach about being called a word Ilya would rather not repeat. That’s not his place to say.

The first aid room is small and lit with ugly fluorescent lights, and smells faintly of antiseptic. A woman in scrubs immediately starts fussing over him the second he’s through the door—tilting his head back, pressing something uncomfortably cold against the bridge of his nose while she bombards him with questions about dizziness and vision that Ilya answers as briefly as he can, mostly just wanting her to finish whatever she’s doing and leave him alone.

Eventually, she does—thank god—clearly satisfied enough that his nose isn’t broken, somehow, just bruised badly and still bleeding. She hands him an ice pack and a box of tissues with instructions to keep his head tilted forward, not back, before disappearing back out to presumably deal with Troy or Kent.

So now Ilya’s alone in the small room, ice pack pressed to his face while the pile of bloody tissue grows in the small trash can with every minute that passes. He doesn’t have his phone—left behind with the rest of his gear in the locker room—so he just sits there, bored out of his mind. Minutes stretch out with nothing to fill them, his own breathing loud in the empty room, the metallic taste of blood still sitting at the back of his throat no matter how many times he swallows.

Naturally, his mind wanders where he’s so bored. In particular, he thinks about Hollander’s hand on Troy’s shoulder, and frowns—which hurts his nose and pisses him off even further. Ilya gets up once, then twice, to grab fresh tissues from the box on the counter, pressing them gingerly against his nose and wincing every time he accidentally touches it. Besides that, he just sits there, the ice pack slowly turning warm against his face.

Suddenly, the door opens, and Ilya looks up from his ice pack expecting the first aid lady again, already bracing for another round of fussing—execept it’s Hollander who steps into the room instead, easing the door shut behind him with a quiet click.

He still hasn’t fully processed his own shock before Hollander frowns, gaze sweeping over Ilya’s face, his eyes catching on the dried blood flaking off along his upper lip and jaw where he hasn’t quite managed to wipe it all off.

“Hey,” Hollander says quietly, crossing the room without waiting for an invitation, sitting down on the cot beside Ilya, close enough that their shoulders nearly brush. He exhales, long and heavy, like he’s been holding something in.

“Hi,” Ilya echoes, a little thrown off by his sudden presence.

Hollander’s frown deepens the longer he looks at Ilya, eyes tracking slowly over the damage. He’s close enough now that Ilya can see the exact shade of brown—darker than usual, more serious. His hand twitches at his side, like he wants to reach up and touch him, but it stays planted firmly at his side.

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

Ilya shrugs, trying to appear careless, even though the honest answer is yes, obviously, it hurts like a bitch. His nose is throbbing along with his own pulse every time he takes a breath. “It’s fine.”

Hollander doesn’t look like he believes him, but he doesn’t push it either. Instead, he just sighs again, dragging a hand through his dark hair, which is damp with sweat and sticking up slightly at odd angles from his helmet. He’s still fully in his hockey gear, same as Ilya, minus his skates, obviously. He’s switched them out for a pair of sneakers, while Ilya is still in just his socks, feet cold against the tiled floor.

“So what, they sent the captain in to do a health check?” Ilya says, aiming for something light, a joke to cut through the strange, heavy quiet that’s settled over the room since Hollander sat down.

It’s meant to be a joke, but Hollander doesn’t laugh. If anything, his expression grows more serious, lips pressing into a thin line. “Nobody sent me,” he almost snaps, sounding a tad agitated. “I just wanted to see if you were okay.”

There’s something in his tone, despite the flatness of it, that makes Ilya feel like this might be something more than just captain duties.

“I’m fine,” Ilya says again, because it’s the only thing he can think to say.

“Troy wanted me to tell you that he’s sorry,” Hollander replies, after a beat. “He didn’t mean to hit you. He was aiming for Dallas, obviously.”

“I know,” Ilya says, and he believes it—he can remember it clearly enough through the pain and blood and chaos of the moment. It was Ilya’s own fault, really, for getting involved without thinking, trying to play peacemaker. “I was in the way like a fucking idiot.”

“You were only trying to break it up,” Hollander says quietly.

“Still, I was an idiot.”

Hollander doesn’t argue with that. His expression does soften slightly, though, and he’s quiet for a second, hands resting loosely in his lap now. His gaze drifts down toward the floor, before flicking back up.

“Can I ask you something?” he says.

Ilya’s stomach flips at the question. A tiny, instinctual part of him already knows, roughly, where this is headed. “Sure,” he replies.

“What did Dallas say?” Hollander asks. “You know, to set Troy off like that. I already tried asking Troy himself, but he wouldn’t tell me anything. He just kept saying it wasn’t a big deal and stuff.” A pause. “It seemed like a big deal, though.”

Ilya freezes, and hopes it isn’t obvious—or at least, not enough for Hollander to catch it, though Hollander’s so close that he’s not confident in that either. His mind scrambles fast through the options of things he could say, and none of them are good. He can’t tell Hollander the actual reason—can’t repeat Kent’s homophobic words and the ugly string of comments that led up to it. The crush stuff, too. It would hurt his feelings, obviously, but more than that, it would tell Hollander that Ilya knows. And from that, he’d figure out that the whole team knows. It would be humiliating, probably, and Ilya doesn’t want to embarrass Hollander.

“He was just being a bigot,” Ilya tells him, aiming to be vague without being obviously evasive. “More than usual, I guess. I do not know specifically what upset Troy,” he adds, which is true. Ilya genuinely doesn’t have a fucking clue why Troy Barrett, of all people, decided to throw a punch at his best friend, especially since Troy usually laughs along with Kent’s jokes. “But…” Ilya continues, “whatever it was, I get it. He was saying the kind of shit I wanted to hit him for too.”

Hollander studies him for a long moment. He looks like he doesn’t believe Ilya at all, his brow still furrowed. “You really won’t tell me exactly what he said?”

“I mean, I could,” Ilya says with a shrug, hoping he’s selling this. “But is not worth repeating. Me and Troy will talk to Wiebe about it, and sort everything out. You do not need to worry about it.”

“I dunno, I feel like I should know,” Hollander presses, voice quieter now. His tone sounds vaguely frustrated now, though it’s directed more inward than at Ilya, Ilya can tell. “I’m the captain. If something like this happened because of something Kent said, I should know what it was so I can deal with it. So it doesn’t happen again.”

“It is handled,” Ilya says. “Seriously. You should just focus on the rest of the team, and hockey.”

He winces a little at how dismissive his words come out. It kind of sounds like Ilya is deciding himself what Hollander does and doesn’t get to know about his team. But that isn’t what he means—he doesn’t want to make Hollander feel small, or unworthy of anything—he just wants to protect Hollander’s feelings, to keep something ugly and offensive from him, because he doesn’t need that. At the end of the day, what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. Ilya is vaguely aware, however, that keeping Hollander out of the loop like this isn’t so different from infantilizing him either way, no matter what his intention is.

Hollander, mercifully, seems to take it as it’s meant. He nods slowly, some of the tension easing slightly from his shoulders, though he still looks somewhat unsatisfied by the whole conversation. It’s almost like he knows he’s missing a piece of the puzzle.

“Okay,” he mumbles. “If you say so.”

The conversation trails off into silence, and it’s only once it does that Ilya really registers how close they’re actually sitting—thighs pressed together, the heat of Hollander’s leg bleeding through both layers of hockey gear. They’re touching enough that Ilya can feel every small shift of Hollander’s breathing. He didn’t notice it while they were talking, too caught up in trying to navigate the conversation without giving anything away, but now that he’s finally shut up, it’s suddenly all he’s aware of: their proximity.

He looks to the side, and Hollander still appears visibly worried. His brow is creased, eyes fixed somewhere on the floor while his teeth chew at his bottom lip again in the same unconscious way he’s been doing more often recently.

“Hey,” Ilya says, nudging him lightly with his shoulder. “Chill. Do not worry your pretty little head about idiots like Kent.”

It gets exactly the reaction he’s hoping for—Hollander huffs out a surprised laugh, sudden and real, a flush rising fast across his cheeks.

“Fuck off,” he says, but his tone is warm. When he laughs, the freckles across his nose scrunch up with the motion, crowding together in a way that does something weird to Ilya’s heartrate. His heart skips so intensely that he feels it in his throat.

Hollander is still smiling faintly when his laugh dies down, breathing out one more long, loud sigh. He’s still sweaty, flushed, his hair a mess, and there’s something so unguarded about him in this exact moment—no more captain composure, no careful neutrality—that it makes Ilya smile.

And it’s that specific image of Hollander flushed, breathless, laughing, and undone—that’s what does it for Ilya. His brain is working on some strange kind of delay, skipping back to ethics class today like a broken record, specifically when J.J. told him about overhearing Hollander having sex last night. He was loud. I didn’t know guys, like, did that. It causes another thought to arrive, fast and unwanted, an image entering his mind before Ilya can stop it: Hollander, exactly like this but more, flushed deeper and with his breath coming faster, mouth parted around some sound Ilya’s never actually heard him make. It hits him like a truck, something physical, and it honestly disorients Ilya for a moment. Heat floods up his neck and down, low and sudden, and his head goes very light and swimmy for a second, all the blood rushing from his brain down, down down…

Ilya can’t breathe properly. The room is tilting on its axis, his breath catching in his throat. His pulse is loud and thumping in his ears, and for one long, horrible second, he genuinely doesn’t know what’s happening to his own fucking body—only that it’s too much, too fast, and Hollander is still sitting right there, too close, completely unaware of the crisis unfolding in Ilya’s mind.

Albeit, Hollander notices that something is wrong almost immediately—his smile fades fast into something more concerned, his brow furrowing again. “Hey,” he says, voice soft and smooth as honey. “You okay? Is it your nose?”

“Yeah,” Ilya gasps out, grasping gratefully at the excuse, although it isn’t the slightest bit true. “It um, hurts. A lot.”

“Shit. Okay.” Hollander jumps off the cot in an instant, already moving toward the supply cabinet against the far wall, rifling through it. “There’s gotta be Tylenol in here somewhere, hang on—”

The distance helps, though only a little. Hollander isn’t close enough anymore to touch, no longer radiating heat that spreads through Ilya’s entire body, which gives Ilya space to finally breathe. His chest expands and he inhales properly for the first time in what feels like minutes. It’s not enough, though—he can still feel his own face burning, as well as the phantom warmth of Hollander’s leg against his, can still see, embarrassingly vividly, the mental image that started this whole spiral in the first place.

He can’t do this. He physically cannot sit here another second, can’t trust himself not to do or say something stupid if Hollander dares to sit back down beside him, close and warm and easy once again.

“Is fine, Hollander,” Ilya blurts out, before Hollander manages to find anything. “You can go. I am fine.”

Hollander turns, mouth slightly agape. He looks caught off guard by the abruptness of Ilya’s dismissal. “Are you sure?” he asks. “I can find—”

“I am sure,” Ilya says, firmer now. He’s unable to look at Hollander directly, staring instead at the first aid cabinet. Something flickers across Hollander’s face—surprise, and something quieter underneath that might be hurt, though it’s gone almost as quickly as it arrives, smoothed back over into neutrality. He closes the cabinet door slowly.

“Um, okay,” he shrugs. “If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

Hollander nods, gathering himself, then heads toward the door. He pauses for just a second, hand on the doorknob, before he glances back once like he’s about to say something else. He doesn’t though, in the end, instead just offering a small, quiet feel better, Rozanov, and lets himself out, closing the door behind him.

The second he’s gone, Ilya can finally breathe again. The air floods out of his lungs in one long, unsteady exhale, though his heart is still beating way too fast. Ilya knows he should feel relieved, but he doesn’t. If anything, he feels even worse than before Hollander walked in at all, the quiet room now somehow heavier in its emptiness—and he can’t stop himself from recalling the flicker of hurt that had crossed Hollander’s face right before he left.

Ilya huffs, annoyed at himself, and presses the ice pack (now warm and melted) against his nose once again. He doesn’t know which ache is worse, the one from the punch or the one currently sitting somewhere inside of him, completely unrelated to his injury.

He doesn’t know what’s happening to him. He’s never once noticed any of these things about Hollander before—not his expressions, his physical ticks, or his words—so why now? Why can’t he stop himself from paying such close attention?

Maybe Svetlana’s right, and he is homophobic, albeit subconsciously. He grew up in Russia after all, so perhaps Ilya is less chill about being around gay people than he initially believed. That must be it—that’s the only explanation he has for why his body feels broken and he experiences that same, awful sick feeling every time Hollander is near him lately.

And god, Hollander likes him—Ilya, a straight guy, and a fucking homophobe, apparently. It makes Ilya feel worse than he ever has, even more so than just now, when he thought he might faint just from being in Hollander’s vicinity. He thinks of Hollander’s expression, sad and almost lonely, and thinks that he doesn’t deserve that. Someone like Shane Hollander deserves more than someone like Ilya, but maybe Hollander doesn’t know that, doesn’t think that about himself.

Ilya doesn’t know what’s worse, the fact that Hollander likes him in the first place—even though he clearly has other options, as J.J. so helpfully informed him—or that he has apparently continued to like Ilya despite it all.

Chapter End Notes

i realized i'm using cliff's last name from the show and jj's from the book...... #Whatever i choose my own destiny i guess (marleau > marlow & boiziau > dagenais. idgaf)

chapter count may also go up to 6... i'm not sure yet... but it's definitely possible...

Chapter 3: you’re not too good for me, my dear

Chapter Notes

cut this chapter short cause i was desperate to update since it’s been agesssss 😭 next one will be longer i promiseee

the response to this fic has been absolutely insane i am truly so blown away 😭😭😭 wdym 25k hits and 1k kudos 😭😭😭😭 wtf

a little sad tho cause nobody clocked SHANnon HOLLis / SHANe HOLLander but it’s whatever i guess i’ll just see myself out 💔💔

i’m on vacation until the end of august and wanted to finish this fic like a whole week ago lol but i really underestimated how much i DESPISE writing on my phone 😭 so not only is writing on my phone wayyy slower than my laptop, i hate doing it so i’m less motivated to write 😬😬 that being said, i haven’t been able to stop thinking about this fic and i am consistently writing scenes + adding ideas to my notes app, so don’t worry, i’m not abandoning this fic :) patience is greatly appreciated 🩷🩷

As always, the hallway outside Coach Wiebe’s office smells like stale coffee and hand sanitizer. Ilya has spent enough time here over the years—over minor benchings, arguments, and back in sophomore year, an incident involving the mascot being stolen as a joke—that he recognizes the smell, though it never seems to improve. And although it smells exactly the same, Ilya feels different than every other time he’s been summoned here. The stakes feel higher today, making Ilya’s heart beat a little faster than usual.

His nose swelled up nicely overnight, and there’s now dark splotches of bruising blooming under both of his eyes. Before he left, Marly had laughed and told him he looked like an injured raccoon, which did absolutely nothing to improve Ilya’s already-bad mood.

Troy Barrett sits beside him on another one of the plastic chairs outside Wiebe’s door. He looks considerably worse than Ilya, with split knuckles that are already scabbing over, and a harsh black eye that’s purple and yellow and goes all the way up the ridge of his cheekbone. It’s the kind of shiner Ilya can tell is going to hurt like a bitch all week.

Kent had been the first to go inside Wiebe’s office, and has been there for almost ten minutes. All they can hear from outside is the low murmur of muffled voices that rise every once in a while, loud enough that Ilya can hear the defensiveness in Kent’s tone. He rolls his eyes. Ilya doesn’t feel sorry for him the slightest.

Troy’s knee is bouncing, fast and constant, causing the chair to creak faintly with the motion. It’s kind of annoying, as is the way he keeps glancing sideways at Ilya before looking away again. Every time, Ilya thinks he’s going to say something and braces for it, but he never does.

Until eventually, Troy puts a hand on his knee like it’ll stop it from bouncing completely, and turns fully to Ilya now. “What are you gonna tell Wiebe?” he asks, voice low while he glances over at the closed door like either Wiebe or Kent will hear through it in the middle of their conversation.

Ilya immediately realizes what he’s actually asking—not the broader story, since Wiebe’s probably gotten that one a dozen times from the rest of the team already. No, he wants to know whether Ilya’s going to spill the beans about the specific reason for the fight, the other name involved.

Which—of course he’s not. He isn’t an idiot.

“I am going to say that Kent was being a homophobic piece of shit,” Ilya replies glumly. “That’s all.”

Troy’s shoulders visibly sag with relief, almost like he’d been expecting a different answer.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “Yeah, that’s— I’m gonna say the same thing.”

They fall into silence after that, save from the same muffled sounds coming from the other side of the closed office door.

“That’s nice of you,” Troy adds after a moment, lowering his voice. “Most guys wouldn’t bother being careful about it. Y’know, they’d be naming names and stuff…”

Ilya shrugs, though something about Troy’s words sticks with him more than he would like, because Troy is clearly thinking of specific people when he says most guys, and it’s hard not to read it as yet another small confirmation of what’s different about him compared to most guys—stacked on top of other pieces of evidence Ilya’s been collecting for weeks now: Jackie’s words in the library, Hollander’s flustered expression on the balcony, and now this. Troy treating Ilya’s act of bare minimum like a specific act of kindness that needs acknowledging, like there’s a specific reason Ilya should be nice about this.

Ilya doesn’t say any of this out loud though, of course. He just shrugs again. “It isn’t my business,” he says instead. “Not my secret to tell.”

Troy nods slowly, then his blue eyes track down to his split knuckles. He turns his hand over to inspect the damage, frowning as if he’s seeing them for the first time. The silence lasts a second too long to be considered comfortable, before he exhales, long and a little shaky, then straightens in his chair.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks. “You’d have to actually keep it quiet, though. I don’t want the whole locker room hearing about this,” he pointedly adds, which Ilya supposes is valid—he is renowned for loving gossip—but it stings all the same.

“Yeah, of course,” Ilya tells him seriously.

Troy stays quiet for a second longer, clenching and unclenching his jaw while he looks at anything other than Ilya.

“I’m gay,” he says. His voice is totally flat, with no dramatic build-up to what Ilya considers quite a big announcement. Nevertheless, Ilya notices the effort it took him to say it, based on the way Troy’s hands are slightly shaking in his lap. Besides that, he’s completely still, like he’s holding his breath as he waits for a reaction.

“And— I’m not friends with Dallas anymore,” Troy continues before Ilya gets the chance to respond, words less shaky now that he’s already said the hardest part. “I should’ve done it a long time ago, honestly. I used to just—“ His expression sours. “—laugh along with his shit, y’know? Let him say whatever he wanted about Hollander, about anyone, because I thought that if I laughed hard enough at his jokes then nobody would ever look twice at me.” He shakes his head, something disgusted crossing his face, though it’s aimed at himself rather than Ilya. “I’m so fucking tired of it.”

Ilya sits with that for a second. He’s really thrown, honestly. It’s not like he doesn’t believe Troy—because why would he lie about something like this?—but it’s more that he’s trying to work this all out in his head. Troy Barrett is gay. Grumpy, dry, unbothered Troy, Dallas Kent’s best friend, has never once in three years given Ilya the reason to think about his sexuality.

It occurs to Ilya then, that this is exactly the same blind spot he’d had about Hollander for years—some stupid, unconscious assumption that he’d be able to tell, that there’d be some visible tell. Clearly, there isn’t.

He also realizes how ironic it is, that his teammate has come out as gay to him of all people, when Ilya has spent the past 24 hours wondering whether or not he’s subtly homophobic. Not that he’s going to tell Troy that, though.

That being said, Ilya now knows about Troy being gay, and doesn’t feel anything. He thinks about Troy with a guy, any guy, and nothing happens. His throat doesn’t go tight and his stomach doesn’t twist and his mind doesn’t start to spiral, not like it does with…

“Thank you for telling me,” Ilya says, cutting off his own thoughts. He reaches over to lightly clap Troy on the shoulder. “You are very brave.”

Troy huffs, sounding almost embarrassed, but he doesn’t shrug Ilya’s hand away.

“Yeah, well. It was a good excuse to beat Dallas up,” he chuckles.

“I don’t think you need an excuse for that,” Ilya replies. “But really, I am glad you’re done with him. I have never liked the guy.”

“Yeah, I know,” Troy says. “You’ve made that pretty obvious over the years.”

“So?”

“I don’t think the assistant captain is meant to tell one of his players that his face looks like a failed plastic surgery attempt.”

“Eh, Hollander did not hear it,” Ilya laughs. “Was fine. And accurate.”

Troy properly laughs at that, and some of the tension drains from his shoulders. “I hope Wiebe kicks him off the team,” he says, quieter now, gaze drifting back toward the office door. “For real, not just a suspension. I’m sick of being on a team with him.”

Ilya doesn’t say anything to that. He’s not sure if it’s really his place to weigh in on what Wiebe should or shouldn’t do, though privately he finds himself agreeing more than he would have a week or so ago.

The hallway falls into silence again, while Ilya and Troy wait, the latter’s knee still bouncing up and down. It’s less urgent than before though, like some of the stress has finally bled out of him. Ilya’s own mind, however, is still somewhere else—it turns over the new information, trying to fit it into the shape of everything else he’s been carrying around lately.

He wonders if Hollander knows—about Troy. Perhaps there’s some sort of secret understanding between them that Ilya’s never noticed, the way he apparently never noticed any of this until it was said directly to his face.

It seems unlikely, seeing as how carefully Troy’s clearly been guarding his secret, laughing along with Dallas all this time specifically so nobody would suspect anything. It makes Ilya wonder, too, whether there are any other guys on the team quietly doing the same thing as Troy’s apparently been doing for years, deciding it’s safer to blend into the noise than risk standing out. Hollander’s the only one anyone actually knows about, the only one who’s ever been brave enough to say it out loud.

It’s a strange thing to think about as he’s sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair outside their coach’s office, waiting to be called in and asked to account for a fight that started, essentially, over exactly this—over one person’s secret.

The office door swings open then before Ilya can get much further with that thought. Dallas steps out, jaw tight and refusing to look at either of them. There’s a fresh bruise darkening along one cheekbone that Troy is most definitely responsible for. He doesn’t say anything, just brushes past them down the hallway with his shoulders stiff.

Wiebe’s voice carries out after him, sounding a little gruff and very unimpressed. “Rozanov. You’re up.”

Ilya glances once at Troy, who gives him a small, steadying nod, and gets to his feet.

Wiebe’s office is smaller than it should be for a man of his size, and it’s cluttered with a load of bullshit he definitely doesn’t need. On the wall is a whiteboard still covered in last week’s lineup, half-smudged. He gestures for Ilya to sit without looking up from whatever he’s scribbling down in his notebook, and Ilya drops into the chair across from him, doing his best to keep his expression as neutral as possible.

“So,” Wiebe says, finally setting the pen down and leaning back, before crossing his arms over his chest. “Are you able to explain to me what happened yesterday?”

“Kent was being an asshole,” Ilya says matter-of-factly, keeping his voice level. It sounds exactly like how he’d rehearsed it in his head, thank god. “Barrett told him to shut up, and he didn’t, so it escalated.”

“Escalated,” Wiebe repeats, unimpressed. “That’s one way to describe it, Rozanov.”

Ilya shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “It is true, Coach.”

Wiebe leans forward now, resting his elbows on the desk. “So, what exactly was said for Barrett to react so…aggressively?”

“Uh, I don’t exactly know,” Ilya says, which is maybe half-true. Technically, he heard the words Kent said, but still isn’t fully sure of the precise thing that caused Troy to suddenly lose his cool and swing. “I know he was being homophobic, and Troy was fed up with it, so he reacted.”

Wiebe studies him for a second, mouth silently curving around the world reacted, repeating it just in his head. He looks unconvinced, like he knows Ilya isn’t telling him the full story. “Do you think Barrett’s reaction was warranted?”

“Yeah,” Ilya says, without hesitation. He’d been a second away from swinging at Kent himself.

“Even though he quite literally attacked his teammate?”

“Kent has been saying shit like that for years,” Ilya says, a little more heat creeping into his words than he intends. “I do not think one punch is really the injustice here, with all due respect, Coach.”

Wiebe doesn’t argue with that. He makes a low sound in his throat and jots something else down in his notebook that Ilya can’t read from this angle. He looks back up for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Why did you get involved, then?” he asks. “You weren’t a part of the fight, as far as I’m aware.”

“I am the assistant captain,” Ilya replies. “I felt like it was my job to break it up.”

Wiebe’s eyes narrow further.

“That’s it?”

“Yes,” Ilya nods. Then, before he can stop himself, he adds: “I didn’t want Hollander to get hurt trying to break it up himself.”

He regrets it the second it’s out of his mouth, because he can hear how it sounds—too specific, too personal. Wiebe’s attention visibly sharpens at it too, which makes something in Ilya’s stomach lurch.

“I mean—“ he says quickly, cutting himself off with a forced laugh, aiming for casual. “He is more valuable to the team than I am anyway. Captain must stay in one piece, yes?”

It, unfortunately, doesn’t land the way he wants it to. Wiebe doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even react, really—only looks at him slowly, considering. He sighs then, rubbing a hand over his face, indicating that he no longer has the patience for this conversation.

“Alright, Rozanov,” he says, finally. “You can go.”

Ilya certainly doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s up out of the chair before Wiebe finishes the sentence, mumbling a quiet thanks that his coach probably doesn’t even hear as he’s on his way out.

Troy is, of course, still out in the hallway when Ilya emerges, waiting his turn. His knee is still bouncing up and down nervously. Ilya stops just long enough to clap him once on the shoulder, attempting to be encouraging.

“Good luck, soldier,” he says, grinning, then heads off down the hallway before Troy can respond. The second he exits the building and heads for his car, he starts daydreaming of all the things he’s going to order from the McDonald’s drive-thru on his way home.

═══════

Apartment 1221 is quiet when Ilya gets back, which is weird, because an apartment housing four upperclassmen is never quiet. But today, everyone’s off in class and at afternoon practice, which Ilya has decided to skip for obvious reasons, leaving the place empty and a little strange in its silence.

He eats his McDonald’s cross-legged on the couch, alone, while an episode of The Big Bang Theory plays on the TV more for background noise than anything else. Ilya doesn’t really understand a thing that goes on in this show, but the blonde chick is hot, so he always tunes in whenever Wyatt puts it on. He makes sure to chew his McRib on the left side of his jaw, AKA the side that doesn’t feel like he’s being stabbed in the gums every time he chews. It’s not the most ideal way to spend a day off, honestly, but Ilya supposes there’s kind of a bright side to it—no hockey, no lectures, and no one here to make fun of how his nose apparently looks like a ‘big purple meatball’, as Bood had so explicitly described it this morning.

By the time Ilya has balled up the paper McDonald’s bag and tossed it toward the kitchen trash can—missing, predictably, but he’ll get it later—his mind has already started drifting somewhere he doesn’t particularly want it to go. Even now, alone in his apartment, he can feel the phantom warmth of Hollander’s leg pressed against his own, while the faint sound of his laugh echoes in the background. Worst of all, Ilya can’t escape the memory of Hollander admitting, through a garble of flustered vowels, that he does in fact have sex, sometimes, not often. It replays in his mind on loop, and nothing he tries will make it go away.

Ilya groans out loud to the empty apartment. Frustrated, he drags a hand down his face, immediately regretting it when his fingers catch his nose and send a fresh spike of pain to his skull.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself.

He shouldn’t be thinking about this. Not now, not ever. He keeps telling this to himself, yet here the thought is again, resurfacing. It’s persistent, completely unbothered by his best efforts to forget it, curling warm in his gut.

He’s pent up. That’s what it is. He hasn’t had sex for like, three weeks—since he declined Shannon’s request at the Zeta Phi party—and he hasn’t jerked off in a few days, either. That’s why his mind is all sex lately, and why Hollander’s admission about it (as well as the additional information provided by J.J.) won’t leave his mind.

Ilya registers then that the apartment is empty. Nobody is due home for another hour or so, especially not if practice runs long. It’s dead quiet here, and he’s alone, so there’s absolutely nothing stopping him from doing what he’s currently, helplessly considering doing.

Not giving himself another second to mull over it, Ilya gets up from the couch and heads to his bedroom, locking his bedroom door behind him mostly out of habit. He grabs his phone from where he’d left it charging on his nightstand when he got home, then drops onto his bed and pulls up his usual website.

There’s so many categories he loves. He’ll watch pretty much anything, save for a couple of the…less conventional categories—which makes finding a video pretty easy. Ilya clicks on a thumbnail of a pretty brunette riding some ripped guy. The moans instantly fill the room, high-pitched and breathy, and Ilya digs his hand into the front of his sweats and wraps a hand around his half-hard dick, stroking lazily.

Something isn’t right, though. The girl is hot, sure, her fake tits bouncing right in the camera, but Ilya’s…bored. He clicks off after no more than 30 seconds.

The next video he finds is of a blonde sorority-looking girl getting bent over a kitchen counter. This one has better lighting, and the girl’s moans sound more real. Ilya spits in his palm and starts to properly pump himself, unable to stop himself from grinning to himself as his cock finally starts to thicken. Unfortunately, this happens at pretty much exactly the same time as his mind starts to wander, back to a dark balcony and plump lips and lots and lots of freckles.

Focus, you fucking idiot.

Ilya rolls his eyes and switches the video again. This time it’s a stunning redhead deepthroating a guy, whose dick is so big that he’s honestly more impressed than aroused. He gets bored of that one too, so he then finds a threesome video instead: two girls on one guy, obviously. Video five is some oily massage parlor bullshit that immediately makes Ilya grimace. With each video he clicks on, his hand slows, and the heat in his gut starts to die down—despite his cock, thank god, staying hard. Even so, the spark isn’t there, and Ilya scowls at his phone while frustration claws up his throat, catching there.

He sits up straighter now, heart rate quickening as his thumb hovers over the search bar. For a long moment, he just stares, and then, before he can overthink it, types in gay.

The page instantly reloads, filling Ilya’s phone screen with countless thumbnails of different guys: muscular ones, lean twinks…anyone. His stomach churns, though it isn’t enough to deter him. The burn in his gut actually starts to reignite as he scrolls down.

It’s just porn, he tells himself. Doesn’t mean shit.

His thumb keeps moving. He passes over a few videos featuring older men, slipping a couple of ones that look a tad too kinky for him, but then he stops, breath catching. The thumbnail depicts two guys on a rumpled bed. One has curly blonde hair and is jacked, with a prominent V-line. The other guy is slightly smaller, dark-haired, with smooth golden skin and sharp features that hit Ilya like a punch to the gut while his dick twitches in his hand. He stares at the screen for another 5 seconds, then taps the video.

The clip starts with the dark-haired one already on his back, knees pulled up, while the blonde kneels between his spread thighs. The camera catches every detail, and Ilya particularly notices how the bottom is gripping the sheets and the way his cock lies hard and leaking against his stomach. When the blonde pushes in, he throws his head back while the bottom moans brokenly.

Ilya’s hand moves like it has a mind of its own, squeezing the bottom of his dick once before he starts to stroke in time with the thrusts on screen. The dark-haired guy arches his back, mouth falling open, and Ilya’s hips jerk up into his fist. The resemblance is uncanny, almost frighteningly so.

“Fuck,” he breathes. The word comes out shaky.

He tells himself it’s because his balls are already drawing up tight, which has absolutely nothing to do with how the bottom’s lips are slick with spit and his eyes are onyx, looking up at the blonde pleadingly. Ilya’s hand speeds up again, the video now cutting to a closer shot—focusing on where the blonde guy’s dick disappears into the other guy’s hole, stretching him further open with every thrust. As he watches, hypnotized, Ilya swipes a thumb over his slit, spreading precum down the length of his dick, and his thighs start to tremble.

On screen, the bottom reaches down and grabs his own cock, working himself in quick, desperate strokes. The blonde guy leans forward, bracing one hand beside the dark-haired guy’s head, before fucking him harder. The bed creaks as the bottom’s moans get higher and higher, until they break off into a string of desperate, whiny curses. In turn, Ilya begins to twist his wrist with every upstroke, matching the rhythm as heat coils low in his gut. He doesn’t even realize he’s talking until the words are already spilling out: “Yeah. Yeah, fuck. Fuck.” His voice is painfully hoarse.

When the top adjusts the angle and both guys moan even louder, Ilya’s cock pulses hard in his grip. He’s close already—way too close—though the realization only makes him stroke faster.

The video’s angle shifts again, and now the blonde has the other guy flipped onto his stomach, hips pulled up, face pressed into the mattress. He slams back inside and the dark-haired guy shouts, hands clawing at the sheets once again. Ilya works his cock in rough, urgent pulls, and every thrust he sees on screen punches a harsh groan out of him. His hips are beginning to lift off the bed, chasing the friction even further, all while the moans coming from his phone echo around the room.

The bottom’s eyes then screw shut as he lets out a gasped whimper, and Ilya’s entire body locks up, back arching clean off the mattress while cum shoots across his stomach in thick, hot ropes. Messy streaks of white paint his abs and chest, right as his vision turns white at the thought of brown eyes and plump lips. For a second, he can’t breathe, can’t think—really, he can’t do anything except fight through the pleasure ripping through him, so hard that his toes curl. The phone slips from his other hand and lands face-down on the bed beside him.

Ilya continues to stroke himself through the aftershocks, milking himself of every last drop until the sensitivity becomes too much to bear. His hand falls away while sweat begins to cool on his skin. Distantly, he hears the video still playing—muffled moans and the wet slap of skin on skin—but Ilya can’t bring himself to turn it off. His ears are ringing, and for a long moment, he just lies there, breathing hard and staring at the ceiling.

It takes him a while to move after that, and when he does, his movements are slow and sluggish. Ilya reaches for his phone with a shaky (and clean) hand, and closes the tab, before clearing his browser history. The evidence disappears instantly, but his stomach is still churning nonetheless.

Ilya sits up, grabbing a dirty t-shirt from off the floor to wipe at the cum beginning to cool on his chest, stomach, and hand, then tosses the shirt somewhere in the corner of his room where he won’t have to think about it for a while. He stands up then, legs unsteady, and pulls his sweatpants back up, before taking a breath.

The apartment is quiet—proof that nobody is here to have heard what just happened.

Ilya unlocks his bedroom door and steps into the hallway. His feet carry him to the kitchen before his brain can catch up, and before he knows it, he’s opening the fridge. The light is harsh and bright and hurts his eyes, and he squints as he grabs the half-empty bottle of vodka from the door. He twists off the cap and takes a long sip straight from the bottle, the burn hitting his throat and instantly settling warm in his chest. Admittedly, Ilya isn’t actually sure why he’s drinking—doesn’t want to think about it.

Ilya leans against the counter, bottle dangling from his fingers, and stares outwardly at nothing. His body still feels loose, wrung out, and it feels good—which Ilya thinks may be a bad thing. He takes one more large gulp of the vodka, screws the cap back on, and finally puts the bottle away. It clinks as he shuts the refrigerator, but other than that, the kitchen stays completely quiet.

With nothing else to do, Ilya heads back to his room. He locks the door again, as if that might lock everything that just happened inside this room, never to escape and be known to anyone, and drops down onto his bed.

Ilya plays Candy Crush on his phone for hours. Even once his roommates return, he stays in his room, on his phone until all hours of the night. He puts off sleep for as long as possible, because he knows once he closes his eyes, all he’ll see is the evidence of what he’s just done, the video looping on repeat behind his eyelids.

The reality is much worse. When Ilya falls asleep, all his brain procures is the image of Hollander leading Troy off the ice.

═══════

The next day, Ilya sits in the quad with Svetlana and Marly, sprawled on the grass with his back against a tree. He’s wearing sunglasses despite it not really being sunny, mostly just to cover the yellowing bruise still sitting under both of his eyes. Sveta is beside him sitting cross-legged and leaning against Ilya’s shoulders, while Marly is stretched out on his stomach a few feet away. He’s staring at Svetlana in the same way he has for years now, entirely without success.

“So…” Marly says, grinning, “what are you doing Friday?”

“I don’t know yet,” Svetlana replies, looking down at her manicure. “But you won’t be there,” she adds.

“Cold.”

“Whatever, Cliff.”

“I could warm you up,” Marly attempts, and Svetlana finally looks up at that, her expression flat and thoroughly unimpressed. She raises an eyebrow at him, and Ilya snorts.

“That was fucking terrible,” she says.

“What?” Marly exclaims, like he’s genuinely shocked. “That was great!”

“In your dreams, pal.”

Ilya only half-listens as he continues to observe their bickering, honestly enjoying watching his best friend being shut down by his other best friend repeatedly. He’s watched this exact exchange play out roughly a hundred times since freshman year, so after a while, he lets his gaze drift across the quad.

It catches first on a flash of long, dark hair near the fountain—Shannon Hollis, he recognizes after a moment. She’s sitting on a low stone wall, laughing at something with a couple of other girls. He hasn’t seen her since the Zeta Phi party, not more than a couple waves in passing. The whole rain check situation has been left conveniently unaddressed by both of them.

He’s about to look away, uninterested, when his gaze drifts further across the quad and catches on something that’s much more intriguing: Hollander.

And…Troy Barrett, sitting beside him at one of the picnic tables.

Both of them are laughing—Troy has his head thrown back a little while Hollander smiles ever so slightly, small and real in a way that doesn’t happen often. His freckles are crinkling around his eyes. Well, they probably are. Ilya can’t see from here, but he’s familiar enough with Hollander’s freckles by now that he knows how they move according to his expression. Troy leans in as he says something else, close enough now that his shoulders nearly brush Hollander’s, and Hollander doesn’t move away from it, not like he does when most people get close.

Ilya frowns, and he doesn’t know why. There isn’t anything strange about the two of them hanging out—especially now that he knows both Troy and Hollander are gay. They probably have a lot in common…common experiences…and stuff.

Still, it doesn’t stop something ugly from curling in Ilya’s stomach as he watches at Troy’s shoulder edge a fraction closer, meanwhile Hollander continues to laugh at whatever has just been said.

“Are you good?” Svetlana asks, following Ilya’s line of sight. He quickly averts his gaze, praying she doesn’t see who he was staring at. “You’re making a weird face.”

“No I’m not. I’m fine,” Ilya says, unable to help himself from glancing back over.

And that’s honestly kind of weird, staring at them like that, so Ilya forces himself to look away. His gaze instead lands back on Shannon, still laughing with her friends.

“I’ll be back,” he suddenly announces, already getting up and brushing grass off of his jeans.

“Where are you going?” Marly asks.

“I am just saying hi to someone,” Ilya responds vaguely, causing Svetlana’s eyes to narrow slightly. Ilya can feel her gaze on his back as he crosses the quad.

Shannon spots him before he’s quite reached her, and her face lights up immediately.

“Ilya!” she says, shifting over slightly on the wall to make room. “Hey, stranger.”

“Hey,” he replies, dropping down beside her. He angles himself ever so slightly so that he can still see the picnic table in his peripheral vision without it being obvious. “How’s it going?”

“Good,” she says, tucking a strand of silky hair behind her ear. “Better now.”

She’s pretty, with dark hair, dark eyes, and a cute smile. No freckles, though—not that it matters. Ilya’s not even into freckles. Not really.

“You never texted me back after the party,” Shannon says teasingly.

“Sorry, I don’t have your number,” Ilya points out.

“You should’ve asked for it,” she says. 

“Fair,” he agrees, grinning. He’s always been good at these kinds of conversations—easy small talk, mindless flirting. “I was distracted. Sorry.”

“By what?” she questions.

“Practice,” Ilya tells her, which is technically true but more of a huge understatement. He’s hardly about to admit that he left a Zeta Phi party earlier to please Shane Hollander, though. At the thought, his eyes flick briefly toward the picnic table.

Troy is still talking, gesturing with his hands. Hollander, meanwhile, has his head tilted, listening with a sort of focused, undivided attention that Ilya has previously only seen directed at hockey—which makes him feel a little weird. From over here, he can’t make out a single word they’re saying, rendering his entire plan to come over here mostly useless.

“Ilya?”

His gaze flips right back to Shannon.

“Sorry,” he says guiltily. “You have my full attention now,” he tells her then, jokingly, trying to lighten the mood.

“Sure I do,” Shannon replies, though she doesn’t seem offended, just sort of entertained. “So…you gonna follow through this time or is there another early hockey practice you have to get to?”

“No practice tomorrow,” Ilya confirms, before pulling out his phone and handing it over. “Put your number in.”

She does, quick and practiced, and Ilya watches her type in a smiley face next to her name, which is kind of amusing. They talk for another few minutes, the same low-effort flirting as before, yet Ilya’s gaze keeps on helplessly moving back toward the picnic table every few seconds, as if that’ll make the words being exchanged suddenly loud enough for him to hear.

At some point—he isn’t exactly sure when—Ilya notices that the table is empty.

It makes something in his chest go funny.

“So,” he says, the second she stops talking. “You’ll text me later?”

“Of course,” she replies. Ilya nods once, grinning at her, before turning and beginning to head back to his friends. He definitely doesn’t scan the quad for any traces of Troy and Hollander as he goes.

“So,” Marly says immediately, smirking. “Shannon Hollis…nice.”

“Is not a big deal,” Ilya shrugs.

“I just watched you get her number,” Marly retorts, looking confused.

“Yeah,” Ilya nods, distracted, still glancing back toward the spot where the picnic table sits there empty.

“So today’s the redemption arc?” Marly asks. Ilya furrows his eyebrows.

“What fucking redemption arc?” he replies.

“Shut up, Cliff,” Svetlana interjects, rolling her eyes. “Ilya does not need your commentary on his fucking sex life.”

Marly replies, defensive yet amused, and Ilya tunes him out while his eyes drift away again. He can’t help but glance back at the empty picnic table across the table—like if he looks long enough, Hollander and Troy will suddenly materialize again. He wonders where they went.

Did they leave together? Obviously, since they were both just here and now they’re both now. Maybe they both have class, or somewhere to be, like study group or some other boring bullshit Hollander is probably into. Troy likely wouldn’t go to that…right?

Ilya doesn’t know. It’s none of his business. Most importantly, he shouldn’t care.

Except, a small, insistent part of his brain can’t seem to let it go. He’s still thinking about how close Troy’s shoulder was—and how Hollander didn’t once move away.

“Uh, Roz?” Marly’s voice brings him back to reality. “You still with us?”

“What?” Ilya blinks.

“I asked if you’re gonna text Shannon tonight,” Marly clarifies, looking confused.

“Oh. Yeah,” Ilya replies, distracted. “Probably.”

As if on cue, Ilya’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out and quickly reads the notification.

shan :)
hey my roommate’s out for a few hours of u wanna come over now already

He reads it twice, then texts back immediately.

ilya rozanov
omw

“Change of plans,” he announces, already grabbing his backpack from off the grass. “She invited me over now.”

Marly whistles, then chuckles when Ilya rolls his eyes.

“Have fun,” Svetlana says, unbothered, waving goodbye. “Text me when you get home.”

Ilya nods, then turns to head the other way, following the address Shannon’s just sent through. The walk isn’t too long, luckily—he can cut through campus to get there. As he walks, something settles low in his stomach at the thought of where he’s headed. It’s been a while since he’s gotten laid, a weird and unintentional dry spell that’s crept up on him almost without him realizing—but at least it’s coming to an end now. Especially since Shannon’s genuinely hot, so it’ll be good. Something he needs, easy and uncomplicated. A return to the version of himself he knows, not someone whose pulse goes haywire in first aid rooms and in his empty apartment for no reason at all.

He cuts through one of the older buildings as a shortcut, footsteps tapping lightly against the tile. The hallway is mostly empty, seeing as most classes are already over for the day. There’s also a small bathroom down by the far exit—tucked away past a stairwell, hidden, meaning that most people barely use it. Ilya himself has only ever used it once or twice, but he goes in now, just to take a quick piss and to make sure he looks okay before he makes it to Shannon’s place.

He ducks in quickly, expecting the usual quiet emptiness of it.

Instead, he finds Hollander.

He’s leaning against the sink, both hands braced on the porcelain edge with his shoulders slumped forward. His head is down, hung low as he stares at his hands. It takes Ilya a moment to understand what he’s looking at—the slight hitch of Hollander’s breathing, the wet shine on his face when he finally glances up at the sound of the door opening, and the redness around his dark eyes.

Shane Hollander is crying.

“Hollander,” Ilya blurts out, startled. All thoughts of Shannon and the walk ahead of him suddenly evaporate as he takes in the sight. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

Hollander quite literally flinches, his shoulders snapping upwards. He quickly wipes hard at his cheeks with the back of his hand, sniffing hard as he forces his breathing to steady. He looks broken.

“Nothing,” he retorts, not quite meeting Ilya’s eyes. “I’m fine.”

“You do not look very fine to me,” Ilya replies. 

“I’m fine, Rozanov,” Hollander snaps back, voice sharp now. Something lies brittle and defensive underneath his words. “Seriously. Drop it.”

Ilya doesn’t think he can, can’t make himself just forget while Hollander is still standing teary-eyed in front of him. He scrubs at his face again, jaw tight, clearly humiliated at having been caught like this by anyone—but especially by him specifically, Ilya suspects. Albeit, he doesn’t understand what there is to be embarrassed about.

Before he can stop himself, before he’s really thought it through, words come tumbling out of Ilya’s mouth. One specific question, rather:

“Did Barrett do something?”

Hollander’s face goes completely blank, so confused that it seems to override whatever he was upset about. His brows furrow while his mouth parts simultaneously.

“What? Troy?” He blinks, several times, like he’s not fully understood. “Why would you think Troy did something?”

“I don’t know,” Ilya says, suddenly feeling foolish. “You were sitting together before.”

“Yeah, we’re friends,” Hollander says. He’s still frowning, though it’s more out of genuine bewilderment than annoyance. “Troy didn’t— he didn’t do anything. Why would you even think that?”

“Forget it,” Ilya says quickly, feeling heat crawl up his neck now. He’s embarrassed, which doesn’t happen often for him—can’t get over the pure wrongness of his dumb assumption, laid bare in front of Hollander.

Hollander, who’s still looking at him and still looks truly baffled—before his posture suddenly stiffens into something more guarded.

“What are you even doing here?” he asks accusingly, voice much steadier now as he wipes the last of his tears from his face. “Nobody ever uses this bathroom.”

“Was just passing through,” Ilya tells him, purposely leaving out his actual destination, though his phone is still warm in pocket, the screen on with Shannon’s address pulled up. “Heading home,” he adds then. A lie.

“Right,” Hollander says, using a tone Ilya can’t quite decipher. “Yeah— same.”

Neither of them says anything else. Ilya decides not to push any further, and Hollander clearly has no intention of doing so either.

“Are you sure you are okay?” Ilya tries again, making sure that his voice is quieter this time. Perhaps then Hollander will hear his genuine concern, which has begun to bleed through his usual careless facade despite himself.

“I’m fine,” Hollander says again, and it sounds a little more true this time. His voice is much firmer, much more like the composed version of himself that Ilya’s used to.

Ilya nods slowly, not entirely convinced but unsure what else he can do about it—especially now that Hollander has turned away from him and back toward the sink, twisting the faucet on and splashing cold water against his flushed face.

“Okay,” Ilya says, “I’ll just—” He gestures vaguely toward the urinals, remembering why he came in here in the first place. “I’m gonna take a piss.”

“Okay?” Hollander hums, reaching for the paper towel dispenser while Ilya walks over to the urinal furthest away.

By the time he’s done, washing his hands at the sink beside where Hollander had been standing, Hollander is already gone. He didn’t say goodbye, didn’t linger, just took off without a word.

Ilya stands there, hands still under the running water while he stares at his reflection in the mirror. Something heavy curls under his ribs, like it’s trying to claw its way forcefully into his heart. He doesn’t know what it is, not why it’s made itself known now, after that…whole thing with Hollander that he still doesn’t know the reason for.

Why was Hollander crying, anyway?

Ilya fries his hands, pulls out his phone, then pauses in the doorway.

Realistically, he should keep walking. The time they have before Shannon’s roommate returns is ticking, and he does still want to break his dry spell and have a good fuck today.

He’s just…not sure he can do it while Hollander’s wet and startled face is still lingering at the foreground of his mind. It feels wrong, almost.

ilya rozanov
something just came up
i won’t be able to make it tn
sorry

Shannon’s reply comes faster than Ilya expects—and considerably less understanding than he’d hoped for.

shan :)
seriously??

ilya rozanov
im rly sorry
rain check?

shan :)
??? dude no
stop leading me on if ur not actually interested cause it’s kinda obvious ur into someone else ilya. why couldn’t u just be straight up abt it instead of wasting my time

Ilya stares at her text for a good 30 seconds, genuinely baffled. He rereads it twice, to make sure he fully understands, and surely enough, it says what he thinks it does. It doesn’t make any sense though, because he hasn’t turned her down because there’s some other girl he’s interested in—there’s no one that could explain that accusation at all. He’s turning her down because he just saw Shane Hollander crying in an empty bathroom, and it feels wrong to go and have sex with someone after that, especially when he doesn’t know what upset Hollander in the first place.

Forgive him for not feeling it anymore, fucking hell.

Ilya is tempted to type out a defense—there’s not anyone else, i promise—but he realizes there’s no point. Shannon’s pretty, yes, but so are lots of other girls. He’ll be fine.

So he just puts his phone back in his pocket and heads out into the hallway, beginning to walk home.

Well, he makes it about three steps into the cold before he spots Jackie and Pike, sitting together on a park bench with coffee cups in hand.

Ilya almost keeps walking, because he barely knows Pike beyond insults and chirps on the ice, but something pulls him over to the two of them—curiosity, mostly, as well as a strange, restless itch that sits behind his ribs, thanks to Hollander’s teary eyes. And there’s no two people who might be more useful than Jackie and (unfortunately) Pike to help him figure out this situation.

“Hello,” he says, making his way over, turning his attention mostly towards Jackie. “I am surprised you want to be seen with him outside of your apartment.”

Jackie chuckles warmly, then shifts slightly to make room on the bench for Ilya. “He’s been on good behavior lately,” she jokes, earning herself an eyeroll from her boyfriend.

“I am not sure I believe this,” Ilya says, dropping down behind her and pointedly ignoring the unimpressed look Pike is giving him from the other end of the bench. “Pike is never behaving well.”

“Wow,” Pike says dryly. Jackie just grins, clearly amused by the whole exchange.

“How’s your nose?” she asks, glancing at the fading bruising still visible under Ilya’s eyes.

“Getting better,” Ilya replies, tilting his face. “It barely even hurts anymore. I am being very brave about it,” he adds, grinning.

“So brave,” she agrees.

From beside her, Pike has gone awfully quiet. He’s watching Ilya judgingly, which isn’t dissimilar from the way he usually looks at Ilya, but it feels a little different today. His arms are crossed, gaze flicking between Ilya and Jackie like he’s trying to gauge what’s currently unfolding before him. In his defense, Ilya isn’t entirely sure either, doesn’t know exactly why he came here beyond the vague, itching need to find something out that he can’t really ask about directly.

“You guys hear about the whole Kent thing?” Ilya asks, aiming for casual.

“Yeah, J.J. told us,” Jackie says. “Dallas is such a dick.”

“Yeah,” Pike agrees. Ilya nods at that.

He realizes that there’s a small window for him here—a natural opportunity to segue the conversation into the direction he’s hoping for.

“I guess Hollander is happy about it,” he says, keeping his tone light as he glances between the two of them. “Kent has never been nice about…that kind of stuff.”

It really isn’t subtle, and it’s obvious by the way Pike immediately stiffens. His jaw ticks at the same time his shoulders square slightly. He looks unmistakably defensive.

“What does that mean?” he asks, careful. 

“I dunno,” Ilya replies with a shrug, aiming to sound like he’s just making mindless conversation. “I just figured he would be relieved.”

“He’s fine,” Pike says quickly.

Jackie has gone quiet too. The easy warmth that she radiated before has dimmed slightly, something careful coursing her face now. Her gaze flicks briefly to Pike, the couple giving each other a look that says so much that Ilya can’t understand.

“He’s a private person,” Pike adds after a beat. “He doesn’t really talk to anyone about this kind of shit. But he’s fine.”

“Right,” Ilya says, nodding slowly. “Yeah. I thought so.”

“Why do you care?” Pike says then, and now there’s something sharper in his tone. His eyes narrow like he’s trying to figure out what Ilya’s actually fishing for here.

“No reason,” Ilya says. “I am just making conversation.”

Pike doesn’t look convinced, and rightfully so—it’s a terrible excuse. He doesn’t relax either, keeping his arms crossed while he watches Ilya with the same wary suspicion he’s had for years. It feels more pointed today than it does on the ice, much sharper than just general dislike they usually hold for each other.

Jackie clears her throat softly, breaking the tense silence that’s settled over the three of them. “Anyway,” she says, “we should uh, probably get going.”

“Yup,” Pike agrees, already standing. He offers Jackie a hand which she takes.

“See you around, Rozanov,” Jackie says, her tone warm again now that she’s changed the subject. She gives him a small wave.

Pike, on the other hand, says nothing. He gives Ilya one last look, assessing and simultaneously unreadable, before turning and walking off beside his girlfriend. They talk quietly, words muffled, and Ilya can’t hear what they’re saying, which is probably purposeful.

Ilya watches them go, still sitting on the bench, turning the whole exchange over in his head. He really didn’t get anything from that, nothing that could explain why Hollander was upset just now. The Kent situation was all he could think of—beside Troy doing something, though Hollander quickly shut that down—and now he’s honestly more confused than before. Like was strangely defensive, carefully ending the conversation. It makes him think that whatever’s going on with Hollander, whatever caused him to cry alone in the bathroom no more than fifteen minutes ago, Pike clearly knows more about it than he’s willing to tell Ilya. Which makes sense.

Don’t be fucking homophobic, Svetlana’s voice suddenly echoes in his head. The words she’d said to him at his party.

Ilya wonders then, while a new sense of discomfort rolls over in his gut, whether that’s what Pike thinks is happening here. Perhaps that’s why he’s being so protective—not just because he dislikes Ilya so, but because he wants to protect his best friend from something Ilya might do or say. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, to be perceived that way.

But then again, if Pike and Jackie genuinely believed Ilya was some homophobic asshole, would they have allowed Hollander’s supposed crush on him to go on for long? Would J.J. have told him about what he heard through the wall, trusted him with such information? Because none of that really adds up, if Ilya is someone Hollander needs to be protected from. Instead, it seems like he was told this so they could all see what he’d do with the information.

Which isn’t much of a comfort, honestly.

Ilya gets up eventually, the cold winning over his circling thoughts. He begins to actually walk home this time, without any detours to bathrooms or crashing any more dates. He deletes Shannon’s number too, mind focused on nothing but the quiet churn of his own thoughts while he turns the afternoon over and over in his head without managing to really decipher what any of it fucking means.

═══════

r/friendshipadvice • 2hr ago

lily81

HOW TO TELL IF I AM HOMOPHOBIC

new to this. need advice. 

i (M21) found out a few weeks ago that my teammate (M21) has a crush on me. i am straight and i do not like him back obviously. but ever since i found this out i feel very weird when i am around him like i am sick and i cannot breathe. and i am always thinking about him and why he chooses to have a crush on me. my best friend (F21) thinks i am homophobic but i did not think so, but maybe i am. plz help.

RedditEnjoyer34: The fact that you’re so concerned about possibly being homophobic makes me think you’re definitely not.

 

angelmoon: “always thinking about him” “feel weird around him “feel sick and like i can’t breathe” … so that’s called having a Crush ❤️
↳ angelmoon: at least you know your feelings are reciprocated!

 

JSmith239: Maybe try one of those Am I Homophobic quizzes?
↳ slut4pizza: am i gay? might be more suitable 😭😭😭

 

roseee.l: baby the closet is glass

 

user69420: i bet my firstborn child they’re hockey teammates… that sport is gay as hell 👀👀👀

 

pau1baker: oh yeah ur a fruitcake buddy
↳ lily81: what is fruitcake?
↳ pau1baker: it means you’re somewhere on the homosexual spectrum
↳ lily81: are you sure about this
↳ pau1baker: dude 💀💀💀💀

 

fortnitelover7: What the hell. Ur closeted af.

 

sherickonmymorty: bro tagged this under “friendship advice” 💀

═══════

AM I HOMOPHOBIC QUIZ?

Result: Congrats! You are not homophobic!

AM I GAY QUIZ?

Result: You are 48% homosexual.

═══════

r/sexualityadvice • 1m ago

lily81

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME

i watched gay porn and can’t stop thinking about gay guy that has a crush on me what the fuck does this mean

WOULD YOU LIKE TO DELETE THIS POST?

Yes • No

═══════

So Ilya might be losing his mind.

Thanks to Reddit and dumb internet quizzes, he’s figured out that whatever the fuck he’s been doing since finding out about Hollander’s crush is kind of gay. No, actually—it’s really fucking gay, but Ilya’s not gay, definitely not, so what does that make him, then? Someone who can’t stop being a pervert about his hockey captain, thinking of his sex life and watching gay porn thanks to him—or, more concisely, a creep?

This whole thing is beyond fucked up. Ilya’s been feeling nauseous about Hollander for weeks, but now he thinks he might actually throw up.

Ilya Rozanov is not gay. He loves women. He loves to kiss women, fuck women, everything about them. He thinks about women all the time.

So now, why can’t he have these normal, Ilya-type thoughts without them being tainted by thoughts of Shane Hollander—his eyes, his lips, his freckles?

You are 48% homosexual.

That can’t be right.

Chapter End Notes

as an apology for taking FOREVER to finish this chapter, here’s a quote that’ll be included in the next chapter :)

“Do it, Hollander. Ruin me.”

Chapter 4: can i bite your tongue like my bad habit?

Chapter Notes

wow it's been a while! hello!

my SINCEREST apologies for taking so unbelievably long to update. my vacation ended up being a lot busier than i expected, and tbh i just wanted to focus on spending time w my friends that i'm not gonna see for a while now more than writing my silly little fanfic, so i didn't really do much writing at all lol. also writing on my phone SUCKS. worst thing ever i swear.

besides that, i've been reading all ur comments while on vacay and ohmygawwwwwwd you guys are all so cute & sweet :') thank you for all your kind words, they mean sosososo much to me!!!!!!

anyway, here's 22k words of ilya being a confused mess ;) smut warning ahead! (not my specialty, you have been warned. pls give tips cause i'm desperate to improve! can't be writing mediocre hollanov smut cmon now they deserve better than that...)

ALSO ALSO ALSO! big gigantic enormous humongous thanks to my amazing beautiful perfect sweet kind baby angel beta reader eli !!!!!! my first ever beta reader awww :') eli you are the best ever, you've truly been the biggest help & i appreciate u so much! this chap wouldn't be half as long as it is without her groundbreaking ideas for this fic, so let's all thank eli for a long ass chapter!!

hope you enjoy lovelies!!!

Hockey season has picked up significantly in the past couple of weeks, with two games per week now as well as the additional practices Wiebe has forced them to do in preparation for playoffs. It would be fine—Ilya’s fit enough to handle all this, obviously—except it’s occurring at the exact same time that each and every one of his professors seems to be assigning more coursework that nobody has time for. At least now Ilya’s finding it easier to let the whole Hollander has a crush on me thing fade into the background. In fact, he’s decided that he had just been overthinking it all after all, which caused him to stress out and do some weird shit. Like the Reddit thing. Ilya’s since deleted his account.

In an attempt to go back to normal, Ilya has been spending the majority of his time either at the rink, or with one of his hookups currently on rotation. It’s almost laughable how consistent he is with it, going almost directly from practice to the bar or club. And if he doesn’t manage to actually bring someone home on a given night, he takes care of things himself—though he’s stopped watching anything while doing so. It’s an unspoken rule he’s imposed on himself after that one particularly disorienting night a little while ago, something that he has no intention of ever thinking about again. That situation made him realize that he was probably developing some sort of unhealthy addiction to porn anyway, and that cutting it out entirely is more of a wellness choice than anything else. Very healthy of him.

It’s working, actually. Mostly. Well, it’s working enough that he manages to go almost two whole weeks without the unwelcome thoughts of Shane Hollander coming anywhere near the center of his brain.

That’s also due to the fact that, much to his annoyance, the amount of unfinished assignments he has are piling up, leading Ilya to spend most of his free time outside the rink and in bed (both sleeping and with a girl) in the library. Tonight is one of those nights, a random Wednesday where he should be spending time at the apartment with his friends. Instead, he’s hunched over an economics textbook that might as well be written in fucking Japanese or some other impossible language he doesn’t understand, as he attempts to salvage a midterm grade that’s slipped lower than he’d like to admit.

Truthfully, Ilya has only read about three pages and he’s already distracted—distracted by the sight of Hollander two tables over.

Hollander—and some girl. She’s pretty, with auburn hair that’s pulled back into a loose bun, and she’s wearing a giant navy blue hoodie with the university’s theater department logo on it. Ilya recognizes her vaguely from parties and around campus—Rose, he thinks. Whoever she is, she’s laughing at something Hollander’s just said, her head tipped back slightly while Hollander smiles at her. It’s the same smug smile he wears after beating Ilya at a hockey drill, meaning he’s proud of whatever he’s just said or done to make her laugh. His freckles are crinkled on his face.

The two of them look…close. Really close, actually, in a way that’s easy and relaxed—a way that Ilya’s only ever seen Hollander around J.J. or Pike. Rose’s hand lands briefly on Hollander’s forearm while she’s laughing, and he lets it linger there for what seems longer than necessary.

The whole thing doesn’t appear particularly platonic.

Ilya frowns down at his textbook, barely able to see the words anymore.

Surely, Rose is just a friend. Hollander is gay, for Christ’s sake. And besides, Ilya was supposed to be done overanalyzing all of Hollander’s actions now. That was the whole point of the last few weeks, for him to start acting normal again. He thought he was acting normal again.

But now Hollander is over there looking awfully close to some random, extremely pretty girl, and the thought won’t leave Ilya alone. It needles at him for the rest of the evening, distracting him enough that he doesn’t even get to the end of the chapter of his textbook by the time he’s forced to leave the library at closing time.

The next day, he heads over to Svetlana’s modern studio apartment. The two of them are sprawled across the living room floor with a bag of chips between them, and within five minutes, he brings it up, unable to help himself.

“Can I ask you something weird?” Ilya says out of nowhere, staring up at her ceiling. He refuses to look at her, because somehow Sveta always manages to figure him out when she sees his expression.

“You’re always asking me weird fucking things,” she replies, not looking away from her phone screen. “Go ahead.”

“Uh, so…is it possible to be, like…” He pauses, trying to find the right way to put this. “Half gay?”

Svetlana’s head snaps toward him so fast that Ilya swears he hears the faint sound of her neck cracking slightly.

“I’m sorry, what?” she says.

“You know, half gay,” Ilya repeats, feeling a little defensive now. He sits up onto his elbows. “Not completely gay but not completely straight. Somewhere in the middle.”

Svetlana stares at him for a long beat, utterly bewildered.

“Ilyusha,” she says then, slowly, “are you asking me if you’re bisexual right now?”

“What? No!” His denial comes out far too quickly, and too loudly. Ilya winces at the volume of his own voice. “No, I’m not asking about me. This is a theoretical question.”

“Theoretical.”

“Yes.”

“You are asking me about the existence of bisexuality.”

“Half gay, but yes.”

She sets down her phone and twists to face him now, wearing an expression that sits somewhere between amused and also genuinely concerned for his wellbeing.

“Where exactly is this coming from?”

Ilya hesitates, considering how much of the mess inside his brain he actually wants to explain to another person, even if that person is his best friend. He decides after a short moment that it’s easier to just tell the truth.

It’s not the whole truth, but at least he isn’t lying. Right?

“I saw Hollander in the library yesterday, with some girl. Rose, I think. The theater girl?” he explains.

Svetlana’s expression falls into something neutral, which doesn’t make sense.

“Okay?”

“Okay, and they looked really close. They kept touching and laughing and whatever.” Ilya shrugs, trying to make it sound like a careless observation rather than something he’s been tossing about in his mind for the past 24 hours. “So I am wondering if maybe he is not fully gay. Maybe he is only half.”

Svetlana blinks at him, processing. “Why do you keep saying half gay?” she asks confusedly. “You think Shane is bisexual?”

Ilya furrows his eyebrows. “You keep saying that word. Is that how you say half gay?”

Sveta looks like she’s seconds away from getting up and leaving the conversation. “Ilya,” she says disbelievingly. “You’re twenty-one years old.”

“So?”

“So you should know what bisexual means? It’s not, like, some obscure concept. It has a whole flag.”

“A flag?” Ilya questions, but decides to leave this question for another time when Svetlana’s eyes widen further, absolutely in shock at how dumb he is apparently being. “Anyways. I know what bisexual means,” he lies, feeling a little wounded now. “I just didn’t know that was the specific word for like, mostly gay people.”

“There’s no word for mostly gay people, Ilyusha. That’s just bisexual, leaning one way,” Sveta counters, shaking her head slowly. “Are you genuinely confused by the term bisexuality or are you being purposefully obtuse right now?”

“I know what it means!” Ilya insists, followed by a beat of hesitation before he admits: “Generally.”

Svetlana sighs, long and hard.

“Bisexual means you can be attracted to more than one gender, but not necessarily fifty-fifty. It’s not a math problem.”

“Okay,” Ilya says, nodding along. “So Hollander is bisexual, then, but not fifty-fifty.”

“I don’t actually think that, no,” she replies.

“Why not? I just told you about him and Rose.”

“People can be close to the opposite gender without feeling the need to fuck them,” Svetlana huffs. “But I know that’s a foreign concept to you, Ilyusha. It’s this cool thing called friendship.”

Ilya rolls his eyes at the dig.

“They were touching though,” he presses, deciding to ignore her insult.

“Friends touch.”

“Not like this.”

“Like what?”

Ilya opens his mouth to tell her, but finds that he’s unable to actually properly articulate what specifically about Rose and Hollander had struck him as so…close. He doesn’t really know, but can’t escape the vague yet insistent feeling in his gut that it was something significant.

“I don’t really know,” he admits. “It just felt like more.”

Svetlana studies him for a second, her expression morphing into something unreadable before she shakes her head slightly, apparently abandoning that line of thought. “Regardless,” she starts, “I don’t think Shane is bisexual. He’s about as gay as it gets, honestly.”

“What? How do you know that?”

She shrugs, entirely unbothered as she picks up her phone again. “I don’t know, I just do. I have a good gaydar.”

“That is not a real thing.”

“Of course it is?”

“Gaydar is not a real scientific concept, Sveta.”

“Neither is your dumb half gay theory, yet here we are,” she points out, and Ilya doesn’t have a good response to that, so he just presses his lips into a flat line while she grins, clearly enjoying having the upper hand.

“Okay, well,” Ilya says, grasping for something to salvage his argument. “If not that, then why is he so close with Rose?”

“Uh, probably because Rose is gay too?” Svetlana replies, like it’s obvious.

Ilya has to stop his jaw from falling slack. “Wait, what?”

“Rose Landry is a lesbian,” Sveta says, before glancing back at him and raising her eyebrows. “You didn’t know that?”

“How the fuck would I know that?”

“I dunno, I thought it was common knowledge on campus.”

“This is not common knowledge to me, Sveta.”

“Well, it is,” she says, unbothered at the fact that she’s just debunked his whole theory in about five minutes. “So, yeah, they’re definitely just friends. Probably close ones.”

Ilya sits with that, staring blankly at a random spot on Svetlana’s carpet as something uncomfortable begins to churn in his stomach. It’s not quite embarrassment, though there’s plenty of that as well, because how had he been so unbelievably wrong? Instead, it’s more the realization underneath it, the sudden awareness of just how bad he is at reading this type of thing. Ilya has always believed he’s quite an observant person, and he’d been so sure, watching Rose and Hollander together, that he was seeing something real. Albeit, he’d been completely and utterly wrong.

“My gaydar is really that bad?” he asks with a frown.

“It’s not bad, Ilya,” Svetlana says, patting his knee. “It’s nonexistent. You didn’t even know Shane was gay until he came out, and you’d known him for two years.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

Ilya pauses, then sighs, defeated.

“I guess not,” he grumbles.

Svetlana watches him for a second. There’s something more careful in her expression now. It looks like she’s tossing up whether or not she should speak her thoughts aloud.

Eventually, she does: “Can I ask you something now?”

“Okay,” Ilya shrugs.

Svetlana sighs. “Why do you care so much?” she asks. “About whether Shane is fully gay or not. It’s kind of random.”

An easy deflection is already halfway formed in Ilya’s mind by the time he opens his mouth—curiosity, boredom, whatever—but it quickly dies in the back of his throat. The honest answer manages to lodge its way in there instead, the part that he doesn’t want to say out loud caught in his chest—namely that some small, insistent part of him had felt something weird and kind of unpleasant watching Rose and Hollander together, and he doesn’t know what that means.

“I don’t know,” he says instead, which isn’t quite a lie but also isn’t the truth. “I am just curious. I don’t really know much about this stuff.”

Sveta doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t push it either. She just watches him for another short moment, something knowing in his expression, but then she just turns back to her phone and lets the moment pass. A song from an Instagram reel fills the silence where the conversation could’ve continued, but didn’t.

═══════

The bus ride to Toronto is a solid five and a half hours—most of which Ilya has spent staring out of the window, watching the highway blur by. He’s not really thinking about the game tomorrow. Away games always mean that they’re at a disadvantage, but this is only Toronto. He’s not worried.

He’s sitting next to Marly, and Hollander and J.J. are in the row in front. Marly fell asleep within the first 15 minutes of the drive, and is leaning back against his chair with his hood pulled up and his mouth hanging wide open, making him completely useless for conversation. So, Ilya figured he’d lean forward and chirp Hollander a little, because that’s something that always seems to make time pass faster.

It doesn’t really work like that today, however.

He’s tried to chirp Hollander maybe five times in the past hour, but he never responds. He just sits there, acting almost as if Ilya isn’t even there.

“Are you good?” Ilya asks then, leaning forward between the seats.

“Fine,” Hollander retorts, not turning around. His eyes are fixed on something out of the window, and since it’s all just highway and blurry cars, Ilya highly doubts whatever he’s looking at requires as much attention as Hollander’s giving it. Really, it seems like more of an excuse to not make eye contact.

“You are being extra boring today, Hollander,” Ilya quips. “Even for you.”

“Thanks.”

“That was not a compliment.”

“I know,” Hollander says, tone flat. It’s different that the usual dry amusement Ilya’s used to getting out of him, so much so that he leans back slightly, wondering what the hell is going on today.

He tries again a little while after, offering a chirp about Toronto’s ugly jerseys that would normally at least get him a small eyeroll, but there’s nothing. Hollander just nods, distracted, gaze still fixed somewhere out the window, jaw tight. Ilya recognizes it—the small tick he gets when he’s stressed, like before the Concordia game. Today, it’s more. Hollander seems to be wound tighter than Ilya’s ever seen him.

He gives up on the chirping after the eighth attempt, settling back into his own seat. He feels mildly annoyed and more than a little confused, because this is just Toronto. A regular away game, nothing close to the magnitude of the rivalry between McGill and Concordia that Hollander had good reason to be nervous about. There’s no good, obvious reason for him to be this strung out over it, and Ilya spends a good chunk of the remaining journey quietly turning the puzzle over in his head without being able to place any of the pieces together.

He’s then forced out of his own mind when they reach the hotel, which is a decent yet forgettable Marriott just off the highway. Wiebe hands out room assignments in the lobby, calling names out two at a time. Ilya gets placed with Bood, which he likes, because Bood is tidy and always remembers to bring a bunch of stuff that Ilya doesn’t (this time he’s forgotten body wash). The two of them are a good pair to room together—Ilya steals Bood’s shit and Bood doesn’t mind so long as Ilya turns his phone brightness down when he plays Clash Royale before bed.

“Boiziau, Hollander, room 1410,” Wiebe calls out next, and Ilya’s ears perk up. He’s room 1419.

They’re not far at all then—on the same floor, just down the hall. Ilya doesn’t know why he notices this, but he does anyway, and files the information away for a later time.

Wiebe announces that they’ve got an hour before the team is expected downstairs for the pre-game dinner. Ilya and Bood use that time, predictably, for absolutely nothing productive. Bood claims the shower first, emerging 20 minutes later smelling like the fancy shampoo that Ilya’s excited to steal. He takes his turn right after, standing under the slightly too-hot water for a little too long, letting his mind wander off without any real sense of direction.

Somehow, it inevitably keeps circling back to the unreadable look on Hollander’s face the whole bus ride, so different from his usual pre-game focus—which is intense, sure, but never quite so hollowed out, never that closed off even from J.J.

By the time he’s out and dressed, towel-drying his hair while Bood scrolls on his phone while sprawled across one of the beds, Ilya still can’t let it go.

“Hey,” he says casually as he drops onto the edge of the other bed. “Did you notice Hollander being kind of weird today?”

Bood glances up. “Weird how?”

“I dunno,” Ilya shrugs. “Quieter than usual. More stressed, I think. I do not understand why. This is not a big game.”

Bood considers for a second, setting his phone face-down on his chest. “Ohhh,” he says then, something clicking in his mind. “It’s probably ‘cause of Whitlock.”

“Who?”

“Connor Whitlock. Toronto’s captain,” Bood explains, like that name should mean something to Ilya. When his expression doesn’t change, Bood elaborates: “He’s notoriously homophobic, and he’s been going after Hollander for years, apparently— ever since Hollander came out. Chirps him about it every single game they play, on and off the ice. J.J. told me about it last year. He said it can get pretty ugly sometimes.”

Something cold runs through Ilya’s veins, displacing the mild curiosity that had been there only moments before. “Ugly?” he questions.

Bood shrugs, though his expression does show flickers of genuine discomfort now. “I don’t know, exactly. Slurs, I’m guessing. The usual shit, but worse, since the guy’s the captain and nobody really checks him on it.”

Ilya doesn’t know what to say or think. He’d thought Dallas Kent was about as bad as it got—casual, thoughtless cruelty dressed up as jokes. This, however, seems different. Deliberate hatred and targeting of Hollander, year after year, that nobody has managed to stop.

“That’s fucked,” Ilya says. His voice comes out quieter than he means to.

“Yeah,” Bood agrees. “It’s really shitty. I don’t blame Hollander for being wound up about it.”

Ilya doesn’t say anything else. He just sits there a little longer, turning the information over. His blood has gone from cold to red hot now, something furious settling uncomfortably alongside all of the other things he’s been carrying around about Hollander for weeks now, things that refuse to sort themselves into anything coherent.

Bood checks the time on his phone.

“We should probably head down for dinner,” he says, and Ilya nods. His mind is still tangled up in this new information Bood has given him, trying to picture exactly what it might look like—Whitlock, whoever the fuck he is, saying something quiet and vicious to Hollander during a face-off, something nobody else can catch, all while Hollander just silently absorbs it, because apparently that’s just what he does—absorbs the horrible comment and keeps playing.

He’s actually so distracted by it that he doesn’t register the door to room 1410 opening as he passes it in the hallway. Ilya almost walks straight past it before something catches at the edge of his vision and makes him steal a quick glance over.

Troy Barrett is exiting Hollander’s room, pulling the door shut behind him with a soft click.

Ilya stops.

It’s not necessarily strange—people go in and out of each other’s rooms all the time, and besides, Troy and Hollander are friends now. They’re closer than they ever used to be, ever since the fight with Kent, a quiet solidarity having formed between them. Troy could just be visiting, borrowing something, checking in before a game against a team with a homophobic captain.

Except, Ilya isn’t convinced.

“Hey,” he calls out, casually falling into step beside Troy as he heads for the elevator. “Where’s J.J.?”

Troy glances over, entirely unbothered. “Downstairs playing pool with Hazy and Haas. The kid is fucking destroying Hazy.”

Ilya can’t find it in himself to be amused at Wyatt losing, because his stomach drops as the pieces click together in his mind with sinking clarity. J.J. has been gone for a while, meaning Hollander and Troy have been alone in that room—alone, door shut, this whole time…

“Oh,” Ilya says, aiming to keep his voice casual but landing somewhere much flatter. “Cool.”

Troy doesn’t seem to notice anything off about his tone, already heading toward the elevator. Clearly he’s completely unbothered after being caught spending a considerable amount of time alone in Hollander’s room. “You coming down?” he asks, glancing back.

“Yep,” Ilya replies distractedly, following suit. The elevator begins to descend, but his mind stays stuck several floors up, automatically replaying the image of the door to 1410 clicking shut behind Troy. He turns it over and over in his head, attempting to construct some innocent explanation that doesn’t feel right no matter how many times he tries anew.

Realistically, they could’ve just been talking. Troy could’ve just been checking on his good friend Hollander before a tough game for him. It tracks, it would make sense, would explain the visit.

Except that it doesn’t feel right, and some small, stubborn part of Ilya’s brain refuses to let it go.

None of this is proof or anything. The rational part of Ilya knows that. By the time the doors slide open and they step out into the hotel lobby, Ilya has more or less made up his mind anyway—the conclusion settles into place with an unpleasant, heavy certainty that he can’t talk himself out of.

Troy and Hollander have got to be fucking.

It’s the only explanation, really—the only way to make sense of their closeness, the alone time, how quietly Troy had shut the door behind him. Ilya doesn’t know why the feeling is so uncomfortable, so heavy and sour and disproportionately significant in his chest. They’re just two guys on the team—two of his friends—and he should be happy for them.

He isn’t.

In almost a daze, Ilya sits himself down at the long table the whole team is crammed around. They’re at some overpriced Italian restaurant near the hotel, big enough to fit their whole team yet cheap enough that the university will cover most of the food costs. Ilya is wedged between Bood and Wyatt, sitting directly across from Hollander, who has J.J. on his right and, unsurprisingly, Troy on his left.

Ilya forces himself to laugh along with the rest of the table at some story Dykstra is telling, some of the earlier tightness in his chest beginning to ease. It feels easier now, surrounded by familiar noises, than the strange silence of the bus ride, only broken by Hollander’s clipped and monosyllabic responses.

Speaking of which, Hollander seems somewhat more relaxed now than he was earlier too, though Ilya still catches the occasional flicker of something tense behind his eyes whenever the conversation lulls. His jaw will tense for half a second, before he catches himself and reverts his expression back to neutral each time.

“You’re gonna need some practice before next time, Hazy,” J.J. says, grinning as he leans back in his chair. “So you don’t get humiliated by a freshman again.”

“I wasn’t humiliated,” Wyatt insists. “You can’t always win at everything.”

“I can,” Ilya chimes in.

“Shut up, Rozanov.”

“Don’t be jealous because you aren’t me, Wyatt.”

“Fuck off, Roz,” Wyatt answers. “Hollzy always beats you.”

Hollander, caught off guard by suddenly being pulled into the conversation, glances up from his glass of water. He shrugs. “I’m just playing hockey,” he says casually. “I don’t care about winning.”

There’s a beat of shocked silence at the table before everyone bursts out laughing—Ilya included, genuinely delighted. It’s rare that Hollander joins into a joke, and even rarer that it lands so well.

“Bullshit,” Ilya says, still grinning as he points his fork across the table at him. “You cried when we beat Concordia.”

“I did not.”

“You let a few tears slip. I saw it.”

“I had sweat dripping down my face,” Hollander says with a straight face. “I wasn’t crying, asshole.”

“Sure, Hollander.”

“It’s true!”

“Right.”

Hollander’s mouth twitches, something almost smug in his expression. At the sight, Ilya feels a small, satisfied warmth settle in his chest at having gotten a reaction out of him—more than he managed the entire 5 hour drive here.

From beside Hollander then, Troy leans in to say something low to him, and Hollander turns toward him, nodding along. They’re close enough that their shoulders brush, and Ilya can’t stop his eyes from tracking the movement, hyperfixating on the point of connection. An unwelcome awareness hums under his ribs right as Hollander laughs at whatever Troy has said to him.

The food seems to be taking a while, so someone produces a battered deck of cards from their pocket. Luca starts to shuffle them like a magician—God only knows where he learned to do that—and they start to get passed around while Dykstra starts explaining rules that everyone will forget in about 30 seconds.

Ilya gets genuinely the worst hand ever, so he spends most of the round trying to read Hollander’s face for any tell of what cards he’s got rather than actually playing, since he’s not going to win anyway. It proves to be, not to anybody’s surprise, absolutely useless—Hollander’s expression gives away exactly nothing, sticking to the same composed neutrality as he always seems to have.

“What are you staring at?” Hollander asks, not looking up from his cards. His voice is quiet enough that only Ilya can hear it across the table.

“I am not staring, Hollander. I’m playing the game,” Ilya retorts.

“Staring at my face is not playing the game,” Rozanov.”

“Your face gives you away, though.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“How would you know? You cannot see your own face,” Ilya reminds him, and then thinks that this is a real shame.

Hollander glances up now, something almost amused flickering behind his eyes before it goes back into focus. His gaze drops back to his cards.

“Can you please not distract me?” he says, sounding more exasperated than anything.

“How am I distracting you?” Ilya asks, genuinely baffled. “I am not even doing anything.”

Hollander doesn’t answer right away. He pauses—briefly, yet it’s noticeable—before his gaze flicks up again. He looks caught off guard, a flush of red creeping up his cheeks.

“I, uh—”

He doesn't get the chance to finish whatever he was going to say, because Wyatt slaps down his cards triumphantly as he declares some combination that Ilya’s fairly certain isn’t even a real winning hand. The table dissolves into yet another chorus of laughter, the moment annoyingly swallowing up whatever Hollander was about to admit to Ilya. He closes his mouth again, dropping his line of sight back down to his cards like nothing happened at all. It leaves Ilya sitting there, mildly frustrated at not knowing why he was distracting him.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get to find out now, because Wiebe appears at the head of the table holding a clipboard and wearing a grim expression. The noise dies down quickly at how serious he looks, everyone sensing the negative shift before their coach has even opened his mouth.

“Change of plans for tomorrow,” Wiebe announces. “Marleau is out. He has a stomach bug and won’t be playing.”

An immediate ripple of reactions follows—groans, complaints, curses. Ilya now realizes that Marly isn’t here at the table with them, having assumed he just fell asleep in his and Wyatt’s shared room or something.

“Fuck,” Bood groans.

“Fuck indeed,” Wiebe agrees. “He’s still in the hotel resting, but he’ll be out for tomorrow’s game.” He glances toward Ilya, then Hollander. “Rozanov. Hollander. I want you two to meet after dinner and figure out how we’re adjusting the lines.”

Ilya groans, more out of reflex than genuine annoyance. He is a little disappointed though—he’d been looking forward to a relatively lazy evening of more card games, not a fucking strategy session.

Hollander isn’t quite looking at Ilya, his gaze fixed somewhere over his shoulder instead. His jaw is tight again, just like on the bus ride—Ilya assumes whatever tension had been simmering under the surface all day is rushing back in, now that there’s a legitimate reason to let it show.

“We can meet in my room,” Hollander says quietly, no sharpness in his words. “After dinner,” he adds, tone a little strained.

“Alright, captain,” Ilya jokes, giving him a small mock-salute across the table. It gets him an unexpected reaction—Hollander’s face coloring quickly, the flush darkening from his collar and traveling up his face. His gaze drops to his plate and his jaw ticks like he’s biting back a response.

Ilya blinks, caught off guard by it, and the sight files itself away into the growing, disorganized pile of Hollander-shaped things in his head. The noise of dinner slowly picks back up again, though something about it feels different. Ilya feels different, now reminded of tomorrow, of Whitlock.

The team all peels off back to the hotel after dinner—everyone splits off toward the game room, while Hollander silently tips his head toward the elevator.

“You don’t have to come,” he says then, almost apologetically. “I know you’d rather hang out with your friends.”

“Why would I want that?” Ilya says, a little confused by the assumption. “I am happy to hang out with you.”

Hollander doesn’t really respond to that, just gives him an unreadable look before pushing the elevator button. They ride up together in complete silence. It’s not necessarily uncomfortable, just quiet in the way Hollander usually is.

They start to walk down the hallway toward 1410 when Hollander suddenly gasps, a sharp intake of breath that tears through the silence and catches Ilya completely off guard. He grabs Ilya’s hand, fast and startling enough that Ilya nearly trips over his own feet trying to keep the pace as Hollander drags him the last few steps, fumbling with his keycard against the reader with visibly shaking fingers before shoving the door open and hauling Ilya inside, slamming it shut behind them with a loud bang.

He leans back against it, chest heaving and eyes wide.

“What the fuck?” Ilya says, staring at him.

Hollander doesn’t answer right away. He just stands there catching his breath, looking genuinely horrified—though about what, Ilya has no fucking idea.

Eventually, he speaks: “Can you keep a secret?” he asks, voice a little unsteady.

“Of course,” Ilya answers immediately, curiosity flaring hot down his veins. Then, something uncomfortable twists in his chest—guilt, he realizes, as he recalls how he’d been so open to hearing about the gossip about Hollander in the locker room, and then he proceeded to spill that secret to Svetlana as well. He won’t do that again. He can’t. Not with whatever this is. Not when Hollander looks so afraid.

“Did you, uh…see that guy in the hall?” Hollander asks then, words coming out fast. “Just now. Kind of— dark hair, tall, he was wearing a McGill hoodie—”

Ilya thinks about it and can vaguely recall seeing a couple of guys up ahead in the hallway, one of them undeniably attractive—a tall, broad-shouldered Latino guy.

“Yeah, I think so,” he says.

“Okay.” Hollander drags a hand through his hair, pacing two steps away before stopping, like his body doesn’t know what to do with itself. “Okay, so um. I hooked up with him, like, a month ago. And I said I’d call him but I didn’t, and now he’s here in this fucking hotel, and I don’t even know why! He’s in some academic club thing, I don’t remember what, but there’s no way he’s here for the same weekend as us, right? That would be insane, that’s insane odds, but he’s here, and I don’t want him to see me—”

Somewhere in the middle of his rambling, Ilya connects the dots: this is him, this is the guy J.J. heard through the wall, the whole reason Hollander’s best friend spent an entire ethics lecture looking traumatized.

“Why?” Ilya asks, unable to help himself. “Was the sex that bad?”

“No,” Hollander instantly retorts.

“But?”

Hollander hesitates, some of the panic now ebbing into something more sheepish. “It was fine,” he admits. “It just— it wasn’t really what I needed.”

“What do you need?” Ilya asks, quicker than he means to—more curious than teasing now.

Hollander is quiet for a second, gaze dropping and blushing profusely just like at dinner, before he looks back up and meets Ilya’s gaze once again.

“Someone more dominant, I guess,” he says, almost mumbling, like the words are being physically dragged out of him. “Someone who actually, um— someone who tells me what to do. Pushes me around a little.” He stops talking abruptly, eyes going wide like he’s just heard what he’s said out loud, and immediately straightens, clearing his throat.

Ilya has no idea what he says next. It’s probably something about Marly and the game tomorrow, but all Ilya can think of is: Shane Hollander likes to get fucked.

“Right,” Ilya hums, pretending to have heard. He follows Hollander over to the edge of the bed, sitting down beside him while Hollander pulls out his laptop and opens up a fucking spreadsheet. He’s already talking about possible adjustments of lines like he’s desperate for them to move past the previous topic of conversation as fast as possible.

But Ilya can’t forget it. He’s not listening, just nodding along at what feels right, making the appropriate noises or agreement all while his mind is snagged on someone more dominant. It turns itself over and over, carefully weaving itself into the folds of his mind. 

Shane Hollander likes it rough.

I’ve never heard a guy make sounds like that before.

Shane Hollander likes to be told what to do.

“Rozanov.”

Ilya blinks. His eyes refocus to find Hollander looking at him with his dark eyebrows furrowed, some faint annoyance creeping into his expression. “Are you high right now or something?”

Huh?

“What? No.” Ilya frowns. “Why would you think I’m high?”

“Your pupils are fucking huge, man,” Hollander says, gesturing vaguely at his face. “It’s freaking me out a little.”

Ilya blinks again, and it’s only now that he realizes he’s been staring at Hollander for what might’ve been an embarrassingly long amount of time. Staring at Hollander’s face without actually processing a single word he’s said this whole time.

He’s wearing the most boring fucking outfit imaginable—a wrinkled, pale blue linen shirt with simple black jeans, the kind of outfit that shouldn’t work on anyone, shouldn’t look like more than a divorced dad working an office job—except it looks maddeningly right on him, the most Shane Hollander thing Ilya’s ever seen. His hair looks soft as silk, a little frazzled from the day, falling over his forehead in small tufts. His eyes are wide and brown, with lashes so long that they cast faint shadows over his freckles. And then there’s his bottom lip, faintly reddened where it’s caught between his teeth from whatever is currently making him nervous, and—

Fuck!

Ilya is hit, all at once, with a feeling so overwhelming that the room tilts on its axis. The walls spin as his body floods with arousal, the sensation slamming into him hard enough that his vision actually blurs around the edges for a second. His chest is tight, and his breath catches in his throat and refuses to come loose.

“Um, are you okay?” Hollander asks, voice going soft with concern now—and if it doesn’t make Ilya’s dick grow even harder. He imagines that same soft voice wrapping around his ears in a different scenario, one where he’s got Hollander…

Oh, God.

Ilya snaps out of it and nods, though he’s still currently unable to manage words. He drags in one long, unsteady breath at the same time that he tries to process what the fuck is currently happening to him. Yes, he can admit that, objectively, Hollander is good-looking. He’s said this a million times before. This, however, feels like something else entirely, something that doesn’t have a definable explanation. It terrifies him, a little, how much of all this he can’t explain.

48% homosexual. The stupid statistic that he’d believed meant nothing, followed by Sveta’s voice: bisexual means you can be attracted to more than one gender.

Ilya knows he likes to fuck girls.

Ilya is now starting to think he might also like to fuck someone else.

To pin down strong arms and thighs to the mattress, to strip off that wrinkled shirt and toss it to the floor, to have big doe eyes staring up at him while tears run down freckled cheeks, to…

“What if someone could give you what you need?” Ilya hears himself say the words before he’s even realized he wants to say them.

Hollander just blinks at him, confused. “What?”

His eyes are so wide. Like a scared deer.

Fuuuuuuuck.

“I could give you what you need,” Ilya clarifies, quieter now. He doesn’t know what kind of fucked up, reckless state he must be in right now to even be saying this out loud.

For a second, Hollander just stares. After a beat, however, his expression shifts—fast and sharp, the confusion collapsing into deep, genuine hurt.

“That’s really fucked up,” he says, voice clipped. “You know that? That’s a shitty thing to joke about, Rozanov.”

Ilya’s pulse jumps so quickly that all the blood that’s in his dick threatens to rush back up to his heart—that’s now thumping anxiously beneath his ribs.

“I’m not joking—” is all he manages to strangle out before Hollander is cutting him off again.

“I know hockey players are homophobic, I’ve had years of that, but I didn’t think you’d—” He stops, jaw tight, looking away. “I didn’t expect you to ever say shit like that to my face.”

“No—” Ilya’s entire body jolts, the aroused fog clearing all at once, replaced by something closer to panic. “No, no, I am not kidding. I’m serious.” He swallows. “I could give you what you need.”

“But— but you’re not gay,” Hollander retorts.

Ilya isn’t entirely sure how to answer that.

“I— I don’t really know what I am,” he admits quietly.

Hollander just looks at him for a moment, eyes still blown wide, before he shakes his head, firm and certain. “You’re straight, Rozanov,” he says. “I don’t understand what this is. You’re straight—”

Ilya doesn’t think it through—doesn’t let himself think it through, actually—as some reckless, frustrated part of him takes over. He grabs Hollander’s hand and drags it down, pressing it flat against himself, so that his palm is covering where he is unmistakably hard through his sweatpants.

“Does this feel very straight to you?” he asks, voice rough.

Hollander goes red instantly, color flooding into his freckled cheeks and all the way up to his ears as his breath catches audibly. His gaze drops, fixed on his own hand, on exactly what it’s resting against. For a second he doesn’t move at all—doesn’t pull away nor press down, just stays frozen there while Ilya watches the cogs turn in his head.

Then, he yanks his hand back like he’s been burned, shaking his head fast. “No,” he starts, voice unsteady. “No, I can’t— I can’t ruin our—” He hesitates, jaw clenching and then unclenching again. “Friendship. And— and the team. I can’t ruin that—”

“Do it,” Ilya says.

Hollander blinks, tilting his head to the side, confused. “What?”

“Do it, Hollander,” Ilya presses, holding his gaze. He somehow manages to keep his voice steady despite the way his pulse is stammering. “Ruin me.”

Hollander’s eyes track from Ilya’s face down to his mouth and back up again, slow, deliberate, while something conflicted plays out behind his expression. It looks almost like he’s fighting an actual war with himself in that ridiculously convoluted brain of his. He tilts his head once again, breathes out a rough “fuck” and then he’s surging forward, closing the distance between them. He kisses Ilya like a dam has finally broken, and all the buildup of the last month or so is now finally rushing out—a big flood of need gushing past.

The first thing Ilya registers is that this is nothing like kissing a girl. It’s an immediate thing, lots of little elements coming together in an amalgamation of a perfect difference—the slight roughness of stubble he’s not used to, the sharpness of Hollander’s jaw, the different angle. Hollander kisses like he’s not entirely sure he’s allowed to be doing this, like he’s breaking some sort of rule but doesn’t care, desperate and a little clumsy yet unmistakably Hollander. It’s maybe, in some twisted, upside-down way, the best kiss Ilya’s ever experienced in his life, and he can’t even begin to unpack what that means right now—that he’s kissing a man, and that man in question is Shane Hollander, which feels so, so wrong yet somehow inevitable all at once. He’s simply too lost in the all-consuming fact that Hollander’s soft, pink lips are against his, Hollander’s hand fisting the front of his t-shirt, dragging him closer.

Ilya feels like a corpse on the autopsy table, being sliced open and torn apart from the inside. He feels like his heart might fall out of his chest from beating too hard, thumping with more and more pressure with each slide of Hollander’s tongue against his own. Sweat clings to his hairline, he can feel it there, about to roll down the side of his face, too lost in the sensation to care—until Hollander abruptly pulls back, breathing hard. Something horrified crosses his face.

“Wait,” he says. “Wait, wait— this is wrong, I shouldn’t—” He scrambles back a few inches, putting a space between them that Ilya instantly resents.

Ilya’s lips are tingling, and he’s certain Hollander’s are too, but he looks too frightened to register the fact right now. “Did I— did you feel pressured…into that? Do you think I, like, came onto you or something? Have I made you uncomfortable, or been— I don’t know, a creep, and you just—”

“Hollander,” Ilya huffs, rolling his eyes. “I already showed you how hard my dick is. Do I need to take it out to prove I want this?”

It’s not even remotely close to what he wants to say. If Ilya were being truly honest, he’d tell Hollander that he wants this so badly he doesn’t know how to explain it, doesn’t think his mouth has the physical capacity to, or that his knowledge of English has the expanse of vocabulary to find the right words. There’s a pit in his stomach and he’s itching all over—his skin, his blood, his bones—from how badly he wants to taste Hollander again, to press himself against his body so hard that they may never separate again.

But that all seems a little too much to admit in a dark hotel room, let alone to your hockey captain, so Ilya just leaves it at his stupid, snarky comment.

Hollander, at least, lets out a startled and disbelieving laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re such an asshole,” he says, though there isn’t any real heat in it, and then he’s leaning back in and closing the distance between them once again. He kisses him properly this time—slower, surer, like he’s finally stopped fighting against his longing to.

Ilya feels like a glob of honey dripping from a spoon, all gooey on the inside and sticking to the warm surface of Shane’s skin. He feels like he could melt into him, seep into his bones until Shane is sweet all over. But Shane’s already sweet, and Ilya would only make him sweeter—perhaps even to the point of sickliness—though Ilya doesn’t think he could ever get ill from the taste. He’s got a real sweet tooth for Shane Hollander’s pretty mouth.

Speaking of, his mouth moves against Ilya’s reverently, with deliberate care and no rush or frantic edge—just a steady, thoughtful press that sends another hot flush through Ilya’s chest. Shane’s fingers slide into the curls at the back of Ilya’s head, tugging lightly like he’s anchoring himself there, and Ilya would groan at the sensation if it didn’t require breaking the kiss. He can’t stop, can’t think, can barely breathe, but refuses to let go.

Ilya taps his own thigh then, an invitation that Shane takes without hesitation, swinging one leg over Ilya’s lap and settling down, knees bracketing Ilya’s hips. Much to Ilya’s delight, their mouths stay connected throughout the whole ordeal, the kiss deepening by further when Shane tilts his head, allowing Ilya to lick up into his mouth, running his tongue along the hard ridges of Shane’s perfect teeth. He tastes even sweeter like this, and Ilya’s stomach feels like it’s on fire—a sugar rush of sorts—when Shane’s hips give an experimental roll, causing Ilya to feel the hard line of his dick press against his own through the layers of their clothes. Ilya’s breath catches at the friction and he grips Shane’s waist, encouraging the motion. Shane repeats it, another slow grind, another drag of them against one another.

Ilya’s grip tightens on Shane’s waist as the second slow grind drags their cocks together, the friction sharp enough to punch a soft groan out of his throat. Shane swallows it before kissing him deeper, like he’s trying to map every ridge of Ilya’s mouth with his tongue. The hotel room is dimmer than before where it’s gotten darker outside, the only light being a yellow glow coming from the lamp in the corner. It paints the side of Shane’s face in muted gold, and Ilya can see the freckles scattered across his nose and cheekbones even in the near-dark, can feel the faint rasp of stubble against his own jaw every time they shift.

With great effort, Ilya lets his mouth slide from Shane’s lips, down the sharp line of his jaw before it drifts lower, to the warm column of his throat. Shane’s pulse hammers under the thin skin there, frantic. Ilya presses an open-mouthed kiss to it, tasting salt and smelling the faint trace of whatever cologne Shane put on before dinner earlier. It makes his head spin with desire, clouded with lust, and he thinks that it may be a little humiliating, how badly he wants this.

He lingers, breathing hard against Shane’s neck. “Is this okay?” he murmurs, voice rough and low.

Shane nods so quickly that his chin nearly bashes Ilya’s forehead. “Uh-huh,” he breathes out. “Yeah. Fuck— yeah.”

It’s followed by something muffled as Ilya licks a long stripe up his neck. It’s so quiet that Ilya almost misses it, but the words sound suspiciously like mark me up—though Ilya could be wrong, because the sheer thought of Shane uttering those words makes blood rush in his ears, too loud for him to decipher them properly. If Shane did say that, then Ilya doesn’t need to be told twice. He sinks his teeth in gently at first, then harder, beginning to suck hard enough that if he wanted, he could draw blood to the surface. Ilya bets that would be sweet, too. Shane’s whole body shudders on top of him at the contact. A broken little whimper spills out of him, high-pitched and helpless, and Ilya’s cock twitches hard enough that he has to grind upwards just to relieve the dizzying pressure.

When he finally pulls back, a small, dark spot is already blooming on the side of Shane’s neck—purple at the edges and an angry red at the center. Ilya stares at it, delighted, almost reverently. He wants Shane to get it tattooed so it never fades, never goes away, so Shane can never forget this moment. He leans in again and kisses the mark once, soft and apologetic, before surging back up to reclaim Shane’s mouth.

Ilya understands now, with painful clarity, what J.J. had meant weeks ago when he’d told Ilya how loud Shane is in bed. Shane pants into his mouth between every slide of their lips, whines when Ilya’s hands dig harder into his hips, and whimpers when their cocks grind together just right, likely sending an electric spark up his spine just like it’s doing to Ilya. It’s like he can’t get enough, like even breaking away to breathe for half a second is too long without contact, and Ilya can’t believe it’s all for him, that he’s the one making Shane get like this.

He’s genuinely blown away by all of it—by the heat of Shane’s body, by the way those strong thighs bracket his hips, by the fact that he’s got Shane Hollander on his lap grinding down against his cock like he might die if he stops. Truthfully, Ilya didn’t know he could feel like this, didn’t know his chest could ache with something this sour and sweet at the same time. He doesn’t know what this means for the version of himself that has only ever kissed girls and fucked girls and never let his eyes linger too long in the locker room, except that he’s probably been missing out this entire time.

Right now though, he doesn’t care. All he cares about is the next roll of Shane’s hips and the next desperate sound he can drag out of that pretty mouth.

Ilya leans back, letting his shoulders fall and hit the mattress. The movement pulls Shane down with him, and Ilya’s hands slide lower, gripping the firm, perfect curve of Shane’s ass through his jeans. It’s unreal, and God—how has he been letting this pass him by? He squeezes hard and pulls down, forcing Shane’s full weight down onto him, all 200 pounds of solid muscle. Ilya wants to be smothered, wants every inch of Shane Hollander pressing him into the mattress until he can’t breathe anything but Shane’s cologne and the faint saltiness of his skin.

They keep on grinding like that, and the friction is becoming almost too much for Ilya. His cock is leaking steadily inside his boxers, he can feel the wet spot growing and spreading. He’s so embarrassingly close already, all from just dry-humping. He feels like a teenager, gone crazy and immature from the wet heat of Shane’s mouth. Desperation physically claws at him—he wants to come so badly that his whole body aches with it, yet at the same time he doesn’t want this to end. This can never end, not when Shane is making those soft, airy noises every time they grind together, his fingers still tangled in Ilya’s curls, stroking them gently like Ilya is something precious instead of the loudmouthed Russian pain in his ass.

Shane’s hand moves then, slipping from Ilya’s hair and trailing down the side of his neck, over his chest, lower. His palm pressed flat against the hard line of Ilya’s dick through his sweatpants. He presses down, firm and deliberate, right as his mouth leaves Ilya’s to scatter open-mouthed kisses along his jaw.

“Wanna suck your dick,” Shane murmurs against the skin there, voice low and rough and almost shy. He lifts his head and looks Ilya dead in the eyes, his pupils blown so wide with want that the brown of his irises can barely be seen. “Can I? Please?”

The politeness of it is almost Ilya’s undoing. He can’t speak, throat tight. All he can do is nod.

Shane doesn’t waste any time. He sits back just enough to hook his fingers into the waistband of Ilya’s sweatpants and boxers, tugging both down in one, smooth motion. Ilya’s cock springs free, flushed red and already slick at the tip—and usually he’d be a little embarrassed at being so worked up so quickly, but Shane’s eyes quite literally go wide at the sight, before softening as he reaches out and reaches a warm hand around Ilya’s cock. He strokes twice, slow and experimental, hot breath blowing out onto the top. Instantly, Ilya’s head drops back against the pillow as a ragged groan tears out of him.

He doesn’t even have time to process how good this feels—another hand around him, calloused and far better than his own, deftly skilled at this—because Shane leans down further and wraps his soft, pink lips around the head. Ilya’s brain switches off as the warmth engulfs him, some of Shane’s drool already dripping down his dick. His back arches slightly off the mattress, and he wonders if he’s ever felt anything remotely this good in his entire life. This is so inexplicably different from any girl giving him head, this is Shane’s mouth, careful and eager and so fucking warm. Ilya feels floaty, like he might lift off the bed, and Shane takes him deeper, tongue swirling along the underside—and Ilya forces himself to open his eyes because he’s missing it.

It’s a mistake. He almost comes right then and there.

Because Shane Hollander is leaning over him, laying between Ilya’s spread thighs like he belongs there, with his cheeks hollowed and wet eyes looking up at Ilya through his lashes, pink lips stretched so perfectly around Ilya’s cock. He can feel Shane’s throat opening for him, tongue running along his dick as he takes him deeper. When Shane then pulls back to breathe for a second, a thin strand of saliva connects his lips to Ilya’s dick, and Ilya can’t help the way his hips jerk up helplessly.

“Hollander, you have to stop looking at me like that,” he manages, voice wrecked.

Shane’s glossy lips stretch into a coy smile. “Why?” he asks, feigning innocence.

Because you are the most perfect thing I have ever seen, have had the pleasure of touching. Nothing compares to this—or you—and nothing ever will, and I think I might die if this keeps going, but I might also die if it ever stops.

“Because this will be over very quickly otherwise,” Ilya says instead of the truth. Technically, he’s not lying, though.

“Fine by me,” Shane replies, before wrapping his lips around Ilya again. Ilya moans uncontrollably, not even recognizing his own sounds anymore. Shane takes him deeper, harder, one hand braced on Ilya’s hip to hold him down while the other strokes what he can’t fit in his mouth, his fist getting covered in his own drool. The wet sounds of it are unreal, though the little muffled moans Shane makes every time Ilya’s cock hits the back of his throat might be worse for Ilya’s ability to stay sane.

As expected, it doesn’t take long for Ilya’s stomach to tighten as pleasure coils white-hot at the base of his spine. “Hollander, I’m gonna— fuck—” He tries to tug at Shane’s hair and pull him off, but Shane only sinks lower, determined, and Ilya’s fingers just end up tangled in the silky, dark strands. His hand fits so perfectly there, resting in Shane’s hair, on his head, that Ilya wonders for a moment if this is what it was made to do, to be placed here.

And then, for the first time, Shane manages to fit all of Ilya into his mouth, and that’s what does it for Ilya. He comes with a shout, the first pulse hitting the back of his throat, which he swallows greedily. He moans simultaneously, and Ilya can’t believe this is happening, can’t fathom that he’s coming harder than he has in years, all while a broken string of Russian praises and curses fall from his mouth. Shane takes it all, throat working, until the last few weak spurts of cum land on his lower lip when he finally pulls off.

Ilya immediately sits up, cupping the back of Shane’s neck and dragging him into a messy, open-mouthed kiss. He can taste himself on Shane’s lips, salty and bitter, tolerable only because it’s mixed with the sweetness of Shane’s mouth, his soul.

“Wanna do so many things to you,” Ilya mumbled against his lips, still breathing hard. “Wanna touch you, wanna make you fall apart—”

Shane blushes, color flooding his freckled cheeks. It spreads down his neck to the hickey Ilya left earlier.

And for some reason, he looks startled by the words.

Ilya pulls further back and cups Shane’s face in his palm. “Why are you acting shy?” he asks. “You just swallowed my cum and now you’re blushing like a virgin, Hollander.”

“Shut up,” Shane huffs, leaning in and kissing Ilya again. It’s soft and searching, sweet like honey. Like him.

Ilya’s hands wander, and he is suddenly reminded that Shane is still hard. He can feel the thick line of him pressed against his thigh, so without thinking he runs his hand down and cups Shane through his jeans, giving him a firm squeeze. Shane is literally soaking through the fabric, and immediately, Ilya’s mind is flooded with fantasies, of everything he could do to him in this hotel room—

But then Shane breaks the kiss, looking down. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and gently brushes Ilya’s hand away.

Ilya freezes. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s fine,” Shane says quietly. He won’t quite meet Ilya’s eyes. “I don’t need anything back. You don’t have to— that was enough.”

Ilya just stares at him. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he says.

Shane’s ears go even redder. “I mean, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Ilya says, voice sharp with disbelief. He reaches over again, but Shane catches his wrist this time, grip firm.

“No.” His voice is soft, almost apologetic. And then he’s moving, swinging his leg back over, off Ilya’s lap. The sudden absence of his weight leaves a cold, hollow shape in the air. He tugs his shirt back down from where it’s ridden up, hands a little unsteady with it, and still refuses to look Ilya directly in the eyes. His gaze is fixed somewhere on the carpet instead.

He’s still flushed—cheeks blotchy red, lips kiss-swollen and wet with Ilya’s spit, and the hickey stands out against his golden skin—but something has shifted behind his eyes entirely. The openness from a mere moment ago folds back in on itself so quickly, it’s like watching a door slam shut. Ilya barely has time to register the loss before Shane’s talking, voice low and fast as he trips over his words.

“We should stop,” he says. “I mean— we should’ve stopped already, this was…” He sighs. “The others are gonna be back soon, they could walk by at any second, and I still haven’t figured out the lines, and—” He drags a hand through his hair, mussing it further, his breath still not quite even. “We should just— forget this ever happened. Go back to normal.”

“Hollander.” Ilya sits up properly now, pulling his sweatpants back into place. The sudden coldness coming from Shane hits him like a bucket of ice water. “What are you saying?”

“It’s the right thing to do,” Shane says, like he’s reciting it from a script he’s rehearsed. “For the team. For— for everything.”

“You are joking,” Ilya says, and it comes out more harshly than he means it to, frustration bleeding through his words faster than he’s able to catch it. “Five minutes ago you had my fucking dick in your mouth—”

“I know that,” Shane snaps, cutting him off. The color in his face floods even darker. “I was there, Rozanov.”

Ilya stares at him, at the tight, closed-off line of his shoulders, at the way he’s angled himself slightly away now, like he’s already halfway out the door in his head even though his feet haven’t actually moved yet. Something about this isn’t adding up—doesn’t match the version of Shane who’d just been asking please against Ilya’s jaw, who’d looked at him like he was something worth looking at for once, something worth wanting.

“Do you regret it?” Ilya asks, quieter now.

Shane looks at him like the question is genuinely abused, as if Ilya has asked him something so far outside the realm of possibility that his face goes blank for a moment, trying to process it.

“No,” he replies, fast and immediate. There’s not an ounce of hesitation in it. “No, no, I don’t— it’s—” He shakes his head hard, like it’ll somehow shake the assumption away. Then, his face crumples, the certainty of his expression curdling into something distinctly sadder. “I don’t,” he repeats. “But we both know you will.”

The words land low and sharp in Ilya’s chest. He opens his mouth to argue, to say something, anything, except nothing coherent arrives fast enough, and Shane is already turning away and putting distance between them.

“You should go,” he says, voice small. He still won’t look at him.

“Hollander—”

“Please,” Shane says, and his voice is so raw and pleading despite the way he’s so clearly trying to force it to be flat and calm—that Ilya’s protest dies in his throat.

He doesn’t know what else to do, doesn’t have the first idea about how to reason with this version of Shane that’s curled back behind whatever wall he’s spent building and reinforcing against exactly this kind of thing. So Ilya gets up, fixes his clothes—his hands clumsier than they should be—before he glances once back at Shane, who is standing near the window now, staring out at the dark parking lot.

Ilya lets himself out.

The hallway is too bright after the dim, honey-gold of Shane’s room, fluorescent overhead lights buzzing faintly. Ilya walks down it in a stunned, disconnected haze, while his mouth still tastes like Shane and his skin carries the ghostlike warmth of him. He doesn’t fully register where he’s actually walking to until he nearly runs straight into J.J. and Bood coming the other way, both of them laughing about something until the moment they notice him.

“Woah,” Bood says, stopping short. “Are you okay, Roz? You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

Have I seen a ghost? Ilya wonders. He certainly feels like one, his presence physically out here in the hall but mentally still trapped under Shane’s weight, ear full of his delicate sounds.

He blinks, forcibly dragging himself back into his own body, into the present moment, into the hallway. He needs to act normal, say something normal, something that makes sense.

“I’m fine,” he settles on, and it comes out surprisingly steady, given the shakiness of his heart beating in his chest.

J.J. tilts his head slightly, studying with more focus than Bood’s easy concern. “Are you sure?” he questions, gesturing vaguely at Ilya’s face. “You look kinda—” He trails off, unable to find the right words.

“Fine,” Ilya repeats. “Just had a, uh…stressful conversation with Hollander.” Technically, it’s true.

“About Marly being out?” J.J. asks.

“Yeah,” Ilya replies after a beat too long, the lie tasting weird and unconvincing l in his own mouth as he says it. “It is a lot to figure out.”

J.J. looks skeptical—something careful and considering behind his eyes as he glances toward the direction Ilya just came from, toward his and Shane’s closed door—but he doesn’t push it, just gives a small nod. “Right, yeah,” he says, before passing Ilya and walking toward his hotel room.

Oblivious to whatever’s just passed silently between Ilya and J.J., Bood just claps a hand on Ilya’s shoulder. “We’ll be fine,” he says cheerfully. “We’re gonna win tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Ilya hums distractedly, letting Bood steer him back down the hallway toward their own room.

He doesn’t say anything more than that, and Bood thankfully doesn’t seem to notice or mind the silence, already chattering about something completely unrelated by the time they’re back inside their own room, the door clicking shut and officially leaving behind what just happened.

Ilya sits down on the edge of his bed, staring at nothing, replaying Shane’s voice in his head—we both know you will—turning the words over and over like a stone in his palm, unable to find the smooth side of it no matter how many times he tries.

When the two of them decide to stop chatting and go to sleep, Ilya can’t even get his eyes to close. He lies flat on his back in the dark, Bood’s breathing already gone slow, and stares up at a ceiling he can’t see, replaying the last hour of his life on a cruel, unstoppable loop.

It’s not even the physical parts that keep surfacing, though those are there too, humming low and stubborn under his skin. It’s the smaller elements of it, stranger things—like Shane’s smile from earlier tonight, the one that was real and unguarded, freckles bunching up around his eyes over some stupid card game joke. There’s something magnetic about the way his whole face changes when he’s actually, genuinely happy about something—like it’s a language he only speaks fluently in quick flashes, syllable by syllable, before he forces it back down. Ilya thinks of him at practice, the light that comes into his eyes on the ice, sharp and alive in a way nothing else about him never quite manages. He’s beautiful there—beautiful everywhere, really—and Ilya thinks he’s known that for a while now, but it’s taken him this long to stop arguing with himself about it. It won’t stop replaying now, against the dark of his own eyelids.

It’s not long before the memory tips into the other version of Shane Hollander he’s become acquainted to tonight, the way his eyes went glassy and wide in the low lamplight. His mouth—still slightly swollen and faintly pink—tightening into something small and hurt instead of please.

You should go.

Ilya turns onto his side, pressing his face into the pillow like it might block out the memory. It doesn’t work.

He thinks about the locker room instead, weeks ago now. It feels like a different lifetime, when Marly grinned as he spilled the beans, Kent’s ugly laugh cutting through the room. It’s fucking you, Roz. Ilya remembers his own reaction to it, the sick lurch in his stomach he’d believed was embarrassment or disgust. In reality, he knows now it was guilt—some part of him already sensing that this, talking about Shane’s private business as if it was something funny, was wrong.

He shouldn’t have let that happen. He should have shut it down the second Marly opened his mouth, should have told everyone in the room to knock it off, should have done anything except just sit there and let them all tear apart Shane’s dignity. Gossip is ugly no matter who it’s about, Ilya’s realizing that now despite being careless with it all these years—but it feels different now, thinking about it happening to Shane specifically. Shane, whose guard is always up, who has to work twice as hard for the warmth everyone else gets given freely. He, more than anyone, doesn’t deserve to have that vulnerability turned into a punchline, especially not behind his back. He deserves better than that.

The final thought startles through Ilya, sharp enough to cut through the fog of every other thing rattling about in his skull. Shane deserves to be happy, more than just the stolen flashes of it Ilya’s occasionally seen coaxed out of him over card games and pinky promises. He deserves to be seen and heard and noticed by someone who won’t flinch, won’t make him feel like something to be managed or protected. He deserves everything, Ilya thinks, and the thought keeps on unraveling before he can stop it: maybe I want to be the one to give it to him.

Which is such an enormous thing to think, too big to think after just one hookup, but he can’t help himself. He thinks it anyway.

He also thinks, because his brain can never let him have anything good for too long, that perhaps he isn’t the only person with such desires. For instance, he’s suddenly reminded of Troy leaving Shane’s room tonight before dinner, 30 minutes unaccounted for that Ilya will probably never find out about. Then, that random McGill student that J.J. overheard through a wall, someone Ilya’s never properly met and never will, and yet the thought of him—of anyone—getting to he collapse to Shane like that, getting to watch his face go soft and open the way it had tonight, makes something hot and possessive flare in Ilya’s chest so fast that he actually has to sit up in bed, heart hammering and his jaw clenched.

It’s not rational. Nothing about this is rational, because he has no claim on anything—not Shane’s past, and definitely not his future—so why does it feel like it matters so much?

Whatever this feeling is, it burns low and stubborn under his ribs. Somehow and somewhere over the past two months, Ilya has become the guy who wants to be the one making Shane laugh at stupid card games, wants to be the one to get him to loosen up at parties he’d usually avoid, wants to be the one pushing him harder at practice—and now, apparently, wants to be the only one who ever gets to see him like he was tonight, in a state of blissful pleasure, wrecked and open and asking please, can I? Nobody else. Just Ilya.

Ilya doesn’t know what the fuck is happening to him. He doesn’t know what to do with the enormity of this realization.

He thinks, unbidden, of all the times he’s talked about Shane like he was nothing more than a punchline—too serious, a robot, easy material for a chirp. He’s always meant most of it lightly, the way he’d tease anyone, but it doesn’t feel light now as he replays it against everything else he’s learned about Shane as of late. Like the crying in the empty bathroom, or the careful way he shys away from affection like it costs him something to receive it, the way he’d uttered please like he needed to beg to even deserve it. Ilya feels like he’s spent years contributing to this version of Shane that flattens himself to appease everyone else, someone who’s easy to laugh at—and Ilya has never once stopped to think about what it might feel like to be that person.

He feels sick to his stomach over it, and not just about Shane, either. He feels, generally, terrible about his very careless thing he’s ever said about anyone without considering what it might cost them, the specific damage of being talked about by people.

When he does fall asleep, Ilya doesn’t register it. Exhaustion must finally drag him under despite everything still churning in his chest, because he wakes up when the sun starts to rise and filter weakly through the hotel curtains, drenched in a cold sweat.

He lies there for a long moment, breathing hard and staring at the ceiling. He doesn’t know what to do with himself now that there’s no time left in the night to hope sleep swallows him whole.

He might be fucked.

═══════

McGill ends up beating Toronto 3-1, which is a win that should feel good but doesn’t, not to Ilya.

Connor Whitlock lives up to every word Bood warned him about. He chirps Shane from the very first faceoff—low, ugly things that Ilya doesn’t always catch over the noise of the crowd, but doesn’t need to, given the way Shane’s jaw clenches tighter with every word. The careful and controlled blankness is pulled more and more taut over his face like armor every time Whitlock is near, and Ilya wants to fight the Toronto captain. He wants it badly too, an old, familiar heat rising fast every time he catches even a fragment of what Whitlock is saying to Shane. He wants to drop his gloves and make the guy eat his own teeth for every single thing he says, things that Ilya’s only just learned about.

He doesn’t, though. He can’t, not without getting himself benched for the rest of the season. It would only make things worse for himself—and for Shane—so he keeps his gloves on and his mouth shut, and channels the whole boiling mess of it all into hockey instead. Well, he tries. It doesn’t translate well, his game sloppier than it’s been all season.

He can’t focus, can’t get his head into the game with everything from last night still churning underneath it. Especially with Shane skating past him shift after shift refusing to meet his eyes, jaw tight for reasons that might be related to Whitlock but that Ilya suspects might be about him, too.

They win regardless, with Hollander scoring twice. He plays furiously, like a man with something to prove. J.J. is there next to him the second the final horn sounds, skating fast to Shane’s side and steering him away from where Whitlock is still lingering near center ice, whispering something to him that Ilya can’t hear. Troy does the same on Shane’s other side—of course he does—with his shoulder deliberately angled to block Whitlock out entirely. The two of them flank Shane all the way to the tunnel like bodyguards, which Ilya thinks is ridiculous.

It wouldn’t be ridiculous if it was him doing it, though.

Like it always is after a game, the locker room is loud with shouts and laughter. Someone is already playing music too loudly, but it dissolves into the background as Ilya lays eyes on Shane. He moves through the locker room doing exactly what a captain does, clapping the team on the shoulder, telling everyone they played well, voice steady and composed and giving nothing away about how he may truly be feeling.

He doesn’t look at Ilya once. He purposely avoids eye contact during the postgame huddle, and while they’re peeling off their gear—not even a passing glance you’d give anyone six feet away in a crowded room. Ilya can tell it’s on purpose, now giving him the same treatment he did to Whitlock on the ice: pure ignorance.

Ilya doesn’t know what it’s about. It could be about last night, or maybe Shane’s disappointed about his performance during the game, or maybe it’s something else entirely. Either way, the effect is the same: Shane can’t stand to look at him right now, and Ilya hates it.

He turns it over in his head while stripping off his hockey gear, frustration growing with every chance Shane has to look in his direction but doesn’t. Thinking back to last night, he knows he didn’t force anything. He remembers it clearly, every second of it—Shane’s hand pressed flat against him and not moved, the way he’d kissed him, the please, can I?, so polite and careful that it had nearly undone Ilya on the spot. Shane had wanted it. Asked for it, even, in that quiet voice that still makes something in Ilya’s chest ache to think about. So why does he get to walk around now like Ilya has done something wrong to him?

And then there’s the other thing—we both know you will. It needles at him just as much, maybe even more. Ilya’s made plenty of mistakes in his life, more than he’d like to count…but this isn’t one of them. It’s not even close. If anything, after lying awake half the night thinking about it, Ilya is fairly sure it’s the first thing in longer than he can remember that’s actually felt clear, felt right, in a way most of his life hasn’t quite managed. So why would Shane think otherwise? Unless…unless it’s not Ilya who regrets it at all.

Feeling sick to his stomach, Ilya heads for the showers. He makes a point of not looking anywhere in Shane’s direction, partly because he’s genuinely annoyed, but mostly because he doesn’t trust what his body might do if his eyes land on Shane wet and bare under the water, especially not in front of the entire team. He fixes his gaze elsewhere instead, and without really meaning to it lands on Bood a few feet away, water running over his shoulders, his abs—

Ilya blinks. Bood has abs, which Ilya’s always known. He’s seen them probably over a hundred times over the past 3 years and has never really registered it. Something about noticing it now sends a small jolt of alarm through his veins. He looks away, gaze skittering instead to Troy, and it happens again—that same, involuntary awareness. Troy is genuinely handsome, in that same pretty boy way that Shane is, and Ilya’s stomach drops properly this time with a real, physical lurch of panic.

He looks down to the tiled floor and keeps it there now, heart beating fast and his breath a little uneven. This isn’t—he’s been showering with guys since he was a kid. He’s been in locker rooms his entire life, hundreds of them, has seen thousands of bodies without a flicker of anything but complete indifference. It’s never once been like this. He’s never once had to actively fight for his eyes to stay where they belong…until now.

He showers quickly now, not looking anywhere but directly ahead. He scrubs himself on autopilot, all while his mind spirals through everything currently unraveling inside of him—Shane, the locker room, Bood, Troy, the whole collapsing belief of everything he’s ever thought about himself.

Ilya is dressed and out the door faster than he ever has, barely mumbling a goodbye to anyone on the way out. His hands are not quite steady as he zips up his bag. He has no idea what’s happening to him, doesn’t have the first idea how to put this into words—not even to himself.

But something has cracked open now. He doesn’t think it’s ever going to close back up again, no matter how hard he tries.

It doesn’t take long for everybody else to finish showering as well, and soon enough, the whole team is standing with their suitcases in the hotel lobby. Wiebe appears a moment later, looking glum.

“Bad news, guys,” he says with a shake of his head. “Bus has a flat tire. We can’t leave until tomorrow morning.”

And that’s that. There’s a general chorus of slight annoyance, but there’s nothing they can really do about it, causing Wyatt to come up with the bright idea of them all heading to some sports bar a few blocks over that’s apparently showing the Metros game. Ilya frowns. He hates the Metros.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees J.J. trying to talk Shane into it.

“Come on,” he says in his thick French accent. “One drink. We just beat Toronto on their own ice, capitaine, you gotta let yourself have this. And we love the Metros."

Shane’s answer is too quiet for Ilya to catch, but J.J.’s squeal of excitement is enough for him to get the gist. Ilya doesn’t linger to hear the rest of it, not trusting himself to be in Shane’s general vicinity right now witho it something in his chest doing that same complicated and painful thing it’s been doing since last night. Besides, if Shane’s actually going to let J.J. talk him into going out tonight, the last thing Ilya wants to do is show up and make his night unenjoyable. Shane deserves an easy night. A good one. And Ilya’s not going to be the one to ruin it.

So when Bood gets up to leave 20 minutes later, all dressed to go out, Ilya waves him off.

“I am not feeling it tonight,” he says. “I will keep Marly company instead.”

Bood gives him a slightly odd look, which is fair, because he’s Ilya Rozanov, and Ilya Rozanov never turns down a night out. He doesn’t push it though, just shrugs and heads off to join the others. Ilya lets out a long sigh of relief, before grabbing the Domino’s menu off the hotel room desk and ordering a pizza to Marly’s room, because apparently that’s what his Sunday night in Toronto has turned into.

═══════

Marly’s room smells faintly and unpleasantly like vomit when Ilya lets himself in. The bathroom door is open and the lights are dimmed low. Marly is curled up on top of the covers when Ilya first arrived, looking pale and miserable. He does, however, manage a weak yet grateful smile when Ilya hold up the can of Diet Coke he bought for him.

“You’re my hero, Roz,” he mumbles, not quite able to sit up.

“I know,” Ilya says, settling down cross-legged on the floor beside the bed. He opens the box between them. “You should try to eat something. If you can keep it down,” he adds.

Marly does, but only manages two slices before his stomach disagrees with it, and he’s up and stumbling toward the bathroom with a groan. He doesn’t quite get the door shut behind him, and Ilya winces at the sound that follows, appetite disappearing slightly. He sets his own slice back down, needing a moment.

“Sorry,” Marly says weakly once he’s shuffled back, dropping heavily down onto the bed. “This is gross. You don’t have to stay.”

“I want to stay,” Ilya says, which is mostly true—it’s better than the alternative, which would be to sit alone in his room and be stuck thinking about the same things he’s been turning over in his head all fucking day.

Marly studies him for a second, eyes more focused than they were before. The glassiness of the food poisoning haze has disappeared for a moment. “Are you okay?” he asks, vaguely suspicious. “You’ve been acting weird since yesterday.”

“I’m fine,” Ilya replies.

“I heard you played like shit today too.”

“Thanks for the reminder.”

“I’m just saying,” Marly shrugs, grimacing slightly at the sudden motion. “You can talk to me, you know. Even when I’m like this.” He gestures at himself, all pale and clammy. “I’m still, like, seventy percent functional right now.”

Ilya laughs, tempted to brush Marly off again—the same way he’s been brushing off everything for the past 24 hours. Albeit, there’s something about the low light and the privacy of the room, and the way Marly is probably too sick to properly process anything he says, that makes the words rise up in his throat, bubbling in his mouth and spilling out before he can stop them from escaping.

He needs to tell someone. His body itches with it. And not necessarily about Shane, either—that part still feels too raw, too tangled up in something he can’t quite explain yet. About himself. He needs to tell another person about this…thing sitting huge and unspoken in his chest, something that threatens to crack him open from the inside if he keeps carrying its weight all by himself any longer.

“I have been having, um…” Ilya has to pause for a moment, figure out how the fuck to say this. “Different feelings lately— like, about stuff I never thought about before.”

Marly blinks at him. “What kind of feelings?” he asks, completely clueless.

Ilya exhales, long and shaky, and then he just…says it.

“I think I might be bisexual.”

The silence that follows stretches long enough that Ilya’s stomach starts twisting, and for a second he wonders if he might have gotten food poisoning too. He sits there, nauseous, bracing for judgement or confusion or for Marly to not even understand the word at all and need for it to be explained to him the same way Svetlana had explained it to him not that long ago.

Instead, Marly’s eyes go wide with genuine surprise for a singular second, before his face softens into something easy and unbothered.

“Oh,” he says lightly. “Okay. That’s cool man.” He offers a small, warm smile. “I’m happy for you. Like, that you’re figuring it out for yourself.”

Ilya stares blankly at him, genuinely dumbfounded at how simple that was. “You— that’s it? You’re not going to, um, freak out?”

Marly’s eyebrows furrow. “Why would I freak out, man?” he asks, confused.

I know hockey players are homophobic. I’ve had years of that—

“I don’t know. I thought—” Ilya doesn’t finish his sentence, not entirely sure what he thought, except that he’d genuinely been preparing for a more complicated conversation than this.

“You’re still you, bro,” Marly says matter-of-factly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Doesn’t matter who you’re into. You’re still the same asshole as always.” He grins as he says the last part.

Ilya’s chest loosens so quickly that it almost hurts. There’s a hot, sudden pressure behind his eyes that he blinks back hard, unwilling to actually start crying over this, especially not while sitting on his sick friend’s hotel room floor.

“Thank you,” he manages, voice a little rough.

“Of course,” Marly says, easy, reaching for his can of Coke. He gets it halfway to his mouth before he pauses, glancing back over at Ilya. “Can I ask who?”

“Who what?”

“Who made you realize it,” he clarifies. “There’s usually a guy, right? Or is that not how it works?”

Ilya’s face must twist into something uncomfortable at that, because Marly instantly laughs and holds up his hands, feigning innocence.

“Okay, nevermind. Don’t answer that.” He takes a long sip. “I’m probably not the right guy to talk about this shit with, anyway. You should ask, like, Hollander.”

Ilya’s whole body goes cold. “Why would I ask Hollander?”

Marly looks at him like it’s a strange question to ask. “Uh, because he’s gay, dude,” he explains, like it’s obvious. “So he’d probably be a good person to talk to about this stuff.”

“Right, yeah,” Ilya replies, then forces out what is supposed to sound like a laugh but instead comes out more like a pained bark, like he’s some sort of injured mutt. “Makes sense.”

Marly, mercifully, seems too worn down right now to notice anything off about it. He just shrugs and goes back to his Coke. Ilya lets out a slow, careful breath, grateful that the conversation is veering away from the one thing he isn’t ready to talk about yet.

“Alright,” Marly says a moment later, setting the can down abruptly as his face turns pale again. “I’m gonna puke again, so if you don’t wanna lose your appetite, I’d suggest you cover your ears.”

Ilya does exactly that, pressing his palms over his ears as Marly stumbles back toward the bathroom. He feels lighter than he has in days—one truth finally spoken out loud, even if the biggest one is still sitting inside of his heart, unsaid, right where he left it.

═══════

HAASY’S 19TH!

hazy
OUR BABY TURNS 19 ON SATURDAY
AND WE’RE THROWING A PARTY
EVERYONE’S COMING
NO QUESTIONS ASKED

lapointe
hosted where?

hazy
THAT IS A PROBLEM FOR ANOTHER DAY!
so who’s in?

bood
me

marly
ofc

roz
duh

boiziau
yurrrr

carmichael
yup

dykstra
me

Hayden Pike (DNI)
I’m in

roz
pike u r not even on the team

Hayden Pike (DNI)
Wtf? I’m just injured rn

roz
for now

barrett
LMFAOOOO

bood
bro roz stfu i’m crying

haasy
guys this isn’t necessary!!!!! i have nowhere to host a party

hazy
doesn’t matter
our baby is turning 19 we MUST celebrate

marly
true!!!!!!!

carmichael
fuckkk where can we do it

xxx-xxx-xxx
I’m down!
Also, my parents are gonna be out of town for the weekend
So I could ask them if I can host

marly
hollzy my man

hazy
i could literally kiss u rn shane hollander

haasy
shane are you sure?

xxx-xxx-xxx
Of course
No promises but I’ll try my best to convince them

boiziau
MY GOAT

hazy
luca are u excited or are u excited

haasy
i’m hype!!!!!!!!!

hazy
WOOHOOOOOO

The number xxx-xxx-xxx has been added to your contacts as hollander.

Contact named changed to shane.

═══════

Monday feels far too ordinary after what happened over the weekend. Sunlight falls flat and grey through the windows of the lecture hall as though nothing has changed—like Ilya’s whole brain chemistry wasn’t completely altered in a hotel bed in Toronto two days ago.

It occurs to him only now, while he walks the familiar route across campus with his worn backpack slung heavy over one shoulder, that he hasn’t actually let himself really think about that yet. He’s turned over every other fragment of the weekend obsessively—Shane’s mouth, Shane’s hands, Shane’s voice—but somehow the actual question of how he’s supposed to sit next Shane after all that happened has slipped his mind. And now here it is, unavoidable, as the lecture hall door looms ahead of him.

How is he supposed to act normal? He doesn’t think it’s possible to act normal when Shane is the reason Ilya lay awake two nights running, turning the word bisexual over in his head like a pill he’s struggling to swallow. Normal, when the memory of Shane’s mouth wrapped around him, careful and eager and gone slack with need, has taken up a permanent—and humiliating—space somewhere in Ilya’s mind, flaring up at the worst possible moments, like the shower, on the bus, or once, mortifyingly, in the middle of a completely unrelated conversation with Wyatt about cereal.

Maybe he should sit somewhere else today. It’s not like there’s a rule that says he has to take his usual seat, the one that puts him shoulder to shoulder with Shane every week. He’d be close enough to catch the familiar scent of him underneath the air of the lecture hall, which he doesn’t think he can handle right now. Briefly, Ilya considers suggesting J.J. sit in the middle for once. That would be simple. Painless. It’d be a small, simple rearrangement that would spare him an hour of torment that his nervous system surely has planned.

He doesn’t, though. Some perverse, self-destructing instinct in him refuses to take the easy way out. By the time he’s actually inside the lecture hall and weaving down the row toward his usual seat, he’s already committed to it. He sits down in the same spot he’s occupied every week since the semester began, Shane close enough on his left that Ilya can feel the warmth of him even before their arms have any chance of touching.

Fuck.

Immediately, Ilya can smell his cologne—clean, faintly woody, something Ilya has apparently remembered at some point without meaning to, filed away in some part of his memory that’s clearly been paying far more attention to Shane Hollander than he’s ever realized. He recognizes then that it’s the same one Shane wore last Saturday night, the one that had clung to the collar of his shirt while Ilya’s mouth moved along his throat. It’s the same cologne that Ilya had smelled before he fell asleep, despite having pressed his face into a pillow that didn’t smell like Shane at all yet his brain somehow thought it did anyway.

The scent hits him like a physical blow, and Ilya has to force himself to take deep breaths through it. He stares hard at the blank page of his notebook while his pulse erratically jumps in his throat. He feels like he’s being choked by phantom hands, forcing him to bask in the familiar scent until he thinks he might pass out.

At the very least, Ilya left it as long as he possibly could to walk over here, leaving him with no time for the horror of small talk. He manages a quick, strained “hey” to J.J. and then a smaller, quieter one directed somewhere in Shane’s general vicinity that’s answered with an equally clipped nod as Shane doesn’t quite meet his eyes—before the professor is clearing her throat and launching into whatever’s next on the syllabus, leaving no room for nothing more than the low, steady drone of her voice filling the space where conversation might’ve otherwise had happened.

Ilya decides, despite expecting to fail spectacularly at his plan, that he’s going to pay attention to the lecture today. He’s going to take notes, and he’s going to be a normal, functional student engaging with the material like anyone else in the room. And, it’s going to be enough to keep his mind from doing what it so desperately wants to do, which is think about Shane Hollander. So, Ilya pulls out a pen, writes the date at the top, underlines it, and attempts to focus on ethics, of all fucking things. Maybe this is going to be harder than anticipated, not necessarily because of Shane, but because ethics is just so fucking boring.

Beside him, he notices Shane glance over. He can sense the small shift of his attention, the brief pause in his own usual, effortless scribbling—and when Ilya risks a glance sideways, he catches the end of a confused yet vaguely amused expression on Shane’s face, disappearing almost as fast as it arrived. It’s fair, honestly, as Ilya’s never once taken notes in this class. Somehow, he’s managed to coast by so far purely on absorption and a talent for bullshitting his way through exams—and now here he is, with his notebook out, which he understands looks strange for him.

He writes anyway—some bullshit about utilitarianism, whatever that means.

His plan, as expected, doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t—he’d known deep down all along that it wouldn’t, the same way lightning is always followed by thunder. His pen goes still against the page, ink pooling faintly at the tip of the letter he doesn’t finish writing, and his eyes—without his permission—slide sideways, toward Shane.

It feels like gravity, like something ancient and mythical, a specific pull he can’t resist. As someone who’s easily bored and distracted, Ilya has spent his entire life believing himself to be the master of his own attention. Yet, he’s never once been compelled like this, not with this magnetic inevitably currently drawing his gaze toward Shane’s face like a compass swinging to north. He thinks, distantly, that if he tried to fight it, even with his whole will, he might genuinely come apart at the seams trying. So, he looks.

Shane is undoubtedly beautiful, even with his brow furrowed over whatever the fuck the professor is saying, his gaze fixed completely on the board. The fluorescent light that makes everybody else look worse than usual somehow makes him glow, illuminating his freckles, each one distinct. They form a small constellation that Ilya has apparently subconsciously spent months mapping. Shane’s bottom lip is caught between his teeth again, an unconscious habit Ilya’s watched him fall into a dozen times now, worrying at the plump curve of it while he thinks, entirely unaware of the effect it’s having on Ilya’s wellbeing.

Ilya wants to kiss him, and he’s so far past the point of denial about it now that it’s almost freeing to think so. He wants to close the small, unbearable distance between them and press his mouth to that lip the same way he did last Saturday night, except this time he wants more than the kiss itself—he wants to bite down on it, hard enough to leave a mark, hard enough that Shane might gasp against his mouth, hard enough to draw blood. He imagines the faint, coppery sweetness of it against his tongue, and his brain weirdly insists that it would taste like maple syrup rather than blood at all, because Shane is the most purely, achingly Canadian thing Ilya has ever encountered, sweetness distilled down into a single human form and poured straight into Ilya’s ribs.

He’s being crazy. He knows he is. Romanticizing someone’s blood as maple syrup definitely belongs in the realm of genuinely unwell, and yet he can’t quite bring himself to be embarrassed by it, not really, not when the alternative is thinking about how long this has apparently been building for without his knowledge. It must’ve been some slow, subterranean thing accumulating in his veins for weeks, maybe longer, only now finally cracking through to the surface like an open wound. Truthfully, he has no idea when it started, which is the part that unsettles him the most. There is no single moment he can point to for when it began. It feels almost like it’s always been there, in some dormant form, waiting patiently under layers and layers of assumption and habit and denial.

Ilya drags his eyes back to his notebook, and it takes physical effort to do so, yet he manages somehow. He forces his pen to move again, though the words he writes down are completely useless. The rest of the lecture passes by painfully slowly, with Ilya’s attention snagging and releasing, until the professor finally wraps up with her usual reminder about the readings nobody’s going to do.

“I’ve got another class now,” J.J. says, getting up and slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Fuck my life.” He pauses, then looks at the two of them. “Are you guys done for the day?”

“Yeah,” Shane says, not looking up from where he’s carefully sliding his notebook into his bag, like he’s avoiding having to look at anyone.

“Same,” Ilya manages, voice coming out steadier than he feels.

“Lucky,” J.J. says. “See you guys at practice,” he adds, then turns and walks off to his next class, leaving Shane and Ilya alone with nothing left standing between them.

Shane clears his throat. “I’m gonna, uh, use the bathroom first,” he says, gaze fixed somewhere over Ilya’s shoulder, not quite on his face. “See you.”

It’s such an obvious excuse that Ilya almost laughs, except there’s nothing funny about the way the dismissal lands in his chest. It’s confirmation he already sort of expected when he walked in today: that Shane is doing everything in his power to avoid him, the ordinariness of it apparently more than either of them can currently withstand.

It’s not necessarily new, this avoidance. Shane has never been especially good at eye contact—there’s always been this careful, deliberate distance in the way he looks at Ilya, with quick glances that dart away too soon, like looking at him for too long will bring about something awful. Today, however, it feels different. It’s no longer the shy, flickering avoidance, but rather a flat, deliberate evasion. It’s like he’s working hard to close a door that, for reasons that Ilya doesn’t understand, needs to stay shut.

“Okay,” Ilya says, going for casual, yet it comes out smaller than he intended. “See you at practice, then.”

Shane just nods, still not looking at him, already turning toward the bathroom at the far end of the hall. Ilya watches him go, bag heavy on his shoulder and chest heavier still. He leaves a moment later, feeling something enormously unresolved settle over him like a raincloud he can’t outrun.

The second he steps out of the building, Ilya spots a woman standing near the edge of the courtyard. She wears a red scarf that’s wrapped high around her neck to block out the cold, and she’s currently scanning the flow of students filing out of the building. It takes him a second to place her, memory dragging itself backwards before it suddenly clicks: Yuna Hollander. Shane’s mom. He mostly remembers her from freshman year—she and Shane’s dad used to show up at nearly every home game back then, always seated in the same section and the proudest parents in the building, which had struck Ilya as slightly strange at the time considering how little attention Shane ever seemed to want drawing toward him. He recalls, too, some scattered fact from a conversation years ago, that Shane is an only child, the sole recipient of all that parental devotion.

Must be nice.

Instinctively, he attempts to angle himself away from her. The idea of making conversation with Shane’s mom, of all people, while the memory of her son’s mouth is still burned so vividly into his own skin, strikes him as something close to unbearable. He’s barely adjusted his path before he registers, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, that she’s already noticed him. Already walking toward him, in fact, her expression open and faintly hopeful in a way that now makes retreating impossible.

“Ilya Rozanov, right?” she says once she’s close enough, offering him a small smile. “Sorry to bother you. You’re on the team with Shane.”

“Yes,” he answers, straightening slightly, digging up the version of himself that’s good with adults, though it feels a little threadbare today, stretched thin over everything else churning underneath his skin. “We also had a class together, actually, just now.”

“Oh, perfect.” Relief crosses her face. “I don’t suppose you know where he is? I was hoping to catch him before practice.”

“He went to the bathroom,” Ilya says. “He will probably be out any—”

As if he’s been summoned, Shane suddenly appears through the doorway behind him, moving faster than his usual measured pace. He seems a little out of breath, like he’d spotted them together and instantly rushed over.

“Mom!” he calls out, and there’s warmth in it, along with genuine surprise, though it’s quickly overtaken by something more guarded as his eyes flick towards Ilya and then away. “What are you— why are you talking to Rozanov?”

It’s not rude, exactly, the way he says it, though there’s an edge to it that Ilya recognizes—it’s the same careful wariness that he’s had since Toronto, apparently potent enough now to bleed even into how Shane talks about him in front of his own mother.

Yuna blinks, visibly thrown by the sharpness of it. “I was just asking him if he’d seen you,” she says, brows furrowing.

“Why would he know where I am?”

“Shane.” She says his name with the particular, gentle exasperation of a loving parent, clearly unused to this tone from him. “He’s your teammate. It wasn’t an unreasonable question.”

Watching this exchange unfold, Ilya feels something small and unwelcome twist in his chest—not about the tension itself, but the easy closeness of it, the way Yuna’s whole posture softens just from having Shane in front of her. It’s such a small thing—a mother concerned about her son’s mood—but it lands somewhere raw in Ilya anyway, an ache he doesn’t want to examine too closely, except to notice that a mother like Yuna is probably exactly the kind of person who’d have taken it well when Shane came out. She would’ve hugged him, probably, and then told him nothing had changed and that she loved him exactly the same—and she would’ve meant it.

Ilya doesn’t have anything like that. He won’t ever have that, not from his own mother, who’s been dead for years now, and certainly not from his father—a man built from old-fashioned traditions and harder edges, someone Ilya is fairly sure wouldn’t take the news of him potentially being bisexual anywhere near as well as Shane’s dad would.

Shane’s voice is apologetic now, some of the earlier sharpness gone. “Sorry,” he says to his mom, and then, finally, turns to look at Ilya properly for the first time all day. “Hey, Rozanov.”

“Hollander,” Ilya says, managing to keep his own voice steady.

It’s enough to shake him back into the present, at least. He clears his throat, and the memory from the group chat surfaces—Shane’s offer to ask his parents about hosting Luca’s birthday party.

“Actually,” Ilya says, nudging Shane lightly with his elbow, “perfect timing.”

The contact sends something electric skittering up his arm the second they touch, an echo of last week flaring bright and unwelcome under his skin. Ilya watches Shane’s whole body flinch away, stepping half a foot sideways like the touch has burned him, which stings more than it probably should. Ilya hates it, hates the physical evidence of how far the wall between them has been rebuilt in the past two days.

“What?” Shane says, wary.

“Ask your mom,” Ilya says, undeterred. “About Haasy’s birthday. The house.”

Shane’s eyes go wide, quick and alarmed. “No,” he hisses, low enough that it’s only meant for Ilya, though Yuna is standing close enough to catch it anyway.

“Come on, Hollander.”

“No!”

“It is one question.”

“Rozanov—”

Yuna clears her throat, gently interrupting the low, rapid back-and-forth. Her expression appears both amused and curious. “What are you two whispering about?”

Ilya decides quickly that the smartest move here is to be completely normal—the version of himself he’d be if Toronto never happened at all: easy and charming and utterly unbothered. He throws an arm around Shane’s shoulders before he can think better of it, ignoring the way Shane goes utterly rigid under the weight of it, and turns his most winning smile on for Yuna.

“Luca is a freshman on the team, and he’s turning nineteen on the weekend,” Ilya explains. “But nobody has anywhere to host his birthday party. Shane mentioned he might ask you and your husband if you’d let us borrow the house, since you guys are apparently out of town this weekend?” He gives Shane’s shoulder a small, encouraging squeeze, feeling the tension radiating off him even through the layers of his jacket. “He’s just being too polite to actually ask you.”

Yuna’s eyebrows lift, surprise flickering across her face before it settles into something warmer, more delighted. “You want to throw a party at our house?”

“It will not be crazy,” Ilya says solemnly. “We are not crazy college students, you know.”

This earns him a genuine laugh, and Ilya feels a surge of satisfaction run through him.

“Well,” she says, glancing toward Shane, who is still standing stiff and faintly mortified under Ilya’s arm. “That’s very sweet of you guys, wanting to do that for your teammate. I’ll have to check with David, obviously, but I don’t see why not.”

“You are an angel, Mrs. Hollander,” Ilya says with a smile.

“Call me Yuna,” she says, still smiling.

“Yuna,” Ilya repeats. “Thank you.”

“You are very sweet, Ilya,” she says, and it’s so uncomplicatedly fond that it makes Ilya’s chest ache all over again. The same envy from earlier resurfaces, quieter this time, folded into something gentler, like gratitude, that at least someone gets to have this. That Shane does, at least, even if Ilya never will.

He finally lets his arm drop from Shane’s shoulders, stepping back, and watches Shane straighten out of the touch almost too fast, cheeks faintly pink and eyes anywhere but Ilya.

“We should get going,” Shane mumbles, already half-turned away.

“Yes,” Yuna agrees, reaching up to briefly touch his arm, warm and easy. “I’ll text your dad about the house.”

Shane nods, then offers Ilya the smallest, most fleeting glance, before heading off across the quad. Yuna follows behind, though Shane walks ahead, going quick enough that it’s obvious, even from behind, exactly how desperate he was for that whole conversation to be over.

Ilya watches them go, then starts his own walk home. It’s freezing, and he wishes he drove here, and he just missed the bus so he has no choice but to firm it and walk home. He’s about halfway when his phone buzzes.

HAASY’S 19TH!

shane
My parents said yes :)

Ilya smiles faintly at the notification, then slips his phone back into his pocket.

═══════

The Hollanders have a nice house. It’s exactly the kind of house Ilya would’ve pictured for a family like them: modern but not cold, with warm wood tones and an open-plan living space. It’s nothing like the dark, cold house in Moscow he grew up in, but rather the kind of house that’s lived in. It smells like laundry detergent and the faint scent of dinner from last night, as well as whatever candle Yuna favors burning in the evenings.

What strikes Ilya the most though, as he walks through it, is the photographs. They’re everywhere—lining the staircase in mismatched frames, clustered on the mantel, propped up on side tables in the hallway. There’s baby photos of Shane, round-cheeked and gap-toothed, captured mid-laugh in a paddling pool. A gangly, awkward middle school Shane in full hockey gear, the helmet way too big for his head, but he’s grinning nonetheless. Then there’s Shane at what must be his high school graduation, Yuna’s arm looped through his while David’s hand sits heavy and proud on his shoulder. It’s a house saturated in love, plain and unhidden, spilling out from every surface.

It does something weird to Ilya’s chest, walking past all of it. His own childhood home had contained love too, he thinks—plenty of it, back when his mother was still alive to fill the house with the sound of her voice—but it had never been displayed like this. His mother’s love had instead lived in the small gestures and things she did for him, subtle enough that you had to know where to look for them beneath the surface of his father’s rigid, unspoken expectations. But here, in this house, love simply exists in plain sight, framed and displayed. Something about that sits heavy in Ilya’s stomach, but it might also be the three drinks he’s already chugged, as he now stares blankly across the Hollanders’ living room.

The party itself is going well. The sound system Shane’s parents apparently splurged on is fantastic, blasting J. Cole all around the house. The hockey team, as well as other friends, are spread out across the home, either playing beer pong or chatting in the kitchen.

Ilya, however, isn’t having a good time.

He’s placed himself on the couch, beer warming untouched in his hand. By now, he’s well past the point of pleasantly tipsy and is sliding steadily toward something closer to properly drunk, and instead of doing anything fun with that, he’s spent the better part of 20 minutes glaring across the room at Shane and Troy. The two of them are deep in conversation near the TV, both of them laughing at something. Their sleeves are nearly brushing. Shane looks lighter than Ilya’s seen him look in days, head tipped back as he laughs at whatever Troy’s just said.

Ilya hates it. He hates it with an intensity that he has no right to feel, given that he has no claim on Shane Hollander whatsoever—not even after Toronto, not when he was sent out of that hotel room and has been ignored and avoided ever since. It’s not like he can march over there now and insert himself into the conversation so that he can physically pry Shane’s attention away from Troy, not without outing himself in front of half the team. Because he’s not out. He’s barely even sure of what he is yet, if he’s honest.

Yet, underneath all of his hatred sits the corrosive guilt of knowing that this is entirely his own doing. Shane liked him first—for months, apparently—and Ilya had wasted all that time being oblivious, or worse, being cruel about it without even realizing, laughing along in locker rooms, calling him boring, never once considering that there might be something worth taking seriously underneath all his own careless jokes. He believed he’d finally caught up, finally understood what he’d been missing, but the second he had, he’d managed to break it anyway. He’d said the wrong thing, wanted it too visibly, or maybe not visibly enough. And now here they are, on opposite sides of the room, and Shane is laughing easily with someone who isn’t Ilya, someone objectively gorgeous and kind, someone who’s everything he isn’t.

Ilya has no right to be angry about this. He knows it, knows that he has no ownership over Shane, no more claim than Troy does—less, really, considering everything he’s already ruined. And even if he settles his guilt aside, what does he actually have to offer Shane? He’s a mess. Depressed about his dead mom, with an alive father who’d sooner disown him than accept whatever the new, unstable thing about himself turns out to be. He barely even knew what the word bisexual meant until a while ago. He doesn’t even know, precisely, what he wants from Shane beyond the obvious—his mouth, his hands, the weight of him—except that it does seem, if he lets himself be honest for once, to reach further than that. He wants to be near him, wants to be the one making him laugh like that instead of Troy. He wants, God help him, to be the one who gets to walk past all those framed photographs someday and know the backstory to all of them. Maybe he wants to be in a photo frame on the mantle himself someday.

Which is, by all means, insane. He knows it is. Ilya presses the cool side of his beer against his temple for a second, trying to stop the spiral he’s having before it gets any worse, if that’s even possible.

He’s so thoroughly absorbed in his glaring that he doesn’t register anyone approaching the couch until a body drops down heavily next to him, close enough that the beer sloshes around in Ilya’s can, threatening to spill over.

“Hey!” the guy says, grinning, clearly several drinks deep himself. His blond hair is mussed and his green eyes are a little glassy in the low light.

Ilya blinks at him, momentarily stunned at the fact that he doesn’t recognize this person—stocky, handsome, definitely not a hockey player. Ilya doesn’t think he’s ever seen him around campus.

“Hi,” he replies somewhat hesitantly.

“You looked like you were about to murder someone,” the guy says, nodding vaguely across the room. “What’re you even looking at?”

“Nothing,” Ilya says, way too fast.

The guy follows his previous line of sight anyway, gaze drifting over toward Troy and Shane, still deep in their conversation. Something knowing flickers across his face. “Uh huh,” he says. “Nothing, right…”

Ilya doesn’t answer, taking a long sip of beer instead, hoping it might discourage further conversation.

“Do you know either of them?” the guy asks, still watching him with a sort of open, drunken curiosity.

“Do you know them?” Ilya counters, feeling defensive for some reason.

The guy’s whole face lights up. “Yeah, Troy,” he says, jabbing a thumb toward the man in question. “He’s my boyfriend.”

Ilya nearly chokes on his beer. He sets the can down on the coffee table and stares at the guy properly now. “Troy has a boyfriend?” he exclaims.

“Yeah,” the guy says, grinning wider. “Me!”

“I didn’t know that,” Ilya says slowly, mind scrambling to reassemble everything he’s been assuming for weeks.

Shane is not hooking up with Troy.

Huh.

Troy’s boyfriend giggles, actually giggles, swaying slightly where he’s sitting. “Yeah, well, nobody knows. Troy isn’t, like, out out yet. Publicly, I mean. We’re gonna tell people soon, I think, but he wanted to wait a bit.” He waves his hand vaguely, as if Ilya is supposed to know what he means by the gesture.

“Right,” he says, still catching up. “Makes sense.”

The guy squints at him for a second, and Ilya can practically see the cogs turning in his brain, before he suddenly laughs again.

“Wait,” he says. “Did you think Troy was, like, fucking Shane Hollander?”

Ilya feels heat crawl up his neck at having been read like a book. “Uhh…maybe?” he admits, a little sheepish. “Yeah. Kinda. They have been close lately.”

Troy’s boyfriend shakes his head, still laughing. “No, no, you’ve got it all wrong,” he says. “God, that’s so funny. No, they’re just friends, I promise.”

“Okay,” Ilya says, relief flooding through him faster and more intensely than he cares to admit. A whole knotted tangle of emotions suddenly begins to loosen.

Troy’s boyfriend leans in slightly then, dropping his voice into an exaggerated whisper than he definitely believes is a lot quieter than it actually is. “Okay, I probably shouldn’t say this,” he says, “but Troy told me that Shane’s been, like, hopelessly in love with one of their teammates for months now, apparently.”

Ilya’s whole body goes still.

“Ilya Rozanov, I think,” the guy continues, oblivious, clearly enjoying having an audience for the gossip. “Do you know him? He’s a big deal on the team, apparently— and a massive fuckboy, from what Troy says.”

Ilya doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move a muscle, in fact, sitting frozen on the couch while his own fucking name hangs in the air between them. He doesn’t know what to do about it.

“It’s kind of sad, honestly,” Troy’s boyfriend says, shaking his head. He sounds genuinely sympathetic. “Because, like, everyone knows this Rozanov guy is straight, right? Sleeps with a different girl every week or whatever. And Shane just— he won’t let it go.” He shakes his head solemnly. “And, like, the water won’t get warmer while you’re waiting to jump in it, you know? He’s still gonna be straight. God, poor guy.”

“You probably should not be telling me this,” Ilya says quietly. Something tight is coiling in his chest, a feeling that has nothing to do with relief anymore.

The guy blinks, surprised. “Huh?”

“Is not your business to gossip about,” Ilya tells him, more sharply than he means to. “Or mine. Is private.”

“Oh.” His face falls, guilt flicking across his expression. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to be mean about it, I just— I feel bad for the guy, you know? Being stuck on someone like that.”

Ilya softens, feeling guilty at having snapped at a stranger who clearly meant no harm.

“No, I get it,” he says. “Sorry. I did not mean to get mad. I just don’t like it when people talk about him like that.”

“You know him?” Troy’s boyfriend asks.

“Something like that,” Ilya sighs.

Troy’s boyfriend studies him for a second then, his expression changing slightly as sobriety suddenly cuts through his drunken haze. “Oh— wait! I never actually asked you name,” he says, laughing at himself. “I’m an idiot. I’m Harris, by the way.”

“Ilya Rozanov,” Ilya replies, and watches with a strange, detached kind of fascination, as Harris’ whole face drops. He looks confused, then horrified, mouth opening slightly like he’s about to say something—an apology, explanation, or maybe both.

Ilya, however, doesn’t give him the chance. He’s up off the couch before Harris can get a single word out, beer abandoned on the coffee table. He moves through the crowded living room quickly, weaving past Wyatt and Bood, not looking back to see Harris’ reaction. He doesn’t need to.

What he does catch, though, is Shane’s eyes. Tracking him. Watching Ilya walk away.

Ilya doesn’t know what to make of that.

The stairs feel really steep for some reason, or maybe that’s just the alcohol. Either way, each step requires more concentration than it probably should. Ilya grips the banister loosely, and by the time he reaches the top of the stairs, the noise of the party has softened into something more bearable, now just the muffled heartbeat of the thumping bass.

He needs somewhere quiet to stop his head from spinning. Luckily, there’s a door at the top of the stairs, slightly ajar, and Ilya pushes it open without much thought.

He knows within a single breath that it’s Shane’s room.

It’s unmistakable—everything about it distilled, somehow, into the exact shape of the person Ilya has spent the past two months helplessly obsessing over. The bed is made with extreme precision, navy sheets pulled taut at the corners, not a single wrinkle visible. Hockey posters line one wall in a careful configuration: Sidney Crosby, an old Team Canada roster, then some signed photo from a junior tournament Ilya doesn’t recognize. Everything is clean, everything has a place, and it’s practically Shane’s entire existence concentrated into one space—and the thought of that knocks the breath clean out of Ilya’s lungs for a second.

He doesn’t get much time to think about that, though, because the door opens again almost immediately behind him, and Shane steps through, closing it fast and leaning back against it like he’s barricading the room. It’s an extremely similar sight to when they entered his hotel room in Toronto.

“What are you doing in here?” Shane asks, eyes wide, voice higher than usual.

“Sorry,” Ilya says, and it comes out a little slurred at the edges. “I just wanted somewhere quiet. I did not know that it was your room.” Lie.

Something in Shane’s expression softens at that, the alarm fading into something more apologetic. He doesn’t say anything else right away, though, just watches as Ilya drops himself down onto the edge of the bed.

Shane visibly winces.

“What?” Ilya asks.

“Nothing,” Shane says, and then: “I just don’t usually let people sit on my bed in outside clothes. It’s fine, though. Don’t worry about it.”

Ilya blinks at him, a little thrown off and also unsure what he’s supposed to do with that information beyond finding it deeply and helplessly endearing.

He feels weird for thinking that, so he does what he always does when he doesn’t know what else to do, and makes a joke:

“Wow,” he says, a small, crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I did not think you would ever stop ignoring me, Hollander.”

Shane instantly goes pink, color blooming fast across his cheeks. He shakes his head, crossing the room and sitting beside Ilya on the bed—right beside him, close enough that their knees almost brush.

“I’m sorry,” Shane says, quiet. “I didn’t know what to do after…what happened.” He exhales, long and unsteady. “I guess I was embarrassed— about how I, um, acted.”

Ilya frowns. “Why would you be embarrassed?”

Shane doesn’t answer right away, gaze dropping to his hands in his lap. His next words come out mumbled and barely audible. “I don’t know. Being that— needy, or whatever. It’s humiliating.”

“No,” Ilya says immediately, the word coming out slurred yet forceful. “No, no— is not embarrassing. You shouldn’t…this is not embarrassing, Hollander.”

Shane doesn’t respond to that. He just stays quiet, eyes still fixed on his own hands. Ilya, unable to sit comfortably in the silence, lets his own gaze wander instead, drinking in more of the room around them—the small details, like a shelf of what looks like childhood hockey trophies gathering dust in the far corner.

His gaze eventually lands on the bedside table. More specifically, he looks at a framed photo propper there, of Shane, maybe 14 or 15, squeezed between his parents, all three of them grinning at the camera. Ilya reaches for it before he’s fully thought it through, picking it up so they can both look at it properly.

“Fuck off,” Shane snaps, lunging for it. “Put that shit away.”

Ilya holds it up out of reach instead, grinning despite the way the room tilts slightly with the motion. Shane tries one more halfhearted grab for it before giving up, though he doesn’t scoot back, doesn’t put any distance between them—leaving their thighs and shoulders still pressed together. Something about the fact sits warm and deep in Ilya’s heart even through the haze of the alcohol.

He looks at the photo properly now: Shane’s younger face, his cheeky grin, and the obvious adoration radiating from both of his parents. It causes something in his own chest to twist, sharp and sudden.

“You are really close with them?” he asks. “Your parents?”

“Yeah,” Shane answers, and his voice is warm. “They’re— yeah. We’re all really close.” He pauses. “Are you close with your family?”

Ilya is quiet for a second too long before he eventually answers. “No,” he says flatly. “My father and brother are assholes. We do not really talk anymore.”

Shane’s brow furrows, something gentle and concerned crossing his pretty face. “What about your mom?”

“Dead,” Ilya says plainly, even though the word itself feels enormous leaving his mouth. “Since I was young.”

Shane is silent for a long moment, before he replies: “I’m really sorry.” His voice is gentle and soft.

Ilya shrugs, feigning nonchalance that doesn’t quite land. “Is fine,” he says.

It’s not fine, and neither is he. His eyes are beginning to well up, fast and unexpected, tears blurring the edges of the photo still clutched in his hand. He hasn’t thought about his mother properly in longer than he’d like to admit, hasn’t let himself. and something about this house—saturated in love he’ll never quite get—has cracked something in his heart open that he wasn’t prepared for.

Shane, of course, notices immediately. “Hey,” he says, voice gentle, reaching toward him.

Ilya flinches away instinctively, embarrassed, swiping roughly at his face with the back of his hand.

“Is okay,” he says, voice thick.

“Hey, hey,” Shane says again, softer this time.

Ilya wipes his eyes properly now, then forces in a long inhale. When he finally looks back up at Shane, he finds him holding out his pinky finger, small and solemn in the space between them. Ilya blinks at it, confused for a second, and Shane, catching it, clears his throat awkwardly.

“Pinky promise,” he says, a little sheepish. “I won’t tell anyone. About any of this.”

Ilya’s chest feels like it cracks open fully at that—the simplicity, the sincerity, the fact that Shane is still using the same exact, ridiculous ritual Ilya used weeks ago to offer him something that feels, right now, like the safest thing anyone’s given him in years. He feels the tears threaten to come back again, worse this time, and quickly hooks his own pinky around Shane’s before he can embarrass himself further by saying anything.

They stay like that for a moment, fingers linked, looking at each other in the low light of Shane’s childhood bedroom—and Ilya doesn’t really decide to do it, instead his body leans forward sort of on its own, slowly enough that Shane could pull away if he wanted to.

The water won't get warmer while you're waiting to jump in it.

He doesn’t.

There is a brief moment right as their lips touch when Shane goes still, long enough that Ilya’s stomach drops with the sudden certainty that he’s misread everything again, but then Shane kisses him back.

Saturday night in Toronto had been frantic, hungry, weeks of tension breaking all at once in a rush neither of them could slow down. It’s different today—slow, deliberate, something closer to reverent. Shane’s mouth moves against his so gentle that Ilya’s heart aches with something much larger than simply just want.

He lets his free hand drift, finding Shane’s thigh, resting there—warm, solid, the muscle shifting slightly under his palm. He keeps his pinky locked with Shane’s the entire time, unwilling to let that particular point of contact break. It feels sacred, somehow, more than the kiss itself. A small, absurd promise sealed between two fingers.

As they kiss, Ilya thinks about this room, this house, the photographs lining every wall downstairs, all the love Shane has been bathed in without ever having to beg for it. He thinks about what it might be like to someday be a small, permanent part of that—another photo on the wall—and the thought is so large, so far beyond anything he’s ever let himself want before, that it nearly knocks the rhythm of the kiss right out of him, breath catching hard in his throat.

He manages to keep up anyway, chasing the soft, quiet sounds Shane’s making against his mouth—small gasps and whimpers that are completely unguarded, nothing like the loud, desperate noises he heard in Toronto.

And what surprises Ilya the most, more than the ache in his chest at the thought of belonging here someday, is that he doesn’t necessarily want this to go any further than it has. That night was beyond, yes, had cracked open something fundamental in his mind—but right now, in this quiet, half-drunk moment, Ilya finds that he’s genuinely content with just the slow drag of Shane’s mouth against his and the warm weight of his thigh under his palm, all while their pinkies remain locked.

His heart is doing something it’s never done before.

A thought suddenly surfaces through the haze: Shane likes him.

Shane has liked him for months, apparently, and Ilya can’t help the small smile that pulls at his mouth even mid-kiss, helpless and a little giddy about it despite everything else churning painfully under the surface.

He wonders, briefly, whether he should say anything. Perhaps now, in this quiet room with their pinkies intertwined, is the moment he should finally acknowledge what he knows. But there’s an obvious problem—he can’t say it without admitting how he knows, without confessing that Marly overheard it, and that the whole team has known about it for ages now, and Ilya let the gossip spread without ever doing anything about it. It would definitely hurt Shane to know that. Ilya’s certain of that.

And then—a loud knock at the door shatters the moment entirely.

Shane gasps, breaking away, and both of them scramble backward on the bed, creating as much space as they can in such a short amount of time. Ilya’s heart is hammering, the sudden absence of Shane’s mouth against his leaving him disoriented. He blinks hard, trying to readjust to where he is. Shane’s room. Shane’s house. Luca’s birthday. Right.

The door swings open before either of them can properly compose themselves, and J.J. stands there, one hand still on the doorknob, jaw dropping slightly at the sight before him.

It’s a reasonable reaction, honestly. Ilya and Shane aren’t friends. Aren’t even close—all they do it chirp each other and practice, sit next to each other in ethics, and share a pinky promise or two…but nothing that would explain why the two of them are up here, alone in Shane’s room.

“We’re uh, about to give Haasy his cake,” J.J. says after an awkwardly long beat of silence.

“Right,” Shane says, voice tight. “Yeah. We’ll be down.”

“Cool,” J.J. says, still standing in the doorway, gaze flicking briefly down toward their hands.

It’s only then that Ilya realizes their pinkies are still linked—have been, apparently, this entire time, neither of them having thought to disconnect them in the scramble to sit up. And J.J. has clearly seen it.

Shane gets up fast, untangling his hand from Ilya’s and smoothing down his shirt like the action might erase what J.J.’s just witnessed. He moves past his best friend in the doorway without another word, disappearing down the hallway, and J.J. lets him go.

Ilya moves to follow, expecting the same, easy passage—except J.J. doesn’t move aside. Instead, he plants a hand flat against Ilya’s chest, then pushes him hard enough to make Ilya stumble back half a step into the doorframe.

“Woah—”

“What’s going on?” J.J. says—well, demands.

“Nothing,” Ilya lies. It feels weird on his tongue.

J.J. doesn’t look at all convinced. He narrows his eyes as he studies Ilya’s face with an intensity that makes Ilya’s stomach twist uncomfortably. He doesn’t know what to say—doesn’t know how much J.J. already knows, whether Shane’s told him about his crush or whether J.J.’s piecing it all together right now, in real time. And besides, Ilya isn’t out. He doesn’t even know, fully, what he is yet, and the last thing he wants is to be outed in a hallway by his captain’s best friend before he’s even had the chance to figure any of it out for himself.

J.J. seems to read some of the hesitation of Ilya’s face, because his expression changes slightly from something less accusatory into something more searching.

“I have no fucking clue what that was,” he starts, quieter now, “but I know Shane. And I know there’s something you’re not telling me.” He doesn’t push further than that, just holds Ilya’s gaze for a long, uncomfortable second.

Then, he adds: “Treat him right, Rozanov.”

J.J. steps aside then, finally, letting Ilya through, and heads off down the stairs without waiting for a respond. It leaves Ilya standing alone in the doorway, heart still hammering, completely dumbfounded.

Chapter End Notes

hollanov office au is calling my name... do i write it yes or yes

Chapter 5: is it too late to pursue?

Chapter Notes

i am not a hockey player but instead a 20 year old college student who knows nothing about the sport beyond what's shown in heated rivalry... and i'm not gonna pretend i ever pay attention to the hockey while i'm watching that show lol. with that in mind, let us please ignore all of the hockey inaccuracies that i'm certain are present in this chapter because i was too lazy to do my research. i was busy writing research papers and wasting my time on twitter okay i'm sorry (i'm not)

also yes i know i promised a bonus chapter with shane & jj's povs buuuuut that is probably not gonna be happening anymore Sorry. this semester is kicking my ass and has totally destroyed my motivation & desire to write (hence why this chapter took so damn long lol) so i don't wanna get people's hopes up for something that is probably not gonna come...ever...Sorry again.

once again, thank you to my gorgeous beta reader eli for all of her help with this chapter <3 !!! getting a bunch of voice messages from you giggling over the chapter while i was tipsy at a party was the best part of my week LOL

i hope you enjoy this final chapter. it's a long one & i'm really proud of it :) thank you for all the love until now ♡

(russian convos are in italics)

Shane’s back is against the door, and one of Ilya’s knees is wedged between his thighs while his mouth runs slowly along the line of his jaw. Shane’s shirt is shoved up to his armpits, Ilya’s already on the floor, forgotten. And Shane looks like a fucking vision, illuminated dimly by the bathroom light spilling yellow onto his face and catching the flush climbing up his throat.

Shane’s hands are all over him—greedy and a little uncoordinated while they slide over Ilya’s chest. He moves like he still doesn’t quite believe he’s allowed to, hands shaking, faintly, but not enough that anyone besides Ilya would ever notice. His breath keeps hitching too, like his body isn’t quite processing what’s happening. It makes Ilya grin against his neck, feeling pleased with himself.

He’s had Shane like this a handful of times now, and it still feels like the first time. This is the same guy who used to stare right through him at hockey practice—unreadable, robotic, Ilya’s gaydar failing spectacularly, apparently. Now, he’s got Shane panting into his mouth like he’s just run suicide drills, hard against Ilya’s thigh, and he’s the one who started this today. He backed Ilya into his bedroom the second he let him into his apartment, kissed him like he was starving for it, and didn’t even stop when Ilya laughed against his mouth and called him eager.

This is all new, and Ilya’s still not used to it: seeing Shane want something this loudly and not apologizing or shying away from it. It does something warm and a little dangerous to his chest that he doesn’t really want to think about.

What he does think about, however, is back when Shane’s face was nothing more than a locked (and pretty) door he couldn’t pick. He used to think there was nothing behind it worth looking at. Now, he’s confident that he can catalogue every flicker of emotion like a language he’s fluent in, as if he and Shane have suddenly started to communicate with one another in Russian—even though that’s ridiculous. He recognizes the way Shane’s eyes flutter shut when Ilya bites down on the soft spot of his neck below his ear, as well as the small sounds he makes, little whines when Ilya palm drags over the front of his jeans. Most of all, he notices the fact that Shane is the one who’s shoved him backward toward the bed, no hesitation at all.

Ilya allows himself to be moved, dropping down onto the mattress as he watches Shane climb after him, hands still unsteady when he goes for Ilya’s belt. He doesn’t ask to do it, just takes what he wants and drags his jeans and boxers down far enough that Ilya’s dick springs free, flushed and already hard.

Shane takes a moment to just stare, almost like he’s memorizing it. Then, he glances up, holding Ilya’s eyes for one long beat, and bends down.

It’s nothing like Toronto anymore, because that time it had been full of hesitation and stalled breaths, with Shane pulling back every few seconds like the room might collapse if they continued. He seems to have realized by now—now that they’ve gotten each other off half a dozen times—that it won’t, and settles comfortably between Ilya’s legs like he belongs there, wrapping one hand around the base, and taking him into his mouth in one smooth, wet slide.

Ilya’s head drops back against the pillow with a punched-out sound.

Shane is good at this, better than he has any right to be for someone who, according to the man himself, doesn’t do it particularly often—although even the thought of another man getting to see Shane like this, getting to feel him like this, sends a shiver up Ilya’s spine.

Though it’s less about Shane’s technique and more about how he’s so into this, getting Ilya off, that does it for him. He doesn’t do it because he thinks he’s supposed to, or he thinks Ilya will enjoy it, or whatever the fuck else. It’s like he loves the weight of Ilya on his tongue, visibly enjoying himself as his cheeks hollow out while little hums of pleasure vibrate around Ilya’s cock. His eyes are half-lidded, and one of his hands stays braced on Ilya’s thigh, while the other drifts down to press against his own jeans to relieve some of the pressure.

Ilya’s fingers thread into Shane’s hair without thinking. He doesn’t push, just rests his hand there. It feels ironic, to think about how Shane had confessed in the dim light of his Toronto hotel room that he likes being pushed around a little, dominated, told what to do—yet here he is, loving the giving more than the receiving, his mouth working Ilya like it’s the only thing he wants in the world.

“Fuck,” Ilya mutters in Russian, then somehow manages to grasp at his final thread of sanity to switch to English, so Shane can understand: “Look at you.”

Shane makes a soft, affirmative noise at that,  before taking him deeper, tongue dragging along the underside. His free hand finally stops pressing against his own dick long enough to stroke the last part of Ilya he can’t fit into his mouth. The rhythm is messy, sincere, and so fucking earnest that Ilya’s chest almost begins to ache. He tries not to think about it, tries to stay smug, thinking I have him, he’s on his knees for me, he can’t hide how much he wants it. The thought, however, keeps on sliding sideways into something warmer and more dangerous, something that feels a tad more than just wanting to fuck him. But Ilya swats it away like he always does, because he can’t do this right now. Not while Shane looks like that.

Shane shifts then, getting more comfortable. The new angle allows him to take pretty much all of Ilya, and from where he’s laying, Ilya can see how his eyes are watering a little bit. Shane doesn’t pull off though, instead he glances up through his lashes, pink lips stretched wide around Ilya’s cock.

Ilya’s hips jerk up once, embarrassingly.

“Shit— easy—” he gasps out.

He barely has the time to recover, to get himself back to acting calm, before something shifts. Ilya can feel it before it fully registers in his brain—a sudden tension rushing through Shane’s body, his rhythm faltering all of a sudden. Ilya looks down once more and goes very, very still, because Shane’s whole body has gone rigid, his thighs shaken while a small, broken sound spills out around Ilya’s cock as his hips stutter once, twice, against nothing at all.

He’s coming. Untouched, and fully dressed below the waist.

Coming from this alone.

Ilya can’t do anything but stare for a second, his brain lagging and glitching and completely malfunctioning, all at the sight in front of him. “Did you just—?” he starts, voice coming out rough and disbelieving. He sits up a bit so he can actually see Shane’s face, which by now has gone bright red. His mouth is swollen and shiny, he looks wrecked, and a dark patch is beginning to spread across the front of his jeans.

Ilya feels two things at once: 1. ridiculous and smug, at having caused that without even trying; and 2. robbed.

He laughs, a little breathless himself. “What about my turn?” he pouts, feigning disappointment. “I did not even get to touch you.”

Shane goes redder somehow, mortified, yet the corner of his mouth is fighting a smile the entire time. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, and shrugs one shoulder.

“Let me finish first,” he says, wrapping a hand around Ilya’s cock and continuing to stroke him while they talk.

“But what about me?” Ilya asks. “I will not be able to get you off now.”

Shane shrugs yet again. “Next time.”

“You always say this,” Ilya says, propping himself up on his elbows, barely able to function as Shane’s hand keeps moving up and down. “Next time, next time.”

It is true, though—they’ve done this a handful of times since Toronto, yet never as often as Ilya would like. Each time it ends with an unspoken understanding hanging over it that this could just stop at any point, even though neither of them have ever addressed what this is.

Shane’s smile softens, and he tilts his head to the side, doe eyes still shining. He holds up his free hand, pinky extended.

“Pinky promise,” he grins, albeit shyly.

Ilya stares at it. Maybe for a second too long.

They’ve done this so many times—probably more than is normal for two adult men. Small, half-joking promises that have been stacking up for the past few months, and every single one has turned out to mean more than Ilya originally intended. Somewhere along the way, it’s stopped being a bit and has become something that actually holds some weight. Not that he’d ever admit that out loud, though.

He leans forward and hooks his own pinky around Shane’s. As always, the tiny point of contact always feels so much larger than it actually is—especially considering Shane’s other hand is literally stroking his dick right now.

“We have made a lot of these,” Ilya mumbles, mostly to himself. It comes out quieter than he means to.

“Yeah,” Shane replies, and that’s it.

Ilya tugs gently on their joined hands until Shane gives in and crawls up to settle on top of him. Both of them are a mess, with ruined jeans and swollen mouths, but they both seem content to stay like that. Ilya wraps an arm loosely around his back and lets Shane’s head drop against his chest, and he stays in place and listens to his breathing slow down.

He doesn’t feel smug anymore. What’s left underneath it is much quieter, warmer, and it shouldn’t—but it feels scarier. Probably because it has nothing to do with sex at all.

Ilya wants to say something, but he doesn’t know what. He just feels like he wants to, almost like he needs to—but no words are materializing in his brain, or, at least none that are appropriate for this situation. If anything, he’d probably just open it by opening his mouth, would probably scare Shane off. So, he swallows the urge back down, flinching away from his own sentence before he’s given it the chance to fully form.

Instead, he presses his lips to the top of Shane’s head and just…breathes.

“Next time,” he echoes again.

“Uh-huh,” Shane hums in response, and Ilya knows he’s smiling, even if he can’t see it.

═══════

Ilya’s life has always had its own rhythm, changing every once in a while when something significant occurs. He had to adjust when his mother passed, then when he moved to Canada, and now, a new routine has formed almost all by itself. His life consists of practice, class, and newly, the occasional stolen hour with Shane Hollander that he’s still not sure what to name, as well as a low and persistent hum of unresolved…something running underneath it all. He’s gotten very good at not examining it too closely, helped by the fact that he still hasn’t told anyone else about it. He prefers instead to keep moving on with hockey, homework, believing that a moving target is harder to hit, even when the thing chasing you lives entirely in your own head.

Today is a lazy day, simple hours of nothingness that Ilya appreciates greatly as they’re becoming rare nowadays. He and Marly are at Svetlana’s apartment on a rare Sunday that they’re both off from hockey—and that Ilya’s not with Shane. He’s with his parents this weekend.

Ilya is sprawled across the big couch, his feet shoved in Marly’s lap while Svetlana is curled into the loveseat across from them, nursing a mug of coffee that Ilya is certain has gone cold by now. The TV is on, playing a rerun of New Girl that none of them are watching. Ilya feels deeply relaxed, shoulders loose against the couch as he half-listens to Marly narrate something about a girl from his stats class, but the moment unfortunately doesn’t last much longer.

“So,” Svetlana says out of nowhere, setting the mug down on the coffee table. “How’s Hollander?”

Ilya feels targeted, and his whole body goes rigid on instinct. “Um, fine?” he replies. “Why?”

“No reason.” There’s something knowing in her gaze that makes Ilya’s stomach twist. “I’m just wondering how your little crush is doing.”

“I do not have a crush on Hollander,” Ilya counters with a frown, feeling awfully caught out.

“Sure.”

“I don’t,” he insists, sitting up slightly, accidentally digging his feet into Marly’s upper thigh in the process, earning himself a muffled complaint. “Why would you even say that?”

“Seriously? You have been weird about him for months,” Svetlana says. “You asked me all of those silly not hypothetical questions, realized you’re bisexual, and that you are into Hollander.”

Marly looks between the both of them, blinking. “Wait, you like Hollander?” he asks. “Hollander is the guy?”

Ilya freezes. “No.”

Marly sits up properly now, apparently ignoring Ilya’s denial, because he asks: “What the fuck? When did this happen?”

“Nothing happened,” Ilya lies. “There is no crush. Sveta is making things up.”

“I’m fucking not,” Svetlana says. “You keep talking about him, and you do not even realize. You brought him up, like, four times yesterday.”

Ilya feels his face getting warmer. “I don’t remember that.”

“You told me how Hollander doesn’t like McDonald’s,” she sighs, then lowers her voice to mimic his accent. “This is insane, Sveta! Who the fuck doesn’t like McDonald’s? He is crazy.” She picks up her mug again. “Mind you, I didn’t fucking ask.”

Ilya opens his mouth to argue, but finds himself closing it again when he does, albeit vaguely, remember saying something like that. Unfortunately, he has no response, has nothing to say that could make that seem anything other than exactly what Svetlana is suggesting—the truth.

“So?” he says, weaker now. “I love McDonald’s, so when somebody else does not, it stands out to me. I am observant.”

Svetlana scoffs. “You cannot call yourself observant when you only notice things about one person,” she argues, then sighs again. “I genuinely do not understand why we are still doing this dance where you pretend you haven’t noticed you like him, when we all know you do.”

This makes Marly’s eyebrows raise, but he says nothing.

“But I don’t know what I’ve noticed,” Ilya says, voice coming out more vulnerable than he means it to. “That is the whole problem, Sveta. Yeah, okay, I am bisexual. Fine. This is okay with me.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I am not okay with the fact that I don’t know if I have feelings for— I could just be confused, because he is around all the time, and because of the crush thing. Maybe I have become weird about it because—”

“Ilya,” Svetlana interrupts, but her voice is gentle. “Can I ask you something? You can say no.”

Ilya hesitates, but he nods. He trusts Svetlana—more than anyone, probably.

“When’s the last time you thought about a girl in the same way you think about Shane?” she asks.

“Or, you know, when’s the last time you thought about a girl at all…” Marly adds under his breath, which, if he wasn’t so consumed by the weight of Sveta’s question, Ilya surely would’ve rolled his eyes at.

Much to his dismay, Ilya finds himself unable to answer. He sits there for a long moment, so long that it begins to feel uncomfortable.

“That’s what I thought.” Svetlana’s voice breaks the silence. Her statement is blunt, true, but not said unkindly.

“That does not prove anything,” Ilya says, though it doesn’t come out particularly forcefully.

Still catching up, Marly’s eyes are darting back and forth between Ilya and Svetlana like he’s watching a tennis match.

“Okay, hold on,” he says. “Even if you do have a crush on him, why does it matter? You like girls, cool, and you maybe also like Hollander, which is also cool.”

“It is not that simple,” Ilya retorts, frustration beginning to creep into his tone. “For you, maybe it is, but not to me. I don’t know if this is actually real or if I am just confused. Maybe none of it actually means—”

He realizes what he’s saying and clamps his mouth shut, cutting himself off, but it’s too late. They’ve already noticed it, and now stopping halfway through his sentence has only made what he’s chosen not to say all the more obvious.

Svetlana sits up slightly, eyes narrowing. “None of it actually means…what?” she asks.

“Nothing,” Ilya says, face heating up.

“Ilya.”

“I said, it is nothing.”

“Finish your damn sentence, Roz,” Marly huffs.

Ilya wants to knock his teeth out. “There is nothing to finish,” he replies tightly.

Svetlana sighs. “Ilya,” she begins, using her serious mother-like tone now. “What is actually going on with Hollander?”

Ilya’s face goes from warm to genuinely burning in the space of three seconds, and he feels like he’s about to choke, and all of that must be an answer in itself, judging by the way the expressions of his two closest friends both drop.

“Oh my god,” Marly says, lips curving upwards into a delighted grin. “Oh my fucking god, you’re hooking up with him.”

“What?” Ilya blurts, failing at his aim of sounding casual. “No I’m not! I did not say this.”

“Your face fucking said it, man,” Marly replies, then laughs. “Oh my god, Roz. When did this happen, buddy?”

“It is not a…this,” Ilya retorts, scrambling for a better way to get out of this, even though he’s vaguely aware he’s already lost this battle. “It was, like, only a couple of times.”

“A…couple of times…” Svetlana repeats, deadly calm despite the fact that Ilya knows she’s definitely invested but not showing it for whatever reason. “Define a couple.”

Ilya lets out a deep breath and shrugs. “Um, I don’t know. A few. I do not feel like doing math right now, Sveta.”

“No math is required here, you idiot,” she scoffs. “Just give us a number.”

“Or, like, since when has this been happening?” Marly interjects, leaning forward so far that he nearly topples off the couch. “Wait, okay— was this before that away game in Toronto or something? Because you were so weird then, I lowkey thought you’d caught my stomach bug—”

“It, um…started in Toronto,” Ilya admits, defeated, since there’s clearly no way out of this conversation anymore, so he might as well be honest. “And then it was again at Haasy’s party. And some other times after that.”

“At the party?” Marly practically shouts, voice raising far too loudly for what is considered acceptable indoors. “In Hollander’s house? While his mom was probably calling him to check in?”

“She was not calling during that moment, Marleau.”

Svetlana, meanwhile, has gone very still. Her gaze is fixed on Ilya with an expression that’s less shocked delight and more…satisfaction?

“I knew it,” she says smugly.

“No you didn’t,” Ilya snaps.

“Who gives a shit?” Marly says. “Roz, are you and Hollander secretly together now?”

Ilya’s heart drops to the floor.

“No!” he says. “No, no, no…definitely not. No.”

“You are hooking up with no purpose, then?” Svetlana says.

“Of course there is a purpose,” Ilya replies. “It feels good. Is not complicated.”

Marly nods. “I think Roz is right, it’s not complicated at all. He’s hooking up with Hollander and they both like each other. Simple.”

“We do not like each other,” Ilya says, and it comes out strained and frustrated. “I think my body is just confused, and I have to wait for it to go back to normal.”

“Back to normal,” Svetlana repeats, unimpressed. “You mean, back to only sleeping with girls?”

Ilya contemplates it for a second. He likes fucking girls—he could never get bored of fucking them—but…now, after being with Shane, he’s not sure he wants to stop doing that, either.

By that he means doing stuff with guys, obviously. It doesn’t have to be Shane, it could be anyone. Either way, he likes doing it, and doesn’t really want to stop.

“No, back to not caring about Hollander,” he explains, then instantly regrets his words.

“Ilya.” Svetlana leans forward now as well, resting her elbows on her knees as her voice falls gentler. She sounds vaguely sad. “Can you actually listen to me for a second, please? Because I love you, and I want you to hear this without getting defensive.”

Ilya feels his chest tighten. “Uh, okay.”

“I am too lazy to get into all the details of why I am certain that you like him, but it’s obvious,” she explains. “Honestly, I’m confused about how you haven’t figured this out yet.”

Put like that, it makes him sound dumb. Ilya feels dumb.

Dumb about Shane.

“I don’t know…” he says, weaker now. He’s lost some of the fight.

“Look, Ilya, I’m not a therapist,” Svetlana says. “But I am trying my best to help you.”

“Neither am I,” Marly adds, unhelpfully, “but for what it’s worth, I don’t think you’d be this freaked out over someone you don’t care about.”

Ilya puts his head in his hands.

═══════

The metal of the locker is freezing as Ilya’s back hits it with a dull clang, the sound echoing around the empty room. It’s the only sound beside their ragged breathing—everyone else left 20 minutes ago. The lie had been easy enough, that Coach Wiebe wanted a word with the captain and alternate, and that they’d lock up afterwards.

Shane is straddling Ilya’s lap, knees bracketing his thighs still trapped in compression shorts and sweat-damp socks. Their jerseys are still on, C and A pressed together, fabric catching with all of their frantic movements. Shane’s hands are fisted in the front of Ilya’s shirt, dragging him closer, mouth tasting like mint and something distinctly him, and Ilya can’t help but make a low, helpless sound. His hips jerk up hard, and the friction is so good, with Shane’s cock already half-hard and hot against his own even through the layers of fabric, grinding down.

“Fuck, Hollander—” Ilya says, voice cracking a little. He’s been hard since practice, since Shane checked him into the boards a little too hard and then smirked at him afterwards. It’s ten times worse now. Need coils low and tight in Ilya’s gut, and he grabs Shane’s ass with both hands, hauling him closer, rolling his hips up to meet every thrust.

Shane breaks the kiss, not moving away, and pants against Ilya’s mouth. “Do you think anyone else is still in the building?” he asks.

“Don’t care,” Ilya mutters, chasing his lips again. It’s true—he doesn’t. His teammates could walk right back in and he’d continue grinding up into Shane like this, chasing the heat and pressure. He feels almost feverish with it, his skin too tight while his heart slams furiously in his ribs. Shane Hollander’s weight is solid and perfect in his lap, the thick muscles of his strong thighs flexing as he rubs up against Ilya.

One thing Ilya has grown to love about doing this—whatever this is—with Shane is how he kisses like he’s starving with it. His tongue slides against Ilya’s, teeth catching on his lower lip. Ilya’s hands roam relentlessly—under the hem of Shane’s jersey to the damp skin of his lower back, down again to squeeze the firm curve of his ass and pull him harder against the aching bulge in his shorts. It makes Shane shiver every time, a full body tremor that makes Ilya throb.

“Fuck, you’re so hard,” Shane breathes, his forehead pressed to Ilya’s. His eyes are dark, pupils blown. “Have you been like this since practice?”

Ilya huffs a laugh that turns into a groan when Shane grinds down particularly hard. “You checked me on purpose.”

“Maybe.” Shane grins, and it softens almost immediately into something needier. He rolls his hips again, slower this time. “Felt good to shut you up for once.”

Ilya’s ears burn. He surges up to kiss him again, harder this time. One of his hands slides up to cup the back of Shane’s neck and keep him close. The…dry humping—he supposes there’s no better word for it—is growing desperate now, with sharper thrusts that make the locker rattle behind them. Precum has already soaked through Ilya’s shorts, a patch that is dark, obvious, and humiliating. He can feel it every time Shane grinds down on him, but is too far gone to care.

Shane’s breathing has grown ragged against his cheek. “‘m close, already. Fuck, Rozanov—”

“Me too,” he admits roughly. Ilya’s hips stutter upward, chasing the perfect angle, the perfect amount of pressure. His cock is so hard that at this point, it almost hurts, trapped and aching. The head keeps catching on the waistband of his shorts with every upward grind. He’s so close just from this, and he can’t tell if the thought of coming in his pants like some desperate teenager makes it better or worse.

Meanwhile, Shane’s hands are everywhere: in Ilya’s hair, under his jersey, digging his fingernails into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. Their mouths keep finding each other in messy, open kisses—to the point that it’s more panting into each other’s mouths than kissing, really. Ilya’s head tips back against the locker with a soft thud, eyes half-lidded as he watches Shane’s face—flushed, focused, lips shiny and plump. It makes something twist in his chest, bigger than just the need to come.

He swallows hard. “Hollander.”

“Yeah?” Shane doesn’t stop moving.

Ilya’s hand tightens on his hips, stilling him for just a second. “I, um…I’m bi,” he says.

Shane blinks. His grinding slows but doesn’t stop completely—like he can’t help himself. “What?”

“I am bisexual.” The words come out clearer this time, even if Ilya’s voice is still rough with want. His face is burning. “I figured it out recently.”

Shane stares at him for a long moment. His hips have gone still now, though his cock is still pressed hot and hard against Ilya’s, but the frantic rhythm is gone. Confusion flickers across his face, a mixture of surprise and something else, though Ilya can’t decipher it.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “Cool. I mean…yeah. Okay.” He falls silent for a second, then smiles crookedly. “You had to drop that while I’m two seconds away from coming in my shorts?”

Ilya lets out a shaky laugh, relief and residual panic tangled together. “It seemed like a good time.”

“Asshole,” Shane quips, but there’s no heat in it. His hands come up to frame Ilya’s jaw, thumbs stroking over his cheekbones. “You sure? It’s not just— your dick talking?”

“Very sure,” Ilya nods, and his voice has gone quieter now. He turns his head just enough to press a kiss to the inside of Shane’s wrist. “I have been thinking about it. A lot.”

Shane’s expression softens further somehow. He leans in and kisses him, slower this time, almost sweetly. When he pulls back, he still looks vaguely confused, but also very gentle. “Alright. Thank you for telling me,” he says, before the grin returns to his face. “Does this mean I have to start worrying about you checking out the rest of our team now?” His voice is light and teasing.

Ilya snorts. “Only if they are built like you.”

“Cornball,” Shane replies with a shake of his head, grin widening. He rolls his hips once, causing the two of them to gasp. “Seriously, though. Are you okay with it? Not freaking out?”

“A little,” Ilya admits. His hands slide down Shane’s back again, restless. “But mostly I just…want you. Still.”

“Good,” Shane says, then kisses him again. “I am still very gay, by the way.”

“This is good to know.”

They both laugh for a second before continuing to kiss again. Shane starts to move again, and Ilya’s cock throbs, leaking steadily.

“Fuck, I can’t—” Shane’s voice breaks. He reaches down between them with one hand, fumbling at the waistband of Ilya’s shorts. “Need you.”

Ilya nods frantically, helping. He helps Shane to shove down both of their shorts just far enough to free their dicks. The cool air of the locker room hits overheated skin and Ilya hisses while his cock springs free, flushed a deep red and glistening at the tip. Shane is just as hard, and as always, wet like a fucking girl, the head dripping.

Shane wraps a hand around the two of them at once and starts to move his hand up and down. Ilya can hardly believe it, the way they slot together so perfectly, and his head drops forward onto Shane’s shoulder with a broken moan.

“Jesus Christ,” he gasps, right as Shane’s thumb brushes across his slit.  Both of their hips are thrusting up into Shane’s grip, and this is so much. Almost too much, really. Embarrassingly, his thighs are beginning to shake.

Shane’s breathing is harsh against his ear. “Ah— feels…feels good, Rozanov.”

Ilya looks down between their bodies, watching their cocks sliding together in Shane’s fist, shiny and red. Their precum is mixing together, making a mess of Shane’s hand and both of their stomachs. The sight alone nearly tips him over the edge.

“Gonna come,” Ilya warms, voice cracking again. The coil in his gut is winding tighter and tighter. “Hollander, fuck—”

“Me too,” Shane gasps, tightening his grip as he strokes fast, twisting a little on the upstroke the way he’s grown to realize Ilya likes. “Come on. Together.”

At that, Ilya’s hips stutter, and he buries his face in the side of Shane’s neck and comes with a punched out, low sound. He spills hot over Shane’s first and both of their dicks. It keeps pulsing out of him, long and intense, his entire body shaking with it as he grows sensitive.

The two of them stay like that for a long moment, breathing hard into each other’s mouths with their sweaty foreheads pressed together. Shane’s hand is still loosely wrapped around them, sticky and warm, but Ilya can barely focus on that, not when he can feel their heartbeats thudding in sync.

Eventually, Shane lets go with a soft, wet sound and grimaces at the state of his hand. “Ew,” he mutters, and Ilya laughs, tipping his head back against the locker. His cock grows soft against his thigh, and he feels floaty and loose-limbed.

“Worth it though, yes?” Ilya mumbles in response.

Shane wipes his hand carelessly on the inside of his own jersey. “Yeah,” he murmurs, then leans in to kiss him again, slow and lazy. When he pulls back, there’s a soft yet fond look in his eyes that makes Ilya’s chest ache with a strange sense of warmth.

“Bi, hm…” Shane murmurs then, almost to himself. Then he grins. “Try not to stare at my ass in the showers.”

Ilya’s ears go pink. “No promises,” he answers.

Shane climbs carefully off his lap, his legs a little shaky now. He tucks himself away with a wince at the mess and reaches for his towel, laying on the bench next to Ilya, who stays where he is and just…watches him. He can still feel the residual hum of pleasure, as well as a deeper satisfaction, spreading through him. Finally, he stands, tucking his own soft cock back into his shorts. The fabric sticks unpleasantly, but the uncomfortableness disappears as he looks back up at Shane—flushed, smiling, his hair a mess.

“Shower,” Ilya offers, voice light. He wishes he could say he was joking, but he really isn’t. “Let’s save the environment, Hollander.”

Shane snorts, already turning toward a shower stall a few feet away. “Fuck off,” he laughs. He’s smiling, however, wide and bright and completely unguarded, which is rare for him. On top of that, he’s still close enough that Ilya can see the tips of Shane’s ears have turned pink too. Ilya stands up and follows him, heart still racing a little.

They don’t shower together, much to Ilya’s dismay. He does manage to steal another kiss on their way out of the locker room, though.

═══════

Nothing much changes following Ilya sort of…coming out to Shane in the locker room. They keep hooking up, but they’re still nothing, and it’s gotten easy at this point, to pretend it’s nothing. Except when Shane doesn’t pull away quite as fast anymore after they’ve finished, or when Ilya catches him smiling at something during practice and has to stop himself from asking what he’s so happy about—because this isn’t a relationship. It won’t ever be, although Ilya does sort of wish he had some sort of inclination of what it is. Either way, it’s definitely more…something than it was before, even if neither of them have admitted that out loud.

Not that they have much time to think about it, because hockey season picks up, and before Ilya registers it, playoffs have approached. The whole team is focused, every practice more intense than the last. McGill needs this win—most of the team are seniors, and they need to end their time on the team on a high. It’s just one more game, one more push, and they’re in.

And they do it—they’re in—albeit barely. It’s a nervous and extremely physical game that stays at 2-2 for the majority of it, until Shane finally seals it with one final goal in the last five minutes, and the sound of the final horn blares is like music to Ilya’s ears. Noise crashes around him in every direction, sticks and gloves flying across the ice. McGill made it—the playoffs are secured.

Ilya is swallowed up by the chaos pretty much immediately, surrounded by his roommates yelling in his ear at a volume that may very well give him permanent hearing loss. Ilya lets himself get carried away with it for just a few seconds, grinning so wide that his face aches with it—but his eyes are already moving, scanning through the pile of bodies for one person in particular. It’s practically an instinct at this point, to search for Shane at all times. He’s standing a few feet away, still catching his breath as J.J. claps him on the back. His helmet is slightly askew from where Dykstra ruffled his head in celebration, and he looks so…happy. Nothing like the normal intensity he usually wears on the ice, just pure and uncomplicated joy.

And it’s that expression that makes Ilya, without thinking, immediately skate over.

“Hollander,” he says breathlessly, not waiting for a response before he wraps both of his arms tight around him, hauling him into a hug that’s hard enough to cause Shane to stumble back half a step. He laughs, however, arms coming up to hug him back.

“We fucking did it,” he says, words muffled slightly against the side of Ilya’s helmet.

“Damn right,” Ilya agrees, and then—before the rational part of his brain can think to stop himself—he presses a loud kiss to the side of Shane’s helmet, right where his temple would be under all of the padding. He hates the layers between his lips and Shane’s skin, but its effect lands all the same, because Shane goes still for a second in his grip.

When Ilya pulls back to look at him, he sees that Shane has gone pink. It’s not the same, hot flush he has after they’ve hooked up, but something softer and almost shy. He avoids eye contact, like he’s uncertain what to do with this sudden (and public) affection.

“Rozanov,” he says lowly, and it sounds almost like a warning.

“What?” Ilya exclaims, feigning obliviousness, though he’s fully aware of his action and how little he regrets it. “We made playoffs. I am allowed to celebrate.”

“You could celebrate without—” Shane gestures vaguely at his helmet, still visibly flustered. Ilya’s chest twists, warm and fond and definitely dangerous.

“Don’t be so boring, Hollander,” he grins. “What, you cannot handle a little kiss?”

Shane doesn’t have a comeback for that. He just ducks his head, out of sight, yet Ilya catches the way his mouth curls upward despite himself. He feels proud at having caused it, at getting to be the one who makes Shane Hollander go soft and pink.

He doesn’t get to sit with the feeling for long, though, because Luca comes barreling past, practically vibrating with excitement. Ilya lights up at the sight of him—his little freshman celebrating making his first playoffs with the college team.

“Haasy!” Ilya shouts, already moving over. Before Luca can react, Ilya has both of his arms around his middle, hauling him up off the ice. It causes Luca to yelp, startled, flailing slightly before he registers what’s happening and laughs instead. Ilya holds him up like a Stanley Cup, spinning in a slow, wobbly circle on his skates.

“Put me down, Roz, oh my god—”

“Nope,” Ilya declares. “You have made playoffs now. I am honoring you.”

“I didn’t even score.”

Ilya sticks out his tongue and sets Luca back down. The younger player stumbles slightly, breathless yet still grinning ear to ear.

From the corner of his eye, Ilya notices Shane watching them, and turns his head to look at him properly. Shane’s helmet is still slightly crooked, and he’s wearing an expression Ilya doesn’t think he’s ever quite seen before.

Their eyes meet across the ice, and Shane smiles—small and genuine. His freckles bunch faintly around his eyes, and even from this far away, Ilya sees it clearly. It makes him feel a little sick with want. Not the same feeling as usual, though—not that electric and possessive want that usually flares in his gut whenever Shane is within touching distance. Ilya doesn’t have a name to give to it, this feeling…probably because he keeps dodging it. But now, watching Shane smile at him from across the ice like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be looking, Ilya gets the feeling he won’t be able to keep dodging it for much longer.

He smiles back, unable to help it.

“Rozanov!” Bood shouts, his voice cutting through the moment. His arm slings around Ilya’s shoulders and he drags him back into the general chaotic celebration.

“Uh-huh,” Ilya nods, though his gaze lingers a beat longer on Shane before he lets himself be fully pulled away. He tucks the feeling coursing through his veins deep into his heart so that he can come back to it later and give it the full attention and analysis it deserves once the adrenaline has faded.

═══════

After making the playoffs, it’s no surprise that the team all wants to go out and party. They all pregame at Apartment 1221, and then Wyatt suggests a club, Ciel, and at around midnight, everybody barrels out to head there. Even Shane has, by some miracle, been convinced to come. Admittedly, he’s been standing in the corner clinging to J.J. all night like a scared baby monkey, but at least he’s here. Ilya even managed to convince him to do a shot of vodka with everyone about an hour ago, and he seems to have loosened up since then.

The club is already loud when they spill through the door, lights sweeping low and colorful across the thick crowd of people. It’s a good night to be out, a busy Friday, and everyone shrugs off their jackets and heads toward the bar. They have a lot to celebrate tonight—not that Ilya wouldn’t have gotten wasted tonight if they’d lost.

Ilya barely has a drink in hand before he does the thing he keeps on doing lately: scans the room, searching for one face in particular. Because he’s been doing it so often recently, he’s able to spot him almost instantly, and it knocks him off his feet a little.

Shane is no longer hovering by the door, isn’t looking for an exit or tucked into the corner counting down the minutes until he can leave. He’s present, enjoying himself, all while wearing dark jeans that fit him a little too well for Ilya’s mental state, paired with a tight black t-shirt. His hair is still flopped over his forehead in those choppy little bangs. He looks…good. Shane is perfect, beautiful, and the sight of him makes Ilya’s whole body flush hot. And it’s not just that he’s here, either, though that alone is enough of a shock. Shane Hollander doesn’t like clubs or parties, and on the rare occasion that he does show up, he’s gone within an hour or two. Tonight, though, he’s smiling and holding—funnily enough—a Moscow mule, sipping it slowly. Boring, Ilya had previously thought, before any of this happened. Before he realized that boring isn’t necessarily the right word for it, and definitely isn’t a bad thing.

To his credit, Shane isn’t being boring tonight. He’s out on the actual dance floor—not dancing, but it’s something nonetheless. It counts as participating regardless, the way he’s swaying slightly, looking a little stiff and self-conscious. He’s surrounded by Pike and Jackie, both of which are properly dancing, making Shane look even more rigid.

Ilya wants to go over there. He wants to slot himself in next to Shane and see if he can coax him into actually loosening up instead of just standing there. He wants an excuse to be close enough to smell Shane’s cologne over the haze of sweat and spilled drinks. He wants it so badly it’s almost embarrassing, sitting low in his chest and feeling like a physical ache.

He forces himself to stay in place, however, because this is a problem. He doesn’t know what to do with that ache, and also doesn’t know how he’d randomly approach Shane without it warranting questions from anyone, because he’s not certain he can just act like a casual, friendly teammate around Shane right now. He isn’t out yet, not to anyone besides Marly and Sveta, and even that wasn’t entirely on purpose. Besides, whatever they are, Shane has made it clear, in a dozen small and careful ways, that he isn’t eager for anybody to know about it either. He gets skittish the second Ilya shows any sort of affection, and pulls back if Ilya lingers too long.

So, Ilya stays where he is with his drink in hand and watches from a distance he cannot stand, wondering exactly how many feet away he is from the one thing he wants. He isn’t sure, but all he knows is that it’s too many.

He takes a long sip of his drink and continues watching, trying very hard not to think about how unfair it is that stupid fucking Hayden Pike can dance happily and freely with his girlfriend on the dancefloor while Ilya has to keep his distance.

And then, out of nowhere, Marly appears beside him. He leans against the wall and nudges Ilya with his elbow.

“You know,” he says, leaning in closer to whisper in Ilya’s ear, “staring really hard from thirty feet away isn’t the same as just going to talk to him.”

“I am not staring,” Ilya immediately retorts, though he refuses to look away from Shane as he says it, which kind of contradicts his whole argument.

“You are, but okay,” Marly laughs. “Just go dance with him.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Ilya finally tears his eyes away long enough to glare at Marly, exasperated. “Because,” he sighs, talking to his best friend like he would a confused child. “Look around. The team is here.”

“So what?”

“So I cannot just—” Ilya sighs, gesturing vaguely while his frustration grows. “Go over there and dance with fucking Hollander. I do not dance with Hollander usually, so people will notice.”

“People will notice you standing there and staring at him like a creep as well, you know,” Marly argues.

“That’s different,” Ilya sighs.

“How?”

And…well, Ilya doesn’t know how to answer that, mostly because there isn’t a good answer, and he knows it, and knowing it only makes him even more irritated. He takes another sip of his drink instead, buying himself a few seconds before he has to respond and simultaneously giving himself a bit more time to look at Shane, who is laughing at Hayden’s dancing. His throat is exposed to the club’s purple lighting, which isn’t helping Ilya’s concentration much.

“Why don’t you just tell him you like him?” Marly says, more of a statement than a question. Ilya almost chokes on his drink.

“What?” he hisses. Marly shrugs, and Ilya huffs frustratedly. “I don’t—” He sets his glass down on the bartop harder than is necessary, some of the liquid sloshing over the rim at the impact. “I do not like him. We are just…messing around.”

Marly gives him a look for that.

“Okay…” he says, “so you’re telling me the guy you’ve been sneaking around with, who you stare at from across the room, who you got weirdly upset about when you thought he was fucking Troy— that guy, you don’t like?”

“Exactly.”

“That is such bullshit, dude.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Ilya snaps, even though Marly is sort of, well…right. He feels exhausted at the knowledge that his best friend has figured him out so easily, especially when he believed he was doing a good job at hiding it—even from himself. It makes him vaguely nauseous.

“Everyone already knows Hollander has a massive crush on you, anyway,” Marly shrugs, apparently unbothered by Ilya snapping at him. “So I don’t get what you have to lose.”

“We don’t even know if your bullshit gossip is true,” Ilya retorts, grasping for anything to push back with.

“Be serious, bro.” Marly shakes his head, genuinely bewildered. “Jackie and Hayden wouldn’t lie about that shit, and besides— that guy makes actual fucking heart eyes every time you’re around him. It’s, like, embarrassingly obvious.”

Ilya opens his mouth to argue, but Marly and his big fucking mouth keep on talking.

“And yeah, I know his friends were worried about Hollander’s feelings getting hurt, when you were straight or whatever,” he goes on, before Ilya has the chance to get a single word in. “Because that would suck for him, obviously. But that’s not the situation anymore, is it? You’re into guys and clearly into him, so I’m deadass confused at what you’re waiting for.”

Ilya's chest flares up with a hot flash of ugly defense, startling him with how quickly it arrives. Marly isn’t wrong, exactly—which almost makes it worse, because everything he’s said lands somewhere Ilya has tried to ignore for the past few weeks. It’s just that hearing it plainly like this is pretty much forcing him to confront the actual reason he keeps deflecting it, and look at something he hasn’t told anyone. Not Marly, or Sveta, or even himself, really—namely that he doesn’t think he’s good enough for Shane. Because what if everyone who is worried about Shane getting hurt by this—Pike, Jackie, J.J., Harris, probably Troy as well—what if they’re right? Straight or not, Ilya has always been reckless, and careless of people’s feelings. He has a mess of a family history, and awful drinking habits, and a track record of treating his hookups like disposable objects. Shane doesn’t deserve someone like that. He should be with someone who won’t get bored, or scared, or ruin it all in a dumb, thoughtless way that leaves Shane hurt more badly than if none of this ever happened at all.

“Actually shut the fuck up, Marleau,” Ilya says, sharper his time. “I don’t give a fuck if he likes me or not. Drop it.”

Marly blinks at him, evidently thrown off by the sudden shift in his tone. Some of his earlier teasing has faltered into genuine confusion. “Woah. Why are you so pissed all of a sudden?”

“I’m not pissed.”

“You are bro, but whatever.”

“Just drop it,” Ilya repeats, quieter now, making sure his tone isn’t quite so clipped. He turns his attention back to his drink instead of Marly’s face, hoping it gets the message across.

Marly studies him for just a moment longer, brow furrowed. He’s clearly still baffled by what just happened, but eventually he just shrugs, holding both hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, sorry,” he says, sounding genuinely apologetic. “Forget I said anything.” He pushes off the bar, but then pauses before walking away. Something more careful laces his eyes. “For what it’s worth, I think you should stop thinking so lowly of yourself.”

Ilya’s head snaps up at that, startled, but Marly doesn’t say anything else. He weaves back into the crowd toward Bood and Wyatt, leaving Ilya standing there alone, feeling like a dead frog being sliced open during a middle school science class, guts and heart and feelings laid bare on the table. He isn’t sure he knows how to put himself back together now.

Enough about him, though. He can deal with this bullshit later. For now, he helplessly turns his eyes back over to Shane, who, after a moment, finally peels away from Pike and Jackie and starts making his way toward the bar. Not Ilya specifically, but just to get another drink. He stumbles a little, but can walk well enough that he can’t be drunk yet. He’s probably still only tipsy.

Ilya doesn’t move, and instead watches him get closer, heartbeat quickening further with every step closer Shane gets. He tries to mold his expression into something casual and disinterested rather than pathetically obsessed, and he’s so focused on trying to look like he isn’t staring that he barely registers it when Shane actually arrives at the bar, until he feels a light poke to his stomach. His nose fills with the scent of that familiar cologne.

“Hi,” Shane says, taking another step closer, close enough now that their shoulders are almost touching.

“Hi,” Ilya echoes, working hard to keep his voice even. “How is your night going?”

Shane shrugs, the gesture looser than Ilya is used to seeing from him. “Pretty good, actually,” he replies. “Better than I expected.”

Ilya allows himself to study him for a second, greedily taking in the flush sitting high on Shane’s cheeks, as well as the easy smile that hasn’t left his face since he walked over here.

“You are drunk already,” he observes, half-teasing.

“I’m not drunk.” Shane’s blush deepens instantly, doing nothing to help his case. “I just get red when I drink. Asian flush, y’know?”

“Sure,” Ilya says sarcastically, unable to help the small laugh that escapes him. He’s delighted at getting a reaction out of Shane so soon, not that he’d ever admit that.

“I’m serious, Rozanov. It’s a real thing,” Shane insists, though he’s smiling now too, clearly not bothered by Ilya’s teasing. “My mom gets the same thing. She drinks one glass of wine and looks like she ran a marathon.”

“I believe you,” Ilya says, still grinning. “Cute genetics.”

Shane rolls his eyes, though the flush on his cheeks darkens further, now a delightful strawberry shade of red. He turns away to flag down the bartender, ordering another Moscow mule. Ilya watches how easily Shane leans against the bar, looking the opposite of the stiff, uncomfortable posture he’d walked into the club with. Something stupid in his brain forces him to take a step closer before he registers his own decision to move, and even though it’s not much—just enough that his arm brushes against Shane’s skin—it sends something akin to an electric shock down Ilya’s skin.

He braces for Shane to move away, which is a reflex that has somehow, at some point, snuck into his nervous system and not gone away. But tonight, it doesn’t happen: Shane stays exactly where he is, keeping his arm pressed firmly against Ilya’s. It makes Ilya’s legs almost give out—and he’s filled first with surprise, and then something warmer, coursing through his bloodstream like hot honey, all sticky and sweet. It feels addicting, like the first drag of a cigarette after a long day, and Ilya wishes he could inhale the feeling and hold it deep in his lungs until he passes out from the way it burns.

“Are you having fun tonight?” he asks, mostly just to keep Shane here for longer. He refuses to let this spark die out so soon.

“Uh-huh,” Shane says, almost surprised by his own response. “I don’t know, it’s nice to see everyone happy. And it feels good to be a part of it.”

“You are always a part of it,” Ilya counters. “You’re the captain.”

“That’s different,” Shane answers with a small, wry twist to his lips. “Everyone respects me because I’m captain, but it doesn’t make me, like, one of you guys.”

The words are probably intended to be light and playful, but they land heavy on Ilya’s chest, pressing down on his lungs and forcing away the warmth there. He wants, suddenly and fiercely, to properly reassure Shane that he is one of them, that his distance from the team is something he created himself out of caution and habit, but it doesn’t feel like the right moment for that sort of conversation right now. So, instead, he just leans closer, so only Shane will be able to hear his next words. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says quietly.

Shane goes still for a second, a rapid expression flicking across his face and disappearing before Ilya’s alcohol-soaked brain can fully process it. Then, his perfect mouth curves into a small smile, though it’s unfortunately aimed down at his drink rather than at Ilya.

“Me too,” he says quietly. He still hasn’t pulled his arm away.

It’s a nice moment, with the two of them standing shoulder-to-shoulder while Ilya’s skin burns at the point of contact with Shane, watching the way his lips curl around the straw as he sips his stupid cocktail. It’s a moment Ilya wants to revel in, to record and keep as a file on a USB stick and carry around forever.

Until the stranger shows up.

He appears from Ilya’s left, and he’s tall with light shaggy hair, and unfortunately very good looking. Ilya’s jaw tightens before the guy has even said a word, watching annoyedly as he slides up close to Shane.

“Hey,” he smiles, and it’s aimed entirely at Shane. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Matt.”

Fucking Matt.

Shane blinks, straightening like he’s shocked at somebody approaching him—which is ridiculous, but that’s beside the point. He shifts slightly away from Ilya, only a tiny amount, but it’s enough that their arms separate. Ilya feels the loss of contact as something much larger than it probably is.

“I’m Shane,” he offers, politely and carefully. He’s gone back to being reserved again.

“Shane…” Fucking Matt repeats, clearly pleased with himself at having gotten a name. “Can I buy you a drink, Shane?”

Ilya’s hand reflexively and involuntarily tightens around his glass. He wishes he could chime in and say something—a dismissive line that would send this guy packing in about four seconds. He’d have no hesitation saying something like that if it was a random girl hitting on Bood, who’s taken, but there’s no claim for him to make here.

So, Ilya does the only thing he can: stands there with his jaw clenched, saying nothing at all.

“That’s really kind, but I’m good, thanks,” Shane says with an apologetic smile.

“You sure?” Fucking Matt questions, leaning in slightly as his smile widens. “Not just one?”

“I’m sure,” Shane says, still polite, though his voice is a little firmer now. “I appreciate it, though.”

Ilya’s fingers have gone white-knuckled around the glass. He tells himself, silently and furiously, that this is fine. Shane is handling it fine, and Ilya has absolutely no right to feel how he’s currently feeling—which is that he wants to shove himself between the two of them and make Fucking Matt disappear. That option, unfortunately, isn’t available to him right now, so he settles for taking a long sip of his drink instead.

“What do you do?” Fucking Matt presses on, clearly not noticing Shane’s polite rejection, or if he is, he’s choosing to ignore it. “You look like you should be a model or something.”

Shane laughs at that, albeit a little awkwardly. “No, I play hockey,” he explains. “And I study. At McGill.”

“No way!” Fucking Matt’s whole face lights up, apparently delighted by this information, for god knows what reason. Ilya has to restrain himself from rolling his eyes hard enough for them to roll back into his head. “You guys just made playoffs, right?”

“Yeah,” Shane nods, smiling properly now. Ilya’s worried he’s gripping his glass so hard that it’s going to break.

“Awesome,” Fucking Matt says, still smiling and still not reading a single one of the signals Shane is sending him. He glances once toward Ilya, only briefly, and then continues ignoring him. “So, seriously, can I get you that drink? We could go somewhere a little quieter, and talk properly—”

“I’m, uh, I’m actually here with my team,” Shane replies, gesturing toward the dancefloor, where most of the team are. “So I should probably get back to them.”

“Oh, okay, sure. No worries,” Fucking Matt says, though his smile falters slightly finally, finally understanding that he’s being rejected. “Another time?”

“Maybe,” Shane says noncommittally, which Ilya knows deep down is a no.

Fucking Matt takes the hint at last, offering Shane one last, easy smile. “Good luck in your next game,” he says, beginning to back away. “Have a good night, Shane.”

“You too,” Shane says, still polite.

Fucking Matt turns to go, and it’s only as he’s walking away that he properly looks at Ilya. His gaze lingers for a beat longer than is necessary, and something flickers across his face—confusion first, and then recognition—before he shakes his head and disappears back into the crowd.

Drink still clutched in hand, Ilya can feel his pulse hammering in his throat. His jaw is starting to ache from how hard he’s been clenching it.

“Rozanov?” Shane’s voice cuts through the haze in his mind. “You good?”

“Yes,” Ilya manages, though it comes out a little strangled.

Shane furrows his eyebrows and narrows his eyes, when all of a sudden, a smile starts to tug at the corner of his mouth.

“You looked like you were going to fight him,” he accuses, folding his muscular arms over his chest.

“I was not going to fight him,” Ilya retorts with a scoff. Shane’s smile widens ever so slightly, but remains silent, apparently deciding to let Ilya keep whatever shred of dignity he has left. He turns his attention back to his Moscow mule instead, taking a slow sip, and Ilya uses the moment to will his expression into something less obvious. The silence makes him think back to that last look Fucking Matt gave him, and he feels a fresh wave of heat crawl up his neck, entirely unrelated to jealousy this time.

He had…not been subtle. Not even a little, and some random stranger has clocked him faster than half the team in months. Ilya is now no longer sure how he ever convinced himself that all this time, nobody else has noticed anything at all.

“What?” Shane says then, catching the shift in his expression. He tilts his head to the side curiously, and Ilya realizes he’s been staring.

“Nothing,” Ilya says, too quickly, then takes a sip of his drink to distract from it.

Shane doesn’t look convinced, but again, he lets it go. He turns his gaze back to the dance floor, where Pike is waving him back over from across the room. He doesn’t leave though, lingering with Ilya at the bar instead. Their arms brush again, and Ilya feels like passing out again.

For a moment, they just stand there in silence, until Shane glances sideways at Ilya. There’s something considering in his expression before he picks his glass back up, tips his head back, and drains the whole thing in one big gulp. Ilya blinks, startled. Shane sets the glass back down and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks slightly giddy.

“What?” he asks, noticing Ilya’s shocked expression.

“I have never seen you chug a drink before,” he explains.

“Now you have,” Shane grins. Then, he falls quiet for a beat, gaze drifting briefly around the club, before he turns back to Ilya. His face twists into something hopeful, and it makes Ilya’s pulse pick up before Shane has even said anything.

“I’m kinda tired,” Shane says casually, though there’s a slight weight to it Ilya can’t quite decipher. “Might head home soon.”

“Oh yeah?” Ilya says, forcing his voice to stay even.

“Yeah,” Shane hums, gaze dropping to the bar top for a second, and color rises fast in his cheeks—much deeper than the flush from earlier. It’s too dark to be from alcohol or genetics now, and Ilya feels something warm unfurl low in his chest. He thinks he’s picking up what Shane’s putting down, although neither of them are saying it outright. He finishes off the last of his own drink, then sets the glass down carefully.

“I think I will leave soon as well,” he says. “I am also a bit tired.”

“Mhm,” Shane says, smiling slightly. “Makes sense.”

They both stand there in silence for a beat longer, before Shane starts to head off, taking a few steps before he stops and turns back around to look at Ilya.

“I’m gonna go say bye to Hayd and Jackie,” he tells him.

“Okay,” Ilya nods.

“I’ll be outside,” Shane says, and there’s something almost nervous about the way he says it, some flicker of vulnerability underneath his otherwise casual tone, like he’s not sure Ilya’s going to follow, despite everything.

“See you,” Ilya answers, and Shane nods. He walks off then, heading back to the dance floor. Ilya is left there, standing alone at the bar with an unreasonable amount of nervous energy suddenly crackling through his entire body.

He ends up ordering one more drink he doesn’t really want, mostly just so he has something to do with his hands. He forces himself not to stare quite so obviously as Shane says his goodbyes, before heading to the cloakroom.

Time seems to be passing ridiculously slowly. Ilya checks his phone twice for no reason, catching Marly’s eye by accident when he looks up. He receives a slow eyebrow raise in return that makes Ilya’s stomach drop, and he averts his gaze.

By the time he’s finished his drink and waited a long enough time that it hopefully won’t be too obvious how soon after Shane he’s leaving, Ilya actually feels like he’s aged several years standing at this bar. He sets down his empty glass and grabs his own jacket from where he’d draped it over a stool earlier. He starts to make his way toward the exit, hurrying to get out of here as soon as possible.

He almost makes it to the door when Svetlana catches him.

“Are you leaving already?” she asks in Russian, appearing at his side seemingly out of nowhere. One of her eyebrows is raised all-knowingly.

“Yeah,” Ilya replies, as casually as he can manage. “I am tired.”

“Right,” Svetlana says, not looking the slightest bit convinced. Her gaze drifts over his shoulder toward the door, and Ilya doesn’t need to follow her line of sight to know what she’s looking at. He can feel it, that certainty that he’s been caught. He gives it a second before he eventually turns and finds Shane standing near the door, jacket on, glancing around before finally slipping out.

Svetlana’s gaze slides back to Ilya, looking thoroughly amused. She doesn’t say anything right away.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Ilya says, which is probably the least convincing thing he could’ve possibly said, given it is exactly what she thinks it is.

“Right,” she says again.

“We are both leaving at the same time. Coincidentally.”

“Coincidentally!” she echoes, amused, before letting out a loud laugh.

“Yes.”

“Ilya.” She fiddles with the tip of her straw. “Please just be honest with him. This is getting exhausting to watch.”

Ilya’s whole face goes hot. “I don’t—” He pauses, unsure what to say. He sighs. “I hate you,” he tells her instead, mostly just embarrassed, and not angry.

“You love me,” Svetlana corrects, grinning again now. “And you love him too, probably, if you’d just admit it to yourself.”

Ilya doesn’t have any comeback for that, so he just flips her off and spins on his heel before Sveta can get another word out. He heads for the exit with his ears burning and his heart beating a million miles an hour.

“Have fun!” Svetlana calls after him, unbothered by the gesture. “Use protection! I love you!”

Ilya doesn’t turn around, but he can hear laughing behind him the whole way to the door. The cold hits him the second he steps outside, and it feels sharp compared to the thick, overheated air inside the club. It’s enough to clear his head a little, letting the adrenaline and alcohol fade away somewhat.

He scans the sidewalk quickly, heart still thudding, and spots Shane a good 20 feet away, walking at an unhurried pace with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. His shoulders are slightly hunched against the cold.

“Hollander!” Ilya calls out, and starts jogging up to close the distance.

Shane turns and slows his face, something soft and a little relieved crossing his face when he registers who’s calling his name—almost as if he was genuinely worried Ilya might not show up after all, despite everything.

“Hey,” Shane says, once Ilya has properly caught up. Both of them are slightly out of breath—Ilya from the jog, and Shane from the cold, or perhaps something else entirely.

“Hey,” Ilya says, falling into step beside him. He walks close enough to make sure their arms brush again.

“My place or yours?” Shane asks then, glancing sideways at him.

“I don’t mind,” Ilya shrugs. “I think yours is probably closer.”

“Okay. Mine then,” Shane says, and smiles. He doesn’t say anything more, and neither does Ilya, not until they reach Shane’s building.

Shane fumbles with the keys a little, fingers shaky from the cold, but he finally manages to get the front door open, dragging Ilya inside with him. They walk up the stairs, Ilya staying good for most of it, though he finds it impossible to keep his hands to himself the entire time. He rests his palm on the small of Shane’s back, fingers eventually catching at his belt loop. Shane’s breathing starts to go a little uneven from the contact—or maybe it’s just from walking up three flights of stairs. Ilya hopes it's the former.

Despite evidently being affected by the touch, Shane doesn’t engage. He keeps his focus on getting the key into the lock, on getting them both inside, even as Ilya presses his mouth to the side of his neck. Shane flinches, shying away from the touch, and pushes the door open.

The second it closes behind them both, Shane’s hands are on Ilya’s jacket, dragging it off of his shoulders. Their mouths find each other in the dark hallway with none of the careful restraint either of them usually hold for one another. Ilya makes a low, surprised sound against his mouth, hands sliding up to grip at Shane’s waist. For a moment, they stay like that—kissing while half still in their jackets and shoes, unable to stop to properly get inside because they both need this so much.

In his head, the two of them are already halfway to the couch. It’s the closest place to them, unless Shane wants this to happen against the wall or on the floor—but then Ilya is being dragged by his shirt down the hall, toward Shane’s bedroom instead. Shane’s hands are fisted in the front of his shirt, and he’s walking them both backward while their mouths remain connected. They both bump gracelessly into the doorframe, hard enough that Shane lets out a soft grunt, before laughing against Ilya’s lips and diving back in to keep on kissing him.

“Bed,” he manages, breathless, already tugging Ilya through the door after him.

“Bossy,” Ilya says, letting himself be pulled. They both fall onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, with Shane on his back and Ilya braced on his elbows above him. Ilya begins to tug Shane’s t-shirt up, mouth trailing down his collarbone once the damn thing is finally off. Ilya feels delirious, dizzy with lust, so much so that between kisses and little nibbles up Shane’s neck, words begin tumbling out of his mouth before he can stop them. “Didn’t like that guy,” he mumbles, the words muffled by Shane’s skin.

Shane goes still beneath him for a second. “What guy?” he asks.

“Fucking Matt,” Ilya slurs out, not from drunkenness but from need instead. “He wanted to buy you a drink.”

“Oh, Matt.” Shane’s mouth twitches. “Why didn’t you like him?”

Ilya feels heat crawl up his neck. “No reason,” he replies, already regretting bringing this up.

“Yeah, there is,” Shane argues, propping himself up slightly on his elbows, looking genuinely curious now. He watches Ilya with a kind of open and patient attention that now makes lying feel impossible. He’s still blushing beneath his freckles. “Why didn’t you like him?” he asks again.

Ilya exhales loudly, shaking his head ever so slightly. “I was jealous,” he admits, feeling stupidly embarrassed by it, even though Shane is half-undressed under him and clearly not remotely upset by the confession. “I didn’t like watching him flirt with you, and I wanted to say something…but I— I can’t.”

Shane’s expression softens, his bambi eyes shining with warmth. He’s so beautiful that Ilya finds it difficult to keep looking him in the eye, so he turns away, hiding his face in the crook of Shane’s neck.

“Hey, don’t be embarrassed,” Shane murmurs, reaching up to smooth a hand along Ilya’s jaw.

“I’m not,” Ilya lies.

“Aren’t you?”

“Shut up.”

Shane laughs, low and fond, then pulls Ilya back down to kiss him again. It’s slower this time, and less frantic than before, as something gentle threads through each brush of their lips. Ilya allows himself to sink into it, his mouth trailing back along Shane’s jaw, then down his throat.

“I get jealous too,” Shane says then, breaking the silence. Ilya can feel the words murmured against his hair. “All the time…every time you’re with a girl.” He sighs. “Every time you’re near anyone, really.”

Ilya lifts his head, surprised, but doesn’t interrupt.

“I was really jealous of Svetlana for months,” Shane continues, rawness creeping into his admission now. “Back when I thought you guys were together. And I was—” He stops, his entire body going tense for a split second, a visible flicker of hesitation crossing his flushed face. “I was so fucking jealous of that girl. Shannon. That day…in the quad. I could barely stand it.”

He stiffens right after saying it, like he’s only now registering what he’s just admitted. His eyes briefly go wide.

Meanwhile, the pieces are beginning to click together in Ilya’s brain. A memory surfaces, fast and unwelcome—the quad, him getting Shannon’s number while trying to eavesdrop on Shane and Troy, and after…the empty bathroom, when Shane’s face was wet with tears and startled like a deer in headlights.

Ilya’s heart sinks to his ass, and he suddenly feels so violently sick that he wonders if he should excuse himself to go to the bathroom.

“Shane,” he says, pulling back slightly. All—well, most—of the earlier lust drains out of him, replaced now by something much more urgent. “In the bathroom— that was because of me?”

Shane’s jaw ticks, and his gaze drops momentarily to the mattress before flicking back up. His expression is vulnerable and exposed. “It doesn’t matter,” he says.

“Of course it does,” Ilya frowns. He knows why he feels sick now—it’s all the guilt churning in his stomach at the thought of making Shane cry, all for something so fucking dumb, something so self-serving and careless. He pulls back further, enough to properly see all of Shane’s face, then reaches up to rub his thumb gently over Shane’s freckles. “I am sorry,” he says softly. “I did not know. I never would have—”

“It’s fine,” Shane cuts him off, although his voice waves a tad.

“No, it’s not fine.” Ilya leans in and kisses him again, slow and deliberate. He hopes it’s able to communicate what he doesn’t quite have the right words for right now. “I…I need you to know something.”

Shane nods, waiting. He looks cautious now, and Ilya hates that he makes Shane look like—like what he’s about to say might be something to be afraid of, might be something that could hurt him so badly again.

“I did not ever sleep with her,” Ilya admits. “Shannon. Not that day, and not at that party before. I was going to, yes, but both times I ended up running into you instead.” He pauses, taking a slow, deep breath. “I think I was looking for you without realizing, maybe.”

Shane’s eyes widen slightly and his mouth falls open in disbelief. “You— really?”

“Really,” Ilya nods, and secretly thinks that he’s never meant anything so much in his entire life. That thought feels too large for him to handle right now, however, so he opts for kissing Shane again, deeper now, before he can say anything more. One of his hands slides down to press against the front of Shane’s jeans, feeling him hard and wanting beneath the denim. “You make me crazy,” Ilya murmurs against his mouth. It causes Shane to laugh, breathless, and Ilya can’t help but kiss the sound right out of his mouth, pulling back only far enough to drag his thumb slowly along Shane’s cheek once more, tracing the scatter of freckles there. “Prettier than Shannon’s,” he murmurs, mostly to himself, though clearly not quickly enough, because Shane instantly goes pink. He ducks his head slightly, suddenly shy. But Ilya doesn’t let him hide for long, catching Shane’s chin gently between two of his fingers and tilting his face back up so they’re making eye contact once again.

“Can I fuck you?” he asks, low and sincere. “Please?”

Shane’s teeth catch briefly on his bottom lip, eyes dark. “Yeah,” he says then, voice barely above a whisper.

Ilya leans back down, catching Shane’s mouth in another kiss, slower this time. His hand presses harder against the front of Shane’s jeans, and he drags his knuckles deliberately up and down the hard length of him. Shane hisses into the kiss, a soft whimper leaving his mouth right after. The warm breath that spills against Ilya’s face smells faintly of Moscow mule—sweet and sharp—and it makes Ilya smile against his lips. His fingers find Shane’s zipper and start easing it down, but Shane breaks the kiss, freezing suddenly. His eyes drop to where Ilya’s hand is already slipping past the open fly and into his underwear.

“What’s wrong?” Ilya asks, voice low. “Why did you stop?”

Shane’s cheeks flush deeper, if that’s possible. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, looking embarrassed. “I’m not, um…prepared,” he says shyly. “I’ll go to the bathroom real quick and, y’know…”

What the fuck?

Ilya frowns and shakes his head, instead reaching further until his hand is wrapped fully around Shane’s cock. It’s leaking so much it feels almost ridiculous, slick and hot against his palm. It makes Ilya laugh under his breath.

“You’re so wet,” he observes fondly. “Like a girl.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Fuck off,” he scolds, but kisses Ilya again anyway. They end up getting a little lost in it, forgetting about their conversation, and so Ilya starts to stroke him slowly, tightly, and Shane’s breath keeps catching against his mouth—until he seems to remember himself, pulling back and shifting like he wants to sit up.

“It’ll only take me a second—”

Ilya uses his free hand to push Shane’s hip firmly back down into the mattress.

“No,” he says. “I want to do it.”

Shane’s eyes widen in surprise. “You do?” he asks, then laughs, looking kind of awkward. “It’s kind of…it’ll be faster if I just do it myself—”

Ilya cuts him off with a quiet laugh. “You really think I’ve never fucked an ass before, Hollander?”

At that, Shane’s face goes completely scarlet. He looks away, clearly mortified, and the expression is so stupidly cute that Ilya feels something twist hard in his chest. He might even die before this has even started.

After a moment, Shane looks back up at him. There’s a little more confidence in his eyes as he shrugs. “I’m good at this. I know what I like,” he says. “Do you?” He raises his eyebrows.

Ilya keeps on stroking him. He gives Shane soft pulls that coax soft little gasps out of Shane’s throat. “Yeah,” he nods, before leaning closer, lowering his voice. “You are so wet already,” he hums, almost in awe. “Maybe we will not even need lube.”

Shane scoffs and rolls his eyes again. “You don’t have a clue, Rozanov.”

Ilya thinks, secretly, that no—he doesn’t. Not really, not with this. But he doesn’t care. He can figure it out, will do whatever it takes if it means he’ll get to fuck Shane.

Shane, who pulls away again, much to Ilya’s dismay. “I have stuff,” he says.

“Huh? What stuff?” Ilya asks, feigning confusion, only to see him get all embarrassed.

Shane’s ears go pink, much to Ilya’s delight. “Condoms…and lube…” he murmurs.

Ilya lets him go, then watches as Shane shuffles up the bed toward his nightstand. He opens the drawer and pulls out a small bottle of lube along with an entire strip of condoms. Ilya takes them both from him, laughing.

“You think this will be enough?” he laughs, holding the strip up and waving it in Shane’s face.

Shane laughs as well, shaking his head. “Fuck off.”

Ilya keeps on going, voice light and teasing. “Why do you have so many condoms, Shane? For all of the guys you are always fucking?”

Shane rolls his eyes yet again. “You know I’m not fucking any guys right now.”

The words catch Ilya off guard. He did not, technically, know that. He tries not to let the surprise show on his face, and sets the condoms aside for now.

Shane shrugs out of his jeans and boxers in a few efficient movements, leaving him sprawled naked on the bed beneath Ilya, who’s gone still. It’s probably the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen, Shane laid out like that, flushed and hard and waiting. He stares for a long moment, about to drool and unable to look away.

After a few seconds, Shane frowns and crosses his arms over his chest self-consciously. “This feels unfair,” he mumbles.

“What does?” Ilya questions, confused.

“You’re…you’re still fully dressed,” Shane complains. Ilya smiles, pulling his shirt off and then shoving his own jeans and boxers down, then kicks all of his clothes aside. He smirks when he catches Shane openly ogling him.

Ilya settles between Shane’s legs, leaning down to give him another quick kiss on the lips, and then—unable to help himself—one on the tip of Shane’s nose. He picks up the bottle of lube, opens it, and drizzles a generous amount onto his fingers. He rubs them together for a few seconds to warm it up, then leans back down to kiss Shane again. He trails his mouth down along his jaw, and over the bare skin of his sighs. Shane sighs, content, and his legs fall open without prompting. Ilya uses his free hand to press one of Shane’s thighs firmly against the mattress, keeping him open. Ilya trails his lubed fingers lower, past the base of Shane’s cock and down between his legs. He doesn’t push in right away, and instead rubs the pad of one finger in slow, careful circles around the tight ring of muscle, feeling the way it twitches under the light pressure. Shane’s breath hitches hard, a sharp little inhale that makes his stomach jump.

He presses his finger in then, and the heat of it almost startles him. Shane is so tight, swallowing Ilya’s finger. It’s so intense, and Ilya’s own breath catches now, pushing deeper. He watches Shane’s face the entire time, and when he curls his finger just slightly, the pad of it soon finding that soft, slightly firmer spot inside. Shane’s back arches clean off the mattress.

“Is okay?” Ilya asks, voice rough.

Shane nods quickly, eyes already a little glassy. “Yeah,” he pants. “Another. C’mon.”

Ilya mutters a quiet fuck under his breath and follows his orders. The second finger slides in beside the first, and he carefully scissors them, spreading Shane open and learning the feel of him. Shane whimpers, the sound punched out of him on a shaky exhale as his brown eyes screw shut. The sound goes straight to Ilya’s dick, and he takes it as a good sign. Confidence settles in his chest, and he speeds up, fucking his fingers in and out of Shane with more purpose now.

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane gasps, and Ilya grins.

“Feels good?” he asks.

Once again, Shane nods. He already looks a little gone, eyes glazed over when they finally open again, staring up at Ilya like he can’t quite believe this is real, like the whole thing might vanish at any second. Ilya adds a third finger then, angling so that every thrust hits that same spot inside of him again and again—until Shane starts to tremble beneath him. His cock is leaking steadily now, a shiny trail of precum smeared across the soft, smooth skin of his abs. The sounds he’s making—short gasps and broken little moans—might just be the end of Ilya.

“Ilya—” Shane’s voice cracks, desperate. “I’m close, I’m—” His hand goes down and grabs Ilya’s wrist, and Ilya can’t tell if it’s to hold him there or to make him stop. Either way, he slows his movements, then carefully pulls his fingers free.

Shane whimpers at the sudden emptiness, the sound soft and frustrated. When he opens his eyes again, they’re glassy and unfocused. He doesn’t look at Ilya’s face, and instead his gaze drops lower, locking onto Ilya’s cock as Ilya sits back and tears open a condom, before rolling it on. He slicks himself next, using a generous amount of lube, fist stroking himself once, twice. Now, Shane’s the one who looks like he might drool. His chest rises and falls at a rapid pace, pupils blown wide, staring in open awe.

“Please,” he pants. “Just— fuck me already. Please, Ilya. Please—”

Ilya thinks, a little wildly, that Shane needs to stop fucking begging or he’s going to come before he even gets inside him. He doesn’t say that out loud, however.

“Don’t worry,” he says instead, grinning to cover the nerves crawling under his skin. He feels so anxious right now that he might actually faint. “It will fit.” 

Shane smiles at that—small, fond, albeit a little exasperated—and his expression immediately loosens something tight in Ilya’s chest. Then, Shane rolls his eyes.

“Just fuck me, asshole.”

Ilya huffs out a quiet laugh. “Yes, captain.”

He lines himself up, the blunt head of his cock pressing against Shane’s hole, then starts to push in. The first slow inch makes Shane moan, low and wrecked. The sound vibrates between them. Meanwhile, Ilya feels like he might fucking pass out. If he thought Shane was tight around his fingers, this is something else entirely—hot and impossible, a pressure so intense it borders on overwhelming. His vision blurs at the edges, and a dizzy rush hits him hard enough that he has to force himself to breathe. He looks down.

Big mistake.

Shane is on his back beneath him with his head thrown back and his eyes screwed shut. His mouth has fallen open on a long, unbroken moan that only stretches longer the deeper Ilya sinks. Every inch draws another broken sound out of him until Ilya is pressed inside to the hilt, hips flush against Shane’s legs, and Shane looks so beautiful that it currently almost hurts to look at him.

“Okay?” Ilya manages, voice rough.

Shane nods frantically, eyes still closed. “Move. Fucking move, please— please…”

Ilya complies. He couldn’t do anything else if he tried. Vaguely, he wonders if maybe he was made for this—placed on this earth just to please Shane Hollander, to make him feel good.

He plants a soft kiss against Shane’s forehead, then pulls almost all the way out before slamming back in. He can’t believe how this feels as he fucks into him in steady, deep thrusts. Each one pulls another whimper out of Shane, the sounds growing louder the longer they fuck. After a moment, Ilya realizes he’s moaning too—loud and uncontrolled, in a way he doesn’t think he ever has before. The noise of them fills the room, skin against skin and their overlapping gasps.

Ilya leans down and kisses Shane, messy and open-mouthed, then pulls back just enough to look at him. Shane’s lips are slick and swollen, parted and shiny. Ilya thinks that he could die happily right here if the sight beneath him was the last thing he ever saw—Shane Hollander sweaty and fucked-out, in the middle of a moan, writhing under him.

After a few more hard thrusts, Ilya slows down so that he can lean down and kiss him properly while still moving inside him. Shane is so far gone now that he can barely kiss back. He’s gone completely pliant, soft as putty in Ilya’s hold, mostly just panting between his mouth between shallow, breathy moans. Ilya pulls away from the kiss and picks up the pace again, fucking him harder. Shane’s eyes fly open for a split second—wide and startled—before another moan tears out of him.

“Does it feel good?” he asks breathlessly, his voice completely wrecked.

A laugh threatens to bubble out of Ilya’s chest at the sheer ridiculousness of the question. Shane really cannot be serious. Of course it feels good. Ilya hasn’t felt this much in his entire fucking life—not just in his cock, but somewhere deeper, under his ribs.

“Better than anything,” he answers, voice a tad shaky. “You are better than anything, Shane.”

Shane moans even louder at that, the sound cracking in the middle. He starts to babble then, words spilling out between gasps and whimpers.

“You look— you look so— so fucking—”

Every attempt at finishing his sentence gets cut off by another moan or sharp intake of breath, so he never ends up finishing his thought. Ilya desperately wants to know what he was going to say: what? What does Ilya look like? So fucking what?

He’s already dangerously close when Shane’s cock starts to twitch between them, untouched and flushed a deep red. Shane gasps, then starts to whimper again, words tumbling out of his kiss-swollen, pink lips.

“It feels so good— fuck, Ilya, I’m so close— I’m gonna… I’m gonna—”

His words only spur Ilya on, and he fucks him harder, deeper, angling himself to drag over that same spot with every thrust. He keeps going, until Shane arches off the mattress once again and comes with a shattered moan, spilling across his own abs and higher, white streaks reaching all the way up to his collarbone. His head tips back against the pillow, right as a few tears slip free from the corners of his eyes and track down his freckles as he shudders through his orgasm.

The sight of him—ruined and beautiful and crying—is what tips Ilya over the edge. He follows suit a moment later, buried deep inside Shane as the pleasure hits him white-hot and all-consuming. He comes hard inside the condom while Shane is still trembling around him.

Ilya collapses down onto him afterward, boneless and wrung out. After a second of just breathing against Shane’s messy chest, he props himself up on shaky arms and drags his mouth lower, licking a streak of cum from Shane’s abs with lazy satisfaction.

“Ugh, Ilya, gross,” Shane mutters, scrunching his nose. He doesn’t push Ilya away, though. He grins against Shane’s skin and works his way back up, catching Shane’s mouth in a slow, deep kiss so that Shane can taste himself on Ilya’s tongue. Shane lets out a low, content sound, whatever protest was forming disappearing.

When Ilya finally and reluctantly pulls out, Shane makes a small, involuntary whine at the loss. He rolls back beside him, staring up at the ceiling. He almost feels like he’s dead, in the best possible way—his limbs are heavy, and his brain has muffled to useless static, incapable of producing a single coherent thought right now. For a long moment, he says nothing. Admittedly, he doesn’t know what he'd even say if he tried.

Shane evidently notices the silence, because he rolls onto his side to face him, placing one hand lightly against Ilya’s chest. His fingers trace idly along the thin gold chain resting there.

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly. “Was that— was it okay?”

Something in Ilya’s chest goes soft and full at the sweet uncertainty in his voice. He turns his head and captures Shane’s mount in a chaste kiss, needing the contact.

“Yes,” he replies, pulling back to look at Shane properly, at his flushed face and big, wet eyes. “More than okay,” he adds, pressing a kiss to Shane’s forehead then. “You have killed me, Hollander. I am dead.”

Shane’s cheeks go crimson at that, and he bites down on his bottom lip, clearly fighting a smile.

“What about you?” Ilya asks.

Shane rolls his eyes at that, though the blush doesn’t fade from his face one bit. “I came all over myself because it was mediocre,” he says, deadpan. “Obviously.”

Ilya laughs, secretly delighted. “You are always calling me an asshole,” he says, “but really, it is you.”

“I’m not an asshole,” Shane counters, mock-offended. The effect is somewhat undermined by how thoroughly wrecked he still looks, hair a mess and mouth still swollen and wet.

“You are,” Ilya insists. “I am going to tell everyone that Shane Hollander is an asshole.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

And Shane looks so genuinely pretty, laughing like that—freckles bunching up, eyes crinkled, entire face lit up in the way Ilya refuses to let himself admit he loves being the cause of. He can’t help himself, and leans in to kiss him again, softer this time, and completely unhurried. They stay like that for a while, mouths moving slow and easy against each other. It’s no longer urgent, just warm.

Eventually, Shane pulls back just far enough to speak, a little shy now, gaze dropping briefly before flicking back up. “Maybe it’s time for that joint shower.” he murmurs.

Ilya beams. “Yeah?”

Shane laughs, looking a little embarrassed. “You know, for the environment,” he says.

“Of course,” Ilya agrees, raising an eyebrow and playing along. “The environment you care so much about.”

“Exactly,” Shane confirms, mouth twitching as he tries not to smile.

They untangle themselves eventually, and Shane starts to grumble under his breath the second he sits up, glancing down at the state of his sheets. “Now the bed’s all dirty,” he complains.

Ilya feels a fond, helpless little tug in his chest at that, because of course this is what Shane is concerned about—the state of his fucking bedsheets. He rolls his eyes playfully as he swings his legs off the bed.

“I’ll change them for you,” he offers, standing and stretching out his arms. This causes Shane to glance up at him, his expression shifting from exasperated to fond, and he doesn’t bother hiding it.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says quietly.

“I want to,” Ilya says easily, like it’s obvious.

Shane studies him a second longer, something warm and a little disbelieving in his expression, like he’s surprised by Ilya’s affection. He doesn’t say anything else about it, though, just nods and gets up. He walks over to the bathroom, leaving Ilya to trail after him like a pathetic little dog—which he kind of feels like right now, grinning like an idiot at nothing.

Shane turns on the shower, and the water is hot enough to fog the mirror within a minute. Ilya steps in after him, watching the water slide down Shane’s body as he tips his head back to wet his hair properly.

Unsurprisingly, they end up kissing almost immediately, slower and lazier than before. Ilya’s hands settle on Shane’s waist while the water runs hot over both of their shoulders, and it goes on like that for a while—soft, unhurried, interrupted occasionally by them laughing into each other’s mouths when one of them almost slips on the wet tile. Shane’s palm rests flat against Ilya’s chest, and his fingers lightly fiddle with his necklace once again.

Eventually, Shane pulls back and reaches for the shampoo bottle on the little shelf built into the shower wall. Before Ilya can really register what’s going on, Shane is turning Ilya around gently so that he’s turned away from him.

“Uh, what are you doing?”

“I’m washing your hair,” Shane says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world as he squeezes a small amount of shampoo into his right palm.

“I can wash my own hair, Shane.”

“I know.” Shane’s fingers thread through his hair and start to massage his scalp before Ilya can protest any further. He’s surprisingly gentle for what an intense hockey player he is, fingers scratching his head lightly. Ilya falls silent, his whole body feeling warm—and not from the shower. He tilts his head back slightly when Shane wants to rinse his hair, thinking about how big this small action feels.

He says nothing about it though, just stands there with his eyes closed as he lets Shane finish washing his hair. His throat feels a little tight when he finally turns back around to face him, and he doesn’t mention that either.

“Better?” Shane asks with a small, pleased smile on his face. Water drips from the dark strands of his hair, all down his freckled shoulders.

“Better,” Ilya nods, kissing him again before he can say anything more.

By the time they finally turn the water off, both of them are thoroughly exhausted. They quickly and half-heartedly towel off, then stumble back toward the bedroom. Shane sighs at the still-messy sheets, yet he lets Ilya tug him back down onto the bed anyway, yawning.

“I’ll do laundry tomorrow,” Ilya mumbles, already half-asleep. One of his arms settles loosely around Shane’s waist.

“Mhm,” Shane agrees, clearly too tired to argue now. He shifts then, curling properly into Ilya’s chest and tucking his head under Ilya’s chin while resting one hand flat over Ilya’s heart.

Within minutes, they’re both asleep, tangled together in the dirty sheets.

A while later, Ilya wakes up to a blaring sound echoing around Shane’s bedroom. He jolts, feeling Shane’s warm body still resting on him. Shane groans softly and reaches blindly for his ringing phone, not lifting his head from Ilya’s chest.

“Ignore it,” Ilya mumbles, his voice thick with sleep as he tightens his arm slightly around Shane.

“It might be important,” Shane replies, though he doesn’t sound like he wants to answer the phone either. He squints at the screen through half-open eyes. “It’s J.J.”

“So?”

Shane gives him a look. “What if he forgot his keys or something?”

Ilya cracks one eye open properly now, contemplating. He’d completely forgotten Shane and J.J. were roommates. “I am right here,” he points out.

“Fuck, true,” Shane grumbles, sitting up slightly, phone still in hand. “You’d have to hide.”

A laugh bubbles out of Ilya. “Hide?” he asks, baffled. “Hide where?”

“I don’t know!” Shane exclaims. “The closet?”

Ilya stares at him, then smiles. “I just came out of the closet,” he says, gesturing at himself. “And now you want to put me back in it?”

Shane chokes out a small, strangled laugh at that, but then frowns at his phone still ringing in his hand. “Shut up,” he says, shoving Ilya’s hand away, though he’s grinning now too. Ilya holds his hands up in mock surrender, still smiling as Shane finally swipes to accept the call, propping himself up against the headboard.

“Hi, J,” Shane says into the phone, and then, without missing a beat, slips fully into French. Ilya’s eyes widen a bit, enamoured by the way his lips curl around the soft vowels. He doesn’t understand a word, just watches Shane, propped up on his elbow. Shane’s still slightly smiling from their previous conversation—but it doesn’t stay that way for long.

Suddenly, Shane’s shoulders stiffen and his smile fades bit by bit rather than all at once. His voice grows quieter, his answers are shorter. Ilya can’t make out J.J.’s side of the conversation at all, not that it would be worth putting him on speaker, given they’re speaking entirely in French. Either way, Ilya can tell something is happening, because by the time he mutters a quiet au revoir, his expression has changed into something Ilya doesn’t recognize at all.

He sets the phone back down on his nightstand, and says nothing.

“Hey,” Ilya says, sitting up properly now, alarm creeping into him fast. “What’s wrong?”

Shane doesn’t answer. He’s just staring straight ahead at nothing, and Ilya can see, even in the dim light, the way wetness has gathered along his lower lashes.

Instinctively, Ilya moves closer. “Shane—”

Shane flinches away from the touch before Ilya’s hand can make contact. He jerks back hard, a full-body retreat.

“Get out,” he hisses.

Ilya blinks at him, lost. “What?”

“Get the fuck out, Rozanov.”

Hearing his last name now feels like a slap to the face. Ilya hadn’t even consciously registered them switching to using their first names, but now hearing Rozanov come out of Shane’s mouth makes his stomach drop.

“Shane, what is going on—”

“Get out,” Shane cuts him off, voice cracking slightly. He still refuses to look at him, and his jaw is locked tight.

Ilya doesn’t argue further. Some instinct tells him that this isn’t the kind of conversation they should be having naked, so he climbs out of bed slowly. His hands are a little unsteady as he begins to pull his clothes back on, picking them up from where they’d been discarded on the floor earlier, and his movements are clumsy from where the dread is flooding through every part of him.

“What’s wrong,” he asks again, quieter now as he pulls his shirt over his head. “Please, tell me what is happening.”

Finally, Shane looks at him. His eyes are red-rimmed, glassy—but not in the way they were before, in the midst of pleasure. Now he looks devastated, sad in a way Ilya has never seen directed at him before, not even in Toronto.

“How long,” Shane says.

“What?”

Shane takes a shaky breath.

“How long have you known?”

Ilya feels the blood drain from his face as it all starts to click into place.

“I—”

He doesn’t know how to finish his sentence—not that he has to, because Shane cuts him off again.

“How long have you known that I have feelings for you?” Shane’s voice is flat now, terrifyingly controlled. None of the warmth from before is there anymore. “Come on, Rozanov. Tell me.”

Ilya opens his mouth with the natural instinct of self-preservation, grappling for an excuse. Nothing comes, because there’s no way to make this horrible thing look better—and he doesn’t think he can lie to Shane.

“About two months,” he admits, barely above a whisper. “Marly overhead it from Pike and Jackie, and he told us, and I—”

Shane makes a small, wounded sound. He blinks hard, clearly fighting to keep the tears from falling.

“The whole team knew?” he asks, sounding thoroughly broken. “This whole time?”

“Shane—”

“So, what? This was all a fucking joke to you?” Shane’s louder now, voice cracking on every other word. “Is that what this was? Some— some plan to fuck with me, get a laugh out of it with the team—”

“No!” Ilya blurts, chest seizing at the accusation. “No, Shane. I would never do that, I swear—”

“Clearly, you would,” Shane interrupts, and…andIlya doesn’t have an answer for that. He stands there, staring, wondering if there’s anything he can do to undo the last five minutes—or maybe his whole life.

“Shane,” he tries again, weaker now.

“Don’t call me that,” Shane scolds, and his voice breaks fully this time. The tears he’s been holding back finally spill over, tracking silently down his face. “Please. Don’t.”

Ilya’s chest caves in completely at that, and it’s a pain sharper than anything he’s felt since he was twelve, maybe. He doesn’t try again, respecting Shane’s wishes—just gathers the rest of his things with shaking hands, before letting himself out of the room. He can’t bear to look anywhere but the floor, refusing to see the sight of Shane curled up and alone in the middle of the still-unmade bed, tear-stained face buried against his knees.

The hallway outside feels bitterly familiar. Ilya stands there in silence for a second, then pulls on his jacket as he’s hit with a strong sense of deja vu. This is exactly how he felt in the hotel in Toronto, body laced with the same sick, hollow sensation of having been sent away from the one thing he wants to stay close to.

And the worst part of all this is that he knew. All along, he knew this would happen eventually—that he’d find some way to hurt Shane, exactly the way everyone had always seemed afraid he would. Pike, Jackie, J.J., Marly, even Fucking Matt from the club, they’d all known, and he hates that.

More than that, though, Ilya hates himself for proving them all right.

═══════

From that—or night, rather, since he was kicked out at roughly three a.m.—Ilya simply moves through the motions on autopilot, not really registering anything as real. He attends his classes, takes notes he never looks at again, then goes to practice and runs drills, making sure to chirp his teammates as usual so they won’t be able to detect that anything’s wrong—even though half the time the words end up feeling borrowed.

He spends most of his nights at home with his roommates, the same as always. He sees Svetlana too, making sure to turn up when she invites him places. From an outside perspective, nothing about his life has changed. It’s that same rotation of friends, hockey, and class that he’s had on loop for the past 3 and a half years, and yet every part of it feels unmistakably wrong.

It turns out that Ilya didn’t quite understand how much of his orbit had rearranged itself around Shane until he suddenly disappeared from it. Didn’t realize how thoroughly Shane had worked his way into Ilya’s days, had gotten so used to him being there that his sudden absence makes him feel less like a person and more like a planet that’s lost its moon—still turning and technically functioning, but off-balance. The tides don’t know how to work properly anymore, and neither does Ilya.

He spends a lot of time thinking about how stupid he’s been. Not about that sex, because that part, at least, had never felt like a mistake. Instead, it’s…literally everything else. Like the months he spent being too oblivious to see what was standing directly in front of him, and weeks he spent being too careless to protect something he didn't know was quite so fragile. Ilya had laughed when Marly first told the secret, and proceeded to call Shane boring, a robot, easy material for a chirp—without taking a moment to think of anyone but himself. It had taken him until the end of fucking January to realize that the guy he’s been dismissing all along was actually the single best thing in his life. Too good for him—Ilya believes that now with a heavy kind of certainty. It’s a fact. Shane is disciplined and controlled…but also endlessly generous to everyone but himself, and he gave Ilya an opportunity to be one of the people deserving of that generosity, but Ilya blew it by spending months being an idiot. An asshole. A gossip, who let the whole locker room laugh about something that Shane never wanted anybody to know—and for good reason, Ilya thinks.

Late at night, when the apartment is quiet and Wyatt, Bood, and Marly have all gone to bed, Ilya’s mind turns over all the time he’s wasted in his life. He could have been Shane’s friend, at least, from the very beginning. If he’d been better, he would have spent the past 3 years actually getting to know him rather than reducing him to a punchline all this time. He could’ve learned about his freckles and his coffee order and why he always ties his skates twice, if he’d just bothered to fucking look. But he didn’t, and no matter how desperately he wants to change the shape of the past, it’s firm in place.

And if he’d looked, not wasted all that time, then perhaps he could’ve taken his time falling for Shane—in a way that might not have ended with Shane crying alone in his bed while Ilya gathered his clothes off the floor in the dark. The earth simply keeps turning without its moon.

It’s a grey, chilly afternoon that Ilya finds himself spending wandering around campus without a real destination. He doesn’t have class today, but just can’t bear to be at home any longer.

Though he wishes he’d stayed in bed when he sees J.J. approaching him, noticing too late to quickly turn around and walk away in the opposite direction.

J.J.’s face lacks all of its usual warmth and cheerfulness. He stops before Ilya, jaw tight as they make eye contact. J.J.’s eyes are void of warmth.

“Hi—” Ilya attempts.

“Don’t,” J.J. is quick to cut him off, voice coming out flat and clipped. Ilya’s never heard him sound like this before. Even after a terrible game, he’s never been so mad. “I really don’t want to talk to you right now, Rozanov,” he says.

Ilya’s stomach drops, that familiar sense of dread creeping in again. “Look, I know you’re probably pissed at me—”

“Pissed?” J.J. scoffs in disbelief, eyes widening. “I’m more than fucking pissed.”

“Boiziau, can you just let me explain—”

“Explain what?” J.J. says. “That, for two months, you knew and didn’t say anything to him? I don’t need you to explain it to me. I was the person who was with him afterwards, Rozanov. I know exactly what happened.”

Ilya feels physically sick with guilt as his mind unhelpfully provides him with yet another image of Shane curled up small in the bed, J.J. arriving soon after to pick up whatever pieces were left. “I…I wasn’t just messing around,” he croaks out. “I care about him.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” J.J. says.

Ilya pauses. “What?”

“I said I don’t give a fuck,” J.J. repeats, jaw tight. “Frankly, Rozanov, you could tell me you want to fucking propose to him tomorrow and it wouldn’t change anything to me.” He sighs, shaking his head. “What you did was really fucked up. You just let him fall for you, for what? For fun?”

“I wasn’t doing that,” Ilya frowns.

“Then what was it?” J.J. demands, voice cracking slightly. His anger seems to be subsiding into genuine hurt now. “For a laugh? For the sex? Because to me, it looks like you got both— while he was thinking it was something more than that. Why did you do it?”

“I couldn’t help myself,” Ilya admits, and he hates how weak he sounds. “I know this is not a good enough reason, but it’s the truth. I wanted him, and I did not know how to stop.” He takes a deep breath, feeling embarrassingly vulnerable. “I was scared to ruin everything by telling him.”

“Oh, because what you did turned out so great,” J.J. says sarcastically, then crosses his arms over his chest. “If you actually cared about him the way you’re saying you do, you wouldn’t have hurt him like that. You wouldn’t have even listened to the gossip. But that isn’t even the point.”

“What is the point, then?”

J.J. looks at him for a long moment, looking tired and disappointed. “You should have just been honest,” he sighs. “That’s what he deserved, Roz. And you couldn’t even give him that.”

There’s nothing Ilya can argue with that, because J.J. is right. He knows it, and it only makes him feel more hollow inside.

“I know,” he says finally, quietly.

J.J. studies him, and after a second, some of the hardness in his expression softens slightly. Ilya clearly isn’t forgiven, but it’s something at least. J.J. doesn’t say anything else, just adjusts the zipper of his winter jacket and walks past Ilya without a backward glance.

Ilya barely registers the walk home at all. It’s like he teleports from the quad to his apartment building. His cold hands have been shoved into his pockets at some point on the way home, and he pulls them out now to unlock his front door. He finds Wyatt sprawled sideways on the couch, and there’s a small mess of papers and a grinder spread out across the coffee table in front of him.

When the door shuts, Wyatt glances up and takes in Ilya’s face—which is probably pale and lifeless—and simply holds up the half-rolled joint with his eyebrows raised.

“You want in?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Ilya replies instantly, without a second though. He shrugs off his jacket and lets it drop onto the back of a chair instead of hanging it up properly. He steps forward and collapses onto the worn armchair next to the couch, watching Wyatt finish rolling the joint.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you,” he says, picking up his lighter, “but you’ve been moping around like a ghost for the past week and a half and it’s starting to creep me out.”

“I’m fine,” Ilya replies, slumping down further in the armchair.

“You’re not, but okay,” Wyatt counters, flicking the lighter. “But it’s fine. We’re gonna fix that.”

Ilya doesn’t argue with that—not that he’d have the energy to if he wanted to. Wyatt lights the joint and takes a long puff, before passing it over to Ilya as he blows out the smoke. Ilya watches it curl upward and dissipate, then takes a drag himself. Immediately, he feels looser—which he knows is placebo, or maybe he’s just that wound up at the moment that he can feel the weed’s effects so soon. For the first time all week, he feels actual, physical relief.

Some time later, though Ilya isn’t sure how much, Wyatt takes a particularly long hit and then almost coughs. He passes the joint back to Ilya, who takes it but doesn’t take another hit just yet. He feels sufficiently high for now.

“Obama was president like, ages ago,” Wyatt says randomly, more to himself than anything. Ilya blinks, raising an eyebrow.

“Okay?” he asks, wondering where this has suddenly come from. Wyatt doesn’t seem to notice how random this is to be talking about—that, or he’s too high to care.

“And his biggest enemy for, like, his whole presidency was a guy called Osama.” He laughs softly to himself. “Obama. Osama. That’s like his Wario, y’know?”

Ilya can’t believe how fucking absurd this is. Wyatt’s always been a little…different, sure, because who likes comic books that much at 21 years old? But this—this is weird, even for him. Though Ilya is high and floaty and stupid, and so he laughs. It’s probably the first proper laugh he’s let out in weeks, the kind that makes his whole chest shake. Wyatt joins in after a moment too, giggling to himself at his own words.

“That’s the dumbest thing I have ever heard,” Ilya says, wheezing slightly.

“It’s not dumb,” Wyatt insists, still grinning and clearly pleased with himself. “I’m gonna tweet this.”

“Do you even have Twitter?”

“Uh, no?” Wyatt laughs, like he’s surprised by this information. “Let me make an account.”

Ilya laughs again, harder this time, tipping sideways until he’s half draped off the chair, leg on the floor now. It’s for a moment that nothing hurts, and all that’s left inside him is the warm and hazy comfort of their high. It’s bliss, until Ilya manages to stop laughing and opens his eyes, gaze catching on the singular photo frame on their coffee table: a photo of Bood, Marly, Ilya and Wyatt after a particularly intense snowball fight last winter.

His laugh fades as the sight makes him remember other photo frames, the ones littered all around Shane’s house. Gradually, the ache in his chest, his whole body, really, returns. It’s dull at first, but then becomes unmistakably sharp again.

Shane’s house had been warm and sweet and full of love, full of photos of him gap-toothed and grinning, surrounded by people that adore him. Ilya remembers thinking about being in one of them someday, and laughs. Wyatt chuckles too, not realizing what Ilya is laughing about.

It’s not funny, but Ilya laughs anyway, thinking about how there’ll never be a trace of him in the Hollander’s home now, not after what he’s done. There will never be a photo of him added to the staircase, or the mantel. There won’t be dinners where his name is mentioned fondly—no version of that house in the future where he will ever be included at all. For a short moment, he’d had it—barely—but treated it carelessly like he does everything in his life, and let it slip between his fingers until it disappeared completely.

And…and Ilya definitely needs to smoke more.

He ends up feeling high for the next few days, dazed and confused as he trudges through life like he’s stuck in quicksand. Everything in his life is tainted with a dull heaviness no amount of cigarettes or alcohol or coffee can fix. He just lets himself be carried through the motions, because at this point, nothing is propelling him forward except for routine.

It’s at Thursday’s practice that there’s finally a change in his life, an anomaly to the mundaneness that’s been chasing him around. Out of nowhere—or maybe it isn’t, maybe Ilya just hasn’t been paying attention—Troy offhandedly mentions that Harris is coming to watch their next away game.

His boyfriend, Harris, as Ilya somewhat unfortunately found out at Luca’s birthday party.

He stays sat where he is a few stalls down, going very still as he braces for everybody’s reactions.

At first, it goes quiet, which is expected. Hockey isn’t known for being a particularly accepting sport, and so Ilya is caught completely off guard when Carmichael shrugs and says “cool”, and that’s that. A couple of the other guys clap him on the shoulder, while someone asks him how long they’ve been together. Luca, earnest as ever, asks if Harris plays hockey too, and looks disappointed to learn that he doesn’t. The whole ordeal is over in about 90 seconds, and then the locker room goes right back to how it was before.

Ilya’s chest goes tight, and it has nothing to do with pride, even though he is deeply proud of Troy for having the guts to come out instead of continuing to hide behind jokes like Kent’s. And yet…watching it happen, watching it be so easy for him, makes him feel a sense of undeniable jealousy.

Technically, he could do this as well. Ilya could stand up right now and tell everyone he’s bi, if he really wanted to, and he’d probably get the same kind of reaction. It’s just that he doesn’t have a boyfriend to attach to the announcement, which would only raise questions. Besides, what does it matter, now that he doesn’t have Shane anymore? No point in being honest about who he is if the honesty is too late to get him what he wants.

Ilya is still turning it over with his jaw clenched, when he notices Shane on the other side of the room. He’s watching too, and he isn’t smiling either. He just seems to be taking in the scene silently, probably just as shocked as Ilya at how easily Troy was accepted—it certainly hadn’t been like that when he came out last year.

And then, for one second—the longest of Ilya’s life—Shane’s gaze drifts and catches on him. They make eye contact, and Ilya doesn’t know what it means. Not that he allows himself the chance to find out, because he looks away again immediately, unable to bear whatever expression might be waiting for him—anger, still, or worse: nothing at all. Ilya instead looks down at his skates, hands suddenly very busy with laces that don’t need retying. He doesn’t look back up until he’s sure Shane’s attention has moved away. He tells himself it’s better that he never saw that expression.

═══════

Another week passes him by, and Ilya honestly can’t remember the last time he did laundry, or vacuumed, or did anything hygienic, really—which, yes, he’s aware is fucking disgusting. He hasn’t really felt like a person since leaving Shane’s apartment, and he’s aware now, staring at all of the clutter and shit on his bedroom floor, that his head is a mess. He just hasn’t had the energy to care.

It’s 5 p.m., but he’s only been up since 2. In those 3 hours, he’s done nothing but lounge around and eat a couple bowls of cereal. He’s now sprawled across the couch with his laptop resting on his stomach, screen displaying an essay he’s supposed to be writing. In the past 40 minutes, he’s managed about two sentences.

He’s about to attempt to write another when there’s a sharp knock at the door—three quick raps that can’t be anybody other than Svetlana. Ilya resists the urge to groan, not bothered to speak to her right now, but he lifts his laptop off of himself and puts it down on the coffee table nonetheless. He’s halfway through getting off the couch when she lets herself in, apparently having found their spare key hidden under the mat. Ilya knew it was a shitty spot, but Bood insisted on it.

“Ilya!” Svetlana calls out as she storms into the living room, clapping her hands together once. “Get up.”

“I’m comfortable,” Ilya grumbles.

“You’ve been comfortable for long enough now,” she retorts, rolling her eyes. “I am staging an intervention for you.”

Ilya lifts his head to look at her properly now. He shoots her an unimpressed look. “Oh, is that what this is?” he asks, tone flat and bored.

“Yes. Sit up.”

He doesn’t move, but then she’s suddenly reaching forward and grabbing his hand, yanking him upright, which hurts his arm more than he’d like to admit. Ilya grimaces, rubbing his shoulder.

“Sveta—”

“You know what pisses me off about this?” she asks, though it seems like more of a rhetorical question, so Ilya decides not to answer. “You were doing so well before the whole Shane thing.”

Ilya doesn’t actually recall telling her about the Shane thing, but he’s not surprised that she’s figured it out. He sighs. “What the fuck does that mean?” he asks.

“Well, you were figuring things out about yourself,” she replies, undeterred. “And now you're just—” She looks at him, unimpressed. “—moping around.”

“So? He hates me,” Ilya says, not looking at her.

“The fact that he hates you doesn’t change the fact that you’re bisexual, Ilya,” Svetlana says. Ilya frowns, wishing she’d said something else instead, anything but that. He doesn’t hate you, Ilya, would’ve been nice.

“I don’t care,” he mutters, some heat coming into his tone now after days of just pure flatness. “The whole point of figuring it out was—”

“What?” she interrupts, looking annoyed. “To get Shane? That’s fucking ridiculous, Ilyusha. This is important for you, too.”

Ilya refuses to answer her. He wishes she’d just fuck off and let him continue moping in peace.

To make matters worse, the front door opens again then. Bood and Wyatt are here now, each holding a grocery bag in each of their hands while they argue about something. Their voices, however, die out the second they see Svetlana in the living room, evidently noticing the tension.

“Uh, what’s going on?” Wyatt asks, glancing cautiously between Ilya and Sveta as he sets his bags down slowly on the kitchen counter.

“Nothing,” Ilya says, and Bood rolls his eyes. He starts to unpack the groceries, and glances over his shoulder to face Wyatt.

“It’s ‘cause he fumbled Hollander,” he explains casually, setting down a carton of eggs.

“What?” Ilya says.

“What?” Wyatt echoes, accidentally dropping a bag of pasta onto the counter.

Bood turns around properly now, blinking at all of their stunned faces staring at him. “What do you mean ‘what’?”

“How do you know this,” Ilya demands, sitting up fully now. His heart is starting to race with a fresh rush of panic.

“Know what? Hmm, let me think,” Bood says, dramatically rubbing his chin and looking up at the ceiling like he’s deep in thought. “See, this is a toughie! How do I know? Hmm…well, maybe…because it’s fucking obvious, man.”

Wyatt looks between Ilya and Bood, mouth hanging open and eyes wide. “Wait…” he murmurs. “Are you—” He looks at Ilya. “Are you gay now?”

“Bisexual,” Ilya corrects under his breath.

Wyatt furrows his eyebrows, clearly confused by all of this information being thrown at him right now.

“Okay, but, um, hold on—” He runs a hand through his messy brown hair. “I thought it was the other way around? I thought Hollander was into Roz.”

“Both can be true at the same time, genius,” Bood says, using his hip to close the fridge door. “I think Hollander does like Ilya, but Ilya clearly likes him back as well— and instead of doing anything about it, they’ve just been moping around like a couple of losers for weeks.”

Ilya feels his whole face heat up, mortified all of a sudden. “How the fuck do you know all this?” he asks, voice sounding a little strangled.

Bood looks at him like it’s the dumbest question he’s ever heard in his life. “I dunno, maybe ‘cause I have eyes?” he replies with a shrug. “It’s hardly a mystery.”

Ilya sinks back into the couch, feeling embarrassed and far too perceived for his liking. He runs a tired hand over his face. He’d thought, foolishly, that he was being discreet, but it turns out that his roommates have figured him out completely, connecting dots Ilya didn’t know they could see.

“Great,” he mutters under his breath.

Bood puts the last of the produce in the fridge and then leans against the counter with his arms crossed. “None of us would’ve cared,” he says, looking more serious now. “About you and Shane, I mean. Or about you being bi, or whatever. Everyone was happy for Troy and Harris. We’d be happy for you too.”

Ilya can’t help but scowl. “You say this now,” he says bitterly, “but this was not how it went, hm?”

Bood goes still at that, exchanging an uncomfortable look with Svetlana. Meanwhile, Wyatt cocks his head to the side, clearly still confused.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“When Marly told everyone about Shane’s crush on me, you all fucking laughed,” Ilya tells him, voice rising ever so slightly. “We all laughed like it was the funniest fucking thing we had ever heard.”

Bood’s face falls immediately, guilt flooding into his expression. Beside him, Wyatt has also gone pale, and he looks down at his feet.

“Roz—” Bood starts, but Ilya just keeps going.

“So do not tell me that nobody would care, because we all cared about that bullshit gossip.” A small, distant part of him feels a bit guilty about scolding his friends like this, but all of the silent anger he’s had for himself finally has somewhere to land, and he can’t stop. “Everyone made it into a joke, and now— now Boiziau found out somehow, I don’t even fucking know how. Maybe he eavesdropped on me and Marly at the club, because apparently everyone is fucking eavesdropping on other people’s conversations these days, and he told Shane about it, so Shane thinks I have been laughing at him this entire time too. That it was all some big joke and that I was using him, even though it was never that.”

He stops talking, finally, and the room is uncomfortably quiet. Wyatt is still staring at the floor, like he can’t look Ilya in the eye.

“That’s really fucked up,” he says finally, his voice quiet. “How we laughed about it like that.”

“Yeah, you’re all assholes,” Svetlana chimes in.

“Cool, thanks,” Bood mutters. Svetlana huffs and rolls her eyes.

“I’m not saying it to make you feel like shit,” she says, though her flat delivery doesn’t do much to prove her point. “You can still apologize, you know? Try to make it right…” She glances toward Ilya now, her tough expression fading into something gentler. “Shane might not have accepted it, but at least you tried.” She eyes him carefully. “You have tried apologizing, right?”

Ilya averts his gaze, unable to hold eye contact. He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, before huffing out a frustrated sigh. “He fucking hates me, so what’s the point?” he says. “A shitty apology will not fix this.”

“Then don’t make the apology shit?” Sveta scoffs.

“And it might work,” Wyatt adds.

“No, it won’t,” Ilya retorts glumly. Wyatt frowns at that.

“I feel like shit,” he admits. “I didn’t even think about it. It was just— gossip, y’know? I didn’t think it would hurt anybody.”

“Well, it did,” Bood sighs, sounding tired now. “Fuck, I can’t believe none of us thought about it.”

I did, Ilya thinks about saying, but decides against it. It wouldn’t change anything, anyway. So, they all fall into silence, and Ilya watches his friends stand there guiltily, looking genuinely sorry for something they didn’t even really remember doing until 5 minutes ago.

And then, the apartment door opens again, and Marly walks in. He starts to unzip his jacket, but pauses when he notices the heavy energy hanging in the room.

“Uh…” he says, glancing at everyone. “Did someone, like, die?”

Out of nowhere, Ilya feels angry just at the mere sight of him. Weeks of helplessness and guilt finally find a target, unfair as it is, and he’s on his feet before he’s really decided to stand up. He crosses the room fast and shoves Marly as hard as he can. His friend stumbles back a step, looking genuinely startled.

“Why the fuck did you have to tell everyone?” he cries out, voice cracking as he shoves Marly again. “Why couldn’t you just shut the fuck up, or tell me privately, or—”

“Woah, hey—” Marly’s hands come up defensively, and he gently tries to push Ilya away.

“You had to make it a whole fucking thing, didn’t you?” Ilya goes on, pushing him with a little less force this time. His anger is already subsiding into desperation. “He will never forgive me. This is all your fault, you had to just—”

“Ilya!” Bood’s voice cuts in, and then his hands are on Ilya’s shoulders and he’s pulling him back a step and stepping between the two of them. “Please stop.”

“He fucking—” Ilya tries, breathing hard.

“I know,” Bood cuts him off, not letting go of Ilya’s shoulders. “And it was fucked up, but we all laughed. It’s not just on Cliff.”

Marly’s face has gone pale as his gaze flicks between the two of them. He clearly still isn’t sure what he’s just walked into.

“Shane found out that we all knew about…you know,” Ilya sighs, suddenly exhausted. “Now he thinks I was using him and that everything was a big joke.”

Marly’s expression crumples. “Fuck,” he whispers. “Roz, I’m sorry, I didn’t think it would—” He chews at his bottom lip, eyes flicking all over Ilya’s face. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It wasn’t my business to tell, and I didn’t even think about what it would be like for him, and…it was really shitty of me.”

He’s so sincere that Ilya feels his heart rate physically slow down—not quite enough to fully undo his anger, but enough that he doesn’t want to beat Marly to a pulp anymore. He exhales, the tension in his shoulders slowly but surely beginning to disappear. “I am sorry I shoved you,” he mutters.

“It’s fine, bro,” Marly shrugs. “I get it.”

Svetlana, who has remained perched in the armchair throughout all of this, watching them all patiently.

“Well, this is all very touching,” she hums, “but the person you actually need to be apologizing to isn’t in this room.”

“Fuck,” Ilya sighs. “I don’t fucking know what to do.”

He walks back over to the couch and flops onto it face-down.

For the next few days, Svetlana’s voice replays both in his head and out loud—thanks to all the voice messages she keeps spamming him with. Just fucking apologize to him, Ilya. Just say it, even if you don’t think it will make a difference. Every single time, Ilya finds a new reason to let another grey, cold day slip by without doing it. He’s always too tired, or too scared, or worst of all: too certain of exactly how badly it’ll surely go if he actually tried.

Shane has remained cold to him all this time, and it stings deeper than the chill of Canadian winter. The silence manages to be more painful than shouting ever could. In ethics, Shane sits in the same seat as always, but Ilya has moved to the back of the hall, too ashamed to face him. He can see Shane the entire lecture, and it’s the only thing Ilya ever pays attention to—but in return he receives no passing glance, no acknowledgement, nothing. It’s like Ilya doesn’t even exist anymore. Shane just takes his notes like normal, answering questions if he knows the answer.

J.J. acts the same, if not worse. He used to always greet Ilya with a smile and a nod, but now there’s nothing. Ilya doesn’t bother engaging in conversation because he knows neither of them will engage, and his attempts at eye contact are always very pointedly avoided with deliberateness that stings more than outright hostility would. Ilya would honestly prefer if J.J. yelled at him again—if he was angry rather than insistent on erasing him from the picture entirely.

It’s the same at practice. Shane only ever addresses him if it’s to a group, and then he uses his formal captain voice. He’s too good to stop giving Ilya feedback or instruction, but when he does, he avoids eye contact and keeps it as short as possible. Rozanov, other side. Rozanov, again. Rozanov, center ice. It’s efficient, and also unbearable—to watch someone who used to argue with him about faceoffs and pinky promises just…reduce everything down to short, clipped sentences and not a second of eye contact.

Thanks to all this, Ilya has let himself go, sort of. Basically, he’s picked up smoking again, now that Shane isn’t around anymore to scold him for it. Now, he’s standing outside of the main university building on one particularly grey afternoon with his hood up against the cold. The Marlboro Red is nice, heating up his lungs and fingers. He watches the smoke curl up and tries not to think about anything.

He hears footsteps approaching and doesn’t walk away quickly enough, and then all of a sudden Hayden fucking Pike is standing next to him, and Ilya can no longer pretend he hasn’t seen him. Pike’s backpack is slung over one shoulder, and he already looks enough, which is practically his default expression whenever he and Ilya are around each other.

Of everyone currently in Ilya’s life, Pike is close to the last person he’d choose to run into on campus. They’ve disliked one another for years for no good reason—have never gotten along, ever since freshman year. Right now especially, raw and exhausted as he is, Ilya doesn’t have it in him to be civil.

“Wow, you look like shit,” Pike says, stopping a few feet away with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets.

“Fuck off, Pike.”

Pike doesn’t look offended by his hostility, so used to it by now that he just shrugs, unbothered. He looks like he’s about to walk off again, and something in Ilya suddenly cracks loose, and the words arrive in his mouth out of nowhere.

“I messed up,” he blurts out, and Pike stops walking immediately. He stands still for a moment before turning back around, eyebrows furrowed with curiosity.

“What?”

Ilya takes a slow drag of his cigarette simply to buy himself a second. He wonders if it’s really a good idea to have this conversation with Hayden Pike, of all people—and decides, eventually, that he has nothing to lose anymore. He decides to stare at the grey sky above rather than Pike’s face, no dignity left to preserve since his whole life has already gone to shit, anyway.

“With Shane,” he clarifies.

Pike’s whole posture goes stiff, body on full-alertness. “What do you mean, messed up?” he inquires.

“I— I almost had him,” Ilya says, and the words come out rougher than he intends. He sounds so…god, genuine, and he’s momentarily distracted by the fact that he’s currently losing the last shred of his sparse dignity in a conversation with—he physically shudders—Hayden Pike.

“Or, I thought I had him,” Ilya continues. “But then I lost him, because I am a stupid, gossipy piece of shit. So.”

Pike blinks at him, evidently not following. Classic. “I don’t—” he starts to speak, then stops, shaking his head slightly. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Something about his confusion pisses Ilya off, even though it’s completely unreasonable, given how little information Pike has about this situation. He knows it’s not Pike’s fault in the slightest, but Ilya is annoyed nevertheless.

“You like him?” Pike asks, like he’s in disbelief at what he’s hearing. “Shane? Is that— Rozanov, what are you saying?”

Ilya exhales hard, smoking drifting up into the air. “Yes. I like him. Happy?” he huffs.

Even though it’s the truth, something doesn’t feel right as it leaves Ilya’s mouth. Like suddenly feels like such a small, insufficient word—something you’d used to describe a song or a new t-shirt or some other, insignificant bullshit. It doesn’t come close to touching the size of what’s taken over Ilya’s chest these past couple of months. But…it’s the only word Ilya can use right now. He doesn’t have the energy to find a better one.

Pike’s expression shifts from confusion to genuine shock now. “Um, okay…” he says slowly. “That’s— well. Wow. I didn’t know that.”

Obviously, Ilya thinks, and resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“Yeah, well,” he says bitterly. “I found out he liked me because stupid fucking Marly overheard you and your girlfriend talking about it, ages ago. And then he had to fucking tell everyone.” He drags hard on the cigarette then, then exhales the smoke in a long stream. “I have known the entire time, and I never said anything, and now Shane knows that I knew, and— and he thinks that I have been using him and laughing at him behind his back. Well, actually, I do not really know what he thinks anymore, because he will not even look at me.”

Ilya doesn’t think he’s ever said so many words to Pike at once, so he forces himself to stop talking. He clenches his jaw, throat suddenly feeling all tight and uncomfortable following the admission.

But Pike—fucking Pike—doesn’t say anything, so Ilya is left to fill the silence.

“He will never forgive me for it. Even though I want—” He stops, voice feeling strained and tight, all pathetic. He doesn’t have the energy to feel embarrassed about it, and also, it’s not like he cares about Pike’s opinion. “Even though I wish he felt the same as me.”

Pike continues to be quiet, the moment stretching out for so long that it starts to feel awkward. When he finally does speak, his voice is careful in a way Ilya is not used to hearing from him at all.

“I…I don’t think you understand,” Pike says slowly. “Shane— he doesn’t just have a crush on you, it’s, um…”

“Does not matter,” Ilya cuts him off, quiet but absolutely certain, “whatever he feels, I feel more. I am telling you.”

Pike says nothing to that, just stares at Ilya for a long moment. Something in his eyes is unreadable—or maybe Ilya just doesn’t know him very well. Either way, he doesn’t wait around to find out what that look means. He drops the butt of his cigarette onto the sidewalk and stamps on it with more force than necessary. Then he walks off, leaving Pike standing there alone. He doesn’t care if it’s rude. Honestly, he hopes it is.

═══════

sveta
have you apologized yet?
Seen
ffs ilya

═══════

The trip to Kingston is a long day of travel, eating into what should’ve been a mundane, regular week. Ilya doesn’t mind the flying part—it’s all the waiting around at the airport that gets to him. He can’t exactly sit down and take a nap to block out all of his thoughts while going through security and checking his bag in, but the activity is boring enough that it leaves him trapped inside his own mind, tormented by everything miserable going on in there. When they finally, finally make it to their hotel, there’s barely enough time to get enough sleep before the morning skate tomorrow. It’s one of their furthest trips away in the whole season, and Wiebe has been treating every practice leading up to it like they’re already playing for the cup. Ilya doesn’t have much left in him for any of it—not the extra reps, extra tapes, extra everything. He’s physically present, yes, but absent in every other way that matters.

At dinner, he sits as far away from Shane and J.J. as he can muster, as both of them are still pretending like he doesn’t exist—or, at best (or maybe worse), treating him as if he’s an annoying mosquito buzzing around their heads, a relentless drone in their ears they can’t seem to get rid of. Ilya doesn’t have the energy to be offended by it. Not that he blames them for it, either.

In his attempt to get away from them both, he ends up sitting near Pike—just his luck. It’s strange though, because Pike is different this trip. He’s finally back from his injury for the first time all season, cleared just in time for the playoff stretch. It doesn’t make much difference to Ilya, because he, for one, can’t even remember what part of his body Hayden injured, and regardless, he’s a mediocre player anyway. Truthfully, the only difference he’s making by being here is the fact that he’s acting so differently towards Ilya all of a sudden.

Hayden Pike, who has never done anything but glare at him in the 3 years they’ve known each other, sat down opposite Ilya tonight with no visible hesitation, before asking him if he watched any movies on the flight. Normal, civil…as if nothing strange has ever passed between them at all.

It throws Ilya so off guard that he almost forgets to answer. It’s weird, this sudden kindness from Hayden, meanwhile his two best friends have taken to acting like he’s fucking died. Ilya does however catch, from across the table, the way that J.J.’s gaze flicks over to them. A small, confused frown creases his forehead as he clearly tries to figure out why Hayden, of all people, is sitting opposite Ilya and actively engaging in conversation with him.

But Hayden pays it no mind, just keeps talking. His posture is easy and unbothered, as he keeps talking as if nothing has happened, and it takes Ilya a moment to register that it means Hayden—historically the person he’s gotten along with least on the entire team—has apparently kept Ilya’s confession to himself. He hasn’t told J.J., or Shane, or…anyone, as far as Ilya can tell. Which is so…weird. Of everyone Ilya might have guessed would keep his secret, Hayden Pike would’ve ranked at the bottom of the list, and yet here he is, not telling anyone merely out of the kindness of his heart, apparently. Ilya wasn’t aware until now that he even had one.

Ilya isn’t sure he deserves the kindness. A part of him wishes it was a physical object, so he could grab it and rip it away from himself, and hand it back to Hayden and demand he put it elsewhere, give it to someone deserving. But it isn’t, so there’s nothing Ilya can do but keep it.

He barely sleeps that night, and tugs on his skates with his eyes still half-closed. Ilya feels groggy and a little out of it, honestly, and he shivers. The rink feels colder than usual, making his teeth chatter and fingers go numb under his gloves, though he has the impression that a part of those feelings may not be due to the cold at all. Maybe it’s simply him.

The game is tough from the minute it starts. The Queen’s University team is good, well-drilled, and physical—similar to McGill. They’re quick to start wearing their team down, and by the midpoint of the game, the score still stands at 0-0. Both benches are tense with a grinding tension, all players aware that the game could tip in either direction following even the tiniest of mistakes.

Ilya’s taking his turn on the bench, eyes glued to Shane without really even recognizing it. Even if he wasn’t completely helpless to do anything but stare at Shane Hollander doing quite literally anything, infatuated and desperate and strung-out, Ilya would watch him anyway. The way he plays hockey is so different from everybody else, so distinct, so fast, so naturally skilled that you can’t help but focus on him, like he’s the only person out there on the ice. He can’t see it from here, he’s too far away, but Ilya can picture the small line between his eyebrows from where he has them furrowed in concentration. He knows there’s sweat beading at Shane’s mouth, pooling in his defined cupid’s bow, some rolling down and wetting his top lip. His eyes are likely dark and stern, nothing like how open and soft they appear when he’s under Ilya, or on top of him—and certainly not wet like they were the last time they were face to face, broken and laced with betrayal.

Ilya can picture it like a photograph taken on the highest resolution, even as Shane skates around rapidly, blurring himself to Ilya’s vision. As he goes, he’s suddenly caught mid-turn, and slammed full force into the boards from one of Queen’s biggest defensemen. An audible crunch echoes around the rink, and then Shane is going down, crumpling onto the ice, face-down. There’s an unbearable beat of silence, followed by the ref’s whistle cutting through, signaling the penalty.

Ilya is on his feets—skates, whatever—before his brain has caught up to the movement. He grips onto the boards, eyes still glued to Shane lying there, not moving, not pushing himself back up like he usually does after a hit, like every single player has been trained to do. It makes something in Ilya’s heart, which is already frayed from weeks of guilt and grief and helplessness, snap clean in half at the mere sight of it.

He leaps over the boards, hearing Wiebe’s voice yelling from behind him, but he ignores it and skates over to the Kingston defenseman, who’s already skated away, unbothered. Ilya shoves him from behind with both hands, hard enough that the guy almost loses his footing. The defenseman turns away immediately, looking disgustingly amused as a slow, ugly grin spreads across his face.

“What?” he taunts. Ilya gapes, hand jutting out in Shane’s direction.

“Fuck you mean ‘what’?” he shouts, eyes widened in disbelief. “Look what you fucking did!”

The guy looks toward Shane, then back at Ilya, and shrugs. He pouts mockingly. “Aw, sorry,” he says sarcastically. “Is that your fucking boyfriend over there or something? You come over here to defend him?”

Ilya doesn’t realize he’s dropped his gloves until they hit the floor and the cold air of the rink hits his skin, warming immediately as he fists connects to the defenseman’s jaw, sending him stumbling back. He punches again and again, ugly satisfaction working its way up Ilya’s knuckles as a surprised expression takes over the guy’s face, clearly not having anticipated this.

Like most hockey fights, it unfortunately doesn’t last very long. Other players are already moving in, scrambling to grab at the both of them. In the midst of the scramble, Ilya takes a hit of his own—a fist catching him square of his mouth, splitting his lip open. His tongue darts out, and surely enough, the coppery taste of blood floods his mouth as some of his teammates—he can’t even tell who right now—drag him away. He doesn’t register the sting of the punch, can’t really process anything beyond the ringing in his ears and the lingering satisfaction, even if his knuckles are bloody and busted and most likely broken.

In a daze, Ilya is ushered off toward the penalty box, a trail of blood following behind as it drips from his lip onto the ice, though most of it gets onto the front of his jersey. The scarlet liquid oozes over the white A stitched in, and for the first time since he saw Shane hit the floor, he feels a shred of shame.

From the penalty box, Ilya can’t see if Shane’s gotten back up. The box is at the wrong angle, and everyone surrounding him is obstructing his view. And then, when he finally thinks he’ll get the chance to see, Wiebe appears at his side the instant the five minutes is up, his jaw set.

“You’re done,” he says flatly, and Ilya just sits there and nods, blood still running down his chin.

Wiebe cocks his head to the side toward the locker rooms, insinuating that Ilya should get the fuck of the penalty box and go there instead. Ilya sighs, body feeling heavy as he pushes himself up and walks off. He can hear Wiebe following close behind him. When Ilya slumps down onto the bench, he’s handed a bloodied towel that he immediately presses against his split lip to stop the blood from staining the locker room floor, and Wiebe just stares at him in silence for a moment with his arms crossed.

“What the fuck is going on with you, Rozanov?” he asks then, but it doesn’t really sound like a question. Or maybe it is, and Ilya isn’t getting it. His brain is too hazy to work out the dreaded complications of the English language right now. So, he just shrugs.

Wiebe lets out a long, exasperated sigh at that. “You’ve been weird for weeks,” he continues. “You’re distracted at practice, not playing as well, and now you’re, what? Picking fights on the ice over— I don’t even fucking know.” He runs a hand down his face frustratedly. “Chirping? Is that it? I’m sure Hollander, or anyone on the team, can handle that themselves.”

Ilya just sits there, lip throbbing, and offers nothing. Wiebe studies him for a moment longer, and Ilya can see the progression as his expression slides from frustration into tiredness.

“Whatever the fuck that was,” he says finally, “I hope it was worth it.”

Ilya’s mind immediately goes to Shane, crumpled on the ice, unmoving for far too long. Again, that blinding hot rush of fury sparks, the same fury that had carried him over the boards without a single thought, and sent his fists at the defenseman’s jaw.

“It was,” he says finally.

Wiebe just shakes his head, before walking off.

Left in silence, Ilya decides that there’s no point sitting here feeling sorry for himself. He changes out of his gear but doesn’t shower—he’d rather do that in the hotel shower where he can sit down and let the scalding water burn his back until it eventually, hopefully, washes him away. He slips out of a side exit of the rink without telling anyone where he’s going, and quickly finds a quiet corner around the back of the building. It’s sheltered from the wind and nobody else is in sight, so he takes it as a sign that he’s fully alone and lights a cigarette. His fingers are still shaking a little, from adrenaline or the cold or more likely something else, and his knuckles scream in pain with each failed flick of the lighter. He sighs in relief when he finally gets it. The first drag of the cigarette is enough to slow his heartrate, though sadly not enough to make him disappear.

Somehow, Ilya manages to lose track of time out there. It’s cold enough that he stays alert, but there’s something almost meditative about this too: the slow drag of the cigarette, the quiet hum of the parking lot beyond the corner, and no one around to watch him try not to fall apart. He doesn’t check his phone—honestly isn’t sure if he even has it on him—and doesn’t really think about anything at all, instead just letting the minutes pass him by in a numb, welcome blankness.

He thinks he could do this forever, maybe—stand in the frigid cold surrounded by smoke, letting his life pass him by until his clock chimes and the ticking stops, and suddenly his life is over. It would be serene, yet simultaneously miserable, which is what Ilya deserves anyway, and he thinks he could get used to it, the silence—although it’s broken as soon as he thinks about it, by the sound of fast, uneven footsteps that pull him back into himself. He glances up just as Shane rounds the corner, breathing hard.

He hasn’t changed, still wearing his hockey gear. Or, most of it, anyway. His thermal undershirt clings to his torso, and his sweatpants are pulled on hastily over what Ilya assumes are his compression shorts. He’s not wearing a jacket despite the cold, like he ran out of the locker room in the middle of getting dressed. His hair is damp, sticking up at odd angles like he’s been running his fingers through it, hard, and his chest is heaving, chest fogging out in fast, visible bursts.

For a brief second, Shane’s gaze flicks upward, landing on the enormous, faded NO SMOKING sign bolted above Ilya’s head that Ilya, honestly, hadn’t noticed. The red letters are peeling at the corners from years of weather, and something crosses Shane’s face at the sight of it, and he momentarily looks like he wants to say something about it. Ilya can practically imagine it, the quiet sound of his voice echoing in his ears—you’re not supposed to smoke here—but nothing comes. Shane swallows.

“What the fuck was that?” he demands then.

Ilya shrugs, taking another slow drag of the cigarette as he works hard to make sure his face stays careless and unbothered, even if his pulse is thrumming rapidly in his ears. His body won’t cooperate, not properly, not when this is the closest he’s been to Shane in weeks, not when Shane is talking to him, by choice. “Nothing,” he says.

“Ilya,” Shane sighs, voice cracking slightly on the second syllable. Something in Ilya’s chest jolts at the sound of it, an ache blooming fast behind his ribs like a bruise. “What was that?” Shane presses.

“The fucker pushed too hard,” Ilya says, shrugging again. He exhales the smoke slowly into the cold air, watching it curl and disperse above them. “So I pushed back.”

“That was dumb,” Shane frowns, crossing his arms tight over his chest. Frustration is bleeding into his voice through the last of his breathlessness. He’s shivering too, Ilya notices. “He only checked me, but now you have a game misconduct, a split lip, and you’re fucking benched because of it.”

“I don’t care,” Ilya tells him.

Shane’s eyes go wide like this is the most ridiculous, surprising thing he’s ever heard. “Why not?”

Ilya feels something in his body finally crack loose at this dumb fucking question. The wall he’s been holding up seems to give way all at once, and he lets himself, after weeks, finally look at Shane properly—the tight set of his mouth, the way he’s shivering, the dampness of his hair.

“Why do you think, Shane?” Ilya says, and it comes out much rawer than he expected or intended it to.

Shane doesn’t answer right away, and Ilya wishes he knew if it was because Shane doesn’t understand or because he simply refuses. He exhales, long and unsteady, and moves to lean back against the same cold brick wall that Ilya is, standing beside him now. He’s close enough that Ilya can feel the familiar warmth of him still radiating off his body even through the layer of cooled sweat. They’re close enough now that if either of them shifted slightly, their shoulders would touch. Ilya wonders if that was intentional or not.

Neither of them says anything. The parking lot beyond them sits empty and quiet, distant trafficking humming somewhere past the rink, and Ilya allows himself to be immersed into that silence once more. Now, with Shane next to him, he thinks he really could stay here forever, even if they never utter a word to one another again. He’d be content simply listening to the specific rhythm of Shane’s breathing as it finally starts to even out. There’s a faint tremor in his hands, even though they’re tucked under his arms for warmth. Ilya glances down at the cigarette still burning between his fingers. He knows Shane hates smoking, is all too familiar with the disgusted scrunch of his nose that he does subconsciously every time Ilya lights a cigarette after one of their ethics lectures. Ilya stubs it out against the brick beside him, then drops the cigarette to the ground.

“Why did you do it?” Shane asks again, quieter now. His voice sounds significantly less frustrated than a minute ago.

Ilya furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “I already told you,” he answers hoarsely.

“No.” Shane shakes his head slightly, gaze dropping to their feet rather than meeting Ilya’s eyes. “The other thing.”

Ilya’s stomach drops, cold and sudden, and the sensation is more painful than the punch to his lip had been. His pulse picks up hard, nerves flooding in fast enough that his hands go a little unsteady at his sides. He suddenly wishes he hadn’t put the cigarette out—needing the rush of nicotine to get his breathing back to normal. Ilya has been equal parts hoping for and dreading this conversation, but he hadn’t expected it to come so soon.

“I— when I found out, about it, um…” Ilya starts, already getting the feeling that he’s messing this all up, even though he’s barely even said a thing. “I could not stop thinking about it. I did not know why, but it drove me crazy for weeks. I did not know what it meant, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it no matter how hard I tried.” He pauses then, forcing his gaze to stay on Shane, even if Shane still refuses to make eye contact with him. “And eventually I just— I did what I wanted to do. None of it was a joke, it was what I wanted.” His voice drops, quieter now. “I thought it was what you wanted, too.”

Shane is quiet for what feels like hours. His eyes finally lift to meet his, and the devastation behind them makes Ilya wish he’d averted his gaze earlier, so he wouldn’t have to face it head on—this hurt that he’s caused.

“Of course I wanted to,” Shane eventually sighs, his voice barely audible over the distant hum of the parking lot.

And, because Ilya is the worst, something warm and smug begins to surface in his chest. It’s an old, familiar impulse he feels like he can’t kill off, even in the middle of such a serious, important conversation. He has to actively work to stop it from showing on his face, aware that his evil satisfaction has no place here.

“Can I ask you something?” he says instead, and Shane hesitates for a second, jaw clenching and unclenching before, eventually, he reluctantly nods.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Ilya asks earnestly. “After Toronto, or Luca’s birthday, or any of the other times since? Why did you not tell me what you felt?”

Shane looks away again, his eyes now fixed somewhere past Ilya’s shoulder. When he finally answers, his voice comes out smaller than Ilya has ever heard it, which is worse than the words themselves. “I don’t know,” he says. “I didn’t think you would care.”

Ilya truly doesn’t know how he can think so little of himself.

“Of course I care,” he says.

Shane’s eyes land on his face again then, something raw and uncertain breaking through the careful composure he’s been holding onto this whole time.

“Why?” he says, sounding genuinely exhausted. Ilya holds his gaze, steady despite the cold and the ache still throbbing faintly in his lip.

“I think you are smart enough to figure this out, Hollander,” he replies.

And Shane just stares, letting Ilya take him in in all his glory while his brain works. It’s almost a visible, physical thing, the way the pieces click into place in real time. Shane’s expression gradually begins to give way into something unguarded, a raw expression that Ilya has all but ached to see directed at him again after all this time. It happens slowly, the understanding dawning across his face like the sun rising over the horizon, and then almost out of nowhere, he’s leaning in, tentative and almost shy about it—like it’s the first time again, like he isn’t sure he’s allowed.

And who is Ilya to deny him? He closes the last few inches himself, mouth meeting Shane’s softly. It’s nothing like the frantic urgency of their first kiss, or the desperation of their second. This feels different, careful, and fragile, and Ilya’s lip throbs mercilessly, but he refuses to stop, somewhat in disbelief that this is really happening. He doesn’t deserve this, he never has and he never will, yet somehow it’s his, and he has it in his grasp, and for that Ilya can’t stop smiling into the kiss, causing them to break apart every few seconds simply because his own stupid, rotten mouth won’t stop curving upwards. He feels giddy, like a child experiencing a sugar rush, mind clouded with lust and longing while his mouth is coated with Shane’s syrupy sweetness.

His lip stings ever so slightly, but he ignores it. He doesn’t care about the pain, which honestly doesn’t even feel like pain when Shane’s the one causing it. It feels more like a reward, the sensation, after so many days of feeling nothing at all. Ilya wonders, distantly, if Shane can taste his blood, and whether it bothers him. Does he like the taste? Does he want more? Does he want to nip at Ilya’s lip until even more gushes out, so it coats his lips and dyes them crimson?

He should stop, really. Daydreaming about Shane tasting his blood doesn’t seem entirely normal. In fact, Ilya feels crazy, depraved, like he’s not even real anymore.

“What room are you in?” he murmurs, pulling back just far enough to ask, already pushing his luck, already greedy for more than just this. He can’t help himself.

Shane is quiet for a moment, long enough that it gives Ilya the time to doubt himself, for his stomach to drop straight through the pavement. It’s awful, and he feels sick over it, until Shane finally speaks again.

“Fourteen-ten.”

Relief floods through Ilya so fast it’s almost dizzying. “I will stop by later,” he says. He doesn’t say more, doesn’t want to insinuate anything, doesn’t want to give away any expectations that he most certainly has. He keeps it as vague as possible, only to keep Shane from realizing Ilya is indeed the worst after all and changing his mind.

“Okay.” Shane nods, fast and a little frantic, more of his composure slipping. “Yeah. Be fast, though.”

Ilya laughs, delighted, unable to help himself. “Fast,” he repeats. “Okay, Shane.”

They break apart properly then, both of them still catching their breath. Shane glances down at himself—still in his damp hockey clothes—and something sheepish crosses his face.

“I should, um—” He gestures vaguely at his mussed state, ears going faintly pink. “Go shower and uh, change and stuff. I ran out here kind of— I wasn’t really thinking about how I looked.”

“You look fine,” Ilya tells him, and then, because he can’t help himself: “Too many clothes, but this can be fixed.”

Shane laughs at that, only quickly, but Ilya’s knees almost give way at the sound—something he loves and wasn’t sure he’d ever get to hear it. He wants to swallow it, to have it weave itself into his bloodstream so it enters his nervous system and pushes itself into the folds of his brain and plays in his mind on repeat over and over. He wants it to dull out any other sound, could die happy knowing that laugh was the last thing he ever heard.

“I will see you later,” Ilya says. Shane nods again, ducking his head slightly to hide his own smile, and then he’s off, jogging back the way he came.

Ilya stays where he is for a moment longer, alone in the quiet parking lot as he watches the empty space where Shane just was. He feels warm all of a sudden, all giddy and light-headed like a young child on Christmas morning. He pushes off from the wall, grinning to himself, and heads back toward the rink with more energy than he’s had in weeks.

═══════

The door to room 1410 swings open right as Ilya walks up to it, before he’s even gotten the chance to knock. In an instant, Shane’s hand darts out to wrap around his wrist, dragging him into the room and hauling him inside. Shane presses himself flush against him, using his free hand to slam the door shut behind them while the other moves from Ilya’s wrist to his shirt. He grabs onto it and uses the fabric to tug Ilya closer, and then his mouth is on Ilya’s neck, his jaw—everywhere except where Ilya wants it most, open and hungry and desperate.

Ilya’s head is already spinning with desire, and he lets himself sink into it for a moment. His knees buckle with the sheer relief of being touched like this again after weeks of nothing, simply watching Shane look at him like he’s see-through.

“Shane,” he murmurs, and his voice is rough around the syllable. He’s still half-lost in disbelief that this is even real, that he gets to have this again after being so thoroughly certain he never would. It takes him a second to remember what he’d actually meant to say. “Why won’t you kiss me?” he asks.

Shane pulls back just far enough to frown at him, before his gaze flicks down to Ilya’s mouth—to the split lip, which is still swollen with dried blood flaking off of it.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he explains, and Ilya rolls his eyes, equally exasperated and fond.

“I don’t care about my mouth,” he says. “Is yours. Do what you want with it.”

Shane rolls his eyes too, and then he’s kissing him, finally. His mouth is so gentle against Ilya’s own that it nearly does him entirely. It’s so careful that it makes Ilya’s chest ache, slow and reverent, like Shane is trying to memorize the shape of him all over again, like Shane had missed this and craved it as much as Ilya had. Ilya has never felt so adored in his entire life. His heart is beating so fast, so hard, that it feels like it might break apart—split down the middle and spill out, warm and unstoppable, before pooling somewhere at their feet on the cheap hotel carpet.

Ilya breaks the kiss first, breathless, needing to ask before he loses his nerve. “What do you want?” he asks.

“You,” Shane mumbles immediately, not a shred of hesitation in his words. “Jus’ want you.” He tries to close the distance again, chasing Ilya’s mouth, but Ilya dips his head instead, trailing kisses down along the side of his neck.

“What do you want, Shane?” he asks again, mouth moving against Shane’s warm skin, feeling the way his breath catches and his pulse jumps. “Where do you want me?” He kisses his collarbone. “On the bed?” Lower, through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. “On the floor?” Then, Ilya pulls back to look at Shane properly. “On my knees?”

Without waiting for an answer, he sinks down slowly, until he’s kneeling in front of Shane, looking up at him. Shane is staring down, his eyes hooded and wrecked. His lips are parted and he’s practically panting, his breath coming in short, visible gasps, like the sight alone has nearly finished him off before this has really even started.

“Whatever you want,” Ilya says, voice low, meaning every single word of it. “I’ll give it to you. Anything.” He leans forward, pressing his face against the front of Shane’s sweatpants, feeling the hardness of him already straining against the fabric. “I’m yours.”

For a brief second, Shane’s eyes flutter closed, and Ilya temporarily mourns not being able to see them, before he’s been hauled up from his knees, Shane’s arm tugging at him. His fingers tangle in Ilya’s curls and he pulls him closer, mouth finding his again with that same, careful hunger. Even with their bodies pressed flush like this, even with the wet slide of their lips, it still isn’t close enough. Shane is kissing Ilya like he’s trying to crawl inside his skin, and Ilya would let him, allow Shane to be swallowed whole so he can keep him forever, so that he belongs to only him. As he kisses, Shane is so careful of his split lip the entire time—mouth pressing with such gentle pressure, leaving Ilya dizzy, his heart thrashing against his ribs.

They start to walk, subconsciously, toward the bed. Shane guides them, walking backward, until the backs of his knees hit the mattress and he begins to tip. But Ilya catches him, a hand pressed between his shoulderblades to hold him steady as he lowers him down, then crawls over Shane to cover him completely, pressing their bodies together as he keeps on kissing him. There are too many layers of clothing still separating them, and Ilya wants them gone immediately, but he also wants Shane’s mouth, and he wants everything all at once, the need so sharp that it almost hurts.

Shane has gone all soft and pliant beneath him, hips lifting in small, restless rolls as he craves friction against Ilya. It pulls a silent smile onto Ilya’s mouth, and he breaks the kiss long enough just to press one to the freckled tip of Shane’s nose fondly, before his hand slides down to palm him through his sweatpants. Shane gasps and arches up into the touch like he’s been starved for it, eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

“Would you like me to make you feel good?” Ilya asks.

Shane nods frantically, his chest heaving. “Please,” he practically begs, lifting his head to chase Ilya’s lips, giving him a soft peck once, twice—despeate little presses. “Please— make me feel good. Please.”

Ilya nods and kisses him again, deeper this time, before reaching up to catch the hem of Shane’s white t-shirt and pulling it over his head. He moves next to his sweatpants and underwear, dragging them both down and off in one swift motion. As he does so, he presses his mouth to the patch of skin below Shane’s ear: “What do you want from me?”

Shane only pleads again, voice cracking. “Just you. Just— Ilya, please. Only you.”

“I need you to use your words, Shane,” Ilya murmurs, not unkindly. He wants to give Shane exactly what he wants, what he needs, but he wants Shane to tell him. Now that he’s naked beneath him, Ilya kisses a slow trail up the hard plane of his stomach, then higher across his chest, which makes Shane’s breath stutter.

“Hard,” he chokes out then. “I want— wanna feel it.”

The words drag a rough “fuck” out of Ilya’s throat, and he nods, pressing another open-mouthed kiss to Shane’s neck. “Okay, lyubimyy,” he says. “I’ll give you that. Whatever you want.”

Shane preens at that, a small, helpless whimper escaping him. Ilya, meanwhile, keeps his mouth at the side of Shane’s throat and begins to suck a bruise into the skin, determined and deliberate. Shane moans louder at that, and tilts his head to give Ilya access, hands pawing at Ilya’s clothing, clenching the fabric like he can’t stand the barrier any longer. Ilya stops only long enough to catch Shane’s chin gently between his thumb and index finger, and tips his face up, forcing their eyes to meet.

“What’s the matter?” he asks quietly.

Shane’s gaze is hazy, his pupils blown wide. It takes him a moment to find the right words through the thick fog of want. “‘s unfair,” he manages to slur out. “You’re still dressed. I wanna see you.”

Ilya chuckles, low and warm, then leans back to pull his shirt off and shoves his jeans down and kicks them off the bed. Shane just stares the whole time, hungry and wrecked, like even the sight of Ilya’s bare skin is too much.

When Ilya leans back over him and returns to the mark on Shane’s neck, he’s determined to make it bloom dark and lasting, to leave proof that he was here, to stake his claim now that he’s finally been granted permission. Shane groans and digs his fingers into Ilya’s curls, tugging hard enough that the sharp sting of it travels fast down Ilya’s spine, but it’s good. It’s grounding. Ilya bites down on Shane’s neck gently, then licks and kisses over the spot. All the while, he reaches down and wraps his hand around Shane, beginning to stroke him in slow, firm pulls.

“Oh, fuck— Ilya,” Shane gasps, before his voice starts to fall apart in soft, broken sounds. He praises Ilya between whimpers, gasping out how good it feels, how good Ilya is at this. It’s like music to Ilya’s ears.

He finally pulls back—hand still moving—to look at his work. The hickey is a deep, blooming purple against Shane’s tanned skin, stark and pretty. “So beautiful,” he murmurs, and watches the effect the words have on Shane, who gasps again, his whole body trembling while he throws his head back against the pillow, brows furrowed tight.

Ilya presses a kiss to his forehead. “Everything okay?” he asks.

Shane shakes his head no, then starts to stammer, breathless and sounding almost panicked. “‘m gonna— I’m about to— I don’t want to come yet, Ilya, don’t want it to be over—”

Ilya kisses him quiet, the press of his lips slow and thorough, until the frantic edge of Shane’s breathing eases and he goes pliant and gooey in Ilya’s arms once more. When Ilya breaks the kiss, he tries his best to keep his voice steady. “It’s okay,” he tells him. “You can come. I will just make you come again.”

It’s clear that Shane tries to hold out, body tightening, but Ilya only speeds his hand up, twisting his wrist on every upstroke. “Let go, baby,” he whispers, and then is certain that this is what undoes Shane—he comes with a broken sound, spilling hot over Ilya’s fist and his own stomach. Ilya whispers praises into his ear through each pulse of it—how pretty he looks, how perfect he is—storking him through the aftershocks until Shane is shaking and whimpering from the overstimulation, and only then does Ilya finally ease his hand away.

Ilya lets Shane catch his breath, watching the way his chest rises and falls in uneven waves, the flush high on his freckled cheeks, the soft tremor still running through his thighs. He leans in again and kisses him, slow and deep, and Shane answers at once—eager, open-mouthed, sucking gently on Ilya’s tongue as if he can draw out the taste of him deeper still. When Ilya finally pulls back, Shane’s eyes remain closed, and a contented sigh slips from him, soft and almost dreamy, and Ilya feels his own mouth curve into a smile at the sight.

“Was that okay?” he asks quietly.

Shane’s lashes flutter open and those perfect brown eyes—doe-soft and hazy—find Ilya’s, and the smile that spreads across his face is wrecked and luminous simultaneously. “Uh-huh,” he breathes, hand sliding down Ilya’s bare biceps, palms mapping the muscle there as if he’s trying to memorize the shape of him. Under that gaze, Ilya’s heart stutters with a sharp, helpless skip.

“You feel good, hm?” Ilya presses once again.

Shane can only nod, mindless, the words tumbling out slurry and warm. “So good…want more, now, please…”

Ilya’s smile widens, fond and a little wicked. “Greedy,” he murmurs, and the word is laced with affection. He truly, deeply loves this, the way Shane unravels for him. He loves that he gets to have this again, Shane Hollander all soft and spent and reaching for more in his arms. The disbelief still sits heavy in his chest, sweet and sharp all at once.

He wraps his hand around Shane’s softened cock, stroking him in lazy, careful pulls. Already, he’s hardening again under Ilya’s palm. Shane keens, a high sound slipping past his lips. “‘s sensitive,” he murmurs. “Too much,” he adds, and Ilya dips his head to press open-mouthed kisses over the dark bruise he left on Shane’s throat, proud of it, the way it sits vivid against his sweat-soaked skin. He gathers the last traces of spend from Shane’s cock and coats his fingers with it, rubbing the slickness between them.

Then he moves lower, kissing a slow path down the hard plane of Shane’s torso, tasting salt and the faint remaining sweetness of him. With his clean hand, he catches the back of Shane’s thigh and pushes his leg up, opening him, revealing his entrance. For a moment, the hunger to put his mouth there nearly overwhelms him—to kiss and lick and work Shane open for hours and hours until he’s screaming, crying, writhing for it. But when he looks up from between those parted thighs, he finds Shane already staring down at him, brown eyes wide with desperation, chest heaving hard. The need written all over his face is too strong to ignore, and Ilya decides, albeit reluctantly, to leave that particular pleasure for another time—which he hopes he’ll get.

He traces Shane’s rim carefully with the pad of his middle finger, using the slick of Shane’s own cum to ease the way, then pushes inside. The heat closes around him at once, and he starts to pump the finger slowly, in and out, and Shane moans, hips squirming against the mattress. Ilya presses a soft kiss to the sharp jut of his hipbone. 

“It’s okay,” he soothes. “You are doing so good, Shane.”

Shane preens at the praise, a visible shiver rolling through him. After a moment, Ilya adds a second finger, scissoring them gently as he stretches Shane open. The knowledge that he’s currently fingering Shane using his own cum sends a dark thrill through him—how filthy, how perfect, how lucky he is to have this beautiful, panting sweat-damp creature sweet with lust beneath him. Then, he adds a third finger and curls all three of them upward, seeking, and finds the spot he knows is there. Shane seizes up, back arching off the mattress once more as a broken sound tears from his throat. Ilya stills at once, pressing another kiss to Shane’s pelvis.

“Is okay?” he asks. “Too much?”

Shane nods frantically, still panting, words spilling out between gasps. “Can’t— I’m so close, I can’t— I need you, want it, need it now—”

Ilya can’t do anything but indulge him. He draws his fingers out slowly, carefully, and the moment they’re gone, Shane rolls over. He fumbles blindly across the nightstand until his fingers close around a foil packet. He practically throws the condom at Ilya, then surges upward and cups Ilya’s face in both hands before kissing him senseless—more licking into his mouth than truly kissing. Ilya can barely believe the neediness of it, can barely fathom how lucky he is, how hard he is himself. The simple press of Shane’s tongue has him aching.

Shane clambers into his lap, settling on top of his thighs. The hard length of Ilya’s cock slides up the cleft of his ass and rests there, and the first point of contact wrenches a groan from deep within Ilya’s chest. Shane keeps on kissing him, breaking only long enough to breathe out, voice shaky: “I…I didn’t wanna be too open,” he admits. “Wanna be tight for you— wanna be good.” Ilya can only shake his head in disbelief.

“You do not have to do anything to be perfect,” he tells him, and Shane gasps again, a soft, helpless sound vibrating against Ilya’s lips.

By some miracle, Ilya manages to roll the condom on mostly by feel, one-handed while the other stays on Shane’s hip. Then, Shane is rising onto his knees, bracing himself on Ilya’s shoulders, aligning himself. He sinks down, slow and deliberate, until he’s fully seated in Ilya’s lap, and Ilya is sheathed to the hilt. The heat, the tight clutch of him, is overwhelming—so warm, so…much, that Ilya can hardly breathe. Shane kisses him again then, hands roaming everywhere: down the long line of Ilya’s back, over the broad planes of his shoulders, tangling in his curls. They’re as close as two bodies can be, and still it feels like it isn’t enough. Still, Ilya wants to crawl inside him and stay. For now, though, it will have to be enough.

Slowly, steadily, Shane begins to move—rising and sinking, panted moans and soft whimpers spilling into Ilya’s mouth with every downward slide. Ilya can only gawk at him in awe, watching the way Shane’s body takes him, the flush climbing higher across his chest, the tremble in his thighs. “Fuck— feels so good,” Shane is babbling between breaths, voice broken and sweet. “So…so big, Ilya— so full—”

His words send a rush of smug, dark satisfaction through Ilya, clouding his mind with lust stronger than anything he’s ever known. All he wants now is to carry Shane to the very edge of pleasure and beyond—to leave him boneless, shaking, strung-out and beautiful, with tears tracking down that perfect face by the time they’re finished.

Gently, he bends them over, easing Shane down onto his back against the mattress. Shane’s legs clasp instinctively behind Ilya’s waist, ankles locking to hold him close. Meanwhile, his hands slide from the tangle of Ilya’s curls to his shoulderblades, and he grounds himself there with desperate fingers. Ilya begins to thrust properly now—hard, deep, giving it everything he has. The wet, tight heat of Shane clutches around him with every drive of his hips, and Shane’s eyes suddenly well up, tears gathering thick along his lower lips as his face screws up in overwhelmed pleasure.

“Too much,” Shane gasps, voice cracking. “Too…big. I can’t—”

Ilya shakes his head, not slowing down. “You are perfect,” he tells him, low and steady. “You can take it. Look, you are doing so well.” He leans down and kisses him, deep and claiming. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs against Shane’s mouth, and Shane only moans louder, the sound vibrating between them.

When Ilya feels the heavy coil of his own orgasm begin to build low in his belly, Ilya can’t help but ask, breath rough: “Is this what you wanted?”

Shane’s lip trembles. Somehow, through the thick haze of his lust, he manages a shaky nod—but that’s not enough. Ilya wants the words.

“Tell me,” he insists. “Use your words, Shane.”

On a particularly hard, punishing thrust, Shane gasps out a broken “fuck”, his fingers digging hard into the muscle of Ilya’s shoulders. “It’s good,” he forces out of his mouth, panting. “So good— better than anyone else—”

Ilya’s ego swells at the confession, and he thrusts harder, chasing the way Shane’s body yields for him. Shane whines, the tears that have been filling his eyes now threatening to spill at any second. Ilya takes one hand from the tight grip on Shane’s hip and cups his face instead, thumb stroking over his freckles.

“Look at me,” Ilya says, and Shane complies immediately. The sight of those beautiful brown eyes almost tips him over the edge right then—big and wet and glittering as they stare up at him, before they drop, breaking contact. Ilya frowns for a fraction of a second, wondering why, until he follows the path of Shane’s gaze and sees the outline of his dick moving in and out of Shane with every thrust.

“You are watching me?” Ilya asks, voice gone rough with awe. Shane just nods, wordless. “Wanna see how full you are?”

Shane groans, nodding harder, tugging his plush bottom lip between his teeth. An idea sparks bright and filthy in Ilya’s mind then, and he presses his palm flat to the subtle bulge and pushes down slightly, groaning at the added pressure to his own dick. Shane gasps, eyes shooting wide open as he grabs Ilya’s wrist, preening through the overwhelmingness of it all.

“Too much, Ilya,” he whines. “It’s too much—”

Finally, the tears spill. They roll down his freckled cheeks in unstoppable tracks, and he starts to sniffle. The soft, wet sounds only spur Ilya on. He thrusts harder, still pressing down with his palm, and Shane begins to writhe beneath him, body twisting with the intensity of it. Ilya just watches him, his jaw slack. He cannot believe this. Shane is the most beautiful, perfect, unreal thing he has ever seen—so much so that he never wants to look at anything else ever again. He loves those eyes, that mouth, the scatter of freckles, the way Shane looks twisted and broken open with pleasure. Everything about him, really. He doesn’t say any of that, though. Now is not the time for such thoughts, let alone the words.

“You feel perfect, Shane,” Ilya decides to tell him instead, voice strained. “So good— fuck, baby, so good—”

Shane comes in fits and bounds then, head thrown back against the pillow. He’s still crying, breath hitching with soft little hiccups through his sobs. Ilya removes his hand from Shane’s stomach and wraps it around his cock instead, stroking him firmly, milking every last pulse of cum from him until Shane is practically screaming—moans and whimpers so loud that his next words tumble out broken.

“It’s too much, fuck— too good, Ilya, I can’t—”

“You can,” Ilya soothes, still thrusting relentlessly. “Come on, baby. You can take it.”

Shane’s eyes open then. His lashes are so long and wet from crying, dark spiks framing those brown irises, and Ilya comes so suddenly that he feels like his heart might stop. He thrusts one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and comes with a low, guttural groan. He continues to move through it, shallowly, even as Shane whines from the overstimulation. Ilya presses soft kisses all over his tear-streaked face in apology before Ilya finally slows and stills.

Shane’s eyes are closed again. He’s breathing heavily, freckled cheeks soaked and his whole body gleaming with sweat. Ilya pulls out slowly, and Shane makes a soft, unconscious sound of loss. Although he barely seems awake—rendered almost boneless and half-conscious from the sheer force of his pleasure. On shaky arms, Ilya rolls himself over and collapses onto the mattress beside him.

Ilya is still catching his breath when Shane shifts beside him, rolling in against his chest with a small, content sound. One hand is draped loosely over Ilya’s ribs, settling down. The sweat is beginning to cool on them both now, and for a while, neither of them says anything at all. Ilya lets his fingers trail idly along Shane’s spine, tracing nothing in particular, and feels him shiver faintly under the touch. It’s so small, but feels enormous—this permission to just touch him however he likes.

He almost drifts off, lulled by Shane’s warmth and the pure exhaustion he feels, when Shane’s voice breaks the silence. He’s quiet, words muffled against Ilya’s collarbone.

“Does the whole team actually know?” he asks. “About my…crush?” The last word comes out strained.

Ilya’s stomach drops, slow and heavy. The good, floating haze of the last hour curdles fast into something less relaxed and more nauseating. He feels Shane’s body go tense at his side, waiting, and he knows that there’s no way he can be honest and not hurt Shane.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, and tightens his arm slightly around Shane’s shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

Shane just lies there, still and quiet, like he’s processing the information. Ilya can feel his heartbeat picking up slightly from where his chest is pressed to Ilya’s side, more uneven now. Then, slowly, Shane pulls back and props himself up on one elbow, before covering his face with both hands. He lets out a muffled groan from behind his palms.

“Fuck,” he says, voice thick with mortification. “Oh my god, that’s so embarrassing.”

“Is not that bad,” Ilya tries, though it sounds thin and unconvincing, even to his own ears.

“It is that bad,” Shane replies, dragging his hands slowly down his face before finally letting them fall away. He stares up at the ceiling instead of at Ilya, cheeks still flushed pink though clearly for an entirely different reason now. “Everyone knows about it. They probably all watched me at practice, and at dinner, thinking about it—”

“I doubt they were, Hollander,” Ilya says. “They were not laughing at you,” he adds, though he isn’t sure why, because it’s not even true, and Shane knows that.

“They were,” Shane says, flat. He drops one arm back over his own eyes. “I know they were.”

Ilya no longer knows how to respond. He just watches Shane lie there, one arm thrown dramatically over his face. He looks wounded, humiliated, and something warm and fond tugs hard at his chest even despite the circumstances. It feels rewarding, somehow, to get to see Shane so unguarded and expressive like this.

“I can’t even look any of them in the eye anymore,” Shane mutters.

“You can,” Ilya says, trying to reassure him. “Is okay, Shane.”

“No, I should transfer schools.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m not,” Shane retorts, peeking out from under his arm to shoot Ilya a knowing look. “My whole hockey team has known that I’ve had feelings for you for months. That’s not exactly a small thing.”

Ilya’s chest does something complicated at the confession that Shane doesn’t even seem to register he’s said. Ilya makes a mental note to think about this again later. Right now, he just watches Shane groan again, burying his face into the pillow now, shoulders curling in on himself with a fresh wave of embarrassment, and it’s now—as he watches Shane spiral— that something mischievous starts sparking to life in the back of his mind.

A slow grin starts to spread across his face, one Shane, still hiding in the pillow, doesn’t notice yet.

═══════

Ilya waits until the next practice to put his plan into motion. Everyone is tired and easy after a hard skate, endorphins still running high enough that whatever he’s about to do will land as well as he plans it to. He waits until the whole team is back in the locker room, gear half stripped off, sweat still cooling on everyone’s skin. He clears his throat, the sound cutting through the general chatter of the locker room before anyone can make it to the showers.

“Everybody get down,” he shouts, loud enough to carry over the noise. He crosses his arms over his chest. “On your knees. Right now!”

There’s a short beat of confused silence, and a couple of guys even laugh, while others confusedly glance at one another. Bood catches Ilya’s eyes and cocks his head to the side, confused, but when Ilya gives him a knowing look, he grins wide and sinks down onto the cold tile without a word.

“Is this like, a hazing thing?” Troy asks, also bending down.

“No,” Ilya replies, a grin tugging hard at the corner of his own mouth that he’s fighting to keep suppressed. “Everyone, get down. Now.”

It takes a minute of grumbling before the whole team is actually on the floor. Wyatt is complaining about how cold the tile is, while Luca glances around, wide-eyed and confused. Eventually though, everyone is on their knees in front of Ilya, and Shane, still standing off near his own stall with one of his skates half-off, watches the whole thing happen, completely confused.

“What are you doing, Rozanov?” Shane asks, though there’s already the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like some part of him suspects exactly where this is headed and hasn’t yet decided whether to be horrified or delighted by it.

“All of you assholes are on your knees and are going to apologize to your captain one by one,” Ilya announces, pacing slowly in front of all of his kneeling teammates. “For gossiping about his personal life like a bunch of fucking children.”

“Oh my fucking god,” Shane says, dragging a hand slowly down his face. Notably, though, he makes no effort to stop this from happening.

“Bood,” Ilya says, starting at the right side of the line. “Apologize.”

Bood is entirely unbothered by all of this, and tilts his head up toward Shane with genuine solemnity. “I’m sorry, Cap. It won’t happen again. You have my word.”

“Good,” Ilya says, satisfied. “Hazy.”

“I’m sorry, Hollzy,” Wyatt says. “That was shitty of me.”

Shane’s expression softens slightly at that one, the embarrassment briefly giving way to something almost fond.

Ilya continues making his way down the row. Everyone gives an unserious yet genuine apology, and then he stops at Marly, who’s kneeling at the very end and looking distinctly nervous about what’s coming for him.

“You,” Ilya says, standing over him, “are getting the worst of it.”

“What—”

Ilya plants the sole of his sneaker lightly on top of Marly’s head, pressing down with a tiny bit of weight, enough to make the point without actually hurting him—although the whole room erupts with laughter, including Shane, who covers his mouth with his hands but doesn’t try too hard to hide it.

“Is all your fault,” Ilya says, grinning down at him, feeling very much delighted with himself. “Apologize properly to Shane.”

“I’m sorry, Hollander,” Marly manages, muffled slightly with his forehead nearly grazing the tile. “I shouldn’t have told everyone what I heard. I was a dick.”

Ilya lifts his foot, satisfied. He steps back to take in the full scene—his entire time kneeling on the locker room floor, everyone smiling and looking like they’re enjoying themselves.

“Okay,” he says. “Everybody up. Go apologize to him properly this time.”

The team scrambles to its feet, and one by one they file past Shane properly. Some of them are quick and a little awkward, mumbling sorry and clapping him on the shoulder, while others are slower and more sincere, making sure to meet Shane’s eyes as they say it. Luca, for instance, apologizes so earnestly, so thoroughly, that Shane has to reassure him several times that it’s fine, genuinely fine, he doesn’t need to keep going.

By the time the last guy has filed past, Shane’s face is flushed red from his collar to the tips of his ears, clearly overwhelmed by the sheer volume of attention suddenly aimed his way. Something soft sits underneath the embarrassment too, something that looks, at least to Ilya, a lot like gratitude.

The locker room clears out after that, and Shane himself disappears toward the equipment room to grab something he’d forgotten earlier—until it’s just Ilya left, pulling his jacket on slowly at his own stall, taking his time.

J.J. lingers as well. Ilya notices him hanging back near the doorway, clearly waiting for everybody else to leave before he says whatever he so clearly wants to say.

“That was nice of you, Rozanov,” J.J. says finally, once the two of them are alone. “What you did just now.”

“Was not a big deal,” Ilya says, shrugging his shoulders.

“It was, actually,” J.J. says, tone getting sharper. “Can you not just brush it off?”

Ilya pauses, hand still on his zipper.

“I— I’m sorry,” J.J. says before Ilya can respond. “For what I said to you. You did not deserve it. Well, not all of it.”

“Is fine,” Ilya says. “You were right.”

“That’s not—” J.J. says, frustration audible in his voice now. “I shouldn’t have been so harsh.”

Ilya stays quiet for a moment, considering dismissing it again, like an instinct. Instead, he decides to give J.J. an honest response. “Thank you,” he says plainly. “I appreciate it.”

J.J. seems satisfied with that, some of the tension easing out of his shoulders, though he doesn’t leave right away. He just studies Ilya for a long moment, something considering behind his eyes.

“It’s obvious now that you actually care about him,” he says eventually.

“Well, yeah,” Ilya says matter-of-factly, finally zipping up his jacket to the top. “I love him, so.”

J.J. goes very still.

“What?”

“What?” Ilya echoes, only half paying attention as he adjusts his jacket collar.

“You…love him?”

Ilya pauses properly this time, registering what just left his own mouth. He feels a small, strange jolt at hearing it repeated back—not regret, exactly, but more surprised at how easily he was able to say it. It came out so quickly, so completely true. “I mean…” he says, slower now, turning the words over again in his head. “Yeah. I do.”

“Have you told him that?” J.J. asks.

“No.”

“Are you going to?”

“Eventually,” Ilya replies, some of his usual deflecting humor creeping back in now. “Unless you are planning to beat me to it? Gonna go be a little gossip and tell him yourself, hm?”

J.J. laughs, and the tension lingering between them finally breaks loose. “Nah,” he says with a shake of his head. “I think that’s your thing to say.”

“Good,” Ilya nods.

J.J. grins. “See you tomorrow, Rozanov,” he says.

“See you,” Ilya answers, and watches him head off down the hallway, something warm sitting in his chest. He leaves too then, exiting the locker room through the side door, out into the parking lot. He walks toward his car at the far end of the lot, finding Shane leaning against the passenger door, waiting.

Something about the way he’s standing catches Ilya’s attention, because Shane has his arms crossed tight over his chest, and his shoulders are drawn up higher than usual—which is saying a lot. One hand keeps drifting up toward his mouth, chewing at his thumbnail in short, distracted bites. Ilya knows by now that when Shane bites his nails, it means he’s thinking about something, which can’t be good. Ilya slows his  pace slightly as he approaches, keys still jingling loosely from one finger, trying to read whatever is sitting behind Shane’s carefully composed expression.

“Hey,” he says, stopping right in front of him. “You good?”

Shane doesn’t answer right away. His gaze flicks up to meet Ilya’s, then away again, off toward the darkening tree line at the edge of the lot, jaw working like he’s rehearsing his next words.

“Shane,” Ilya says, taking another step closer. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you love me?”

The question comes out in a blurt, like it’s been sitting under Shane’s chest and just exploded out of him, uncontrolled, having torn itself loose without permission. Ilya freezes, almost dropping his keys, and just stares.

“What?” he croaks out.

Shane’s cheeks have already gone bright pink, though whether that’s from the cold or from the accusation, Ilya can’t quite tell yet, though he suspects it’s the latter.

“Um, Hayden…” he starts. “He just, uh, came up to me and said he— well, he said he overheard you telling J.J. that you—” He bites his lip, looking sheepish. “—that you love me.” Shane drags in an unsteady breath then, arms tightening around himself. “I dunno, maybe I heard it wrong, or if you were just joking around, or…I don’t know. I just wanted to ask, to see if it was true.”

Ilya feels something rise up in his chest, watching Shane just stand there looking nervous and vulnerable. He doesn't trust himself to respond immediately, and instead just closes the last few feet of distance between them, dropping his keys into his jacket pocket before kissing him, slow and deliberate. Both of his hands come up to frame Shane’s face, thumb brushing lightly along his cheekbones.

Shane makes a small, surprised sound against his mouth, before he melts into it. One of his hands comes up to fist loosely in the front of Ilya’s jacket.

When Ilya finally pulls back, just far enough to look at him properly, Shane’s eyes are still a little wide. His breath is coming in unsteady inhales, and his cheeks are flushed, definitely not from the cold anymore.

“Yes,” Ilya says simply. “I love you.”

For a second, Shane just stares at him. His eyes flicker with a million emotions at once—relief, joy, and something rawer—and then, unexpectedly, he laughs. It’s a startled, breathless sound that seems to catch him as much by surprise as it does Ilya.

“What?” Ilya says, brow furrowing slightly.

“You love me, but you haven’t even asked me to be your boyfriend yet,” Shane says, still half-laughing. It’s a warm sound, the nail-biting nervousness of his posture fading into relaxation as both of his hands settle flat against Ilya’s chest. “You just— of course.”

Ilya rolls his eyes, though he can feel his own mouth fighting a grin he doesn’t bother suppressing. He takes half a step back, straightening slightly, aiming for an exaggerated sense of formality. He presses a hand to his heart and raises his chin.

“Shane Hollander,” he says solemnly. “Will you stop bitching about the order that I do things and be my boyfriend?”

“Yeah,” Shane replies immediately, grinning now, wide and unguarded. His freckles bunch around his eyes in the exact way Ilya has spent months privately, helplessly adoring. “Obviously yes.”

“Obviously,” Ilya agrees, and kisses him again, quickly this time. With great effort, he pulls back and walks around toward the driver’s side, feeling light and giddy.

They both climb into the car, which is freezing at first. Both of them shiver slightly as Ilya starts the engine and cranks up the heat, the vents rattling faintly before warm air finally starts to gush out. He barely has his seatbelt on when he lets out a long, exaggerated groan, head dropping back against the headrest.

“What?” Shane asks, glancing over from the passenger seat, the blush still coloring his cheeks pink.

“I can’t fucking believe…” Ilya starts, dragging the words out, “that Hayden Pike got to tell you that I love you before I did. Pike, of all people on the fucking planet.”

Shane laughs again, delighted as he buckles his own seatbelt. “That’s only fair,” he says, “considering Marleau told everyone about my feelings waaaay before you said anything to me about it directly.”

Ilya considers that for a second as he—carefully, because he knows Shane hates his reckless driving—pulls the car out of the parking spot, headlights sweeping across the empty lot. “I guess,” he concedes, albeit reluctantly. “Is still annoying, though.”

“Life isn’t fair,” Shane says, entirely too pleased with himself, settling back into the seat, looking smug. They drive in comfortable silence for a moment, and Shane’s hand is resting loosely on the center console between them until Ilya reaches over without looking and laces their fingers together. He feels Shane’s thumb brush once, gently, over his knuckles.

At the red light, Ilya steals a glance over at him. Something warm creeps into his heart at that. “So…” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Do you love me back?” he asks. “Or will I have to wait a week until someone from the team tells me?”

Shane rolls his eyes, though his smile doesn’t falter one bit. He looks radiant in the low glow of the dashboard lights. “Yes, Ilya,” he says with a content sigh. “Of course I love you.”

Ilya probably shouldn’t be behind the wheel right now. He can barely focus on driving, not while his heart is beating this fast, this out of control. The light turns green ahead of him then, and he turns right onto the next street. Shane’s hand is still folded in his own, and Ilya squeezes it once.

Of course I love you.

Ilya keeps on driving, thumb continuing to trace idle circles over the back of Shane’s knuckles at the next stretch of empty road, and lets the comfortable quiet settle over the car for a minute before he glances over again.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

Shane considers it, head tipping back slightly against the headrest. “I could eat,” he replies.

Ilya smiles, eyes back on the road, already daydreaming about the domesticity of making his boyfriend food. “You like tuna melts?”

There’s a pause, and when Ilya glances over, Shane is looking at him. He looks both amused and disbelieving.

“You want to…make me a tuna melt?” he asks.

Ilya rolls his eyes, though he can’t quite keep the fondness out of it. “Yes, Hollander,” he says. “I would like to make my boyfriend a tuna melt. Is this a problem?”

Shane laughs, and the sound fills the whole car. He shakes his head, still grinning as he settles back into his seat.

“Not a problem at all.”

Chapter End Notes

don't eat mcdonald's kids. i mentioned it in this fic because we all know ilya's love for it but fuck mcdonald's & free palestine!!!!!!!!!!

lowk gave hayden a "redemption arc" (???) even tho i don't like him idk i felt mean for shitting on him so much (even tho it is ilya's pov after all). also i don't wanna see any "the bulge thing is unrealistic" boy ik and idgaf it's Hot to me okay.

anyway! i don't wanna be toooo cheesy but omg, the response to this fic has been genuinely insane, beyond anything i could've imagined, so thank you! ♡ reading all of your comments has been so heartwarming, you are all so lovely & i truly cherish all of ur kind words :')

i'm already working on another little fic (yes it's the office au) but i'm literally only like 1% of the way into it bc like i mentioned, this semester has been ROUGHHHHH so far. so, no promises on when that'll come out but i am still committed to her lol she's a funny one (cue Attempt At Humor tag)

if you made it this far, thank you! i hope you enjoyed reading this fic as much as i loved writing it ♡♡♡ hollanov 4evaaaa

- sherickonmymorty

edit: i’m reading all your comments and wow 😭😭😭 you guys are all so kind thank you! 🩷 even tho i don’t reply to all of them, i’m grateful for each & every comment (& kudos!)