Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Minor Characters

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - College/University, College Hockey, Christmas, Forced Proximity, freshman ilya, senior shane, Getting Together, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dry Humping, Rimming, Masturbation, Cuddling & Snuggling, Sharing a Bed, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Top Ilya Rozanov, Bottom Shane Hollander, POV Shane Hollander, Size Difference, Armpit Kink, Scent Kink

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of dana street

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-21 Completed: 2026-02-23 Words: 80,404 Chapters: 11/11

dana street

Summary

“Rozanov needs a place to stay. His visa won’t allow him to go home to Russia over the break, and we don’t have the cash to put him in a hotel.”

Did the Harvard dorms completely shut down over the winter break? What about the dining hall? Shane supposed he didn’t really know. He’d never stuck around to find out, when he was younger. 

“Okay?” 

Coach raised his eyebrows. “So, he’s staying with you.” 

Shane’s eyes went wide. 

“What?” 

“Come on, Captain,” Wiebe looked down his nose at Shane. “Try not to look too thrilled.”

 
*

 
or, Shane's a senior captain with an empty house over winter break. and Ilya's the freshman who will be crashing his Christmas. 

Notes

a few things: this is set in 2014, where Shane and Ilya are playing college hockey at Harvard. Ilya is 19 and Shane is 21. there's overlap with book/show characters from the boston/mtl/ottawa teams, but basically in this universe they're all on the same team

i promised myself i wouldn't write hollanov longfic because i've been writing something original for the last six months, but damn these two have their hooks in me........ so here we go. nine chapters are outlined but chapter count could go up cause i'm allergic to being concise

many details are hyperspecific due to personal experiences

should be a fun ride so buckle up ;) 

Chapter 1: December 19th

December 19th

“Hollander, hang back a sec.” 

Shane skidded to a stop on the ice in front of Coach Wiebe. As always, he was the last one off the ice. He pulled off his right glove and stashed it under his armpit, unbuckling his helmet strap and pulling off the muggy plastic. It had been a rough practice, and all Shane wanted to do was get under the shower head and get on with his day. 

“What’s up?” Shane ran a hand through his hair, soaked with sweat. He had a final exam in an hour and a half, and needed to swing by the dining hall before that, all of which had to happen after he showered and dressed. He hoped that Wiebe would be quick. But the odds didn’t look great, given the look on his coach’s face.

“You’ve got a spare room at Dana over the break, right?”

Shane nodded. “Yeah, I’m the only one sticking around.” Which Shane was pretty sure Coach already knew. Shane was probably the only player on the whole roster sticking around, actually.

Harvard’s winter break was usually nearly a month long, with exams ending pretty close to Christmas and classes resuming in late January. The team would be back earlier than that, though, for games. Most guys were getting back to campus around January 3rd or 4th, with a game set against Princeton for the 6th. Normally, Shane would fly back to Ottawa over the break to see his family, even though Christmas break was truncated for the team. But this year his parents were spending a full month in Japan to see some of his mother’s cousins, and Shane didn’t feel like the trip made sense. He knew he’d be losing sleep on the flights and struggling with jet lag for the whole trip, and his diet would be all over the place. Senior year didn’t seem like the time to be taking chances with his game, not with his future hanging in the balance. So he chose to stay in Cambridge for the break, and his parents, while disappointed, understood. He hadn’t so much as gotten the words out of his mouth before Yuna interrupted with ‘we know, honey. We know. Hockey comes first.’. 

For the last year and a half, Shane had been living on Dana Street with Hayden, Mitty, and JJ, in the closest thing Harvard hockey had to a frat house. It was a single family home on a quiet residential street in Cambridge, a few minutes walk from campus. Far enough away to actually feel like they could breathe, a little bit. The place was owned by an alum of the program, an old money local with a lot of Crimson pride. He didn’t seem to care what the guys did to the house, as long as there weren’t broken windows or toilets. The house on Dana had been in the Harvard hockey ‘family’ for a few decades, with residence passed down between teammates. At the end of Shane’s sophomore year, Schneider and Comeau asked him if he and Hayden wanted to take their spots when they graduated. Last spring, Shane and Hayden pulled in JJ and Mitty. The four of them were seniors now, with very few plans between them for post-grad. Shane had a few ideas, one of which he liked a lot, that involved a million dollar salary and a job playing ice hockey. Though he wasn’t banking on it. Four years of playing in college sometimes did you dirty in the draft. NHL coaches assume the player will burn out faster, or something like that. But Shane made his choice; he’d wanted a degree, and his parents had pushed for that when he was eighteen. So there he was, at Harvard. Pursuing a degree in Econ. 

With a final exam on that very subject in an hour and a half. 

“Why, what’s up?”

Wiebe cleared his throat. 

“Rozanov needs a place to stay. His visa won’t allow him to go home to Russia over the break, and we don’t have the cash to put him in a hotel.” 

Shane’s brow quirked at that last bit, though he supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. They may have been an Ivy league team, may have been NCAA Frozen Four champions the last two years in a row, but their budget was still shit. And any endowment funds needed to go directly to things like travel and rink maintenance, and whatever else. Wiebe’s astronomical salary and Shane’s full ride scholarship. Bullshit alumni gatherings and swanky galas. 

Did the dorms completely shut down over the winter break? What about the dining hall? Shane supposed he didn’t really know. He’d never stuck around to find out, when he was younger. 

“Okay?” 

Coach raised his eyebrows. “So, he’s staying with you.” 

Shane’s eyes went wide. 

“What?” 

“Come on Captain,” Wiebe looked down his nose at Shane. “Try not to look too thrilled.” 

Shane scoffed, shrugging his shoulders, shaking it off. 

“No, I mean. Sorry. That’s fine, yeah. He can stay.” 

Wiebe clapped him on the shoulder. “Good. That’s more like it.” 

Shane nodded, lips tight, unable to form a proper smile. 

“I gotta go,” Shane nodded toward the locker room tunnel. “I have an exam soon.” 

“Sure thing,” Wiebe nodded. As Shane turned on the ice, he heard his coach’s voice from behind. “Dorms close on the 22nd and reopen on the 2nd.” 

“Okay,” Shane nodded, unable to do anything else. In three days, Ilya Rozanov, the world’s most annoying freshman, would be moving in with him. For a week. For more than a week. 

For Christmas. 

And fucking New Year’s. 

“Be nice, Hollander. I mean it.” 

Shane scoffed and skated away. “I will be if he is,” he murmured. 

“I heard that,” Coach called after him. 

“You can tell him I said so,” Shane called over his shoulder.

His skates hit the rubber of the tunnel and Shane looked down at his watch. An hour and fifteen minutes until his final exam. 

And three days until he’d be roommates with Rozanov. 

Fuck. 

***

“So, let me get this straight,” JJ smirked as he pulled another slice of pizza out of the box and onto his plate. Exams were done, they hadn’t gone horribly, and Shane had three days of freedom before his friends abandoned him. So he was allowing himself to self-soothe with pizza and beer. It wasn’t his usual choice for dinner, but Mitty had ordered enough to feed an army. “You and Rozanov… you will be locked in this house together until the new year?” Shane rolled his eyes and groaned through a laugh. The way JJ rolled the “R” in Rozanov in his accent always made Shane laugh just a little. 

“Murder-suicide,” Mitty added, pizza grease in his beard. “Who kills who, I can’t say. But it will be bloody.” 

“Well, Shane’s gonna murder Rozanov,” Hayden replied. “And then I’m gonna murder Shane for giving him my bedroom.” 

“He needs to sleep somewhere and everyone else is gross,” Shane reasoned. “Your room is the only one that will be clean enough.” 

“Can we clean Mitty’s room?”

“Fuck no,” Mitty shot back, now taking a swig of beer. “Nobody’s touching my shit. Everything is exactly where it needs to be.” 

“Your room is disgusting,” JJ laughed.

“You’re one to talk,” Hayden fired back. “Shane, dude, why can’t he just sleep in your room? You can take mine. I’d way rather have you in there than Rozanov and whatever girl he decides to shack up with for the week.” 

Girl?

Whatever girl? 

Shane hadn’t even considered that. Not even for a moment. 

“That’s not fucking happening,” Shane shook his head. “No fucking way.”

JJ grinned. “Hollander, I wouldn’t be so sure,” he laughed. “That kid has plowed through half the field hockey team and maybe the entire roster of women’s tennis.” 

Shane rolled his eyes. “Women’s tennis is like ten people.” 

“Exactly.” 

“Okay, well,” Shane shook his head. “That’s not fucking happening here,” he repeated. “School’s closed anyways, and everyone will be gone.” 

“I feel like you’re underestimating him,” Mitty huffed a laugh. “Rozanov will go for civilians. The population of Cambridge isn’t safe.” 

“Mitty, don’t be gross,” Hayden scowled. “Please can we stop talking about Rozanov fucking random girls in my bed?” 

“Agreed,” Shane nodded, feeling his neck and cheeks heat with blush. “I’m not gonna let that happen.” 

JJ burst into laughter at that. “Oh, mister Cap-i-tan Hollander, are you going to lay down the law?”

Mitty started laughing right alongside him, and even Hayden couldn’t hold back a tiny giggle. 

“No, I just,” Shane rolled his eyes. “I’m just gonna tell him that’s not cool.” 

Hayden pursed his lips. “Okay, man. But I want you to wash my sheets before I’m back. Actually, you know what, I want you to buy me a new set of sheets for when I get back. Two, even.” 

“Okay, Hayd,” Shane nodded. “Whatever you say.” 

“Jeez, that’s gonna be weird, though,” Mitty went on. “I mean he’s, what, eighteen? And barely speaks English.” 

“That’s not fair,” Shane said quickly. “His English is fine. Great, actually, especially when he’s chirping. And I think he’s nineteen. Did a gap year, or something. Playing in the KHL.” 

JJ hummed. “It’s true, his english has improved a lot. I recall it being très mauvais when he stayed with me on his official.”

“Okay, I just mean like, he’s sort of Shane’s Wario, you know?” Mitty always knew how to get a laugh from the group. “Opposite and evil. Like, everything Shane does, Roz just has to one-up. He’s like, obsessive.” 

Obsessive was one way to put it. Evil felt like a bridge too far. But Rozanov certainly had a… thing, for Shane, maybe. If Shane scored, Ilya had to score too. If Shane hit a new PR in the weight room, Ilya had to match it, or surpass it. Whenever Shane spoke to the team as their captain, he always found Rozanov making stupid faces at him, sticking out his tongue or giving himself a pig nose. 

He was such a fucking freshman. 

Except not even. Shane had never been like that when he was a freshman, never. He’d never have acted that way in front of seniors, in front of the captain. In front of their coach! 

But Ilya Rozanov got away with a lot. Ilya Rozanov was good at hockey. Very, very fucking good at hockey. 

So good it bothered Shane to no end. So good that Shane found himself watching back tape from their games, not to see what the opposing team was doing, but to watch what Rozanov was doing. To study him, like he was a work of art. Poetry in motion. He moved on the ice like no one Shane had ever seen before. He was a prodigy, and Harvard was damn lucky to have him. He could have easily been drafted into the NHL, but for whatever reason he chose to play in college. And they should all be thankful for that. 

 Except, well, if it wasn’t for everything else. 

“It will be fine,” Shane said, mostly to himself. Just as he did, his phone buzzed on the table. He looked down at the screen to see the text he’d been expecting all day. 

Rozanov: so I will be having sleepover with captain I hear 

Shane scrubbed his face in his hands. God. For so many fucking reasons, this would be a long winter break. 

Shane: looking forward to it 

Before he could even put his phone down, he had another text. 

Rozanov: can hear the sarcasm from here 

Shane rolled his eyes, and, frustratingly, smiled. 

Just a little. It was barely anything. 

Shane: my roommates are pretty particular, so there will have to be some ground rules 

Shane felt proud of himself for getting right to it. For not letting Rozanov twist the conversation, like he always did, into something ridiculous. 

Rozanov: rules?

And then that pride disappeared as soon as he realized he didn’t really have any rules other than ‘no bringing people back for sex’. 

Shane: yeah, just like a couple things. We can talk more about it when you’re here. 

Rozanov: if you say so, captain 

Shane: you don’t have to call me captain 

Rozanov: okay. sir 

He scoffed at that. “Jesus Christ,” Shane muttered, eyes still glued to his phone. 

“What’s up?” 

Shane looked up at Hayden. “Nothing,” he shook his head. “Just... Rozanov.” 

“Ah, ah, ah,” JJ teased. “Do not tell me he is already under your skin, Hollander.” 

Shane rolled his eyes. “He’s just annoying. It’s nothing.” 

Mitty shook his head knowingly. “Like I said, murder-suicide. My money’s on Shane for the murder.” 

“Nobody is killing anybody,” Shane shook his head. “It will be… fine.” Shane unlocked his phone and typed out a response. He hesitated before hitting send. 

Shane: or sir. Don’t do that either 

When he finally sent it he wanted to throw his phone across the room and just be done with it for a while. 

But of course, as with everything, Rozanov wouldn’t let him rest. 

Rozanov: but i like sir 

Shane bit his lip and groaned under his breath. 

At least it wouldn’t be a boring Christmas break. 

Shane: go to bed 

Rozanov: sir yes sir

Rozanov: ;) 

Chapter 2: December 22nd

Chapter Summary

day 1 with shane's new roommate feat. grocery shopping, dinner, and merciless teasing

December 22nd

Cambridge looked gross at this time of year. 

Well, Shane supposed that wasn’t exactly true. They put all sorts of twinkly light displays all around Harvard Square. And, if there was snow on the ground, like, nice, fluffy snow, then it could be pretty. 

But the nasty black slush along the sidewalks and the grey skies made it hard to love the place in the winter. 

JJ and Mitty had already left for home, JJ to Montreal and Mitty to Wisconsin. Hayden was leaving later that afternoon. And Shane was clinging to every last second of reality before Rozanov moved in. He was sitting on Hayden’s bed as the other boy packed, gazing out the window.

“You don’t think he’ll actually bring a girl back here, do you?” 

Hayden shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know dude. Why are you asking me?” 

“I don’t know,” Shane murmured, picking at the cuticle on his thumb. “It would just be weird, I guess.” 

Hayden nodded as he folded a pair of jeans. “He’s a weird dude. It’s definitely possible.” 

Shane didn’t really want to think about it, so really, he wasn’t totally sure why he brought it up. He had seen plenty of Ilya Rozanov at parties to know that, yes, the guy really was a rake. He was barely ever with the same girl, almost like it was a game or something. Same way he liked to score a lot on the ice, or something like that. 

And he scored a lot. 

Rozanov’s moves flitted through Shane’s mind like an instant replay, a very entertaining, very infuriating instant replay. He was so fucking good. He tore after the puck with blind rage, faster than any of the recruits that year, maybe faster than any of the guys on the team period. Probably not faster than Shane. But, fuck, he was close. Ilya wasn’t scared to get his hands dirty either, which wasn’t always good. But he was almost always just shy of a penalty. Not always, though. He ended up in the box a lot. Which just went to show how often he wasn’t caught. It was a gift, really. His skill. 

It had to be a gift, Shane thought to himself, because there was no way he was actually working for it. It made no sense. Rozanov partied more than most of the guys on the team, and being linked up with a bunch of other international athletes meant he was never left without evening plans. But more often than not, he partied with the hockey team, when the team partied. He’d been to a handful of them at Shane’s own house. They’d throw parties every few weeks, because it was sort of expected. A contractual obligation of living in the house on Dana Street. If you lived in the hockey house, you hosted the team. And whoever the fuck they invited along with them. It wasn’t Shane’s idea of a good time, so he left Mitty and JJ in charge of everything and allowed himself to leave the parties respectably early for noise-cancelling headphones and sleep. 

Shane worked for everything he had. He worked on his skill, his craft, he worked on his muscles and his diet and his fucking water intake and his–

And yet, Rozanov played like his equal. They were both centers, and they both had pretty decent lines. Shane usually started, usually took the first face-off, usually played more minutes. But Ilya Rozanov was right there behind him, in the scoring race, in minutes played, in the weight room, in fucking everything. It was infuriating, how this freshman with such little regard for the rules seemed to be matching Shane in nearly every way. 

Well, not every way. Rozanov was a handful of inches taller than Shane, which irritated Shane to no end. Being on the shorter side never used to bother him, but with the arrival of Ilya Rozanov, it started to piss him off. The freshman would do things to exacerbate it, too, which just felt like salt in the wound. He’d prop his elbow up on Shane’s shoulder when talking to him, or sometimes would crouch down to look at Shane at eye-level. It was infuriating, and Shane had no problem letting him know that. But somehow Shane’s frustration was like fuel to Ilya’s fire, and he would double-down, booping Shane on the nose or pinching his cheeks, calling him ‘Captain angry kitten’. Thankfully, that nickname hadn’t caught on yet with the other guys. But Shane was certain it would in time. 

Rozanov definitely had friends on the team. Shane just wasn’t one of them. He seemed to be pretty close with Marlow, which Shane supposed made sense. Cliff Marlow was also kind of obnoxious, in a more reserved sort of way. But they fit together well. They partied together a lot. Same with Connors and St Simon. Underclassmen who seemed to get along well with Rozanov. 

Shane wondered idly why Rozanov couldn’t just go home with one of those guys for Christmas. Marlow was from the Boston area, Shane was pretty sure. New England, at least. Or New York. Connors, too. Rozanov would probably have had more fun there, staying with a teammate and their family. He was sure they’d offer if they knew. Shane would have taken home any of his friends if he lived close enough. God knows his parents would have loved it. JJ was the closest geographically in Montreal, which still was about two hours from Ottawa. But it wasn’t unheard of, especially when guys lived close enough to campus. 

Shane wasn’t sure why he was dreading this so much, dreading hosting Ilya Rozanov for nearly ten days. Well, he actually was very sure why, he knew exactly why, and it had nothing to do with his attitude at practice or his demeanor off the ice. 

It was because Shane thought Rozanov was fucking hot. 

He remembered the first time he saw him, when he came for his official visit last fall. Shane was so taken aback that he had to look away, otherwise he’d have been caught staring. His throat had gone dry, and he resolved to be rude and dismissive at every turn, to do everything in his power to ensure that kid didn’t come to Harvard. 

But Shane had failed, and a year later, Ilya Rozanov was his teammate. 

It was like every single one of his features was something out of Shane’s wet dreams. His hair was golden brown, a sandy sort of color that looked like it would warm in the sun. His eyes were sharp and bright, a hazel color that pulled towards green in the sun and amber under the harsh rink lights. His bone structure was like that of a model, no, a fucking Greek god, with high cheekbones and a jawline that could cut diamond and lips so perfectly lush and heart shaped. And he was covered in soft little beauty marks, freckles and moles all over his tanned skin, highlighting every rugged feature.    

At least they would only overlap at school for a year. 

Shane was gay. He was gay, and that was fine. He was fine with it. His parents knew, and Hayden knew, and there were maybe three other people that knew, all of whom he’d hooked up with. He wasn’t out, though. He’d realized his sexuality when he was in his early teens, and first acted upon it at a hockey camp after high school, with another one of the players. It was weird and awkward and Shane honestly couldn’t remember how it started or ended. He didn’t even remember where the guy went to college, or if he was still playing. It was nothing. 

He’d hooked up with two other guys since, one back at home in Ottawa, and one here at school. The Harvard guy had been in one of Shane’s classes, and he hadn’t been in the world of athletics at all. It happened once, as it did with the guy in Ottawa, and once was enough for Shane to let them know he really didn’t see it going anywhere. 

Not that it necessarily had to be going anywhere, but… he felt weird. Having sex with random people felt weird. He wasn’t that kind of guy, and that wasn’t his thing. So he didn’t really do it much. 

Ilya Rozanov, on the other hand, had tons of meaningless sex. Well, Shane could only assume it was meaningless, he supposed. But how could it be meaningful, if he was with a different girl every weekend? 

Shane couldn’t relate to him, not even a little bit. Aside from the things that tied them together, they could not have been more different. 

Which was what made Shane’s crush not only inconvenient, but totally maddening. Because not only could Shane not have him, he shouldn’t have wanted him in the first place. Ilya Rozanov was annoying at best, and appalling at worst, and beyond his hockey skill and his physical appearance, he wasn’t very redeeming. 

But when he teased Shane, it made his heart stutter in his chest. When he ribbed him, sarcastic and stupid and silly, it made butterflies kick up in Shane’s belly. And when Shane watched him grinding on Random Girl #4 Of The Week at a fucking party, it got his dick hard. Because Shane was human. And he had eyes. 

He was just hot. It was simple. Biological. 

It wasn’t like Shane had a crush. 

The zipper sound of Hayden’s suitcase roused Shane from his internal monologue. 

“Y’know, maybe this will be good for him,” Hayden said as he tugged on a sweatshirt. “Like, maybe a week with you will put him in his place, or something.”

“Hayd,” Shane rolled his eyes. 

“You can teach him table manners. Napkin on his lap. Please and thank you and stuff.” 

“I’ll try my best,” Shane muttered. 

Hayden chuckled. “Now I’m picturing you two eating dinner at the dining table and bickering like an old married couple.”

“Alright, alright,” Shane groaned, standing up to shove his friend. “Don’t you have a flight to catch?” 

“I sure do,” Hayden said as he stood his suitcase up on its wheels. He raised his arm and brought two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute. “Godspeed, Cap.” 

***

Shane had an hour to himself before Rozanov was on his doorstep. 

The freshman had a heavy duffle bag slung over his shoulder and a backpack on his back. Rozanov wore his team-issued parka and grey sweats. His hair looked darker. Wet, like he’d just showered. He kicked off his sneakers as soon as he was through the door, and let out a low whistle as he looked around. 

“You clean up for me, Captain?” 

Shane rolled his eyes. “No, I cleaned for me,” he retorted. He supposed Rozanov had barely seen the place outside of the parties they’d thrown when, yes, the place looked a lot different. For starters, there was no keg in the kitchen. 

“Ah,” Rozanov replied, eyebrows raising as his gaze fell back upon Shane. “I feel so welcomed.” 

“No, that’s not,” Shane stammered. “I mean, yeah, I neatened up, I guess. I cleaned, but not just for you–” 

Rozanov rolled his eyes playfully. “Is joke, Hollander. Relax.” 

Shane shook his head awkwardly. “Um, do you need–” he offered as he reached for Ilya’s duffle bag. 

“Is fine,” Ilya shook his head, then looked towards the stairs. “Where is my room?” 

Shane nodded. “You’re in Hayden’s room.”

Rozanov grimaced, then his expression morphed into a mischievous smile. 

“Pike will not like me so much when I am done there.”

Shane pretended to gag. “Gross.” 

Ilya grinned.

“Actually, that’s part of the, um, rules,” Shane said quickly. Ilya looked at him with a furrowed brow. He felt bad, the kid still had all his bags on and he should have just waited to bring it up, or better yet not mention anything at all, but fuck it. Ilya gave him an opportunity and he ran with it. 

“Rules?” Ilya took a step closer, closing the space between even further as he leaned in a few inches. 

“Yes, the rules,” Shane nodded once, his throat going a little dry. “Um. Well. Haydensaidnosexinhisbed.” 

Rozanov’s brows raised, and a thin, curious smile curled his lips.

“Say again?” 

Shane cleared his throat. “Hayden… doesn’t want you to have sex in his bed.” 

Recognition broke across Ilya’s face and his smile deepened. He nodded through a shit-eating grin, then leaned in further, leaving only a few inches between his nose and Shane’s. 

“Then we will just have to use your bed.” 

Shane’s jaw dropped. 

“What?!” 

Rozanov’s face shattered into laughter, his eyes brilliant and light. 

“Am kidding, Hollander. боже мой, your face,” he laughed. “Okay, show me to my room where I will definitely not be getting laid.” 

Shane scrubbed a hand over his face. God, this was going to be a long fucking week. Week and a half, he reminded himself with a shudder. 

***

He left Ilya in Hayden’s bedroom to get settled. Shane wasn’t hiding in his own room, but he also wasn’t roaming around the house. He wasn’t sitting on the couch or watching tv or cooking or doing anything outside of his room. Because if he was, he’d probably see Rozanov, and then he’d have to talk to him, and that would probably lead to Shane saying or doing something fucking awkard. 

Shane had been staring at the same page of his book for the past twenty minutes when he heard the rattling of dishware in the kitchen. He padded down the hall and down the stairs, finding Ilya crouched down in front of his open, mostly empty refrigerator. 

“Shit, sorry, I have like, no food,” Shane said from behind. 

Ilya turned around with an amused expression. “You do not say.” 

God, Shane was such a fucking terrible host. This was why Wiebe never gave him recruits. 

“I’m sorry,” Shane said, “just, it was finals, and–”

“Hollander, relax,” Rozanov said with a small smile. 

“I’ll go grocery shopping,” Shane added quickly, finding his own stomach grumbling. He put his phone in his back pocket and headed towards the door, slipping into his sneakers. “You want anything special?” 

When he looked over his shoulder, Ilya was putting on his coat. 

“I come too?” He zipped it up to his neck and looked at Shane expectantly.

“Oh,” Shane breathed. “Okay, yeah, sure.” 

Ilya shrugged. “I don’t know where to buy food. Only dining hall.” 

“Oh, um,” Shane said as he pulled on his own coat. “I usually just go to Whole Foods.” 

Rozanov hummed. “Mister money bags,” he smirked. 

Shane couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “It’s basically the only grocery store around here that I can walk to, and I like to eat organic.” 

Rozanov reeled back and nodded once, the smirk never leaving his face. 

“Organic, yes,” he replied, something teasing in his tone. “For me as well.” 

***

Organic was not, as it turned out, for Ilya.

He scowled at the produce Shane put into the cart, and grimaced at the prices of ground beef and chicken. 

“This is your usual?”  

Shane felt awkward as he placed an 18-pack of eggs into the cart. 

“Well, I’m getting more than usual,” he reasoned, leaving the rest of the sentence in his head. For you. I’m getting more than usual, for you. 

“This price is insane,” Rozanov scoffed. “And there is nothing here that I want. Everything here is so boring. And healthy.” 

Shane rolled his eyes. “Okay, what do you want?”

Ilya merely shrugged. “I eat at dining hall. I don’t know.” 

Shane huffed a laugh. “Okay, well I’ll try to live up to the Annenberg staff.” 

Rozanov shook his head knowingly. “You cannot.” 

Shane raised his eyebrows. “No?” 

“No,” Ilya responded. “Because I need Trix. And chocolate milk.”

***

After Shane dropped a hundred and fifty bucks on groceries for the week, enough to feed both him and Rozanov, the freshman revealed that Wiebe had given him fucking per diem money. 

“Is because I am here on scholarship,” Ilya explained. “And I cannot leave.” 

Shane snorted an incredulous laugh, wondering why Ilya had chosen to keep this fact to himself while they shopped. As they walked back to Dana with brown paper bags full of groceries, Ilya whined and lamented the fact that Whole Foods had nothing that he’d ever even consider eating, like he would simply die if he didn’t inject 300g of sugar into his veins every morning at breakfast. So, like the nice man that he was, Shane redirected them to a convenience store on the way home, where Ilya was, well, basically a kid in a candy store. 

He raided the place, essentially. Pulling bags of chips off the walls like it was nothing, filling his arms with boxes of Lucky Charms and Trix cereals, loading his backpack full of Red Bull energy drinks and a half gallon of chocolate milk.

“That stuff is disgusting,” Shane muttered under his breath as Ilya stashed a few cans of Red Bull in one of Shane’s Whole Foods bags after making his purchase. 

“Ah, no, is good stuff,” Rozanov replied casually. “May even help your game, Captain. Less sleepy in the face-off.” 

Shane scoffed incredulously, looking at Rozanov with what he hoped looked like barely contained rage. He wasn’t sure it worked, because Rozanov’s smirk broke into a grin, and he patted Shane’s cheek with a laugh. “There is the angry kitten.” 

***

Shane had made a simple dinner once they got home, because by that point he was well and truly starving. He baked chicken and boiled rice and roasted some broccoli while Ilya hid in his bedroom. Well, maybe he wasn’t hiding. Maybe he was reading, or watching tv on his laptop. Or something. Something like what Shane was doing earlier that day. To avoid him. 

It was about as square of a meal as you could get. Ilya ate it with no complaints, aside from the fact that he doused his dinner in ketchup and sriracha. Shane tried not to think about it as he ate, lest he get too grossed out to finish. It was already closing on on 9pm by the time they finished up their meal, which meant they were also closing in on Shane’s bedtime. 

Somehow, Ilya cleared their plates from the dining table and brought them to the sink, running them under some water before leaving them there to soak. Shane contemplated letting Ilya know that they had a dishwasher and he could just load the plates in there, but Shane wasn’t sure he’d unloaded the thing in the first place, and there was something oddly… sweet about the way Rozanov did the chore without being asked. 

“You want to watch something?” 

Shane had been staring at his phone. He looked up from his seat at the table and found Rozanov towering over him, blocking out the light from the kitchen where he stood. Casting a tall shadow over Shane’s seated figure. 

“Oh, um,” Shane pretended to mull it over for a second before declining. “No, thanks. I’m gonna go to bed.” 

“Okay,” Ilya nodded, lips pursed. “I will watch something?” 

“Oh, yeah, go for it,” Shane followed up, getting to his feet. “Remote should be on the coffee table.” 

The freshman nodded again, something soft clouding his expression. He must have been tired, too. It was sort of like seeing a new side of him. Shane watched as Ilya found the remote, then caught him waving it around, signalling he’d found it. 

“Okay, well, goodnight,” Shane murmured, turning around at the bottom of the stairs. 

Ilya smiled, his mouth closed and soft. Gentle. 

“Goodnight, Captain.”

Chapter 3: December 23rd

Chapter Summary

morning skate, a lift, and a diner trip.

Chapter Notes

putting on my clown makeup because the chapter count is already going up

December 23rd

When Shane awoke the next morning, he wasn’t sure if the previous day had been a dream. First of all, he hadn’t set an alarm for once, and so he woke later than usual. Which was… pretty nice, actually. It made him feel warm and cozy, still half-asleep and snuggled in his sheets. All this to say, it really, really felt like the day before might have been a figment of his imagination. Just a weird dream.

Not that it was a particularly unpleasant dream, to be fair. It was actually a remarkably normal afternoon, despite the presence of Ilya Rozanov in his house. If it had been a dream, then subconscious Shane was very specific on the details. 

Shane eventually wandered downstairs, rubbing sleep out of his eye, and found that, no, he hadn’t dreamt it all up. Because Ilya Rozanov was sitting at his kitchen table slurping down a bowl full of Trix cereal. 

Shane watched him for a moment from the stairs, before Ilya had registered he was there. He was looking down at his phone, scrolling with one hand, bringing a spoonful of cereal to his mouth with the other. He looked so boyish here, which Shane supposed was sort of technically true. He was young. Younger than Shane, though not by much. But Rozanov just… postured so much, tried to act all cocky and cool, that sometimes it was hard to remember he was still a teenager. Yeah, Shane only had two years on the kid, and sometimes it felt like Shane was the younger one. But here, with no one’s eyes on him, Ilya looked… young. 

Shane felt awkward just staring from afar, so he took the last few steps a little heavier, and cleared his throat as he approached the kitchen area. Ilya looked up from his phone and raised his eyebrows, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Morning, Captain,” he murmured deeply, mouth full. 

“Morning,” Shane nodded, running a hand through his hair. He felt weird, suddenly, for still being in his pajamas. Ilya wore sweatpants and a sweatshirt, gray with the crimson H on the hip and chest. Shane was fresh from his bed, in a thin t-shirt and cotton pajama pants. It felt maybe too intimate. Like he should be more dressed, wearing real clothes. Wearing pads and a jersey. Wearing armor. 

Shane turned to open the fridge and heard Ilya’s spoon clinking against his cereal bowl. He pulled out the carton of eggs and a bowl, the beginnings of a scramble. 

“How did you sleep?” Shane asked casually, not looking over his shoulder as he cracked three eggs into the bowl. 

“Very good,” Ilya responded. “Pike has comfy bed.” 

Shane snickered under his breath, beating the eggs. 

“He’ll be thrilled to hear that.” 

He pulled a frying pan out from the cabinet and set it down on the stove, lighting a burner and pouring the scrambled egg. The pan wasn’t really hot enough yet. It actually wasn’t really hot at all, so Shane was a little stuck. He felt anxious, somehow, and he wasn’t totally sure why. This was his house. There was absolutely no reason for his heart to be pounding like he was halfway through a game, when in reality he was standing in his kitchen making fucking breakfast in front of Rozanov.  

“What about you?” 

Shane looked over his shoulder finally, confused. He furrowed his brow and Ilya looked confused right back.

“Me?” 

Ilya shrugged. “How did you sleep?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Shane nodded, moving the egg mixture with a wooden spoon as the pan finally warmed. “Uh, good. I slept fine.” 

Ilya hummed, getting to his feet from the table, the legs of his chair screeching against the floor as he stood. He moved towards the counter, stalking closer and closer until it felt like he was right on top of Shane. 

He placed his cereal bowl in the sink and shifted another step closer to Shane as he half-heartedly moved the scramble around in the pan. Finally, Shane turned around and looked up at the freshman towering over him. 

“Can I help you?” 

Ilya pursed his lips, peering down at the stove, wrinkling his nose a little. “Looks good.” 

“Fuck off,” Shane scoffed, playfully shoving Rozanov as he turned back towards the stove. 

“Captain Hollander’s healthy meals,” Ilya grinned. “Good for growing boy.” 

“Sorry I don’t need Red Dye 40 in an IV drip,” Shane shot back, turning around to find a confused expression clouding Rozanov’s face. His brow furrowed, like he didn’t quite catch all of what Shane had to say, and Shane suddenly felt very guilty for ribbing him. 

“Sorry, just, like,” Shane gestured towards the empty cereal bowl in the sink filled with pale purple leftover milk. “I don’t like all the, um, like, chemicals? In my food. Like, the stuff that makes it all crazy color.” 

“Ah,” Ilya said, recognition dawning on his face. “Boring.” 

Shane smiled, despite himself. 

“Yeah, boring,” he agreed, pulling a plate out of the cabinet for his scrambled eggs, dumping them onto it. He took a seat at the kitchen table beside the one Ilya had been occupying. The freshman didn’t join Shane at the table as he ate, but rather stood with his hips against the counter, leaning in an imposing sort of way. 

“I was going to go to the rink,” Ilya said suddenly, looking down at his feet. 

“Oh, yeah?” 

That had been Shane’s plan, too, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to make that known just yet. He wanted to skate on fresh ice, drill and shoot, and then spend some time in the weight room before the facilities closed for the break. They had some free weights and an airdyne in the basement of Dana, but nothing like a squat rack or sleds. No big kid weights or machines like they did in the field house or weight room. He wanted to get one last good workout in. 

Ilya nodded. “Going to skate for a bit, then lift.”

What was this kid, a fucking mind reader?

Well, Shane supposed, his plan wasn’t exactly very original to begin with. 

“I was thinking the same thing,” Shane said finally, working very hard to keep his face neutral, lest he show some… excitement, about the day’s prospects. 

Ilya shrugged, as though he hadn’t been the one to bring it up in the first place.

“We could go together.” 

“Oh,” Shane said around a mouthful of egg. “Yeah. Sure.” 

Ilya’s eyes brightened at that, and for some reason he seemed a little surprised. 

“Great,” he said with a smile, though he quickly schooled his expression back to something neutral. “Was getting worried I would have to go without you, when you sleep so late. Seems not like you, Cap.” 

Shane rolled his eyes. “Fuck off, it’s literally winter break. I’m allowed to sleep in.” 

Rozanov grinned, his eyes crinkling at the sides. 

“Yes. I will go dress now and leave you to boring breakfast.” 

“This breakfast will fuel me to beat you in 1v1,” Shane chirped as Ilya started to walk away. He peered back over his shoulder with his eyes narrowed, smirking. 

“Have a red bull, Captain, and then we will see about that.”

***

The walk from Dana to Bright-Landry was mostly silent. 

Shane wasn’t sure if that was because they didn’t have anything to say, or because they both felt too awkward to say anything in the first place. 

It was unusual to be spending so much time with Rozanov. The previous night and the present morning had been so wildly domestic that Shane felt like he was living in a reality show. Some kind of life swap, a challenge to see how long one could withstand it. The walk over to the rink was the same as always, though it was something they never did together. Shane usually biked to practice, same as Hayden, considering their off-campus housing put them a little further away than the rest of the team. Although, Mitty and JJ still usually walked. But then again, Mitty and JJ were usually always almost late. 

Shane had no idea how Ilya got himself to practice every day. Walking from the Yard, he assumed. It wasn’t far. He did the walk thousands of times, back and forth through the square and over the Charles, when he was younger. It felt funny to picture Rozanov’s walk to the rink as they were literally walking to the rink, so Shane shoved that thought away. He turned his attention, instead, to worrying what 1v1 with Ilya Rozanov might look like. 

“Today’s the last day, boys,” Joe, the equipment manager, called out from his closet-sized office as they passed by. “Then we’re closed till the new year.”

“Hey, Joe,” Shane and Ilya said in unison, stopping outside the door. Joe had been around Harvard hockey as long as Shane had been, and presumably for many years before that. He seemed to be a few years younger than Coach, with a thick Boston accent and a constant 5 o’clock shadow. He smelled like coffee and cigarettes, and he took care of the team like they were his kids. 

Kids that sometimes annoyed him. 

“Could you–”

“Gimme,” Joe responded before Shane could even get the words out, beckoning for his skate bag without even looking up from his phone. 

“Thank you,” Shane replied, hastily handing over the bag so Joe could sharpen his skates. Joe grunted an affirmative reply and set up the Blademaster. “Um, are you doing anything special for Christmas, Joe?” 

Joe shrugged noncommittally as sparks flew with each pass of Shane’s skate against the sharpener. “Dinner with my girlfriend’s parents.” 

“Ahh, meet the parents,” Ilya teased in response over the grinding of the machine, eyebrows waggling. 

Joe scoffed, switching out Shane’s skate in the machine. “Kid, I’ve been with my girl ten years. I know her parents.” 

Then, Ilya frowned. “Ten years, still just girlfriend? No ring?” 

Joe looked up, an incredulous smile on his face. 

“Anyone ever tell you to shut the fuck up?” 

“Constantly–”

“Never in life,” Ilya shook his head, speaking at the same time as Shane. “First I am hearing this phrase, could you say again? So I can learn?” 

Joe rolled his eyes, but the smile stayed. “Get lost,” he said as he handed Shane’s skates back over. “I’m locking the rink up at one.”

“Thank you, Joe,” Shane replied with apologetic eyes. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Joe drolled as he shooed them out of the equipment office. “Merry Christmas.”

***

Joe’s plan to lock up at one didn’t give them a ton of time on the ice, so they wasted as little of it as possible getting ready. Shane suited up quickly, throwing on pads and a practice jersey before lacing up his skates. Ilya seemed to do the same, and soon enough they were out on fresh ice. Shane skated a few laps around, just carrying the puck and basic stick handling. Ilya was tracing the outline of the H at center ice with the puck, something a lot of players did for luck before games. It was a little awkward, being the only two people there. The rink somehow felt too large and too small at the same time. Like they were too far apart, but also like Shane might die if they got any closer. 

“So,” Shane said, clearing his throat as he approached center ice. “You want to play 1v1?” 

Ilya shrugged and pursed his lips. 

“I am not defenseman.”

Shane scoffed. “Well, yeah, me either. But we could take turns.” 

Ilya hummed, like he was considering it, then scowled. “I want to practice face-off but no one is here to drop the puck.” 

“Yeah,” Shane nodded, feeling awkward. It would have been fine to show up alone and work on shooting, but suddenly with another person there everything felt strange. Like it was his first fucking time on the ice all of a sudden. 

“We could just pass. Practice plays,” Ilya reasoned, which caused Shane’s brow to furrow. 

“But we’re both centers.” 

Ilya shrugged, his bottom lip jutting out innocently. He looked down at the ice. 

“I could wing.” 

It was barely loud enough for Shane to hear him. 

They were hardly ever on the ice at the same time during games, ever, on account of their positions as centers on different lines. When Ilya came to Harvard, he was touted as the team’s next great center, poised to take the title from Shane after he graduated. Shane centering for Ilya, Ilya winging for Shane… it felt like a joke. An impossibility. 

“What?” 

At Shane’s surprise, Ilya seemed to lock back up, his familiar facade of indifference back on his face. 

“I can play wing, Hollander, do not be so surprised. Some of us can play many position. You could learn.” 

Shane reached out to shove Ilya, and the freshman dodged his fist just in time.

“Okay, let’s play,” Shane said quickly, trying to dispel any notion of giddy excitement that bubbled up in his belly at the thought. 

As it turned out, playing with Rozanov was fucking electric. 

It was so good that Shane was actually getting angry that Wiebe hadn’t tried it out yet. They’d wasted a full semester without this; this wonderful thing, this cosmic fucking alignment they had on the ice. 

But Rozanov probably wouldn’t go for playing wing all the time. He was way too self-centered to actually want to wing for Shane. So Shane chalked it up to something that might only happen once, and chose instead to just enjoy it while he had it. 

Sure, there were no other players on the ice, no one to intercept the puck or slam them into the boards. But the passes were fucking magnetic; it didn’t matter where Shane sent it, Ilya was there to catch. And vice versa. It was like Rozanov was exactly where Shane would have put himself, if he was playing in his body. It took them no time to understand each other’s game, to discern their stick taps against the ice to call for the puck. They’d practiced all sorts of exchanges, leaving the puck behind and crossing, the other player picking up where he’d left it. Without a goaltender it felt a little gratuitous to celebrate every time they hit the shooting target on the goal, but they still let out a whoop or a quick fist bump after a successful run down the ice. 

Shane’s heart was pumping in his throat, sweat pouring down his face. Rozanov looked lit from within, fucking glowing, grinning like a madman. 

He felt so fucking alive. 

Joe started to shut the lights down overhead and Shane and Ilya begrudgingly left the ice after an hour, migrating into the locker room to discard their sweaty pads. They kept their under armour long sleeves on, but quickly stripped out of their leggings and into gym shorts. Shane made a concerted effort to look away while they changed, refusing to let the endorphins from playing together get mixed up in whatever fucked up physical attraction he had towards Rozanov. 

The hockey weight room was within the same building as the rink. It was just for the hockey teams, and as such, there were photo murals covering the walls highlighting Harvard hockey history and loads of Harvard hockey paraphernalia, both women’s and men’s. The team usually lifted three times a week during the fall, and then dropped down to twice a week when they came back in January as they prepared for championship season. Despite so much time in the weight room together, this was new, too: spotting for Rozanov. They were never partnered up in the gym; Shane was always with Hayden or JJ, and Ilya usually with Marlow. The goal was to find someone lifting close to your weights so you didn’t have to change them around on the bar too much. 

But now, it was just the two of them. Ilya set the music up himself, turning the radio dial to what Shane was shocked to realize was country music. Typically the responsibility of weight room DJ went to an upperclassman, but Shane honestly preferred silence to music, so he didn’t even think about putting something on. It had become a bit of a joke between two factions of the team, whether or not country music was acceptable in the weight room. And it was a strong divide. Shane was shocked to find out in that moment that Ilya was, inconceivably, a part of the war for weight room country music, ostensibly on the side of country music. 

“Was thinking of doing chest,” Ilya said off-handedly over the sly sound of a fiddle and a man’s deep baritone, sliding 45-pound plates onto the bar set up for bench.

“Sounds good,” Shane nodded. The team didn’t really bench a lot in general, but as forwards they two of them did it even less. Neither of them held the record for anything upper body in the weight room, but that didn’t stop them from being competitive over it. Well, it didn’t stop Ilya from being competitive over it. 

“You sure you don’t want to start with just bar?” Ilya winked at Shane as he added 25s to either side. 

“Fuck you, Rozanov,” Shane snarked. “I know what you bench.”

“Yes, more than you,” the freshman fired back. 

“Barely,” Shane scoffed.

“Enough,” Ilya winked. “Enough to bench you, Captain.” 

That sent a shiver down Shane’s spine. He felt his cheeks flame with heat, and he prayed to every god up there that he wasn’t actually blushing. What would it be like, to be pressed overhead by Ilya Rozanov? To hold himself rigid as giant hands held him tight, handing his weight with practiced ease?

“If you’d stop chirping, we’d be halfway done by now,” Shane grumbled as he sat down on the bench, quickly turning his thoughts to those of car crashes and econ homework and all things unsexy to avoid getting a semi. 

Ilya smirked as Shane lay down, standing at attention behind the bar, then he mimed locking his lips shut and throwing away the key. It did occur to Shane that they were in quite a position, Shane on his back, Ilya’s groin at his head. Shane kept his eyes on the ceiling, refusing to look back up at Ilya for even a second, knowing what consequences would lie in wait if he did. 

Shane grit his teeth and grasped the bar, pressing it out of the rack and overhead. He sailed through eight reps of 185, and he knew when his elbows bent for the ninth rep, he’d gone too far. It was heavier than he was used to for that many reps, more than eighty percent of his max, but something in Shane told him to go for more. He never gave a fuck about showing off in the weight room, never, but for some reason Shane wanted to… impress Ilya. Undoubtedly because of the way he’d antagonized him just a minute ago. But it didn’t work. Shane tried to press the bar away from his chest with everything he had, stamping his heels down and arching his spine but the bar wouldn’t move, he couldn’t get it past an inch off his body. It was like he had stalled out, frozen there, in total agony. He grunted as he tried to press it away, teeth bared and gnashing. Rozanov’s hands floated around the bar, though his fingers weren’t wrapping around the metal. They were just suspended there, paused, poised to help but not yet helping. 

Then Shane heard his voice. 

“C’mon, Cap, c’mon, push,” Rozanov barked at him from above, his tone urgent. “Up, up, up, let’s go, let’s go,” he nodded, looking down at Shane. Shane squeezed his eyes shut and groaned, feeling egged on and called out and fucking aroused all at once. He felt like he might blow a vessel in his neck, pushing with everything he had. Finally, finally, the bar moved, and as soon as Shane’s elbows were locked, Rozanov was pulling the bar back onto the rack. 

Shane let out a pathetic moan from the bench, throwing his forearm over his eyes. 

“Fuck,” he panted, heart hammering in his throat. 

“Good job,” Ilya said in that low, lyrical way that Shane couldn’t really handle hearing right now. 

“Thanks for the assist,” Shane said sarcastically. 

“Nah, you did not need,” Ilya said as Shane sat up. “Knew you would get it.” 

Shane scoffed, getting to his feet. Ilya’s hand was half curled into a fist, offering it forward a noncommittal sort of way. He tapped his knuckles against Rozanov’s and cleared his throat. Shane sucked in a deep breath as they traded places, their chests bumping, and his senses were met with a waft of Ilya’s own musk, a heavy concentration of salty hockey pads and spicy body odor and something distinctly Ilya. There was no possible excuse for the thought that crossed Shane’s mind next. 

I want to get even closer to it, he thought wildly. I want more of that. I want it on me. 

“I will show you how to do this, now,” Rozanov muttered. Shane couldn’t even put together a comeback. His mouth was dry and his mind was short-circuiting. 

Ilya spread his legs wide as he lay down on the bench, and Shane had to look up and stare at the ceiling to avoid staring at Ilya’s dickprint in his shorts. Jesus fucking Christ, was he even wearing boxers? Or was he just fucking loose under the shorts? Before Shane had too much time to think, Ilya was pressing the bar out of the rack, and Shane was thankful for the distraction. He’d rather watch Ilya’s arms pump and flex with each rep, pretending he was merely spotting him, than stare open-mouthed at the outline of his cock beneath his lift shorts, thinking about how he smelled. Rozanov’s chest was so fucking rounded, too. It was almost like he actually had tits. Which his sweaty, skin-tight under armour only exaggerated. Ilya’s peaked nipples were poking through the damp spandex. And, nestled in the middle of his pecs sat a shiny golden crucifix, though the detail on the cross was different than Shane was used to seeing. Maybe… orthodox? That would make sense. 

Of course, Ilya breezed through nine reps of 185, and even grinded through a tenth rep. It was ugly, but it was complete, and Shane didn’t have to intervene to help. Ilya’s max on bench was maybe ten or fifteen pounds heavier than Shane’s, so he wasn’t really surprised. Just annoyed, mostly. 

The rest of their lift passed by quickly, with neither man really interested in doing more. After a few more sets on the bench, Ilya did some curls while Shane did core and stretched. Shane was proud of his restraint; he allowed himself a total of three prolonged gazes at Ilya in the mirror, watching the swell of his bicep contract and expand, the thick vein that ran all the way from his shoulder through his elbow and into his wrist wiggling deliciously with every rep. 

In the locker room, Shane made a conscious effort to avoid getting naked in front of Ilya, or, god fucking forbid, get in the gang shower with him. Around the team it was fine, there was no chance of Shane getting aroused in that setting. But the two of them? Alone? Shane didn’t want to find out what his body might do. 

So he sat in his changing stall and fiddled with his phone until he heard the water squeak off in the showers. Quickly, he undressed and wrapped a towel around his waist, pointedly ignoring Ilya’s gaze as they passed one another in the doorway. He showered fast, scrubbing himself roughly with the shitty foaming soap from dispensers bolted into the walls. He’d brought a change of clothes with him into the shower room, so when he returned to the locker room, he was dressed. To Ilya’s apparent surprise. 

Rozanov’s brows jumped on his face from where he sat slumped in his changing stall, holding his phone. His hair was wet, like it had been the night before, darker and glossy, curls tight.

“Hungry?” 

Shane furrowed his brow, taking stock of his needs. He was, actually, a little hungry. Probably less hungry than Ilya, considering Shane had eggs for breakfast and Ilya had straight sugar that probably burned up before they even got on the ice. 

But, yeah, he could eat. 

“Yeah,” Shane nodded. “I bought cold cuts and stuff for sandwiches.” 

“No, no, no,” Rozanov shook his head. “We will go to Breakfast Club.” 

Shane furrowed his brow. He wasn’t sure what that even meant, but: “We have groceries at home.” 

At home. 

Ilya had been living with him for a day and Shane was already saying ‘at home’ like it was permanent. Like home was theirs.

What the fuck were the next ten days going to be like? What would they do to him?

“Have you ever been?” 

Shane shook his head. “No, but–”

“We will go, come on. Is really good,” Ilya said as he got to his feet. “I have cash, remember? Per diem? I pay.” 

***

The Breakfast Club was, as it turned out, an old 1950’s style diner in Allston, just a couple minutes walk away from the Harvard athletics complex. 

Shane was a little surprised they were still open in the late afternoon, with the sun precariously low in the sky and only a couple hours of daylight left. The place was nearly empty, which Shane supposed made sense, considering tomorrow was Christmas eve. Their waitress sat them down in a booth along the front wall and brought over two giant plastic cups of water with long straws. The table was a little bit sticky, as were the shiny red plastic-covered benches. The water was too cold, the cup full to the brim with ice. It made Shane’s teeth hurt. 

Ilya pursed his lips as he read over the menu, and somewhere in the back of Shane’s mind, he wondered if Ilya needed help with translation. But, then, he supposed the kid did go to Harvard, and he did speak good enough English to make fun of Shane every third sentence. And, what’s more, Shane didn’t want to infantalize him. If Ilya had a question, Shane had to believe he’d ask it. 

“You’ve been here before?” 

Ilya took a sip from his water and nodded. 

“Oh, yes. After practice, sometimes. Is close. Good food.” 

Shane nodded, wondering not for the first time just how much there was out there that he’d never even tried to explore. How much there was around campus, and in the world in general, that Shane just didn’t notice in his periphery. 

“There is a girl on women’s tennis who I come with, sometimes. Svetlana. She is from Russia, too.” Ilya took another sip. “We know each other from home.” 

Shane hummed, wondering why Ilya felt the need to mention this girl. Svetlana. 

Was she also stuck at Harvard for the holiday? Because of the Russian thing?

Should Shane be… expecting to see her in his house, this winter break? 

Fuck, was Ilya trying to tell him he had a girlfriend, or something? 

And why should Shane even care? Why did Shane even care? 

Wait. Did Ilya… Did he notice Shane… noticing him? In the weight room? In the locker room? Was he–

“What are you getting?” 

Ilya’s voice broke Shane out of his downward spiral. He didn’t have to scan the menu too closely to learn that almost everything would be a greasy fried plate. He almost felt like getting breakfast food, though it was well past lunch by that point. Something about being in an all-day-breakfast diner had that effect. He quickly settled on a club sandwich and a ginger ale, which made Ilya’s crooked smirk emerge on his face when he said as much. 

“What, is that boring?” 

Ilya nodded with that knowing sort of smile. “Yes.” 

“Well, what are you getting?” 

Just as Shane asked, their waitress reappeared with a pen poised over her notebook. Ilya looked up at her and smiled with a demure expression. 

“I will have hash omelet, please.”

“What kind of cheese on that?” 

Ilya’s mouth twitched as he looked up at her expectantly. 

“We have cheddar, swiss, American, colby jack–”

“Cheddar, please,” Ilya said quickly. 

The waitress nodded, turning her attention to Shane, though Ilya spoke again. 

“And blueberry pancake, please,” he added, pointing at the menu. 

“Just one?” 

“Mmm, how many it comes with?” 

“Three,” she answered. 

“Three, then, yes.” 

Shane stifled a laugh as the waitress scribbled down Ilya’s absurd order. 

“Something to drink?” 

Ilya hummed. “Ah, yes. Oreo milkshake.”

Now Shane was scoffing, jaw dropped, eyebrows knitted together in revulsion. Ilya looked back at him with a goofy expression, sticking his tongue out quickly with eyebrows waggling. 

“And for you?” 

Shane finally tore his gaze away from Ilya to look at their waitress. 

“Just a club sandwich, please, and a ginger ale.” 

“Okay,” she murmured as she wrote Shane’s order down. “I’ll have those right out for you guys.”

Ilya’s sly expression deepened into something even more mischievous as their waitress walked away, like he was almost antagonizing Shane into scolding him. 

It worked. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Ilya’s shoulders shook through his laughter. 

“I worked up appetite in the gym, Captain, is that a problem?” He kicked Shane’s foot under the table. “Maybe you did not work as hard as me, if you are not hungry.” 

“I am hungry,” Shane hissed. “You’re just ridiculous.” 

“I will give you some of my pancake,” Ilya said with a shrug.

“I don’t want it,” Shane fired back. “You’re not going to be hungry for dinner now.” 

“Ah, oh my god, Hollander,” Ilya groaned, eyes rolling. “So I am full and miss dinner, so what? Who cares?” Ilya wrapped his lips around the straw of his water, and Shane watched as his cheeks hollowed, watched his adam’s apple bobbling in his throat as he swallowed. He sighed as he pulled off the straw, his tongue licking a line up the plastic. He waved a hand then, as if to shoo away a fly. 

“You have too many rules.” 

The statement made Shane’s spine go rigid. He did, actually, have a lot of rules. That was how life worked. For Shane Hollander, at least. The rules were what gave him structure, what made his days make sense. Wake up at a certain time, brush his teeth a certain way, always put on his right skate first. Eat the right foods at the right times. Homework done before TV. As far as he was concerned, none of that was bad. He’d gotten pretty damn far in life by following the rules. He saw no reason to change that now. 

But, instead of fighting him on it, Shane merely shrugged. 

“You could try it sometime.” 

Ilya smirked, cocking his head to the side, giving Shane an appraising state. Then, he smirked. 

“Or you could try breaking some.” 

Chapter End Notes

hope you enjoyed this day as much as ilya did <333 things will get steamierrrr next time around!!

oh and rip breakfast club allston you were foundational to me

Chapter 4: December 24th

Chapter Summary

christmas eve featuring anxious avoidance! and football! and pizza!

Chapter Notes

December 24th 

The Christmas tree was already lit up.

Shane had forgotten to plug the lights in at all yesterday. That was usually more Hayden’s thing. 

But, nevertheless, there it stood. Lit up, at ten o’clock in the morning when Shane walked down the stairs.  

The tree was patchy and small, honestly a god-awful thing, but it was a Christmas tree. They’d bought it from the tree sale in the parking lot of St. Mary’s a few blocks down Mass Ave. It was staged in the corner of the living room by the window so it could be seen from the street. Someone dug up a string of shitty blue lights from the attic, which Shane thought were too bright and a little ugly. The ornaments were similarly stupid; there were only a few hung up here and there on random branches, mostly Harvard or beer-related paraphernalia. All decorations that were left in the house for probably the last decade. It was nothing like the tree he’d have decorated if he was back home, but there was something comforting to Shane on a very low-level about simply having the tree at all. Like he wasn’t missing Christmas entirely. 

But if Shane hadn’t plugged in the tree lights, that meant that Ilya–

“Morning.” 

Shane heard Rozanov’s voice before he saw him. He wasn’t at the table, or in the kitchen at all, which forced Shane to scan the room. He finally noticed a man-sized lump beneath a blanket on one of the couches. 

“Morning,” Shane replied, catching Ilya’s eye. The layout of their living room was such that two long couches formed a right angle around the coffee table, facing the television. Ilya was there, snuggled on the smaller of their two couches, scrolling on his phone with a fuzzy Harvard hockey blanket wrapped around his folded legs. A mug was balanced precariously on the arm of the couch. 

“I made coffee,” Ilya offered with a yawn, sitting up. 

He… what?

Shane merely blinked, frozen to the spot for perhaps a moment too long. He shook his head once to set his body in motion, then wordlessly turned toward the kitchen. 

Shane didn’t think he’d told Ilya how the coffee machine worked, though then again he supposed it didn’t exactly take a rocket scientist to figure out Mr. Coffee. A quick survey through the kitchen told Shane everything he needed to know about Ilya’s past twelve hours. 

A bowl and spoon were in the sink, with that purple-gray cereal milk that conveyed a serving or two of Trix for breakfast. A single chair was askew at the table, not quite pushed back in all the way, revealing where Rozanov had sat. And, there was an empty bag of Sour Patch kids in the trash can. A late night snack, Shane assumed. The night before had played out similarly to Ilya’s first night at Dana; they awkwardly orbited each other in the evening before Shane excused himself at a respectable time to go to up bed. He hadn’t, of course, actually gone to sleep. No, he sat in his bed for another two hours, oscillating between scrolling on his phone and trying desperately to read his book. But he could hear the television downstairs and he felt a strange pull to go back down there. To go and sit by Ilya and join in and just… be with him. 

Which was exactly why he didn’t. Why he couldn’t. 

Because twenty-four hours of this playing house with Ilya was already hijacking Shane’s brain. Rozanov was so frustrating, so annoying, especially after the day they’d had, between the morning skate and afternoon lift and then the diner… But, Shane wasn’t sure how much he cared that Ilya was annoying. He wasn’t sure he minded all that much. Which could very quickly become a problem.

He needed to preserve something of himself, something of the Shane who thought the giant Russian teenager was a fucking twerp. A hot one, but still, a twerp. So, no, Shane couldn’t sit on the couch with Ilya all night and watch Law and Order reruns, because that would be too much. It would be a step in the wrong direction. 

No matter how much he longed to head in that direction. 

Shane usually frowned upon coffee before actual food, wary of the effects of caffeine on an empty stomach, but he wasn’t quite hungry yet, and the coffee was hot. Coffee that Ilya made. A whole pot of it. 

So, Shane poured himself a mug, holding it tight in both hands, warmth spreading through his palms and fingers. No cream, no sugar, just like always. He leaned against the countertop for a moment, wondering what to do next. He could go back upstairs. Or drink his coffee at the table. 

Or he could… join Ilya on the couch? And sip his coffee there? 

On the other couch. God. Not the same fucking couch Ilya was on. That would be… insane. 

It would probably be rude to do anything otherwise, so Shane did what felt right. He padded over to the living room in socked feet, sighing as he let himself relax down onto the opposite couch. 

Ilya was dressed in that same gray Harvard hockey hoodie as the day before, and though Shane couldn’t see his legs beneath the blanket, he was pretty sure he wore the matching sweatpants. Shane was dressed similarly, in a team-issued sweatshirt, though it was a different style, and black, from a few years ago. Shane made a very conscious choice not to pull on the sweatshirt from that year’s gear issue, because somehow he knew they’d end up matching. And he’d get made fun of for it. 

Shane yawned. “You put the Christmas lights on?” 

Ilya hummed as he took a sip from his own mug. “Yes,” he nodded. Shane expected some sort of sassy quip about how he wasn’t a very good homemaker or how he needed to get into the holiday spirit, but the comment never came. Instead, he simply said: “Tomorrow is Christmas, yes?” 

Shane nodded, finally trying the coffee Ilya made. It was perfect. 

“Yeah.” 

He looked at Ilya on the other couch, scanned his features for a moment, his high cheekbones, his sharp jawline. Adam’s apple like a knot in the middle of his throat. His eyes caught on Ilya’s glinting golden chain, holding the crucifix in the hollow of his collarbone. He wondered what Ilya’s Christmas traditions were like. 

“Do you celebrate much in Russia? For Christmas?”

Ilya pursed his lips and shook his head no once. It was resolute. 

“No, not really. New Year, maybe.” He shrugged. 

“Oh, yeah. Right. I think I remember reading that.” Shane set his mug down on the large coffee table between them. “I took a Russian lit class my freshman year.”

Ilya’s eyebrows shot up at that, an amused, excited expression playing on his face. 

“You did?” 

“Mhm,” Shane replied, picking at his thumb cuticle with his middle finger to have something to do, other than staring at Ilya. He looked down at his hand as pain spiked, a tiny bead of blood blooming at the corner. “It was just to like, fill a humanities credit. But it was cool.” 

“You liked?” 

“Yeah,” Shane responded, eyes still fixed on his cuticle, dragging back the frayed skin indelicately. “It was heavy, though. I, um, liked Tolstoy, the best. And I liked Doctor Zhivago. But I forget who–”

“Pasternak,” Ilya supplied, causing Shane to look up again. “Is author.”

“You’ve read it?” 

Ilya nodded and shrugged, his eyebrows jumping once as he did, as if to say of course I have. 

That surprised Shane. Though he wasn’t sure why.

He didn’t have much more to say on the topic, and didn’t feel like embarrassing himself further by admitting that most of the stories ran together for him in that class, not to mention the intense anxiety he’d been feeling throughout his freshman year caused him to struggle a bit academically. He remembered the storyline in Anna Karenina enough to talk about it, but he didn’t feel like getting into it with Rozanov. The freshman probably knew a lot more Russian literature than Shane did. Shane cleared his throat. 

“But, Christmas is, um, later for you there? Like, in January, right?” 

Ilya hummed. 

“Yes, if you celebrate. January 6.” 

Shane focused on Ilya’s necklace again. 

“Because you’re… orthodox?” 

At that, Ilya stiffened, his hand going to his chain automatically, feeling for the cross and adjusting the clasp back behind his neck. 

“Not really,” Rozanov said softly. “My mother, she was.” 

Shane didn’t miss the way Ilya used the past tense when talking about his mother. He felt himself lock up with panic, worried he’d overstepped, worried he’d made the poor kid uncomfortable in his home. 

“Hey, well,” Shane said quickly, hoping to diffuse any tension with a change in subject. “We’ll fuck Princeton up for you on your Christmas on the 6th. As a gift.” 

Ilya’s eyes softened a little, and his familiar mischievous expression returned, much to Shane’s relief. 

“Yes,” Ilya nodded with a thin smile. “Will be great game. Princeton is terrible.”

Shane laughed, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders. 

“What do you do for Christmas?” 

Shane hadn’t really been expecting that question, though he wasn’t sure why not. This was how conversations worked; back and forth, give and take. Shane had to remind himself that Ilya probably wasn’t asking with scrutiny, just curiosity. 

“Well, on Christmas eve we usually go over to a neighbor’s house for dinner. They do like an open house sort of party. We’ve been going since I was a little kid, so they’re like family at this point.” Ilya nodded, sipping from his mug. “Then, tomorrow, Christmas morning, my parents and I would wake up and open presents. Then make breakfast and sort of just hang around all day in our pajamas and watch Christmas movies. And then cook a nice dinner.” 

Ilya’s lip twitched, his face morphing into an amused sort of expression. 

“Let me guess, that sounds boring to you?”

Ilya pursed his lips to tamp down a smile, or so it appeared. He shook his head. 

“No,” he said. “Sounds like nice day.” 

It was somehow both incredibly sweet and way too earnest for the likes of Ilya Rozanov. Shane readied himself for the other shoe to drop. 

“But, what? Your family got sick of you this year? That is why you don’t go home?” 

Like fucking clockwork. 

Shane grunted a laugh, reaching for his coffee and rolling his eyes. 

“No, and fuck you. My parents are in Japan to see family for a few weeks and it didn’t make sense for me to travel.” Shane had gotten a text that morning from his mom with a few photos attached, some pictures of his parents suited up for skiing in Hokkaido. The mountains looked incredible, and he was extremely jealous. But, that was another reason he chose not to accompany them. God forbid he got injured skiing, he could kiss his senior season, and any NHL prospects, goodbye.

“Ah,” Ilya murmured. “So, you are Japanese? I wondered.” 

“Half, on my mom’s side,” Shane replied with his practiced response, filing away Ilya’s I wondered to address another time. Alone. 

“But you still celebrate Christmas?” 

“Oh, yeah, I mean,” Shane took another sip of his now lukewarm coffee. “She grew up in Canada. And my dad’s Canadian. So, yeah. We do. But not like, religiously.” 

Ilya seemed to be evaluating Shane’s words before he spoke again. 

“So, is your first Christmas without them?”

Shane supposed he hadn’t really thought of it that way. More like just not going home for break for the first time. But looking at it like that made him realize it was true. And that he was sort of… sad about it. 

“Yeah,” he nodded. “It is.” 

Ilya shrugged. 

“We should do something, tomorrow, then.” 

Rozanov scrunched up his nose after he said it, shoulder shrugging again, as if to say why not? 

Shane hated the fact that he felt fucking butterflies kicking around in his stomach. 

He hadn’t really thought about what Christmas day would look like this year. He guessed he’d end up eating some mediocre meal he made for himself and maybe watching a Christmas movie. He honestly really hadn’t pictured Rozanov in the scene at all. The freshman had never been part of the equation. Which felt strange; Shane had been picturing what their winter break would be like in the days that led up to Ilya’s arrival, but it was like Christmas was a black box in his brain. He didn’t think about it… Christmas, with Ilya. 

“Oh, yeah, um,” Shane felt his face heat with blush. “What did you have in mind?” 

Ilya shrugged again, gesturing a sign of indifference with his hand. “I don’t know. We could go out. For dinner, or something.” 

Shane was… stunned. Though he wondered if it was simply that Ilya didn’t really like Shane’s cooking. 

“We could, yeah,” Shane replied, contemplating. He realized very quickly that, if American Christmas was anything like Christmas in Canada, pretty much everything would be closed. It always seemed like Cambridge, Boston in general, was run by the Irish Catholics. They probably took the holiday pretty seriously. “Wait, actually, probably not. I don’t think anything will be open.” 

Ilya hummed. After a moment, he spoke again. 

“Maybe a restaurant like, not white people. Japanese, or something.” Ilya looked at him expectantly. “Ramen.” 

Shane coughed into his mug, spluttering a little bit on the sip of cold coffee on his tongue. 

What kind of game was Rozanov playing? Shane wondered if he was just overreacting, conflating everything they’d said and done in the last few days, compounding all of the questions and conversation of that morning… It felt like… a lot, all of a sudden. Shane wanted to reframe the conversation between them, he wanted to decline politely, say he would rather have a quiet day at home, reading alone in his room. Even though that wasn’t fucking true. 

He wanted to say they didn’t even eat Japanese food all that much at home, and western restaurants never sold the kind of food his mother would occasionally make, and that on Christmas his family usually made fucking chicken parm. But the fact that Ilya, upon realizing it would be Shane’s first lonely Christmas, went as far as to say ‘let’s get ramen to celebrate’? So Shane wouldn’t feel so alone? 

Even if it was maybe presumptuous, it was sort of… sweet? 

Then Shane realized it was probably also Ilya’s first Christmas alone. Ilya’s first Christmas away from home, so far away from home, away from his family and the food he’d eat with them and whatever other traditions he may have had. 

Well, not alone. They weren’t really alone, were they? 

Shane wanted to get up from the couch and open the front door and run the fuck away from his own house. 

But, instead of doing any of that, Shane found himself saying: “Okay.” 

Ilya nodded, looking solemn and unmoved. 

An awkward lull filled the room as both boys sipped their coffee. Shane wondered where they would go next, how best to steer the conversation away from the more private direction they were heading in. He didn’t feel like disclosing more personal information, as harmless as it may have been. Shane preservation, that’s what he needed. Shane preservation. And the best way to do that would be to put some distance between them. 

He tipped the rest of his coffee down his throat and slowly got to his feet. 

“Well, I’m gonna do some stuff, and then, um, work out. Downstairs.” 

Ilya nodded, which made Shane panic. What if he took that as an invitation? What if he thought Shane meant they should work out together? Downstairs?

The unfinished basement of their house on Dana Street was small and dirty, truly putting the “un” in “unfinished”. The airdyne and free weights sat in the far corner, opposite the washing machine. Though Ilya must have known that, he’d almost definitely been down there during parties. It wasn’t really fit for two people to work out in there. He had to know that, right?

Shane also wanted to do a little bit of yoga after he was done working out. He would have done it yesterday, if it weren’t for Ilya there in the weight room with him. Shane just didn’t feel like getting into downward dog with Rozanov staring at him. That felt like a punchline waiting to happen. 

“Okay,” Ilya nodded as Shane got to his feet. “I was thinking maybe to go for run.” 

Shane felt relief wash over him at the prospect. He’d have the house to himself for, what, an hour? Hour and a half?

“Great idea,” he said, maybe a little too enthusiastically. As he turned toward the kitchen, Shane said over his shoulder: “Thanks for the coffee.” 

“Yes, well, you were asleep like the dead,” called after him, also walking to the kitchen. “I had to fend for myself.” 

Shane wanted to grumble some sassy response as he set his mug in the sink, something like it’s my only week off all year, I want to sleep in for once, but he was stopped short as he turned around and nearly bumped right into Rozanov’s chest. He stepped back, startled, his low back against the countertop as Ilya reached around him to deposit his mug in the sink too. 

“Sorry,” Shane breathed, peering up at Ilya. 

The freshman just shrugged. 

“We do anything special for Christmas eve tonight? Dinner?” 

“Um,” Shane blinked. Ilya was too close. Way too close. Shane needed to fucking breathe. “No,” he said, scooting sideways and away from Rozanov. “N-Nothing special, I mean. I was gonna have leftovers.” 

“Ah. Okay.” 

“Yep, so,” Shane said with an awkward nod towards the stairs, trying very desperately to dislodge himself from the setting. Ilya merely nodded once in response, and Shane finally let himself leave, hoping he didn’t look like he was scurrying away. 

***

Shane got more than he bargained for with Ilya’s absence that afternoon. He puttered around the house, picking up here and there, before Ilya was out the door in tights and a Harvard hockey wind breaker for his run. He had a pair of headphones in already as he headed out the door, without so much as a goodbye. Shane felt bad to be so relieved. 

He got to work in the basement, setting up for RDLs and Bulgarian split squats with the dumbbells they kept down there. They weren’t very heavy, nowhere close to his max, so Shane always had to do a crazy amount of reps to get any effect. Before and after the lift, he spent some time on the airdyne, first to warm up and then to cool down. He rolled out an old yoga mat onto the grimy basement floor and cringed, feeling like it was a bridge too far for him to be rolling around on the uneven, dirty concrete. From the basement he moved up into his bedroom, refusing to do yoga in the living room, worried Ilya might walk in on him when he got home. 

Home. There it was again. Home, like Dana was Ilya’s home. 

God, he needed to snap out of it. 

By the time the sun was cresting low in the sky, Shane had grown a little worried. Rozanov still hadn’t returned. He’d finished up his yoga almost an hour ago, and in the meantime he’d showered and thrown in a load of laundry. He almost wanted to ask Rozanov if he had anything he needed washed, even peeked into Hayden’s room to see if there were any dirty clothes obviously strewn about on the floor, but there weren’t really. It was surprisingly tidy in there. 

The sky was fading to a milky pink, moments away from what would probably be a spectacular sunset. It was nearing dinner time. Or, well, nearing the time when Shane would start thinking about dinner time. Ilya had been gone way too long. Shane picked up his phone to call him, wondering if he would even be the person they’d reach out to if something had happened to him? There was no possible way Shane was his emergency contact, was there? 

Regardless of Shane’s feelings towards the kid, (which, yes, reached both ends of the spectrum), he was fucking responsible for Rozanov over break, basically. Wiebe had left him in Shane’s care. It wasn’t like Ilya was a minor, per se, but still, he was basically under Shane’s custody for the week and a half. Wiebe trusted Shane to… well, to take care of him, he supposed. What the fuck would he say to their coach, to their team, if something happened to their star freshman while he was staying with Shane? 

He tapped Rozanov’s contact and listened to it ring, growing more and more anxious with each passing bleat of the dial tone. 

“Hi, this is Ilya, I will never listen to your voicemail.” 

“Fuck,” Shane hissed. He got to his feet without a clear destination in mind, and started to pace in his bedroom. Not a moment later, he heard the front door creak open, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps. 

“Jesus Christ,” Shane whispered, clamping a hand over his eyes. 

He felt his heart hammering in his chest, and decided in that moment that he did not need to go storming downstairs to scream at Rozanov like he wanted to. He wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him and shout how dare you scare me like that, but that just… wasn’t something he was going to let himself do. 

It wasn’t fucking appropriate for him to be so panicked over this. Ilya was an adult, and Shane knew it. He’d been living in the states for five months all on his own, granted, in a Harvard dorm, but still. He’d explored enough to already show Shane some place he’d never been. He probably had lots of places he’d explored that Shane knew nothing about. 

In fact… Shane wondered if maybe Ilya had been somewhere. If maybe he’d been… with someone. Shane had made it pretty clear on his first night that bringing back a girl would not be cool, so… maybe he’d gone over there? To… some girl’s place? He’d been gone for, what, four hours? That would be plenty of time, to–

“Hollander?” 

Shane steadied himself and made for the stairs, taking them slower than he really wanted. Shane clenched his fists to stop them from shaking, and sucked in air through his nose, blowing it out gently through his lips like he was blowing out a candle. 

“Hey,” he said as he descended the stairs, finding Ilya toeing off his sneakers at the doorway. Ilya pulled his damp wind breaker over his head, dropping it at his feet, and Shane heard the sound of crumping paper beneath its weight. 

“You were gone a while.” 

Ilya hummed. “Yes,” he sniffled. 

“I tried calling,” Shane added from the bottom of the stairs, now standing in front of Ilya as he took him in. The freshman looked disheveled, sweaty and frozen, his hair wet and dark again. He smelled like bitter cold mixed with his natural musk, and Shane had the insane urge to press his nose between Ilya’s pecs and sniff. 

“Yes, I felt phone,” Ilya said, tapping at his hip and wiping his running nose with his wrist. “But I was almost home. And had hands full.” 

Shane tried to tamp down the way ‘almost home’ made his stomach flutter. Then he wondered what Ilya meant by ‘hands full’. 

He turned to the living room, finding two pizza boxes stacked on the coffee table. 

“I was not sure what you like, but then I remembered you are so boring, so one is cheese.” 

Shane let out an incredulous sound, involuntarily. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said, turning back to face Ilya. “I told you I was gonna have leftovers.” The freshman shrugged in response, his upper lip curling a bit. 

“I have per diem to spend. I wanted pizza. Is for me. But I share.”

Shane could tell his face didn’t quite match his words, because Ilya looked at him with a curious expression. 

“Something is wrong?” 

Shane looked away. “I was just… worried, I guess,” he said it with what he hoped was a certain edge to his words.  

“Aww, Captain,” Ilya cooed, bringing a hand to Shane’s face and slapping his cheek playfully. “Worried about me?”

“Fuck off, I wasn’t worried about you,” Shane shot back. “I was worried about how Wiebe would kill me if something happened to you.” 

But that didn’t do anything to wipe the shit-eating grin off Ilya’s face. 

“I will go shower now, do not miss me too much,” he teased. “Start pizza without me, if you want.” 

“I’m not hungry yet,” Shane replied, annoyance lacing his tone. 

Ilya rolled his eyes. “Okay, then don’t eat. I don’t care.” He stomped up the stairs playfully, chuckling as Shane groaned in his wake. 

***

Rozanov was back downstairs in a flash, wearing the same sweatpants and sweatshirt he’d started the day out in. Smelling like Shane’s soap. Shane watched as he pulled two dinner plates out of the cabinet and a handful of napkins, bringing them over to the couch for, presumably, dinner. Rozanov didn’t ask, so Shane didn’t have an offer to decline when he turned on the television. The freshman pulled two slices of greasy pepperoni onto his plate and leaned back on the couch, putting his feet up at the other end. 

Shane got himself a slice of cheese pizza out of the box, internally grumbling with indignation that Ilya guessed correctly; cheese was Shane’s favorite. He sat back against the couch wordlessly, balancing the plate of pizza on his lap in a way that he hoped conveyed much more relaxation than he truly felt. He assumed they’d land on some Christmas movie as Rozanov flipped through the channels, it was Christmas eve after all, but Ilya made a surprised sort of sound when he found the Patriots game. The Pats were in the beginning of the second quarter, with thick snow falling down around the players on the screen. The score was 7-0, with the Bills trailing the Pats. By the looks of it, it was an away game, in Buffalo. 

“This is what you want to watch?” 

Shane hardly knew anything about American football, simply that the objective was to run the ball as far as possible down the field without being tackled. There were a few similarities to hockey, the physical contact aspect being one of them, but there were far more differences. If he thought it was a silly game, how could Rozanov, a Russian kid who excelled in the minutia of ice hockey, be interested?

Ilya hummed around a full mouth of pizza. 

“Is ridiculous sport, you know?” He said it with a shrug, eyes wide. He covered his full mouth with his fist as he continued to speak. “They are like cavemen. Makes me feel like… I don’t know. Ballerina, on the ice.” 

Shane chuckled at Ilya’s reasoning, though he totally knew what he meant. Their sport required so much more finesse, and though hockey could hardly be described as a delicate sport, there was a certain… grace, about it all. Stick handling required them to be nimble and skilled. Not to mention the footwork involved to float across the ice on skates like they did. 

They swapped commentary back and forth throughout the game, existing as two ordinary men often did when there was pizza and football involved. Shane felt like he was pulling it off well, this casual way of passing their time. He even felt himself relax as the game went on, tucked up beneath a cozy blanket, the few slices of pizza he’d had for dinner warming him from the inside out. It couldn’t have even been eight o’clock, but Shane started to feel the edges of his vision going fuzzy, and he wondered what would happen if he just closed his eyes for a bit. It was his fucking house after all, he was allowed, and he didn’t typically sleep for long when he let himself snooze on the couch. It was never comfortable enough to stay asleep anyway. He could have gone up to bed, like he had the last two nights. Well, not exactly like the last two nights. Because the last two nights he hadn’t even sat with Ilya and watched something, had he? He’d been a coward. 

The last thing Shane wanted to do was extricate himself from the warm cocoon of blanket and couch he was currently bundled in. So, he let his eyes flutter shut and his jaw unclench, his collarbones loosened inside his chest. The commentary and cheering from the football game on the tv became ambient background noise, and Shane let himself drift off to a transitory sleep. 

His mouth was dry and his neck was sore when he came to. The television was still blaring in the background, now some sort of post-game commentary was playing that Shane couldn’t quite conceptualize. He groaned under his breath as he twisted, his back aching. Shane groped around behind him for his phone. Blinking a few hundred times, Shane finally opened his eyes all the way. His phone screen read 12:38am on December 25th. 

Merry Christmas, he thought to himself dryly. 

A quick scan of the room revealed that Shane wasn't the only one passed out on a couch. 

Rozanov lay beside him, their heads in the same corner of the two couches’ 90-degree shape. He was seemingly out cold. Rozanov’s mouth hung open just a little, his lips soft in their stillness, a perfect cupid’s bow. Golden curls fell around his forehead, gently framing his angular face. There was something so peaceful about this version of Rozanov, the one that nobody else got to see. The one not constantly in motion, the one resting, in silence. His hands were tucked up beneath his cheek, palm to palm like those of an angel dozing on a cloud in some renaissance painting. 

God, he really was beautiful. 

It was then that Shane realized, inconveniently, that he’d woken up hard. And he was staring at Ilya Rozanov with a raging fucking erection. 

It wasn’t unusual for men of a certain age to wake up with a hard-on, Shane reminded himself, and it certainly wasn’t unusual for him. Most days, Shane woke up with morning wood. Just… most mornings weren’t midnight, and most mornings he was alone in his bed. Not on the couch, and not with… company. 

His rigid cock strained against the band of his sweatpants, and Shane unwittingly reached down to palm himself, relieving some of the mounting pressure there. He yawned lazily, slipping his hand inside his waistband, and then wrapped his hand around his length. With Ilya Rozanov in the same room. Lying a few feet away.  

Shane gave himself a squeeze, front teeth digging into his bottom lip to stifle a moan that slipped out of his throat. 

Fuck. This was such a bad idea. 

Shane couldn’t possibly fathom getting off right then and there, not with Ilya fucking Rozanov laying down on the couch next to him. That would be fucked up on so many levels, not the least of which was the potential damage to his own pride. That would be fucking weird to do to Rozanov, too, even though honestly he’d probably be flattered. He’d probably make some conceited comment if he knew, ‘is not first time this has happened’, he’d probably say in his deep, accented drawl. 

And, fuck if imagining his voice didn’t make Shane fucking leak. He stroked himself in earnest then, just once and then again, shuddering with pleasure as he looked his fill at Ilya’s perfect face. Shane’s toes curled as his eyes traced Rozanov’s lips, wondering what it would feel like to trace them with his tongue. 

Shane felt like he was going to fucking explode. He was so close already, it almost felt wrong to get up and move, to deny himself that gratification when it was dangling right in front of his face. The freshman showed no signs of waking. 

Ilya would want him to do it, too, Shane thought to himself. He’d want Shane to come, want Shane to be blinded by fucking pleasure just off the look of his sleepy-soft face. 

Images of their brushes with intimacy of the last few days flooded Shane’s mind, and then it was like a dam had broken. Ilya, in the gym, damp with sweat and exertion. Ilya, fresh out of the shower, curls wet and shiny. Smelling like Shane’s fucking soap. Ilya, lips wrapped around a straw, tongue peeking out, thirsty. 

Ilya, beaming with joy, radiant, his eyes on fire as they ran up the ice toward the goal. Together. 

He’d probably talk him through it, too. Probably whisper right in Shane’s ear, come for me, Hollander. Just like how he’d barked at Shane in the weightroom yesterday. Come on, Cap. Shane squeezed his eyes shut. Come for me, Cap. He could practically feel Ilya’s breath on his neck. And that sent him right over the edge, coming hard in his fist inside his sweats: the idea of the sound of Rozanov’s voice in his ear. 

“Fuck,” Shane whispered with a shiver, a sudden curtain of shame falling over him. Shane groaned as he got to his feet, wiping his hand off on his boxers within his pants. He let the blanket slide away from his body and back down onto the couch. 

Part of him wanted to wake the freshman, just tap him on the shoulder to say hey, time for bed, dude. Ilya would probably wake up feeling similarly crappy, and then he would regret not moving up to Hayden’s bed sooner. But Shane couldn’t bring himself to do it. He couldn’t bear the thought of Ilya seeing him now, flushed and breathy, couldn’t bear the idea that Ilya might be able to smell the fucking release that was damp and slick against Shane’s groin. 

Jesus, he was so fucked. 

Shane scrambled up the stairs, ran away like the couch was on fucking fire. Like it was a crime scene. He realized halfway up the stairs that his footsteps may have woken Rozanov where he slept, but he couldn’t risk turning around to find out. 

Shane bolted the bathroom door and scrubbed his hands, breath short and choppy in his chest. 

Fuck, that could never, ever, happen again. 

He didn’t want to risk showering, in case that was what woke Ilya, so he instead took a wet washcloth into his room with him and toweled off, wiping away the evidence of his transgression from his thighs. Apparently he’d be doing another fucking load of laundry tomorrow. 

From there, Shane lay awake in his bed for a while longer, his thoughts running wild. The pale moonlight faded into a muted sort of dawn before he finally fell back into an uneasy sleep. 

Chapter End Notes

oh shane baby ur in sooooo deep <3

christmas day chapter is almost done!! i wonder what tricks ilya has up his sleeve!!

Chapter 5: December 25th

Chapter Summary

christmas day feat. one (1) present, ramen, and... what's this? is this cuddling?

Chapter Notes

merry hollanov harvard christmas <3

i'm so sorry. the chapter count went up again. the clown makeup is already on, i'm just looking for the wig.

no but seriously, this fic is almost entirely written in full, and i don't see it going up anymore. haha,,, unless

i'm going to aim for weekly chapter updates! now enjoy!

December 25th 

Shane’s few hours of shitty sleep on the couch, combined with his few hours of shitty sleep in his bed made for a groggy morning. He tried hard to fight the intrusive thoughts in his head, but he failed each time, his mind constantly replaying the way he’d gotten himself off the night before: staring at Ilya’s sleeping form, his loose, heart-shaped lips, and his sleepy-soft face. 

He almost felt like he couldn’t face the kid, like if he saw him now, in waking hours, he’d blurt out something embarrassing like hey I jerked off to your face last night or I’ll probably only ever think about you when I come from now on. It was fucking insane, what he’d done, and Shane was mortified over it. He was pretty sure Ilya had remained asleep for the duration of it, but the more he thought about it, the more scared he became. 

What if he was awake? And just keeping his eyes shut? What if he heard the whole thing? The rustling of Shane’s hand beneath the blankets, furiously working over his cock? What if he heard Shane’s breathing, the little moans he tried to hide? 

Jesus Christ. 

That was such a big fucking mistake.

He contemplated not even going downstairs at all, the more he worried over it. Maybe he could just live in his bedroom forever. Quit hockey, quit college, just decompose in this bedroom. 

He heard the sound of the toilet flushing and footsteps following, tracking down the hallway and down the stairs. Sitting alone in his room felt so incredibly awkward, and if he didn’t get up soon, Rozanov would probably rib him for sleeping in some more. Even though it was Christmas fucking morning. He figured he’d just have to get it over with, prayed that he could keep his stupid mouth shut, and prayed some more that Ilya had truly been asleep the night before. 

Shane groaned as he got out of bed, cursing his former, more horny self for putting him in his position. He threw on an old sweatshirt and pulled on some socks, scrubbing his hands over his face one more time before heading downstairs. 

The scene in the living room was very similar to the way Shane woke up the day before, with the Christmas tree lit up, though there was one very stark difference: there was something under the tree. 

A brown paper bag with twine handles. Simple and unassuming. As he took another few steps closer, Shane could see the Harvard Coop logo on the bag, and his brow furrowed. 

What the fuck?

“Morning.”

Shane whirled around to find Ilya in the doorway, coming from the kitchen, a mug in hand. 

“Hey,” Shane murmured. 

“Merry Christmas,” Ilya said, his voice gentle, sleep-rough. He looked over Shane’s shoulder, his eyebrows jumping, as if to emphasize that there was something beneath the tree. 

“Um,” Shane stammered, looking back and forth, behind him at the gift and before him at Ilya. “Is that… for me?”

Ilya hummed into his mug as he took a sip, shrugging with a certain nonchalance. 

“Christmas gift,” he said, as though that explained everything. As though that made it make sense.

“You’re kidding.” 

Shane was at a loss for words. He felt his mouth fall open, and Rozanov rolled his eyes. 

“Is nothing special, Hollander,” Ilya qualified, though he nodded toward the tree like he’d really like to watch Shane open it. 

When did he even get it, whatever it was? When, between yesterday and today did he have time to go to the Coop? Without Shane noticing?

Shane supposed Rozanov had been a little shifty after his run. Maybe he’d… maybe that was why he was gone for so long? 

“Okay,” Shane deadpanned. “I, um… Fuck, I don’t have anything for you.” 

Ilya scoffed. “Of course not, Captain. I live to serve you.”

“Jesus Christ,” Shane grunted, now rolling his eyes in return. Finally he turned back toward the tree, picking up the bag once he reached it, and sat down on the couch. Ilya sat down, too, on the complete other end of the same couch, setting his coffee down on the table. 

“Open,” he insisted, gesturing toward the bag. Shane did as he was told. 

He reached into the bag and felt thin tissue paper. Beneath it was something soft, something fluffy. He pulled the gift out of the bag, unsure what to expect, and as the tissue paper fell away, he found that Ilya had given him… a teddy bear. 

A teddy bear. One from the university store, wearing a Harvard hockey sweater. 

Shane felt his heart shoot up into his throat. 

Honestly, it was really very cute. Golden brown fur with a tiny knit sweater. Crossed sticks beneath the crimson H shield. Shane had seen them in the Coop a few times over the years. It was something he almost wanted, too. But he’d never buy it for himself. 

Shane knew he’d been quiet a little too long when Ilya said: “You like?” 

He cleared his throat and looked over at his teammate. 

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “Yeah, it’s great. I love it.”

Ilya smiled. “Good.” 

“I’m really sorry I don’t have a gift for you,” Shane followed up. “I–”

“Is no big deal,” Ilya shook his head. “Not expensive. Just I thought, because you said you open presents today. You should have something.” 

“Oh,” Shane felt his throat close up again, emotion washing over him, staring at this boy who, more and more these days, seemed so fucking earnest. Where was the cocky freshman who strutted around the rink and the weight room, who tore down the ice like he owned the place? Who was this person sitting on Shane’s couch with him?

“That was… really nice,” Shane said, finally finding the words. 

Ilya pursed his lips and nodded, a sly expression creeping back into his features. 

“Yes, I am the best.” 

Shane scoffed. “Right.” 

Ilya hummed. “Since you get me no presents, you can at least show me how to use the oven. For cinnamon rolls.” 

***

Christmas morning was more subdued than Shane’s usual, quieter than the way he would have celebrated at home, but somehow it was almost nicer. There wasn’t any of the usual pressures around gift giving, though he felt horrible he didn’t have a gift for Rozanov, so he’d have to remedy that. Maybe he could buy the kid some nice vodka. That seemed to be all Rozanov drank, and he wasn’t of age in the states to actually buy it. Yeah, that would be a good gift. Shane would get some. 

Apparently in their visit to the convenience store that first day, Ilya had purchased a can of Pillsbury cinnamon rolls, among all the other tooth-rotting sugary snacks he’d assembled. Shane clearly hadn’t even noticed. The freshman said he missed the cinnamon rolls in Annenberg, as he smacked the can against the countertop to get it to pop open. 

They were a little burned on the bottom by the time the boys remembered to take them out of the oven, but the taste was still good. Especially with the frosting Ilya drenched them in. Along with the cinnamon rolls, Shane cut some fruit and made scrambled eggs, enough for two. To share. Once again, Shane tried his best to avoid acknowledging the fact that Ilya squirted ketchup and sriracha all over his eggs. 

Then, he made a mental note to buy more of both. 

And, because their breakfast hadn’t been sweet enough, Ilya made a point of dumping a packet of hot cocoa into his coffee mug, marveling at the little crunchy marshmallows that floated on the surface.

As was becoming tradition, there came a point in the morning where they reached an awkward lull. Thankfully, Ilya stepped in to break it up. 

“I can use weights, downstairs?” 

“Oh, yeah, totally,” Shane replied. “Go for it.” 

Ilya nodded, taking a sip of coffee. 

“I’ll probably use the airdyne when you’re done down there,” Shane added. 

Ilya pursed his lips, the bottom one jutting out a bit. 

“I will not use bike, if you want to while I lift.” 

“Oh, no, that’s okay,” Shane shook his head, hoping to dispel any notion that they would ever work out together in his basement. “It’s just a little tight down there for two.”

The corner of Ilya’s lips quirked, though he didn’t quite smile. He lifted the mug to his lips for another sip. 

“If you say so.”

***

Steam from the shower curled overhead, the shitty ventilation system in the bathroom doing barely anything to keep the room breathable. Shane scrubbed shampoo through his hair, the soapy suds stinging in the cuts along his cuticles. He tried to relax his shoulders, standing under the strong stream of water, hoping that the shower might wash away all of his apprehension for the rest of the day. Rest of the week, really. But the rest of the day, first. He’d have to survive the rest of the day. 

There were no new bath products in the shower. Ilya’s toothbrush had found a place on the sink in the bathroom, but other than that, there was hardly any evidence in the bathroom specifically that clued Shane in to Ilya’s presence. That probably explained why Shane could smell his own soap on the kid’s skin whenever he got close enough. 

They hadn’t discussed their plans for dinner since the night before, when Ilya chivalrously mentioned going out for ‘Japanese food’ for Christmas dinner. Shane wasn’t sure if that was just an off-handed comment, if maybe Rozanov wasn’t actually interested in going out for dinner on Christmas with Shane. 

When he finally got out of the shower, Shane was pruny all over, and steam fogged up the mirror completely. He wrapped a towel around his waist after drying off and poked his head out the doorway, hoping to find the hallway deserted. When he was sure he was alone, Shane scurried across the hall and back into his bedroom. He lay on his bed, cringing at the thought of the damp towel in such close contact to the comforter, but he didn’t want to lay down naked either. Nor did he want to put on clothes yet. He let out a low groan and covered his eyes with his forearm. 

Why did it feel like everything he did was so fucking awkward? 

The sun had set outside. It was already pitched black, and barely past five in the evening. Shane propped his phone up on his chest and started to scroll aimlessly, not even paying attention to the words and images on his screen. He went to his messages app three times, and clicked on his text thread with Rozanov twice, only to kill the app as soon as he got there. He wasn’t going to text the kid living under his fucking roof. He could work up the courage and go speak to him if he had something to say. 

Did he have something to say, even?

Hey, are we still grabbing dinner?  

It sounded so normal in Shane’s head, but felt so fucking weird to imagine doing in real life. It felt too domestic. Too close. 

Hey babe, when did you want to leave for dinner? 

Shane groaned again, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. 

Then he heard a knock at his bedroom door and wanted to cry. 

“Fuck,” he whispered under his breath, just as he heard Ilya’s voice calling out: “Hollander?” 

Shane cleared his throat and sat up, pulling his comforter over his lap in a hurry. Ilya wouldn’t just barge in, right? He would ask first, right? Shane wondered if he’d heard him groaning beyond the door, wondered what it sounded like to Rozanov. Did it sound like he was getting off in there? 

What the fuck did he want? 

“Yeah?” 

There was a pause. The doorknob didn’t move, and Shane held his breath. 

“What time we will leave for dinner?” 

Shane exhaled, letting his head loll to the side, his shoulders drop. 

“Um, soon, I guess,” Shane called back in response. “Let me just get dressed.” 

“Okay,” Shane heard back through the door. 

And then, after another pause: “I am hungry.” 

***

“Where are we going?” Shane asked as he pulled the front door shut behind them. He nudged the key into the lock and twisted. The dead bolt clicked into place. 

“There is place I like, near dorms,” Ilya said, already halfway down the front steps. “On the corner near bookstore.”

“Oh, yeah I know it,” Shane replied. He’d been a handful of times throughout his four years. It was sort of fast-casual, a place where you’d order at the counter and pay up front. Shane didn’t really mind that; honestly it was probably a better scene for them than something with table service, ordering off a menu with a server, all formal. Shane didn’t want it to feel like a date. Even though he’d put on nice jeans and a plain blue cashmere sweater. It wasn’t a fucking date, and clearly Rozanov knew that well enough. Shane tugged his Ottawa Senators toque down over his ears, feeling them already begin to burn in the cold. 

Once on the walkway, Ilya lurched in place, making a surprised sort of noise, cursing in Russian and holding a hand out to brace himself. “Is slippery,” he said quickly. “Ice. Watch out,” he pointed to the ground behind him. 

“Oh, shit, sorry,” Shane said as he gripped the railing, carefully lowering himself down the front steps. He couldn’t quite tell if Ilya kept his arm out to offer it to Shane for balance, or if he wanted to fucking hold hands, but Shane banished the thought as soon as it came, burying his hands in his pockets. 

“I should have salted the path.” 

Ilya shrugged. “Is okay.” He looked down his nose at Shane. “Is there somewhere better? You like this place?”

“What?” Shane was lost for a moment in Ilya’s eyes, before realizing what he’d asked. “Oh, yeah. It’ll be great,” he said through a thin smile. 

“Good,” Ilya nodded, tugging the collar of his jacket up around his neck. “Fuck, it’s freezing.” 

***

As they stared up at the menu boards behind the counter, Shane felt the tingle of warm breath on his ear. 

“I don’t know what to get,” Ilya admitted in a whisper, crouching just a little bit to reach Shane’s level. The proximity sent shivers down Shane’s spine, and on instinct he took a step to the side, away from Rozanov to look at him. It felt like if he just turned his head, if he’d stayed rooted to the spot where he was, their lips would be far, far too close for comfort. 

Shane was about to suggest Ilya order what he usually would, when he remembered: “Didn’t you say you liked this place?” 

Ilya grinned, sheepish. “I only have been once.”

Shane furrowed his brow. “Okay, well what did you get last time?” 

The freshman grimaced. “Ah, no idea.” 

That made Shane laugh. 

Then why were they there? 

“Was spicy,” Ilya remembered, which was at least a little helpful. 

“Okay, you probably had kara miso.”

“Yes, that sounds good,” Ilya nodded. “Is that what you get?” 

Shane shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t get ramen a lot. But I usually just get shio. It’s not very spicy.” Ilya’s eyebrows jumped, and Shane beat him to the punch. “You know, because I’m boring.”

“You took the word from my mouth, Hollander,” Ilya grinned. Somehow, each time he said it, each time he ribbed Shane for being boring, it was getting less and less annoying. Shane didn’t really feel like confronting that emotion, so instead he stepped forward to order, though there was no employee in sight. The kids working there probably expected a chill night. 

Turning around quickly, Shane asked: “Do you want ajitama?” 

Ilya’s expression was one of confusion. 

“Soy eggs, um, like, soft boiled? Kind of.” 

“Oh, yes,” Ilya nodded, holding up two fingers. “Two, please.” 

Finally, an employee returned to the counter and Shane placed orders for the both of them when Ilya gave him a look of panic. Once the server said the total, though, Ilya thrust over some cash with a smile, and Shane rolled his eyes. 

The place was empty, besides them and the employees. At one point, someone walked in and picked up a takeout order, but other than that, they were completely alone. Shane had to remind himself that it was Christmas day. He sipped on his tea and watched as Ilya ran his thumb around the lip of his teacup, the pair of them sitting in awkward silence against the window. Shane took in their surroundings, peering across the street at the Yard. Shane reminisced about his time living there as a freshman, and then it occurred to him that he didn’t even know which dorm Ilya lived in. 

“So–”

“Um–”

Shane bit his lip, wondering how it was possible to feel even more awkward than he did before. Jesus Christ. Would it be this way forever? At least until Rozanov went back to his dorm? 

“You go,” Shane said quickly. 

“I was just going to say, no ginger ale?” 

Shane’s brow furrowed for a moment, completely lost. 

“Well, no, with ramen I would have tea,” Shane explained while raising his ceramic cup, which made perfect sense to him.

“Ah, okay,” Rozanov nodded, in a phony sort of way. “Sure.”

“What?” Shane scoffed a laugh. “Wait a minute, how do you know I like ginger ale?” 

“I live with you now, Captain,” Ilya said sardonically. “The fridge is full of Canada Dry. I have eyes.” 

“That could be JJ’s, or Mitty’s,” Shane countered, mostly for the fun of it. 

“And you order it at diner the other day,” Ilya counted out on his fingers, “and you order it on planes, and whenever we have team dinners on travel trips.” Ilya looked proud of himself, a satisfied smirk curling his lips. Shane didn’t know why, but it made him feel odd. It made him feel watched. And Ilya calling it out made him feel like a bug under a rock, scrambling when his cover was lifted, exposed to the sun. 

“Oh,” Shane murmured. “Right, well…” He thought about Ilya saying I live with you now, thought about the way he apparently picked up on things, and then Shane wondered what else he might be making perfectly apparent without really meaning to. He wondered, and worried, about other more private preferences that he had. 

How obvious was he? 

Their dinner arrived not a moment too soon. The server set down big, steaming bowls of broth and noodles, with jammy eggs and cuts of salty pork floating at the surface. Shane made quick work of sprinkling sesame seeds and some chili flakes into his bowl. Despite what Ilya may have thought, he did like a little bit of spice, though Shane much preferred it from the the flakes, rather than the oil. 

“You were going to say something,” Ilya said as he tried to maneuver a wet twirl of noodles onto his renge with unpracticed clumsiness. Shane held in a giggle. This would be an entertaining meal, at least.  

“Right, um,” Shane tried to remember what he was going to say. “Oh, right. Which dorm are you in?” 

It was the exact wrong time for Shane to ask anything of Ilya, because he had his mouth awkwardly full. The freshman rolled his eyes, working through the food in his mouth, then finally swallowed. 

“I am in Wigglesworth,” Ilya replied, nodding out the window at the long brick building along the edge of the yard. Shane laughed a little at the way the name Wigglesworth sounded in Ilya’s accent. 

“Oh, which one? I was too. In B.” 

“Yes, me too, B,” Ilya said. 

Shane ladled some broth onto his spoon and brought it to his mouth to blow on it. 

“Does the fire alarm still go off all the time? I swear to god, it went off like once a month my freshman year,” Shane said with a laugh, thinking back on the many, many times he had to evacuate into Harvard Yard in the middle of the night, only for it to be a false alarm.

“No, no fire alarms,” Ilya shook his head, slurping broth from his spoon. “We do have issue with hot water, though. Goes out very quick.” 

“Oh, shit, that sucks.” Shane supposed he wasn’t exactly surprised. The building was nearly a hundred years old, and it was probably in desperate need of some renovations. 

“Mmm, yes,” Ilya hummed as he scooped up half an egg. “They say they are working on it, but… I don’t know. I shower mostly at rink.” 

Right, Shane thought to himself. And when you shower at the rink, I avoid you like the plague. He simply nodded as a response, guiding a hunk of pork onto his spoon on top of some noodles. It was perhaps too big a bite, but Shane went for it anyway, cramming the lot of it into his mouth. 

“You like?” 

Shane couldn’t hold back the smile that threatened to break across his face. He merely hummed out an affirmative note, nodding once with his mouth full. Ilya smiled, and for once, it was sort of… soft. 

“Good.” 

***

The walk home was blisteringly cold, sapping any and all residual warmth from the broth and noodles they’d had for dinner. It wasn’t even late yet, just gone 7 o’clock, but it felt like midnight. That was sort of how it went in the winter, though. The sidewalks were icy, similar to the walkway at home, and Shane wondered if there would be a hardware store open to buy salt and sand tomorrow. There was no chance of them being open on Christmas. 

Plumes of breath looked like white smoke in the air as they spoke, though their words were few and far between, the pair of them clearly more focused on getting home than any chit-chat. Ilya wasn’t wearing a hat or gloves, and that somehow made Shane feel colder.  He had the wild urge to take Ilya’s hand in his, drag it into his own coat pocket, and just hold Ilya’s fingers there in his palm. Thankfully, they reached home before Shane did something stupid. Something he’d regret. 

“Fuck, this is awful,” Ilya huffed as he kicked his shoes off once inside. He was shivering.

Shane narrowed his eyes as he unbuttoned his coat. “Isn’t it cold in Russia?”

Ilya shrugged. “Yes, what is your point?” 

“Just like,” Shane waved his hand at Ilya. “Aren’t you supposed to be used to this?” 

“Cold is cold, Hollander,” the freshman scowled. “And I am cold!” 

“Okay, okay,” Shane threw his hands up. “Go get under a blanket, then,” he shooed Ilya toward the couches. 

“I need cocoa,” Rozanov whined, shuffling towards the living room. 

“I’ll make hot water,” Shane grumbled in response. 

Shane felt chilled to the bone himself as he filled the kettle with water from the tap. Impossibly, he was smiling as he went through the motions, laughing to himself at their little exchange in the doorway. It really felt different, somehow, than life with the boys, life with Shane’s normal three roommates. He felt like a bit of a caretaker with Ilya, but at the same time, he felt cared for. The way Ilya had planned their dinner outing, and paid. That grim feeling of domesticity creeped back into his gut as he pulled out two mugs from the cabinet. 

Was this what life was like, when you had a… a partner? 

Because, fuck, Shane thought that this felt really close to having a partner. This felt like–

“What is taking so long?” 

Shane rolled his eyes, actually grateful for Ilya’s juvenile interruption to his mental monologue. He needed to snap out of it. 

Shane turned around to find the freshman swaddled in a couch blanket, the cream and maroon knit wrapped around his shoulders, now shivering in a phony, theatrical sort of way. 

“You’re so fucking annoying,” Shane griped as he took two packets of cocoa out of the box.

“No, no, I need two,” Ilya corrected him, gesturing toward the box with his hand still beneath the blanket. 

“Your dentist must love you,” Shane quipped, though he acquiesced, pulling out a third bag of cocoa for Ilya. 

Once their cocoa was made, the pair of them moved naturally to the living room. Ilya set his mug down on the table to run to the bathroom while Shane turned on the tv and aimlessly scrolled. He was reminded, again, that it was Christmas day, and almost certainly anything he’d find would be a Christmas special. He wasn’t really interested in watching some cheesy Hallmark romcom, and he hoped that wouldn’t be the only thing he could find. 

When Ilya returned, he sat down on the same couch as Shane. As far away as physically possible, yes, but still, the same couch. As Ilya sat back against the cushions, he looked at Shane, and Shane could tell that his face had somehow betrayed him. 

“You want me to move?” 

“No, no,” Shane replied, quick as lightning. “It’s all good.” 

Rozanov settled into the couch, holding his mug of cocoa in both hands, almost for warmth. He raised his eyebrows at Shane, a timid smile on his face. 

“What do you want to watch?” 

***

“It makes no sense how he is going to North Pole by accident as baby,” Ilya complained as they watched Buddy The Elf prance around the streets of New York in his green and yellow felt costume. 

“It’s just a movie,” Shane rolled his eyes. “Not everything has to make sense.” 

By that point, they had gotten a bit closer on the couch. It sort of just happened, whenever one of them readjusted their position, or sank further into the shitty old leather. They were certainly nowhere close to touching, but definitely somewhere within arms reach. 

“And why his father is so evil? Evil man,” Ilya shook his head. 

Shane chuckled. “I thought you’d like it. He’s just like you.” 

“The father?!” Ilya looked at him with disgust. 

“No, no,” Shane shook his head. “Buddy, the elf.” 

Ilya furrowed his brow, confused. It wasn’t like Shane had hand-selected the movie, but it was the first movie in the channel guide that he didn’t think sounded awful to re-watch. And Shane thought it might be funny for Ilya.

“He is like me how?”

“Because, like, I don’t know. He loves sugar, and he’s funny, and–” Shane’s voice trailed off, wondering how to close out that sentence. He’s kind and generous and foreign, I guess, and people don’t always understand him, but–

“And he is annoying,” Ilya grinned, self-satisfied. 

“Yes, thank you,” Shane sighed. “You’re both very annoying.”

***

December 26th

Blue morning light was the first thing that Shane noticed when he woke up. 

Then, it was the warm body beside him. 

Or, well. Beneath him.

It was morning, there was no denying that. Early morning, but morning. Maybe almost 7. 

And Shane’s jaw was pressed up against Ilya’s pec, his eyes level with the freshman’s collarbone. 

They weren’t quite horizontal, but they weren’t upright, either. There was a blanket across both their laps, and a couch pillow beneath Ilya’s head. 

As consciousness returned to his body, Shane almost didn’t dare to breathe, worried it would wake the sleeping Rozanov. Which would then result in… what? An awkward morning hello? Some barbs traded back and forth, for falling asleep on top of one another? In Shane’s mind, he pictured something even worse, something completely impossible. But it would be so easy to look up at the boy beneath him, to tilt his jaw up and press a kiss to Ilya’s throat, to roll over and straddle him and press their bodies together. To remove any and all barriers that stood between their warm skin. 

He was hard again. Hard again, on the couch again, staring at Rozanov again. Thinking about fucking kissing him. Again. 

It was just morning wood. It wasn’t very visible, at least, Shane told himself. There was the blanket over his groin, and you’d really only notice it if you were looking. 

Would Ilya be looking? 

Shane held back from hissing out a curse. Of course, as Shane moved his head a millimeter, Ilya was already waking, stretching out his legs and groaning under his breath just a little. 

Shane’s eyes panned down Ilya’s body, stalling out at the jut of his hips when they snagged on what was unmistakably an erection. Fuck, Rozanov must have been big, because he was tenting the blanket with ease. Inside his fucking sweats. 

It would be so fucking easy for Shane to lean in, to drag his face down Rozanov’s chest and belly and land with his mouth open at the kid’s groin. He wanted Ilya’s cock in his fucking mouth. Wanted to lick and suck and lap up the arousal he’d find welling in his slit. Shane wanted to feel him in his throat, in his lungs. Shane’s own cock throbbed in his lap at the thought of it, just imagining being choked out on Ilya’s length. He watched it strain beneath the blanket as Ilya fussed again, stretching an arm and clearly waking now, and grunted out a nearly silent ‘fuck’ as he sat up. 

“I’m sorry,” Shane said automatically, pooling his side of the blanket into his lap. “I don’t know what happened, I’m–”

“Is okay, Hollander,” Rozanov said, his voice rough from disuse. “You just fell asleep.” 

“Why didn’t you wake me? You should have gone to bed.” 

Ilya yawned, then shrugged. “You seemed comfy.” 

“My neck says otherwise,” Shane managed in response. 

“Mmm, yes,” Ilya hummed, pressing on his jaw to crack his own neck. “Maybe not again.” 

“Yeah, um,” Shane got to his feet carefully, cheating his hips away from Ilya as he did. He began to walk towards the stairs, nodding up awkwardly. “Just gonna, um–”

“Goodnight, Hollander,” Ilya murmured drowsily from behind him. 

As soon as he was through the door to his bedroom, Shane’s hand was around his cock. He locked the door swiftly and tore off his sweats, hurrying to his empty bed. The sheets were cold, and he shivered as he lay against them naked, already tugging furiously at his erection. He turned over instinctively, pressing his face into the pillows and rutting into his fist against the mattress. His mind was an instant replay of Ilya’s hard length, which, really, was only the idea of it. Shane had no idea what the freshman was working with, only that it had to be big. He had half a mind to take his time with himself, to grab lube from the bedside table and open himself up on his fingers, pretending they were Ilya’s cock, smooth and wet and thick within him. But he couldn’t hold back, couldn’t stave off his impending climax another second. Shane came violently hard, the orgasm ripping through him like a freight train. He groaned into his pillow as his release soaked his sheets, frustration and fear and relief swirling like a storm in his gut. 

Chapter End Notes

hmmmmm shane i think you may not have the situation strictly under control anymore buddy

Chapter 6: December 27th

Chapter Summary

featuring facetime, shane's glasses, snow angels, and... rose landry

Chapter Notes

"but al, the NHL draft doesn't work like that--" i know <3 i do not care <3 that's not what we're here for <3

December 27th

His phone alarm went off on the bedside table, and Shane groaned into his pillow. 

There was a man in his dreams again. He had been there before, this man. But he slipped away every time Shane opened his eyes, forever unsatisfied. The dreams were usually similar in structure, in nature. The man started off as a faceless, voiceless figure. A spirit, maybe. A mystery. But as the dream would wear on, the man would bloom before Shane’s eyes, and the desire he kept hidden away would be laid bare. 

Golden brown curls and warm eyes the shade of the lake he grew up swimming in, hues of brown and green and blue dazzling in perfect harmony. The worst part was, the dreams never became overtly sexual; Shane never stayed asleep long enough to get to that point. He always woke up before the big finale. Probably because he had such little experience with the real thing, he didn’t even have the brain cells to make the scene in his mind’s eye. His dreams were always stories of closeness with this man, scenes of intimacy that spoke of adoration, of reverence. In Shane’s dreams, they would always be embracing; Shane would always be held, hugged. Caressed. His face would be kissed, his hand always held. The man would smile at him, that lopsided grin with his jagged bottom teeth, and it always felt so painfully real. 

In his dreams, he was never Hollander, never Captain. In his dreams, he was just Shane. In his dreams, hearing his own name in that deep, dulcet tone, that accented voice curling around every letter like a kiss; it was the sweetest sound.  

He was really starting to hate waking up, come to think of it. 

But waking up in the dark felt like a special kind of hell. 

It was close to the time he’d wake up for practice, but without the motivation of actually training, he hardly wanted to get out of bed. He blinked his eyes over and over until the screen became clear enough to read. 

5:56am. 

“Jesus Christ,” Shane whispered, groping around on his bedside table for his glasses. He tapped the messages app. 

Mom: Ready when you are!

Shane grunted as he got to his feet. Why had he even agreed to a FaceTime at this hour? Sure, his parents were fourteen hours ahead, but couldn’t this have waited until Shane was a little more awake? Maybe they could FaceTime at eight o’clock in the evening Shane time, which would be… ten o’clock in Japan tomorrow morning? Why hadn’t they considered that?

He felt his way around his room, keen on staying in the dark as long as possible, hands fumbling over the surface of his desk, searching for his headphones and his book. He knew that after what would inevitably be an hour long call, he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep. Might as well make another attempt at his book. As his hands roamed, he felt the soft fuzz of the teddy bear Ilya had given him for Christmas. Fuck, why had he brought that thing into his bedroom? So it could sit on his desk and mock him? Once Shane had secured the headphones and book, he tiptoed his way down the stairs, praying he hadn’t woken Rozanov in the room next door. 

The sun wasn’t even up yet, so Shane flicked on a lamp in the living room and plopped himself down on the couch, pulling a blanket over his legs. He plugged the headphone cord into his phone and tapped Yuna’s contact. His own reflection stared back at him as he listened to the dial tone for a moment, before his mother’s face filled his phone screen. 

“Hey baby!” 

Shane couldn’t help but smile at his mother’s overjoyed expression. She wore a thick scarf around her neck, and her cheeks were pink. It was night there, just about eight. 

“Hey, mom,” Shane intoned, trying to keep his voice down. 

“Dad’s here too,” she said with a grin, panning the view from her face to his father’s.

“Konnichiwa!” 

Shane and Yuna groaned in chorus at David’s corny greeting. It was always a laugh when Dad tried to speak Japanese. 

“Hi, dad,” Shane said with a laugh. 

“We miss you!” Yuna panned the phone back to her face, and David came to look in at Shane over her shoulder. 

“I miss you guys, too,” Shane replied. “Looks like you’ve been having plenty of fun without me, though.” His mother’s face twisted into an expression that spoke of joy and guilt. The photos they’d been sending looked incredible; from the skiing and mountain vistas, to the food (his mother sent photos of every meal), to the touristy things they were getting up to, it seemed like an awesome trip. 

“We have definitely been having a good time,” she said shyly, her lips folding around her teeth. 

“But we wish you were here!” David interjected. 

“Yes!” Shane’s mother nodded seriously. “We’re really missing you, Shane.” 

Shane scoffed a laugh. “I wish I was there.” 

“Next time,” Shane’s father said quickly. It had probably been ten years, maybe more, since they’d been to Japan as a family. And Shane could think of maybe one time before then that they’d gone, back when he was really young. It would probably be a while before the next trip. 

And he’d hopefully be pretty busy with a career where he still couldn’t injure himself skiing, so. Maybe not next time. The thought made him ache a little. 

“Yeah,” Shane said with a wooden smile. “Definitely.” 

They caught up on the activities the Hollanders had been up to over the last week or so, Yuna filling Shane in on all the ins and outs of the ski resort they’d been at in Hokkaido, and now the time they were spending with her distant cousins in Nagoya. It seemed like a really special trip for Mom, in that she got to reconnect with family she hadn’t seen in a decade, or more. 

Once they’d exhausted all topics about their time in Japan, the conversation turned to Shane, which of course he had been expecting, but was somehow unprepared for. 

Shane happily covered the fact that he’d had a quiet break so far, lots of down time and time to work out. It was snowing outside, he mentioned that too. Had been snowing all night, actually. Eventually, the subject of Shane’s new winter break roommate was broached, and and he could run from it no longer. He’d complained about it enough, when Wiebe told him about it, so his parents knew what was up. But he hadn’t updated them on how not awful things had actually been. 

“How’s it been with the freshman? It’s the Russian boy, right? What’s his name again?”

“Ilya,” Shane said with a nod, realizing that may have been the first time he ever spoke his name aloud. Not Rozanov. Just… Ilya. 

“Ilya, right,” Yuna replied, closing her eyes and nodding like she was mentally scanning the roster she kept locked in her head. “Rozanov. I remember now.” 

His parents tried their best to get to as many games as possible, which weren’t all that many, given the time and space between home and Harvard. But still. For international parents, they came to a good amount of games. And when they couldn’t be there in person, there was always the live stream. 

“So,” she looked at him expectantly. “How is he?” 

Shane cleared his throat, pulling out one earbud and looking over his shoulder at the stairs. Shane wasn’t exactly sure what to say.

“He’s, um, good,” was what he settled on, because that was simple and true. 

Ilya had a roof over his head and bed to sleep in. Food in his belly. Per diem cash burning a hole in his pocket. Ilya was perfectly fine. 

Shane was taking care of him. 

It was all the things Shane didn’t say that sat heavy on his chest. 

I don’t hate him as much as I thought I would, he wanted to say. Actually, I don’t really hate him at all. 

We’ve been having fun. 

And that scares me so fucking much. 

“Good?”

Yuna didn’t look satisfied. 

“He just doesn’t really seem like your type of guy,” she went on, which made Shane freeze, peering over his shoulder despite the headphones in his ear. He knew what his mom meant; he wasn’t like Hayden or JJ or Mitty. She didn’t mean his type, not like that. But still. 

“Yeah, I mean, he’s–” Shane contemplated his next choice of words. “A little different.” 

“That’s putting it lightly,” his mother said sardonically. 

“Yuna!” 

“What?” Shane’s mom looked over her shoulder at his father. “You’ve watched that kid play! He’s always got a ‘tude,” she elaborated, “smashing some kid into the boards or picking a fight with a ref.” 

David shrugged behind her. “He’s a hockey player.”

“So is Shane.” Yuna scowled as she turned back to her phone screen. 

“I definitely knock people into the boards a fair amount,” Shane countered, rolling his eyes a bit. “And he’s a great player,” he added, a little defensively.

Yuna’s mouth pursed into a surprised sort of frown. 

David spoke next. 

“Have you guys been spending a lot of time together?” 

Shane’s eyes darted around the screen, then over his shoulder again. 

“Well, yeah,” he huffed out a laugh. “He’s living here. But, um, yeah, we’ve done some stuff. It’s been cool.” His parents both looked contemplative at that, like they were surprised. Maybe pleasantly so? Shane could hope. 

“He’s the one I got ramen with, on Christmas,” Shane went on, though he couldn’t figure out why. It just sort of slipped out, it was like he couldn’t control it. Like he needed to clear things up with his parents, needed to patch up Ilya’s reputation in front of them so they knew how… how, what, exactly? How cool he was? Was that really what Shane thought? 

He stopped himself before he could admit it was Ilya’s idea, and Ilya paid, and it sort of felt like a date. 

“Oh, okay,” his mom nodded. “I don’t know why, I just assumed that was with someone else!” 

There’s no one else, Shane wanted to remind his mother. There’s no one else left on campus, in Cambridge, on fucking planet earth. I’m on a desert island and he’s the only other living soul around.

But instead, he just nodded, hoping to move on from the subject of Ilya. 

“Well, that’s… cool,” Shane’s father followed up, as he always did. Perhaps his greatest skill was his ability to smooth over any tension between mother and son. 

“Yeah,” Shane answered, resolute. “It’s cool.” 

***

“I did not know you wear glasses.” 

Shane looked up from his book, finding a sleepy Rozanov at the base of the stairs. He closed his book around his finger to hold his place, finally getting somewhere in the very dense, very dry history of the 2002 Canadian Olympic gold medal team. 

“Oh, I don’t,” Shane said as he pulled them off his face. “Just for reading, usually.” 

Ilya grinned. “Such a nerd.” 

“Good morning to you, too,” Shane grumbled, moving to put his glasses and book down on the coffee table.  

“No, no, no, don’t stop, please,” Ilya giggled, shaking his hand. “I will leave you to be cute and nerdy in peace,” he said as he walked toward the kitchen. 

Cute? 

Had Shane heard him correctly?

Did Rozanov say cute?

***

The weather app predicted a nor’easter overnight, and mother nature did not disappoint. Out the window, Shane could see the snow coming down hard as the morning dragged on. Big, fat flakes leaving a fluffy layer of powder like a blanket over the city. 

The snow stopped coming down hard around midday, leaving the tree branches lined in pristine white. Every car was coated, and though street plows were coming by every once in a while, Shane hadn’t seen a single car actually driving on the road. They’d gotten about eighteen inches of snow, or so the weatherman said on tv, which triggered something in Shane’s Canadian boyhood brain. He couldn’t just see that much fresh snow outside and not do anything about it. 

And it seemed like Rozanov had the same instinct. 

“You need to wear a hat,” Shane stipulated as they zipped up their identical black Harvard hockey parkas. 

Ilya’s eyes went wide and a smirk curled on his face. 

“Yes, sir.” 

Shane groaned as he reached into the hall closet, pulling out his Senators toque and shoving it against Rozanov’s chest.

“Don’t say sir,” Shane shot back. “I told you that already.” 

“Ah, but you are in charge of me,” Ilya said with mock sincerity. Shane merely shot him a threatening glare. “No wonder they make you captain,” Ilya said as he tugged Shane’s hat over his head. “You are so bossy.” 

“Trying to make sure one of my teammates doesn’t get the flu isn’t being bossy.” 

Ilya hummed. “One of your best teammates,” he said with a wink. 

Shane rolled his eyes. “I hope you know, I’m going to push you into a snowbank as soon as we’re outside.” 

“Bring it on, Captain.” 

***

It really didn’t take much to get two college-aged boys acting like kindergartners again. Just a few feet of snow and a competitive spirit did the trick. 

As soon as they were down the front stairs, Shane kept his word, pushing Ilya with his full body weight into the untouched blanket of snow. Rozanov looked utterly shocked as he fell on his back, the soft snow cushioning his fall. He gritted out something low in Russian, before clambering to his feet and shouting I will kill you, Hollander! 

It was so much easier to touch Ilya like this, to shove him around and to be shoved back, all under the guise of a playful afternoon in the snow. They flung poorly shaped snowballs back and forth around the side of the house, squeezing in between the fence and the snow-covered trashcans as they ran around to the back. There was no offense or defense here, this was war, every man for himself, and if Shane wasn’t quick enough, he’d be tackled. But, if Ilya wasn’t looking, Shane could tackle him right back. At one point, Shane even had a wild idea to take Ilya sledding, though he couldn’t remember if he’d ever seen sleds in the attic, and what’s more, the sledding hills would probably be overrun with actual children. Not college boys pretending to be them. 

An hour in the snow was enough to soak through their sweats and chill them to the bone. Shane had to beg for a truce, pointing out that Ilya’s sweatpants had turned an entire shade darker gray and they would almost certainly catch their death if they stayed in the snow much longer. As though following his standard script, Ilya put up a fight, calling Shane boring and bossy and no fun. But he relented, just as Shane knew he would.

Their laughter was bright and loud as they reentered the house, shedding their damp layers in front of the doorframe. 

“Do you want to shower?” 

Shane looked up to find Ilya’s eyes sparkling in the late afternoon glow. Then he was peeling off his soaked Harvard hockey hoodie, revealing his bare chest, pink and raw and slick with sweat. His torso was littered with soft brown beauty marks, dizzying in their abundance. Shane wanted to count them all. His gold crucifix glinted between his pecs in the low light, nestled in a thatch of dark chest hair. Shane stammered, at a loss for words. Rozanov’s tongue slipped out of his mouth, running along his chapped lower lip once, before his front teeth dug into the skin, grinning. 

“Um,” Shane murmured, swallowing. 

“Or I should go first?” 

Shane wanted to slam his head against a wall. 

“N-no, you can go first,” he said finally, feeling like a prize idiot. “I should do a load of laundry,” Shane said, a little breathless as the house’s warmth filled his cold lungs. 

“Okay,” Ilya nodded, leaving his soaked sweatshirt on the pile of their wet jackets. 

“I can wash that,” Shane offered. “And the pants, and, um. If you, like, had anything else.” 

Ilya looked puzzled. 

“Is okay, Hollander. You do not need to.” 

I kinda do, Shane thought to himself through a little bit of panic. If he didn’t wash their wet clothes quickly, they’d end up sopping wet for days, and then maybe they’d grow mold, or freeze or something. Right?

“It’s fine, I need to do laundry,” Shane reiterated. “Just leave everything you want washed outside the bathroom and I’ll wash it.”

Ilya’s eyebrows jumped once, but he nodded. 

Once Shane heard the shower running, he scrambled up the stairs to grab Ilya’s clothes. There was a small pile outside the bathroom door, just as Shane had requested. He didn’t want to go into Ilya’s (Hayden’s) room while he wasn’t in there, he didn’t want to snoop. He didn’t want to be tempted to snoop. So, somehow this made the most sense. Shane picked up the pile of clothes, grimacing as Ilya’s drenched sweatshirt touched his hand. Shane himself was shivering a bit, but he figured by the time he got the load in the wash, Rozanov would be finished up in the shower and they could swap. 

Shane tried very hard to ignore the fact that he was throwing in a load of laundry that mostly consisted of his and Rozanov’s house clothes, their comfy stuff. Their underwear. Ilya’s pile had a handful of black Calvin Klein boxer briefs, a fact which Shane filed away to confront at a later time. He didn’t want to be thinking about the freshman in nothing other than those briefs, didn’t want to think about his thick bulge concealed by only the thin black cotton. He definitely, definitely did not think about taking a whiff of the undergarment as he loaded them into the washer. 

He was, at least, right about the timing, because after Shane had thrown the load in and made it back upstairs, Rozanov was slinking into his room from the bathroom in just a towel, cloudy steam spilling from the bathroom through the door he’d left ajar. 

Shane showered quickly, turning the water up to a hellish temperature just to get warm again. Shane tried not to think too hard about where his bar of soap had just been, whose skin and muscles it had just been dragged all over. He tried hard not to hear Ilya’s voice booming in his brain, ‘do you want to shower?’ 

God, Shane had almost wanted him to mean together. Unfortunately, the mental image and the warm water spraying his back did very little to quell the arousal stirring in Shane’s belly. He convinced himself it would be quick, and smart, and easy to get himself off in the shower, because he could wash it all away and clean himself up. God only knew it would only take a minute. He was so fucking keyed up. It seemed as though a second after Shane started to pump his cock he was spilling in his hand, his other a fist curled tight and stuffed in his mouth, teeth digging into the knuckles.

***

As it turned out, two days after Christmas meant that cable television was offering pretty much the worst selection known to mankind. There wasn’t even a single Law and Order marathon to be found. After they’d flipped through the channels back and forth enough, Shane turned off the television with an exasperated sigh. 

“We could… do a puzzle?” he asked glumly. 

Ilya brightened up from his spot in the opposite corner of the couch. 

“You have puzzle?”

“Yeah, there are a couple in the closet.” 

Shane got to his feet and picked up their two two bowls stained with orange-yellow cheese sauce remains. Mac and cheese had been an Ilya request for dinner, which Shane didn’t really feel like saying no to. It actually sounded great after the afternoon they’d had in the snow, despite the lack of protein in the meal, and Mitty probably wouldn’t mind if a box or two of his Kraft mac went missing. They’d been acting like five year olds all day. Why stop at dinner?

Shane set their bowls in the sink and ran them under some water. He returned to the living room with a puzzle in hand, a 1000 piece jigsaw depicting a cottage by the sea. One of those impressionist painting ones. A Monet.

But Ilya was gone. 

It only took Shane a minute to realize he’d gone upstairs. Once he heard the sound of his voice echoing. 

He couldn’t quite make out what Rozanov was saying, but then Shane realized he was obviously speaking Russian. It felt weird to listen in, though Shane supposed he couldn’t understand anyway, so he walked up the stairs with deliberate gentleness. Ilya’s voice became louder as he approached the door to Hayden’s room, which Ilya hadn’t closed all the way. 

Shane wondered if Ilya had been in touch with his family over the holidays. Again, he was reminded that Christmas wasn’t that important to Ilya, but still. They must have missed him, right? If he’d been at school for the entire fall semester, and now wouldn’t be visiting over break? At this rate, the earliest they’d see him again was in June. Shane knew for sure that his parents would want to talk to him. But he hadn’t seen or heard Rozanov on the phone until now. 

Though maybe that was assuming too much about Ilya’s home life. He hadn’t shared anything, beyond the fact that his mother was, at some point, orthodox. Upon consideration, maybe that meant she wasn’t orthodox anymore? Maybe she’d… converted, to something else. Shane had a hard time confronting what it would mean if, when Ilya had said ‘she was’, he was implying that she was… gone. Dead. 

Ilya’s voice was soft and smooth, wrapping around the consonants in each word with a lyrical ease. He spoke in a low, sultry sort of way that Shane hadn’t heard much of. Hearing him now though, like this, made Shane’s stomach flip. 

Rozanov wasn’t talking to family, he couldn’t have been. He was laughing, and it felt almost flirtatious. Shane could practically hear the smile. Then he was groaning, following up with quick words, a petty disagreement that dissolved into more laughter. 

Without hearing the voice on the other end, without anything to go on besides the way Ilya sounded, Shane knew he was talking to a girl. 

And it made him feel sick. 

Shane backed away from the door silently, retreating down the stairs as quickly as he could without making a sound. He stood there at the base of the stairs, holding in a deep breath, listening to Ilya’s distant voice reverberate through the floorboards. 

This was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Shane had no claim over the boy, he had absolutely no right to feel like he did. It hadn’t even been a full week yet and this living arrangement was already destroying Shane’s ability to think straight. 

It felt like they were living in a bubble. A peaceful, sweet, stupid little bubble, where there was only Ilya and Shane, and that was all they needed. Shane had been cooking for him. Ilya had been paying for meals out. They’d been watching tv, and movies, and sports, and, fuck– falling asleep together on the couch. 

This wasn’t good for Shane, this unadulterated access to Rozanov, when he harbored this… this crush. It would be even worse when they had to return to reality, go back to school and practice and homework and parties. How was Shane supposed to recover? How was Shane supposed to go back to before, go back to just seeing Rozanov on the ice, not even playing together? No dinners, no tv time, no nothing. Because why would they hang out, like this, after winter break? When their real friends returned?

Shane heard footsteps creaking as Ilya began to walk down the hallway upstairs. He cleared his throat and hurried back to the couch, dumping out hundreds of little cardboard puzzle pieces onto the coffee table and beginning to sort by color. 

***

December 28th 

The puzzle was proving difficult to complete. 

Hundreds of unassembled pieces covered the coffee table. They had most of the cottage constructed, but the sky and the water were a complete crapshoot, despite their valiant efforts to distinguish which shade of blue should go where. 

They’d stalled out on the puzzle in the early evening. Ilya went downstairs to work out, and Shane worked on dinner. The snow from the day before hadn’t accumulated any more, but it hadn’t melted much either. It was a warmer day, though, so the melt was probably on the way. Classic New England, Shane thought to himself when he checked the weather app. Sub-freezing and snow one day, spring temps and sun the next. 

The boys shoveled the walkway and their part of the sidewalk in the morning, waving to various neighbors who were outside doing the same thing. The snow on the ground made it hard to consider going for a run or anything like that, so they decided to take turns using the basement “gym”. For dinner, Shane made chicken, broccoli, and rice, which was his standard, earning him a few jabs from Ilya. They ate at the dining table, rather than in the living room on the couch, due to the mess of puzzle pieces spread across their usual eating surface. 

When Shane had said, in plain terms, “I’m gonna watch the Bruins game tonight,” Ilya’s face lit up. Shane knew exactly how he felt. He felt it too. They were both missing hockey. 

There hadn’t been much to watch in terms of NHL games in the week that Ilya had been living at Dana; the League always seemed to give the teams a few days off around the Christmas holiday every year. But as soon as it was over, they were back in full force. This game would be a good one; the Bruins were playing the Canadiens, at home. Shane felt excitement thrumming through his veins. This was what he loved, what he breathed. Hockey like this was everything to him. It just made sense. 

The game was lightning fast from the first puck drop. It was thrilling. The Canadiens were up 2-1 by the end of the first period, though Boston seemed to be out for blood, with more shots on goal by half. If only they could stop sending a man to the fucking box, then maybe they’d have a chance to score, rather than giving Montreal a power play every five fucking minutes.

“Jesus Christ,” Shane groaned, running his fingers through his hair as the game transitioned to commercials. 

Ilya scoffed. “I cannot tell which team you root for,” he chuckled. 

Shane sighed. “It’s, uh, complicated,” he said.

“Hm?” Ilya looked at him with confusion coloring his expression. “How do you mean?”

Shane wasn’t sure how much he wanted to share with Ilya, but he supposed it wasn’t really private. His mother certainly made it seem that way, but ultimately it wasn’t a secret. Besides, who was Rozanov going to tell?

“I mean… I might be playing for one of these teams, next year,” Shane explained. 

Ilya’s eyes went wide with surprise and delight. He leaned in a little. 

“Don’t they know you are only Harvard’s second best center?” 

“Oh, fuck you,” Shane said, shoving the freshman away. “I’ll have you know both franchises have reached out to express interest.”

“Have they?” Ilya looked more serious now. “To who? Coach? Or, you have agent?” 

Shane scoffed. “Yeah, I have an agent. Her name is Yuna Hollander and she’s my mother.” 

Ilya blinked, his mouth softening. 

“You are very lucky,” he said softly. 

“Yeah, definitely,” Shane murmured, nodding. He felt an awkward lull in conversation, unsure if Ilya meant he was lucky to be scouted or lucky to have a mother. He chose to press ahead. “So, now you see why I’m torn.” 

“Oh, yes,” Ilya nodded, sitting back against the couch cushions. “Is what you want to do, though? Play in NHL?”

Shane nodded quickly, and then caught himself. He’d never really admitted it before, outside of maybe speaking with his mother. He’d always wanted to keep his options open, studying hard in school to make sure if things didn’t pan out with hockey, he’d be able to get a good job after graduation regardless. Playing in the League scared him a little. A lot, actually. But he wanted it more than it scared him. 

“I think so, yeah,” Shane said. “I mean. That’s… the dream, I guess.” 

Ilya nodded. 

“Is that what, uh, you want?”

Ilya shrugged, cocking his head to the side before nodding. “Probably, yes. I would like the salary very much,” he said then. Shane laughed at that. 

Ilya hummed. “You would play for Bruins? Stay in Boston?” 

“Maybe,” Shane shrugged. “It’s not really my choice, in the end. But yeah, I’d like to.” 

Yuna had been fielding interview requests for Shane all fall semester. He knew he had at least two scheduled in the spring, with the Habs and the B’s general managers and executive team, but his mother was aiming for a few more. Maybe Ottawa, or Winnipeg, though those teams would be fucking lucky to have Shane. 

“Not Canadian team?” 

“Well, my mom's a huge Habs fan,” Shane gestured towards the tv, where they’d just been playing, “and they’re interested in me, so maybe. I liked Ottawa growing up, they’re my home team, even though they’re not very good right now. So, maybe them, if the contract looks good. But I like Boston,” Shane explained. “It’s kind of home now, too.” 

Ilya’s soft expression returned, smiling in a muted sort of way. Shane’s phone buzzed on the coffee table, and he had to pull his eyes away from Ilya’s to look at the screen. 

Rose: Shaneeeee Hollanderrrrrrr

Shane chuckled to himself. For some reason, people loved to address him the way the announcers did during games. And Rose was no exception. 

Shane: Heyyyy 

Rose: merry belated christmas!!!

Rose: did you end up staying on campus for break?!

Shane’s brows knit together, wondering how on earth Rose Landry knew he was staying in town over break? They barely talked anymore, outside of running into each other at parties and drunkenly catching up every few months. She wasn’t from Boston, either. She’d probably have gone home to Michigan. Right?

But then the memory struck him. 

Right. The Harvard-Yale game. 

The annual football matchup between Harvard and Yale, held the week before American Thanksgiving. 

The entire school came out for the game, including droves of alumni and parents. Most students woke up at the crack of dawn to start drinking, and by the time the teams were kicking off, half the student population probably had alcohol poisoning. School traditions and all that. 

The previous year had been at Yale, so Shane didn’t attend. But his sophomore year, when it had been at home, he and the guys had gone with some upperclassmen and gotten completely wasted. It was JJ’s sincere desire to stage a repeat as seniors, and so they’d done their best to get the underclassmen hammered and dragged them to the football game in near-freezing temps. Shane was uncharacteristically drunk that day, clearly drunk enough to tuck away some moments into the recesses of his mind, but Rose’s text brought him back to that day. He was browning out, stumbling through the winding underbelly of Harvard’s colosseum to find the bathroom when he bumped into her. Literally, bumped. 

“Shane!” 

“Fuck, sorry,” Shane slurred a little. “Oh my god, Rose!” 

“Hi!” She grinned so wide, her smile bright as a billboard, and threw her arms around his neck. 

“Shit,” Shane grunted as he stumbled.

“Oh my god, sorry,” Rose giggled, her cheeks flushed and her eyes narrowed. She wasn’t much better off than he was. 

It seemed like every time he ran into Rose, she was just as cheerful and affectionate as when they were… well, together was a bad word for it, but sure. When they were ‘together’. When they were hooking up. And it made Shane wonder what it would have been like if he just tried a little bit harder with her. She was so nice; the sweetest, funniest girl he’d met at school, and yet he just… couldn’t do it. He knew why, of course. He wasn’t stupid. He was definitely, completely, totally attracted to men. But men could be bisexual. Why couldn’t he? It would have made life a whole lot easier. 

He had no feelings of attraction towards her now, three years on from their little fling. But still, she was such a nice girl, and honestly a good friend. Shane wished he’d stayed better friends with her, since they had been over. 

Rose and Shane had hooked up on and off during spring semester their freshman year. Emphasis on the ‘on and off’. Mostly, they were really good friends who occasionally had really bad sex. Shane tried to blame it on drinking or school stress every time, and she seemed happy to go along with it. For a bit. 

They’d met at a party, Shane couldn’t even remember where now, but he’d seen Rose before, in the field house weight room. 

Rose Landry was a member of the women’s swim and dive team. She wasn’t a captain, a bit too much of a party girl to assume that role, but she was definitely the personality hire of the team. And she was fucking good. She held two school records, in the 50 and 100 Butterfly. Shane had even gone to a swim meet that freshman spring, to support her. She was an incredibly gifted athlete. And it ran in the family. Her grandfather was a Harvard hockey legend. 

It was all coming back to Shane now. He and Rose had reconnected at the football game, and he’d mentioned something about being stuck on campus all winter break. He remembered her squeal with excitement, explaining that she, too, would be in Cambridge for the break, as would nearly the entire men’s and women’s swim and dive teams. They usually did a winter training trip somewhere warm, which didn’t really make sense to Shane seeing as a pool was a pool no matter where you went. But, regardless, that year was no exception, and Rose explained that on January 2nd, the team would be heading to Puerto Rico for a ten day training camp. Since the team flights were out of Boston, most of the team chose to stay in town, bunking with friends who lived locally or staying at the swim house. 

He was curious, though, why she was texting. Maybe she’d just gotten bored of hanging with the same teammates? 

Shane: Yeah I am! What’s up

Rose: we’re having a new year’s party!!!!

Rose: you should totally come 

Shane: Oh nice

Rose: comeee it will be fun 

Shane looked beside him at Ilya, who was busying himself with trying to fit a piece of the puzzle into the whole picture. He wore that same old Harvard hockey hoodie, the one Shane had just washed for him the day before. He had one of the strings in his mouth, his jaw working as he sucked idly on the thick thread, deep in concentration. 

Shane: Can I bring a teammate? 

Shane: He’s staying with me for the break

Rose: omg yes of course!!! 

Rose: you remember where the swim house is right? on highland?

Shane cleared his throat and looked over at Ilya again. As far as he knew, the freshman didn’t have any plans. 

“Wanna go to a New Year’s party at the swim house?” 

Ilya caught Shane’s eye and pursed his lips. 

“Who is on swim?” 

“My friend Rose,” Shane replied. 

Ilya’s eyebrow twitched. “Your friend?” 

“Yeah, my friend,” Shane scowled. “I have a few of those.” 

“A girl?” 

“Yes, a girl.” 

“A girl who is your friend?” 

Shane huffed a laugh. “She’s just a friend. We, like, had a thing a while ago. Years ago. But she’s just a friend. What the hell, dude?” 

Ilya shrugged. “Swim team is boring.” 

At that, Shane couldn’t help but laugh. That was certainly not their reputation on campus, not at all. If you wanted to do coke in the bathroom at an athlete party, you were probably going to swim house. Not to mention the rumors Shane had heard about the kinds of things they let people get up to in their bedrooms. In groups. 

“Okay, whatever. I’ll go alone.” 

“No, no,” Ilya shook his head, eyes serious for a second on Shane before turning his attention back to the puzzle. “I will go, but I will be bored. Just warning.” 

“If you say so,” Shane rolled his eyes. He’d never been so grateful in his life when the commercial break ended.

Chapter End Notes

hmmm hmmmhhmmmmm a new player has entered the game! ilya is definitely having a normal reaction to shane mentioning being "friends" with one singular girl!

would people want a scene of ilya's russian phone call? i'm tempted to write some b-sides with ilya pov, there are a few scenes i have in mind. i've been seeing the comments asking for ilya pov and i'm tempted... but probably not until this fic is done.

as always, i love to read and reply to your comments, so keep them coming <3

next chapter is maybe my favorite... stay tuned!

Chapter 7: December 29th

Chapter Summary

featuring a mix of standard and illicit activities

Chapter Notes

sorry this is a long one... but it's probably my favorite <3 enjoy

December 29th

The days between Christmas and the New Year always felt like a vacuum. 

A black hole of time and space, where nothing really seemed to happen and no one truly knew what day it was, or what would happen tomorrow. 

This winter break wasn’t much different for Shane; he felt like he was in some no-man’s land, in more ways than one. He felt lazy and sleepy, and without much to do it was easy to adjust to life that way. 

Most days would shake out in a pretty similar way. Late wakeups after dreams swirled in Shane’s mind, always ending just when things were starting to get good. With Rozanov, he’d have coffee and breakfast and lounge around. They’d work out, separately. Then cook dinner. Usually that part was just Shane, but sometimes Ilya joined him. They worked on the puzzle. And watched tv. And often, fell asleep on the couch. Together.  

Shane had been as deliberate as possible with his sleeping after waking up accidentally cuddled on Ilya’s chest the morning after Christmas. He always moved himself to the second couch when he started feeling sleepy, reluctant to end their night completely, though doing whatever he could to maintain some kind of boundary. He often fell asleep there, with the tv still going, Rozanov on the opposite couch. Usually he woke up around one o’clock in the morning, groggily moving to his bed. And, promptly getting himself off as soon as he got upstairs, still half asleep. Shane never dared to wake Ilya in those moments, in the twilight zone between sleeping and waking, afraid of what he might do. A sleep-soft Ilya might break him completely, might destroy all hope of maintaining whatever distance he was trying to keep. If he woke Ilya up to send him to bed, Shane couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t climb on top of him, plant himself in his lap, and press soft kisses to his neck and cheeks. 

So Shane never tried to wake the freshman. He just snuck upstairs as quietly as possible and took care of himself, rutting pathetically against his own sheets. 

They’d developed this routine that existed in their little time capsule. It never really occurred to Shane to change that up; it didn’t really feel fragile, but Shane had a theory that it kind of was. That one step out of line would put a crack in their symbiosism, and Ilya would be able to see Shane’s desire for him, plain as day. 

Shane could hear Ilya groaning distantly as he put away the dishes. The puzzle had been moved from the living room to the dining table because they kept fucking it up whenever they put their feet up when watching tv. Ilya was like a dog with a bone when it came to that thing, putting the puzzle back together when they moved it, rabidly pursuing completion. Shane was pretty sure some pieces were missing if memory served, but he didn’t dare say that to Rozanov. 

“You good?” 

Rozanov grunted again, louder this time, in response. 

“Why is this so hard,” he grumbled. Shane put the last of the plates away and approached the table. 

“That’s kind of the point,” Shane answered. 

Ilya sighed out a deep breath, his eyes fluttering shut. 

“I miss hockey.” 

He opened his eyes expectantly. 

“Yeah, me too,” Shane nodded. Missing hockey was an understatement. It would have been great to be able to work out some of what he was feeling right now on the ice, with or without Rozanov present. Shane felt like his brain worked best when he was in motion. But preferably on the ice. Preferably in skates. 

“Even just skating,” Ilya continued, putting his hands on top of his head to stretch. He let out a yawn as his chest inflated. “I am losing my touch. Rotting away.” 

Shane scoffed a laugh. It had been less than a week since they’d been on the ice, he certainly wasn’t ‘losing his touch’. Not to mention they’d be back at practice in four days. It would have been nice, though, if they could have had access to the rink. If Joe could have just given Shane a key to Bright-Landry for the break. He was a senior captain! Couldn’t he be deemed responsible enough for that?

Sometimes it felt like the house was so swollen and full of tension, it honestly would be such a relief to just get back to what they knew. 

There was skim ice covering the Charles, but that was nowhere close to safe enough to skate on. Shane could recall, though, a few of the guys did go out on the River last spring break when the ice was at least six inches thick. It would probably take months of freezing weather to get the river there again, if at all. 

If only there were a way to get them both back on the ice. Some ice.  

“Wait,” Shane started to smile. “Oh my god,” he chuckled. 

“What is it?” Rozanov looked puzzled, and Shane could tell he probably looked insane. 

“Let’s go skating.” 

Ilya’s eyes narrowed, though his lips curled up in the corners. 

“You will break us into Bright-Landry?” 

Shane shook his head with a laugh. 

“We can go to Boston Common, there’s a skating rink,” he explained. “The Frog Pond.” 

“Frogs?” Ilya’s expression scrunched up in confusion. 

“It’s just a name, I don’t know,” Shane followed up. He wasn’t sure if he was making any sense, but Ilya seemed to consider it. “It’s a skating rink,” Shane repeated.

“But I do not have skates,” Ilya said after a moment. “They are in locker room.” 

Shane racked his brain. 

“Um… we could rent?” 

Ilya scowled. “I will not rent skates, Hollander. No way.” 

Shane started to nod with the sad realization, before he remembered that he lived in the literal hockey house. 

“Wait, we have skates! Like a couple pairs. We found them in the attic,” Shane explained. 

He and Hayden had found old skates, and a handful of old sticks, while putting mouse poison in the attic after hearing scratching in the walls for the umpteenth time. They were delighted, and brought the skates to Joe to tune them up. They figured it would be good to have some functional extra skates around, in case the river froze, or, Shane supposed, they ever wanted to skate somewhere like the Frog Pond. 

Ilya looked doubtful. 

“I think there are four or five pairs, we had them sharpened last year,” Shane added. He conveniently didn’t mention the fact that they looked at least ten years old, if not older, and they were more than a little bit rusty. Ilya hummed, contemplative. 

“They may not fit,” Ilya stipulated, with a wink. “I have big feet.” 

“They fit JJ, and he’s got size thirteen. I think you’ll be fine.” 

Ilya frowned.

“Fine. Show me these skates. But I think my feet are bigger than Boiziau’s.” 

***

Shane clutched the silver pole with both hands as the train lurched around them. 

It wasn’t too packed, but still, the train car was fairly full. Rozanov stood beside him, equally jostled by the train’s erratic movements, skates slung over his shoulder, laces tied in a bow. Skates from the attic that fit him perfectly. 

Shane was only a little anxious that they didn’t have blade guards on. 

The freshman was wearing Shane’s Ottawa toque again. He reached for it this time all on his own as they were leaving. Didn’t even have to be told. Shane was almost proud. 

As the train sped up and slowed down, they bumped into one another, though Shane was doing his best to hold his ground, widening his stance to avoid getting too jostled. The train passed over the Charles, and Ilya’s face glowed pink and orange as they looked out onto the vibrant sunset over the water, the sun sinking behind the city’s skyscrapers. People packed into the train at the Charles/MGH stop, clearly heading home from the day shift at the hospital, and Shane and Ilya had to stand nearly chest to chest, their skates bumping. Ilya looked down his nose at Shane, familiar crooked smile breaking across his face, eyebrows waggling suggestively. Shane scoffed in response, feeling his cheeks burn as he looked down at his feet.

The walk from the train stop to the skating rink in the middle of the park only took a few minutes. It was different to see it now, at dusk, with the leaves all down. Boston Common always felt so big in Shane’s imagination, but now he realized a big part of that had to do with the mystery that full, leafy trees could provide. Now, the barren trees were decorated with seasonal flair, each one adorned with a different colored string of lights. Blue and red and green and orange. A giant Christmas tree sat in the middle of the Common. Looking around now, Shane could see all four streets that bordered the grassy park in the middle of the city. Though there wasn’t much grass to speak of in late December. Mostly dead or dying, or half mud and ice. It was a pleasant evening, weather wise. Low 40s, so still cold enough to need layers and hats, but not quite cold enough to chill them to the bone. 

Great hockey conditions.

The rink was stationed in the middle of the park, a year-round structure that was something of a wading pool in the summer and an ice rink in the winter. There were floodlights overhead, a little shack doling out rentals by the entry way, and speakers surrounding the rink playing pop music. 

When they got to the front of the line to pay for their entry, Ilya elbowed Shane out of the way, forking over a twenty dollar bill and a smile for the attendant. Once they were let through the gate, Shane looked at him with disdain.

“Wiebe gave you that money for food.” 

“Wiebe would be happy we are skating,” Ilya reasoned, which Shane supposed he really couldn’t argue with. 

The rink wasn’t tiny, but it wasn’t huge either. Not the size of a regulation rink for playing hockey. 

But they weren’t there for hockey, were they? 

Dozens of people of all ages floated across the surface of the ice in a counter-clockwise pattern. Some were faster than others, skating laps around the novices who were inching along the ice, knees locked and back stiff. Most folks had rental skates on. Many of them were holding hands. 

It was an adorable scene. 

Ilya finished lacing up his skates first, and hovered over Shane’s seated form as he finished tying his own. They took to the ice together, stepping out gingerly as passers by struggled to stay upright. But once they were out there, there was no holding back. 

They were so accustomed to there being so much more than just plain skating when they took to the ice for hockey, it almost felt as simple as breathing. To just… skate. To feel nothing beyond the blade cutting against the ice, glutes and adductors firing to propel them forward. The ice was garbage, having been skated on all day long, but it wasn’t like they were trying to steer a puck around, so Shane didn’t really mind. It was almost becoming slushy, or headed that way, at least. A puddle was forming in the middle of the rink. 

It was sort of fun to show off a little bit, considering the crowd. Shane started to skate backwards in front of Ilya, who seemed to take that as a challenge, beginning to grapevine beside Shane. Shane could feel the eyes on them as they made graceful loops around the rink. He wondered what they looked like, from the outside. If they looked like just friends, or just teammates. Maybe… something more? A sick, twisted part of his brain told him that he almost wanted it to seem like more. After a dozen or more laps around the rink, Shane’s heart was beating fast, and he pulled off to the side to shed his outermost layer. He didn’t need that full winter coat, not when he was pumping blood like this on the ice. Beneath the jacket, Shane wore a cotton long sleeve tee. Ilya caught up and did the same, pulling over to ditch his jacket, revealing his ever-present gray Harvard hockey hoodie. 

Once they got back in motion, Ilya was sporting that maniacal grin again, exalted, crazed with happiness as he blew past their fellow skaters. It was nearly dark by then, and the overhead lights made Shane feel buzzy. Almost like being in the arena. Ilya pulled ahead of Shane, starting to tear down the ice, and with a wink over his shoulder, he challenged Shane to a race. Shane gave chase instantly, strong legs springing off against the ice. They chased each other around the innermost ring of skaters, nonverbally agreeing to avoid involving civilians in their fray. Shane was overtaking Ilya, after catching him around the elbow and pulling them even, when disaster struck in the form of a little girl who lost her balance. Without warning, there was an obstruction in Shane’s path, a child flat on her back on the ice a few feet away. Shane did his best to skid to a stop, to navigate around the little girl and the grown-up now helping her, but it didn’t make a difference. Between the slush at his shitty skates and the speed at which they were racing, Shane didn’t stand a chance. He slipped a few feet beyond the little girl, feeling foolish when he realized he was going down, unable to right himself in mid-air. Shane toppled over, landing on his back, his upper half precariously close to the growing puddle at the center. 

Ilya stopped short just behind him, spraying Shane with a bit more icy slush from his blades. 

“Shit,” Ilya huffed. “Are you okay, Cap?” 

“M’okay,” Shane grumbled, pressing his palms against the wet ice. He hissed as they made contact, his skin burning against the cold. “Fuck,” Shane whispered as he sat up, the entire back side of his shirt soaked through. 

“Here,” Ilya said as he offered a hand down. He pulled Shane to his feet, and Shane went willingly, feeling like the freshman practically picked him up entirely with one hand. Ilya brushed the shaved ice off Shane’s shoulders, before grimacing as he noticed Shane’s shirt was drenched. “Come on,” Ilya said as he gestured toward the edge of the ice. 

On his feet, Shane realized he wasn’t hurting anywhere, though perhaps he’d find a bruise on his ass in the days to come. He was just embarrassed. And cold. Suddenly, he was very, very cold.

“Are you okay?” Ilya asked again. 

“Yeah, I’m good,” Shane said with a shiver. “Not hurt, or anything. Just, fuck. I’m cold.” 

“Here.” Before Shane knew it, Ilya’s arms were crossing around his waist, and he was tugging the gray Harvard hoodie over his head. He wore a thin under armour long sleeve beneath it, also team-issued gear. It was damp with sweat, dark and sticking around the hollow of Ilya’s throat, the valley of his defined pecs. The outline of his gold crucifix could be seen through the thin spandex. The shirt pulled up Ilya’s belly as he disrobed, revealing a dark trail of curly hair that swelled at the fly of his jeans. 

“Get that off,” Ilya waved his hand at Shane’s midsection with an air of mild frustration. “You will be sick.” 

Shane did as he was told, stripping off his wet long sleeve t-shirt in favor of Ilya’s sweatshirt. The cotton peeled off his back, and with a gust of wind Shane felt frozen solid. His teeth started chattering involuntarily, naked from the waist up. Ilya thrust his sweatshirt into Shane’s hands and looked at him with barely concealed disdain. 

“On, Captain, now,” Ilya commanded, tugging the wet shirt out of Shane’s hands. Shane nodded and threw the sweatshirt over his head. 

The first thing Shane noticed was the thick cotton was warm. So warm. Warm beneath his armpits and at the nape of his neck, the hood swaddled around his head. It was quite literally the shirt off Ilya’s back, so Shane supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. But still. It made him a little dizzy to feel the freshman’s body heat so close to his own skin. 

And, fuck. It smelled like him. It smelled like Ilya, like his sweaty musk mixed with whatever pine-y deodorant he typically used. If Shane was alone, he might have pulled the collar up over his nose and mouth and just inhaled, breathing it all in. Breathing him in. 

But he wasn’t alone, they weren’t alone, they were awkwardly squished up against the boards on the far side of the Frog Pond. Shane noticed that Ilya had tied his wet shirt around his waist, the fabric two-toned where Shane had fallen versus where it remained dry. 

“You want to go home?” 

Shane tore his eyes away from his own shirt around Ilya’s waist to make eye contact. There it was again, that simple notion of home being a place that they shared. Ilya looked down at him with concern painted all across his face. His brows knit together in a way that felt completely foreign to Shane, who was so used to seeing them arched or waggling in mischief. 

Shane shook his head no, pulling the hood down around his neck. “I’m okay,” he said. “Thanks for the, um, sweatshirt.” 

Ilya nodded, though he looked unsure. 

“I want to skate more,” Shane added. “Seriously.”

“Yes,” Ilya replied, pushing off the rink fence. “We need to move again. Get warm.” 

“Maybe no racing, though,” Shane said as Ilya glided past him. 

The freshman peered back over his shoulder, the familiar crooked smile returning to his face.

“Ah, scared that you will lose?” 

***

They made it maybe another thirty minutes before Shane’s feet started to hurt in the skates. He wasn’t going to complain about it, he’d been the one to throw off the evening in the first place by fucking falling, but when Ilya mentioned he felt a blister emerging on his ankle, Shane couldn’t help but agree. These weren’t the skates they were used to, not the ones they wore every day, so it made sense that they didn’t feel completely right. Shane was grateful once they took a load off, once they were seated on the benches and pulling on their shoes again. 

He heard the distinct sound of Ilya’s stomach grumbling. In thinking about what kind of food they had at home, the options seemed less and less appealing by the second. Shane was hungry too, and he didn’t really feel like getting all the way home only to start cooking. He needed food now. 

“We should grab something for dinner,” Shane said as he stood from the bench, zipping up his jacket. 

“Mmm, yes,” Ilya hummed, his narrowed eyes flitting around the park. “There is McDonald’s near.” 

Shane burst into laughter. 

“What do you mean? How do you know that?” The way Ilya moved and spoke, it seemed like he had some sixth sense for the fast food joint. Boston Common wasn’t all that close to campus, and Shane was pretty sure there were more convenient McDonald’s establishments for Ilya to frequent closer to Harvard. How could he know that already? 

“I have app,” Ilya explained, pulling out his phone and waving it in front of Shane’s face. 

“You have… a McDonald’s app?” 

Ilya nodded, looking at Shane like he was the stupid one. 

“Of course,” he frowned. “How else will I get deals?” 

***

“I don’t know what to order,” Shane confessed as they approached the counter. The lights overhead felt way too bright, like the lights above the rink during a game. It seemed a little unnecessary.

“I will get two double quarter pounder, both with big mac sauce,” Ilya recited, as though from memory. “And large fry.” 

Shane felt his stomach turn, although there was something appealing in the way it smelled inside. The salty-fatty food smell was irresistible for a reason, he supposed. 

“Okay,” Shane said. “Like, for you? Or for both of us?” 

Rozanov snorted a laugh. 

“For me, Captain. I am just giving you example.” 

Shane grimaced at the thought of ingesting anything that high in calorie that quickly. 

“Okay.” He considered his options. “Is, um… is the McChicken any good?” 

Ilya chuckled. 

“I have no idea, Hollander,” he grinned. “I do not come to McDonald’s for chicken.”  

***

The taste of the Big Mac brought Shane back to his childhood, to long drives to hockey games in neighboring counties, to those nights when they forgot to pack dinner for the ride home. He honestly could not recall a time when he’d had McDonalds last. It might have been before middle school, even.

Ilya crushed his first of two burgers in what seemed like no time at all. He sipped intermittently from his fountain drink, which Shane realized with some horror he had anticipated correctly would be a Coke. Along with his own (singular) Big Mac, Shane got himself a small fry and a ginger ale, because he couldn’t not have at least a few fries, if he was going to be eating at fucking McDonald’s. 

Ilya insisted he pay, which was becoming par for the course, but he also was very insistent upon getting the points for the meals, so he could rack up credit in his app. It made Shane wonder just how frequently the freshman was getting fast food for meals. The kid had a dining plan, didn’t he? There was no way this much fast food could be good for his game. 

Shane had been doing that more and more lately: wondering about Ilya. Wondering how he’d been spending his free time that past fall semester, what he liked to do outside of school and practice. Well, Shane knew he liked to have sex. And he liked to party. Which was probably enough to fill all his time, really. But where did he even fit in homework? 

Did his dorm room face the road or the Yard? 

Did he go to the library a lot? Where did he like to study? 

“You know, I don’t even know what your major is.” 

Ilya hummed around a mouthful of burger. He put his fist in front of it and spoke. 

“Finance.” 

“Oh,” Shane said, automatically. He took another bite of his burger. He wasn’t exactly sure what he expected Ilya to be majoring in in the first place. But somehow it wasn’t that. It was oddly similar to his own major; there was a fair amount of overlap between finance and econ, at least at Harvard. Which meant–

“But… but that’s boring!” 

Ilya rolled his eyes as he chewed, though Shane could see him fighting a smile. 

“Yes,” Ilya said after swallowing, nodding solemnly. He stuck his pointer finger between his lips, mouthing on the digit to clean it of lingering sauce. “I hate it. I am bored to tears every day.” 

Shane spluttered into his ginger ale. 

“Then why are you majoring in it?”

“Ah, will help me find job,” Ilya shrugged with a certain nonchalance, like he was simply destined to have a career he hated anyway. “Big firms are used to hiring foreigners, especially Harvard graduate. Whole visa process, and everything, they know how,” he explained, taking another enormous bite. “If I don’t play in league, I mean. Is good second option.” He wrapped his lips around the straw of his soda, sucking hard against what sounded like mostly ice in the cup. He shrugged again, stuffing the last bite into his mouth. 

“And then,” Ilya went on, fist over his full mouth, “I will never have to go back to Russia again.” 

Everything made sense until that last sentence. It gave Shane pause; what did he mean, ‘never have to go back’? Didn’t he want to go back? To see his family? His home?

“Never?”

Ilya looked at him sheepishly, balling up the wrapper of his burgers and stuffing them into the empty fry container. He shrugged and got to his feet. He looked… uncomfortable?

“Are you ready to go, Captain?” 

“Um, yeah,” Shane said quickly, forcing the last bite of food down. “Yeah, I’m good.” 

***

Coming home together in the dark gave Shane an odd sort of comfort. It felt reminiscent of their dinner on Christmas day, which felt, just as this day had, kind of like a date. Shane could picture it all, in his mind’s eye, like a movie he’d seen a couple times. It wouldn’t be hard to predict the motions. 

If they were a couple, maybe they’d kiss a little once they got through the door, toeing off their shoes and laughing as they bumped shoulders. Maybe he’d put on the kettle and make tea, or, more likely, cocoa, and they’d sit together on the couch. They’d probably watch something mindless, and Shane would fall asleep on Ilya’s shoulder. Maybe Ilya would wake him up with a kiss to his temple, then a whispered time for bed, and they’d crawl upstairs and fall asleep together. 

It was just easy to imagine, was all. 

But when they got home they didn’t kiss in the entry way, they didn’t laugh, they didn’t fall into bed. Ilya did fall into the couch, though, and Shane would join him dutifully in a few moments, after collecting himself in the kitchen. 

Shane held himself against the countertop, breathing deeply, eyes squeezed shut. Four more days, he told himself, heaving breaths dragging in through the nose and out through the mouth. Four more days, and then I’ll be free. Free from this awful burden of lust and hunger and infatuation that he couldn’t seem to escape. 

But it wasn’t really lust, was it? 

It wasn’t lust when you wanted to sit on the couch and cuddle. It wasn’t lust when you wanted to simply sleep in the same bed, just to be close to another person’s warmth. 

That wasn’t lust at all. And that was what worried Shane the most.

Eventually, he dragged his feet into the living room and settled down into the couch beside Ilya. The same couch. The same couch, yes, because while Shane wouldn’t be cuddling up to Rozanov, he could at least indulge a sliver of his fantasy. 

They sat in a comfortable silence as images flashed by on the tv screen, none of which Shane was absorbing in any meaningful way. He felt a little bit like a time bomb, his internal clock ticking down, primed for a catastrophic explosion. He tried to regulate that feeling, tried to return to deep breaths to ground himself like he’d been taught, but all he ended up doing was ripping apart the fragile cuticle that had begun to regrow at the base of his thumbnail. 

“Do you know what would be fun?”

“Hmm?” Shane tore his eyes from the screen to look at Ilya, the freshman’s sharp bone structure illuminated only by the brightness of the television. 

“Getting high.” 

Shane narrowed his eyes, before letting out an incredulous snort. 

“You’re full of shit.” 

“I am not!” Ilya looked back at Shane seriously, sitting up from where he’d sunk into the couch. “Would be fun.” 

“We–” Shane scoffed. “We can’t get high, we literally get drug tested,” Shane offered the most reasonable excuse.

Ilya rolled his eyes. “They never pick hockey player, Hollander. Plus, we are not in season!” 

“It stays in your system for two weeks and we’re back in season in like five days,” Shane retorted, building up a case against the foolishness. “And it’s literally random! Like, it’s called ‘random selection drug testing’!” 

“Mmm, and have you ever been ‘randomly selected’?” 

“No, but–”

“I have gotten high in this house before, Captain,” Ilya went on, looking down his nose at Shane with distinct roguishness. “And I have never heard of anyone on team getting drug tested.” 

Shane knew he was probably referring to their syllabus week party, when, yes, admittedly, the bong did come out. Shane was furious at Mitty for even mentioning it to the underclassmen; it was honestly really risky, despite the fact that yes, it seemed like the hockey team generally didn’t get drug tested and it wasn’t even the first week of classes, back then. Shane had been outvoted by his roommates, and clearly Ilya had been a part of the group of freshmen that got to rip the bong with Mitty. 

Ilya took Shane’s silence to mean apprehension. 

“You have gotten high before, yes?” 

“Yeah,” Shane replied quickly, rolling his eyes. Yes, he had, exactly once. It was the summer after junior year, when Mitty and JJ were moving their stuff into Dana, and it was Shane’s first exposure to marijuana. It had been a strange sensation, and Shane wasn’t completely sure he did it right. Mitty kept trying to explain the proper inhalation technique, but it seemed to be going, literally and figuratively, over Shane’s head. At the very least, he got second-hand high from the smoke all around them in the bathroom. He definitely felt something. 

“Then what is problem?”

Shane groaned under his breath. 

The problem is that if I get high, I can’t be sure I have control over myself. 

The problem is that if I get high, I can’t be sure I do something stupid. That I won’t kiss you. 

“Do you even have weed?”

Ilya’s brows jumped as he smirked. 

“Mitty will not mind if we borrow.” 

***

Regret coursed through Shane like a mighty current as he sat on the edge of the bathtub, staring up at Ilya as he worked the grinder in his hands. The light from the bathroom vanity shone behind him like a spotlight, and Shane couldn’t help but admire every ridge and bump of the freshman’s muscular torso, all of it on display through his tight under armour shirt. The bong was balanced on the closed toilet, and Ilya was working intently to grind the bud down into something smokeable. 

He’d gone into Mitty’s room like he knew exactly where to look, though Shane supposed that the bottom of a bedroom closet would be the natural place to look. Ilya also found the nuggets of weed suspiciously fast, in a ziploc baggie in an old pair of Mitty’s shoes. 

It occurred to Shane then that he was still wearing Ilya’s hoodie. 

“Okay,” Ilya said confidently as he packed the weed into what looked like a little black funnel at the base of the bong. “You know how to do this, yes?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Shane nodded, hoping it wouldn’t be too difficult to figure out. 

Ilya turned and rolled up a bath towel, stuffing it along the base of the door. Shane made a mental note to do a load of laundry tomorrow that included towels. The freshman then flipped on the bathroom’s ventilation system, which roared to life overhead. It was shoddy at best, and hardly did anything to ventilate the bathroom when the shower was running, which Shane was pretty sure was the whole point. But it didn’t really matter. The bathroom would reek of weed for a few days. And he’d have to get over it. 

Maybe they could leave the window open until the other guys moved back in. 

Ilya moved the bong and lowered himself to sit on the closed toilet, still towering a few inches over Shane, even seated. 

Unceremoniously, Ilya brought a lighter to the piece at the base, the weed catching on as he held the flame. In a practiced sort of way Ilya leaned in, pressing his lips to the glass pipe and pulling out the piece at the bottom, causing a wild symphony of bubbling sounds to occur. Smoke wafted through the clear glass, and Shane watched as he held his breath. Ilya blew out hazy smoke after a moment, and Shane felt dizzy from looking at his puckered lips, wishing he was physically restrained. That would make it easier to resist pouncing on the kid. 

Ilya was offering the bong then, holding it in his outstretched hand for Shane to take it, to use it. The room was saturated with the smell of weed, the smoke in the air like a gauzy curtain around them. Shane rested his lips in the same space where Ilya’s had just been, and wondered if he’d ever get closer than this to actually kissing him. 

He exhaled gently, seeking to produce that same bubbling sound that Ilya had produced a moment ago, but nothing happened. He tried again, blowing harder, but was stopped short by Ilya’s raucous laughter. 

“Oh my god, Hollander,” he said through what almost sounded like tears. “You kill me.” 

Shane pulled his lips away from the bong. 

“You do not know how this works?”

“No, I do,” Shane shook his head vehemently. “It’s just, um, been a while,” he hoped it was a reasonable excuse. “I don’t make it a habit to get high, you know.” He added that bit just for good measure. 

“Yes, yes,” Ilya nodded in a faux-respectful sort of way. “Well, I can show you, if you like. Or you can keep trying to blow bong up like balloon.”

Shane knew he must have been blushing beet-red.

“Fuck you,” he spat, rolling his eyes. 

“Here,” Ilya said with a cocky grin, beckoning with his hands for Shane to bring the bong to his mouth again. “I will help.” He brought the lighter to the weed and looked at Shane expectantly. When Shane lowered his mouth, Ilya nodded. He flicked the lighter and the flame reappeared. Shane could hear the weed catch, and listened to the way it burned in the little bowl. 

“Now pull,” Ilya instructed as he pulled the piece out. “Don’t blow. Suck.” 

Shane did as he was told, and the smoke burned in his lungs as soon as he did, scalding him from the inside out. It fucking burned. He pulled away coughing, his lips wet with saliva, throat dry and ravaged. 

His suffering was met with more laughter. Shane squeezed his eyes shut, feeling them well with tears. He inhaled again, sharply, when he felt a warm hand patting his upper back. 

“Is okay,” Ilya was murmuring beside him. He’d moved from the toilet to the bathtub edge, that much Shane could tell even with his eyes squeezed shut, because now their thighs were touching. Now their feet were touching. Ilya took the bong from Shane’s hands. “Try to breathe.” 

Shane couldn’t speak, which was unlucky, because he couldn’t force the words out to tell Ilya to move and give him some space, because this fucking proximity was making it harder to breathe than the fucking weed. 

He was drooling, gasping, just trying to catch his breath. Ilya was forcing something into his hand, and Shane realized quickly it was a water bottle. Shane didn’t think too hard about it, just brought the nozzle to his mouth and squeezed. The water felt like a lifeline, cool comfort sliding down his throat. Shane threw his head back, eyes still squeezed shut, opening his airway as best he could. Finally, finally he felt some air flowing back down toward his burnt out lungs. He regained some more composure then, wiping away the tears threatening to fall from his eyes. He sucked in another few deep breaths, feeling a twinge in his chest still, though he was miles better than before. 

“Jesus Christ,” Shane managed on an exhale, clearing his throat. He looked up at Ilya, seated beside him, to find the freshman’s expression was an odd mix of humor and concern. His lips were pursed, as though holding in a laugh until he was absolutely sure Shane was okay. Seemingly, with that confirmation, he let it out, chuckling and smiling, a certain twinkle present in his eye.

“Was big hit, captain,” Ilya elbowed him softly in the ribs. “You feel okay?”

“Mmm, yeah,” Shane sighed, feeling a little lightheaded. At least he was breathing now. 

“I will go again,” Ilya said gently. “You can stop.” 

“No, I’ll go again,” Shane said, though he wasn’t sure why. He didn’t want a repeat fucking performance. But he didn’t really want to be outdone, either. 

“Okay,” Ilya said with raised brows. “But be gentle, yes? Like this.” 

He lowered his lips again to the mouthpiece, demonstrating how to take the hit without lighting the bowl again. 

“Just deep breath in,” he said, demonstrating again with his mouth away from the bong. “Like at doctor’s office.” 

“Right,” Shane nodded. 

“Not like–” Ilya imitated a gasp of surprise, his eyes bugging out and his hand clapping over his chest theatrically. 

Shane couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, yeah, alright. Take your hit.” 

Ilya smirked and brought the bong to his mouth, finally lighting the bowl and taking another graceful hit. He held the breath in, again, and Shane stared at his adam’s apple as it bobbed in his throat. After a second, Ilya let it out, blowing smoke up at the ventilator, whatever good that did. He offered the bong to Shane, who accepted it and leaned in, letting Ilya lead once again. The freshman lit the bowl and pulled out the piece, nodding when Shane should inhale. Shane tried his best to follow those simple instructions, breathe deep, not too deep, just like that. He felt the smoke seeping in again, flooding his senses, but it was less harsh this time, there was less of a bite. It burned, but softer. Like smoldering embers, rather than open flame. 

“Good job,” Ilya said as Shane pulled away. His voice sounded almost reverent. It must have been sarcastic.

“Fuck you,” Shane huffed. “You’re such an ass.” 

“Mmm, yes, tell me more,” Ilya teased in a monotone. “I am so close, please, don’t stop.” 

Shane scoffed and shoved Rozanov away, unable to contain the laugh that broke free from his throat. He wanted to say you’re an idiot or shut the fuck up, but he worried it might come out mixed with I want you so bad or I want to watch you come. So, miraculously, Shane stayed silent, aside from his laughter. He instead fixed his eyes on Rozanov’s pink lips as they pressed against the glass, noticing the barely-there stubble forming around the corners of his mouth, counting the moles like angel kisses all over his face. 

They passed the bong back and forth a few more times, and Shane started to feel like he was giving himself over to whatever was inside him now. His heart thudded in his chest, in his throat, and his face felt numb. He wanted to lean back, he wanted to lean back so bad, but he knew there was an empty bathtub behind him, and that would probably hurt to fall into. Not to mention the potential for a cracked skull. But he wavered, he wavered a lot, back and forth, balanced somewhat precariously on the edge of the tub. The room felt like it was swaying, like it was bobbing on the surface of some body of water. In a boat, maybe. Maybe the house was actually a boat. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Shane noticed that Ilya’s thigh was still resting against his, that his knee was still pressed against Shane’s, their feet still glued together along the edge. He felt his vision go a little soft, a little blurry, staring at the brass doorknob at his eye level. It had been a while since they’d taken a hit. They should probably move soon, Shane thought to himself. That would make sense. He should get up and move. Did his legs even work?

As though hearing Shane’s thoughts, Ilya groaned and got to his feet. From Shane’s vantage point still seated on the tub, Shane came face to face with Ilya’s ass. The freshman stretched his arms over his head. His shirt was riding up his back as he did, and Shane felt himself lean in as he stared at the strip of golden skin around Ilya’s waist. 

The freshman turned around to look down at Shane, who was convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt he wouldn’t be able to stand up at all. 

“You good?” 

Shane nodded, a little sound of affirmation like a chirp in his throat. But he still didn’t stand. 

“Come on,” Ilya encouraged him, taking the bong in one hand, and offering the other to Shane. He contemplated it for a moment, looked at Ilya’s hand where it hovered right in front of his face. His fingers were thick, calloused things, as was his palm. Shane was so close to him then, staring at his skin, tracing the swirling patterns of Ilya’s fingerprints with his eyes. 

“Let’s go,” Ilya’s voice boomed overhead, his fingers curling and flexing back and forth, beckoning Shane to take his hand. “You will not sleep in this bathtub.” 

“M’not sleepy,” Shane slurred. 

“Get up, Cap, c’mon,” Ilya urged him, and finally Shane took his hand. The freshman pulled him to his feet swiftly, so swiftly their chests bounced against one another. At his full height, Shane’s head was submerged in the lingering smoke. He noticed the whirring of the ventilator above. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the pair of them standing chest to chest in the mirror. 

“I need to pee,” Shane blurted out. He needed to do something to put some space between them.

“Okay.” 

Neither of them moved. Ilya looked at him with worry. 

“I’ll be fine,” Shane said after he cleared his throat, lowering his voice to a more serious register. “Go, seriously.” 

“Okay,” the younger boy nodded. “If you fall and crack your head, it is not my fault.” 

“Right,” Shane replied, drowsy. Ilya bent down to remove the wadded-up bath towel at the base of the door, turned to look back at Shane once, and left. The door clicked shut behind him, and Shane sighed. 

His tongue felt too big for his mouth. And dry. So fucking dry. Where was that water bottle? 

He looked around the bathroom for it, but found no sign of the thing. Ilya must have taken it with him. 

Shane worked the button of his jeans clumsily, dragging the zipper down to free his cock. He did have to pee, that wasn’t entirely a lie. Ordinarily, he’d sit down to piss in his own home. He wasn’t a fucking animal. But something told Shane that if he sat down again, he might never get up, and then Ilya would break down the door and find Shane half naked and asleep on the toilet. And that wasn’t a mental image he wanted the freshman to have. 

He held himself up against the wall behind the toilet, aiming as best he could into the porcelain. It felt like he was pissing forever, like he’d been holding it in for hours and only just now noticed his need. It took every bit of brainpower that Shane had to remember to put himself away, to button and zip his jeans, to flush the toilet and put down the seat. From there, he stumbled out of the bathroom and into the hallway, finding the light in his bedroom already on. 

Ilya was in there, standing in front of Shane’s bureau with his hands clasped behind his back, seemingly just… looking. Shane watched as the freshman’s head turned, looking from one framed photo to the next. 

“Hey,” Shane breathed as he entered his room, hoping to alert Rozanov to his presence. Ilya looked back over his shoulder slowly, then turned back toward the bureau. 

“These are your parents?” 

Shane wondered what he meant. What was he looking at? 

He took a couple steps forward, stopping short a few inches behind the freshman, looking over Ilya’s shoulder at his own memories. 

The question was sprouted from an old photo on the dresser, a picture of Shane with Yuna and David after his first Harvard home game. Freshman Shane was red-faced and sweaty, his hair damp and sticking up in all directions. It was taken just outside the locker room, so Shane was still in his pads and skates and Harvard jersey. Man, they had changed the jerseys a bit since Shane started at Harvard. He noticed the differences year to year, but comparing the design of the one he wore now versus the one from four years ago felt funny. 

They had played Yale that night, at their home opener. They’d won, 4-1, two goals and one assist by Shane. All three Hollanders looked elated in the photo. Shane would file it under one of the best nights of his life. 

“Yeah,” Shane said through a smile. “That’s them.” 

Ilya hummed. “And what is this?” 

Ilya was pointing, then, at another framed photo, one that Hayden had printed out at CVS photo after Halloween their sophomore year. There was a shitty sort of Instagram filter applied, and the photo was pixilated, like Hayden had printed out a screenshot. It was a photo of Shane and Hayden, accompanied by JJ and Mitty, clad in very, very little clothing. 

“Oh, god,” Shane chuckled, face and neck flushing. “That was Halloween. No, don’t,” Shane said as Ilya reached for the photo. “Stop,” Shane grunted, trying harder to snatch the frame away, but with no luck. Ilya stumbled over to the edge of Shane’s bed, the bedframe hitting the back of his calves and forcing him to fall gently down onto the mattress. Shane felt his mouth fall open, and alarm bells went off in his head, as though Ilya had tripped some invisible wire. 

“Um,” Shane murmured, though he wasn’t sure the sound even really came out of his throat. Ilya was grinning giddily at the photo. He scootched himself up the bed clutching the frame in his hands, leaning back and resting against Shane’s pillows. 

Fuck, Ilya was still wearing his outside clothes. He was still wearing the clothes he’d worn on the train, in McDonald’s. He was still wearing his jeans and that dirty spandex longsleeve, the one he’d soaked in sweat when they skated, the one that would have to be ripe with his body odor. War waged in Shane’s mind over the concept, because he didn’t really want Ilya on his bed dressed like that, but he also sort of didn’t want him to leave his bed. He didn’t want him to undress in his bed, either. That was a path Shane couldn’t walk down, not now. Not when he felt like his bones were too big for his skin, like his blood was merely bubbles in his veins. 

“M’high,” Shane blurted out unhelpfully. It was the only thing he could manage to say. He wasn’t sure Ilya even heard. 

“This is unbelievable,"  Ilya gushed, eyes never leaving the photo, clearly unaware of the inner turmoil Shane was facing. Without leaving time to second-guess, Shane moved forward to his bed, putting a knee on the mattress and crawling up the bed, claiming a spot against the pillows beside Ilya. That got Ilya’s attention, the freshman finally looking up from the picture frame to stare at Shane, his expression of triumph unyielding. 

Shane chuckled, his elbow knocking into Ilya’s involuntarily. 

“It was Halloween,” Shane repeated, hearing his own voice sound cottony in his ears. “We were… um. Gladiators.” 

“I am getting this, yes,” Ilya grinned down at the photo again. “Can you please be gladiator again next year for Halloween?” 

Shane let out another bashful laugh, before a sad realization floated over him like a raincloud. 

“I won’t be here for Halloween next year,” Shane said quietly. 

Ilya’s face fell as Shane spoke. He let his hands, and the picture frame, drop to his lap. 

“I guess you are right.” 

Shane shrugged, trying to dispel the notion of fear that cropped up every time he thought about his future. Where would he be? What would he be doing? There was literally no way of knowing, and the more he thought about it, the more he felt his throat close up. 

“Maybe I will have to be gladiator at Halloween next year, then,” Ilya added after a minute. 

That brought Shane out of the fog that had been thickening around him. It made him laugh, too, warming him from the inside out. At least Ilya knew where he was going to be, next year. He had a plan. He was just getting started with his college career. He had three and a half more years to figure out his next move. Maybe less, if he got drafted. But still. 

At least Ilya would still be at Harvard. 

At least Shane could count on being able to watch Ilya’s games. 

He snuggled down against his pillows, wiggling atop the comforter until he was nearly fully horizontal. The room was spinning. Shane pulled one of the strings from the hoodie he wore and popped it into his mouth. He was met with a salty taste on his tongue. 

“I’m so high,” Shane sighed, the string between his teeth. 

“Yes,” Ilya nodded. “Me too.” Shane watched as Ilya placed the framed gladiator photo on the nightstand beside him. “I don’t know how you are alive after that first hit.”

“I’m barely hanging on,” Shane admitted, mashing the thick cotton hoodie string between his molars. He recounted the day’s activities in his brain, just to do something to keep himself awake. The skating had been phenomenal, even with the crappy ice conditions and his fall. How bad could it have been, when he had Ilya there to rescue him? He’d been talked into eating McDonald’s, which, perhaps the Real Shane would have vehemently declined, but Winter Break Shane seemed to accept it pretty quickly. He was proud of himself, actually, for that. He sort of wanted some more fries right now. Then Shane’s mind traveled to their dinner conversation, to Ilya’s admission. But the more he thought about it, the more questions popped into Shane's head. Was Ilya at just Havard for the degree? For the exposure to the NHL? 

Shane let the wet string drop out of his mouth. Then, after a minute, he asked: “So, why did you even come to Harvard?”

Ilya looked down at him then, with a soft smile that spoke of something deeper.

“You definitely could have just been drafted,” Shane continued, recalling the story of the decision that befell their best recruit last year. Should he leave Russia, leave the KHL, leave his home, just to come to play some college hockey? Should he enter the draft, skip the whole university nonsense, and sign with a team to make millions? 

Ilya shrugged, seemingly disinterested in the conversation. He scooted down the bed, resting more easily on his side, face to face with Shane, his head on a pillow. 

“Harvard is the best,” Ilya said easily. Like it was the obvious answer. “Will help me get job. Lots of money. I already tell you this.” 

“I mean, I guess, but like,” Shane struggled for the words. “You could have skipped all that, though.” He shook his head, wondering how Ilya didn’t see it. “Like, you could be making a million dollars right now playing hockey in the league, you wouldn’t have to take fucking finance classes or worry about the team grade point average or any of that bullshit.”

Ilya shrugged. “I like college parties,” he supplied, a little defensively. 

“I don’t believe you,” Shane shot back, with a little smirk. 

“Ah, believe what you want.”   

“I believe that you’re a liar,” Shane teased, his words slurring. 

Ilya’s pursed lips twisted into a shy smile. He scrubbed a hand over his face, his fingers dragging into his hair with eyes closed. When he opened them, Shane felt flustered, assaulted with that honeyed-green gaze. 

“You really want to know this?” 

“Yeah, I do,” Shane said without thinking. Wait, what if it was something bad?

“What if I tell you,” Ilya began, before curling into himself with laughter. Embarrassment, maybe. He whispered to himself in Russian, a few consonant-heavy sounds, before looking back up at Shane. 

“Is stupid,” Ilya confessed. He looked so boyish like this, curled up onto himself, lying opposite Shane in his bed. It felt a little bit like they were both boys, like they were just kids at a sleepover, breath falling all over one another from talking close, sharing secrets before they eventually failed their mission of staying up all night, surrendering and nodding off to sleep. Ilya’s curls were frizzy, mussed from rubbing against the pillow and his hands running through them. His glassy eyes, though ringed with red from the weed, still shone that other-worldly hazel in the low light. Ilya’s loose grin now was like nothing Shane could recall seeing on the boy’s face before. He looked so utterly free, like nothing could weigh him down there.  

“Tell me,” Shane whispered. 

Ilya leaned in an inch closer. They weren’t nose to nose or anything, not even close. But still, he leaned. 

“Maybe I come to Harvard to play hockey with you, Shane Hollander.” 

Shane’s lips parted. 

It wasn’t what he was expecting. Not at all. 

He wasn’t sure how to respond. He wasn’t sure he could respond. 

For a second there, he almost believed him. 

Then he let out a laugh. 

“No way,” he chuckled. 

“Yes, way,” Ilya said, more seriously, nodding. 

“You’re full of shit,” Shane retorted. 

“No, I am serious.” 

Shane took in the younger boy’s expression, searching his face for even a drop of insincerity and coming up short. 

“Really?”

“Really,” Ilya replied, now having the decency to look at least a little bashful. “I watch you in game, on my official visit, and I was… wow.” He made a face like he was stunned, his eyes widening and brows lifting dramatically. “You were wow.” 

“No way,” Shane said again, trying not to show how giddy he was feeling. His eyelids felt heavy as he smiled. He closed them for a moment, feeling like a weighted blanket had fallen over his body as the darkness surrounded him. 

“Yes, is true,” Ilya said sardonically.

Shane fluttered his eyes open again. 

“Hm?” 

“Is true. My awful, stupid, fucked up true story. I move to United States and attend university so I can play hockey with Shane fucking Hollander.” His voice drawled through the sentence. He sounded sleepy. 

“No way,” Shane repeated. It sounded so fake, the way Ilya described it. Was he just trying to get a rise out of Shane? “You’re lying.” 

Well, even if he was, it wasn’t going to work. Because Shane knew he had about five seconds to go before sleep fully pulled him under. 

“I wish it was lie,” Ilya said through a yawn. 

Shane let his eyes droop shut. He held his smile. 

“You watched me in one game and decided you wanted to play on the same team?” 

“Ah, no. Not exactly.” Shane knew it was too good to be true, until he heard the follow-up. “I watch your games back, after that, on YouTube. Old game tape. And I watched the game livestream, too, sometimes, when I could. I… had to see you. You are like… so beautiful to me. Your game. Is beautiful.”

The low rumble of Ilya’s voice was so soothing. It was odd to hear it this way, wrapped around sweet words. Normally, his voice dripped with sarcasm, with antagony and disdain. He described watching Shane’s tapes the way one would watch an opponent’s, trying to learn their game. It sounded almost like the way Shane liked to study Ilya, from afar. The way he would focus on the freshman whenever he watched a play, laser focused on the way Ilya would move. He sounded so sincere, so genuine. Almost… enamored, even. But Shane’s eyes had been closed a while, so Shane couldn’t say for sure. He kind of liked not fully knowing. 

“I thought, if going to this school means I play one game with Shane Hollander, it will be worth it.” 

Shane had to drag himself back from the depths of that place between sleeping and waking to offer Rozanov a response.

“Wow,” was all Shane could manage through a yawn, his eyes fluttering closed. 

“Mmm.” Ilya hummed. Then, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, Shane could have sworn he heard: “You are so beautiful.”

Shane left his jaw slack after that, his shoulders releasing the tension he’d been holding there all day. Finally he could fight it no more, and Shane let himself drift off into oblivion. 

Chapter End Notes

weeeeeelllllll

i know i know when will they kiss yadda yadda IT'S COMING i promise!!! you think i am asshole? i would not leave you like that. just stick with me kids and you won't be disappointed.

this was my favorite chapter to write for so many reasons and i really hope you enjoyed...

i love reading all of your wonderful comments so so much!!! i am really not used to getting this kind of response to my fics so sometimes it takes me a min to reply to comments but i promise i always do <3 i am so overwhelmed by the positive reaction to this story like it's truly blowing me away!!

i think the next few chapters will all be about this length in word count, if not longer... i'm sorry about that but Things need to Happen

should have it up in about a week!

Chapter 8: December 30th

Chapter Notes

December 30th

The first thing that Shane noticed when he started to wake was that he never got under the covers the night before. 

He wasn’t particularly cold, but it was an odd sort of feeling. He usually couldn’t fall asleep without a blanket, even for a nap. He felt too exposed. Too vulnerable. 

Then, as he regained his senses one by one, he realized how much felt out of place. 

He was wearing jeans; not sweats, not pajama pants. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept in anything other than boxers. The jeans were uncomfortable, the seams digging into his hip bones, and his belt like a vice around his waist. Why hadn’t he taken his pants off? Outside clothes were absolutely not permitted on his bed in any way. How the fuck did he end up in bed fully clothed? 

His mouth was dry, and his throat ached. Like he was sick, maybe. A sore throat, but not quite. He felt no congestion, only the twinge of heat. 

He was curled in on himself, not exactly fetal position, but close. With his chin tucked against his chest, Shane took a deep breath in, eyes still squeezed shut, unsure he was ready for the morning light. He inhaled a familiar, spicy scent, something he’d grown accustomed to, though it wasn’t his own. It took Shane another moment, putting the pieces together from the night before, to realize it felt like Ilya was all around him.

Against Shane’s skin was his sweatshirt, Ilya’s sweatshirt, the one he’d taken off the night before at the skating rink. The one he’d dressed Shane in himself. It smelled so strongly of the freshman, of his teenage body odor and his attempt to cover it up with piney gel deodorant. The hood was bunched up around Shane’s neck, and he wondered if maybe he’d smell like Ilya all day after having worn it all night long. Or maybe he’d left some of his own smells on the garment for Ilya to find later on. 

It was instinct that caused Shane to curl deeper into himself, to breathe the other boy in on his skin, to soak in a moment he’d probably never have again. 

To pretend he was sleeping in bed with Ilya. 

Shane murmured under his breath as he moved, wincing in his too-tight pants, wishing he could be more comfortable. Wishing to fall back asleep for a few more hours in the warmth of the idea of Ilya’s embrace. He stretched out his legs, his ankles cracking as he pointed and flexed his toes, when his foot pressed against something. He gave the solid mass a nudge, wondering if he’d taken his shoes off in bed, feeling utterly disgusted with himself at the prospect. 

But then, something nudged him back. 

And Shane opened his eyes. 

Ilya Rozanov was asleep in his bed. Facing him, curled onto his side, a perfect mirror image. 

What had happened the night before, exactly, that brought this on? How the fuck had Shane ended up in this situation? How had he convinced Rozanov to get in bed with him?

And why the fuck did the Shane of the night before allow either of them to wear jeans in his bed?

More pieces came back to him in rapid succession; the bathroom ventilator, the pungent stench of weed, the acrid burn in his throat. Finding Ilya in his room, looking at his photos. Ilya climbing onto his bed, uninvited, uncaring. 

They’d talked about school, hadn’t they? About hockey?

About how Shane was the reason Ilya even came to Harvard in the first place. 

Or had he made that up in his head? 

Nothing had happened, surely. Nothing could have. Shane was pretty sure he was unconscious for half of that conversation, if it hadn’t been a dream. He’d fallen asleep while Rozanov was talking. He couldn’t have embarrassed himself too bad, right? 

Shane supposed there was no real way of knowing. He could only find out what Ilya would tell him. And, between the veil of sarcasm and deprecation, it was anyone’s guess if Ilya would be truthful or not. 

Shane was struck then, not for the first time, at how young Ilya looked in his sleep. How soft and sweet. His plush lips were parted slightly, almost pursed, though relaxed. His eyelashes were so long; Shane had never really noticed that before. The perfect peaks of his top lip made Shane’s stomach flip. He really looked like a statue, like ancient art. A face cut from marble. A face thousands, no, millions, might pay a fee at a museum just to look upon. 

Ilya’s eyelids began to flutter. 

The freshman shifted in his sleep, rustling like he always did just before he woke. Shane shut his eyes on instinct, tried to keep his face soft and neutral. Playing dead. He wasn't sure why, but that seemed to make the most sense. He didn’t want to be caught staring. Couldn’t conceive of being caught in that moment and not freaking out, not running away as soon as he saw Ilya in his bed. What would Ilya even say?

Shane heard Ilya’s breathing deepen, heard a groan rumble in his chest. Felt him shift around, stretching out further. Felt their feet nudge again. 

The freshman muttered something under his breath, in Russian, Shane assumed. He couldn’t really hear it. It would be hard to pretend he was asleep now, with Ilya moving around and clearly waking, so he chose to give up the charade. Shane blinked his eyes open a few times, not quite theatrically, but hopefully it was convincing enough. 

With open eyes, he looked right into Ilya’s, the other boy’s soft, blinking gently. 

“Hi,” Ilya breathed, his expression unmoving. 

“Hi,” Shane repeated, squirming a few inches back on his bed, realizing how truly close they were. Ilya copied the motion, though it looked half like he was just making himself more comfortable on Shane’s pillows. The clock on Shane’s nightstand read half-past ten.

“Sorry I, uh, fell asleep,” Shane apologized, dragging the nail of his middle finger over the cuticle of his thumb, picking at healing skin. “I was really high.” 

Ilya hummed, which turned into a yawn, which turned into him stretching, his chest expanding, pressing forward, his arm lifting to cover his mouth with the back of his wrist. At this proximity, Shane could see the details of Ilya’s bottom teeth before they were covered; sharp, jagged little things, uneven and crowded in his jaw. 

“No, no, is okay,” Ilya said through his yawn. “We both did.” 

“Right,” Shane replied after a second, unsure where to go next. And why did you sleep in my bed? Why are you still here now?

Shane started to sit up, pressing against the mattress with his hands, forcing himself to a near seated position against the pillows. Ilya watched him for a moment from his prone position before he took the hint. 

“I did not mean to stay,” Ilya said as he rolled off the bed, getting to his feet. “I am sorry.” It was impossible to say for sure, but Shane couldn’t help but notice a bulge in the freshman’s jeans. 

“No, it’s fine,” Shane said quickly. “I mean… It was just an accident. We fell asleep.” 

“Yes,” Ilya responded, his mouth a tight line. “I will go now. Shower.” 

“Yeah, cool,” Shane sighed in response. He watched Ilya walk away and pull his bedroom door closed. Finally alone, Shane sucked in a deep breath and crumpled down against the pillows, throwing his arms over his face. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, surrounded by Ilya’s heady musk that seemed imbued in the cotton he wore. “Jesus Christ.” 

***

‘can you get a hangover from weed’ Shane typed diligently into his phone after a few more hours of sleep and a shower. He felt different than he would after a normal night, and definitely didn’t feel the same as he would after a night of drinking. Something was off. He felt foggy and lethargic. Just… out of it. When had they even gone to sleep? It couldn’t have been all that late. But the winter darkness always made that hard to evaluate. Every night seemed so much longer.

Shane had Ilya’s sweatshirt in his hands, the one he’d borrowed skating. The one he’d slept in all night. Now it sort of smelled like them both. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he placed it down gingerly on the armrest of the couch, unsure if he should just hand the thing over to Rozanov or what. Hey thanks for letting me borrow your sweatshirt that I definitely also have in my closet, Shane thought wildly. I liked wearing yours way more because it smelled like you. 

Eventually Shane made his way into the kitchen to find Ilya hunched over a bowl of Trix cereal, wondering if the freshman felt similarly affected after smoking the night before. Maybe he just looked less out of it than he felt. Ilya’s curls were tight and clean after his own shower, nothing like the messy, unruly spools of the night before. His eyes still looked a little glassy, though. A little pink around the edges. 

“I was thinking to go for run,” Ilya said eventually as Shane stirred some granola into a yogurt cup. Shane looked up a few seconds later, his own reactions a little delayed. “Is nice out.” 

Was… was he serious?

Shane felt like he was only able to walk still by the grace of God. He wasn’t sure how it was happening, but it was, so he wasn’t gonna question it. Going for a run felt like a bridge too far. 

“Cool,” Shane said offhandedly, eyes returning to the yogurt in his hand. 

“Want to come?” 

Shane looked up again to find Ilya’s face neutral. 

“I don’t know,” Shane replied, mindlessly stirring. He wasn’t even sure he was hungry for the breakfast he was preparing. He felt unsure of pretty much everything, actually. “I feel really weird. Like, still high, kinda.” 

Ilya nodded, humming around a bite of cereal. 

“Me too,” he said. “But, might feel better. To sweat.”

“Right, yeah,” Shane replied robotically. He supposed his only exercise the day before had been skating laps around the Frog Pond, and that could hardly be considered cardio. It probably would feel good to sweat it out, as Ilya said. Maybe he’d go back to feeling normal. 

“Just, um. Give me, like, an hour?” 

“Of course,” Ilya nodded, getting up from the table with his empty bowl. “Just let me know.” 

***

Ilya had been right about at least one thing: it was nice out. 

They both wore shorts for the run, which was perhaps a little ambitious; it wasn’t that warm. But they were in motion the whole time, and Shane would have definitely gotten too hot in tights. They also both wore long sleeve under armour shirts. Shane wore a plain black one, not Harvard-branded, to avoid the inevitable matching. They started off running on sidewalks, which, while cleared of snow, were frequently too tight to run side by side due to the snowbanks. They’d pass through the tight spots single-file, before Ilya suggested they head towards the river. 

The path along the Charles was cleared well enough to run side by side. For the first mile or so, Shane felt like was still trying to dig back inside his own head, the fog surrounding his thoughts thick and dense. He didn’t even bring headphones. But then again, neither did Ilya. Ilya seemed fine; maybe a little subdued, but overall, fine. Good. Normal. Cheerful, even, maybe. He turned his head to look at Shane every few minutes, only to snap it back and look forward as soon as Shane would look up at him. 

Fuck, why was he looking at Shane? 

Anxiety crept in as they traversed the path along the icy river. What had he done the night before that was causing Ilya to… stare at him? 

Shane felt the competitive spirit return between the two of them when Ilya increased his pace just a bit. Shane forced his legs to cooperate, thundering against the paved path, headed towards downtown Boston along the river’s edge. Shane couldn’t let Rozanov have it, not even for a second, and eventually their jog turned into an all-out sprint. They were forced to stop at a crosswalk, where Shane was first to reach the crossing pole, hitting the button with a satisfied sigh like it was the finish line. The city skyline loomed large ahead of them, across the river and the Mass Ave bridge, overcast sky reflecting in the tall buildings’ windows. 

Shane huffed as he shifted his weight from one foot to another. 

“Are we gonna race the whole way home?” 

Ilya sniffled, wiping his nose and grinning. He replied with another question. 

“Do you feel normal yet?” 

“No,” Shane admitted, still a little dizzy.

“Then yes, we race,” Ilya teased, taking one step out onto the street as cars continued to pass by. The walk signal hadn’t come on yet; the cars still had their green light. 

Shane groaned in response. 

***

Shane hated that Ilya had been right about another thing. 

Though the run was senselessly competitive, the strain did something good for Shane, brought him closer to normal. Though, about halfway through the run he realized even if the weed wore off, he may be feeling weird forever, given the fact that Ilya Rozanov had slept in his bed last night. From that one, he’d probably never recover. Maybe this was just Shane now, the new Shane. Shane who flew a little too close to the sun, forever doomed to live with those consequences. 

It was late afternoon by the time they got home. Shane was starving after four miles on an empty stomach. He deeply regretted his choice not to eat his yogurt and granola in the morning. 

Ilya seemed to feel similarly, because when Shane came downstairs from his shower, he found the freshman crouched in front of the fridge, rooting around inside.

“Only ginger fucking ale,” Ilya muttered in a stage whisper, clearing hoping Shane would hear. Shane approached him from behind, and Ilya stood to his full height. 

“I am starving,” the freshman said quickly, looking at Shane with clear disdain. “I will die soon, I think.” 

Shane rolled his eyes. “I’ll be sure to send some flowers to the funeral.” 

“Am not being funny, Hollander,” Ilya fired back, placing a hand over his belly and crumpling forward, his brows knitting together over squinted eyes. “The end is close.” 

“Okay, well,” Shane shoved him out of the way, bending over to peer inside the fridge. “We have–”

“Nothing,” Ilya supplied with a huff. 

“Not nothing,” Shane corrected, though by the looks of his fridge, it was pretty barren. “We have–” he noticed a package of raw chicken breasts that were rapidly approaching the sell date, a jar of mustard, shredded mozzarella, a carton of eggs, and a bag of baby carrots that were starting to pale with age. It was always times like these when Shane hated himself, just a little, for being an ingredient person. Wordlessly, he turned away from the fridge and opened the pantry, peering around for something that might tie a meal together. 

Then he found spaghetti, followed by a jar of pasta sauce, flour, and breadcrumbs. 

“Oh, perfect,” Shane breathed a sigh of relief, his stomach grumbling. “We can make chicken parm.” 

“We?” Ilya’s eyebrows shot up. “What is perm?” 

Shane scoffed. “Yes, we, it’ll go a lot faster that way,” he reasoned. “It’s Italian. Chicken parmesan. I mean, probably not real Italian. But it’s chicken breast with breadcrumbs and cheese and pasta. It’s really good.” 

Ilya looked at him skeptically. “How long is lot faster?” 

Shane did some math in his mind, realizing the chicken would need to be fried up on its own, dressed in flour and egg and breadcrumbs, before they could even think of putting it in the oven with sauce and cheese. Not to mention cooking the pasta. 

“It’ll take a little while,” Shane admitted finally, over Ilya’s groaning. “But, we have–” he turned back to the fridge, pulling out the bag of sad looking baby carrots, “these to snack on.”

“I do not understand you,” Ilya deadpanned, scowling at the carrots. 

“This is what I have to offer,” Shane followed up, throwing his hands up. “We make this all the time at home. I promise it’ll be worth the wait.” 

Ilya seemed to be coming around to the idea. 

“I want to drink.”

The sentiment surprised Shane. 

“What?!” 

“If I have to wait so long, I want to drink,” Ilya repeated, shrugging his shoulders as though it made perfect sense. 

“Um,” Shane stammered, unsure how to respond. It didn’t seem like the best idea, to drink on an empty stomach, but then again, Ilya had eaten cereal that morning for breakfast. Shane had to admit, also, that he pictured a meal like this with a bottle of nice red wine, like his parents would have at home. Something Italian probably, fruity and deep. His mother was usually the wine expert, not Shane. But he could fake it well enough. “Yeah, wine would go well with this,” Shane began, opening the kitchen cabinet where they stored the liquor. “I don’t think we have any red–”

“No, no, no, I mean vodka,” Ilya interrupted, peering into the cabinet over Shane’s shoulder. 

“Oh, that we have,” Shane said quickly, reaching for the handle of Tito’s.

Ilya made a wretching sound behind Shane’s ear. 

“No fucking way,” he said with his nose wrinkled up in disgust. “I am not drinking this American bullshit.” 

“Okay,” Shane sighed, exasperated. “I don’t know what you want, then.” 

Ilya shrugged nonchalantly. “I will go buy some.” 

“What?”

“I will go to corner store,” Ilya said, painfully slow, like Shane was the one who didn’t understand English as a first language, “and I will buy good Russian vodka. And chips. So I do not starve.”

“How?” Shane spluttered. “You’re not 21.” 

“I have fake,” Ilya puckered his lips and reeled back, like it was so obvious. “But they do not card me, usually. I look very old and mature, if you do not know this” 

“You can’t–” Shane groaned, his frustration never-ending. Fake ids were generally a no-no in the Harvard athletics community, despite most underclassmen having them. There had been a whole scandal last year when a sophomore on women’s lacrosse had to be hospitalized due to alcohol poisoning, and the athletic director suspended the team for a week after learning all the underage girls had fakes. “You can’t tell me things like that,” Shane hissed, “I’m your captain–”

“Mmm, sorry, Captain,” Ilya hummed, reaching forward to slap Shane’s cheek playfully. “Please do not tell on me.” 

With that, he turned to leave. Shane caught him looking back once, a tight smile pulling at his lips. 

***

With Ilya out of the house, Shane tidied up the kitchen a bit, getting out ingredients and cookware for the elaborate meal. He wasn’t sure why he felt a stirring in his belly as he went through the motions, anticipation swirling inside him like he was about to go out onto the ice. 

Shane didn’t cook for pleasure a lot. He cooked, yes, but never really enjoyed the process of it. Mostly, food was fuel, and that’s how Shane looked at meal prep, too. Baked chicken with some garlic powder was nothing to dance around about. It was a necessity. Brown rice bloating in the rice cooker didn’t exactly make him want to sing Whitney Houston into a wooden spoon. 

That was always more his mother’s thing. Dad’s, too, actually. 

His parents always had fun together in the kitchen. It was never just one person’s job, one parent’s job, to make the meal. They pretty much always made dinner together, all three of them, and made a show of it. Mom would already have a glass of wine going, Dad would throw on a CD, something tried and true. Shane had watched his parents slow dance to Van Morrison in the kitchen more times than he cared to admit. Back when he was little, he’d pull a face whenever they started acting all mushy like that, which would often lead to a tickle fight or a game of tag around the house. 

Now, in his early adult years, Shane would be lying if he said he didn’t want a life like that of his own.

He wasn’t really sure that he knew what that would look like, or with who. If it would ever even happen. But he hadn’t given up the dream quite yet. 

Completely unrelatedly, Shane thought it might be nice to play some music. He knew JJ had a bluetooth speaker somewhere in his room. It would probably make more sense to have the music on by the time Ilya returned; it would be almost awkward to bring it up once he was already back, Shane figured. So, he searched and he scored, finding the speaker just where he’d last seen it, on JJ’s desk in his room. 

The countertop was cluttered with ingredients; shredded mozzarella and a carton of eggs and the bag of flour, stored in another ziploc bag because Mitty ripped the paper one while haphazardly trying to bake chocolate chip cookies a few months ago. Shane started to scoop flour out into a bowl for the chicken prep and almost wished for an apron, considering how much flour and grease would probably get on his clothes in the cooking process. He contemplated going upstairs to change when the front door creaked open. 

Ilya’s low, sultry voice could be heard over the tinkling of piano and ukulele playing from the speaker in the background. Shane heard the rustling of a paper bag, too, beneath the rumble of Ilya’s voice. 

He was speaking Russian again, in that same sort of dulcet tone, warm and quick and deep. He was laughing, groaning and rubbing a hand over his face as he entered the kitchen, brown paper bag in the other hand. Shane could hear him saying da, da, da through the laughter. His cheeks were pink with cold. 

“Да, да, пока,” he said brightly, eyes now locked on Shane’s across the kitchen, grinning. “Ты несешь херню. Пока.” He pulled the phone away from his face and hung up, smile still blazing like summer sunlight. He walked the rest of the way across the room, pulling a clear glass bottle out of the bag and plunking it down onto the countertop. Shane might have recognized the brand, though he wasn’t too sure. He wasn’t a big drinker himself, and vodka certainly wasn’t his personal poison. If anything, maybe he’d be having rum and coke, since that was Hayden’s drink of choice, and Shane refused to taint the flavor of ginger ale with something as putrid as hard alcohol. 

“Nice,” Shane said sarcastically as he looked at the bottle. The label was written in Russian, the unknown Cyrillic letters dancing across the bottle like they held a secret. 

Ilya shrugged. “Is best I can find. Not many options.” The second item he pulled from the brown paper bag was a family-sized bag of salt and vinegar potato chips. Ilya’s eyebrows jumped once as he pulled the bag apart at the seam, reached in, and popped a chip into his mouth. He then looked around, then up at the ceiling with a confused sort of expression, eyebrows knitting together. 

“What is this?” 

Shane sniffed instinctively, wondering if Ilya was smelling something, then realized he hadn’t even started cooking. He must have been asking about the music. 

“Oh,” Shane murmured. “It’s Jack Johnson.” 

Ilya hummed a short note, his lips pursed. 

“I can turn it off, if–”

“No, no,” Ilya shook his head. “Leave. I like it.” 

Shane was almost surprised by that; it seemed like another perfect opportunity for an insult, a quip about how of course boring Shane Hollander would like boring Jack Johnson. Even Shane could admit Jack was a little boring, but his music was nice, and he thought it felt right for the mood. 

Light. Easy.

“Okay,” Ilya said as he crammed another few potato chips in his mouth. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together, turning to the cabinets. He pulled out two low juice glasses and set them on the counter, then cracked open the seal of the lid on the vodka. He poured a generous serving into one glass, and repeated the same in the second one. Shane watched him expectantly, waiting for a bit more flourish than simply vodka in a cup, but as Ilya handed over the ‘drink’, Shane realized he’d be expected to drink it straight. 

“We’re not gonna mix it with anything?” 

Ilya glowered. “This is not for mixing. This is really nice vodka.” 

Grimacing, Shane moved toward the fridge. He wasn’t really trying to mix ginger ale into his vodka, but he had to do something. 

“I need a mixer,” Shane insisted, opening the fridge. “Orange juice, or something–”

Then, the door slammed shut in front of his face, Ilya’s body blocking access to the refrigerator. Shane found himself, not for the first time, accidentally a few inches from Ilya’s groin. 

“If you mix this vodka with orange juice, I will kill you,” Ilya sneered disapprovingly. “Would be terrible waste.” 

Shane groaned as he stood to his full height, gripping the glass of vodka in his hand. 

“Fine,” he hissed, and Ilya’s eyes narrowed a bit as he smiled. 

Ilya hummed, looking around the kitchen at the ingredients strewn about. 

“Okay, mister chef. Where do you want me?”

***

The vodka wasn’t terrible. It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t terrible. 

It was more drinkable than the vodka Shane was used to, he’d give Ilya that much. Still had a harsh sort of bite to it, and Shane still gagged a little when it hit the back of his throat. But it was better than the shitty Svekda or Skyy or whatever he was used to. The more he had of it, the less disgusting it became. 

It hadn’t exactly been Shane’s intention, but cooking together almost, sort of, in a very small way… felt like home. The vodka definitely greased his wheels, which Shane knew probably wouldn’t end well for him in the morning, but still. After one glass, he was feeling light and floaty, and even through Ilya’s teasing, Shane was smiling. The familiar melodies of early Jack Johnson made him feel warm inside. Ilya poured them both another glassful once they were empty. It was definitely more than a single shot’s worth, both pours were, which made Shane wonder about ounces and percentages. How much was he really drinking? His face felt hot, and in the kitchen window he saw his reflection, finding his cheeks practically scarlet with blush. At least he could blame that one on the alcohol. 

He had Ilya take care of making the pasta, because that felt like the hardest thing to fuck up. Shane handled the chicken prep, though Ilya watched him like a hawk, with commentary to boot. As the chef’s knife sliced through the pale pink meat on the cutting board, Ilya seemed unable to help himself. 

“So, is your first time touching breasts?” 

“Jesus Christ,” Shane scoffed, unable to contain the laughter. Had he been more sober, it might have rattled him; perhaps he’d have interpreted it as taunting, like Ilya knew the secret of his sexuality and he was lording it over Shane’s head. But now, with the helpful buzz, Shane simply laughed it off, even as Ilya continued to riff, they are very sensitive thing, you know? Do not squeeze too hard. You must handle with care.   

It looked a little chaotic in the kitchen as they wrapped up, some spilled tomato sauce on the stove and dribbles of yellow egg on the countertop. Shane hadn’t really realized how many steps there were in this process, even if he had done it enough at home. Mom usually took care of most of it, looking back. He was dreading cleaning up the kitchen afterward. Actually, given the fact that he was two ‘drinks’ in, Shane wasn’t sure the kitchen was getting cleaned tonight at all. Maybe he could find peace in the idea of doing the dishes tomorrow morning. 

The vodka was going down easy for Ilya as well, but he was handling it better than Shane. The freshman piled an enormous serving of pasta onto his plate, then took two thick chicken breasts with a generous ladle of sauce and dusting of melty mozzarella on top, golden brown and bubbling when they came out of the oven. He walked his plate over to the dining table and set it down. The puzzle on the table was mostly complete now, and could easily be gently pushed to the other side. Shane followed Ilya over, his plate in one hand, glass in the other, the bottle of vodka stashed between his elbow and his chest. 

Dinner was delicious. 

It wasn’t exactly how Shane remembered it tasting, but that was probably for a few reasons. He could never find the same sauce they used at home in Canada there in the states. And the breadcrumbs had a slightly different flavor. He also had never eaten this meal with vodka as the drink pairing. But all together, it was delicious, and Ilya made no effort to hide his delight. He rolled his eyes back dramatically when he took his first bite, moaning and throwing his head back hedonistically. Shane watched his adam’s apple bobble in his exposed throat. 

“Fuck, Hollander, this is fucking good,” Ilya managed, mouth full. 

Shane grinned. “Worth the wait?” 

Ilya nodded, eyebrows scrunched together to emphasize how serious he was. 

“Better than Annenberg?” 

It was a callback to their first night together, when Ilya had proclaimed Shane could never live up to the dining hall’s vast options. 

“They are nowhere close to this,” Ilya said, shaking his head earnestly, twirling more spaghetti on his fork. 

Beneath the table, Shane felt something knock against his foot. He tapped back, instinctively, just knocking the side of his foot against whatever was there. A smile curled Ilya’s lips, and he tapped Shane’s foot again with his own. Shane felt a bit like a fish on a hook, caught and wriggling, lured in by something that sparkled.

***

After they’d both had second helpings, they cleared their plates and Shane rinsed them off in the sink. The pull of the vodka was strong, calling to him to ignore responsibilities and leave the dirty dishes for the morning. Ilya seemed grateful he didn’t have to help. 

“Want to watch something?” 

Shane was drying his hands off with a dishrag when Ilya asked. The freshman was topping up both their drinks, pouring more icy clear liquid into the juice glasses. 

“Oh, um,” Shane almost reached out to stop him, to tell him not to waste the liquor. Fuck, he wasn’t sure he wanted to keep drinking. He was already due for a nasty hangover tomorrow, and if he kept it up, he’d probably be flat on his back all day. 

And they had plans to party tomorrow night, as well. 

At the swim house. For fucking New Year’s. 

“I was actually gonna head to bed,” Shane admitted softly, bringing his thumb to his lips to bite away a bit of frayed skin at his cuticle. This seemed to deflate Ilya a bit, taking the wind from his sails. His shoulders dropped, and his face went flat. 

“Ah,” Ilya’s eyes flicked to the ground. “Okay.” 

Guilt pulled at Shane’s heartstrings. Did Rozanov look… was he… sad? 

“Bruins have game tonight,” Ilya added with a little shrug, looking back up to catch Shane’s eye. His head tilted to the side just a few degrees. He seemed a little bit put out. Shane had honestly completely forgotten the game would be on. 

“Oh, shit, you’re right,” Shane remarked, perking up and looking around the room for a clock. The microwave read 9:54 PM. “Fuck, did we miss it?” 

“No, is late game. West Coast. Ten o’clock puck drop.” Ilya supplied quickly, his eyes glossy and wide. Like he was hopeful. “I check.” 

“Oh,” Shane sighed, recognizing that they were actually… perfectly on time. “Great. Yeah, okay, let’s watch.” 

***

God, the Canucks were fucking bad. And Shane felt entitled to say that on several fronts; as a Canadian, a Montreal fan, a Bruins fan, and as a hockey player in general. The Canucks were so fucking bad. The way they’d been playing all season sort of made one wonder how on earth they even made it to the Stanley Cup finals just three years prior. 

The Bruins were up 5-0, so by the middle of the second period, the boys were hardly paying attention to the game anymore. If there was a goal scored, they’d catch it on the instant replay.

They were a little too caught up in each other to care. 

The conversation flowed easily between them now. A forest of comfort had grown between them over the last week, Shane had come to realize. He was suddenly overcome with how well he knew this boy. Which made his behavior all the more amusing. Ilya was laughing in a way Shane had never seen before, actually laughing, like he truly thought Shane’s jokes were funny tonight. His face was red as a tomato, and Shane was pretty sure he looked similar, with all that vodka now coursing through his veins. His heartbeat was in his throat, and wondered if he looked closely in the mirror, would his carotid artery would be visible jumping around in his neck? It certainly felt that way. Shane placed his glass on the coffee table and pressed his hand to his neck, trying to relieve some of the warmth he was emitting there with the damp condensation that had been collecting in his palm. 

The game gave way to a commercial break, and Shane reclaimed his glass, taking another sip of his drink. The vodka was a familiar taste by that point, a familiar burn. The room wasn’t spinning, exactly, but it definitely was wobbling a bit. He was drunk. Of this, Shane was absolutely certain. He was very drunk. 

The commercials rolled, and Shane thought about his parents. He thought about his parents watching NHL games at home on tv. He thought about his parents, at home, watching his NHL games on tv. A dream that could very soon become a reality. If all went according to plan. 

His parents would probably visit a lot, though. It wasn’t too long of a flight from Ottawa, so they’d come around enough, Shane was sure. Especially for his first home game. His parents would definitely be there. No matter where he was playing. 

Though he really hoped it would be Boston. 

Shane was getting a little ahead of himself, but he couldn’t help it. Not in his inebriated state. He smiled a little, to himself, thinking about it. The dream. His dream. 

“Why are you smiling?” 

Shane had sort of forgotten he could be seen. He felt like he was safe inside his own bubble of buzz, but of course he wasn’t alone. He hadn’t been for a week now. 

“Thinking about my parents,” Shane replied honestly. “Sorry, that sounds so weird,” he said with a chuckle when Ilya’s face showed confusion. “Just like. I dunno. Yeah.” 

Ilya shrugged, seeming to accept Shane’s vague answer. Then, because the alcohol had steamrolled over all of Shane’s inhibitions, he asked:

“What’s your family like?” 

Ilya looked at him with his eyes hard now, unflinching. He was guarded all over again, the wall that had come down for the night was back up with a moment’s notice. Shane loathed to make him uncomfortable. 

“Why?”

Shane shrugged in response, trying to play it off. The freshman clearly wasn’t expecting the question, despite having heard about Shane’s family at length. 

“I dunno, I’ve told you a lot about mine,” Shane reasoned, face burning with blush.

Ilya’s lips were pursed, like he was contemplating something, though he looked a little bit like he did earlier, when Shane almost went to bed. He looked… sad, again. 

“Sorry, I just,” Shane scrambled for something to say. “I just assumed you were talking to them on the phone earlier, when you got back,” he explained. 

“Ah,” Ilya nodded once. “No,” he shook his head. “Just friend.” 

Right, Shane thought to himself. This much Shane already knew, or thought he did, at least. It was probably that Russian girl he’d mentioned, the one from tennis. Sasha? Svetlana? Ilya had said she was a good friend, or something. They hung out a lot, presumably. It wasn’t the first time Shane had heard him on the phone, talking like that. 

“Family is… not so good, for me,” Ilya admitted, looking down at his legs beneath the blanket, much to Shane’s surprise. He wanted to tell the boy he could stop, that he didn’t have to explain himself, ever, to Shane. That he didn’t have to say a single word, and Shane would still take him in. Shane almost didn’t want to know, now, because of the weakness it would bring out in him. What did not so good mean to someone like Ilya? How would Shane be able to handle it?

Then he remembered what Ilya had said before, all the little ways he’d let things slip. 

Then I will never have to go back to Russia again. 

Shane’s heart lurched in his chest.

“Oh?” As Shane spoke, Ilya’s eyes snapped up to meet his. “Sorry, fuck. I mean, you don’t have to say any more, you don’t have to–” 

“Is okay, just… a lot, in English,” Ilya offered, his expression softening. He brought his glass to his lips, opening his jaw and draining the rest of the vodka in his glass. 

“You don’t have to explain–”

“I am not going to,” Ilya interrupted, a watery half-smile on his face. He put the glass down on the table and brought his attention back to Shane. “I did not want to go home, at all,” Ilya said quietly. He angled himself to be facing Shane now, completely, his left hip pressed into the back of the couch, his legs tucked up underneath him. He leaned his head down on the couch cushion, resting on his cheek, and once again Shane was struck by how impossibly young this man could look. 

“I don’t want to see him, my father, to… even to hear his voice. He is…” Ilya shook his head. “We are not good, together. Same with my brother. Is… very hard for me,” Ilya went on. He sighed heavily, eyes fluttering shut and then opening again after a moment. “I don’t want to see him ever again. Being so far away feels… like right thing.” Again, Shane didn’t miss the fact that he didn’t mention his mother. But even at his drunkest, Shane knew that mentioning her probably wasn’t smart. 

Shane nodded, as though he could relate, though the truth couldn’t be more different for him. Being far from his family felt like he was missing a limb, like he’d never be properly whole without them close. Oddly, Shane wanted that for Ilya, too. He wanted the boy to feel the closeness of his mother’s hugs, to feel the warmth of his father’s broad palm laying on his shoulder. He wanted to say I’ll bring you home with me for the summer, you can stay with me, but the daydream died in his mind before he even had a chance. Shane would be training all summer, in a new city perhaps, maybe in Canada, maybe the states. Wait, what would Ilya do over the summer? When he wasn’t in school? 

What would his visa allow for? Where would he go?

“I had flight home booked, to Moscow, for winter break,” Ilya continued, looking up at the ceiling absently. “Then, I have phone call with my father, week before flight leaves, and… I don’t know. It was bad. I panic.” 

Shane analyzed that statement for a moment, reviewing each word in Ilya’s sentence, wondering what the combination of them all together in a row actually meant. He brought his thumb to his lips again, his tongue running along the raw cuticle, burning a bit as his saliva mingled with the broken skin. 

“Wait,” Shane interjected, his brow furrowing as realization dawned on him. “So you… you chose? To stay here? It wasn’t a visa thing?” 

Ilya shrugged.

“I told Wiebe I could not go home, and he told me my option.” 

“Which was… to stay here.” Shane yawned. “With me?” 

Ilya hummed. “Yes.” 

“You…” Shane stammered, then huffed a tiny laugh. “You wanted to stay with me?” 

Ilya shrugged again, though there was something missing. Like his heart wasn’t really in it. Like it wasn’t really that casual. He looked at Shane with half-shut eyes, his expression placid. 

“I like you.”

Shane raised his hand to put his thumb in his mouth again to pull away more fragments of skin, to find that grounding sensation, that comfort, that control. Ilya’s stare wasn’t intense, but it was unflinching, resolute. He wouldn’t look away. Shane’s top and bottom canines met around a shred of his thumb skin and he pulled. 

“Do not do this,” Ilya said carefully, reaching for Shane, gently pushing his hand away from his face. “You destroy yourself.” 

Blood was welling up like deep crimson ink along the base of Shane’s nail. 

“Okay,” Shane mumbled, the words cottony and thick in his mouth. 

The voices of the announcers returned to the television screen, and suddenly the game was back. Shane dabbed at the blood pooling on his thumbnail with his pointer finger. He wondered if it would stop soon. 

***

The dream was the same as always. They were together, smiling and laughing, holding onto one another in every way possible. Shane’s arms were thrown around Ilya’s thick neck, and Ilya’s arms were wrapped around his waist, warm and heavy. It felt like slow dancing, a little bit, just swaying and being held. It was hard for Shane to really know where they were; they were in Muskoka, or so Shane believed, but it wasn’t his family cottage. It was somewhere bigger, somewhere brighter. More windows. Maybe he’d seen it on television before, or in a movie. It was glorious. 

He was smiling at Ilya, who returned the sentiment tenfold. The dream was reaching the point where he’d usually wake, Shane realized somewhere distantly. He could tell, sometimes, that he was in a dream, because there was no way this could be Shane’s reality, no chance. It was so far away from being true, even Dream Shane knew it was just a figment of his imagination. He reminded himself to take it all in, to take things slow. Take stock of every moment, try to hold it close, remember it in the morning. 

It just felt so good to just be held. 

Shane honestly couldn’t remember the last time he had been held. Like this. 

Maybe never. 

Sure, as a child, he was held by his mother, his father. Grandparents. Family. 

Never by a lover. Never had he been weighed down by that notion, that heat, as though his only purpose on earth was to be loved. 

A familiar sensation stirred in his gut, and Shane prepared for the worst. In a moment, it would all be gone, and he’d be waking up cold in his bed. He’d be hard, too, painfully so, unsatisfied and flammable as straw. A single matchstrike would set him ablaze. He braced for impact, but the fall never came. The warmth around him felt so strangely real, and it was unyielding. Shane tightened his arms around the warmth, squeezed, and the warmth responded. It squirmed. It squeezed back. 

“Fuck,” Shane whispered, his throat dry and his head pounding. His cock was throbbing against his pubic bone, squished against him. His arms were still wrapped tight around Ilya’s neck, just as they had been, and strong arms were still holding him around his waist. Maybe this time would be different, Shane thought to himself. Maybe this time, I’ll get to the end of the dream. Maybe this time, I’ll see it through. He rocked down, relieving some of the pressure mounting in his groin, and god, it felt good. What felt even better, though, was being met with warmth there, with force. Shane felt a twin hardness beneath his own swollen cock, and it was bliss. He couldn’t believe his luck. He was so close already, maybe this time he’d finally, finally get what he’d been dreaming of. Shane started to rut against the firmness beneath him, and as the sensation grew in intensity, the rest of the world around him clicked into place. He could smell Ilya all around him, could practically feel him seeping into his own pores. Ilya’s skin always had that bouquet of sweat and spice in a way he seemed so boyishly unaware of, and it felt like Shane had it right under his fucking nose. It was like wearing Ilya’s sweatshirt, but so much better. Stronger. A deep, heady thing. He drew in a deep breath and kept rocking his hips, softly moaning as the pleasure ratcheted higher and higher, knotting tight behind his belly button. 

Shane? Ilya’s voice echoed in his mind, his big hands spanning all over Shane’s back, grasping and groping, searching for purchase. He sounded far off, distant, like Shane was hearing him call out through water. Like Shane was swimming, maybe. Submerged. “Fuck,” Ilya moaned, and it was louder now, like he was right in Shane’s fucking ear. Shane felt surrounded by visions of what he wanted most, his deepest desire. If he woke up now, Shane wasn’t sure how he’d survive. “Oh, fuck, Shane,” Ilya rasped, his hips bucking up, in search of Shane’s heat. 

Had Shane ever really heard his name, before now? Before he dreamed of the way Ilya said it?

“Ilya,” Shane moaned in response, humping now in earnest, nothing more than a frayed nerve, overwrought and frenzied. The picture of desperation. “Ilya, Ilya,” he blurted out, over and over, and he received a response each time, his mind supplying him with exactly what he needed to tumble over the edge. Grunts and moans and sweet little breaths, all huffed against Shane’s ear. It all felt so fucking real. 

“I’m gonna come,” Shane bleated, mostly to himself, willing himself to stay in the dream, to remain in that warmth, that light, to realize that euphoric climax he’d been searching for in his head. 

“Yes, please,” Ilya whispered, his voice wrecked. “Please, Shane,” he urged, his grasp tightening around Shane’s ass, pressing their bodies closer, rocking harder. “Come, come for me, Shane,” Ilya’s voice pleaded. It was like being under a spell, hearing his name that way, the way he only ever did in his dreams, so crisp and clear. Like never before. Shane couldn’t hold back, not for one more second. Shane felt himself spurting in his pants, in his boxers, his release smearing all over his groin and thighs. The voice in his mind mimicked his own cries of desperation, and Shane wondered if the Ilya of his dreams sounded anything like the real Ilya when he was coming. The boy sounded so weak, so spent. So utterly debauched. Shane panted as he came down from the high, his heart racing in his chest. The weight draped around his low back loosened and fell away. 

The voice he’d been hearing throughout his dream mumbled something undiscernable. In Russian, Shane was certain. He almost wanted to laugh. Even in his dreams, Ilya was muttering some nonsense in Russian. 

His breathing started to even out, and Shane forced himself to release the lingering tension from his orgasm. The scene behind his eyes morphed and changed like the tides, the dream swirling and shifting, and Shane was lost again to his own mind. 

Chapter End Notes

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

shane has a very active imagination i think, yes??

new years eve next chapter... time 2 place your bets on what goes down

 

(p.s. sorry for posting this chapter a little later than usual. yesterday was my birthday and i'm feeling about as brain-fogged as Shane at the beginning of this chapter, and as hungover as Shane's about to feel at the start of the next one... please go easy on me)

Chapter 9: December 31st

Chapter Summary

new year's eve.

Chapter Notes

happy winter olympics! happy super bowl! happy dana street sunday!

i wanna start out with a quick warning that shane goes through A Lot in this chapter... his self-talk is pretty negative at the start and he's generally having a Really Tough Time. take care as you read!

December 31st

Waking up with a hangover had to be a preview of the ninth circle of hell. 

It felt like Satan himself was drilling his claws into Shane’s brain, mashing the soft matter with abandon as though his mind was merely play doh. 

His mouth was dry as the desert, like he’d never had a drink of water in his life. Like he’d only ever drank vodka. 

Why the fuck had he let Rozanov talk him into drinking straight vodka? All night? Downing glass after glass like it was water or wine? 

Everything about Shane felt awful. He knew for a fact that the sunlight streaming through his windows would be too much for his eyes to handle, so he was keen on keeping them shut for as long as possible. His chest burned with acid reflux, his head throbbed, and he’d slept in some god-awful position that would undoubtedly leave his neck and back sore for a day or two. And he’d slept in his fucking jeans. Again. 

He felt sticky too, down there. Sticky and… stiff, inside his boxers. 

What the fuck was going on? It had been years since he’d had a wet dream. 

At least he was warm. 

Shane groaned as he tried to roll onto his back, but he was unsuccessful. Was he up against the wall? He opened his eyes begrudgingly to find was squished between, what he came to realize with some horror, was the back of the couch and… Ilya’s sleeping form.

One of the freshman’s arms was pinned beneath Shane’s midsection, the other was wrapped around Shane’s waist. Warm and heavy. A solid embrace. Weighing him down. 

Oh my god, Shane thought to himself as his stomach dropped. The fucking dream. 

The dream that went further than all the others, the dream where he finally got what he wanted, all the way, where he didn’t hold back, where he cried and whimpered and moaned and said Ilya’s name over and over and over again– 

“No,” Shane hissed as he felt the panic settling in, squirming now to get out of this fucking position. “No, no, no, oh my god, oh my god, fuck, fuck–”  

Ilya was waking. He was moving beneath Shane, murmuring in a sleep-soft way, a purring sort of sound that came from deep within his throat. 

Shane had heard his own name last night, heard Ilya’s voice right in his ear. Felt the other boy’s body shudder with release. Had that been… had that all been in his head? 

Had that been real?

Shane clambered out of his position, still trapped in Ilya’s embrace, waking the freshman further. He was being rough with it, but he didn’t really care. The jig was up. He had to get out of there. 

“Hey,” Ilya rasped, rubbing the heel of his hand against his eye. He made a groaning sound, one that sounded like displeasure at being alive. 

Shane scrambled to his feet, feeling the room swirling around him as he became vertical. 

“Fuck,” Shane winced, experiencing what could only be described as turbulence within his own body, his stomach roiling, heart racing. “Shit, ah, I’m so sorry,” Shane panted. Ilya looked up at him from the couch with a confused expression, eyebrows furrowed and mouth tilted into a frown. 

“What?” 

“I fucked up, I… fuck,” Shane groaned, backing away from the couch. He couldn’t even imagine what he looked like, couldn’t even begin to think about that. Panic rose like the bile in his throat, threatening to spill over if he waited another second. He needed to get out of there, to get as fucking far away as possible from Ilya and that couch and last night and everything from the past week. Shane stumbled past the coffee table, bouncing off the hallway wall as he reached the entryway. He felt lightheaded and woozy, probably still half-drunk, what with his organs basting in hard liquor for the past twelve fucking hours. 

“Hollander,” Ilya called from behind, his voice rough but sharp. 

Shane was so close to tears. He felt like everything inside of him might explode at once in the next three seconds. He couldn’t let that happen now, couldn’t put all of that on top of whatever Ilya may or may not have remembered from the night before. He was already so deeply embarrassed. He wanted to disappear. 

Footsteps were approaching from behind, and Shane hastily shoved his feet into a pair of sneakers, crushing the structure at the heel in his urgency. He shoved his phone in his back pocket roughly. 

“Hey, hey,” Ilya’s voice soothed as he drew nearer, but Shane couldn’t register it. He couldn’t hear it. He thrust his arms through the sleeves of a black Harvard hockey parka, realizing somewhere distantly that it felt bigger than his usual. He wasn’t properly layered up beneath it. He would be cold. He moved toward the front door swiftly, swallowing back the lump in his throat, the anxiety clawing up out of his chest. 

Ilya’s hand closed around Shane’s elbow and he flinched. 

“Shane–”

“Don’t,” Shane gritted out as he yanked his arm away. “I–,” he took another step back and his hand found the doorknob behind him. “I can’t– I can’t do this,” he stammered. “I’m sorry.” 

In a second, he was out of the house, stumbling down the front stairs and trembling on the too-icy walkway. As soon as he made it to the sidewalk he was running, or doing the closest thing possible to running that he could do in his current state. He made it a block away before turning the corner, grasping a streetpole and doubling over to vomit, emptying his guts out onto the sidewalk. 

***

Disgusting was a pretty apt way to describe how Shane Hollander was feeling. About himself, about his current state, about pretty much everything in his life. He felt positively disgusting. 

A lot of that probably had to do with the violent hangover, and he knew that. But that didn’t stop him from feeling the way he did. 

Shane was sick twice more that morning. Well, perhaps it was afternoon, by the third go-round. It happened once again on the sidewalk, and once in a cafe bathroom after ordering a sandwich. Among many other things, one of Shane’s more rigid compulsions surrounded food. After his second time vomiting in the street, Shane was convinced he didn’t have anything left in the tank. He was staggering down the sidewalk, dizzy and reeling with no food in his system, his head aching. He wasn’t crying anymore; there were more pressing bodily needs that were commanding his full attention. His mouth tasted rank. He needed water, at the very fucking least. His wanderings took him to Darwin’s. The small one on Putnam, the one tucked away in his sleepy Cambridge neighborhood. The one that didn’t take an hour to make a breakfast sandwich, that didn’t burn the shit out of the bagels. The one that wasn’t overrun with Harvard students. Just locals. 

A safe space. A haven. 

Shane waited in line to order, only for the greasy smells coming from the kitchen to turn his stomach once again. He didn’t really want to eat anyway, but he figured it would help to have something in his stomach. He ordered through gritted teeth, a turkey sandwich with cheese and avocado and a large bottle of water. Very quickly after paying, Shane found himself in the single-stall bathroom, locking the door behind him and puking up whatever he had left inside. 

Sweat beaded at his hairline. He leaned back against the bathroom door, feeling utterly revolting. It was then that Shane realized he’d taken Ilya’s jacket with him when he ran out the door, rather than his own. They were identical, just one was a medium and one was a large. The sleeves were too long, getting in the way when he tried to wash his hands, and Shane felt like crying all over again. 

It had to be another fifteen minutes before he left the bathroom, and after two very unceremoniously loud knocks on the door, he finally vacated the tiny space. His sandwich and water were waiting on the pickup counter, and with them he sat gingerly in an armchair by the window, his head pounding, contemplating how on earth he would ever face Ilya again. 

A small part of Shane wondered if the boy even noticed. If he knew what happened. Maybe he’d been so dead asleep, maybe he hadn’t woken up to Shane rutting all over him like a dog in heat. 

Maybe he hadn’t woken when Shane said his name, moaned his name, when he whimpered and whined and came in his lap. 

But it seemed pretty unlikely. 

Shane could remember it now, clearer than a dream, but hazier than a memory. It was hard to say what was really real, and what was a mix of both. Ilya had sounded confused when he said Shane’s name. He said it like a question. Like he was surprised. 

So, he’d been awake for that. That must not have been Shane’s imagination. But what about the rest of it? What about please, Shane, and come, come for me, and all those sounds of tortured pleasure? 

That couldn’t have been real. Shane didn’t need to think about it any more. It couldn’t have been real. That part was a product of Shane’s unyielding crush, his inability to control his thoughts, to compartmentalize his attraction towards the boy. And if that wasn’t embarrassing enough, he had to run away, from his own fucking house, with tears streaming down his face. 

How would he ever go back there now?

Ilya hadn’t seemed furious, Shane would give him that. He had seemed… groggy, and confused, when he woke. He hadn’t been angry enough with Shane to shove him away, or to wake him up in the middle of the night to tell him to get a grip. But then maybe he’d been half asleep, like Shane was. Maybe once he woke up, he had the same realization: that really happened. 

And they hadn’t even kissed. 

The more Shane thought about it, the more he realized the truth of the matter: Ilya felt bad for him. 

He felt bad for Shane, and that was why he wasn’t ripping his head off. Ilya pitied him. 

Or he was just so fucking uncomfortable with what Shane had done he couldn’t even find the words. 

Fuck, come to think of it, maybe that was the problem. Shane was his fucking captain, for fuck’s sake. He wasn’t supposed to be lusting after his underclassmen teammates like some animal. Especially not the ones who had proven time and time again that they heartily enjoyed having sex with women. 

Jesus Christ. 

He’d crossed a line, a very big, very serious line, and there was no going back from it. 

That was… if Ilya even noticed. That was if he was even awake enough to know what happened at all. 

Shane’s mind reeled. He felt impossibly idiotic, crushed under the weight of his own stupidity. With no plan for how to carry on, Shane sat in the armchair of the café silently for what was definitely too long. His untouched sandwich grew cold and soggy in the paper wrapping, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to eat it anyway. It probably wouldn’t end well if he did, so for a while Shane just stuck to water and scrolled on his phone. Eventually, his phone died and the crowd was thinning out. They would probably close soon; it was late afternoon by that point. Shane contemplated picking up a newspaper and reading it until the staff kicked him out, but he also harbored a deep longing for a scalding hot shower. Maybe he could slip into his house unnoticed and jump in the shower without being seen. From there, getting back into his room would be tricky. What if he ran into Ilya in the hallway? 

But he couldn’t remain this foul and unwashed forever. 

***

The shower helped. 

Back in his bed, lower half wrapped in a towel, Shane could confidently say he felt at least a little bit better than when he had woken up. 

He’d managed to sneak through the house undetected, tiptoeing straight into the bathroom to shower. Ilya’s door had been closed, and Shane didn’t see him anywhere on the first floor. But then again, Shane didn’t look too hard. 

He stared back at himself in the mirror as steam filled the room, fogging the glass. His face was puffy, especially under the eyes. It sort of made him feel like crying again. 

His jeans and underwear were gross. He wasn’t sure how he’d made it several hours outside the house in them. But there were other things on his mind at that point. He started to think about what that meant for Ilya’s jacket that he’d worn all day long, but he couldn’t allow himself to go down that rabbit hole. He’d already picked himself apart all day long. He felt hollow. 

Shane took his time under the shower’s boiling stream, letting the heat wash over him like holy water. He stood with his face pressed against the wall for a while, unmoving. 

He listened with his ear against the bathroom door once he was out, and when he was absolutely certain there were no footsteps, he ran across the hall to his bedroom. He plugged his phone into the charger and flopped down onto his bed, his stomach grumbling. 

Well, that was promising, Shane thought to himself. He left his bed to grab the turkey sandwich he’d brought upstairs, now hours old. It was calling to him. It seemed fair that, since every rule he had ever made had been broken in the past week, Shane would allow himself the luxury of eating in bed. He unwrapped the sandwich in his lap and tore into it savagely, the room-temperature turkey and cheese like a life saving transfusion. His phone buzzed on the nightstand and he set down the half-eaten sandwich to check what he’d missed while it was dead. 

Rose: come by any time after like 10!!! can’t wait to see you :))

“Jesus Christ,” Shane whispered around a bite of food. The last fucking thing he wanted to do was go to a New Year’s party that night. In his condition, too… It seemed unwise. 

She’d sent it a few hours ago. Around two o’clock. And it was nearly seven now. Shane worried he was coming off rude, accidentally ignoring her, so he went to formulate a text back. He typed it out again and again, only to delete the message before sending each time. 

Hey, I’m actually not feeling well–

Sorry Rose, I don’t think I’m gonna–

Fuck, I totally forgot that I have–

And then his phone buzzed again. 

Rozanov: are we still going to swim party

Shane dropped his phone on his chest. 

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuck,” he sighed, as softly as possible, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyeballs until he saw stars. 

Maybe Shane’s New Year’s resolution could be to stop being such a colossal idiot.

Did Ilya even want to go to the party? With Shane? 

Well, he must have, if he was asking. Though it was probably not about Shane, and more about the fact that Shane was his ticket in. Ilya didn’t seem to know anyone on swim; he’d have mentioned it earlier, when Shane brought up the idea of the party. Maybe it was just that he wanted to go and meet people, pick up some girl, finally get laid after all fucking week of Shane’s attempt to domesticate him like some fucked up Hallmark holiday special. That must have been it. Ilya just wanted someone to take him to the party. 

Well, Shane would at least be able to do that much. After everything. 

Shane: Yeah. Leave at 10?

The reply that came was instant. 

Rozanov: ok

Shane’s head collapsed back against his pillow. 

“Fuck,” he hissed, closing his eyes. His stomach grumbled again, and he quickly fired off another text, this time to Rose.

Shane: Sorry my phone was dead! Looking forward to it 

Shane took another bite of his sandwich, exhausted. It would be a miracle if he made it to midnight. 

***

It was 9:59 when Shane finally decided to leave his bedroom. 

He wore a simple navy polo and dark jeans. A standard party outfit for Shane. He’d finally quelled his stomach into behaving, after forcing down the rest of his aging turkey sandwich. He wasn’t nauseous anymore, and his headache had subsided. His anxiety was still at what felt like an all-time high, but Shane supposed there was very little he could do about that. 

He had no idea how to approach Rozanov now. Would the freshman bring it up, what happened last night? The way Shane ran out that morning? Somehow, Ilya didn’t strike Shane as all that confrontational. He was pretty tight lipped. Well, when he was sober. Maybe he just wouldn’t say anything. That would be sort of ideal. Maybe he would just let it go with the knowledge that Shane was very clearly embarrassed. And Ilya probably pitied him. 

Shane had apologized, hadn’t he? He’d said sorry. Multiple times, even. Maybe. Shane couldn’t really recall what he’d said before he ran out the door. 

What Shane settled on was saying nothing. That felt less painful than speaking about it. Than admitting what happened. Than speaking about the unspeakable. He’d simply say nothing, nothing about anything, and pray that maybe Rozanov would find a girl to hook up with at the party, leaving Shane to go home to an empty house. 

The idea of it filled him with mournful jealousy. 

It would be better that way, Shane told himself. Ilya could find some girl at the party, hook up with her, and Shane could use the evidence presented before him to move the fuck on. The bubble had to pop. It had already popped, as far as Shane was concerned.  

Ilya was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. He wore a pair of jeans and a black button-up shirt. His eyebrows raised as Shane descended, and Shane averted his eyes as soon as he noticed. 

“Ready to go?” 

Shane rooted around in the hall closet for his hat and coat. He found his black peacoat, a bit more formal than his Harvard hockey parka. Rozanov, on the other hand, was already wearing the parka. The one that Shane had stolen that morning when he ran out. The one Shane had worn all day long.

Jesus Chris. 

Shane sucked in a deep breath, trying hard to get all the air to the bottom of his lungs. 

The day after tomorrow, he’ll be gone. 

He wasn’t sure if it was relief or dread he felt swirling in his gut. 

Because even when Rozanov was gone, back in his dorm, moved out of Dana, he’d still be… well, everywhere. He’d still be in Shane’s mind, constantly, he’d still occupy the most space. He’d still be at practice, still be in the weight room. He’d still be staring at Shane, just the way he was in that moment, eyes burning into Shane’s skin, his gaze undying. 

Shane couldn’t find his hat, the Sens toque he’d lent to Rozanov all break. That was probably gone for good. Oh well, served him right. 

“Yeah,” Shane said quickly, clearing his throat and heading for the front door. “Let’s go.”

***

Shane thanked every god that may have been listening for the silent walk over to the swim house. 

Rozanov seemed to get the message, because he didn’t say a word. The walk was about five minutes long, which felt like years for Shane that night. Five minutes alone with Rozanov, in the cold silence of the final night of the year. It was almost more than he could take. Shane didn’t even speak when they turned right onto Broadway, just nudged ahead and Rozanov followed. The only words he spoke were uttered as they arrived. 

“Here,” Shane said gently, nodding at the house’s front porch ahead. He walked forward without preamble and promptly knocked on the door. 

It sounded loud inside the old Victorian house. The bass was thumping through the front porch’s floorboards, fast-paced pop music blasting through the speakers, and Shane could hear screams of exaltation coming from inside. The place was packed. Parties like this were expressly not Shane Hollander’s scene, but he knew how to comport himself well enough. It didn’t even make sense to knock, no one would hear it anyway, so he just turned the knob and walked inside. 

He wasn’t in there for more than a second before he heard his name. 

“Shane!” 

Rose’s familiar squeal was practically right in his ear. He felt her before he saw her, her warm weight falling against him, her arms thrown around his neck. Shane hugged her reactively, almost protectively; it seemed like she had already had plenty to drink that night, and it felt like he was kind of holding her up. She smelled a bit like booze, mixed with some warm sugar-y vanilla fragrance that Shane might have recalled from a long time ago. 

“Rose,” Shane said with a wooden smile as she pulled away from the embrace. She wore a skin-tight black top with sheer cutouts in the midsection and black skinny jeans. Her hair was sort of half-curled, styled in that way girls liked so much for some reason, loose waves with straight ends that seemed to imply they did something, but that it wasn’t high effort. She was wearing a pair of those goofy glitter New Year glasses, with the number 2 wrapped around one eye, the 0 and 1 bridging her nose, and the 5 around the other eye. 

“You’re here! Happy new year!” 

Shane couldn’t help but chuckle at her enthusiasm, and her very clear intoxication. 

“Same to you,” Shane replied. 

“Uh uh, not yet, sweetie,” a voice said from behind. Shane knew it to be Miles before he saw him, one of Rose’s teammates on the men’s dive team. When he appeared, he had a smile and a wink just for Shane. As usual. “Girl, it is way too early to be this drunk,” Miles chastised Rose, though his eyes flitted back and forth between his friend and Shane. “Hey, Shane.” 

Miles was an interesting character. Shane always got the impression that Miles had a pretty sizable crush on him, though it seemed like he almost flirted that way with… everyone? It was hard for Shane to tell. Maybe he was just like that with everyone. What’s more, Shane wasn’t exactly out, so he wasn’t sure if he was just projecting, because Miles was very clearly gay. Or queer, at least.

“Hey Miles,” Shane replied politely. “Thanks for having us, guys.”

Rose gasped. “Of course! We literally love you!” 

Shane swallowed hard. His throat was dry. Why was it so fucking hot in there all of a sudden? He tugged at the collar of his polo anxiously. 

“Let me get your coat,” Rose offered, her words slightly slurred. 

“Oh, um, yeah,” Shane said quickly, shrugging it off. As he moved, he remembered he wasn’t there alone. He remembered who was standing practically against his back. “This is, um, my teammate, the one I was telling you about?” He looked up for a second to meet Ilya’s eye, but the boy wasn’t looking down at Shane. 

He was staring straight at Rose. 

“Ilya,” he said bluntly, the low timbre of his voice practically reverberating through Shane, even through the noise of the party. He offered his hand forward to shake, and Rose took it gingerly, giggling a little as she did. 

“Hi,” she snickered. “I’m Rose. Wow, you’re so tall.” 

Ilya didn’t acknowledge her comment. Merely shook her hand and pulled back. Shane could hear his coat unzipping behind him. 

“Very tall,” Miles echoed, offering his hand forward. Ilya shook his hand as well, even less enthusiastically.

“Um, so, I guess we’ll get a drink,” Shane half-shouted over the thumping music. 

“Oh, yes!” Rose started to walk them toward the kitchen, but then there was more screaming coming from the second floor of the house. 

“Rose! We need you!” 

Rose groaned and rolled her eyes. “Miles, can you take these?” She thrust Shane and Ilya’s coats into his arms. “I guess Jess is still throwing up upstairs,” she said with disdain. 

“Gotchu baby,” Miles said with a puckered pout. “I’ll see you boys later?” 

“Yeah, cool,” Shane nodded as Miles disappeared with their coats. To where, Shane had no idea.

Rose only made it a few steps up the stairs before she turned around again. 

“I’m gonna find you later, okay?!” 

Shane chuckled. “Okay!” 

“And if I have no one to kiss at midnight, it’s gonna be you, Shane Hollander!” 

He couldn’t help but laugh. This was the Rose he remembered. 

“Sounds good,” Shane mumbled in response as she took off up the stairs. 

Shane turned to look back at Ilya, only to find him glaring up at the empty staircase. God. The sooner they split up, the better. 

***

Shane’s beer was getting warm in his clammy hand. 

He’d hardly had a sip of the stuff, still a little shy on the alcohol front after the morning he’d had. But, he figured it would be impolite not to drink, so he held the open can of Bud Light like a prop. 

Ilya seemed to be doing the same. Maybe he was hungover, too. Shane wouldn’t know. But he hadn’t seen him take a sip from his drink all night.

Not that Shane was watching him, per se. They’d been at the party for maybe half an hour, and they had split apart early on, pretty much right after arriving, though the freshman was never quite out of eyesight. Shane noticed Ilya had gotten to talking with one of the guys from the swim team, Ivan, a senior from Croatia. Maybe they were… bonding? Or, maybe they’d met before? Shane wasn’t sure what to think. Ilya had hardly cracked a smile all night. Maybe he and Ivan were cooking up a plan to murder Shane in his sleep. 

Rose had made good on her promise to find Shane later. She was hanging off his arm, seemingly using him for support to stand up straight. She already spilled her drink once, some of what smelled like vodka lemonade landing on Shane’s sneakers. Rose apologized profusely for it, even going as far as to kneel down and wipe off Shane’s shoes with a hand towel. It was sort of ridiculous. 

They were talking in circles about Rose’s brother who played in the AHL when she got a notification on her phone. The screen brightness was turned all the way up. Shane noticed it was a Snapchat, and that it came from some kid named Bobby. Shane thought he may have recognized the name as one of the seniors on the baseball team. 

Rose opened the snap and groaned under her breath. The selfie was taken from below the kid’s chin, clearly half-assed, with a caption that simply said ‘haha nice’. Shane didn’t really know Bobby, or anyone on the baseball team, particularly well. 

“Let’s send one back!” Rose double-tapped to reply, opening up the selfie camera on her own phone. She came in close, mashing her cheek against Shane’s, and in the phone screen he watched as she puckered her lips. 

“Wait, I want in!” 

Miles appeared out of nowhere, forcing himself into the frame, squashing against Shane’s other cheek. It was a cute photo, Shane could admit. A little blurry. He looked bewildered, Rose was making that same kissy-face, and Miles was winking. Rose sent it off quickly. 

“You didn’t send it to me, Rose!” Miles whined. “We gotta go another!” 

“Okay, okay,” Rose said as she opened the camera again. “Let’s do one where we’re both giving Shane a kiss!” 

“Oh, so down,” Miles replied, already leaning in. Behind the phone in Rose’s outstretched hand, Shane found Ilya’s eyes burning as he glared at them. He felt the press of two sets of lips on his cheeks and forgot to smile for the photo, eyes still locked on Ilya. From across the room, Shane could see Ilya’s jaw tighten. He watched as Ilya turned away from the group he’d been standing with, watched him throw his beer can in the recycling bin with a loud thud. 

Watched him storm off. 

“Um, I’ll be right back,” Shane half-shouted over his shoulder as he was already walking away, extricating himself from Rose’s winding grasp. Through the throngs of drunken college kids, Shane followed the sight of a hulking figure with honey-brown hair all the way down the hall, catching the door to the bathroom just before it slammed shut in his face. 

“Occupied,” Ilya grunted without turning around as Shane slipped inside. Shane didn’t say a word, he wasn’t sure what to even say, worried if he spoke he’d be caught in some sort of crossfire. So he merely stood there in silence against the closed bathroom door, his heart in his throat. 

It was marginally quieter inside the little bathroom with the door shut. The high-pitched shouts and thumping bass and general excitement from the party beyond those four walls began to fall away. Shane watched as Ilya’s shoulders hitched with a sharp inhale. He finally turned around after a moment, fury in his gaze. 

“Боже, твою мать!” Ilya hissed, shaking his head. “Leave me the fuck alone.” His nostrils flared as he spoke, his mouth a tight, thin line. 

“Wh–”

“Why the fuck did you even follow me anyway?” He shooed Shane away with a wave of his hand, swatting the air like he was some kind of bug. “Go back out there and dance, yes? Have fun. You are good at that.” 

Shane’s brows knit together. “What the fuck? I–” he stammered, unsure where to go, afraid of what landmines he might find beneath the surface if he continued down a certain path. “I followed you because you… you looked upset, and–and I can tell you’re mad at me,” Shane managed. 

“Ah, because everything is about you, is it?” 

Ilya looked so furious. And Shane was beginning to get there too. 

“Well, it kinda feels like it is, given the way you just ran the fuck away when you looked at me, and–” 

“Leave me the fuck alone, Hollander, I mean it,” Ilya repeated, menacingly. “Go away and go fuck Rose Landry. Clearly, she is dying for it.” 

“I’m not gonna fuck her, I’m–” Shane wasn’t quite sure how to finish that sentence. He wracked his brain, trying to figure out why he’d ever followed Ilya in there, which then made Shane wonder why the freshman had run away like that in the first place. 

Why Ilya had looked like he wanted to blow up the whole house, the whole city, the whole world, when Rose and Miles kissed him on the cheek. 

“Wait, are you… are you jealous?” At that, Ilya scoffed, rolling his eyes and scowling. Shane was utterly lost. “Listen, I’m–” he started the sentence without a destination in mind. What came out were words he swore to himself he’d never say. “Last night, I mean, this morning, it was–”

“Don’t fucking do that, Hollander,” Ilya hissed, pointing his finger insistently. 

Shane. Last night I was Shane. 

This fucking morning, I was just Shane to you. 

Shane pushed on. “No, look, I’m sorry, okay? I wanted to say it earlier, but I freaked out, and–” he shook his head. “Fuck, I was so drunk, we both were so drunk, but–but I’m sorry, okay? I’m really fucking sorry,” he went on, feeling a lump welling in his throat. “I know it was fucking weird of me, and I shouldn’t have done that, but I didn’t mean to, and I swear it will never happen again, okay? I’m–”

“I do not want to hear you say you are sorry,” Ilya fired back, as though he hadn’t registered a single word Shane had said. 

“Okay?” 

“I am not sorry!” Ilya’s eyes were wide and dark with unrestrained rage. “And I do not think you are either,” he added, his voice getting louder with each word. “Or you are lying, maybe. Which one is it?” 

Shane felt so bewildered by what he’d done wrong. He’d been completely apologetic, and he’d owned what he’d done. What was there to be lying about? 

Unless Ilya was saying…

“You’re… you’re drunk, or something,” Shane shook his head, finally breaking eye contact with the freshman to stare at his vodka-sticky shoes. “We’re both drunk–”

“I am not drunk and you are not drunk,” Ilya countered, his voice bitter. “You have not been drinking all night and neither have I.” 

Shane looked up. “I… what?” Ilya’s eyes were a storm. Shane was lost in them. “W-what the fuck is going on?” 

“I like you, Hollander, okay?” Ilya looked miserable as he said it, agitated and exhausted, the polar opposite of someone making an admission of that nature. “I like you, I want you. Okay? Do you get it now?” 

Shane looked around the room, wondering if this was some kind of elaborate prank. 

“What the fuck?” 

Ilya wasn’t laughing. 

“Yeah, what the fuck?”  He was irate, seething with rage. “I am so sweet with you whole break, try to be good guest for you, show you how much I like you, do nice things, show you what I feel. Show you I am not just… I don’t know, like how you think I am,” Ilya rattled off, waving his hands around wildly, “and you fucking run away from me. I am thinking I read all your signs right, and maybe you like me too, but now I look like idiot and I do all this for nothing.” Shane wanted to get a word in, wanted to interrupt and tell Ilya to stop it and to lower his voice, but the freshman plowed on. “Last night, I wake up in middle of night with you on top of me and think, ah, he finally sees it, he finally wants me too, but then you run away. And now you are here, trying to get with her, and I–”

“I’m not trying to get with her, I’m not, just–” Shane wanted to reach out and touch him, to put his hand on his shoulder and tell him to just fucking relax, but he wasn’t sure that would go over well. Ilya’s words were registering to Shane like an aftershock, the initial blow of his tone of voice taking precedence in Shane’s mind. He wished he had a way to remember everything the boy had just said to him, he wished he could know for sure, but it sounded like–

“Wait, you… you like me?” 

Ilya nodded, eyes bugging wide, his cheeks pink with frustration. 

“Yes, I tell you this already!” Exasperation was painted across his face. 

“You didn’t–” Shane wanted to politely explain that well, no, you didn’t really and maybe use your fucking words but he wasn’t sure that now was the time. If what Ilya was saying was true, all that could wait. “How… how long?”

Ilya looked pained. 

“Months,” he groaned. “A year, at least.” He looked up at the ceiling. “Since my visit to Harvard. Maybe from the first time I saw you.” 

“But you…” Shane was flummoxed. “You like girls.” 

“I like both,” Ilya replied, his arms flopping to his sides, annoyed, his eyes pinning Shane to the spot. “But…” he shook his head now, dragging in a deep breath through his flared nostrils. “Ебать,” he groaned. “But I like you, more than any girl or any boy. And you,” Ilya laughed a little, in a frustrated sort of way, running a hand through his curls. “You don’t see it. And it makes me crazy.” 

Shane sort of felt like replaying every single interaction they’d had in the last week or so to see what he’d been missing. Or to be able to call Ilya on his bullshit, maybe. What even was there to see? How could Ilya possibly claim to have been telling Shane, right to his face, that he liked him? That he… that he wanted him?

Shane flipped back through the memories like pages in a book, or rather, a photo album. Each glimpse into the recent past like a snapshot in time. He tried to remember how he felt in each moment. 

All those meals out, with Ilya insisting he paid each and every time. The Christmas gift, the fucking teddy bear Shane had sitting on his desk back in his room. The teasing. So, so much teasing. So much teasing it almost made Shane laugh in that moment, looking back. 

They spent so much time together. Just… being together. Between watching movies and games and working on the puzzle. Fucking cooking together and going skating and getting high–

Maybe I come to Harvard to play hockey with you, Shane Hollander.

Shane stared back at him with a thick lump in his throat. 

This boy. This boy who didn’t get on the plane to go home for winter break. All in the name of staying with Shane instead. 

This boy who came to Harvard, who moved to the states, just to play hockey with Shane. 

“Ilya, I…” Shane felt like his heart was in his throat. He willed himself to speak, to get it all out before he lost his nerve. “I like you too… like,” Shane chuckled. Ilya’s shoulders loosened and fell away from his ears, his expression softening just a touch. “Like, a lot. I fucking like you.” Shane didn’t want to lie anymore. “And it’s been driving me crazy, too. For… for a while now.” Ilya looked at him with an unsteady expression. “You… you’re right. I want you, and I do see it,” Shane added with a bit of a laugh. “I see it all, now.” 

The tight line of Ilya’s lips curled into a shy smile. 

“You do?” 

Shane nodded earnestly, risking a single step closer. 

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Yeah, I really, really do.” 

“You’re fucking with me,” Ilya said quickly, his expression guarded once again. 

“I’m not,” Shane shook his head earnestly. “I promise, I–I’m being serious.” 

Ilya huffed out a laugh through his nose, an exhalation of what Shane assumed to be relief. 

“So,” Ilya looked past Shane, over his shoulder, at the bathroom door. “What about–”

“There’s no one else,” Shane said quickly, hoping to pull the boy’s gaze back to him. He almost smiled when it worked. “It’s… there’s only you.” 

“Hollander,” Ilya whispered, his eyes glassy and wide. He looked shocked, but also… delighted. “Shane.” 

Hearing his name was like music to Shane’s ears. 

“Ilya,” Shane replied, just as soft. For the first time, the name felt so natural in his mouth.

Outside the bathroom there was some commotion, a loud thud and the shattering of broken glass, followed by a few high-pitched screams and then laughter. It pulled Shane out of the moment and he whipped his head around as though someone was going to walk in on them. When he turned back around, Ilya had closed the space between them, their chests nearly touching. The freshman was looking down at Shane with wide open, hopeful eyes. 

“This is crazy,” Shane whispered as Ilya’s hand wrapped around his elbow. The touch felt magnetic. “You…” Shane scoffed and looked down. “You don’t want me. Why would you want me?” 

“I want you,” Ilya replied, his voice low and soft. Shane felt a hand come beneath his chin, pressing his face up, forcing their eyes to meet. Ilya’s gaze was so intense, so piercing, that Shane worried he might start to really cry. Ilya leaned in, pressing their foreheads together, and Shane could feel Ilya’s breath on his lips. “Shane,” Ilya murmured, the hand at his chin now caressing his jaw, Ilya’s thumb smoothing across Shane’s warm cheek. “All I want is you.” 

And then they were kissing. 

Shane wasn’t even sure who started it, who kissed who first, but it wasn’t important. What was important was that it was happening, finally, really and truly, and it was so much better than any dream. 

Ilya’s mouth was soft at first, just for a moment, then insistent, crushing Shane’s lips with his own. His fingers wrapped around the nape of Shane’s neck, tangling in his short hair, and his other hand at Shane’s elbow wound around his waist. Ilya tugged Shane closer, bringing their bodies flush, his tongue sliding against the seam of Shane’s lips, begging for entry which Shane granted. Shane sighed as he opened his mouth, feeling debauched after only a few moments of kissing. It was filthy already, the wet slide of their tongues, the press of Ilya’s teeth digging into Shane’s bottom lip. His arm around Shane’s waist sank lower and lower, until he was palming Shane’s ass through his jeans. 

Shane hummed a note of pleasure, a moan against Ilya’s lips, a wordless plea to please keep going. The freshman got the message, both hands now grasping at Shane’s ass, kneading the thick flesh through the denim. Shane was already halfway hard as soon as he felt Ilya’s lips on his, but with the other boy’s hands on him, he was nearly all the way there. Shane’s hips twitched involuntarily, his cock aching inside his jeans, and it was like Ilya could read his mind. 

A warm hand came to cup his bulge, and Shane rocked into it, instinctively seeking relief. Ilya reeled back, his face alight, grinning. 

“Fuck, Hollander, really?”

Shane let out a breathy whine as Ilya held him in place, one hand cupped around Shane’s erection, the other squeezing his ass. He couldn’t even get the words out before Ilya’s mouth was crushing against his again, kissing him harder, with less and less restraint every passing second. Ilya’s hand on his cock was warm, and Shane felt his knees going weak as he stood there, melting in the freshman’s clutches. 

Screams could be heard outside the bathroom, which pulled Shane out of the moment once again. He turned around, afraid for his life that someone would open the door. He hadn’t thought to lock it when he snuck inside after Ilya, a move which he now regretted. 

He looked back at Ilya, whose lips were shiny and red and kiss-bitten, his eyes like pools of desire, pupils swollen with lust. 

“Can we go home?” 

Home. 

Maybe it was a place they shared, after all. 

“Yes,” Shane nodded erratically. “Yeah, let’s go,” he said with a shy smile. Ilya leaned in for another kiss, a quick, chaste thing, and Shane felt his smile break against his lips. He cupped the thick ridge of Shane’s cock, squeezing gently again. 

“Need to put this away somehow,” Ilya teased, running his thumb along Shane’s covered length. 

“Fuck,” Shane huffed a laugh. “Yeah.” 

They broke apart and Shane did his best to tuck his erection up beneath the waist of his jeans. When he looked up, Ilya was doing the same, grinning. 

“Okay,” Ilya breathed, eyes darting around the room. “Let’s go?” 

Shane nodded, almost wanting to reach for Ilya’s hand to walk out together, but he wondered if that might be a bit much. Shane didn’t risk it, instead pressing up onto his toes for one final peck before opening the door. 

“The coats,” Ilya muttered in Shane’s ear as they left the bathroom. “Where the fuck are the coats?” 

“Shit,” Shane replied, eyes darting around the house, wondering how he’d navigate through the sea of people. “Um–” 

He took off in the direction he’d seen Miles go earlier in the night, eventually landing in an office sort of room off the living room, with dozens of coats laying on a twin bed. Shane raided the pile, tossing random jackets around until he could find the ones they’d arrived in. Ilya giggled behind him, likely entertained by Shane’s fit of determined action, but he didn’t really care. He could make a fool of himself now. It didn’t matter. Ilya wanted him. 

They suited up quickly and scurried out the front door without a single word to anyone. Shane felt a little rude, leaving without saying goodbye, especially to Rose, but he was over it as soon as Ilya was weaving his fingers between Shane’s to hold his hand. 

The walk home was hasty, filled with nervous, excited energy. They didn’t talk much, but Shane supposed there wasn’t really much to say. They’d be home soon enough, though by that point there hopefully wouldn’t be a lot of talking, either. 

By the time they rounded the corner onto Dana Street, they were running. Hand in fucking hand. 

As soon as they were through the front door, Ilya’s lips were back on Shane’s. It felt sort of odd, probably because they were laughing too hard to kiss properly. Ilya took Shane’s face in both hands, his tongue eagerly swiping along Shane’s lips, working Shane’s mouth open. Between fierce kisses, Shane tried half-heartedly to protest. 

“I gotta take my coat off,” Shane mumbled against wet, insistent lips. He tripped a little over a shoe and laughed. “Ilya!” 

“да да, okay, hurry up,” he grumbled, letting go of Shane’s face temporarily to strip off his own coat and shoes. 

From there they stumbled up the stairs, chasing one another, the frenzied push and pull of their bodies like nothing Shane had ever experienced before. Shane was thankful he and his roommates hadn’t ever thought to hang art or photos on the walls of the stairway, because he was certain that the two of them would have knocked something to the ground. Shane was normally so aware of his body, so sure of where he stood in time and space, but with Ilya’s hands on him, he felt like a loose balloon, floating towards the sky, unmoored. 

Inside Shane’s room, they broke apart naturally when Ilya started to undress. He fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, his hands shaking, and Shane met him halfway, frantically tugging at the buttonholes like they’d personally wronged him. He had been thinking about Ilya’s body for a while, but the past week he’d been dreaming about it on overdrive; the raw, pink chest he’d stared at after they played in the snow, covered in moles. The thick, solid pecs he’d watched twitch beneath the bar as Ilya benched. 

The dark trail of hair that led down his belly, like a fucking runway to his cock. 

As soon as Ilya’s shirt was off, Shane’s hands were all over him, pawing at the boy’s chest, thumbing over his peaked nipples. The buzzy warm streetlight outside shone in the reflection of Ilya’s gold cross. 

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya grunted, his voice low. Shane started to fumble with the boy’s belt buckle, but Ilya got there quicker, undoing it handily and shoving his pants and boxers down. 

Fuck, Ilya was big. Shane couldn’t even pretend he wasn’t looking. He was staring, his eyes glued to the space between their hips, transfixed by Ilya’s thick, rigid cock. 

It was hard to make out every detail in the low light. Shane reached for him, wrapped his hand around Ilya’s length instinctively, and Ilya’s breath hitched. His skin was so soft there, blazing hot and hard as a rock, like fucking silk pulled tight around concrete. Thick veins swelled beneath the thin skin like rivers. Shane could have fit both fists there, stacked on top of one another around Ilya’s length, and he still wouldn’t have been able to fit the whole thing in his hands. All around the base was a dusting of fine, dark hair. His balls hung low beneath, full and heavy. 

Ilya was curved slightly to the left, and uncut, which somehow made Shane’s mouth fucking water. He couldn’t remember if any of his past trysts had been with uncircumcised men. It didn’t really matter, because they weren’t him. They weren’t Ilya. Shane never really thought about it before, but now suddenly he had a thing for foreskin. Like, fuck. He wanted it in his mouth. He needed it. 

Ilya leaned in to kiss Shane again, his hands now working the button and fly of Shane’s jeans, ridding him of those final layers between them. Shane stripped off his polo in one swift motion, rendering him almost completely naked, save for his boxers which Ilya left on. 

“What do you want?” 

Ilya’s voice sounded wrecked already. Shane looked up at him in wonder, a little bewildered that he even had to ask. 

“I want you to fuck me.” 

Ilya merely growled in response, tugging Shane’s face to his for another bruising kiss. 

“I’ve been wanting you to fuck me for months,” Shane admitted, in a small voice, pressed against Ilya’s lips. “I need you to fuck me.” 

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya repeated, cupping Shane’s cock through his boxers. “Shane,” Ilya corrected himself, hissing lower. It made Shane’s knees wobble. Ilya’s fingers made it to the waistband of Shane’s boxers, his index finger teasing beneath the elastic band, though he didn’t go further. He looked at Shane with wide eyes and pouty lips. Shane felt ensnared. 

Ilya walked them over towards Shane’s bed, his hands on Shane’s hips, guiding him backwards. The back of Shane’s calves hit the mattress and he tumbled, landing on his back with Ilya blanketing his front. The boy’s warm weight was a welcome thing, and as Shane scrambled up the bed, he dragged Ilya along with him, his hands beneath the boy’s armpits, pulling him up to lay on top of him. 

Ilya was so fucking warm, scalding, his skin practically burning up under Shane’s touch. His chest was strong, solid, just as Shane predicted it would be, with a downy dusting of chest hair that Shane felt he could get lost in. Even the hair under his arms was like a drug to Shane, something he wanted under his nose, against his gums. The hair was soft as cornsilk, feathery and thin. He’d have to come back around to that, though, because Ilya’s mouth was suddenly all over Shane’s chest. 

The freshman held nothing back it seemed, sucking one of Shane’s nipples between his teeth with a certain vigor. Shane peered down his body to take it all in, arching into his kiss, Ilya’s soft honey-brown curls hovering over his chest, his lips leaving shiny, sloppy kisses across his skin. The boy was naked, completely, though from this angle it was hard to see anything beyond his broad shoulders. It was no secret that Rozanov had a great ass, that much was easy to discern from seeing the kid in spandex six days a week at the rink. But, fuck, seeing it now, bare and in his bed, it was a completely different story. His proportions were insane; he had a proper ass, almost like a woman. Almost like one you’d pay a plastic surgeon for. Fuck, Shane would need to give that some attention, too. Once he had a second to breathe. Which seemed to be further and further off. 

Ilya's mouth was trailing down his stomach. He planted kisses along the center ridge of Shane’s abs, caressing him reverently with his lips. Worshipping his body, those muscles that Shane had worked so hard for. It felt fucking good. Ilya dragged his tongue along the skin above the waistband of Shane’s boxers, before curling his fingers beneath the elastic and tugging them down. His gut started to churn with nervous energy, but before he could even second-guess it, Shane was naked underneath him. 

Shane had never really been comfortable like this before, naked with another person, naked and aroused with another person. Naked and going to have sex with another person. He’d done it, yes, a handful of times. But he’d never felt comfortable, not like this. 

Ilya started slow, pressing chaste kisses along Shane’s cock that turned into little kitten licks all over his tip. Shane bucked up at the contact as soon as he felt Ilya’s tongue against his slit. He let out a whine involuntarily, a high-pitched pathetic sort of thing, and he felt Ilya’s laughter against his groin. 

“So needy,” the freshman teased, licking a long stripe up Shane’s length. Shane couldn’t even pretend he wasn’t. He keened at the contact, whimpering as Ilya wrapped his lips around the head, swallowing Shane down to the root. 

“Fuck, fuck,” Shane whinged, knotting his fingers in Ilya’s curls, half trying to pull him off, half trying to fuck up into his mouth. “Fuck, I’m, fuck–” Shane gasped. Ilya began to bob his head, his throat contracting around Shane’s cock, offering sensation like Shane had never dreamed of. He felt like he was going insane. He’d never last like this. He tried to think of every single unsexy thing in the world, econ lab and career-ending injuries and black mold, anything and everything that might stop him from shooting his load down Rozanov’s throat on the spot. 

“Stop, stop, stop,” Shane gasped. The freshman seemed lost in him, completely lost, performing such incredible head that Shane had to resort to tugging on his hair with some force behind it to get his attention. 

Ilya looked up at him with dark, shiny lips and a dazed expression. 

“Is bad?” 

“No, fuck no,” Shane panted. “I’m gonna come too fast,” he sighed, relaxing his grip, running his hands through those silken curls. 

Ilya grinned then, lowering his head down, holding Shane’s gaze with his tongue out. 

“I’m serious,” Shane warned. “Don’t–”

“Okay,” Ilya relented, sitting back on his haunches. “Flip over.”

Shane did as he was told, moving from his back to his hands and knees. It was probably the most vulnerable position he’d ever been in, but with this man behind him, it didn’t feel so scary. 

He wondered about how it would happen, realizing there would be a bit of work to get him ready to take all of that inside him. He should be doing it himself, Shane thought. The work to get himself to open up. He should have done it already. 

Or maybe Rozanov was just going to… stick it in? There was no way that would be possible, no way, right? He was huge, and Shane was… well, a bit constricted. He felt a big, warm hand on each of his cheeks and breathed out slowly, accepting his fate and prepared for something rough and quick. 

Instead, he felt lips. And tongue. 

“Holy shit,” Shane keened, his elbows buckling as Ilya lapped at his hole. He collapsed down against the bed, face and chest in the pillows, ass in the air. “Holy fuck!” Shane could only speak on the exhale, his inhales reserved for harsh gasps of shocking pleasure. “Rozanov, Rozanov–”

He felt Ilya’s hum against his hole, wet puckered lips pressed to his tender skin. 

“Mmm, no, no, no, try again,” Ilya lulled. 

“Ilya, Ilya,” Shane corrected himself as the boy got back to work. Ilya’s tongue dragged up and down the length of Shane’s crack over and over again, his lips fondling the underside of Shane’s balls, tongue tracing the seam. Making a mess of him. Licking circles over the ring of muscle that was Shane’s entrance. “Ilya, you–you don’t have to,” Shane stammered half-heartedly, drooling into the pillow his face was pressed against. The sensation was entirely foreign; he’d never ever been rimmed before. This was earth shattering, this was all new. It felt so fucking crazy, so filthy, so fucking good. He knew people did it, that it was fairly common, usual. But it had never happened to him with any past partners, so he couldn’t say. This was what the fuck he’d been missing?! This didn’t feel casual, not at all. This felt like devotion, like worship, and with every swipe of Ilya’s thick, persistent tongue, Shane felt glorious. 

Ilya hummed against Shane’s skin again, his tongue pressing insistently against the tight furl, begging for entrance. Shane wanted to give Ilya an out again, just so it was there, out in the open. Let the record show that Shane Hollander wasn’t a glutton for pleasure. He would have gladly stayed there all night and all day tomorrow, letting Ilya lick and suck and nip at his most private place, but if the boy felt like he had to, then–

“You don’t have to–”

“I need to,” Ilya slurred, words hot against Shane’s tender skin. “I need this, okay? I dream about this,” Ilya added, his voice hoarse. “All day long, I dream of doing this to you.”

Shane’s eyes rolled back as they fluttered shut. He’d let himself have this, if that’s really what Ilya wanted. When Shane didn’t protest, the freshman carried on, slicking him up obscenely with spit, eating Shane’s ass like he was starving for it, laving wet kisses to a space only he could lay claim to. 

Ilya’s enthusiasm was almost more erotic than the actual act itself, though that felt fucking incredible. But Shane’s brain was stuck on the feeling of giving himself up, of giving himself over, all because someone else wanted him that badly. 

Thick fingertips prodded against Shane’s entrance, teasing the rim, and Shane leaned into the touch. He wanted Ilya inside, he wanted him deeper, wanted to feel the press of his skin, feel Ilya making room for himself inside. 

He wanted to welcome the boy into his warmth, to give away that part of himself. 

It didn’t matter that he’d been had before. This was all new. This was it, for good.

Ilya’s hand was slick with his own spit when it curled around Shane’s cock, reaching between his spread legs to stroke him. The slide of his fist was heavenly, and Shane was already leaking like a faucet. Ilya groaned in pleasure as he thumbed Shane’s precum all over his tip, teasing against the underside of his swollen, sensitive head. Ilya pressed a single finger inside Shane’s hole, carefully teasing it in and out, toying around the rim to soften him up. He sighed as he did, satisfied and aroused. Shane could feel Ilya’s tongue circling there, at the place where they connected, adding more and more spit to ease his way. A second finger pressed in soon after, sliding in without friction.

“Fuck,” Shane spluttered, torn between pressing back against Ilya’s mouth and fingers or rocking forward into his tight fist. He sort of ended up doing both, writhing in desperation, chasing something deeper. “Jesus Christ,” Shane whined. 

“You are so wet,” Ilya said darkly, both hands still working him over. “Drooling for me, yes?” 

“Yeah,” Shane managed, though it sounded so fucking weak in his own ears. “Yes.” 

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya groaned, exasperated, his lips against Shane’s sacrum. “I want you so fucking bad.” 

“Please fuck me,” Shane blurted out, though he could hardly bring himself to feel guilty about it. He felt Ilya’s breath ghosting across his low back. “Need you inside me,” Shane sighed. “Fuck, Ilya.” 

“Yes,” Ilya nodded, letting go of Shane’s cock in favor of holding his ass open with both hands. Shane clenched around nothing, warm breath on uncharted skin. “God,” Ilya sighed. “You are so beautiful.” 

Shane whimpered, feeling so completely exposed, but so safe. So wanted.

“You have lube?” Ilya asked the question against Shane’s ass cheek, pressing gentle kisses there. “Condom?” As Shane looked back over his shoulder, Ilya was looking up at him with what could only be described as puppy-dog eyes. 

“Oh, um,” Shane bit his lip. He honestly wasn’t sure he did. It would take all his fingers and two toes to count the months it had been since he’d last had sex, and if he recalled correctly, the other guy had provided the necessary equipment that time. “I think so,” Shane said, reaching to rummage through the drawer of his bedside table. He certainly had lube, that wasn’t a problem, so he pulled that out and tossed it onto the bed beside him. Ilya seemed to take it as a suggestion, because within no time Shane felt the cold gel being spread across his entrance. He shivered and clenched, rocking back against those fingers, almost forgetting the task at hand, lost in the feeling. After a few seconds of searching in the drawer, Shane found a stray condom, one of those blue Trojan ones they gave out for free at student health services. 

And he hesitated. 

Ilya reached forward as soon as he saw it, practically snatching the thing out of Shane’s hands. 

“Turn over,” Ilya said as he fumbled with opening the foil wrapping. “And lie back.” 

“Oh,” Shane breathed. He’d never done it that way before. Face to face. “Okay.”

“I want to see you,” Ilya said, his eyes wide, a little crazed. “Your face.” 

“Yeah, okay,” Shane nodded, unable to tear his eyes away from the condom in Ilya’s hands. “Um–” he wasn’t sure what propelled him to think this was a good idea, but he couldn’t stop himself. The train had left the station long ago. Shane wasn’t thinking clearly, he was chasing a high. “Wait, I, um–” Shane stammered as Ilya lined up the translucent latex with his ruddy swollen head. “I’ve always used one, you know? But, like–” Shane wasn’t sure how best to phrase it. “I’ve never not, but–”

“Me either,” Ilya said quickly, a brow quirking over his eye. “I always wear.” 

“Really? Like,” Shane bit his lip. “Like, even with guys?”

“Always, yes,” Ilya nodded solemnly. “I have never fucked raw,” he admitted. He moved the condom away from where his cock was jutting out obscenely from his pelvis. It was practically purple. God, Shane really wanted to put his mouth on him. Ilya huffed a little laugh. “Maybe I am, like, waiting for you?” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

It was probably such a stupid idea, and Shane knew that, deep down. There were plenty of reasons. But Shane wasn’t thinking with that head, and he really, really wanted to feel Ilya with nothing between them. Bare.

“Let’s not,” Shane said after a moment. “I don’t wanna use one.”

“Okay,” Ilya said quickly, tossing the condom aside onto Shane’s bedside table. He looked up and down at Shane’s supine form, kneeling between his spread legs, finally giving his own cock some attention. Ilya’s slippery fist slid up and down his length at a measured pace, though his eyes spoke of a desperate hunger. “You have done this before, yes?”

“Yeah,” Shane replied with a shallow nod. He didn’t feel the need to elaborate, but he did offer: “It’s, um, been a while, though.” 

Ilya nodded. “Tell me how you are feeling,” he said as he leaned in over Shane, holding himself up with one arm. He kissed Shane again, and it was soft. Gentle. “I will go slow.” 

“Okay.” Shane swallowed hard, and the heat of Ilya’s cock was pressed against his own. Shane bucked up at the contact, and Ilya chuckled. The freshman arranged them so Shane was spread wide, one leg pinned open with Ilya’s forearm under Shane’s knee, the other leg wrapped around Ilya’s waist. The tip of Ilya’s cock notched against Shane’s hole, catching on the loose, slick rim, and Shane keened. 

“Okay?”

“Yes,” Shane moaned, clenching around hardly anything. “Please, please fuck me.” 

Ilya lined himself up properly, and gently rocked his hips forward, finally pressing an inch inside. His necklace swung between them in the stillness. 

“Fuck,” Shane whined, the blunt stretch quite unlike that of a couple fingers. Even through the twinge, it felt so right, so natural, to feel Ilya with nothing between their skin. The latex always made things feel so clinical, so measured. Shane thought about what it must have felt like for Ilya, to be pressing inside of his heat with no barrier. “Oh, fuck–”

“Is okay?” 

Ilya’s mouth was hovering an inch away from Shane’s own. He sounded ruined already, voice straining in his throat, like it was taking everything he had to hold back. 

“Yeah,” Shane nodded quickly, breath dying in his throat. “Yes.” 

With his permission, Ilya pressed in deeper, swiftly burying himself to the hilt. 

“Fuck,” Shane mewled, throwing his head back on the pillows, back arching like a cat as the sensation washed over him in waves, intensity building between each heartbeat. His eyes squeezed shut. It wasn’t easy. Ilya was undoubtedly bigger than anyone he’d ever taken before, and that in itself was so fucking arousing. Shane tried to adjust to the feeling of being so full, like every inch of him belonged to something else, someone else, totally at Ilya’s mercy. As he opened his eyes, he found Ilya staring back down at him, his brows knitting together in some kind of concentration. 

“Okay?” 

“Yes, fuck,” Shane gritted out, so overwhelmed. “Please move,” he begged the boy, his hands finding purchase at Ilya’s hips. He spanned the length of Ilya’s back, feeling those thick muscles flex and contract. “Please, Ilya.” 

“Okay,” Ilya whispered low. “Okay.” 

Ilya pulled out nearly all the way before sliding back home, faster and easier this time. His nostrils flared and his eyelids fluttered shut. 

“Jesus, О боже мой,” Ilya growled, burying his face in Shane’s neck. “Ah, fuck, Shane.”

“Fuck me,” Shane pleaded, his roaming hands landing on Ilya’s ass. He palmed the thick flesh, admiring in a distant part of his brain how hard Ilya must have worked for it. Ilya didn’t respond verbally, instead merely pressing back and picking up his unhurried pace, starting to thrust into Shane with more force, though it was slow. Sensuous.  

He grunted something low in Russian. “Fuck, Shane, you feel so good,” Ilya said then, his voice strained. “So good for me, so fucking tight. Like, sucking me in.” 

“Yeah,” Shane whimpered, cupping Ilya’s jaw with both hands, tugging his face down for another filthy kiss. “It’s all yours,” Shane whispered against his lips. 

“Yes,” Ilya hissed. “Mine. Fuck, yes, Shane.” Shane watched as Ilya’s jaw worked in his cheek, the muscle spasming beneath Shane’s thumb as he strained. “This is like, ah,” Ilya winced, “harder to go slow. Feels like I am going in even when I am going out,” he said with a weak laugh. “Trying so fucking hard not to come.” Ilya was panting, hanging his head. “Without condom, is like… fuuuck,” he whimpered, his face pinched, crumpling.

“Don’t go slow,” Shane insisted. “I can take it, please,” he begged. 

Ilya let out a moan as Shane said it, the permission clearly all he needed to start hammering into Shane. His hips thrust rhythmically against Shane, cock pistoning in and out of Shane’s hole with singular determination, golden crucifix swinging in Shane’s face. He leaned in and captured Shane’s mouth with his own, sliding his tongue between Shane’s lips. Shane kissed him back, breathless as Ilya licked into his mouth. There was something so precious about being kissed like that with the other boy so deep inside him. Just taking what he wanted from Shane’s body, in every possible way. 

Ilya leaned back a little bit, breaking away from the kiss to change the angle within Shane. It was perhaps only millimeters on the inside, but it was enough. 

“Oh, fuck,” Shane cried out, seeing stars beneath his eyelids, feeling like some wonderful button had been pressed. “Jesus Christ!” It had always seemed like a mystery, an urban legend, that the prostate could really be responsible for so much feeling. Shane had never been able to really get there on his own. 

He had no doubts about it now. 

Shane was panting, tongue practically wagging beneath Ilya, staring up at the sweaty boy working him closer and closer to the edge.

“Yes? Good?” The freshman’s eyebrows had shot up as soon as Shane started to truly squirm. 

“Yeah, fuck yeah,” Shane sobbed, entirely overcome. “Oh, fuck, can you touch me?” 

Ilya hummed through tight lips, his hand circling Shane’s slick cock in an instant. He matched himself thrust for thrust, pumping Shane’s cock with the same vigor and intensity and rhythm. Shane could do nothing but press back, hungry for more and more and more of him, surrendering to the desire that was taking over. This felt better than any high he’d ever had. Pleasure unfurled from behind his navel, hot and billowing through his body like warm summer wind. 

“Fuck, Ilya, I’m gonna come,” Shane bleated, his toes curling, tension coiling his every muscle, his body a slave to this pure ecstasy.

“Yes,” Ilya said quickly, sweat beading at his hairline like dew, his chest soaked with the stuff. “Yes, Shane, I want to feel you,” he urged. He worked Shane’s cock harder, faster, stroking him just fucking right. “Want to feel you come on my cock, Captain.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Shane whined, tipping over the edge at last, his orgasm rocking through him like thunder. “Fuck,” Shane cried out, entirely overcome. This was like nothing Shane had ever known, a pleasure so blinding, so white-hot that he couldn’t even form words. He grit his teeth as the orgasm rocketed through him, burning him from the inside out, almost painful in its intensity. Thick ropes of come spilled out onto Shane’s stomach. Ilya watched with rapt attention. He was losing his rhythm, his control, the movements of his hips growing erratic. Shane wrapped his leg tighter around Ilya’s waist, pulling him in even more. “Come in me,” Shane begged without even being asked, and Ilya was lost. He groaned through a low oh, God, Shane, followed by a sting of Russian, pumping chaotically inside Shane’s hole. It felt warmer, suddenly, between his legs, warm and impossibly wet. The freshman’s hips practically vibrated against Shane’s ass as he emptied himself, shivering with what Shane imagined was overstimulation. 

Hot breath mingled between their open mouths, heaving and sighing and, eventually, laughing just a little bit. Shane’s ears were ringing. He felt completely wrung out, like a damp rag. Used up. Squeezed and squeezed and squeezed until he had nothing left. 

It was bliss.

A loose, dopey smile was plastered across Ilya’s face as he came down from the high. He looked so totally spent. Shane’s legs relaxed around him, falling lazily to the sides, and Ilya collapsed down onto Shane’s chest, littering his face with tender kisses. 

Fuck, it felt so good. 

Shane’s release was hot and smeared between their bellies, which ordinarily he might have found gross, but instead he found it fucking hot. As their breathing returned to normal, Shane felt the sudden urge to ask Ilya all sorts of questions, to find out what was going on in his head, what had been going on in his head, and for how long, really? He’d said ‘since his visit to Harvard’, but what did that mean? When had this… this crush really started? When had Ilya started ‘telling’ Shane about it, in his own, strange way? Shane's brain started to spin, trying to come up with memories he wasn’t sure he retained, just to see what other clues he’d possibly missed. 

“I can feel you thinking,” Ilya murmured, his lips against Shane’s temple, each word drawn out. 

“What?”

Ilya hummed, squeezing Shane’s traps gently. “You are tense.”

“I’m not–” Shane started out, but then thought better of it. Honesty had gotten him pretty far that night. Maybe he should try it more often. “Sorry,” Shane said instead.

“No sorry,” Ilya shook his head gently. He turned them onto their sides, rolling off of Shane’s chest, his softening cock slipping out from inside. “What is it?” 

Shane grimaced a bit at the loss of contact, and the steady dribble of Ilya’s release between his legs. Ilya’s arm wrapped around Shane’s waist, tugging him closer until their bodies were flush again. 

“I just–” Shane sighed. “What… um, what do we do now?” 

Ilya’s eyebrows jumped. “Now?”

“Yeah, I don’t know.” Shane shrugged.

“Now, I will shower, maybe. You too. Clean up. Then sleep.” 

“Will you,” Shane stumbled over his words, almost embarrassed of his own desires. He was suddenly terrified he’d have to sleep alone, after all that they’d just been through, together. “I mean, are you gonna go back to, um, your room? Or, like–”

A sly grin broke across Ilya’s face. 

“If you will have me, Captain, I would like to stay,” he teased, running a hand up and down Shane’s flank, his fingertips barely ghosting over Shane’s skin. 

Shane’s lips pursed into a tight smile. He closed his eyes, feeling his cheeks heat with blush. 

“Is a yes?” 

“Yes,” Shane said, nodding. “Please stay.” 

Ilya leaned forward and kissed Shane’s face, his forehead. The apples of his cheeks and the tip of his nose. 

“Okay.” 

Shane peered over Ilya’s shoulder to look at the alarm clock on his bedside table. It was a few minutes past midnight. “Hey, happy new year,” Shane added quietly. “Twenty-fifteen, huh.”

“Ah, we miss new year’s kiss?” Ilya craned his neck to look over his shoulder at the clock. 

Shane scoffed. “I mean, yeah, I guess, but–”

“Was better this way, yes?” He grinned as he turned back to face Shane. He nudged his nose against Shane’s, and Shane could have sworn his heart started to melt in his chest. “Good start to new year, I think.” 

Shane couldn’t help but laugh, just a little. He couldn’t hold it in. If he could go back in time and tell himself two weeks ago that this would be how he’d be ringing in the new year, well. He’d think he was crazy. 

“This is…” Shane giggled as Ilya’s arms wrapped tighter around his back. “This is crazy, right? I mean… is this not crazy to you?” 

“No,” was Ilya’s simple response. “Not crazy to me at all.” 

Chapter End Notes

the slow burn has finally burned out... who cheered

real talk, i loved writing this chapter so much. hence why it's so long. the bathroom scene here was the first scene i pictured when brainstorming this story, and everything else has been shaped around it. i hope you enjoyed it as much as i did. i've never written such a sloooow slow burn in my life and i hope the payoff was worth it.

as always, your comments give me life :') thank you so much for engaging with this story and leaving such wonderful notes for me!!

lastly, rest in peace to the Darwin's on Putnam. you were the realest.

i'm so excited to share what else is left to come!

Chapter 10: January 1st

Chapter Notes

January 1st

Mornings had never felt particularly special to Shane. 

Sure, there was the occasional day when he practically woke up with a smile on his face. His birthday, for one. Christmases, growing up. Game days. 

But those were few and far between. 

Most mornings were monotonous; waking up alone, half the bed cold from disuse. Most mornings, Shane woke up a few minutes before his alarm, scrolled on his phone until it went off, and then got out of bed to dress. 

Most mornings weren’t like this one. 

Because Shane had never woken up in a warm embrace before. He’d never woken up with strong arms wrapped around his bare chest. He’d never started his day tracing thick forearm veins beneath another man’s skin. 

This particular morning was so far from Shane’s usual, it was almost funny. He wasn’t sure how Ilya had managed it, but somehow, he’d held Shane like that all night long: Shane’s bare back to his warm chest, one arm beneath Shane’s head, his bicep serving as a pillow. 

Shane didn’t usually sleep naked, either. 

The night before ended as one might have expected it to. They showered, together, though there wasn’t really anything sexual about it. They were both so exhausted from the day they’d had, and from the sex they’d had, that things didn’t go farther than a few long, lingering kisses. Shane felt like he was dead on his feet under the shower head, dragging the bar of soap over his belly and through his crack to wash it all away. His lack of sleep the night before had fully caught up to him. Ilya looked similarly affected. 

They’d toweled off and gotten back into bed in quick succession, wet hair against the pillows. Ordinarily that would bother Shane, but looking at Ilya in his bed, soaked curls dark and tight, eyes bright and shining, it was really hard to care about anything else in the world, the least of which were some damp pillows. 

But that was in the dim evening light, before Shane had switched off the lamp and they’d fallen asleep. Now, in the dusky morning, Shane wasn’t so sure everything would be the same. 

What if Ilya thought everything from the night before was… some huge mistake? What if he didn’t mean what he’d said, and he was just looking to hook up? What if all the tension they’d been feeding into all week had just finally come to a head, and Ilya simply had to fuck Shane, just to get it out of his system? 

People did that, didn’t they? Just… fuck, with no feelings attached. Shane had done that, once or twice. He supposed he should know the drill. 

But those hookups never had a preamble that included I like you, I want you.

Those hookups never said things like maybe from the first time I saw you. 

No, Shane told himself. This was real. Whatever this was, it was something… real. Ilya liked him. Ilya wanted him. 

Ilya maybe even… no, it was way too early to say things like that. But Ilya definitely… there was definitely something real there. 

But, still… what if Ilya woke up confused? What if he changed his mind? 

As though he’d heard Shane’s thoughts, Ilya stirred behind him, his arms constricting around Shane’s torso. He groaned in Shane’s ear, breath hot on his skin. 

“Good morning,” Ilya half-whispered, his voice sleep-rough. He pressed a kiss to the nape of Shane’s neck. Shane made an involuntary noise in response as Ilya tightened his embrace. He curled in on himself, snuggling back into Ilya’s heat. Then Ilya’s lips were at his ear. “Come here.” 

Shane rotated himself in the cage of Ilya’s arms, burying his face in the freshman’s chest once they were face to face. He was so fucking warm there, so cozy and inviting, like fire in flesh. There was nothing Shane could compare it to. He felt Ilya’s lips against his hairline, breath from his nose and mouth fanning out into his hair, and Shane wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt safer in his life. For a time, there were no words, just sensation. Just Shane burrowing towards Ilya’s warmth, and Ilya holding Shane tighter, fiercer. 

It was instinct that led Shane to the hollow of Ilya’s throat, pressing long, open-mouthed kisses against the fragile skin. He wondered idly about hickies, wondered if he might end up leaving a mark on the other boy’s neck if he wasn’t careful. 

Shane dragged his mouth downward, tawny chest hair against his lips, settling in the ridge between Ilya’s pecs. Shane kissed there, too, all across Ilya’s chest, single-mindedly following his nose like a dog. He nearly lost himself in Ilya’s underarm, burying his face there to drink in his spicy scent straight from the source. Then he moved to Ilya’s belly, dragging his lips along the boy’s treasure trail. Shane felt crazed, rubbing his face against every square inch of exposed skin, chasing a forbidden thrill. Ilya was hard already, almost like he’d woken up that way, though Shane could hardly blame him. He was too, hard and leaking against the sheets after just a few kisses. 

“I like your smell,” Shane blurted out, nuzzling his nose against Ilya’s groin. It was so concentrated there, so ripe. 

“Yes?” Ilya asked in a thready voice.

“Yeah,” Shane sighed, breathing in what was both familiar and fresh. He smelled himself there, too, his soap from the shower, his breath on Ilya’s skin. “I loved wearing your sweatshirt,” Shane confessed, feeling emboldened as he listened to Ilya’s breath hitch in his throat each time he got closer to the boy’s cock. He wrapped a hand around the length and leaned in. “Becasue it smelled like you.” 

Shane wrapped his lips around Ilya’s cockhead, pulling back the foreskin and tasting tang on his tongue. Ilya’s hips jerked up, almost violently, spasming as soon as Shane’s mouth was on him. Shane had very little experience with this particular aspect of sex, so he wasn’t sure that was a good thing, but Ilya’s fingers carding through his hair and his soft sort of moaning seemed like a sure enough sign. Shane lolled his tongue around the head, amassing saliva in his wake. Whatever he couldn’t fit in his mouth was held in his fist below, gently pumping Ilya’s length. 

“Fuck,” Ilya groaned, sounding painted. “Fuck, fuck,” he stuttered, yanking on Shane’s hair and pulling him off. “I will come so fast,” he heaved through a deep breath. “Fuck, Shane.” 

Shane felt like he’d barely done anything. Holding Ilya’s eye, seeing the sincerity in his words, Shane began to sit up between Ilya’s knees. 

“I wanna ride you,” Shane said, half breathless.

He wasn’t totally sure where the suggestion came from, nor the confidence. He hadn’t ever done that before, it always felt too intimate, too exposed. But it seemed like something he wanted to do, now. With Ilya. 

He watched as Ilya’s eyes rolled back, the freshman flinging his forearm over his eyes. 

“блять, you want to kill me,” Ilya groaned. 

“I don’t–”

“Yes, yes, fuck yes,” Ilya followed up quickly, beckoning Shane forward. “Please fucking yes.” 

“Okay,” Shane breathed, sighing in relief. Ilya looked at him with dark, wide eyes, his hands at Shane’s hips, squeezing around. Shane managed to climb up, straddling Ilya’s body, spread wide above him. The boy below was reaching for the lube on the bedside table, fumbling around until he finally got a hold of it. He reached around and pressed slicked fingers to Shane’s hole, finding his way inside with some ease, teasing Shane’s rim with less resistance. Two fingers slid in and out, and Shane writhed on top of Ilya with each pass of his thick knuckles. Ilya took it upon himself to take Shane’s cock in his other hand, lazily stroking, matching the rhythm of his fingers dragging in and out. He stuffed in a third finger.

“Oh my god,” Shane whimpered, the sound practically punched out of him. He felt so weak in Ilya’s hands, melting and malleable on top of him. “Fuck, Ilya.” 

“I like this view,” Ilya said lowly, his eyes wide and dark as he played with Shane. Like he was a toy.

Shane shivered as the pleasure coursed through his core, wondering if he’d even make it to the main event. As soon as the thought appeared, though, he shoved it away, reaching around behind him to find Ilya’s cock, already slicked with lube and precome. He couldn’t wait any longer. Shane lined his entrance up with the head of Ilya’s cock and sank down, through moans and belabored breathing. Ilya’s eyes went wider yet, jaw falling open, gasping as the back of Shane’s thighs met his groin. 

“Fuck,” Shane stammered, feeling so fucking full of Ilya. “Oh my god,” he keened. “You’re s-so fucking big. It’s like you’re here,” Shane bleated, pressing a hand to his lower belly, as though he could feel Ilya there, bursting through his abdomen. 

Ilya’s eyes fluttered shut as he groaned, his head falling back onto the pillow. He bucked his hips up once, gently, but with a clear message. Shane needed to move. 

“Okay, okay, fuck,” Shane breathed, starting to lift himself, just a little. Ilya looked wrecked beneath him as Shane put his hands on his chest for balance. He rose up experimentally, dragging himself along the length of Ilya’s cock, before sinking back down. A mangled sound came from Ilya’s throat. 

“Touch yourself,” Ilya panted urgently. “Now.” Shane was reminded, then, of what Ilya had said the night before, how going slow like that was somehow both better and worse. He felt a little wicked, then, as he continued to ride Ilya’s cock at a languid pace, trapping the boy beneath him with each twitch of his hips. Shane tugged on himself lazily, collecting the precum weeping from his slit and slicking his length. He could probably come any second, too, but watching Ilya struggling for once was taking most of Shane’s attention. 

“You okay, Rozanov?” 

Ilya’s mouth was a tight frown, his nostrils flared. 

“Fuck, Shane,” he groaned as Shane continued to grind down. “о боги.”

Shane could feel himself starting to sweat. Ilya looked wrecked. Shane smiled. “You gonna come for me?” 

At that, Ilya grit his teeth and started to buck back, thrusting up into Shane from below. 

“Fuck,” Shane moaned, now practically bouncing, Ilya meeting him thrust for thrust. He leaned in to kiss the boy, but as soon as he did, Ilya grasped his hips and flipped them over, blanketing Shane with his body, his cock still wedged inside. “Holy shit,” Shane gasped.

“Do not tease me,” Ilya hissed against Shane’s lips. He grabbed Shane’s wrists roughly, pinning them over his head. He drilled into Shane with fervor, and the sounds of their skin slapping filled the room. Ilya doubled down, fingers squeezing around Shane’s wrists, hips shifting angles ever so slightly. He grinned down at Shane, delirious with lust, as Shane cried out. With each thrust, Ilya was nailing Shane’s prostate. Shane was barely hanging on. 

“Fuck, fuck, Ilya, just like that,” Shane sobbed, a familiar tightness settling behind his belly button, untouched cock slapping against his abdomen, so hard he could probably pass out. Ilya’s mouth was hovering an inch above Shane’s, their breath mingling between their lips, hot and steamy and slick. “Oh, fuck,” Shane bleated, curling in on himself, going rigid. 

“You come for me,” Ilya commanded, his thrusts already wavering. Shane had never come like this before, without any attention on his cock, but the wave of pleasure cresting within him was threatening to break. When Shane couldn’t hold back anymore, he came with a cry, thick ropes of his release shooting out onto his stomach. Ilya let go of Shane’s wrists, planting a hand on either side of Shane’s hips to pump into him harder, deeper. Ilya followed Shane down a moment later, eyes rolling back and groaning incomprehensibly in Russian. He collapsed down onto Shane just as he had the night before, and Shane wrapped his legs around the boy tighter, locking them at the ankles, pressing Ilya in deeper. All across Shane’s face, Ilya was peppering him with gentle kisses. 

Shane didn’t ever want to let him go.

***

Steam from the shower curled overhead like thin, wispy clouds. 

Ilya’s hands slid over Shane’s shoulders with a practiced ease, despite having no practice to speak of. He dragged the bar of soap over Shane’s muscles, slippery and soothing. The tiny room smelled so strongly of cardamon and sandalwood, the aroma of Shane’s precious soap that had effectively become theirs. Ilya ran his fingers through Shane’s hair with one hand, his other hand washing away Shane’s sticky release from his belly under the shower’s warm spray. His fingers soothed against Shane’s hole, washing him there with careful reverence. Shane’s cock started to twitch again as Ilya’s hand spanned lower and lower, grazing through Shane’s pubes, landing at the root of him. 

Shane leaned back into Ilya, humming contently, when he felt Ilya’s cock protruding against his ass. He almost jumped away at the feeling, the surprise. 

“Jesus,” he murmured, now rocking back just a touch against the boy’s length. “You’re hard again?” 

“Mmmm,” Ilya hummed in Shane's ear. “You will be too, soon, I think,” he added lowly, his fingers curling around Shane’s semi. 

“Yeah, but–” he scoffed. Shane hadn’t even touched him. 

“I get hard very easy,” Ilya explained, lips against Shane’s ear beneath the shower head. “Especially this week. Around you.”

Shane gasped as Ilya bucked forward, his hand at Shane’s groin pressing him backward. 

“Same,” Shane confessed, his voice breathy with need. 

“Yes?” 

“Yeah,” Shane whimpered when Ilya began to pump his thickening cock. “I kept waking up hard, ah, every time we–”

“Me too,” Ilya replied, his cock rubbing between Shane’s soapy crack. “Was worried you would notice.”

“Fuck,” Shane spluttered, his head lolling back onto Ilya’s shoulder.  “God, you’re so hard,” Shane remarked, breathless. He wasn’t sure what possessed him in that moment, but suddenly there was nothing more appealing than getting his mouth on Ilya. He turned around and sank to his knees, taking Ilya’s cock in his hand and guiding him into his open mouth. 

“блять,” Ilya hissed as Shane took him between his lips. He pressed Ilya’s foreskin back with his mouth, the taste of clean skin and soap blooming on his tongue. The shower sprayed against Ilya’s back, leaving water droplets sluicing down his godlike form as Shane stared up. 

He really was so fucking beautiful. 

Body sculpted from marble, this boy, with a defined abdomen and rounded pecs, biceps and triceps and deltoids all just bulging. Ilya dragged his fingers through Shane’s wet hair, groaning darkly and staring down at him with lust-blown pupils, his jaw open. Shane did his best to flatten his tongue, to give the boy access to his throat. Ilya started to thrust forward, gently at first and then with more conviction when he realized Shane could take it. He wasn’t not gagging, but he didn’t want Ilya to stop. He wanted more. 

Ilya started to fuck Shane’s mouth, every thrust punctuated with a grunt of pleasure, all of which went straight to Shane’s cock. Shane pawed at himself while he let Ilya use his throat, rutting errantly into his fist, painfully aroused, tears welling in his eyes. 

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya panted, every premise of bravado gone. “I will come–” 

Shane moaned around the other boy’s length, humming his assent, hoping to convey how badly he wanted him to do exactly that. He gripped Ilya’s hips harder, aiding his thrusts, urging him to stay inside his mouth. Ilya sobbed as he came, both hands in Shane’s hair, hips stuttering against Shane’s face. Shane pulled off Ilya’s cock with a lewd, wet pop after swallowing him down, and Ilya looked down at him with fucking stars in his eyes. He yanked Shane up to meet him, crushing his mouth with a kiss, wrapping his arms around Shane’s waist. Shane buried his face in the hollow of Ilya’s throat, wet chest hair tickling his chin. Ilya fumbled between their bodies, taking Shane’s cock in his hand and stroking him. He moved to kneel down, but there was no need.

“No, no–” Shane spluttered, pulling Ilya against his body, wrapping a hand around the other boy’s thick wrist. He was already so close, all he needed was one more–

“Just–” 

It felt like Shane came the second the other boy began to stroke him. He moaned into Ilya’s wet skin as he shattered in his hands, utterly spent. Shane’s knees wobbled beneath him. The room was so warm, so humid, he felt dizzy, lightheaded. 

“Jesus Christ,” Shane sighed, feeling drained. 

“Just Ilya is fine,” Ilya replied with a devilish wink. 

***

Upon reentering his bedroom, Shane sort of thought they might finally get dressed, but Ilya had other plans. The boy threw away the bath towel that’d been wrapped around his waist and pounced on Shane’s bed naked, scrambling to get back under the covers, shivering in a theatrical sort of way. 

“Need to huddle for warmth, I think,” Ilya teased, pretending his teeth were chattering. 

Shane rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop the grin from spreading on his face. He couldn’t even be mad about the towel on the ground. In fact, Shane dropped his own and joined him, crawling into Ilya’s warm embrace. It was becoming familiar very fast. 

Ilya’s lips were in Shane’s wet hair in a second, kisses fluttering across the crown of his head. Shane loathed to pull away from his affections, but now that he was back in his right mind, he had… questions. 

“So,” Shane said, words spoken against Ilya’s throat. The other boy pulled back, peering down his nose at Shane. 

“So?” 

“So,” Shane repeated, squirming a little in Ilya’s arms, trying to settle back against his pillows. “I feel like we should probably talk about this.” 

Ilya pursed his lips. 

“Mmm, no.” 

Shane scoffed. “You don’t even know what I’m gonna say.”

“It looks serious,” Ilya replied, eyebrows raised.

“It’s not,” Shane said quickly, raising a hand, tentatively hovering it over Ilya’s chest. Was it serious? No, Shane decided, not really. He just figured they should get it all out in the open. He put his hand down, touching him at last. God, Ilya was warm like a furnace. “I just… think we should address a few things.” 

“Okay,” Ilya settled back a few inches, though he didn’t move Shane’s hand from his chest. “I will guess. You want this to be over by the time roommates are back?”

“What? No,” Shane spluttered, shaking his head. “Not at all.” 

Ilya’s lips twitched, then curled into a tiny smirk. 

“Okay.” Ilya looked pleased. “Good.” 

Shane shook his head, to reiterate. “I don’t want to stop,” he said, with a little scoff. “I don’t think I could, not now.” Ilya’s brows danced over his eyes, and he looked all too self-satisfied for Shane’s liking. He gave the freshman a playful shove. “Relax.” 

“No,” Ilya retorted, zooming in to steal a quick kiss, leaving Shane giggling and breathless. 

“I just… I’m not sure what comes next, I guess,” Shane admitted finally. 

Ilya shrugged. “You are gay, yes?” 

The way he said it was so fucking casual, it made Shane want to laugh. 

“I’m gay, yeah,” Shane nodded, feeling an odd sense of relief as he said it. It had been years since he’d spoken those words aloud to someone else. 

“Does anyone know?”

“Yeah,” Shane nodded again. “My parents know, and I told Hayden.”

Ilya appeared to be contemplating this. 

“Does Rose Landry know?” 

Shane buckled with laughter, visions of the night before plaguing his mind. “Oh my god,” he chuckled. “I don’t know,” Shane replied honestly, wondering what her motives had even been at that New Year’s party. “I don’t think so, I haven’t told her. Maybe she guessed.” Shane thought about it a bit more, and realized how much he’d actually like for her to know. “I should tell her.” Ilya looked hopeful. “I will tell her,” Shane resolved. 

“Her friend knows you are gay,” Ilya said, lips twisting into a frown. “Or he wishes, at least.” 

“Oh god,” Shane covered his face with his hands. “Yeah,” Shane sighed, thinking about Miles. “Yeah, he probably does.” He dragged his hands down his face, groaning a little, only to find Ilya looking back with a soft sort of expression. “Wait, how did… how did you know?” 

“Lucky guess, maybe,” Ilya said with a wink. “No, no, I did not know, not really,” he went on. “But I think maybe you like me, at least, from how I see you look at me.” Ilya shrugged. “I was not sure. But, was worth the risk.” 

“Right,” Shane replied softly, trying to ignore the way his heart fluttered. “And you… you’re not, I mean, you’re–”

“Bi? Yes,” Ilya answered before the question was even out of Shane’s mouth. 

“Okay,” Shane nodded. 

“What?” Ilya was grinning. 

“No, nothing,” Shane felt his face warm with blush. “I just, I mean. I haven’t heard about you hooking up with any men.” 

“Oh, you are keeping tab on me?”

“No,” Shane blushed harder as Ilya winked again. “Shut up.” 

Ilya’s arms wrapped around Shane again, and the embarrassment ebbed away. 

“I am hooking up with everybody until I can have you, yes,” Ilya admitted. “Girls, mostly. But some boys, too. You would like list?” 

“Oh my god,” Shane rolled his eyes, crushing his face against the other boy’s chest. “You’re ridiculous.” 

Ilya hummed, and Shane felt the sound through his skin. 

“I think maybe you like it,” Ilya taunted, pressing a kiss to Shane’s head. 

It was so unusual for him, so fucking strange, to be held like that. And yet, it was innate. His body knew where to go. He supposed it made sense. People had been doing it since the dawn of time. Why should they be any different?

Shane let himself be held for a moment, before he began to squirm again. He reeled back to look at Ilya, almost to take stock of the moment, to retain a mental picture. A snapshot in time. 

Ilya’s face was flushed, his curls already mussed despite the recent shower. His eyes were bright and warm. Shane wanted to see him smile again. He peered over his shoulder, finding the clock. It was almost eleven. Shane turned back to face Ilya, bringing a hand to the other boy’s chest, his fingertips carding through the sparse chest hair.

“What should we do today?” 

Ilya looked confused, his brow furrowing. He opened his arms wide, gesturing around between themselves and the nest of bedding and pillows, frowning. As if to say: what else is there to do?

Shane scoffed a laugh. “I just mean, like, at some point we’ll have to eat.” 

At that, Ilya grinned. “I know what I want to eat.” 

“Gross,” Shane retorted, though his blush probably gave him away. Ilya leaned in closer. 

“Shane. I can finally have you all to myself, yes? After all this time walking around this house like ghosts, not touching you, not kissing you?” 

Shane gave a shallow nod. Ilya hummed, sticking out his lower lip defiantly. 

“Then I am not leaving this bed.” 

Shane thought that sounded fair enough. 

***

Morning stretched into afternoon through the long hours they spent in Shane’s bed. 

Both exhausted from the last two days and lack of solid sleep, they napped for a while in their warm cocoon of blankets. Waking up again was much like that morning, with wandering hands and warm mouths and a desperate need thrumming through their bodies. Shane wasn’t sure he’d come so much in a single day since his early teenage years, back when he was first exploring what it meant to feel pleasure at one’s own hand. He’d certainly never gone round after round after round with someone else. 

There was a certain beauty in learning another person. Another’s wants, another’s needs. Shane felt like he, in turn, was learning things about himself, too, even in those few hours. And sharing them in real time. It felt like with each touch, each kiss, they were mapping out one another, charting their bodies, their desires. 

Ilya was a very quick study. 

And he seemed to have a bottomless libidio, which Shane didn’t exactly mind. 

It seemed like they’d stop at nothing, the room muggy and sheets sweat soaked, when Shane’s stomach started to rumble. He pulled an embarrassed sort of face, and Ilya grinned. 

The freshman chuckled, then growled as he leaned in, blowing raspberries against Shane’s stomach. 

“Stop it!” Shane squealed with laughter, writhing within Ilya’s grasp.

The raspberries turned into kisses, fluttering in quick succession, Ilya’s wet lips all over Shane’s abdomen.

“You are hungry,” Ilya murmured against Shane’s belly.

Shane scoffed. “What gave you that idea?”

“We should eat,” Ilya said as he pulled away, laying back beside Shane. “I am hungry too. Need food for stamina,” he added, waggling his eyebrows. 

“Gross,” Shane chastised, half-heartedly slapping his knuckles against the other boy’s chest. 

He started to think on what they could eat, what they had in the house: Ingredients. Breakfast food. Frozen vegetables. 

There was leftover chicken parm from two nights ago, but there probably wasn’t enough for them both. Maybe not even enough for one. They could get takeout, but the odds that anything would be open on New Year’s day felt unlikely. It was then that Shane remembered that, technically, it was a holiday. 

A holiday that Ilya had sort of said he celebrated. Back home. 

“We should go out,” Shane said suddenly. “You know, um, cause it’s a holiday?” He looked at Ilya with a hopeful expression. “We’ll find something.” 

The corner of Ilya’s mouth twitched. 

“Yes,” he said with a small smile. “Okay.” 

***

Their wanderings led them to Felipe’s, which Shane was all too thrilled about. After no food all day, he could probably put away two super burritos. Easily.

The small, hole-in-the-wall taqueria that he was accustomed to had moved locations in the last month, and neither Shane nor Ilya had actually been to the new one yet. The new spot was right in the heart of Harvard Square, which sounded fantastic on paper, but made Shane worry just a little bit that his favorite spot would become untenably popular. He didn’t love waiting in lines.

But the new location was practically empty that day, allowing the boys to approach the counter to order with ease. As they walked in, Shane took in his surroundings, taking note of the rustic tile floors and table tops, the traditional art on the walls. The long bar along the back of the room, stocked with all kinds of ceramic tequila bottles. The high ceilings, leading to a second floor. The promise of a rooftop bar once warmer days returned again. 

“Wow,” Shane exhaled, looking up. “This place is great,” he went on. It was a big change from their old spot, much more upscale. “I wonder what they’re paying to rent this out,” Shane added, contemplating the three-story space in a prime location, and how that might have differed from the old spot, on a more quiet side-street. “It’s gotta be a ton. Or maybe they bought? But that would be crazy money.” 

Ilya chuckled, knocking into Shane’s shoulder with his own. 

“I am starving and you are here thinking about real estate.” 

“No, I just mean,” Shane started, finally looking back at Ilya to find the boy smirking at him knowingly. “Shut up.” 

Ilya brought his hand to Shane’s face, smoothing a thumb over his cheek before pinching playfully. 

“So cute.”

Their orders were identical, super burritos with cheese, except Shane ordered chicken and Ilya ordered steak. When they got to the counter to pay, Shane pulled out his wallet. It was his idea, after all, and he felt like maybe he finally owed it to Ilya to pay for a meal. But Ilya was faster, swatting Shane’s hand down, pulling out cash from his wallet. 

“End of my per diem money,” Ilya remarked as he handed over the bills. 

“Damn,” Shane replied, taking both their plates to an empty table. “You should have tried to save some of it. It’s literally free money.” 

Ilya shrugged, slumping down into the booth opposite him. 

“Was worth it, I think,” he said with a smirk, tearing away the foil from his burrito.

***

Their walk home was a cold one, made marginally warmer when Ilya reached out and took Shane’s hand. 

Was that what love felt like?

As soon as they were through the front door, Ilya was all over Shane, shrugging off his jacket and wrapping cold fingers around the back of his neck to tug him close. Ilya was beaming down at Shane, grinning deliriously, pulling away after each kiss, seemingly just to look at him. 

Was that what love felt like?

That time, they didn’t make it to Shane’s bed. They didn’t even make it upstairs. They made it as far as the couch, tumbling over the arm, half-clothed, legs slotting together like pieces of a puzzle. Ilya made quick work of Shane with his mouth, and Shane returned the favor, this new push and pull of shared devotion becoming second nature. 

Maybe that was what love felt like. 

Shane really couldn’t say. But he had a pretty good hunch.

After it was over, they clung together in a sweaty heap on the couch, breaking apart only to pull on underwear and drag a blanket over their bodies. They’d move to the bed eventually, Shane had to assume, but for now, it felt sublime to be together like this, in the living room, on the couch where they’d wasted so much time trying miserably to stay apart.

Shane couldn’t help giggling as Ilya peppered his face with kisses, alternating back and forth and back again across the apples of his cheeks, fluttering as gently as a butterfly’s wing against the soft skin just beneath Shane’s eyes. Ilya reeled back after a minute or two, gazing down at Shane like he hung the fucking moon. 

“I think I am in love with your freckles.”

Shane’s breath caught in his throat. His stomach did a somersault. His laughter faltered, panic spiking as the first half of that sentence snagged in his mind. Ilya’s face pinched, his brows wrinkling with acute confusion. 

“Is too much?” 

“No,” Shane replied quickly, laughing it off, hoping to appear at least somewhat convincing. “It’s…” he fought a smile, and lost. “It’s, um. Not too much.” 

Ilya’s eyes were alight. He smiled back.

“So,” Shane said quickly, cleaning his throat, feigning nonchalance at whatever just passed between the two of them. 

“So,” Ilya parroted back. “So, so, so,” he said mockingly. “You are always starting out big talks this way,” he rolled his eyes theatrically. “So. What is it now, Hollander? Hmm?” 

“I’m sorry,” Shane said quickly. “I just, like… What’s, like, the plan?” 

Ilya’s brow furrowed. “Plan?” 

“I mean,” Shane shrugged, “I don’t know, I… fuck,” he huffed. 

“I am confused,” Ilya admitted, looking worried. Fuck, confusing him more was the last thing Shane wanted to do.  

“I guess, okay, let me start with this,” Shane followed up, pressing a hand to Ilya’s left chest, searching for his heartbeat, finding it strong and steady. “I don’t want to sleep with anybody else.” 

Ilya’s eyes darted around the room quizzically.

“Yes, same, I tell you this. Many times. I am being clear enough? I only want you, Hollander,” Ilya deadpanned. Something wriggled inside Shane’s gut. 

“Okay,” Shane replied, a smile spreading on his face. “So, we’re, like…”

“Yes,” Ilya nodded, without letting Shane finish his sentence. 

“Exclusive?”

Ilya pouted, contemplating. “Lovers?”

Shane cringed. “I don’t like that word.”

“Okay,” Ilya shrugged. “Boyfriend?” 

After a beat, Shane nodded silently. It was, at least, a term he could become familiar with. 

He’d have a boyfriend. He’d be a boyfriend. What’s more, his boyfriend would be Ilya, and Ilya would be… his. 

“I like that,” Shane said softly. 

“Yes, me too,” Ilya replied quickly, his hand covering Shane’s where it lay on his chest. 

“So, um,” Shane grit his teeth, apprehension creeping in as he considered all the things that went along with that beautiful, wonderful title. “How will we, I mean, we’d have to–”

“Tell people?”

Shane swallowed, nodding. “Yeah.” 

Ilya nodded in response, again looking contemplative. It killed Shane, just a little bit, to even say the words. But he wasn’t out with most of the team, and he wasn’t sure how they’d take the news of their team captain suddenly in a committed relationship with the star-freshman-slash-pest. None of them struck Shane as particularly homophobic, but it was always a risk. What was crazy, looking at it now, was how much sense the whole thing made. If their teammates gave it even five seconds of thought, they’d see it. See them. If they spent five minutes alone in a room with them, well. Shane had a feeling it would be written all over their faces. 

“Do you want to stay secret?” 

“No,” Shane responded, feeling resolute. “I don’t.” 

Ilya nodded. 

“I just… have to–”

“Come out, yes,” Ilya supplied. “Me too, maybe. I guess.” 

“Yeah,” Shane said, his voice sounding small even in his own ears. 

“Is big thing, I know. We can keep secret, if you–”

“No, I don’t want that,” Shane replied with defiance. If this was real, if this was finally real, he would do everything in his power to keep it that way. Ilya was worth so much more than whatever pride Shane was protecting by keeping himself hidden. Being with Ilya, maybe even loving Ilya, might be the most important thing Shane would ever do. “Do… do you, um, want that?” 

“No,” Ilya shook his head. “But, being gay is… bad thing, in Russia. Is hard. One of many reasons I never want to go back.” 

Shane felt his stomach drop, contemplating not for the first time what Ilya’s wording may have been downplaying. What did bad thing mean to him, really? How bad was bad? 

“You said Pike knows you are gay, yes?” 

“Yeah,” Shane nodded, Ilya’s words bringing him back to earth. 

“Okay, so we start with him,” Ilya began. “Tell him you are gay, only now, you are gay with me.” 

Shane scoffed, only for it to turn into full-blown laughter. Leave it to Ilya, leave it to his boyfriend to crack jokes at a time like that. “Jesus Christ,” Shane chuckled. “Not gonna lie, I don’t think Hayden’s going to like that,” Shane admitted. “At least not at first.”

“Well, too bad for him,” Ilya shrugged, bottom lip jutting out dramatically. “Because I am going to be in his house a lot, I think.” 

Shane buckled, laughing with abandon, folding in on himself. He rested his face against Ilya’s chest, a space that had, in a day, become a home. 

“What is it?” Ilya asked through laughter. 

“No, nothing,” Shane wiped his eyes, pulling back. “Just thinking about how I share a wall with Hayden. A wall that my bed frame is up against.” 

Now, Ilya seemed to be understanding, grinning like a menace. 

“Will be tough one to hide, probably,” he half-whispered, his smile wide, sharp incisors flashing in the low light. Shane covered his face and groaned. “Mmm, okay, so Pike out of the way, only others who know are your parents, yes?”

“Um, yeah,” Shane said, pulling his hands from his face. “They know I’m gay.” He adjusted the blanket that had slipped from their shoulders, tugging it up to their necks, cloaking them both in warmth. “They, um, know who you are, too.”

“Oh?” At this, Ilya seemed genuinely surprised. “You write home about me, Hollander?” He leaned in for a kiss, only for Shane to shove him away. 

“No, you idiot,” Shane scoffed, play-fighting. “I was telling them about you when Wiebe told me you were staying here for break. But they basically know the roster anyway. They come to a lot of games.” 

Ilya’s eyebrows jumped. “What do they think of me?”

“My mom thinks you’re a rough player,” Shane conceded. 

“I am,” Ilya said confidently. 

“She’s really into hockey,” Shane explained.

“Makes two of us,” Ilya replied.

“Three of us,” Shane rolled his eyes, already seeing visions of his mother and Ilya teaming up against him. “Actually four, my dad also played hockey in college.” 

“Wow, wow, wow,” Ilya intoned. “Lucky you. Hockey family.” 

“I am lucky,” Shane confessed. “I think they’ll really like you, once they meet you. Properly.” 

Ilya’s face changed then, his brows loosening and lips softening, his teasing expression morphing into something more genuine.

“It will be my honor.” 

Shane reached up to cup the other boy’s face, holding his jaw in his hand, smoothing his thumb across Ilya’s cheekbone. God, what would life be tomorrow, or the day after, when he’d be expected to sit next to this boy on the bench, skate beside him on the ice, without holding him this close? 

“You, um,” Shane cleared his throat, eyes trained on Ilya’s. “Ilya, you don’t have to tell me anything about your family if you don’t want to, right now. I mean,” Shane rephrased as Ilya’s eyes dropped. “Let’s just be happy today. You know? Not think about it.” 

Ilya nodded earnestly. “Yes,” he said finally, after a moment’s silence. “Conversation for another time.” He looked back at Shane, mirroring his motions, taking Shane’s face within his hands. “I will tell you, soon. I want you to know.” 

Shane held his gaze. “I want to know.” 

I want to know everything about you. 

He hoped it was clear, even unsaid. 

“But, while we’re on the subject,” Shane grimaced a little as the words came out. “Have you… like, considered what you’re gonna do this summer, if you don’t wanna go back there?” 

The question Shane asked begged another, perhaps more serious question. What would either of them do, that summer? Once Shane graduated? What would they do if he moved away? What would it be like when they couldn’t be together like this, every day? 

Shane had only had Ilya for a day, less than that, but he didn’t plan on letting him go easily. Couldn’t fathom it. 

Ilya drew in a deep breath through his nose, blowing it out through his lips. “I don’t know,” he said, somber. “Is my biggest concern now.” 

“Now?” 

“Now, yes,” the boy allowed a tiny, bright smile to break through the clouds. “Now that I have my Shane Hollander.” 

Shane scoffed, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. This silly, silly boy. 

He couldn’t deny that he liked how that sounded. My Shane Hollander. 

“Your visa situation was second to me?” 

“Mmm, yes,” Ilya replied with full sincerity. “You are more important.” 

“Okay,” Shane smiled, allowing himself to feel fucking special for once, even if it was completely ludicrous. “Maybe we can talk to Wiebe and see what he can do,” Shane supplied, thinking on his feet. “I mean, it’s Harvard. There’s gotta be protocol. I’m sure that they can do something. You can’t be the first student to–”

“Yes, yes, okay,” Ilya said gently, effectively shushing Shane’s impending monologue. “We can talk about it tomorrow, yes?” Shane nodded. “Good,” Ilya said succinctly. “Because tonight is for sitting on the couch and holding you like I want to all week.” 

Shane’s eyes fluttered shut. He was blushing, he knew it and he could feel it but he didn’t fucking care. He didn’t want to hide it. There was nowhere on earth he would rather be. 

“That’s fine with me,” Shane replied, the understatement of the century. 

Chapter End Notes

i just really love their love!!!!!

one chapter to go... i hopefully saved the best for last

tbh i will probably a few post-script one shots of them in this universe in a series. because i cannot shut up <3

i am truly so grateful for every single kudos and comment :') thank you all for coming along on this ride!

Chapter 11: May 28th

Chapter Summary

the end <3

Chapter Notes

we've arrived folks!!!!!! welcome to my massive caboose of a final chapter/epilogue. there's so much of my favorite stuff crammed into this one, i hope you enjoy :')

If you catch any inconsistencies between my descriptions of certain events and the real life nhl draft and/or the real life harvard graduation exercises, don’t worry about it <3 this is MY snowglobe <3 thank you very much <3

! TW for very brief use of casual homophobic language. It’s not directed at shane or ilya.

May 28th

May in Boston was warm. 

It seemed like a cruel trick, a bait and switch. Winter’s brutal chill took forever to shake off, even through mid-April and into reading period. Then, right along with final exams, came temperatures in the 70s. 80s, even. Warm and sticky. The sudden switch made staying focused a challenge. 

As such, Ilya could feel the back of his neck, his temple, the hollow of his throat, all slick with sweat. 

Shane had been reluctant to put the air conditioner unit into the bedroom window, citing that it was “too early” for such accommodation to be made. If we put it in now, it won’t even feel like AC by the time it’s July. Ilya wasn’t sure if Shane wanted to eat his words yet. He was sweaty, too. Feverishly warm beneath Ilya’s touch. 

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane panted, his voice stained, clenching around Ilya’s fingers. “Fuck, fuck, I can’t–”

“You can,” Ilya breathed, pulling his mouth off Shane’s cock to chastise him. Ilya crooked his fingers upward inside of Shane, snug and warm, with a smile. Shane could resist, Ilya knew he could. But, god, it was fun to try and break him. What started out as a ‘blowjob for the graduate’ quickly turned into a bit of a game. As usual. It was sort of their thing.

Of course Shane enjoyed getting his cock sucked. Who didn’t? And Ilya enjoyed the feeling of Shane’s blunt cockhead slamming against the back of his throat. But Shane loved to come with Ilya inside him. At the same time as Ilya, preferably. Which made it all the more fun to drag things out. 

It never got old. For either of them. Despite Shane’s protestation in the moment, Ilya knew his boyfriend was exactly where he wanted to be. 

Shane moaned a long, low note and hitched his knees up, spreading his legs impossibly further apart, properly putting himself on display. He was flat on his back, vulnerable and exposed, laid out on the bed like a feast. Ilya leaned in to lick and nip at Shane’s rim some more, drawing a high mewl from the other boy. He dragged his tongue over Shane's heavy balls, lazily pulling one and then the other into his mouth, having his way with him. Forever Ilya’s favorite toy. 

Shane shivered through the stimulation, bucking up into Ilya’s fist as he stroked him. 

“I need you now,” Shane warned. “Now, Ilya, please–”

“Please what?” Ilya dragged his tongue up the length of Shane’s wet cock, teasing the underside of the head with the tip of his tongue, just to watch him squirm. “Use words, Captain. Tell me.” 

“I need you to fuck me.” Shane’s eyes were dark and wide as he begged. He looked down at Ilya with singular desperation. “I need you to use me.” 

“Mmm,” Ilya hummed. “You do?” 

“Yes,” Shane hissed, his eyes face scrunching up as Ilya played within him slowly. “Need your cock, Ilya, please, ah–” 

Ilya pressed a final kiss to Shane’s hip bone. “Turn over, moy lyubimyy,” Ilya whispered, reading Shane like a book. The other boy did it without a second thought, flipping onto his stomach, laying prone. Ilya swung one leg over Shane’s body, settling down on the back of his thighs. He notched his cock between Shane’s cheeks, finding him slippery wet and just so fucking ready for it. He pressed in just past Shane’s rim and felt the boy clench around him already, while trapped beneath Ilya’s weight. Fuck, it felt so good to be inside him. With a swift snap of his hips, Ilya was buried to the hilt. 

“блять,” Ilya cursed, his eyes rolling back. Shane moaned indiscernibly, his face mashed against the pillow, mouth hanging open. This was what Shane needed most, what he craved. Ilya knew it; it was innate. Unspoken between them like a secret language. 

The day ahead would be long and intense. Full of wonderful moments, to be sure, but still. Shane would need to be in control, in charge, for so much of it. Captain Hollander. 

Composed. Steady. Perfect. 

But all of that was the outside world. 

Here, with Ilya, Shane could relinquish all that. In the safety of this bed, Shane could simply… let go. 

It hadn’t taken them long, after those first few times together, to talk about what they liked in bed. It was already pretty obvious. There was something so sweet about the way Shane put things, the way he explained what he wanted from Ilya. Invoking things he himself wasn’t really familiar with, groping around in the dark for the right words. Shane went off feeling, rather than proper terminology. 

I like when you’re on top of me and you hold me down like I’m trapped.

I like when you fuck me like you own me. 

I like when you’re inside me and all around me and the only thing I feel is you.

That wasn’t the only way Shane liked to fuck, though. He liked it all. He loved it all. Loved to ride Ilya’s cock into oblivion, loved to wrap his legs around Ilya’s waist from below and pull him in even deeper. Loved to choke on Ilya’s cock, swallow around his length, and feed his release back to Ilya on his tongue. 

How Ilya stumbled into this kind of sex with Shane Hollander of all people was beyond him. But you wouldn’t hear Ilya complaining. Not one bit. 

Because Shane was his perfect match.

Ilya leaned down onto Shane, pressing his cock deeper, laying his chest against Shane’s warm, sweaty back. He wrapped his arms around Shane’s chest, squeezing them between the other boy’s skin and the damp sheets below. He formed a tight embrace around Shane, his lips against Shane’s ear. 

“I love you so much,” Ilya whispered, rolling his hips against Shane’s prone form. In response, Shane babbled something incoherent, a wet spot forming on the pillow beneath his open mouth. “Fuck, Shane, you feel so good,” Ilya strained, torn between slowing down and speeding up. “Like you are made for me.” Shane merely whimpered. 

A muffled moan came from beneath him, and Ilya chose the latter, picking up his pace rather than grinding slow. He knew that Shane was close. Shane was close before Ilya even put his cock in. God, Ilya wanted to feel him come so badly. It was a beautiful thing; truly rapturous, and it never got old. Each of Shane’s orgasms was like a beautiful snowflake, intricate and breathtaking and completely unique. Ilya was working himself deeper with every thrust, barely pulling out in favor of staying buried in Shane’s heat. Shane started to squirm beneath him, rutting against the sheets through each of Ilya’s thrusts, and Ilya knew he had him. It was a relief. 

Ilya never came before Shane did. Never. 

Well, it happened once. And Shane was not happy. 

So Ilya vowed to never let it happen again. 

When Shane started to let it go, he got loud. It wasn’t a problem in the very beginning, those first few times when Shane’s roommates weren’t back yet. But it became a thing very, very quickly. Most of the time Shane tried his best to keep it down, almost setting the stage for yet another game between them in bed: how loud could Ilya make Shane come. 

“Oh,” Shane whimpered, high-pitched and needy as his headboard slammed into the wall. “Oh my god, fuck, Ily–” He was moaning then, loud and long, face scrunched up, hands balled into fists in the sheets. His hole was spasming around Ilya, clamping down, milking him, and Ilya was lost. 

“Oh god, Hollander,” Ilya cried out, pumping white hot inside of his boyfriend, collapsing completely. He felt weightless. Being inside Shane felt like flying. It was truly a miracle they ever did anything else. That they ever put on clothes.

After a moment, Ilya felt Shane’s body heaving with the strain of another body lying like dead weight on top of him. He started to roll off Shane’s back, but the other boy stopped him, reaching around to grab at his ass.

“No, don’t,” Shane panted, his fingers digging hard into Ilya’s soft flesh before relaxing. “Stay,” he whispered. 

“Okay,” Ilya said softly, his lips against Shane’s neck. 

“I love you,” Shane said softly, his hand snaking up and around the back of Ilya’s head, his fingers knotting in the damp curls at the nape of his neck. “So fucking much.” 

Ilya hummed, pressing a quick kiss to sweaty skin. 

“I wish I can say the same,” he teased. 

“Fuck you,” Shane replied, through a breathy laugh. 

“Anytime you like.” 

***

Ilya’s skin was still wet from the shower as he tugged the ugly black Harvard Facilities polo over his head. He’d be late if he lingered too long, but then again, he wasn’t going to get another day like this. Shane would only ever graduate from Harvard once. 

Through some miracle, Wiebe got Ilya a job on campus for the summer. He pulled some strings with the international students office and secured a work visa for Ilya with the facilities department. Which meant Ilya would be doing all sorts of odd jobs around campus all summer long. Ilya couldn’t say he was exactly looking forward to it, but he’d been through worse. He’d survive. Plus, he’d have unlimited access to the training facilities, the rink and the weight room, which was a big win. Another big win would be that he’d get to help out with coaching a few youth hockey camps at Harvard throughout the summer, which meant more money and more fun. The biggest win was, of course, not going home to Moscow for the summer. That was the most important thing. 

If he had to set up a thousand chairs for the business school commencement in exchange, well. He’d set up a thousand chairs. 

He’d begged his shift supervisor to be let off early for the afternoon, citing a very important conflicting commitment: I need to watch my boyfriend graduate. Todd, the facilities manager, hadn’t been thrilled, but he let Ilya swap shifts with another athlete staying on campus for the summer. Dušan, one of the rising seniors on men’s rowing, picked up Ilya’s afternoon shift that day. Which, unfortunately, meant Ilya had to work the following morning at seven o’clock sharp to cover for Dušan, but whatever. He’d make it work. It would be worth it. 

Besides, after tomorrow, Ilya was taking a week off. Preexisting vacation plans and all that. 

All of his clothes lived in Shane’s room at Dana Street by that point. The dorms had been closed for two weeks, though half of his stuff had already migrated to the hockey house by that point anyway. He spent more nights sleeping in Shane’s bed than he did in his own dorm. His roommate was thrilled. 

As Shane had started to pack his things up over the last few weeks, Ilya started to unpack all of his. After a heated team meeting, it was determined that Ilya would be allowed to take over Shane’s room at Dana for the next year and beyond. Apparently, the bequeathing of the bedrooms in the legendary hockey house was something handled in a team-wide forum, which Ilya thought was absurd. Why couldn’t the person living in the room simply pass it down to whoever they chose? 

But, no. Apparently seniority played a factor, and Ilya was only a freshman. The rooms at Dana were supposed to go to upperclassmen, or at least they were owed first refusal. Shane had made a case for Ilya to take over his room, which everyone expected, but then Mitty seconded his motion. The most shocking revelation was when Hayden Pike took Shane’s side, seemingly coerced though he stood in support, arguing that the room should go to Ilya. It turned out to be a whole lot of dramatics for nothing, because most of the rising seniors didn’t really care; many of them lived in the Harvard houses anyway and didn’t seem to want to leave them. There was even a bedroom to spare by the end of it all, and Mitty bequeathed his bedroom to Cliff Marlow. In the end, Ilya wouldn’t even be the only sophomore at Dana Street next year. 

Ilya uncapped Shane’s deodorant on his bureau and rubbed it beneath his armpits. His own deodorant had run out about a week ago, and he’d been using Shane ever since. It was sort of nice, in a weird way, to be subtly reminded of Shane as he went through his day. Smelling the other boy on his skin, like Shane was almost there with him. 

The collar of Shane’s dress shirt was pulled up. He fought with the tie around his neck, fumbling with the silk, breath caught in his chest.

“Let me,” Ilya said softly, taking the tie from Shane’s clammy hands. He started to loop the back around the front gently. 

Shane sighed. 

“Don’t be weird with my parents, please.” 

“They already love me, Малыш,” Ilya cooed in response. Baby, he got to call Shane that now. His baby. 

“I know, but–”

“I will be perfect boyfriend, just as I always am, yes?” Shane rolled his eyes. 

“Okay,” Shane sounded doubtful. 

“I will be!” Ilya exclaimed, tugging on his boyfriend’s tie to pull him closer. 

He pressed a kiss to Shane’s forehead, then each cheek, back and forth and back again, all over his cute little face. Shane must have sprayed some of that warm, spicy cologne that Ilya liked so much. He smelled so fucking good. Ilya had half a mind to take a bite out of him. 

“I won’t even tell them how sweet your puppy dog eyes were this morning, begging me to use your hole–”

“Oh my god,” Shane rolled his eyes, preemptively fighting Ilya’s embrace. 

“And I won’t tell them about how much you beg to suck my cock–”

“Ilya–”

“–even though it is cutest thing I have ever seen,” Ilya said with another kiss to Shane’s temple, his arms constricting around his boyfriend. 

“Ilya,” Shane said seriously, his voice muffled, mouth to Ilya’s throat. 

“It has never come up before, so it will probably not come up today, I think.” He released his hold on Shane just a little bit, enough for the other boy to reel back and scowl at him.

Ilya merely grinned. 

“Breakfast time, yes? Big day for the graduate. Have to start with healthy meal.” 

***

There was already commotion on the first floor as they descended the stairs. From what Ilya could tell, all three of Shane’s roommates were in the kitchen, engaged in a lively conversation over what smelled like Pop Tarts fresh from the toaster. 

“Good morning boys!” Ilya bellowed as they reached the base of the stairs. His sentiment was met with a groan from Hayden, a laugh from JJ, and a ‘morning, Roz!’ from Mitty. The three of them were already wearing their black graduation robes, though it would be a few hours until they strictly needed to put them on.

“Yeah, we know it was a good morning for you,” Hayden grumbled. Shane turned pink. 

“Ahh, yes,” Ilya said, feigning nonchalance. “Things you will miss about living at Dana, I am sure?” 

Hayden merely rolled his eyes. JJ looked at Hayden like he was about to laugh again. 

“Yes indeed,” JJ scoffed. “I will definitely miss hearing ‘oh, god, ‘Ollander, yes, yes, just like that–’” 

“Jesus Christ,” Shane sighed, burying his face in his hands. 

“I stand by what I’ve always said,” Mitty interrupted. “I think it’s cute.” 

“Yeah, well,” Hayden rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to share a wall with all that cuteness.” 

“Yeah, that’s fair,” Mitty nodded sagely. 

“We’re sorry, guys,” Shane said softly. 

“Yes, yes, very sorry,” Ilya added. “Okay, what is the breakfast for champions today? Pop Tart? No, no, no.” Ilya shook his head. “I will make eggs.” 

Now he would definitely be late for work, but whatever. He at least owed Shane’s roommates breakfast, after the little show they’d put on that morning. He couldn’t wipe their memories, couldn’t erase the sounds of Shane moaning into his pillow that were probably still ringing in their ears, but he could make them scrambled eggs. 

“Thanks, Roz,” Mitty said, mouth half-full of strawberry Pop Tart. 

“Thank you,” Shane repeated gently, touching Ilya’s arm before turning to sit beside Hayden. He mouthed an I’m sorry to his best friend, who rolled his eyes a bit, though there wasn’t really any malice in his expression. The guys liked him now, all of them. Hayden simply had to make a stink about Ilya every once in a while, like it was a reflex or something. He mostly seemed to have a problem with the fact that Shane having a boyfriend took up so much of his best friend’s formerly free time. 

It was worse before Pike got a girlfriend. 

Her name was Jackie, and she was wonderful. A fellow Harvard senior, who Hayden had apparently met in one of his second semester elective classes. She somehow put up with all of Hayden’s bullshit, which was a miracle. According to Shane, she was a ‘NARP’, which was apparently an affectionate term for a ‘Non-Atheltic-Regular-Person’. She was from Connecticut, studying to be a teacher. Jackie was cute, and sweet, in that girl-next-door sort of way. Which was kind of perfect, considering Hayden was kind of like a boy-next-door. Except he wasn’t very sweet. 

Jackie and Hayden started dating in February, right before Valentine’s day, which of course became a whole thing. Pike kept coming into Shane’s room, unannounced, to ask for relationship advice. As if Shane had any wisdom he could bestow. Do I get her something dude? I don’t wanna overdo it. But I want her to know that I like, well. I like her. A lot. 

Ilya could have given Hayden some advice on wooing a crush, but Pike never seemed to ask. 

Jackie already had a job lined up for the fall. She’d be teaching science at one of the middle schools in Brookline. This was one of the main reasons for Hayden’s sudden desire to get a job in the Boston area after graduation: so he could stay close to her. Ilya didn’t want to say it outloud, lest Hayden get a big head, but… Ilya wouldn’t exactly hate it if Pike was still in the Boston area next year. In fact, Ilya would probably see Hayden a fair amount, if he was around. Of his own volition and everything. 

At the end of the day, they were all teammates. They were more than just friends, more than just roommates. It was one thing to get annoyed with the guys you lived with, when they served no real purpose in your life other than to split the bills. But it was entirely another thing to live with your teammates, the people you trained with, day in and day out. People who had your back, no matter what. These were guys Ilya had gotten to know better over the course of the spring, yes as their roommate’s boyfriend, but also as a teammate. As a friend. These were the guys who Ilya had played in the Frozen Four championship game with. The guys who had tackled him against the glass when Ilya scored the game winning goal five minutes into overtime, securing the national championship over Minnesota. These were Shane’s friends, yes, but they were Ilya’s friends too. 

Shane’s birthday took place a few weeks prior, on the tenth of May. He turned twenty-two. It turned out to be a great bonding opportunity for them all. Ilya didn’t really feel the need to win anyone over, to prove himself or anything, especially since they’d already been dating for a few months by that point. But when Ilya suggested a surprise party to Pike, he looked astonished. And maybe… proud? And that made Ilya feel good. 

It was tremendously fun, planning Shane’s surprise party in secret with his three roommates. And Shane was truly shocked when he and Ilya walked through the front door of Dana Street after going out to a nice birthday dinner, only to return home to dozens of friends jumping out to scream ‘SURPRISE!’. Most of women’s tennis was there, courtesy of Svetlana, and a good number of swimmers, thanks to Rose. Shane had nearly melted on the spot, genuinely expecting a ‘quiet night in’ with Ilya. Ilya worried that he’d gone too far, that his boyfriend was overwhelmed, unhappy. But, in his bewilderment, Shane turned around and kissed Ilya in front of everyone, a move that was met with cheers and whistles, and suddenly Ilya wasn’t too worried about anything anymore. 

“Of course,” Ilya responded to their thank-yous, turning towards the fridge, in search of eggs and shredded cheese. “I am very proud of you boys, you know,” he added. “Four Harvard graduates. Wow, wow, wow.”

“Four Harvard graduates with no jobs,” JJ lamented. 

“Hey, I have an interview next week,” Hayden boasted. Ilya smiled to himself as pulled out the carton of eggs. Pike was very proud of this fact.  

“Yeah, yeah,” Mitty rolled his eyes. “How could we forget,” he deadpanned. Ilya started to crack eggs into a bowl when Shane piped up again. 

“Wait, Ilya, it’s almost ten. You’re gonna be late.” 

Ilya groaned under his breath. This fucking job was going to be the death of him, he could already tell. 

“I’ll take over,” Shane added, appearing by his side at the countertop, his hand on Ilya’s elbow, his voice only for Ilya now. “You shouldn’t be late, baby.” 

Ilya rolled his eyes. 

“Да, okay, fine,” he relented. “Okay, boys,” Ilya said with a sigh, turning around. “Duty calls me. But I want you all to know I love you very much.” 

“Thanks Roz,” JJ replied, halfway sincere.

Mitty smiled. “Love you too, buddy.” 

Hayden rolled his eyes, though Ilya could swear he saw a smile playing at the corners of his lips. 

“But, of course, I love Shane most,” Ilya followed up, for good measure. He cupped Shane’s face in his hands. Shane rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t tamp down his smile. “I think you all know this.” 

“Oh, we know,” Hayden sighed. 

Ilya turned to leave, walking to the door, boyfriend in tow. Looking for a goodbye kiss, no doubt. 

“Goodbye, lyubimyy,” Ilya cooed as he shoved his feet into his sneakers. “I must leave you now to go set up folding chairs on lawn of business school like a trained monkey.” Shane scoffed, his eyes fluttering shut as he laughed. Ilya pressed his forefinger beneath Shane’s chin, tilting his face up just a touch. “I will see you after you get big, fancy diploma.” 

Shane’s brown eyes were gooey-warm. 

“Are you, um, all good with meeting up with my parents? You have a plan?” 

Ilya shook his phone between them. 

“Yuna is texting me all morning, yes,” Ilya replied, pocketing the phone. “We are good.”   

“I fucking love you,” Shane replied, smiling. “You know?” 

Ilya hummed, nodding, leaning in for that goodbye kiss. 

“Not as much as I love you.” 

***

It had been an interesting spring semester, to say the least. 

As soon as the team was back on campus, they knew they had to tell people. They decided they’d always do it together, as a couple. It wasn’t just Shane telling people he was gay, or Ilya telling people he was bi. It was the pair of them, telling people they were together. Not leaving any room for misunderstanding. Sometimes, Ilya felt a bit like a bodyguard. Standing at Shane’s side, scowling at whoever they were addressing, to let them know if they said or did anything even remotely weird, they’d answer to him. 

They told the Dana Street boys first, which was hilarious. 

Pike was up first, and he freaked out, which was predictable. Thankfully, he’d returned to Dana Street first, so he was like their practice round. They explained what had happened over break, in perhaps more detail than Shane would have liked, and also explained their mutual attraction that had long predated the winter break they spent together. What Pike seemed most upset about was surprisingly not that they were together, though that shocked him too. But he seemed most upset that Shane never mentioned having a crush on Ilya. 

Not once. 

Listen, man, I support you. I’m your best fucking friend! If you’re happy, I guess I’m happy. But, I mean, the least you could do was say ‘hey Hayd, I know it’s crazy, but I think I’m crushing on Roz.’ How hard would that have been to just tell me, dude? 

After that, Ilya let the two of them talk it out upstairs, when it seemed like Hayden had some things he wanted to say to Shane alone. Ilya didn’t get a full picture of what that conversation was like, but Shane explained that they were ‘all good’. The way Pike was throwing daggers at Ilya with his eyes told Ilya a different story, but he had to believe it. 

Then they told the other boys, that same night, over dinner. JJ and Mitty had been confused to say the least when they arrived home and Ilya was still there. It was a little funny, for the hour or so before they told them what was going on. Like an inside joke that Hayden could be part of, too. That seemed to smooth things over for Pike a little bit. He wasn’t the last to know. In fact, it was quite the opposite. 

Mitty seemed thrilled about it. I always kinda assumed you might be gay, Shane, but Roz I didn’t see coming. He’d followed that up with but now that I think about it, it makes perfect sense. Then, finally, he capped off his reactionary statements with what was perhaps the best possible sentence: I mean, we’re all a little gay, you know? It’s like a spectrum. 

JJ was utterly shocked at both Shane’s sexuality and their new relationship, wanting to know timelines down to the exact second. Okay, but when, exactly? And… who made the first move? And when was that? It was like he was uncovering the plot of a convoluted mystery novel before their eyes. Tell me you weren’t bullshitting us before break, ‘Ollander. I can’t have that on my conscience. But JJ wasn’t upset. None of them were.

It was all good stuff. Shane had really picked well, with these guys as his best friends. Not that he had much choice; they were the only four seniors on the roster. But still. They’d been well selected. Perhaps Wiebe was to thank for that. 

And speaking of Wiebe, their coach was the next person they told, after Shane’s roommates. They hung back after practice the next morning, hoping to get all the awkwardness out of the way at once. They were seated side by side on the couch in Wiebe’s office, opposite their coach, his big mahogany desk between them. Wiebe seemed stunned by the news, his eyes flashing back and forth between Shane and Ilya in confusion. 

“You’re pulling my leg,” Wiebe had said.

Ilya’s brow furrowed, turning to Shane. “What is pulling leg?” 

“He’s saying we’re trying to be funny,” Shane explained. “Like, we’re not serious.” 

“No, is nothing funny,” Ilya said quickly. “Your leg is safe.” 

Wiebe seemed to be evaluating them again, before speaking. 

“Wait a minute,” he said suspiciously. “Was this happening before break?” 

“No, no, no–” Ilya shook his head. 

“No, sir,” Shane said at the same time. 

“Okay,” Wiebe sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “Well, great, I guess. Don’t bring any drama onto the ice. Try to keep your hands to yourself. Unless we score. I guess I don’t care what happens in those cases. But keep it PG.” He shook his head. “Actually, keep it G. A lot of kids come to our games.” 

“Um,” Shane murmured. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Wiebe nodded, his expression blank. 

“That’s it?” 

“Honestly, Hollander, I’m not sure why you felt the need to tell me. I don’t know about any of my other athlete’s hookups.” 

“Is not just hookup,” Ilya replied quickly. “This is love, coach.” 

Shane exhaled a little laugh, gently patting Ilya’s knee. Wiebe smiled fondly. 

“Even so,” Wiebe went on. “It’s not like we have some HR policy on athletes dating.”

“Yes, but maybe having gay teammates is new thing for everyone else,” Ilya explained, trying not to get annoyed at their coach. How could Wiebe not see it? “Not the usual relationship to most guys. We want to tell the team, and if anyone has–”

“We’re not expecting anything weird to happen,” Shane filled in, “but we just… wanted to ask for your support, I guess. Just in case. Yeah.” 

“Well, of course you have it,” Wiebe said casually, almost like he was surprised Shane was asking for it. “I can’t stop you and I wouldn’t want to even if I could. Sorry if this was unclear,” Wiebe added sincerely, “I’m thrilled for you guys. Honestly.” 

“Thank you,” Ilya responded. 

“Just, like I said: let’s not be getting distracted at practice,” Wiebe reminded them. “We have a championship to win.” 

Ilya hummed. “Mmm, no promises, coach,” he teased. 

“Ilya,” Shane scolded. 

“I am kidding. Kidding!” 

From there, they felt ready enough to tell the team. It wouldn’t be a secret after that; anyone on the team could possibly spread the news around. It wouldn’t be just for them, anymore. Some part of Ilya was almost a little sad about that. Their relationship began in a snow globe: a dreamy, sparkling isolation where they could have been the only two people on earth. Telling the team was as good as telling the whole world. Were they ready for that? 

But of course they were. Of course. 

It was a pretty casual announcement to the team after another practice a few days later. They sort of wanted to try and drop hints for a few days, just to see if guys would pick up on things. Little mentions of plans later in the day, questions to one another on what to make for dinner that night. Eventually, when they told the whole team, everyone except the Dana Street boys still seemed genuinely surprised. It was good they’d told them in stages, because between JJ, Mitty, and Pike, they had some support already built in. The team had been surprised, certainly, but they’d seemed nothing short of supportive. Well, if they weren’t supportive, they at least didn't act like they weren’t. 

There was one time, maybe a month after they’d come out, where some idiot sophomore called another idiot sophomore a faggot in the locker room. It was an off-handed comment, something he said without thinking, clearly. But that didn’t negate his word choice. Thankfully, Shane was already gone, having to get to an early morning meeting for a group project. But Pike was there, and Ilya was there. And it didn’t go unaddressed. 

“You are very lucky the captain was not here to hear you say that,” Ilya growled, stepping closer, towering over his teammate. “But you are very unlucky that I am here to hear it.” 

The kid had responded with a timid string of apologies, a I’m sorry man, I didn’t even think, I didn’t mean it that way–

And Pike had had his back. 

“Pick another word, then, dude. And don’t make it a fucking habit.” 

Shane and Ilya’s relationship definitely curbed the use of the phrase that’s so gay in the locker room pretty quickly, as well. Considering every time someone said it, if Ilya was within earshot, he would double down on them. 

What is ‘so gay’, exactly? Can you please tell me what you mean? English is not first language. You are very smart, maybe you can help me learn.

Even Shane chirped a kid once or twice for using the phrase. Is it as gay as me, you think? Over/under?

Every time it happened, the teammate was apologetic, and it turned into a laugh. And after a handful of times, people got the message. Soon enough, they stopped hearing those off-handed comments. 

Ilya met David and Yuna, too. A few times over the course of the spring semester. They came to town for a few games, Shane’s senior night, and they flew out again to Boston for the Frozen Four championship. They’d been out to eat as a group a handful of times, whenever they’d visited, but Ilya found it hard to get to know someone well in such short bursts. Ilya was always on his best behavior, of course. He believed that he was making a good impression. But it was hard to say. David definitely liked Ilya. Shane’s mother was a harder nut to crack. She was certainly affectionate, and she cared a lot for both of them. But Ilya couldn’t read her sometimes. She was a lot like Shane, in that sense. Or, maybe Shane was a lot like her. 

She’d been texting a lot recently, though. Ilya took down Yuna’s number in stealth before Shane’s birthday, to check and see if his parents were planning to come to town to surprise him. He wanted to make sure if there were two surprises occurring, they were at least coordinated. Yuna explained that they weren’t coming to town for Shane’s birthday, since they were coming for graduation a few weeks later. She seemed thrilled to hear from Ilya, actually, and her texts had become increasingly more frequent and enthusiastic. Now, as Ilya raced over to Harvard Yard, his phone buzzed in his pocket again, right on schedule. He had five minutes to spare. 

Yuna: We are on the right side, 16 rows back, all the way towards the aisle. See you soon 😀

She’d also been kind enough to attach a photo of their view, so Ilya could find where they were seated. Then, a second photo came through. This time, it was a selfie of David and Yuna. She was wearing something pale yellow (a dress? a blouse?) and David was in a starchy blue oxford shirt. 

Yuna: So you know what to look for! There are a lot of people

She really thought of everything.

Ilya could see where Shane got it from. 

Setting up the chairs for the business school graduation ceremony had been a pain in the ass, but the job was done, and Ilya would be a few dollars richer at the end of the week because of it. Ilya had hardly any time to get back to Dana, and he had needed to shower (again) and change. There was no way in hell he was wearing his Harvard Facilities employee polo to Shane’s fucking graduation. 

But now, running down Mass Ave, he was almost missing that moisture-wicking Nike polo, because he was starting to sweat through his dress shirt. Fuck, he really didn’t want to be late. 

He weaved through the mass of meticulously arranged folding chairs throughout Harvard Yard, searching for a woman with dark hair and a yellow dress. When he found them from afar, Ilya hurried over, the band already beginning to play the processional. 

“Hello,” Ilya murmured, bending down to get Yuna’s attention. 

“Oh,” she turned, a surprised smile on her face. “Hi, honey!” At that, both Hollanders stood, exchanging a quick embrace with Ilya before taking their seats again. “Did you get a program?”

“Ah, no,” Ilya grumbled, slapping his hand down on his leg. “I was running here from work. Sorry I am late.” 

“You’re not late,” David countered with a gentle smile. “Hasn’t even started yet.” 

“I grabbed three, just in case,” Yuna added, handing over a small, thick book of names. 

“Thank you,” Ilya smiled, immediately opening it to search for Shane’s name. The sounds of the band grew louder as the students processed towards their seats in front of the library. A mass of black robes moved as one, some with crimson hoods, some with symbolic cords or stoles around their shoulders. There were tons of people. Thousands. It would probably be impossible to find Shane in that crowd of clones.

But then, as with most things concerning Shane Hollander, Ilya found himself pleasantly surprised. 

“He is there,” Ilya said to Yuna, pointing towards the far end of the Yard. Ilya had no idea how it happened, but suddenly, there Shane was. Ilya supposed it made sense. He always sort of felt like he’d be able to spot Shane from a mile away. He could be blind and still somehow pick out his Shane in a sea of faces. Ilya waved, hoping to catch his boyfriend's eye. He watched the recognition dawn on Shane’s face, and Shane waved back, grinning. 

“Oh!” Yuna chirped, standing up in her seat, waving dramatically. She wasn’t the only one; there were tons of excited parents doing the same thing, loved ones spotting their special graduates. David joined her, and then all three of them were on their feet, waving at Shane and cheering over the echoing band. 

***

It was complete chaos when the ceremony concluded. Graduates were scattering at will, searching for friends and family all over the Yard, the crowds thick and challenging to navigate. The three of them figured that they’d stay put by their seats, since Shane had already seen them when he entered the Yard. He’d make his way over to them eventually. 

Ilya made pleasant small talk with David when he asked about Ilya’s studies. Shane’s dad knew Ilya was a finance major, and he always seemed to bring it up as a point of relation between them, with his work at the Treasury Board of Canada. Ilya didn’t really know what any of that meant, but he was happy to make Shane’s dad happy. After some time had passed, Ilya heard Yuna shouting Shane! Over here! and turned to find his beautiful boyfriend approaching them in his cap and gown. Without a second thought, Ilya had his phone out, snapping candid photos of Shane as he smiled ear to ear. 

“Hey mom, oh–” Shane stuttered as Yuna threw her arms around Shane’s neck. 

“Congratuations!” 

Shane smiled, a little awkwardly, over her shoulder. His father joined in on the hug too, wrapping his arms around the both of them, and Ilya fought the urge to cry. When their hug broke apart, Ilya found he wasn’t the only one feeling that way. Yuna’s eyes were filled with unshed tears. 

“We are just… so proud of you, honey,” she cooed. Shane grinned, nodding, as he broke away from his family, reaching out for Ilya now.

“Hey,” Shane said with a smile. 

“Hi,” Ilya returned, pulling Shane into a hug. “Good job, lyubimyy,” he whispered in Shane’s ear. Outside of their embrace, Ilya could hear the sound of an iPhone camera shuttering. Shane chuckled, pulling away from Ilya. They both looked over to find Yuna taking some candids. 

“Okay, now one looking this way,” she directed them. Ilya did as he was told, wrapping an arm around Shane’s waist, the pair of them standing side by side, smiling for the camera. Yuna kept the phone up at eye level, kept on taking photos, so Ilya did what only felt natural: he leaned in and planted a kiss on Shane’s cheek. The tassel from Shane’s grad cap tickled his face. A loud awwww could be heard from both David and Yuna. As they broke apart, Ilya could see that Shane’s cheeks were pink, possibly because of the warm weather, possibly because he was a little shy about such a public display. But then, Shane reached up and kissed Ilya back, this time on his lips. It was a quick thing, not even a second long, but it was sweet. It was enough. 

It sounded like Yuna got a picture of that too. 

“Okay. I’m starving,” Shane blurted out as they broke apart. 

“Reservation’s in fifteen minutes,” Yuna replied quickly. “We can head over there now.” 

“Send pictures to me, please,” Ilya requested as Yuna slung her bag over her shoulder. 

“Of course, honey,” she said with a smile. 

They started to walk out of the Yard, and Ilya reached for Shane’s hand. He grasped it immediately. 

“Oh,” Ilya murmured when he remembered. “Selfie for Sveta.” 

“Okay,” Shane replied, leaning his head against Ilya’s shoulder as Ilya opened his phone camera. He offered the camera a dreamy closed-mouth smile, cheeks dimpling. Ilya lay his head down on top of Shane’s, smiling in that same soft way.

Svetlana would have stayed in town for Shane’s graduation if she had anywhere to actually stay. The dorms had been closed for a few weeks now, and sleeping on the couch at their hockey-adjacent-frat-house didn’t sound like the best way to spend her time. From Moscow, she requested to be brought along virtually, texting Ilya incessantly for photos of himself and the graduate. 

Shane and Svetlana’s friendship had bloomed very quickly once Ilya introduced them. It seemed like they spoke the same language: the language of roasting Ilya mercilessly. He didn’t even mind. They were his two favorite people, any way you spun it. If Shane and Sveta had a laugh at Ilya’s expense, then so be it. They both loved him. Unconditionally. Shane had seemed apprehensive at first, concerned about meeting an old flame, but Ilya tried his best to explain that, while it was like that, it wasn’t really like that. Svetlana was sort of like a sister, in a way, which he’d told Shane. And that only made Shane more confused. 

The first time they met, Sveta started off strong with “so you’re the boy Ilya has been telling me about non-stop”, and things only got better from there. 

Ilya felt like the luckiest man on earth. 

Lunch with Shane’s parents was nice. 

They got a table on the rooftop of Daedalus, which, according to Rose, was one of Harvard Square’s best kept secrets. The sun was warm, not yet scalding, with a gentle breeze dancing across his skin. Shane had gotten the miso glazed salmon with brown rice and veggies, while Ilya had ordered a cheeseburger with french fries. Every time Shane reached for a fry off his plate, Ilya shoves a few more of them onto Shane’s.

“Oh, and Shane, we have the condo tour of the place on Beacon Street today at 4,” Yuna reminded her son as she struggled to cut up the chicken breast atop her greek salad. “It looks gorgeous.” 

“Oh, no, mom, what?” Shane was halfway to dipping one of Ilya’s fries in ketchup when he froze. “I can’t do that, I have senior cruise tonight. Remember?” 

Harvard Athletics did a special boat cruise for all graduating seniors every year, one that started at the Charles River basin and floated all the way down the winding waterway, essentially passing through campus. It was basically a booze cruise, and that wasn’t really Shane’s style, but all his friends were going, so of course he didn’t want to miss it. 

“Oh shoot, honey,” Yuna frowned, setting down her utensils. “Crap. I totally forgot.” 

“Fuck,” Shane groaned. “Can we reschedule?” 

“I can maybe go for house tour,” Ilya volunteered quickly. Shane’s expression softened. “I will tell you what is like. Take pictures.” He looked across the table at Yuna and David, shrugging his shoulders. 

“Oh, well,” Yuna murmured, sticking out her bottom lip contemplatively. “That would be great, actually.” 

“Thank you,” Shane said softly, putting a hand on Ilya’s knee. 

“I will say, Shane, I think this location is great, but you might consider somewhere a little further west,” Yuna went on, returning to her attempts to break up the chicken on her plate. “Somewhere closer to the practice rink. That seems more practical. Maybe Brighton? Or even Chestnut Hill–” 

“No, mom, I told you, it has to be on the red line,” Shane interrupted, his eyes dropping to his own plate, busying his hands with preparing another bite of food. 

The subway’s red line ran almost directly from where Ilya would definitely be living to where Shane might be living. They were looking at this place just in case Shane got drafted to Boston. It would be easy for Ilya to get to this condo on Beacon Street, a few minutes walk after getting off the train. It wasn’t a huge deal if Shane moved further west of the city, but Ilya would have to change train lines once in the middle, and it’d be a much longer ride. It wouldn’t be the end of the world. But Shane was adamant about it while he was looking at apartments in Boston: Ilya needed to be able to get there with ease. 

“Right, right,” Yuna nodded, looking guiltily at Ilya. “Sorry, honey.” 

Ilya felt his cheeks warm a little bit. 

“I mean,” Shane scoffed. “This could all be for nothing anyway,” he shook his head. “We don’t even know if…” but then Shane stopped himself. He looked at Ilya, then looked away. “We don’t know for sure where I’ll even be.”

While this was true, it was pretty much the last thing Ilya wanted to talk about that day. Or ever, really. He couldn’t bear the thought of Shane moving away, couldn’t even conceptualize it. Not now. Not with the last six months being what they were. It would be… insurmountable. 

“I, um, was texting with Jake, that kid I played in Juniors with? He’s playing for the Oilers now. Says Edmonton is nice.” 

Edmonton? Wasn’t that like, almost all the way to the west, in Canada? 

“Not that I want to play for the Oilers, but still,” Shane amended. “I guess we just… don’t know.”

“Well, I don’t really know anyone in Edmonton,” Yuna replied. “Not like I do in Montreal and Ottawa, I mean.” She was referring, specifically, to the real estate agents she was working with in those cities. She’d been sending Shane apartment videos over the last week or so, having gone on a few tours in his place. It seemed to be a priority for her, finding Shane a suitable place to live, in any of the cities he may be drafted to. Well, the ones within her reach. “I guess if you end up somewhere random, you could always billet for a few months. A lot of rookies do that.” 

Ilya couldn’t imagine Shane shacking up with some veteran player, living in a basement apartment, feeling like an intruder in what was supposed to be his own space. 

“I don’t know,” Shane said, looking uneasy. “I don’t think I’m cut out for that. I’m a little… particular,” he added with a shy smile. That got a laugh out of everyone. 

The NHL draft was taking place in two weeks in Las Vegas. It would be the weekend immediately before Ilya’s twentieth birthday. 

Ilya couldn’t go to Vegas with Shane, because of course he couldn’t. He was on a student, working visa living in Cambridge, Massachusetts. He couldn’t just hop on a plane and go to Las Vegas for the weekend to watch Shane get drafted. And it killed him. What’s more, it made Ilya so worried for their future. Ilya wouldn’t be able to travel a lot if Shane moved far away. Ilya didn’t have an NHL salary to fall back on. He wouldn’t be able to afford even monthly plane tickets to some of these cities Shane was talking about, nor would he be able to cross the border into Canada with the visa he was on. It was like a dark cloud that hung over him constantly. Ilya wanted today to be a bright one, hopeful that the joy of celebration could break through some of those clouds. 

Everyone at the table knew what Shane wanted the most was to play for the Bruins. It was what they all wanted too, even Shane’s parents. Shane would be in eastern Canada enough to play teams there; it would be easy for Yuna and David to get to Montreal and Toronto (and Ottawa, of course), to watch Shane play. Otherwise, they’d gotten accustomed to visiting him down in Boston, and they’d expressed to Shane how happy they’d be if he stayed in that area. If that’s what you want, baby, then it’s what I want. Not to mention, the Bruins sort of loved to pick up kids who played college hockey in the Boston area, so it still seemed like a pretty good possibility. 

“Okay, new subject,” Shane’s dad declared. Perhaps Ilya’s dislike for the present conversation was showing on his face again. It wouldn’t shock him. “Let’s talk about Cape Cod.” 

Both Shane and Yuna made the same amused sort of smile at David, sighing. 

“It should be beautiful,” Yuna replied, pulling her phone and eyeglasses out of her purse. “The photos of the rental are amazing,” she explained. Ilya had already seen them, as had Shane, but they allowed her to show them again, swiping through the images of a small cottage with weathered grey shutters and a white picket fence. “And you can walk to the beach. I mean literally, walk to the beach! It might be a little cold for swimming, we’ll find out when we get there, I guess. But who cares. It’s still a beach!”  

That sounded nice. Ilya had been hearing, all year, about these Massachusetts beaches. Supposedly gorgeous. A national landmark. He couldn’t lie, he was looking forward to the trip. 

They were leaving the day after tomorrow, and they’d be there for a week. Going ‘down the Cape’, as Marly had once said. It would be nice to be away from Harvard and the city for a little while. Ilya had never really gotten a chance to explore outside of the area, and Shane hadn’t really, either. His parents decided they’d stay in Boston for the two weeks after graduation, the first week on Cape Cod as a family vacation, and the second week making preparations, just in case Shane ended up drafted to the Bruins. Then, the three Hollanders would fly to Vegas together. After the draft, David and Yuna would head back to Ottawa, and Shane would return to Boston. To Ilya.   

“Downtown Chatham looks cute,” Yuna went on, now staring at her phone, pinching in and out what Ilya assumed was the google map of the beach town. “Nice little bookstore, lots of restaurants. An old penny candy shop. Oh, it looks so cute! So New England-y.” 

“We never do beach vacations,” David added, a little wistful. “In fact, I don’t think we’ve been on a beach vacation since our honeymoon in Aruba.” 

“That’s not true,” Yuna scoffed, pulling off her glasses. “Is that true?” 

“Not since we bought the cottage, I’m pretty sure,” David replied.

“No, that’s not true,” Shane added. “I’ve been to the beach, Dad. We went to Aruba when I was a little kid, too. And Lake Ontario has beaches.”

“Not the same kind of beach, kiddo,” David shook his head.

Yuna nodded sagely. “It has been a while. We didn’t really do a lot of vacations when you were growing up, since you were in hockey camps all summer long. We’d just go to the cottage whenever we had a chance.”

Early on in their relationship, Shane had told Ilya about their family cottage. He described it as his favorite place on earth, the place that held his heart. Where he felt the most peace. He’d shown Ilya photos of the place, of the dock and the lake and the hammock in the yard. It looked idyllic, and Ilya was certain the pictures didn’t even do it justice. Shane had said he wanted to take Ilya there so badly, that it would be the perfect place for them to relax. Shane always talked about how he knew Ilya would just love it. But, the cottage was across the border in Canada, and it wouldn’t be possible for Ilya to join them there. 

So, they pivoted. 

Around Ilya. 

They came up with the Cape Cod idea the first time Ilya met Shane’s parents, out to dinner one night after a home game. Someone had said something to the effect of Ilya, you should come to the cottage this summer! When Shane explained why that wouldn’t be possible, Yuna was on it in a second, pulling out her phone right there and then to look at local rental homes. Thinking up vacation spots in the states that they could get to in the car, within a few hours drive from Boston. I’ve always wanted to see Cape Cod! 

It felt unfathomable to Ilya that Shane’s parents would bend their lives to him, to some boy Shane had barely been dating a few months. He tried to dissuade them, letting them know it was very kind, but is too much, really, you go to vacation cottage in Canada without me. But they simply wouldn’t have it. 

Yuna had a place booked by the time the check came. 

The Hollanders had welcomed Ilya with open arms. It had been years since Ilya felt that, with family. 

Ilya had given Shane the rundown on his family situation very early on. The abuse, verbal and psychological and some physical, too. Much of it wasn’t a surprise to Shane. He even admitted he’d dreamt up all sorts of scenarios in his mind, since Ilya had been so cryptic about it. 

Ilya’s life now was a manifestation of his defiance, going against everything his father wanted for him. Refusing to return home to Russia, dating a man, working manual fucking labor all summer to afford basic necessities. But Ilya was happy. 

The anticipation of sending that text a few weeks ago made Ilya feel sick with worry, but once he did it, he was so fucking relieved. 

It hadn’t been long, just a handful of sentences. Ilya sort of figured he was halfway there with them already, since he didn’t come home for winter break. The way that had gone down was nasty enough. He didn’t feel a great need to make it into something elaborate. He merely explained that he wasn’t coming home again, and that could be for them to deal with. He was an adult, Ilya reminded them, and it was his choice how he lived his life. 

I am following my own path now. A path where I am happy and safe. I am not asking for your permission to be happy and safe anymore. 

And so, with a text message and a few blocked contacts, Ilya essentially broke up with his family. 

It felt a little crazy to imagine the Hollanders as something like his family now. They weren’t, not really. But, maybe one day… well, maybe one day, they would be. He and Shane talked about it, sometimes. Getting married. Being together forever. Shane seemed to like bringing it up, actually. He did it far more often than Ilya did. It would be the fastest way to get you citizenship in Canada, Shane would always start out. And it wouldn’t just be for immigration, obviously. I mean, we’re fucking in love, you know? Like, this is it. But Shane was always quick to follow up those sentiments with: but we’re still so young, which of course Ilya knew. We have time, Shane would say. 

It was almost like Shane didn’t want to pressure Ilya, or something. As if that was even possible. Either way, they both had a lot of life to live before they could really make decisions like that. Their worlds were so up in the air. So much about their future was unknown. 

But Ilya did know one thing. 

He knew that if Shane Hollander really got down on one knee tomorrow, he’d say yes. In a heartbeat. 

***

After lunch, they parted ways with Shane’s parents and headed back to Dana Street. David and Yuna were staying in a hotel nearby. They agreed to meet Ilya at Dana at 3:30 to head over to the condo. 

They didn’t have a ton of time between the end of lunch and the designated meet-up time to get up to anything fun. Which Ilya supposed was fine. When they got home, the other boys were starting to set up for the party later on that evening. Well, setting up in the sense that they had the beer pong table in the backyard, and Hayden and JJ were already playing. Selfishly, Ilya wanted to whisk Shane away for a quickie, to show his boyfriend just how proud of him he was. But Shane’s three best friends were hanging out in the yard, and Ilya knew Shane wouldn’t get many more moments like that. 

So they sat in lawn chairs and drank warm beers. 

Yuna and David were prompt in their arrival, texting that they were outside right at 3:30. Ilya got up to leave, and Shane went with him, walking back inside the house through the back door. 

“Thanks for doing this,” Shane said as he weaved his fingers through Ilya’s. “I’m kinda pissed I can’t come. I don’t know why she scheduled it for today.” 

“Nah, is okay,” Ilya shook his head, squeezing Shane’s hand. “Easy mistake. Lot going on.” 

“Right,” Shane sighed. “Well, let me know what you think,” he said. “You know what I like and stuff.” 

“I do,” Ilya replied, leaning in. He knocked the tip of his nose against Shane’s. Shane closed the distance, pressing his lips to Ilya’s in a gentle kiss. Ilya kissed him back, deepening it, wrapping his fingers around the back of Shane’s neck. He slid his tongue against the crease of Shane’s lips, and Shane opened, meeting him there. Ilya’s eyes fluttered shut, and he felt like he could melt on the spot, like he’d rather do nothing other than this all day long. He let out a sigh that turned into a bit of a moan, and fuck if he didn’t want them both to cancel all their plans. 

“Okay,” Shane chuckled as he pulled away. “I really don’t want to send you out to my parents on the porch right now with a semi.” 

“Relax, Hollander,” Ilya scoffed, though he adjusted himself in his pants. “Is no semi.”

“Mmmhm,” Shane hummed, reaching between Ilya’s legs to cup his bulge. “Definitely not a semi.” 

“Well, not when you touch me like this, no! You want it to get worse?!” 

Shane laughed as Ilya pulled away from his touch, trapping the head of his cock beneath the waistband of his pants, praying it would deflate. 

“I love you,” Shane said with a soft smile.

Ilya nodded, leaning in for another quick kiss. 

“I love you too. Have fun with seniors. Do not fall off boat.” 

Shane scoffed. “I’ll try.” 

***

At Yuna’s suggestion, the three of them took the red line over to the condo tour. To practice Ilya’s potential commute there. They walked from Dana to the Central Square train station and rode the train to Park Street. Ilya couldn’t help reminiscing as they crossed over the Longfellow bridge in the train car, looking out onto the Charles river, the water sparkling in the afternoon light. He thought about their skating ‘date’, back in December. Back when they both had no idea how badly they wanted each other. God, it was almost painful. They had wasted so much time. 

The condo was a quick walk across Boston Common from the Park Street stop. The brown brick building stood tall on the corner of Beacon and Joy Street, which Ilya felt was a sign. The entrance to the building was on Joy Street. Joy! Could any sign in the world be clearer than that? 

The condo spanned the top floor of the seven-story building, and it was simply gorgeous. The realtor who had let them inside allowed them to roam around, giving them free reign, claiming she’d be around if they had any questions. So, Ilya wandered around. 

The place was luxurious, but not in that fancy, new, fake sort of way. No, this place had an old kind of charm to it, with a massive brick fireplace and grand white columns in the foyer. All of the fixings seemed vintage, sort of like at Dana, but actually well maintained. Elaborate molding along every ceiling corner, an antique-looking gold chandelier in the dining room with sconces on the wall that matched. The hardwood floors looked freshly waxed, glowing a warm walnut brown. 

The kitchen was a work of art. Marble countertops and more hardwood flooring, loads of storage space and shiny new appliances. Everything was spotless. Compared to the kitchen at Dana Street, this place was a dream. Not that the kitchen at Dana was anything bad, it was just old. Lived in. This place looked like something out of a cooking show. 

“Shane will love this kitchen,” Ilya said absently, mostly to himself, running a finger along the cool surface of the countertop. He took out his phone to take a quick video of the room, for Shane. 

“You think so?” 

He turned around, almost surprised to remember Shane’s parents were there, too. 

“Yes,” Ilya nodded quickly. “Very much.”

Yuna looked a little surprised. 

“Does he cook a lot?” 

“Oh, yes,” Ilya responded with a little smile, stopping the recording. “He is cooking for me all the time.” 

Ilya definitely still went to the dining hall occasionally, whenever he was between classes or rushing after practice, but for the most part, he ate what Shane made him. They did sometimes get takeout, especially as a group with the other guys in the house. One simply did not live a block away from Dumpling House without ordering from there at least once a month. But, generally, a lot of their time was spent together in the kitchen. It was nice to have that rhythm. He’d miss it sorely next year, without Shane in the house.  

“I guess I’m surprised to hear that,” Yuna said with her lips pursed. “Shane usually makes me do all the cooking at home,” she added with a little laugh. 

“Ah, well, he is always saying how he learns it all from you.” 

Yuna looked at her husband with a thin smile, which he reciprocated. Something passed there, some understanding. 

It was sweet to watch them interact. Ilya couldn’t really say he’d ever witnessed a healthy marriage before. What transpired between his own parents couldn’t possibly be described as healthy, and they were really the only married couple that Ilya had exposure to. 

Seeing Yuna and David together, it made sense why Shane could be so romantic. 

They moved on from the kitchen into the bedroom area, down a tight hallway. There were two guest rooms, one of which Shane would probably use as an office or something, not that he really had work to be doing. Yuna joked that one of them would be her room for whenever she visited. Ilya thought that was probably fair to anticipate. 

All in all, the views were unbeatable. 

Since it was the top floor, there was easy access to a rooftop terrace, though the realtor explained it was a shared space with the other units in the building. All windows on one side in the condo offered a practically panoramic view of Boston, and if you looked out the other side, it was a view of the Charles River and Cambridge. The main bedroom even had a little balcony that overlooked Boston Common, too, accessed through glass double doors. 

From the bedroom terrace, Ilya could see the vestiges of the Frog Pond through the leafy green tree tops. The spot where they’d gone skating, all those months ago. Now, it was used as a wading pool for little kids in the warmer months. But, soon enough, it would be winter. And there would be Christmas lights on the tree and ice skating again. 

For a moment, Ilya wondered what it would be like for Shane to wake up in this bedroom every day. Like a prince in his tower. Sunlight streaming in, birds singing. 

The en-suite bathroom off the main bedroom was, predictably, incredible. The whole thing was all white marble and pale stone. The bathroom vanity had two sinks, which made Ilya feel a little giddy, and an enormous walk-in shower with a bench along the back. He had to tamp down a mischievous smile just thinking about the things they’d get up to in there. 

There was a giant bathtub as well, big enough for two. With jacuzzi jets and all. The massive marble thing sat in front of a big bay window, looking out onto Beacon Street, though since it was so high up, there was no real way for someone to be able to look in. Ilya started to picture them there, too, maybe after a long practice or game. Shane laying back on Ilya’s chest, Ilya rubbing out the knots in his boyfriend’s shoulders. Warm water bubbling all around them.

God, he wanted to fuck Shane across every inch of that bathroom.   

Fantasies were running wild in his mind. Ilya was painfully aware that he was getting aroused, and felt the need to keep his hips cheated away from Yuna’s eyes as they evaluated the room. 

“What do you think?”

Ilya cleared his throat, aiming for nonchalance. 

“Very nice,” Ilya said casually, over his shoulder. “Very, um… clean.” 

It wasn’t hard to picture Shane all over this place. It was what he deserved. A gorgeous home, with big windows and bright sunshine, luxurious and crisp. What the place cost per month, Ilya could only imagine. But then, with an NHL salary, perhaps this kind of place was within the budget. But they wouldn’t know for sure until he was signed somewhere. 

If Shane really was drafted to the NHL, he’d be the first out gay player. As a rookie. He’d be the first out, gay player with a boyfriend. A boyfriend who was still in college. 

Shane never really liked the spotlight, despite being in it for all of his collegiate career. He did his best to tolerate it, but he always said how he’d much rather have his game be the thing people focused on. 

It would be hard for the hockey world not to focus on Shane’s sexuality, which was really the least interesting thing about him. Well, not to Ilya, but to everyone else. They should focus on his hands, his speed, his natural fucking talent for the sport. 

Of course, Ilya would be there for him. In whatever way he could be. That much went without saying. And besides, Shane’s skills would shine through regardless. The fact that he liked to fuck men, (or liked to get fucked by one man, thank you very much), would become old news fast. Because they weren’t hiding anything. There were no secrets for the public to uncover, nothing juicy they were keeping in the dark. Shane Hollander would enter the National Hockey League while dating his college boyfriend, Harvard sophomore and star player Ilya Rozanov. There was nothing mysterious about it. 

All Ilya could do was pray that Shane got drafted to Boston. That was simply all he could do. Because doing long distance now, after being glued at the hip for six months… it would be damn near impossible. 

They hadn’t really had a normal start to their relationship. Most people had a talking stage, probably, and then a hookup stage, and then maybe eventually they decided to be exclusive. But for Shane and Ilya, all of that happened in a twenty-four hour period. And then, another twenty-four hours later, Ilya basically moved in. They’d never been apart for, well… actually, they’d never been apart. Not since winter break. Not a day had gone by in six months where Ilya didn’t see Shane. Where he didn’t kiss him. Where he didn’t hold him and hear about his day and laugh at his stupid jokes. Not even when Shane had the flu. Ilya still slept in bed beside him, soothing his aching back as he coughed, warmth radiating from Shane’s feverish, fragile body. 

(Ilya, in turn, also got the flu, and they both had to miss a couple days of practice. Oh, what a shame that was.)

Barely a day had gone by where they hadn’t had sex, either. Sometimes it was quick, most times it wasn’t. But they almost always found a way to fit it in. More than once, sometimes. 

Shane graduating was already going to be challenging enough. Any distance beyond a fifteen minute train ride would make things excruciating. 

Their first foray into distance would be when Shane went to Vegas for the draft. But that would only be a couple of days apart. Later on in the summer, hopefully right before whatever training camp he’d be expected to report to, Shane would have to go home to Ottawa for a few days. A week, he’d said. Maybe two. He needed to have that family time, before starting his professional career, and Ilya understood that. He did. The Hollanders had their cottage for a reason. What’s more, Shane had a lot of stuff sitting around in his childhood home that he’d need to move to, well, wherever he ended up. 

But they would FaceTime. They’d get really good at it. Ilya could already picture the elaborate FaceTime sex that Shane would propose they try to have. 

Otherwise, the whole summer lay before them. Shane would stay in Cambridge for most of it, which Ilya was grateful for. Ilya certainly didn’t want to leave the city, but he also didn’t want to stay there without Shane around.

They’d share the bedroom at Dana until it became just Ilya’s. That felt fucking weird to think about.

The day Shane would get back from the draft would be Ilya’s twentieth birthday. His boyfriend had apologized profusely on behalf of the NHL that they scheduled their stupid draft on the same weekend as Ilya’s birthday, and promised he had plenty of surprises up his sleeve to celebrate. But it didn’t really matter to Ilya, in the end. The best way to spend his day would be to spend it with Shane. 

Birthdays seemed to be a big deal to Shane. Not his own, of course, but others’. In the early days, when Ilya finally worked up the courage to tell Shane more about his family, about his mother, one of the first things Shane asked was when was her birthday? Without questioning it, Ilya responded April twenty-first. Shane had seemed to study Ilya’s expression before he went on, explaining why he’d asked. We should do something special that day. To celebrate her, you know? It had never really occurred to Ilya to do something like that. Maybe because, for the last seven years, he’d spent that day at home, burying his grief in a deep well, trying not to let it show in front of his father and brother. The day she passed away was dark for Ilya, every time it came around. Her birthday always sort of fluttered by like ash in the wind. To celebrate her life like that, as opposed to mourning her death, was new. 

Irina’s birthday was a little more than a week after they’d won the Frozen Four. It wasn’t like they threw some sort of party; it was subdued, but it was special. Shane brought home a bouquet of white lilies from Whole Foods. They’d been there a few weeks prior and Ilya had mentioned something about the flower, these were my mother’s favorite. Shane didn’t say anything special about the flowers when he got home, just snipped the ends off the stems and placed them in a nalgene for lack of a better vase. It was sweet. 

Afterward, they walked along the river for a while, just wandering. The weather was nice, finally. Maybe the first warm day all year. They ended up in Back Bay at a little cafe, seated outside, for an early dinner. 

It was the best April twenty-first Ilya had had in seven years. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out to find a text from Cliff. Ilya had been zoning out as Yuna went over the specifics of the lease with the realtor, though he did catch her reminding the woman that this was all very tentative, and that they were undecided for at least two weeks, and whatever else. As far as Ilya was concerned, this apartment would be their new love nest, and that was where he would picture himself and Shane for the next few years until he was proven otherwise. 

Marly: check snap lol 

Ilya navigated to Snapchat and opened the one from Cliff. The picture showed two thirty racks of Bud Light, each buckled up in the backseat of Cliff’s car. The caption at the bottom read ‘baby on board’. Ilya scoffed. 

Ilya: lol

Marly: leaving soonish. picking up Connors too

Cliff was from southern Maine, so he wasn’t too too far from school. He would be coming down for the party that night at Dana, and apparently picking up Connors on the way there. Connors lived north of Boston, so he was on Cliff’s way down anyway. 

Ilya was excited to have his classmates around again, even if it was just for a night. He loved Shane’s friends, really he did, but there was something special about the friendships he had with his fellow freshmen. Rising sophomores, now, Ilya reminded himself. 

Supposedly, Marlow and Connors would be sleeping over at Dana. Exactly where they’d be sleeping, Ilya had no clue. But they had a couple couches and a couple air mattresses of varying quality. He wasn’t too worried about it.