Summary:

“Your space is nice,” Hollander whispers back, leaning in, breath warm against Ilya’s chest. “Smells like mint.” Ilya stops breathing. Hollander’s eyes are half-lidded, dazed, soft in a way Ilya has never seen. “Ilya,” he murmurs. And Ilya nearly chokes. The first name. His actual first name. Whispered like something intimate. Sacred. They’ve never called each other by their first name. Always Hollander. Always Rozanov. Ilya is so stunned he almost doesn’t process the next words, almost can’t translate them despite living in the States for almost four years now. --- or: ilya is spiraling about what his roomate could be doing on a random tuesday night. he's not prepared when the night takes an unexpected turn.