Work Text:
"Hey I have a question."
Svetlana looks up from her phone like she has to physically drag herself out of whatever she was reading. Rose is closer than she was a second ago, curled up beside her in bed after their shared General Botany class. Both of them are lost in the silence that comes after a particularly long day of lectures.
The room settles into that easy kind of silence that only exists between people who have long since stopped feeling obligated to fill every empty space with conversation.
"Yes?"
Rose shifts a little, turning onto her side so she's facing her properly. Her phone forgotten now, screen dimming between them.
"Is Ilya single?"
Svetlana blinks once, then answers like it is the easiest question in the world. "Well yes, last time I checked."
Rose hesitates for a half a second, then grins mischievously. A smile slowly spreads across her face, beginning as the slightest twitch at one corner of her mouth before growing into something altogether too pleased with itself. Svetlana knows, from experience, that she probably isn't going to love the next words coming out of that pretty mouth.
"So," she starts, and there's that familiar tone she uses whenever she's already decided something is a good idea without running it by her first. "I have this friend."
Svetlana regards her with an unimpressed expression. "You have like a million friends."
"Yes, but this one's cute and single."
Svetlana makes a vague, dismissive motion with her hand. "Ilya doesn't do relationships. You know this."
She honestly can't remember the last time her friend has shown genuine interest in another person. There was that pretty blonde girl during their second year of university who drifted in and out of their apartment for a few weeks, but that ended almost as quickly as it began.
Beyond that.....
Nothing. Nada.
She has known him for nearly her entire life and that is the extent of her knowledge of his dating history.
Their parents' houses shared a fence, and as children they spent long summer afternoons darting between backyards, usually with Svetlana leading the charge. All she remembers of the Rozanov residence was that it was never loud in the way happy families were loud.
His mother floated through rooms like a ghost, weighed down by something no one ever explained to the children. His father carried anger the way other people carried wallets, always close at hand, always ready to produce it without warning. His older brother learned early that affection was something to take rather than give, all the while secretly taking illicit substances in the dark corners of his room.
Love, as far as Ilya has ever been allowed to observe it, was either absent, conditional, or cruel.
So Svetlana never blamed him for opting out of it.
"Okay, but my friend is really cute," Rose says quickly, interrupting her trip down memory lane. Then she seems to realize that she's not making a whole lot of sense. "Like, actually cute. Like it is actually so unfair. He came out two years ago, and I still have yet to see him bring anyone around. And for someone as cute as him, that should be a crime!"
Svetlana laughs quietly through her nose. "And you think Ilya is the solution to this?"
Rose smiles a little now, as if Svetlana walks right into her trap.
"Think about it. What better way to move an immovable object than with another immovable object? I'm tired of seeing him being wasted on those, sorry Shane my love, terribly boring hockey books. I seriously just want to throw them all out the window."
Rose barrels onward before Svetlana has a chance to interrupt. "He has spent the last two years doing nothing except studying, playing hockey, and reading books about hockey. How many books can one person read about hockey?!"
"First of all, that is not how that phrase works."
"Close enough." Rose sits up. "You say Ilya does not do relationships, but he just hasn't met my friend. And Ilya," she adds, like this is obvious, "could probably convince a devout monk to slip into his bed if he wanted to."
"There is one glaring problem in your master plan. And that is your friend and Ilya have absolutely nothing in common."
At that, Rose gestures broadly between the two of them.
"They don't need to. I mean, look at us. You're calm, organized, and a goddess to boot and I'm essentially a chaotic raccoon who's managed to stay alive on ramen and sexy vibes."
Svetlana studies her for another long moment before letting her head sink back into the pillow. A smile tugs at her mouth despite herself as she resigns herself to her fate.
---
"Come on."
"No."
There's not even hesitation in it. It's immediate, flat, like Ilya has already decided this conversation over before it even starts.
Svetlana leans against the doorframe of his bedroom like she belongs there, almost as if she hasn't just barged into the one place in the world Ilya can just be. She looks too pleased with herself for someone who was just told no.
"I promise it'll be fun," she tries again.
Ilya doesn't look up right away. He's sitting on the edge of his bed, one knee bent, laptop open in front of him, some half-abandoned chemistry notes still glowing on the screen like they've been waiting for him to care.
And Ilya, well, simply put, doesn't.
His shoulders are tight in a way that looks like it hurts.
His default setting nowadays, it seems.
"Fun," he repeats slowly. "This is what you are offering me?"
Svetlana knows, even as she says it, that this is probably a bad time.
Her dear friend has borderline disappeared into his own head. Chemistry has him by the throat and he's barely sleeping, living off of stubbornness and the hot Cheetos currently strewn all over his bed. Under normal circumstances, the prospect would still be negotiable. It would take a bit of convincing but still negotiable.
But with the looming possibility of failing college on the horizon, even things that used to matter, parties, people, the promise of a hookup, don't seem to reach him anymore.
Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Ilya's roommates lingering in the living room, trying to discretely eavesdrop on their conversation. Probably poor souls unlucky enough to find themselves caught in Ilya's warpath.
--
Ilya chose psychology as his major because he likes getting inside people's heads. It was an innate skill he'd possessed ever since he was young. Unfortunately, chemistry is one of the prerequisites he needs to complete before he could graduate with his psychology degree.
It sounds simple enough.
But it is anything but.
Borderline failing.
That is the phrase that stuck. Close enough that effort still feels relevant, far enough that effort starts to feel like humiliation.
"I do not think you understand what fun is." he replies easily.
That earns him a smile. "Fine" she says, changing tactics like she knows him like an open book and knows exactly where the weak points are. "Just one night. You come out with me and Rose and her friend. Once you're done, you can go back to doing whatever it is that you're doing."
His eyebrows lift slightly, like he's wondering whether this is insulting enough to warrant the effort of responding.
"Hear me out," Svetlana begs, like she's laying all her cards on the table. "If you come out with me, I know this girl who passed your class last semester. She still has all her old assignments, and I'm sure she wouldn't mind sharing."
"And why," he eyes her suspiciously. "was this not brought up earlier?"
Svetlana shifts her weight around. Just slightly. Not enough to count as guilt, but enough that it shows she's hesitating over her next words. "We may have hooked up once and then fell out of contact."
Ilya hums in acknowledgment, more than familiar with Svetlana's dating history and the particular way it tends to end. Where his own reputation leans heavily on strictly physical relationships, Svetlana has always had a habit of letting things blur a little at the edges, adding just enough warmth to make it feel like something more than it is. "But anything to help a buddy out."
That gets a sound between a laugh and disbelief out of him. He turns back to his laptop like the conversation is over. Chemistry notes sit there waiting for him to give them the attention they deserve.
"Anything to help your buddy out," Ilya repeats, shaking his head. "More like anything to help your girlfriend out."
Svetlana groans. "That's not -
“What,” he cuts in. “He cannot get his own date? He has no, how you say” he glances at her briefly. “charm?”
“Nooooo,” she protests immediately. “Rose says he’s cute.”
“Ah,” Ilya nods once, like that settles something important. “So he is cute enough to require backup. Very strong man.”
“It’s a double date,” she insists.
“Of course it is.”
Svetlana exhales, “Rose just wants him to get out more. See what’s out there.”
Ilya stares at his screen. The syllabus is open. The words are all there. Unfortunately none of them mean anything to him.
He goes back to the email his professor sent him. It's still sitting at the top of his inbox. The message is full of grammatical errors and written in such a careless tone that it somehow makes the whole situation feel even worse, like even the warning has been typed in a hurry and forgotten about.
Borderline failing.
“What happens after?” he asks finally.
“After what?”
“After I go,” he clarifies. “And I say I am not interested.”
Svetlana waves a hand like she’s brushing away smoke. “I’m not asking you to date him, Ilya.”
“That is not what I asked.”
She pauses.
Then, carefully: “We’re just asking you to go out. One night. That’s it.”
Ilya leans back slightly, eyes still on the glowing mess of his course outline.
If it meant passing chemistry, he thinks, then it might actually be worth it.
Not in the sense that it becomes suddenly appealing, or tolerable, but in the same way one might accept stepping into oncoming rain without an umbrella so that they can get home faster. Just one night of inconvenience, and then he can go back to sulking over his chemistry notes in peace.
The silence stretches.
“Fine,” he says at last.
Svetlana brightens immediately, like she’s been waiting for that exact word.
“One night,” Ilya adds, already regretting the shape of it. Like he has just signed something without reading the fine print.
“Good,” she says, at once. “You won't regret this.”
“Right,” he replies, turning back to his laptop. “I'll be swept off my feet like shitty American romcom.”
Svetlana hums, clearly unfazed by his sarcasm, but mercifully does not push further. When she leaves, Ilya's attention turns back to the hum of his laptop, though the agreement still lingers in the back of his head like a mistake he will now have to live with.
----
Rose looks absolutely delighted, which is the first thing Ilya notices. He smiles back at her warily.
He doesn't know Rose well, despite her being Svetlana's girlfriend for a couple of months now. It was long enough that Svetlana had started saying her name like it belongs in every other sentence. All Ilya really knew was that his friend was, for reasons he does not fully understand, completely and irreversibly gone for her.
Solely based on first impressions, she is nice enough. He just wishes that she would stop looking at him as if he was the perfect puzzle piece to whatever sick scheme she's cooking up in her head. She looks like she's in the middle of baking a delicious chocolate cake, and Ilya is the egg that needs to be cracked open for it all to come together.
"Shane will be here any minute," she remarks cheerfully. "His hockey practice runs a little late sometimes."
Ilya hums in response, not committing to anything more. His foot taps against the floor beneath the table, an uneven rhythm that he doesn't seem fully aware of. It is as if his body has decided to prepare an exit plan without his knowledge.
He isn't trying to be rude. Intentionally, anyway. It's just that everything seems to pale in comparison when you're one step away from failing college.
Fuck, he thinks. He'd do anything to not go back to Russia.
Rose keeps watching him like she's waiting for a reaction she can analyze later. Ilya avoids giving her any ammunition.
All he knows about Shane is this: Hockey player. Doesn't go to parties. Loves hockey books. Studious. That was all he had been told, and it was not much to build a person out of.
Still, something about the eager way Rose looks at him makes him wonder if there is a catch he hasn't been warned about. Maybe the guy is unbearable. Unbearably boring. That he could probably work with. Unbearably ugly? He isn't so sure.
The front door opens before he can finish his thought. A bell rings softly overhead. Rose and Svetlana both look toward the door, brightening instantly as they wave him over.
"Hi," a shy voice materializes to the left of him. It is quiet, hesitant.
Ilya turns. Here we go.
The boy standing there is not what his brain has prepared for. There is no category for him that arrives quickly enough to be useful. Not in a way that feels adequately fair to what he is seeing. Shane is still wearing his hockey jersey, his eyes sparkling in a way that only happens when you have a particularly long but satisfying day. A huge backpack is slung over one shoulder, making him look more boyish than his age suggests.
Ilya becomes suddenly, painfully aware of everything about himself. The curl of his hair at the back of his head that he hadn't bothered fixing. The jeans that are torn in a way that used to feel intentional and now just feels sloppy.
Why hadn't Svetlana given him a heads up? Anything. Cute? That isn't quite the word he would use to describe him. He is ethereal, beautiful, blessed with delicate freckles and a shy smile that would cause any sane person to go insane.
Shane's eyes widen slightly when they land on him, surprise flickering across his face like he wasn't expecting a third person. Then a faint flush rises over his cheeks, soft and unguarded, scattering across the bridge of his nose where his freckles sit. Rose was right: it was so infuriatingly unfair.
"Shane! Ilya scoot over so he can sit," Rose demands. "Shane. This is Ilya. Ilya, Shane."
"Hi," Ilya manages.
It comes out smaller than he intended, but at least his mouth is still working.
"Hello," Shane says.
Their eyes meet for half a second too long before Shane looks away, like he can't stand to meet his gaze for a second longer.
Shane sits down beside him when Rose gestures, the movement careful in a way that feels almost deliberate. Ilya tenses slightly when their shoulders brush closer than he expected. There is a faint, steady warmth there that feels impossibly familiar.
"How was practice?" Rose asks.
"It was fine," Shane replies. "Coach made us run drills again. I don't think the team was very happy about it."
Rose makes a sympathetic sound and keeps talking, filling the space with ease. Svetlana jumps in with a few comments of her own.
Ilya listens just enough to know he doesn't have anything useful to add.
Instead, he finds himself focused on the way Shane's knee keeps bouncing lightly beneath the table. His fingers worry at the seam of his pants, like he hasn't decided what to do with his hands yet that would feel the most natural. The way his attention keeps drifting back to him, even as he tries to stay engaged in the conversation.
Ilya lets himself lean back slightly to see what happens.
Shane shifts almost in accordance with his movements.
Ilya feels something small, almost annoyingly pleased, build beneath his ribs.
"You are fan of hockey, yes?"
Shane jolts slightly at the sound of his voice, turning toward him so quickly that, for a brief second, the space between them disappears. They're close enough now that Ilya can make out the constellation of freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose and the faint flush lingering high on his cheeks.
He wants him. The thought arrives without permission.
Because now that he is looking, really looking, it becomes impossible to stop. Every feature seems to draw his eye, only to lead him back to those freckles again. They were imperfect in the sort of way that makes perfection seem dull.
Why can't he stop looking at his freckles?
They remind him of something warm. Summer afternoons stretching lazily into evening.
Солнышко.
Little sun.
----
Conversation with Shane, it turns out, is surprisingly easy.
Shane tells him about his sports nutrition professor who refuses to answer emails. Ilya responds with a story about a psychology lecture in which almost the whole class raised their hands when asked who has ADHD. Somewhere along the way, between complaining about university parking and discussing which bathroom on campus is the most vile, the two had scooted closer in the booth until there was barely any space between them.
They eventually lean in and whisper in each other's ears as more people pile in and the restaurant grows louder.
If anyone asks Ilya tomorrow, what exactly, they talked about, he doubts he'd be able to give much of an answer. And yet he couldn't remember the last time he's enjoyed himself this much.
There is something quietly effortless about talking to Shane. Normally, Ilya would make quips or inappropriate jokes to keep the energy alive. He isn't called the life of the party for no reason. But he doesn't need to do that here with Shane. Every time Ilya caught himself thinking he'd exhausted Shane's curiosity, Shane gives him a smile that makes the corner of his eyes crinkle. Солнышко.
It has been a while since he's felt so carefree. University has become nothing but deadlines, exams, and plummeting chemistry grades. Even with his closest friends, he always feels the need to have something clever to say.
With Shane, he finds himself forgetting to perform.
"So," Shane asks after a comfortable lull settles over the table, absently turning his water glass between his hands, "what do you usually do when you're not studying?"
Ilya opens his mouth to respond, but Rose beats him to it.
"Oh, that's easy," she says, far too brightly. "Ilya's entire personality can be summed up in three words. Parties. Vodka. Hook-ups."
Ilya looks at her sharply. He thought she was supposed to be acting as his cupid?!
He has spent the better part of the evening trying to convince Shane that he possesses at least a passing resemblance to a functional adult, only for Rose to reduce him to every stereotype assigned to guys like him.
Now Shane undoubtedly sees him as the kind of loose body who stumbles drunkenly from one party to the next, surviving on cheap American vodka, poor decisions, and whatever remains of the two brain cells he rubs together often enough to pass his psychology classes.
"I mean," Ilya begins, scrambling to salvage what little dignity that hasn't fallen onto the dingy restaurant floor.
"Oh that's cool," Shane says, smiling.
"I'm not really a party person. Crowds make me kind of....anxious I guess. But whenever I walk past one of your fraternity houses, everyone always look like they're having a good time."
Ilya is surprised that he can't detect any polite condescension disguised as kindness in his voice. Just simple, earnest sincerity.
Over the years, Ilya has watched people perform for one another. He himself is part of the game, and he's become rather good at recognizing the difference between genuine interest and practiced politeness.
The realization settles over him, warm and unyielding, expanding beneath his ribs until he wonders whether his heart had always occupied this much space inside his chest.
Ilya can only stew in his feelings for a few seconds before his attention catches on a familiar figure weaving through the restaurant. Walking with the kind of confidence that only belongs to someone who's never once considered lowering the volume of their own voice.
He curses under his breath as he realizes it's Cliff Marleau.
Cliff is fine. As far as fraternity brothers go, he lands on the more tolerable end of the spectrum whose personalities aren't just solely comprised of getting drunk on weekends and the occasional weekday. He checks in on people when they're having a rough time, and has, on more than one occasion, hauled drunken brothers home before they could make complete idiots of themselves. Unfortunately, God balanced those admirable qualities by giving him absolutely no filter whatsoever.
Cliff can turn any conversation into something wildly inappropriate before you even register what happened. It's one of the reasons Ilya likes him. Normally, he's more than happy to play along, matching every raunchy joke with one of his own. The only difference now is that there's a beautiful Canadian sitting beside him whom he desperately wants to woo, and he can't have Cliff ruining his first good impression.
"Ayyy, Rozy," Cliff booms, waving his hand from across the room.
Please don't come over, Ilya thinks in desperation calling on whatever deity happens to be listening. He promises acts of charity, a lifetime of sobriety. Hell, he'll even give up vodka. To his disappointment, his prayers go unanswered as the tall, hunkering man makes his way over to their table. "Fancy seeing you here."
Ilya offers him a quick grimace that could almost pass for a smile. "Hey Cliff."
If Cliff notices anything off about him, he doesn't comment on it. He gives the rest of the table an easy wave before turning his attention back to Ilya. "Haven't seen you around the house in forever," he says. "People are starting to think you dropped out."
"Yes," Ilya replies, hoping his friend takes the hint and shuts his mouth.
Cliff gives him a strange look before continuing anyway. "Hey, there's this party Friday night. What do you say, man?" he winks, as though they're sharing some private joke. "All your favorites are going to be there."
For one long, horrifying second, Ilya forgets how to breathe.
If Shane weren't sitting directly between them, effectively blocking his reach, Ilya is fairly certain he would be choking Cliff out.
His eyes dart instinctively toward Shane before he can stop himself.
To his panic, he watches Shane deflate ever so slightly at the words, his body language quietly betraying disappointment. The change is almost imperceptible, but Ilya notices it anyways.
"I do not do parties anymore," Ilya says before Cliff can get another word in, waving his hand dismissively. "They are a waste of time. I would rather study. It is more enjoyable....and productive use of my time."
The blatant lie hangs over the table for exactly half a second.
Svetlana lets out a sharp snort before clapping a hand over her mouth as if to physically hold back her laughter. She doesn't even bother pretending to look apologetic.
Under any other circumstance, Ilya would fix her with a glare sharp enough to shut her up. Instead, his attention drifts instinctively toward Shane for his reaction.
The corner of Shane's mouth twitches upward, the disappointment from moments ago softening into what looks suspiciously like amusement. The smile is small, but it's there.
Relief loosens the knot that has been tightening in Ilya's chest ever since Cliff walked over.
The relief lasts exactly three seconds. Then Cliff frowns. Not the polite frown someone gives when they mishear a sentence, but a genuine, deeply concerned one, as though Ilya has just confessed to developing a terminal illness.
Cliff stares and Ilya stares back with all the confidence of a man standing in front of a firing squad.
Then, with agonizing slowness, Cliff's eyes drift away from Ilya altogether, lingering on Shane for just a fraction too long before returning to him again. Only for his eyes to dart back a second time, the dawning realization spreading across his face so painfully obvious that Ilya can practically point the exact moment the pieces into place.
"Oh. Oh."
"Cliff," Ilya warns, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. "Don't you have somewhere else you need to be right now?"
"I do," Cliff says, nodding, before immediately launching into action. "But I have something important I'd like to say first."
Oh, for fucks sake.
"Did Rozy ever tell you guys the story of when he saved my life when my car battery died right before a major presentation? He doesn't even say a word. He just rolls out of bed, walks out into the freezing rain in his sweatpants, and jump-starts my piece-of-shit sedan like it was nothing."
"It was a standard jump," Ilya mutters through his fingers. "A child could do it."
"See, and the man is also humble! And don't get me started on the hockey thing," Cliff barrels onward, pointing a sharp finger at Shane's jersey. "You play hockey, right?"
Shane nods. "Yeah, a bit."
"A bit," Cliff repeats as if the whole student body hadn't watch Shane demolish the opposing team at last night's game. "Okay, well you should see this guy on the pond when it freezes over. Absolute sniper, dawg! He doesn't even play professionally and he skates circles around our guys."
Ilya groans into his hands. "Okei, Cliff. That's enough."
'Also, Rozy is like so nice. He once carried me home when I was drunk and lost a shoe."
Across the table, Rose is laughing openly now, one hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking as she leans into Svetlana.
"Anyways, keep up the good work Rozy! I'm proud of ya buddy." With a final salute, Cliff turns on his heel and struts away, shouting a greeting to someone across the restaurant as if he hadn't just upended Ilya's entire life.
For a moment after Cliff leaves, the table doesn't quite know what to do with itself. Rose is still recovering, while Svetlana is grinning like she's just witnessed something extremely entertaining. Somewhere in the background, Cliff's laughter fades as he rejoins his group.
Svetlana leans back in her seat, "Well, he's obviously a big fan of Roz."
Across from him, Shane lets out a small breath of laughter. "He seems to really like you."
"....Yes," Ilya sighs. "He just has a weird way of showing it."
"I think I get why."
Ilya's eyes flick up and for a second, neither of them speaks. Ilya reaches over on instinct, brushing a hand lightly through Shane's hair as if flicking something that isn't actually there, using it as an excuse to touch him. Shane stills at the touch, blinking up at him, before giving him a sweet smile.
"Thanks," Shane says, quiet but warm, like they are the only two people in the room.
"My pleasure," he replies, and somehow manages to make it sound steady.
---
The food arrives sooner than Ilya would liked. The waiter sets four plates onto the table with practiced efficiency. Until now, the conversation has flowed so seamlessly as though the moment would never end. But once they finished eating, Ilya knew he would be one step closer to saying goodbye to Shane, and that wasn't, frankly speaking, something he was ready to do yet.
The realization settles somewhere heavy in his chest.
He has known Shane for, what an hour? Maybe less. The restaurant is packed, and the managers have gone table to table apologizing for the delay. Hardly enough time to build the kind of attachment that makes the thought of goodbye feel disappointing.
And yet he doesn't want to leave.
Not when Shane is still sitting beside him, close enough that he catches the clean scent of detergent every time he shifts in his seat. Said person is currently separating his meal, making sure that his meat doesn't touch his vegetables and vice versa. He does it with the same absent-minded diligence that seems to define him as a person. It shouldn't be so cute, but nevertheless, Ilya is endeared.
Absentmindedly, he wonders what else Shane approaches with such reverence........
"So," he says, reaching for his drink to give his hands something to do. "Shane."
Rose and Svetlana both look at him in perfect synchronization. Their faces practically glowing with anticipation. Ilya gulps nervously.
Normally, Ilya is very good at preserving his dignity; he protects it with the same ferocity that a lioness protects her cubs. Confidence, he has learned, is mostly a matter of commitment. If you speak as though you belong, people rarely question whether you do. It has served him well.
Unfortunately, it has done absolutely nothing to prepare him for asking out the beautiful boy sitting beside him in front of such a rapt audience.
He can practically feel Rose and Svetlana trying not to intervene. They don't even have the decency to pretend otherwise. He knows that if he reveals even the smallest crack in his composure, they'll descend on him with quips and "I-told-you -o's"
Ilya comes dangerously close to aborting his mission altogether. But Shane is already looking at him with that same quiet, earnest interest. There is something disarmingly sincere about the way Shane listens. He gives people his full attention without seeming to realize he's doing it. And Ilya wants that attention on him always, at all hours of the day.
He only needed another question. One more topic.
Hockey, maybe. Hockey is safe. Shane is always willing to talk about hockey, his whole demeanor perking up whenever the sport comes up. Or classes. Everyone likes complaining about classes. Maybe Shane has an exam coming up, or a professor who assigns an unreasonable amount of reading.
Ilya draws in a slow breath, sits a little straighter against the booth, and decides then and there that Shane is worth making a fool of himself for.
"What are you doing this Friday?"
Shane blinks, as though the question has caught him somewhere far away. He rubs absentmindedly at the seam of his sleeve. "Nothing, really. I wanted to get a head start on a few assignments before they're due. I know I could probably finish them on Monday, but...." A sheepish smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "I hate leaving things until the last minute."
Well. That is a shut down if he ever heard one.
Certainly not cruel enough to sting, just gentle enough that pushing any further would make him look like an idiot.
Svetlana loved to call him stubborn, but even he knew when to retreat. "Ah," he replies. "That's a shame I was going to see if maybe you wanted to hang out."
It doesn't hurt to make one last valiant attempt.
"Oh," Shane says so quietly that Ilya almost misses it. Shane's cheeks, already pink from their previous conversations, deepen into something spectacular, a shade of red Ilya has never seen on another person.
"I mean...." Shane says, smiling so brightly that it almost hurts to look at him. "It won't take that long. If you still wanted to. You know."
Ilya could kiss him silly if they were alone right now. Shane looks every bit as flustered as he feels, and suddenly Ilya's heartbeat seems much too loud for a public restaurant.
It would be a stretch to call it a date, but it is something. A tiny crack in a door that, just a few moments ago, he'd been convinced was closed.
Whatever "more" means, Ilya will have to find out.
Without thinking too hard about it, he shifts farther into the booth, draping one arm across the backrest behind Shane. "Yes, that would be nice."
Ilya watches Shane's eyes glaze over from the sudden proximity, lingering somewhere around Ilya's mouth for a fraction too long. His lashes flutter twice, and Ilya suddenly becomes acutely aware of how little space exists between them. The air between them feels charged, some unexplainable force drawing Ilya closer.
A cough sounds from across the table and both their heads snap toward the source of the noise. They've been so lost in each other that they hadn't noticed the two amused girls sitting across from them.
Rose is grinning so broadly she looks moments away from bursting into applause, while Svetlana regards the two of them with a weary expression.
"I'm glad you two are getting along."
"Of course," Shane mumbles, the words swallowed by another blush.
Ilya only hums in response, doing his absolute best to appear as though his heart isn't attempting to punch straight through his ribs.
A few days ago he was convinced this entire dinner was some elaborate prank at his expense. Now, he feels only gratitude toward the meddling duo. Someone like Shane probably wasn't hanging out at bars or flirting with frat boys at parties. If they hadn't planned this little setup, Ilya doubted their paths would've ever crossed.
"I have a feeling we'll be seeing a lot more of each other," Ilya says simply, his hesitation gone.
To Ilya's surprise, Shane reaches over, his fingers absentmindedly catching on the frayed threads near the knee of Ilya's jeans. He rolls one loose strand between his fingers before seeming to realize what he's doing and immediately pulling his hand back. You could hardly call it a touch, but it might as well have been lightning.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ilya catches Svetlana raising an eyebrow in question. The smirk on her face is infuriating, but Ilya reminds himself that this has all been her and Rose's master plan. He counts himself lucky they chose him and not some other random dude. Just the thought of how close he'd come to missing this makes his heart race.
He owes her a big one.
Before Ilya can overthink it, he pulls out his phone, opens a new contact, types Shane, then, after only the briefest hesitation, adds a small heart beside the name. He slides the phone toward the boy sitting beside him. "This way we can keep in touch."
"Sure," Shane smiles. As he enters his number, the blush that had just started to die down comes rushing back with the same ferocity.
Ilya watches it happen and finds, with no small amount of satisfaction, that he hopes he will be the reason for it many more times.
---
They have been texting on and off throughout the week following the double date. Shane, he quickly learns, has a packed schedule that doesn't allow him much free time - classes, practice, assignments, obligations stacked so tightly that Ilya worries about his mental health. So whenever Ilya has the chance, he takes the opportunity to turn the conversation somewhere suggestive, laying the bait with what he thinks is a perfectly obvious innuendo. And each time, Shane manages to step cleanly over it without a second thought, leaving Ilya in stunned disbelief.
Ilya: I'm reading this psyc paper on subconscious desires and it says people who study too much suppress their most primal urges.
Shane: No way.
Ilya: Fascinating, yes?
Shane: Very! I had no idea.
Ilya: What does primal urges mean?
Shane: It's like your basic instincts.
Shane: Oh sorry, that was still confusing. It's your basic needs like eating, sleeping...
Ilya: And how are your urges doing, Shane?
Shane: Pretty quiet. I just prepped my meals for the next four days, so my blood sugar is pretty stable. No cravings at all. 👍
Ilya: ........Great. Love that for you.
---
Ilya: Shane, my roommate just went home early.
Ilya: The dorm is almost too quiet now. Feeling a little lonely.
Shane: I hate when it gets like that.
Ilya: Exactly. Very cold.
Ilya: Wished I had a distraction. Someone to keep me company.
Shane: You should download a white noise app! I use one that mimics a thunderstorm when my floor gets too quiet. It really helps ground you so you don't overthink. ⛈️📱
Ilya: what?
Shane: Yeah! I can send you the link if you want? It has a timer so it turns off automatically.
Ilya: please don't.
Shane: Oh, okay, well sleep well! Talk tomorrow! 👋✨
At first, Ilya wonders if he has simply misread the signs, but that theory becomes harder and harder to believe the longer Shane keeps replying. Because Shane does reply. Whenever he is not in class or at practice, Ilya will feel his phone buzz shortly after, Shane responding enthusiastically to his messages.
The emojis amuse Ilya the most. Shane, who speaks so calmly in person that people unconsciously can't help but lean in closer just to hear him, texts with an alarming number of smiley faces, little stars, exclamation marks, and the occasional laughing face. It feels less like a contradiction and more like uncovering layers of him that Ilya has only just begun peeling back. Each one makes him more curious than the last.
He should feel ridiculous, for God's sake. Here he was, shy of twenty-one years old, and just the thought of his crush made him giddy with excitement. He had spent the better part of the last few years of college stumbling from one casual hookup to the next with an ease that bordered on routine. Now, all it takes is a simple text about Shane's day for Ilya to spend the next twenty minutes grinning like an idiot.
Oddly enough, he isn't fighting it.
He realizes, with a certain amount of certainty, that there has been a small, stubborn part of him waiting for something like this to come along all this time. Though hooking up has always been fun and easy, it never quite filled the hole in his soul that longed for something more tangible.
Why it has happened with Shane, of all people, is something Ilya cannot begin to make sense of, no matter how many times he turns the thought over in his head. He only knows that Shane's presence in his life gives him a certain kind of comfort he's never felt with anyone else.
When Shane casually asks how classes were going one evening, Ilya admits, with more shame than he usually allowed himself, that chemistry was slowly murdering him.
It would be embarrassing if it were anyone other than Shane but, for some reason, Ilya knows he won't judge him or look at him any differently. Even with the completed assignments Svetlana has managed to acquire from her "friend," he still can't make sense of half the material. The homework might as well be written in another language.
No amount of staring at molecular diagrams was going to replace weeks' worth of missed attendance.
By some miracle, Shane also had to take the same class as part of his curriculum and offered to help him when he came over on Friday.
"I don't want to be a bother."
"It's no bother!" Shane sends. "I actually enjoy teaching people. I'll just have to refresh on some of the concepts before we meet up."
Which is how Ilya finds himself waiting at the bottom of the stairs of Shane's apartment complex, one hand shoved into his jacket pocket as he watches people wander in and out through the heavy front doors.
Shane has insisted on coming down to bring him up instead of letting him go straight to his room. Such a polite Canadian boy, Ilya thinks with fondness.
The front doors groan open a few minutes later. Shane steps outside dressed in faded denim shorts and a pale blue flannel left unbuttoned over a white T-shirt. His hair lacks its usual careful styling. Instead, it falls naturally across his forehead, looking softer than Ilya has ever seen it.
There is something disarming about the way Shane looks. Ilya watches him for a beat too long without realizing it.
He wants to see every version of him. Not just this one, but the ones that no one else is privy to. The version that wanders around in old sweatpants with messy hair and mismatched socks because no one but Ilya is around to see him. He wants all of it, with a desperation that borders on clinically insane. A feeling that Ilya refuses to acknowledge in the moment because it feels like it might become worse if he does.
"Sorry, hope you weren't waiting long," Shane says, a little out of breath as he finally pushes open the heavy front door.
"Nope," Ilya pops the "p" with an ease that does not match the intensity of his inner thoughts. Looking him up and down with a lazy grin as he forces himself back into something that resembles normalcy. He follows Shane into the entryway, stepping close without fully registering it.
Shane clears his throat, already looking nervous. "Just warning you, I live on the top floor. It’s six flights."
Ilya stops dead in his tracks, his head swiveling around the cramped lobby. "Where is elevator?"
"Broken," Shane says, already heading for the stairs. "The landlord refuses to fix it."
"Are you serious? How did you even move your shit in here?"
"I carried it." Shane throws him a glance back over his shoulder like it's the most obvious, routine thing in the world.
The building is old enough that every step creaks beneath their feet, the narrow stairwell trapping the warmth of late spring until the air feels stuffy. Their footsteps echo off chipped concrete walls.
As they ascend the stairs, Ilya couldn't help but stare at how soft Shane looks from behind. Everything about him just screams soft.
"We keep asking the landlord to do something about the elevators," Shane complains between flights of stairs. "He keeps saying it'll happen soon, and then ghosts us."
Ilya snorts.
"Sounds like every landlord ever."
Shane laughs quietly over his shoulder, the sound echoing softly against the concrete walls. By the fourth flight, his breathing grows slightly heavier. Every few steps the loose hem of his flannel lifts with the upward motion of his stride, offering a glimpse of back dimples before disappearing again, but it's more than enough to keep Ilya's attention there.
A sudden urge to reach out and catch him by the small of his back creeps up his spine. He pictures pinning Shane right there on the ground with his ass gripping his cock as their bodies rock together in tandem. He wonders, with a sudden ache, what kind of sounds Shane would make when he's entirely wrecked by pleasure. Does he quiet down, or does he cry? An image flashes in his mind's eye, and he quickly wills it away lest his body betray his thoughts right here in the open in front of his crush.
"You okay back there?" Shane asks.
"Hm?"
"You've been awfully quiet."
"I am deciding," Ilya pants, his heavy footsteps echoing through the cramped stairwell, "whether or not to kill your landlord."
Shane lets out a sharp, genuine laugh, "Let me know if you need any help with that."
By the time they reached the sixth floor, Shane is fishing a ring of keys from his pocket. The apartment door swings open with a soft click, revealing a place that is smaller than he had expected but somehow warmer too.
Ilya's first impression is that it was clean, lived in. The place smells faintly of laundry detergent, coffee, and something delicious lingering in the air from breakfast. It feels a lot like Shane - soft and welcoming without trying to be.
Ilya can already picture exactly how the afternoon is going to go. They'll sprawl out at the coffee table in front of the television, chemistry notes scattered everywhere while he pretends to pay attention. Maybe during breaks, he can slip in a few flirting quips here or there just to see Shane blush and laugh.
He couldn't be more wrong.
---
Ilya, honest to God, doesn't know how they ended up in this position with Shane breathing heavily against his ear as he grips his shoulder. Shane's legs are on either side of him, and everywhere Ilya touches feels soft and warm. His inner thigh. The sensitive patch of skin on his neck.
The noises coming out of Shane's pretty mouth are insane. It is unlike anything he has heard before, not from real life or even some of his dirtiest fantasies. It is its own category entirely. The thought of asking Shane to let him record it so he can jerk off to it later crosses his mind, but it is quickly interrupted by a hand on his chest. When Ilya leans back in question, Shane pulls him right back in so they can kiss passionately.
"Mm," Shane sighs happily, his whole body vibrating beneath Ilya's like a cat purring in satisfaction. Being able to elicit such a reaction out of him makes him feel like a king.
Ilya knows that they should probably slow down and take it easy. They have only just gotten to know each other, after all. And yet..... there's no denying the magnetic pull that makes it pretty much impossible for them to keep their hands to themselves.
It had been there from the moment they almost kissed during their "double date."
Every cell in Ilya's body lights up at the chance to touch him-the feeling similar to being granted permission to something sacred and off-limits.
And every time Shane responds, breath hitching, voice breaking against his mouth, that need sharpens into an inexplicable urge to ruin him. On impulse, Ilya unconsciously tightens his grip on Shane's hair, tugging just enough to test the line between playful and mean. He expects resistance. Maybe a shove. Maybe a slap on the face.
To his delight, Shane's mouth parts on a shaky breath while his eyes flutters shut at the sensation. "Ilya," Shane whines, hands tightening around Ilya's arms.
"Fuck," Ilya curses as he quickly removes Shane's flannel and tank top, revealing lean stomach and perky nipples. Next went the pants, which has Shane gasping in his ear as they brush against his erection.
Ilya removes his own shirt before turning his attention back to the boy underneath him. He can't help but smile at the dazed look on Shane's face. He grabs his face in a tight grip, giving him a small peck before descending downward.
He trails a line of burning kisses down the column of Shane's throat.
"Ilya, wait," Shane breathes, his hand fluttering from Ilya's shoulders to his hair, not pushing him away, but grounding himself.
Ilya pauses, hovering just above Shane's chest. He looks up and smooths over Shane's flushed cheekbone. "Too fast?" he asks, his voice rough, the teasing bravado gone.
"No. Faster, please."
A smirk tugs at the corner of Ilya's mouth, intense and possessive. "As you wish."
Shane's hands lock into the edge of the sofa with white knuckles as Ilya shifts, his thigh forcing its way between Shane's legs. The friction is dizzying, a sharp shock of heat that has Shane biting down on his lower lip to keep from shouting.
It is an intoxicating dance, the way Shane's hips unconsciously tilt up, seeking more of the heavy, agonizing pressure of Ilya's weight.
"Please."
Hearing the desperation in Shane's voice does something dangerous to Ilya's head. "Look at me."
Shane forces his heavy eyelids open. Ilya watches him, entirely captivated. Gone is the straight-laced perfect student, and in its place, is something much more dangerous and unrestrained. A face that only he is privy to. And that knowledge threatens to send him on the best kind of power trip.
Ilya drops his hand lower, finally wrapping around Shane's length. The noise that tears from Shane's throat is high-pitched and entirely unplanned. His fingers dig directly into the muscles of Ilya's back, scratching blindly through the all-consuming pleasure.
"You're so loud, Shane," Ilya teases, a ghost of a smile touching his lips as he tightens his grip and increases the pace.
"Fuck you," Shane gasps.
It is so unexpected coming from the Shane Hollander that Ilya can't help but muffle his laughter in the crook of Shane's shoulder. Brat, he thinks, impossibly endeared.
Shane's hips roll into the rhythm of Ilya's hand as the tension in his lower stomach tightens into a hard knot. With one hand occupied, Ilya uses the other to rub against the softness of his hole. The heat there is unbearably warm. "This, good?"
Shane's eyebrows scrunch in concentration, his eyes trained on the ceiling. It looks as if he was using all his willpower not to let his discomfort show. "Yes."
At the sight, Ilya plants a chaste kiss on his inner thigh as a soothing gesture. "Relax." he says, rubbing his hands up and down in a steady, calming motion.
"I'm trying," Shane protests. He twists his head to the side, his breath coming out in small puffs.
After a few moments of Ilya's finger moving in and out of him, each inch diving deeper into unexplored places, the pain slowly turns into pleasure.
Ilya watches the exact moment the control snaps, ruining him exactly the way he has wanted since he first saw him in that dimmed, cramped booth. A shattered gasp catches in his throat as Shane's body goes rigid against his fingers.
"Here?" Ilya asks, his fingers aiming at the same spot. Shane's eyes widen in half pleasure, half terror.
"Wait, wait," Shane manages, his pleas falling on deaf ears as Ilya uses this newfound knowledge to his advantage, repeatedly abusing the sweet spot inside him. Belatedly, Ilya wonders if he should take it easy. Context clues tell him that Shane clearly isn't very experienced with the pleasures of the body.
But all those thoughts are tossed out the window when he sees tears streaming down Shane's face. "It feels so good," he whispers, looking up at Ilya with reverence.
Ilya can't remember the last time he has felt this horny. With a strong grip, he grabs Shane's thighs and settles his body against him before removing the remainder of his clothes.
As soon as his cock is set free, Shane reaches for him, his hands wrapping around him gently in a slow, back-and-forth motion. The softness of his hand contrasting beautifully with the heat of his erection.
Ilya can't help the grunt that escapes him at the touch. He crushes Shane in one last bruising kiss before slapping his hands away and slipping into the warm heat with no warning. Right away, he sets a bruising pace and drives harshly into him.
The suddenness of his actions punches unrestrained moans and a litany of "uh, uhs" out of Shane that drive Ilya mad. He doesn't know how he knows it, a sixth sense that only works on Shane, but he knows that Shane can take it.
Whatever he gives him, he can take it.
And Shane takes it beautifully. Every time Ilya's hips snap into him, Shane lets him manhandle him anyway he pleases, his body rocking in submission and pleasure.
"Fuck," Ilya spits, bracketing his arms on either side of Shane's head, bringing their foreheads together. "You like that?"
Shane whines, cutely. "Yes, yes, Ilya, don't stop, please."
Ilya meets his mouth in a searing kiss. He feels consumed by Shane. Not a single part of him isn't consumed by him. His cock, still nestled inside of him as if it has always belonged there, his body, wrapped in Shane's tight embrace, and his lips, attached firmly to Shane's soft ones. All of it blurs into heat and closeness.
Ilya has no intentions of ever, ever letting go.
But all things have to come to an end, he thinks sadly as the telltale sign of his orgasm creeps up on him. Shane isn't faring any better, his cock swollen and red, ready to tip over at a second's notice. "Close?"
Shane sniffs before giving him a nod. At a particularly sharp snap of his cock, Shane lets out a small noise seconds before completely falling apart. At that point, Ilya has no choice but to release into him as Shane's warm hole becomes impossibly tight. Ilya rides it out, his hips lazily rocking through the motions as he comes down from his high.
"That," Ilya says, trying to to regain his voice. "Was insane. Shane Hollander, you have killed me."
The smile that greets him is impossibly sweet.
Солнышко. he thinks as he leans in for another kiss.
--
For a while, they don't really talk. There's the low hum of the room around them and the occasional shift of fabric as one of them adjusts without fully moving away. Ilya ends up half-sprawled over Shane on the couch, one arm tucked loosely behind his head. It's a position far more intimate than their relationship suggests.
Ilya tilts his head slightly, burying his face in Shane's hair without thinking and greedily inhaling something clean and faintly sweet that he now knows is his shampoo.
Shane's fingers are doing that thing again, tugging lightly at the chain around Ilya's neck like he doesn't even realize he's touching him at all.
"Umm," Shane starts, breaking the silence between them.
His voice comes out a little muffled where it's pressed against Ilya's chest. "What now?"
Ilya snorts, earning him a disgruntled stare from Shane that's faintly reminiscent of an angry kitten. "Just - what happens after this?"
Ilya manages to keep his smile hidden in Shane's messy hair. "You're going to have to be more specific than that."
"I mean..." Shane hesitates. "I like this. I think."
There's a beat where Ilya processes his words. Shane, apparently worried that he hasn't been clear enough, keeps going.
"Unless you don't. Like if this was just - i don't know, just tonight or something, that's fine. I thought maybe," Shane continues to ramble. "Sorry if I'm not making sense. I mean I don't even know if this whole thing was even enjoyable for you. I-"
Ilya cups his chin before he can finish his sentence and kisses him. Shane lets out a startled noise before eventually melting into the kiss. When they finally part, Ilya grins wildly at him, looking absurdly pleased with himself, like he's just won something monumental. "Yes, Shane. I would like that."
Shane stares at him for a second too long, blinking slowly like he is rebooting. The smile that spreads across his face makes Ilya want to run a thousand laps across campus.
Ilya's hands slide down instinctively, settling once more at his waist, a small smirk tugging at his lips. He wonders if he can convince Shane to agree to another round.
To his disappointment, Shane catches both of his hands before they can descend any farther. "No," he says.
Ilya pauses. "No?"
"First things first." Shane gives him a pointed look. "We have to do something about that god- awful chemistry grade."
At those words, Ilya groans in agony, dropping his head back against the couch.
---
"For the record I want to say this is not my fault," Rose mutters as she looks at the nauseating couple who can't keep their hands off of each other. She thought if they met up at a public cafe, they wouldn't be so....so...them.
Unfortunately, her prayers go unanswered.
In the span of only two months, the couple has not only traumatized their entire friend group but also the campus at large. Word of their exploits has spread far and wide, and now the two are revered as the campus couple. To no one's surprise, there are even forums where students upload anecdotes about seeing them in person and whatever nefarious things they were up to.
The first of many is a picture of Ilya twirling Shane around in his arms, a bright grin on his face as he exits his chemistry classroom.
"This is literally what you wanted," Svetlana says in a deadpan voice, wearing a matching expression of exhaustion.
"Not exactly what I was picturing," she answers flatly.
Given their time together, Rose assumed that, with his Shanebug powers, Shane would turn Ilya into a hopeless lover boy. While that has certainly happened if Ilya's giant heart eyes are anything to go by, she hadn't expected Ilya, in turn, to coax out the absolute freak hiding beneath Shane's innocent-looking face.
Rose mourns the days when Shane would smile at her cutely and all she could think of were sunshine, rainbows, and everything good in the world. Now, the image of catching them mid-fuck on Shane's kitchen counter is permanently seared into her retinas.
"Hey," Rose exclaims, snapping her fingers between them to get their attention. "None of that. We're in public, you freaks."
Shane, at least, has the decency to look embarrassed. On the other hand, his worse half, as Rose has deemed him, just looks smug as he wraps his arms around Shane's waist, resting his head snugly against Shane's shoulder.
"You should be glad. This all worked out just like you wanted," Ilya says with a grin.
Rose groans into her hands to the laughter of her friends. "I regret EVERYTHING."