Chapter Text
Sharing a room with Pavel Mintyukov is single-handedly the worst thing Leo has ever experienced.
No negative experience could ever hold a candle to what Leo experiences on a daily basis. The endless clicking of Pavel’s laptop, the tense silence after Leo says something and receives no response, the glares and side-eyes Leo receives simply for existing. It all adds up into something, someone, that drives Leo insane.
He’s been trying to make peace with Pavel since the day they moved in–both alone, exhausted, and foreign. Leo thought they could bond over the pain of leaving their families or just simply not being American. However, Pavel had no interest in bonding or even talking to Leo.
At first, Leo brushed off the silence and glares as simply Pavel being tired and homesick, just wanting to be left alone for now. But the third week of being ignored by Pavel, Leo couldn’t deny that Pavel just flat out didn’t like him. Which is strange, since Leo likes to think of himself as a very likeable person. He is a very likeable person.
Pavel, however, has always seemed more interested in his schoolwork. Leo swears he never stops writing–taking notes, writing essays, doing anything to just keep writing. Leo has never seen someone so completely consumed by their schoolwork. Everyone has to take breaks, right?
Not Pavel, apparently.
“Do you ever stop writing?” Leo asks one night, when the constant sound of a pen gliding over paper finally gets to him. He could listen to music to block out the noise, or even just leave and go do anything else, but it’s inherently not a big deal. It’s never bothered Leo before when his older brother would do schoolwork at the kitchen table for hours. But now, it’s Pavel making the noise. Anything Pavel does will always, without fail, irritate Leo on some level. That’s just the way the world works.
Pavel doesn’t dignify Leo with a response, barely even acknowledges Leo’s presence. The only cue showing Pavel heard Leo was the way he stopped writing for a moment, his pen frozen on the paper. Not for long, barely even noticeable to anyone else. It could’ve been just a moment of Pavel thinking what to write next, or just losing his train of thought. Leo knows it isn’t, though, because Pavel Mintyukov never has to think about what to write next. He just writes and writes, until he finishes, and even then he’s never really finished. He’ll switch to writing an essay after, or reading his textbook and writing on clear sticky notes for more notes. Leo guesses that he rents his books instead of buying them.
Leo just stares at Pavel. Creepily, maybe, but it’s not like Pavel will turn around to catch him. It’s been four months of Leo trying to figure Pavel out–interests, hobbies, family, if he’s really a college student or a spy sent to gather information on the students and professors of Boston College.
Everyone else thinks Leo is insane for thinking that, but what normal eighteen year old is so composed and quiet and stoic? Something must be wrong with him.
That, or, like Leo is starting to believe, Pavel is not an eighteen year old college student, and is actually a fifty year old Russian spy sent from the motherland to discover what happens on the grounds of Boston College, within the walls of the Woods College of Advancing Studies.
Russia might just want to develop their Criminal Justice program, and Pavel was sent to play the part of a brooding, apathetic, constantly dreary-looking college student who does nothing but write and sleep. Leo isn’t even entirely sure that Pavel takes time out of his day to eat.
There has to have been someone better than Pavel. Someone who wouldn’t blow their cover so easily. If Leo can figure out that Pavel is a spy, then really anyone can. People just aren’t thinking outside of the box.
“I really don’t want to go back to my dorm,” Leo whines, leaning back against his locker. Olen shakes his head, continuing to lace up his skates.
“You’re always complaining about that guy,” he points out, not sparing Leo a glance. “Are you sure you aren’t infatuated with him?"
Leo huffs, throwing a glove at Olen. It’s frustrating that not even Olen will look at him anymore. Jackson and Tristan stopped paying him mind when he was pouting and complaining a few months ago, but Olen had always humored him. Until now.
“You’re not even looking at me!” Leo cries out, his voice equal parts teasing and distraught at the lack of attention. “I need an adequate amount of attention and I’m not getting it from anyone! You don’t understand my frustration!”
“Maybe if you talked about anything other than the shitty roommate situation, we’d care more,” Olen says dryly, throwing Leo’s glove back at him. “I mean, c’mon, how bad can it be? He seems okay.”
Leo stares at Olen, incredulous–eyes wide, mouth agape, eyebrows furrowed. Every one of his facial features drawn up in a dramatic display of shock that Olen would even dare utter those words. Olen doesn’t have to live with the incessant typing and scrawling of a pen, and only pens, never a pencil. He doesn’t have to watch Pavel struggle to fall asleep, twisting and turning in his bed.
“It’s the worst!” he insists. “There’s nothing worse than him constantly writing or never saying anything or just sitting there, staring at nothing! How can someone just be so boring?”
“I wish he was my roommate,” Jackson pipes up from a few stalls down. “I’d love a quiet roommate. Mine never stops talking.”
Leo just scoffs, wanting to express how he wishes he had a roommate that would say a single word, laugh, sigh loudly, cough, sneeze, choke, scream, threaten Leo’s life, anything. Leo would be more at ease if Pavel told Leo exactly when and how he would die at three in the morning if it meant Pavel would utter a simple sentence.
It wouldn’t even have to be a complete sentence for Leo to be overjoyed. Pavel could say, “Tomorrow, 4:49 AM. Asphyxiation,” and Leo would be at ease because at least he’ll die knowing he hasn’t spent the past few months living with a robot.
The added bonus would be proving that Pavel is a Russian spy. Who else would know that information except a Russian spy?
Leo doesn’t say that, though, since he knows none of them would understand. They don’t live with Pavel, they don’t know how maddening Pavel’s habits are, they don’t understand.
Practice passes in a blur of rapidly draining energy, a rogue puck that got a little too close for Leo’s comfort, young men rapidly weaving between each other, and their coach screaming more than necessary. Leo barely talks to anyone, still mildly pissed about Jackson and Olen’s complete lack of understanding on the subject of Leo’s roommate issue. He knows they don’t mean it, or at least he thinks they don’t mean it, but it still gets under his skin.
He leaves the rink drained, his legs aching, and a yearning for his bed back at home. He misses Sweden–misses his parents, his brothers, his friends. He misses the food, his old team, and the jerseys he thought were ugly for the longest time.
Or, maybe, he doesn’t miss any of that, and he just would rather be anywhere other than his dorm. Would rather be with anyone, as long as his name doesn’t rhyme with Shmavel Shmintyukov. Not targeted, at all.
The walk back to the dorm goes by too quickly and slower than molasses, all at the same time. Leo doesn’t want to listen to the clacking of keys until he eventually can’t keep his eyes open anymore. He just wants to close his eyes and pass out, in complete and utter silence. Well, as quiet as a dorm with 110 other students can be.
“College sucks,” Leo mutters to himself, his breath misting in the frigid winter air, “hockey sucks, dorm rooms suck, everything fucking sucks.”
By the time he’s opening the door to his dorm, as slowly as possible, hoping to avoid his current situation, his legs are burning and his eyelids are heavy. His feet drag on the old carpet, surely annoying the other occupant of the room. Leo doesn’t really care enough to put in the effort to pick his feet up. Pavel annoys him every second he’s awake, so, payback.
Pavel is, like usual, writing. When Leo walks over to his bed, which is too close to Pavel’s for comfort, he can see neat Cyrillic letters covering his page. Maybe he’s writing in Russian so no one will understand that his notes aren’t about whatever class he’s taking, and are actually data and observations about Boston College that he can take back to Russia. Leo is going to learn Russian so he can get to the bottom of what Pavel’s notes really are.
With the mix of fatigue, mild starvation, and general annoyance with everything in his life, the smooth sound of pen on paper really gets on Leo’s nerves. More than usual. It’s impossible to ignore tonight.
“Do you have a life outside of your notes?” Leo snaps with more aggression than necessary, staring at Pavel. Pavel’s eyes flick up to him, only for a second.
In the second that Leo’s eye met with Pavel’s own, Leo can get his first real look at Pavel. Pavel usually walks around with his head down, eyes trained at the ground. It’s like he’s scared to take up too much space or be noticed by anyone. Due to this, Leo’s never truly seen Pavel. Now, though, he sees Pavel’s pale blue eyes, full eyebrows, and the dark circles around his eyes. His eyes are half-lidded and fluttering, like it’s taking everything in him to stay awake.
It’s barely enough time for Leo to fully see what Pavel looks like, but it’s enough for Leo to see the exhaustion he’s been trying to hide with lowered gazes.
Despite this, Leo can’t find it in himself to pity Pavel.
Why should he?
“I mean, come on!” Leo continues, “You’ve gotta have friends! A family to talk to or a job to keep you busy for a few days. Doesn’t your hand cramp after writing all those pages of notes? I’m honestly shocked Canvas isn’t ingrained into your laptop screen!”
Pavel doesn’t give a response, only looking at Leo every few words. He’s stopped writing, and even set his pen down halfway through a word. Leo’s never seen him do that. He never leaves a thought unfinished. His notes are neat and absolute, just like the rest of his life. His bed is always made, clothes always folded and put away, and his side of the dorm is never, ever messy. Everything has a spot and everything stays in that spot. He has his routine and he doesn’t stray from it.
Everything about Pavel is seemingly perfect–organized, clean, orderly. He has everything under a tight leash and he doesn’t let it go slack.
Perhaps that’s part of the reason that Pavel annoys, or confuses, Leo so much. Along with being so level-headed and never over reacting, he has his whole life together, and he doesn’t slip up.
“Are you a robot?” Leo questions, cocking his head and gesturing dramatically. “You can’t be human! No one can sit and write for so long. No normal teenager can be as put together as you! Something has to be wrong with you!”
Pavel’s head turns toward Leo, his eyebrows furrowed together and a confused look in his tired eyes. His lips are turned down in a small frown, but his lips aren’t twitching the way it would if it were a forced expression. His natural resting face is just.. Sad.
Leo finishes his rant with that accusation of something being wrong with Pavel, though in Leo’s professional opinion from his observation over the past four months, it’s not just an accusation. It’s a fact.
Something is wrong with Pavel Mintyukov.
Leo just can't tell what.
Pavel picks his pen back up and finishes his sentence. He caps his pen. “My personal life is none of your business. Stick to your fucking hockey, I’ll stick to my classes, and we can both be okay enough to survive the next five months.”
Leo freezes. He’s never heard Pavel talk, no more than five words since they moved in together at the end of August. Full sentences are unheard of for Pavel.
The words take a few minutes to sink in, mostly due to the shock of hearing Pavel’s voice, a bit raspy from lack of use. Still, his voice is soft and level. He doesn’t show the emotions he’s feeling, if any at all. If Leo’s irritation fueled rant had any affect on Pavel, Pavel sure didn’t show it.
Leo wants to say something, to have some kind of petty comeback in an attempt to get under Pavel’s thick skin, but he couldn’t think of anything. That frustrated him more than anything Pavel could do.
Leo desperately needs some sleep.
Leo’s been nervous for this game all day.
It’s the game he’s been trying to push to the back of his head, to just ignore it until he’s on the ice and facing off against players in bright red jerseys.
Boston College vs. Boston University. On home ice, with thousands of people watching him.
Leo is practically vibrating with a deadly mix of nerves and excitement, his abs clenching and relaxing erratically. It’s hard to breathe–every breath he takes only serves to multiply the nauseating feeling in his gut. His hands shake as he laces up his skates, resulting in him having to retie the laces multiple times.
Of all the time Leo’s father has tied his skates for him, Leo has never wanted that simple act of love more.
“Leo, man,” Olen pushes his shoulder lightly, causing Leo to drop his laces again. “Calm down, it’s just a game. It’s always been just a game.”
Easy for Olen to say. Leo has seen what people say about him on social media–how broadcasters point out every mistake, people posting about how B.C. could’ve won the game if Leo had done this or that. People say he doesn’t deserve as much playing time as he gets after he has a bad game. His own coaches pull him aside to tell him he needs to do better, to kindly remind him that he’s here on an athletic scholarship.
“I know,” Leo lies, “but I’m just.. Y’know, like, under pressure, I guess.”
Olen nods in understanding, “I get it. But you can’t play good when you’re so shaky. I bet you couldn’t even hold a stick right now.”
“Shut up,” Leo smiles at Olen, “I’m always great at handling sticks. It’s my specialty.”
Olen narrows his eyes, “Is that supposed to have a double meaning?”
Leo shrugs, turning his attention back to tying his laces tight enough. He needs something to distract him from his anxiety. The tightness of his skates is a poor distraction, but it will suffice. He can only hope that when he touches the ice, all his worries will disappear and he’ll just be playing hockey. Less pressure, less expectations. Just hockey.
As he heads down the tunnel, the urge to throw up grows with every step. He feels uneasy, unstable on his skates. The lights in the stadium are dimmed and the crowd is screaming, expecting the most out of Leo and the team. The thought of all those people wholeheartedly believing that the team can win the game is stomach-turning.
Leo is one of the last to leave the tunnel. He likes that–most of the attention is on the players already on the ice, and soon, he’ll be just another one of those players skating on the ice. He’ll join the rest of his team without much attention from fans or broadcasters until later in the game.
Just like Leo had hoped, when his skates hit the ice, he stops thinking. His body moves on autopilot. Get a puck, shoot the puck, get a puck, shoot the puck. Over and over again. He stretches, stands by Olen and Jackson, talking and joking around.
He looks at Boston University’s players. They’re all skating around each other, doing much of the same things B.C. is doing. He sees a couple of players looking at the college’s student section, pointing and nodding, laughing a few times.
All of their players are relatively tall. They’re big; but so is Leo. He’s not too worried about their size, but maybe he should tell Olen. Leo’s favorite activity, other than being irritated by Pavel, is poking fun at Olen for being shorter than Leo.
Leo takes a moment to scan the crowd. He doesn’t know why, since he’s never paid attention to the crowd. No one that Leo cares about is in the crowd–just a bunch of nameless faces, all united with the desire to win. The student section is a sea of white and burgundy sweaters, jerseys, and other apparel. Everyone is on their feet, banging on the plexiglass whenever someone skates by. They’re already taunting the opposing team.
In the few times Leo has been actively trying to find someone in the crowd, he always starts at the top and makes his way down. As he’s making his way down, his eyes are drawn back to the left corner of the front row. Two tall guys, one smiling and one with a straight, unamused face.
Leo narrows his eyes at the two, trying to decide if he knows them. From the face off circle, it’s hard to make out small details on faces, but when he really focuses, he can. The one standing on the very end, wearing a dark red hat with an eagle in the center, and a white sweater with ‘Boston College’ written in red and yellow on the center, looking oddly familiar.
After a few seconds of racking his mind, trying to sort through all the people he’s ever met, Leo comes to the disgusting realization that only one person has ever possessed such a deep, unyielding scowl.
Pavel fucking Mintyukov.
The Russian spy is attending a hockey game, accompanied by Lukas Dostal, one of the only other Slavic people on campus.
“Ho-ly shit. ”