Chapter Text
Ilya’s newest customer is different. Not in the off-putting way. He just doesn’t fit the usual rotation of people chasing Ilya down for their next fix. He already heard from Pike that this guy never tried weed before and that he was a bit nervous.
Play nice, Rozanov, Pike warned.
Ilya bared his teeth, his smile more like a snarl, What am I, a fucking dog?
He wasn’t fond of Pike. But Ilya’s drinking buddy, Marleau, hooked up his friend Sebbin; Sebbin told his cousin, the cousin told his neighbor—who happened to be in Pike’s sports management study group—and somehow, that neighbor connected Pike. Who was chatty and demanding and fucking annoying, but turning him down would be bad business. Referrals were important for Ilya’s cash flow; saying no to Pike meant that Ilya was potentially turning down an entire fraternity’s worth of future business.
And so far, he already looped in three of his Kappa-Sigma-Alpha-Omega-Whatever-the-Fuck brothers into Ilya’s deck of customers, making him the unofficial weed dealer of Pike’s fraternity.
Apparently, this new guy wasn’t part of the frat, but Pike’s childhood best friend.
They meet at one of the Physics department’s lab buildings on a Tuesday morning. It’s early enough that the campus is quiet, and people rarely come by this side anyway. The only buildings on McLennan Road are this one and a small library run by the student union, mainly used for sharing textbooks and resources.
Ilya is standing by stairwell number seven, right outside the door as instructed—very strictly—by this mystery friend, via Pike. He’s nearly shoved to the ground when the door jerks open from where he’d been leaning on it. A boy stumbles out, almost tripping before stopping himself.
“Is someone chasing you?” Ilya drawls.
He turns, and yeah, this guy doesn’t look like much of a smoker. Ilya’s learned through time and experience that stoners come in all shapes and sizes, but it’s clear that he isn’t one: hair cut neat and short, straight-laced, brows furrowed into a scowl, shoulders all tight—too squared away. He’s probably not much of a drinker, either, if Ilya had to guess.
And he’s wearing a fucking suit, for Christ’s sake.
So boring, Ilya thinks, strangely delighted. He wants to take him by the collar and scruff up his hair, if only to see what he might do in response.
The guy looks at Ilya warily, “No, uh, I just ran into my lab partner, and I didn’t want to have to explain where I was going so…”
“You are very discreet,” Ilya says dryly.
He nods, short and serious, “Thanks. You’re Ilya Rozanov?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Shane Hollander,” he says, sticking out his hand. “Friends with Hayden.”
Ilya’s lips quirk up on the side. He ignores his hand in favor of reaching for a cigarette, lights it, and exhales out of the side of his mouth. “Yes, I know. He organized the deal.”
“Right, haha, well. Hey, uh, thanks for meeting with me here on short notice. Hayden told me you weren’t really looking to take on new clients…he said you get pretty slammed closer to exam season, which is understandable. It’s a stressful season for everyone, so…guess we could all use a little relaxing,” Shane says. “And thanks for meeting me here, I appreciate it.”
Ilya looks at him from the corner of his eye, taking a deep drag of his smoke. He’s still holding out his hand.
He doesn’t socialize with his customers. It’s his least favorite part of the job. People think there’s a deeper connection between them—that because Ilya deals them drugs, it makes them friends. They tell him about their terrible week, lean in for hugs, say they’re low on cash and try to pay next time, acting as though they’ve bought his sympathy and time as well.
But this very boring-looking boy also has earnest eyes and a kind smile. Ilya reaches out to shake his hand, Shane’s grip firm and warm.
“You have presentation?”
“What?”
“You are wearing a suit. You wear them to all of your classes? What is that… physics dress code?”
“Oh no,” he chokes out. He looks surprised, as if Ilya wasn’t supposed to be curious about why he was walking around campus in a three-piece suit. In return, Shane briefly scans Ilya from head to toe, takes in his worn combat boots and jeans, the black tee layered over a long-sleeved grey waffle.
Ilya thinks about what an odd, unexpected pairing they’d make if seen together. He likes it.
Shane reaches out to straighten the collar of his dress shirt, “Not a dress code. I, uh- I just thought I’d wear one…today.” Shane’s voice goes up at the end like he’s asking a question, the tops of his ears dusted pink.
“Okay?” Ilya shrugs when it’s clear Shane isn’t going to say anything more. He flicks the end of his cigarette. “You have the money?”
“Oh shit, yeah, I got it,” Shane fumbles. He reaches into his jacket, pulling out the bills, just enough for a couple of grams, and in return, Ilya hands over the baggie.
“Snoopy?” Shane asks, mouth quirked on the side. There’s a huge sticker on the front, the white dog with its large, black ears concealing most of the buds from view.
Ilya thinks about Svetlana last night, painstakingly decorating his baggie stash with stickers from her personal collection. You need to improve your marketing, Ilya, she cackled, shoving her foot against his chest to keep him away when he lunged for them. He cusses her out in his head.
“I do not know what that thing is. My friend is very enthusiastic about her decorating.”
“It’s cute,” Shane says, lips pulling up higher, stroking a fond thumb over one of its ears.
“Looks like you,” Ilya points out.
Shane bristles. “It does not.”
Ilya can tell Shane thinks he’s being made fun of through the defensive hunch of his shoulders. That he’s two seconds away from telling Ilya to fuck off. He looks Shane up and down, from his squeaky dress shoes to his pressed shirt, to his wide, brown eyes.
“Mhm. Both cute. It is true. I am a very bad liar, don’t I have trustworthy face?” He insists.
Shane fidgets. Chuckles a bit, cheeks red. “Not at all.”
And, oh. He has freckles. The constellation of them spread out over his nose bridge, so faint that Ilya missed them at first.
Out of all of Pike’s friends, Ilya thinks he might like this one best.
“Well,” Ilya clears his throat, takes the last drag of his cigarette and flicks it away, crushing it beneath his heel. He turns for the long walk home, his off-campus apartment in the opposite direction from the Physics department. He has a couple of deliveries spread out throughout the afternoon before he has to meet Svetlana for drinks.
“That’s it?” Shane calls from behind him.
Ilya waves a couple of fingers in the air, in some semblance of a wave. “I put a couple rolling papers and filters in the bag. I am sure Pike will show you the way,” he calls.
“Thank you!” Shane yells behind him.
Shane was always a little anxious, ever since he was young. He thought it was the only normal response for a kid like him to be habitually stressed, when he had karate and piano, swimming and gymnastics, volunteering and Kumon. With parents who thought he was exceptional but that his potential had to be explored around the clock, his schedule ran like the Navy.
And yeah, there have been times here and there when it would manifest in ways that weren’t typical of normal anxiety. Crying fits that he couldn’t stop. Chronic stomach issues. A short temper. But eventually, Shane was able to learn and master another skill: the ability to endure and to do it quietly.
He hit a wall when he got to college. Instead of pre-med or law, Shane chose astrophysics and astronomy. He wanted to study the stars. And it was ridiculous to everyone around him that he chose to be up in the clouds when he could be doing something more practical and lucrative. His parents eyed him warily, asking what came after, and for once, Shane had no idea.
As graduation crept closer, his anxiety and stress rose higher. He stopped being able to sleep. He couldn’t stomach food, so he’d either skip meals or spend his time in the bathroom, as it came right back out. He spent more time in the library than he did in his own apartment, catastrophizing over his grades and lack of a plan post-graduation.
The weed was Hayden’s idea at first.
Shane was drowning in his research papers, operating on a handful of naps and the shitty coffee they served in the astrophysics student lounge. This was where Hayden found him, slumped over his laptop. He was scanning readings on hydrostatic equilibrium with bleary eyes.
Hayden slapped him on the back, “I’ve searched three different libraries for you. Two physics labs. I’ve wandered through trenches of this campus that most people couldn’t even imagine.”
Shane scratched his eyebrow and highlighted a sentence: In hydrostatic equilibrium, the inward pull of gravity is perfectly balanced by the outward push of internal pressure, creating stability.
“Can you pause for, like, two seconds? ‘Hey, Hayden, thank you so much for missing me! You trekked twenty minutes to this dead end of campus just to see me?’”
“My voice doesn’t sound like that. And I have a phone, you know. You could’ve just texted or called.”
Hayden pulled out the chair beside Shane, sprawling out his legs, whining. “And you think I haven’t done that like, five times already today? Not to mention, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all week.”
Shane swore, fumbled through his backpack, past pens and empty gum wrappers, to his phone.
HAYDEN PIKE
Missed call
HAYDEN PIKE
Missed call
HAYDEN PIKE
Missed call
HAYDEN PIKE
where. are. you!!
HAYDEN PIKE
i hate it here it’s like a dungeon and it smells fuckin rank bro
Shane looked up sheepishly. “Sorry. You know how it is.”
Hayden nodded, always understanding that when Shane said that, he also meant you know how I am, and that he was grateful for it.
“What did you need?”
“I’m doing a wellness check. Making sure you haven’t rotted away here with cobwebs gathering.”
Shane huffed.
Hayden leaned in closer, looking around the lounge. It wasn’t busy. The astrophysics department was tiny in comparison to the rest of the programs on campus. And it was later in the evening, when even the most devout of students had cleared out except for a couple of stragglers, including Shane.
“I’m worried about you,” he murmured.
“When are you not?”
“I’m serious, Shane. You need to chill the fuck out. It’s not healthy.”
“Finals are around the corner. I don’t know that the majority of students are chilling right now,” Shane replied.
Hayden rapped his fingers on the desk. “Listen, you’re going to burn yourself out. You’re already halfway there. And then what? Finals come, and you can barely write a complete sentence because you’re sleep-deprived, malnourished, and exhausted?”
“I ate a protein bar earlier,” Shane argued weakly.
“Ah, yes. The epitome of health, man,” Hayden said. “Listen, I have an idea, and I think you should really give it a chance.”
“Maybe.”
Hayden lowered his voice even more. “So, I know a guy. Ilya Rozanov…”
“Mhm, you’ve mentioned him before. Your dealer?”
“Yeah, and…”
Shane blinked, “Anddddd, what?”
Hayden stared.
“No.”
“Oh, c’mon, why not?”
Shane rolled his eyes, “I’m busy. I don’t have time to be puffing on a joint and staring at the wall. I have two research papers due, and I haven’t had time to apply to internships yet. And finals are coming up, I need to start preparing study resources, and I-I don’t even think I’d like it.”
“Shane, listen. It could help with your sleep, increase your appetite, maybe loosen the stick up your ass a little bit too.”
“Funny.”
“I’m serious. I hate seeing you like this. And it’s not a perfect solution, but between you and me, we know you haven’t been doing well for a long time. Especially this semester,” Hayden insisted. “I just want to see if this can help you relax.”
Shane sighed. “If I say yes, can I finish this chapter now?”
Shane regrets ever listening to Hayden when they meet again later in the week, and he tells him how it went.
“You wore a suit?” Hayden guffaws. “Dude…”
“Fuck you. You told me to be professional! And that it was a business transaction.”
“Yeah, meaning that Rozanov doesn’t like small talk; do the exchange and leave. Not that you had to wear a tie!”
Shane shoves his face into his hands, groaning. “Fuck, I looked like such a dumbass.”
They’re sitting on the floor of Shane’s living room, a couple of pizza boxes strewn around them.
“Hey, if it makes you feel any better, I doubt he cared. Dude just rips the cash from my hand and throws a baggie at me. I tried to be nice and invite him in for a beer once,” Hayden shakes his head and lowers his voice, a poor mimicry of Ilya, “‘The less time I see your ugly face, the better, Pike.’ He sucks.”
“Didn’t you say you called him at three in the morning once, begging for a gram?”
“I lost track of time!”
“And that you shortchanged him one time?”
Hayden groans, “God, don’t remind me. I thought he was gonna fucking kill me.”
Shane plays with the half-eaten pizza on his plate, “He doesn’t really look like how you described him.”
Hayden protests, mouth bulging with pepperoni. “I described him perfectly. Six-foot-tall, Russian dude with curly hair. Permanent frown. Asshole-ish face. What was wrong about that?”
Shane avoids looking at Hayden.
Maybe that’s what he was supposed to see—if Shane were like him. Instead, he kept looking at the pronounced bow of Ilya’s mouth, the smattering of moles on his face and neck, the soft curve of his jaw, and his broad shoulders. How large Ilya’s hands were during their brief handshake. Shane wanted to touch palms and compare. He was sure that if they did, Ilya’s fingers would tower over his, so much so that they could bend and cover his own.
So no, Hayden hadn’t told him his weed dealer was stupidly, ridiculously, attractive.
Shane takes a drink of his ginger ale and swallows against the wave of panic building, feeling that everything in his life was going wrong and that this was one more thing. Probably the biggest. He picks at the fallen toppings on his plate.
“Well, he’s not as scary as you said,” Shane mutters. “So, he’s from Russia?”
“Yeah, I heard from Marleau that he’s doing his business degree here. He has an apartment off campus, like you. He just does this for some extra cash on the side. Don’t know where he gets his shit. I wish I could go straight to the source. Would love to avoid having to deal with that prick every time I want a hit,” Hayden mutters. “Speaking of which.”
Hayden shows him how to grind the buds, fold the filter, and spread the weed evenly throughout the rolling paper. He pinches it and rolls, licking at the glued edges to seal it, and twists it at the tip. With some of the remaining buds left, Shane follows along and makes his own, a little wonky.
They head to Shane’s balcony, unusually large thanks to having the corner unit. When he moved in, his dad helped him build an L-shaped bench tucked into the corner against the apartment wall. Shane’s added plush seating cushions, throw pillows, and a forest green fleece blanket. They’ve strung lights across the balcony banister and Shane turns them on, taking a seat next to Hayden where he’s curled up on the bench.
The sun just started to set, sitting low near the horizon of the city line.
Hayden flicks his lighter and holds it to the edge, the end catching the flame, turning orange. Shane watches him bring it to his mouth, inhaling deeply, exhaling slowly. Carefully, he does the same. And proceeds to hack up a lung.
“Jesus,” he coughs.
“Go slow, dude,” Hayden instructs, taking another hit.
He brings it back up to his lips and inhales again, feeling awkward and clumsy. Shane grimaces as the smoke swirls in the air, wondering if he’ll have to strip the cushions and pillows and throw them into the wash after.
“So, uh, Jackie’s texting me again,” Hayden announces, while Shane smokes.
Jackie, the childhood education major Pike met at the bar two weeks ago, was sweet and kind but also very chatty. Hayden confided to Shane that he’d felt a bumbling nervousness he’d never felt around girls before.
“What do you mean, again? She stopped?” Shane asks.
“I think I fucked up,” Hayden admitted, bashful. “I stopped replying for a couple of days, and then I think she took it personally.”
Shane scoffs, “Of course she would.”
“I just didn’t know what to say, alright? She’s just,” he blows out some smoke, red eyes turning into crescents, “She’s so great and smart and funny. And fuck, I just get so panicked I’ll say something wrong…”
“Have you asked her out yet?”
“We have plans for lunch on Friday.”
“Good. You’re kind of an idiot, but much more charming in person. The sooner you see her and sweep her off her feet, the better.”
“Asshole. You’ll have to coach me beforehand, though.”
“You’ve been doing alright so far without me.”
“It’s not the same. I need the expertise of Shane Hollander. The girls go crazy for you,” Hayden pinches his cheek. “Polite, 4.0 GPA boy, who studies the stars and can carry a decent conversation. The number of sorority girls asking me to bring you to our next social is insane. You’re good with them.”
It was true to an extent. Hayden dragged him to his frat parties, mixers, and community events whenever he could. He insisted it was good for Shane to get out of the library. Shane grinned and bore it, happy to be included by his friend. And when the girls came around, Hayden would shove Shane a little closer to them, grin manically, eyes bursting with pride.
Shane enjoyed talking with them until they got too close—lip gloss smearing stickily against his ear, a suggestive hand creeping up his arm, a hand brushing through his hair. He would flinch and retreat, pretending the nausea in his gut was just nervousness borne out of desire, instead of the sheer panic that they might look at him and see him for who he was, wires crossed somewhere along the way.
“Speaking of girls, there’s gonna be a party at Gamma Phi next Saturday night. Jackie’s friend invited us,” he waggles his eyebrows.
Hayden’s eyes are even redder, and he sinks into the cushions, limbs loose.
“You’re coming. I don’t want any excuses. I’ve barely seen you this past month.”
“Alright.” Shane mentally notes to go for a single hour, already anxious at the thought of the packed, loud sorority.
“Are you feeling it yet? Are you relaxed? Rozanov’s stuff is good. If this doesn’t calm you down, I don’t know what will.”
Shane doesn’t feel much of anything at all.
Suddenly, Hayden begins to chuckle.
He’s giggling uncontrollably when he says, “Hey, which tie did you wear when you went to see him? The blue one? Red? Stripes or no stripes?”
Shane yanks the pillow out from behind Hayden’s back and hurls it at his face.
After he first meets Ilya, it’s like Shane can’t stop seeing him around campus. He wonders if they’ve ever crossed paths, and if they have, how he never noticed him before.
Shane’s studying at The Bean, his favorite cafe hidden in one of the liberal arts buildings, when he sees him next. He sips on a six-dollar vegetable juice at a table in the back by the window, trying to get some form of vitamins in as he studies, when Ilya strides in. He’s carrying a messenger bag, probably in between classes. He’s far enough away that Shane can’t hear his order, just the low murmur of a polite thank you very much to the barista, a brief glimpse of teeth before he’s gone.
Then, walking briskly across the courtyard connecting the library and an academic services building. He’s arm-in-arm with a girl, her brown curls bouncing as she tugs him along.
And again, when Shane leaves the office hours of his computer science professor. He’s pulling the door shut behind him when he sees Ilya’s hulking frame and broad back bully their way into the office at the end of the hall, his voice a deep grumble as he greets his professor.
Ilya notices him back once, when they’re both at the gym. Shane’s on the stationary bike, 20 kilometres in, absently people-watching as he finishes his cardio. He realizes too late that he’s been inadvertently staring at a girl using the leg press machine across the room. Worried he looks either romantically interested or like a fucking creep, he sweeps his eyes away quickly.
It’s then that he sees Ilya sitting on a weight bench nearby, doing bicep curls. He’s wearing a tank top, arm holes cut wider, the sides of his chest peeking out. He purses out his bottom lip with each controlled curl, his effort etched in the line of his jaw. Shane can’t help but notice the way his muscles flex, the tilt of his head and shoulders with each movement, how a single blonde curl falls into his eyes.
Shane bikes faster, willing his concentration to go back to the task at hand. He’s sweating profusely now, punishing himself with every cycle forward.
Ilya’s gaze flickers to him and away, then he does a double-take. He grins, raises a finger to his forehead, and flicks it outward in a quick hello. He lingers on Shane, who’s now dripping from exertion, then starts pumping his arms faster and cocks his eyebrow—deliberately upping the pace as if he’s daring Shane to keep up. Flustered, Shane scoffs and rolls his eyes before looking away. Prick.
A mix of admiration and desire stirs in his gut. Shane hops off the bike to the water fountain, adjusting himself in his shorts as subtly as he can. When he returns to the bike, Ilya is gone.
Shane knows he has a bit of a crush when he catches himself searching for Ilya in every room. He resolutely decides not to think about it.
When they speak next, it’s by accident.
Shane is on his way back home from a night tutorial, taking his shortcut across the quad. He’s passing the walkway between the music and philosophy buildings when he hears the unmistakable sound of someone speaking Russian, muttering beneath their breath. Shane thinks he’s hallucinating it at first, as exhausted as he is.
But then he hears, “Fuck. I thought we were friends, kotik. That hurt.”
Shane doesn’t know the proper social etiquette for talking to your drug dealer. They’re not exactly friends, and he knows Ilya hates Hayden's attempts at friendliness with a burning passion. But Ilya did acknowledge him that time at the gym. Shane also hasn’t seen him around in days, causing a morbid sort of curiosity to form that he couldn’t shake.
Shane ducks into the walkway.
He sees Ilya crouched by one of the garden beds that line either side of the path. His hands are in one of the shrubs.
“What are you doing?”
Ilya jumps, startling, “Motherfucker.” He narrows his eyes. “You, like him, need a bell.”
Shane looks where Ilya tilts his head, noticing a cute but scrappy, grey kitten looking back at him with angry eyes in the darkness. Ilya’s holding an open can of wet cat food. Shane sees where it has scratched him, long and thin, across his pointer finger. It’s a little red and angry, but hasn’t broken the skin.
The cat continues glaring at Shane in dismay for interrupting his meal, meowing at Ilya for attention again.
“You hurt me, and then you love me,” Ilya says, shaking his head. “Such an attitude.”
He holds the can out again so the cat can continue feasting as Shane kneels.
“Who’s this?” he whispers.
Ilya hums, “A thief. He attacked me in the dark for my sandwich a couple of months ago.”
He scratches underneath the cat’s chin.
“Terrifying.”
Ilya shrugs, “I am a generous guy, so I did not fight back. I come to feed him every day so he does not attack others. See? Super generous, our school should give me an award.”
Shane’s drug dealer feeds stray kittens.
He clears his throat and tries to hide how endeared he is. “Ah yes, our savior, Ilya Rozanov. Defender of students from this three-pound kitten.”
Ilya scoffs, “He is a healthy size for a baby, eating all my food. At least five pounds!”
Shane smiles, “Sure, sure. Strays are kind of rare in the city.”
“I know. I thought he belonged to someone but there is no tag. He is so young, too. No mother or family ever comes with him.”
“Why don’t you bring him to your apartment? It’d be easier than having to come here every time to feed him.”
The cat scratches at the bottom of the tin can, eating the final remains of his meal. Ilya, hesitant and slow, holds up a curled finger towards it. Satiated, the cat leans in and butts his head to Ilya’s finger, allowing him to give a few gentle pets. When he’s decided he’s had enough, the cat darts back behind the shrub down the length of the walkway and disappears into the darkness of the night.
“Because he does that,” Ilya points, shaking his head fondly. “I try to catch him once, and he scratched the fuck out of my arms. But he always comes back for me to feed him. He just likes to be free. But it is okay, I am patient. One day, he might want to come with me.”
They stand. Without the cat as a buffer, Shane feels a little unsure and awkward, suddenly too aware of the emptiness of campus and the quiet hush that surrounds them.
“He likes to run, like you,” Ilya says. He pulls out a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it as he stares at Shane through squinted eyes. “You ran at the gym. Don’t like a little competition?”
Shane splutters. “I-I did not run. I was thirsty and needed water. And some weirdo doing biceps curls with bad form kept staring at me. Plus, how could we even be in a competition when we were doing different workouts?”
“You are so boring.” Ilya huffs, “And my form is brilliant. I can give you another demonstration if you do not run again.”
The back of Shane’s neck heats. “Pass.”
Ilya blows the smoke out of the side of his mouth, away from Shane. “How was your weed experience? Did you try with Pike?”
“Yeah, I smoked with Hayden. Maybe I need a different plant or bush, or something? Not sure how it works.”
“You did not like it?”
“I’m not sure if there was a mistake... Maybe the buds were bad or expired? I didn’t feel anything.”
“You felt nothing?”
“No, sadly. I just kind of coughed a lot,” Shane explains. Ilya says nothing, just stares at him with inquisitive eyes.
Shane feels a bit like an ass, “Sorry, I realized I made it sound like you gave me a defective product. Which isn’t what I intended. I know you’re very professional and that Pike has ordered from you a lot. I trust you. I probably need something else, maybe. Stronger? I was actually gonna ask Pike to place my new order for me since I want to try again.”
“Did Pike teach you how to smoke?”
“Kind of? I watched and followed along.”
“Pike is moron. That is why it did not work. Give me your phone,” Ilya holds out his hand.
“What?”
“Give me your phone.” His fingers wag in an impatient beckon.
Shane fumbles with the passcode before he shoves it in Ilya’s hand. Ilya adds his number to Shane’s contacts. Then, he opens up a blank message, sending himself a text that says, ‘boring Shane’.
“There. Now we share numbers. You can contact me without Pike. Send your address. We will try it again.”
Shane fishes cash from his wallet as his phone buzzes.
ILYA
Am here. Come down.
Shane rushes downstairs, greeting him in the lobby. “Hey.”
Ilya greets him with a curt nod. It’s been a couple of days since they last saw each other. Shane was slammed with a statistical physics project and didn’t set up a buy until he finished.
He’s wearing sweatpants and his favorite threadbare hoodie, hoping to appear cool and casual. Shane is about to pull the cash from his pocket, determined to make the transaction quick and seamless—the way he heard Ilya likes, when a hand shoots out, grabbing him by the wrist.
Ilya’s staring at him and imperceptibly cocks his head to the building’s security guard, who is eyeing them above the front desk. Shane flinches, shaking Ilya’s hand off.
“Let’s go upstairs,” Shane mumbles.
They’re silent as the brief elevator ride takes them up to the twelfth floor and to Shane’s apartment, where they linger outside his door.
“Not defective product,” Ilya starts.
“I know. I’m sorry again. It’s probably an issue with me. But Hayden told me this would help. I do want to give it an honest shot.”
“Help with what?”
“Hm?”
“You say you need help, with what? This is not just for fun? For getting high and killing braincells like Pike?” Ilya asks wryly.
Shane shuffles, staring down at his welcome mat. “No, uh, I’ve been having trouble sleeping lately. And relaxing, or just being able to turn my brain off in general. I’m a bit stressed. And have been for a while. Hayden told me this could help with that.”
Then, he smiles questioningly, “‘Killing braincells’? So you don’t indulge in what you deal?”
Ilya shakes his head, “Not often, special occasions only usually. Should not smoke what you sell. You fuck yourself over. Rule of business. I prefer cigarettes, anyway.”
“Isn’t that worse than weed?”
Ilya smirks, “We will all die, but at least I will be smarter than Pike.”
Shane snorts, “At least the hate is mutual. He was complaining about you yesterday.”
Ilya clicks his tongue. “Pike just hates that I do not give him discounts and run to him as soon as he calls. And don’t care about his little stories about the fraternity or his roommate, who never does the dishes, or Jake, who will not text him back.”
“Jackie,” Shane corrects.
“Jackie, same thing,” Ilya says, waving his arms dismissively.
For the briefest of moments, Shane slips and allows himself to stare. Up until this point, his attraction to men had been only in concept, in aesthetic fragments, like making a collage out of magazine clippings. A strong nose, the slope of a brow bone, the broadness of a back. It was something he shoved to the back of his mind and ignored, throwing himself into his studies instead.
Shane doesn’t know what to do with the full weight of Ilya’s attractiveness or the way it draws him in. He wants to look. He wants to hide. Ilya suddenly turns to face him fully, crowding him a little against the door. Shane quickly schools his face into something more neutral and less wanting, but by the way Ilya looks at him in return, he knows he’s been caught.
He expects revulsion. A little contempt, maybe. But Ilya just looks intrigued.
“Will you invite me in?” Ilya asks.
“What?” Shane’s voice cracks.
Ilya smiles. “I teach you to smoke the proper way. It will work, this time.”
Shane’s apartment was both exactly and nothing like Ilya had imagined. He gets a brief walkthrough on their way to his balcony. It’s a nice unit, pretty similar to Ilya’s, with the standard living room and galley kitchen typical for this city.
Shane shuffles from where he stands near the couch. His shoulders are nearly pulled up to his ears while his hands are tucked into the pockets of his sweatpants. Tense and stiff, like the first time they had met. Ilya notices the deep bags beneath his eyes, the sign of too many sleepless nights.
He is so pretty, but so tired and wound up. Ilya’s struck once again with the need to loosen him up. He wants to run his hands over Shane’s every limb and push into the tight knots of his muscles. To grab him by the shoulders and shake him, drawing him out of the tight, restricted shell of his own body.
“Sorry, it’s kind of messy,” Shane warns.
His idea of a mess is a handful of textbooks scattered across the coffee table in the living room. A stray sock on the rug. A couple of plates still in the sink to be washed later. Otherwise, the tables and counters are spotless. A vanilla candle flickers on the side table next to the sofa, and the room is bathed in the warm yellow glow of the arched floor lamp in the corner.
They pass an extensive book collection on their way outside. Ilya scans the titles, not knowing what much of anything means. Decoding the Cosmos: Astrophysics For Curious Minds. Fundamentals of Quantum Physics. The Human Cosmos: Civilization and the Stars. There are other, lighter reads in there as well—All Systems Red, The Way of Kings, Howl’s Moving Castle.
“Big reader?”
“Yeah. I mean, I’m not the most well-versed guy on the planet, but I grew up reading all sorts of stuff. These days, I don’t have much time to enjoy anything other than textbooks. But yeah, usually I am. ”
Ilya groans, smiling despite himself. “So boring.”
“Asshole,” Shane retorts, biting tone undercut by his grin, teeth pearly and bright. His shoulders lower as if he’s allowing himself to calm just the smallest amount.
Ilya moves closer to get a better look at the titles, running his fingers across the cracked spines, catching sticky notes tucked between pages. He pulls out a children’s book, tapping the cover.
“We have a Russian version. Different title, called The Wizard of the Emerald City.”
Shane points to the book in Ilya’s hands. “This is a classic. My mom used to read this one to me before bed.”
He swallows, and after a beat of silence, murmurs, “Mine too.”
“Is the Russian version any different?”
“Some. You should learn Russian so you can read it. A new boring hobby you will enjoy.”
Ilya flips through the pages, finding one dog-eared with an underlined quote: “I think you are wrong to want a heart. It makes most people unhappy. If you only knew it, you are in luck not to have a heart.” He frowns.
Shane leans closer to Ilya, slipping his arm under his to close the book by its spine, hands brushing briefly. He slides it back into place on the shelf.
“All that complaining, but you don’t seem that bored,” Shane laughs. “I built this collection with my dad. He gifts me a new book every birthday and holiday.”
“Ah, so being boring is genetic?” Ilya replies, wryly, turning to face Shane beside him.
He smiles, gentle and crooked, cheek dimpling at the corner of his mouth. His eyes soften and he looks both pleased and amused as he replies, “Wow. Genetic.”
Standing this close, Ilya can see his freckles even more. He clenches his hands into fists, resisting the urge to sweep a finger across them. Clearing his throat, he looks away and nods to the left of the bookshelf, where a leather reading seat is, surrounded by various plants. Ilya can recognize a handful, like a fiddle leaf, a pathos, a snake plant, and a ficus.
“And the jungle you are growing?”
“My mom thought it would be good for me to have something to take care of. That it would force me to drink my water, and eat, and get some sunlight if I had to get my plants to do the same.”
Ilya is glad that Shane seems to have two doting parents. He can’t relate, but he is happy for him. He wonders if he would be a little less hostile, hard-edged and quick to bite if he’d always had the warmth of a loving home.
“You are a good plant dad.” Ilya pulls out the pre-rolled joints he prepared before coming over, twirling them between his fingers.“But you need time with a new plant, no?”
“Right,” Shane says, fishing money from his back pocket. He hands it over, and Ilya passes him a joint.
They continue their walk out to the balcony, dimly lit by string lights. It’s clean, comfy, and cozy, much like the rest of the apartment. They settle onto a cushioned bench, and Ilya lights both.
“Hold like this.” He grabs Shane’s hand, curling his fingers around his, lifting Shane’s forefinger and thumb to nestle the joint between them.
Ilya holds his own to his lips and murmurs through his teeth, “Keep smoke in mouth at first. Better to take it slow. Hold it in your mouth, then inhale deeply into your lungs. Like taking deep breath. Hold it in for a couple of seconds, and then release.”
Ilya demonstrates while Shane stares attentively.
“Take your time. Big deep breaths are better than…what is the word? Surface-level?”
“Shallow,” Shane offers.
“Yes,” Ilya agrees, taking another hit, blowing the smoke away from Shane’s face. “You probably did not feel anything last time because you did not hold long or breathe deep enough. Your turn.”
It’s clear Shane tries his best to mimic Ilya’s movements, following his instructions carefully. Still, he ends up choking on the smoke, coughing. Ilya pats his back, rests his joint on the small wooden table near their knees, and jogs to Shane’s kitchen. He rummages through the cupboards and returns with a miscellaneous glass filled with water.
Shane drinks, staring at the blinking lights of the traffic below them, looking a bit embarrassed.
“Is okay,” Ilya encourages. “You are new. It can feel rough at first. It will also dry out your mouth, so water is always helpful to have close. We do another, together. Watch me. Follow.”
He waits until Shane lifts the joint to his lips, then raises his hand as a silent cue to inhale. Shane turns slightly, angling his body so they’re facing each other, close enough that their knees brush. His eyes are wide and trusting, his shoulders matching the rhythm of Ilya’s breathing.
They exhale together, and Ilya feels the corners of his mouth pull upwards on their own, a reflex as the weed does its job. He glances at Shane, still smiling, and doesn’t try to fight it. They do a couple more hits together, silent except for their breathing. Warmth settles into Ilya’s chest while his eyes burn a bit, surely red by now.
“I thought you didn’t smoke,” Shane says.
“I said special occasion. This is special occasion, no?”
Across from him, Shane wears a matching grin, giggling a bit as he eases back into the bench. “Woah.”
Ilya smirks, “Do you feel relaxed?”
“Yeah, actually,” Shane replies, looking dazed and relieved. “Fuck. Feels good.”
“Can feel good when you do it right. Pike is a bad teacher.”
Shane chuckles. “This was all his idea, you know. I think it’s a good one. Hopefully, I’ll be able to sleep.”
“This strain will make you sleepy. Later, though. Should help.”
The pungent smell of their joints fills the air.
“When did you start having sleeping problems?” Ilya asks.
Shane inhales and swallows, considering. “I think it started this fall. At the start of the semester. It’s my last year, and my courses are pretty demanding. I need to keep my grades really high to have a decent shot at internships because they’re competitive.”
Ilya motions towards the inside of the apartment, where the bookshelf is, with all his textbooks. “You are in science?”
Shane nods. Laughs, a bit self-depracatingly. “Astrophysics and astronomy. I like the stars. Space in general, really. I think a lot of people get overwhelmed by like, the sheer vastness of it all? But I think it’s so interesting. It’s kind of relieving in a way, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I worry a lot. I can’t help it. But studying this takes me outside of myself, knowing there’s so much out there. Life is so fucking big and grand, so much more than you or me. The universe sustains galaxies, planets, and us. I have my place in it as much as the stars,” Shane babbles, excited. “Imagine everything that had to go right for us to exist.”
Maybe it’s the weed, or maybe it’s just Shane. Ilya feels he’s cresting on a high larger than he’s ever felt before.
“We’re made of stars, too, you know. When stars exploded, heavy elements formed Earth and ended up in you and me,” Shane explains. “Kind of crazy to think about.”
Ilya thinks that out of all the stars in the planet, how lucky he was to have encountered this one—so strange and bright.
“Yeah, yeah. I know, boring.” Shane rolls his eyes.
Ilya clears his throat. “I was going to say not boring, actually. Good job, surprising me. What’s English expression…you have tricks up your shirt.”
“Sleeve. You’re such an asshole,” Shane chuckles.
After a beat of silence, he adds, quieter, “My parents don’t get it. They wanted me to go into medicine. I had the grades for it, and I worked hard. It was pretty disappointing to them that I chose to study something they saw as more of a hobby. They wanted me to help people. They think I could make so much more of myself.”
“They wanted to brag about you,” Ilya corrects.
“That’s not fair,” Shane protests, just as Ilya suspected, a dutiful, good son.
“Were they fair to you?” He asks, brows raised.
Shane looks at him, eyes red, wordless. It’s quiet out here with only the faint sounds of the traffic below.
“Well, do you enjoy your program?” Shane peers at him, curious. “You’re in business, right?”
Ilya sees the deflection for what it is, but allows it, tilting his head, “It is alright. Yes, business. Last year too, like you. It is what I am good at.”
“Why didn’t you study in Russia?”
“This school’s reputation is great, as you know. My program specifically, too. I come with my friend Svetlana, and we study together. I like being here. It is freeing, compared to back home,” Ilya summarizes.
There are, of course, the details he doesn’t bother disclosing. He thinks about his angry father. An even angrier brother. The ghost of his mother in their home.
“How so?”
Ilya shakes his head, interrupting, “How are you feeling?”
Shane throws his head back against a cushion and sighs. “Good. Best I’ve felt in a while.”
Ilya tracks the line where Shane’s collarbones meet his neck, up over the gentle rise of his Adam’s apple, following the slope of his throat until he catches Shane’s eyes, heady and dark. He sees the same desire reflected there that Ilya thought he’d imagined earlier, outside Shane’s apartment. And in the gym and walkway. And the day that they first met.
It was so fleeting, Shane hiding it and snuffing it out with his restraint, that Ilya might have missed it.
Ah. So, there you are, Ilya thinks, calm and certain.
His joint is nearly out, barely enough left for one last hit.
“You can also smoke another way,” Ilya starts.
He leans closer to Shane, tentative in his movements, not wanting to spook. He stops just inches from Shane’s face, close enough that he can see each of his freckles. Shane’s eyes are wide with surprise.
“Do you want to try?” Ilya questions.
Shane swallows. Nods his chin once, curt.
Ilya leans closer. “Tell me with words.”
Shane’s tongue wets his lips, worries his teeth over them for a moment, croaks, “Yes. Please.”
“So polite,” he says. “Open your mouth. When I breathe out, you breathe in.”
Ilya looks to the side, takes the last hit from his joint before turning back to Shane, who waits with his mouth cracked open slightly, cherry red. Ilya dips in even more, close enough to feel the heat radiating off Shane’s lips before he exhales.
Shane inhales as instructed, but does it too quickly, greedy for every wisp of breath Ilya releases. He holds it in his mouth, not even inhaling, just keeping it prisoner in his mouth. Ilya reaches for his jaw, cradling his chin in his hands.
“You cannot keep it. Inhale and let it out,” he whispers.
Shane’s eyes glare back, defiant, and Ilya feels himself harden a bit in his jeans.
“I will give you more. Inhale. Breathe out.”
He listens, and the smoke curls between them, escaping through his plush lips. Ilya slides his hands up, finally brushing his thumbs over those damn freckles.
“Very good.”
Their joints are out, burnt down to the tips.
“You said you’d give me more,” Shane complains, voice rough.
Ilya cocks his eyebrow, and he’s not sure who moves first, but they’re kissing, Shane’s mouth hot and eager on his own. Ilya opens up his mouth with his tongue. Shane meets his with equal fervor. He isn’t a quiet kisser, moaning and whining each time they separate for air, chasing Ilya’s mouth for more. Ilya likes it; how strongly he feels his desire that he cannot quiet it, even as he tries.
Shane’s frantic like he won’t get his fill. “Please, oh god.”
In return, Ilya pats up and down his face, over his ass, into his hair, and down his chest, soothing. They kiss for what seems like hours, their lips swollen and sticky with spit. Shane moves, and then he’s sitting in Ilya’s lap, grabbing his face with eager hands. He’s hard, like Ilya, tenting in his sweatpants and grinding slow circles against Ilya’s thigh.
Shane pants high in his throat, and Ilya moves to palm both of his thighs, bringing his grinding to a stop.
“Fuck.” Ilya breathes against the side of Shane’s jaw.
He doesn’t sleep with customers, a fact Ilya prides himself on. He gets plenty of attention from men and women, so he doesn’t need to mix business with pleasure. As a lover, he’s good with them and to them in bed, but horrible at anything more, he knows. He craves closeness but is suffocated by it in the same breath—snapping his jaws at anyone who comes too near.
But something about this terribly boring, tense, beautiful boy makes him want to sink his teeth in and never let go. Ilya is worried he’d ruin Shane, if allowed. Good things aren’t meant for him. It’s with every bit of self-restraint that he understands it’s time to go.
Shane is still on his lap, but his hips twitch against his will, cock still hard and heavy, leaking into the front of his sweats. So sensitive. Ilya’s mouth waters.
“What? Did I do something wrong?” Shane starts, nervous. “Oh shit, I’m sorry.”
He sounds horrified and makes a move to get off of Ilya.
“No,” Ilya replies. He draws his face back and grabs Shane by the chin, forcing him to look at him. “No. You did not, at all. But I should leave.”
Ilya smacks a wet kiss on his chin while Shane wraps his arms around Ilya’s neck, holding him close.
“Why?” he whispers, voice muffled as he hides his face.
Ilya runs his hands back and forth over Shane’s back. “You want me, but I wonder if you would want me sober.”
Shane leans back, eyes serious. “I would. I-I did. Before. That first day we met.”
He looks pained to even have to admit it. Ilya thinks he might be the first boy Shane’s ever said this to.
He caresses his thumb over Shane’s bottom lip, pensive, “Tell you what. If you are not high and find you still want me, you can call me.”
Ilya leaves after he makes sure Shane has drunk some more water. He hunted through Shane’s sparse cabinets, fed him some triscuit crackers and some remaining apples he’d found in the fridge. Tucked him in bed. It’s been a couple of hours since they first smoked, and Shane’s past the peak of his high, something more gentle and warm settling deep in his bones.
His mind is quiet, for once. He can feel the sleepiness Ilya promised creeping in, weighing down his eyelids. But his body hasn’t caught up. The frenetic energy he felt when he surrendered and kissed Ilya still hums through him.
His cock is hard and dripping in his pants, making a mess. Shane isn’t sure if it ever fully softened; his body like a live wire, insistently demanding attention. He traces his arms, his chest, his lips. Thinks about how Ilya held him on his lap, wide hands covering the length of his ribcage. His own hardness, throbbing against Shane’s leg. The steadiness of his muscular thigh as Shane bore down on it.
Shane lies on his stomach, grunting as his hips inadvertently begin twitching, pressing his cock into the mattress. He begins to sweat, the hot flush of arousal swirling in his gut. He parts his thighs and grinds down faster. Some far part of his brain thinks that he’d be humiliated by the vision he makes, moaning needily as he humps his bed.
He hears Ilya’s deep voice in his ears, his Russian accent thick and heavy and pleased, “Very good.” The way his blue-green eyes looked in the dark, staring at him with such intense curiosity. How badly Shane wanted to keep his attention. Look at me. See me. Understand me.
What would Ilya think, if he were to watch Shane now?
Shane pants, drooling out of the corner of his mouth. He reaches down, kicking off his sweatpants, and grabs a handful of lotion from his bedside table. He greases his palms together, makes a tight fist out of one of them for himself to fuck into.
“Oh fuck, oh fu—” he groans, bucking into his hand.
He pushes up from the bed, ass out on his knees, frantically rocking his hips back and forth.
He needs…
Shane reaches behind himself with his other hand, cheeks burning, his fingers hesitantly brushing his rim. Pointedly avoids thinking too much about what he’s doing. The skin is soft and thin, his hole trembling as he presses down firmly with his middle finger.
His forearm is beginning to cramp, but the pain is a minute blip on his radar compared to the pleasure that swells across his stomach, into his cock, down his shaking legs. It feels weird at first and burns a little, but then there’s a satisfying fullness that he’d always denied himself before, pushing him faster to the edge.
“Jesus,” he hisses, startled.
His cock kicks from where he’s holding it in his other hand, red and angry, leaking into the bedsheet. He fucks his hand faster, tightening his grip into a brutal hold. He slides another finger into himself slowly, where he’s hot and tight.
White spots burst across his vision, “Oh, oh, uh, fuck.”
When he comes, it’s Ilya’s name he yells. He’s clenching down on his fingers, arching his back, his come shooting across the bed in long spurts. When it’s done, he collapses into a boneless heap, rolling over to avoid his own wet spot.
The sheets are dirty now, he thinks distantly. But somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, Shane falls into a deep sleep, one that’s long and dreamless and peaceful. The first he’s had in weeks.