Chapter Text
The thing about getting broken up with (or whatever Shane went through) was that time did not stop for heartbreak. Luckily, though, Shane Hollander was an academic weapon–he didn’t get into the #1 university in the states as a pre-med for nothing–and threw himself into his studies. The impending nature of finals, as well as his busy hockey schedule, were welcome distractions for him. He hardly had time to think about or process the whole Ilya thing. Instead, his hours were spent at Barker Library, one of the more secluded libraries on campus meant for students really trying to lock in. The silence in the domed building was near deafening, and Shane found comfort in being surrounded by other dutiful, dedicated students just trying to make it through the semester. It reminded him that there was, in fact, a life outside of sleeping around and partying. He had just lost his way a bit in these past couple of months, and he was determined to return to his good student self.
In the hours not spent studying, he was on the rink, getting extra time on the ice. He would be the first to admit that he had let his focus on hockey waver. The irony wasn’t lost on him–in these past few weeks, despite skating less, he’d grown closer to his teammates, seeing many of them so frequently in the Number Six house. As he ran drills with the team, he distantly wondered how many of them knew what had transpired just a couple nights ago. Did Ilya tell them? Was he the type to talk about it or not say anything at all? Maybe they didn’t notice or care, and so many different people flew in and out of Ilya’s room that it wasn’t out of the ordinary whatsoever. He was always meant to be this ephemeral; it’s what he had signed up for when they started sleeping together under the contract of casualness. Shane’s mind flitted back to that night with Sasha. I was Ilya’s last boy toy before he got bored and decided jocks were his new type. A spike of anger surged inside of him, and he hit the puck with a harsh thwack! toward the net on impulse. He should have been the one to cut things off that night, not Ilya. He had known from the very beginning that this was a bad idea. Who was Ilya to end things, to kick him out? Thwack! The puck slammed satisfactorily into the net.
“You alright there, Cap?” Troy skated up to him, nodding. “Can’t help but notice you’re shooting the puck like it killed your fuckin’ family or something.”
“‘M fine, thanks,” he mumbled, turning his attention to the next puck in the line.
“Haven’t seen you at the house lately,” Troy said coolly. Shane wasn’t sure if the statement was meant to be pointed or merely an innocent observation.
He took another shot, cursing when the puck went ever so slightly wide. “Finals season,” he replied. “Busy studying and stuff.”
“Yeah, I guess. Roz said something similar.”
Shane stiffened. “Did he now.”
“Yeah. Well, you’re always a friend of the house, Shane. You’re welcome any time,” Troy said. “Good luck with finals.” Before Shane could reply, he skated off, leaving Shane alone on the ice.
***
Finals came and went with an anti-climactic whimper. He reviewed the final page of his exam, eyes carefully examining the hastily sketched molecule and its orientation, and deposited it into the “Completed finals” box at the front of the room. He walked out of the gymnasium, a certain hollowness echoing inside of him, an ache he couldn’t quite pinpoint. Sometimes it felt like Shane would spend so much time fixating on the exams, treating them like the singular most important thing in his life, that the moment they were finished he always briefly felt directionless.
“Coooongratulations, Shanebug!” Rose exclaimed from behind him, grabbing his arm and patting him excitedly. “We are finally free, baby! Sveta’s not as lucky as us, though, I think she’s got two more left, but you and I are getting the fuck out of here.”
“Yeah, can’t believe the semester’s over,” Shane replied, trying his best to seem excited.
“Woah,” Rose said, looking him up and down. “Okay. Was not expecting this energy. What the fuck happened?”
Shane shrugged, focusing hard on the dry skin at the edge of this thumbnail. “Just had a tough finals season.”
Her eyes widened in realization. “Oh holy shit,” she breathed out. “You guys really did end things. Sveta suspected as much but we really thought things were going so well, like it was all going to plan and—“ She quickly cut herself off, pressing her lips together in alarm, like she had said too much.
Shane’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean ‘going to plan’, Rose?”
“It’s just,” she sighed, fidgeting with the hem of her dress. “A couple months ago Ilya had been texting Sveta asking for your schedule so he could try and run into you more. It was so clear that he liked you, and so I helped him out a little by, y’know, giving him hints for places you tend to frequent on campus!”
Shane recounted all of those supposed happenstance encounters with Ilya, how they had felt almost inevitable every time Shane would step foot outside. But in reality, it wasn’t coincidence or fate at all; it had all been fabricated by his meddling best friend. He felt nauseous, as he re-contextualized all of their chance meetings under this new light. “Oh my God,” Shane said, pointing an accusatory finger at his best friend, “you’re the reason he was in fucking Five Spices that one day!”
She smiled sheepishly. “Guilty,” she admitted. “But that’s why this doesn’t make any sense. Why would you guys end things if you both clearly like each other?”
Rose flinched as Shane laughed, sarcastic and dry. “Well clearly he didn’t like me much at all. Or maybe he did but then he just got bored and moved onto the next thing,” he said bitterly. “I don’t fucking know, Rose. And stop saying how we ended things. He kicked me out.”
Rose made a face. “Weren’t you also thinking of cutting things off with him? You literally were trying to sleep with other people to get over him. Maybe…maybe that hurt him.”
“Whose side are you fucking on? Also we weren’t exclusive anyway so who’s to say that he wasn’t sleeping with other people, too?” Shane snapped. He didn’t want to think about Ilya or his supposed hurt; Shane was hurt. Shane was the one kicked out unceremoniously, the one who had to make the walk of shame down the stairs and through the Number Six house.
She frowned, touching his arm gently. “I’m on yours, Shane. I just want you to be happy, and you and Ilya were so, so happy.”
“Yeah, well, we weren’t anything, Rose. We were just two people messing around together and now we’re not. So can we leave it?”
Rose swallowed, nodding. “Okay, okay,” she hedged. “No more Ilya talk.”
“Thanks,” he said quietly. “And look, I’m sorry for getting upset, I’m just really…sensitive right now.”
“I know, Shane. It’s okay.” She bit her lip, like she was debating saying something.
“What?”
“It’s just…are you still going? Tonight?”
“Going where?”
“Um, there’s an end of finals kickback that Troy is hosting and he invited us a while back. But…”
“But Ilya’s going to be there,” Shane finished. Discomfort and nerves fluttered in his stomach. The thought of seeing Ilya again after how everything went down made him feel sick, but he also couldn’t spend the rest of the school year running away from him. “I’ll still go.”
“Are you sure?” Rose asked nervously. “It’s okay if you don’t go, Shane.”
“No,” Shane said resolutely. “He doesn’t own Number Six or Troy or any of the Sixers. They’re my friends, too. We can be civil.”
Rose looked unconvinced still, but only shrugged. “Okay, just be ready by 10.”
***
The Number Six house, with its familiar, ivy-covered brick facade and arch top windows, loomed over him. It was almost comical how quickly a place that had once brought him so much comfort had so quickly turned into one that only brought dread.
Rose touched his shoulder lightly. “You know, we can just go home now. We can do something on our own. Like, get drinks and stuff.”
Shane pursed his lips, shaking his head. “No, I can do this.”
She looked at him with sad eyes, nodding once, before knocking on the door. Svetlana greeted them, grinning wide. “Rosey baby! And Shane, cutiepie, come on in!” She hugged them both, squeezing tightly and ushering them through the doors.
Shane’s stomach twisted deeper and deeper into knots with every stair he climbed. How would Ilya react? Would they talk? Would they ignore each other? He didn’t know if he could handle speaking to him, but it would make him just as sick if Ilya didn’t even look at him the whole night. Fuck. This was so fucking stupid. This was a bad idea. He hadn’t even seen him yet and he was already spiraling. How could he get through the whole night like this? Maybe he’d just have a drink or two and head out, but then would Ilya notice that he’s leaving too fast? He didn’t want to seem weak or too affected, not in front of Ilya, at least. He couldn’t let him see him like that. Maybe he’d stay for an hour and a half then, was that reasonable? That seemed like the right amount of time, an hour and half was perfect. An hour and a half said: I am okay being around you, but I just have better things to do. Great. That was great.
Then, his brain conjured up a thought: What if he was with someone else tonight?
He paused on the stairs, gripping the wood of the bannister. It’s not like Ilya ever stopped hooking up with other people. He could’ve been with dozens of people in the months that they were sleeping together, which was fine. Allowed. Completely within the bounds of their (former) agreement. But that still didn’t stop the ache that rattled through Shane’s chest, the tightness that made it hard from him to breathe just that much more.
Troy’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Shane?” he asked, from a few stairs up. “You coming?”
“Yeah,” Shane replied quickly, attempting his best to not look as rattled as he felt.
He braced himself as he passed through the entryway, unsure of what sight would await him. But as he scanned the room, eyes catching over every silhouette and body in the small dorm room, he was met with a completely unanticipated scenario his brain had failed to account for: Ilya was nowhere to be found.
Where Shane should have felt relief, he found anxiety instead, as his mind flooded with a completely new flavor of worry. Was Ilya avoiding him? Did Ilya not want to see him?
He spent the next hour at the kickback trying his best to play it cool. He made small talk with Wyatt and Troy, laughed when he needed to laugh, drank when he needed to drink. But his eyes still wandered through the room every ten minutes, wondering if he’d finally catch a glimpse of golden curls and a wide frame. Still, nothing.
“Heard he’s not coming tonight actually,” Rose said, sidling up next to him.
“Oh.” It was then that disappointment truly seeped into him, creeping and uncomfortable and insistent, a buzz underneath Shane’s skin.
Rose assessed his reaction with a tempered eye. “I’m sorry, Shane,” she apologized, gently touching his shoulder.
Shane barked out a laugh, forced and unnatural. “Sorry? No, Rose, that’s good. Um, I don’t want to see him anyway. Good for us to get space.”
Rose nodded, looking unconvinced. “Just try and have a good time tonight. The rest of the guys are happy to see you.” She nodded over at Luca and Boodram in the corner. “Luca’s been talking nonstop about how great of a captain you are.”
And that genuinely did make Shane feel better. Even if his and Ilya’s thing-not-thing had blown up in his face, at least he got closer with his team from it. “Yeah,” Shane chuckled out. “He tends to do that when he drinks.”
With the confirmation that Ilya would not be attending, Shane found that he was able to breathe a little easier, even if there was a small part of him that wanted to see Ilya. He spent the rest of the night playing poker and telling stupid hockey stories about their roadies. Eventually, all of his Ilya-related worries and thoughts quieted, slowly eased by the warmth from Luca pressed into his side or the affirming pat on his shoulder from Hayes.
Maybe Shane would survive this after all.
***
Boston Logan during finals week was a new kind of level of hellish, a special type of overstimulation reserved only for college town airports during holiday season. Shane on the uncomfortable leather chair at his gate, knee bouncing as he waited to board his flight. He thankfully had the comfort of his noise canceling headphones, his go-to white noise blaring in his ears, to help maintain his sanity as college kids jostled past him, nondescript forms and bodies all making their way to their respective gates.
He scrolled mindlessly through his phone when he saw the text.
Ilya: Hope you have a safe flight home.
This was the first Shane had heard from Ilya in the two weeks of radio silence that had ensued after their “breakup.” He had no idea how to interpret it. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, his brain working overtime as he tried to figure out how to respond. If to respond at all. But then the typing bubble appeared and Shane’s breath hitched, his eyes fixed on those insidious floating three dots.
The typing bubble disappeared and reappeared several times, like Ilya was backspacing and typing. Shane’s heart rate spiked with each cycle of the process, and just as he was finally about to give up and close out of his texts, a large block of text appeared.
Ilya: I wanted to apologize for last time. It was not kind of me and it was sudden. I think I felt awkward because I did not know how to amicably end us sleeping together. I wish you the best and I hope we can be friends. Hope you’re doing well and have a good break.
Shane read the text over and over and over again, like maybe each new read would provide him with some sort of guidance on how to make sense of it, but rereading only made him more confused. The text was…stiff and rigid, nothing like the casual, cool Ilya Rozanov he had gotten to know over these past months. Something about it felt off, like there was something missing or being left unsaid.
It wasn’t just the tone of the message that bothered him, it was the contents of it. Ilya was apologizing to him, which he appreciated because what he did was fucking shitty and made him feel bad. He had brushed over it so quickly when he was talking about it with Rose, but now, seeing Ilya acknowledge it made all those bad feelings flood back to him all at once. He didn’t even know if he did forgive him.
He couldn’t respond to the texts now, though. It would be too soon, like he had been waiting for Ilya to text him first.
“Now boarding rows twenty-six to forty-five for Air Canada flight 8611 to Montreal. Please have your boarding pass and passport ready for inspection,” the voice announced over the loudspeakers, and Shane sighed in frustration, ignoring the text and grabbed his backpack, preparing to board his flight.
***
To Shane’s dismay, he simply couldn’t stop thinking about the text. As he stared out of the small, oval airplane window to the ground several tens of thousands of feet below, he recited Ilya’s apology to himself, turning it over in his head.
Shane was angry, still. That part was at least obvious. He was angry he was kicked out in the first place, that they hadn’t talked since, that a text message was how Ilya chose to resolve all this.
But also…Ilya had extended the metaphorical (and albeit a little flimsy and weird) olive branch. Shane didn’t know if he truly forgave Ilya fully, but he would much rather be on good terms with him than not have him in his life at all.
He sat in complete silence, save for the loud roar of the plane and various beeps and buzzes from the cabin announcements, thinking long and hard about his feelings. As the plane touched down on the Montreal tarmac, he took his phone off airplane mode and quickly scheduled a reply to be sent.
***
12:03pm
Shane: Thanks for the apology. Hope you have a good break, too.
***
Home was, as expected, completely uneventful. He spent the week catching up with his home friends, eating his mom’s cooking, and watching a lot of game tapes. He made it out to the rink a couple of times to skate with some of his home friends, but ultimately he used the time to unwind from his intense fall semester.
Despite the large Ilya Rozanov-shaped elephant of it all, Shane was quite proud of his junior fall. He maintained his perfect 4.0 GPA, picked up so many extra shifts at Mass General, played a lot of great hockey, and bonded with his team. All he needed was a couple more internships and maybe some research papers and he would be golden for med school. Maybe he could do some sort of externship over his winter term and–
The realization struck him like a gut punch. He had wasted his winter term spot on signing up for fucking Russian I instead of doing something at least productive for his major, like an externship at the biology research lab. He felt panic rise in his chest, before squashing it down insistently. It was fine. He’d make it up somehow, maybe pick up some extra volunteer shifts at the hospital or find a research position this spring. He had plenty of connections, and with all the added free time from his newfound singleness, he could most definitely slot in a lot more commitments.
Fuck, he’d have to drop Russian I, though. The class was virtually useless to him, well, even more than it originally had been. He cursed as his mind drifted to Ilya. He had been doing so well. He hadn’t even been that bothered by the fact that Ilya hadn’t replied to his text. He was perfectly fine with it, in fact. It’s not like his text really left much open to reply to, anyway!
So much for being friends, though, Shane thought bitterly. If they were really friends, then things would go back to how it used to be and they’d text and crack jokes and banter. But instead, he was left in a strange limbo of not quite friends, but not quite strangers.
“Shane?” his mom called from downstairs. “You want to help me with the cookies?” He checked the date on his phone: December 24, Christmas Eve, also known as cookie burning day. His heart panged with a distinct ache, as he recalled the night he had babbled to Ilya endlessly about his holiday traditions. It was stupid, but there was a small part that had wanted to FaceTime Ilya or something and show him the cookies and the tree and the presents. He had wanted to paint a fuller picture of his life and show him what it actually looked like instead of just describing it. Now it would be inappropriate, probably, to text him out of the blue like that. Those kinds of conversations were for somethings. Ilya and him were nothing.
“Yeah,” he called back. “Be down in a second!”
***
Later that night, feeling particularly brave after the one and a half glasses of red wine he had drunk earlier, Shane took a photo of the burnt, shriveled cookies and sent it to Ilya with the caption Merry Christmas. Five minutes later, Ilya hearted the message and replied Merry Christmas, Shane.
***
They didn’t text much after that, but sent each other just small, cordial messages–a happy new year and stay safe text from Ilya, a safe flight back to Boston text from Shane, a have a good winter term text from Ilya. The messages themselves were entirely unremarkable and boring, but Shane took them as wins nonetheless. If anything, the text thread was confirmation that they were decidedly just “OK” with each other, which was better than active dislike. Soon enough, Shane found himself back on campus, lying on Hayden’s couch as he listened to him talk about his Christmas trip visiting Jackie’s family.
“It’s a fucking nutso house, dude. She has like 4 older sisters that all talk with, like, heavy fucking Jersey accents. I thought the Jersey Shore show was bullshit, but nah, man, they all actually talk like that. Her sisters give Snooki a run for her money, that’s for fucking sure,” Hayden said, shaking his head.
Shane snorted. “Maybe they can give her family their own reality TV show.”
“Dude, don’t even joke. That’d be fucking awesome.” Hayden swiped through his phone, making a face. “Ugh, what are you even doing for winter term anyway? Jackie wants me to sign up for this mindfulness mambo jumbo class, but I’d totally ditch to join whatever you’re doing.”
“Well, Hayd, seeing as term started…negative three days ago, you might find it a little hard to add a class,” Shane teased. “But, it doesn’t matter anyway, I’m dropping mine.”
Hayden sat up, furrowing his eyebrows. “What? What were you taking?”
Shane hesitated, already anticipating Hayden’s response. “Russian I.”
“Bro,” he groaned.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Shut up.”
“Have you dropped it yet?” Hayden asked, and when Shane noticeably did not reply, he continued, “Dude. What are you waiting for?”
It was a good question, really. Shane didn’t procrastinate. Ever. But for some reason, he couldn’t make himself go and drop the class. Maybe he secretly hoped Ilya and him would actually talk for real again and the class would be useful. Or that dropping the class was fully admitting that the Ilya phase of his life was undoubtedly over, and he wasn’t ready to say that yet. Regardless, he hadn’t been able to make his way to Professor Romanova’s office to drop it.
He shrugged. “Dunno. Just haven’t found the time,” he lied.
“Shane, I love you so much, buddy, but get the fuck out of my room and go drop this class. We can’t start off the year like this, dude, it’s bad luck.”
Shane sighed. “Alright, alright. I’ll go.”
“You’re gonna thank me for this, dude. I promise. First step of the healing process and all that jazz,” Hayden said seriously, nodding encouragingly. “We’re gonna de-Rozanov you one step at a time.”
***
Shane stared at the bold black hand-painted letters on the door of Professor Romanova’s office.
He knocked on the slightly ajar door, peeking his head in. “Professor?” he asked. Behind the lectern stood a lady with dark auburn hair and cat eye glasses, talking on the phone in rapid Russian. When she caught a glance of him, she smiled at him, waving him in.
She covered the speaker with her hand. “I’ll be just a second,” she said. Shane noticed that her Russian accent was much softer around the edges compared to Ilya’s, like it had been sanded away over time. He distantly wondered if Ilya’s accent used to be stronger, or if he made a point to keep it, or if he didn’t care at all.
Shane stared out the large arched windows of the classroom as he waited for Professor Romanova to wrap up her call. His mind wandered back to Ilya. He thought about him and his accent and how stupid it was to enroll in this class, stupid to think that their relationship with each other was something more permanent than it actually was. Sure, they were on semi-decent terms now, the short texts over break being amicable enough, but it still stung.
“Da…da. Dorogoy, poka! Lyublyu-lyublyu,” Professor Romanova cooed, laughing fondly as she hung up the phone. Shane stood up straighter, the phrase catching his attention. It sounded like what Ilya had whispered to him the last time they had fucked. This whole time he had written it off as something random or sexual, but surely his professor wouldn’t just end phone calls like that? She turned to him, smiling. “What was it you needed, Mister…?”
“Oh, um. Shane. I signed up for your Russian intensive class for winter term, but I just wanted to let you know I’d be dropping it.”
She nodded. “No worries at all. Thank you for letting me know. We’ll miss you in class, certainly!”
“Great, thanks.” He began to make his way to the door, reaching for the handle, but he paused. He should leave, having done what he needed to do, but his curiosity was too overwhelming. He had to know.
“I’m sorry,” he said, turning around to face her again. “This is going to sound a little weird, but the words you said at the end of your phone call. It, um, sounded familiar. I actually signed up for this class because someone I was see–” He faltered. Too much information, especially for this poor, random professor. “Someone close to me,” he corrected, “speaks Russian and I wanted to learn a little. I think I’ve heard him say something similar to whatever you said at the end.”
Professor Romanova raised her eyebrows slightly. “Oh! That’s no problem at all. I appreciate you asking. I said Dorogoy, poka. Lyublyu-lyublyu. It’s a casual, short way to say bye to a loved one. I was talking to my husband. It roughly translates to ‘Bye, dear! Love you, love you.’”
Shane short-circuited. He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Blinked once. Every movement felt manual and slow, and his brain was too overloaded by this clearly false information. Or misunderstanding. Or fucking just. Egregious error.
“Is that helpful?” Professor Romanova asked, very clearly trying to hide the concern in her eyes at Shane’s shocked state.
He finally found it in himself to speak, the words coming out forced and harsh. “Yeah,” he laughed nervously. “Yeah, um. And those words can’t mean anything else? The loo-blue one? I don’t know, like, Mandarin’s like tonal, right? So different pronunciations can mean different things, or like, in Spanish there’s different regional definitions for words. Is it like that?” He was babbling now but he just couldn’t stop himself at this point. None of it made any fucking sense.
She gave him a tight smile, a mix of amusement and what could only be described as patronization in her eyes. “No, no tones in Russian. Lyublyu. ‘I love.’ It’s standard Russian.”
He swallowed thickly and nodded slowly, like the literal movement would maybe somehow aid his functioning. “Great. Right. Thank you…for that.” He jerked his thumb toward the door, smiling apologetically. “I have to run.”
“Let me know if you change your mind about dropping the class! We’d be happy to have you and I’m sure your friend could help you catch up quickly,” she said. “Take care, Shane.”
He smiled and gave one last polite wave, closing the door gently, before bolting for the nearest bathroom.
His head spun and he felt like he was going to be sick and he was a wreck, oh God, he was a wreck. He needed to talk to someone, anyone who would understand. He had no idea what to think or to make of this and he just needed to fucking word vomit on someone because he couldn’t parse this out whatsoever. His hand shook as it reached for his phone, quickly pulling up Rose’s contact.
“Hello?” she asked, picking up after the first ring. “Did you end up dropping Russian? We’re gonna go grab lobster rolls, if you want to come! They’re supposed to be soooo fucking good and–”
“Rose,” he interrupted. “Sorry this is, um. Speaking in pure hypotheticals here, what would you do if you just found out that your ex-situationship said I love you to you in a different language the last time you had sex? Like, the night before they kicked you out of their room and promptly ended things with you? What then?” His voice was high towards the end, breathy and panicky and manic because this whole thing was fucking ridiculous.
“Oh my God!” Rose exclaimed. “He said I love you?! During sex? That was what happened? How do you know for sure?”
“My fucking Russian professor just said it to her husband on the phone and I recognized it and–”
“Shane. You have to talk to him.”
“Does he even want to talk to me? He kicked me out, Rose! He ended things! Which, now I’m even more confused because who the hell says I love you and then fucking kicks you out the next day?” he whined, rubbing his hand over his eyes.
“Obviously he was scared, Shane! It probably just, like, I don’t fucking know, slipped out! I mean, he handled it extremely poorly and that is most definitely not what he should have done and you should really chew his ass out for it, but oh my God, Shane, he’s in love with you!”
The words settled deep into his chest. Ilya Rozanov was in love with him. Or at least, in December, he was. And then Shane’s stomach began to plummet. Could Ilya have lost feelings over winter break? Has he already moved on? What if Shane was so easy to forget and get over that Ilya had already found someone else?
“Shane?” Rose asked, interrupting his thoughts. “Stop doing your weird overthinking thought spirals. Talk. To. Him.”
“Fuck,” he breathed out. “You’re right, you’re right. I should–fuck, I don’t even know what I’d say, I just need to–”
“Do you love him, too?” she demanded.
“What? I…” he drifted off, his heart pounding in his chest as he thought about it. He thought about talking with Ilya, how it had been so easy to just talk and talk. He thought about the late nights and the sex, yes, God, the sex, but also how Ilya was the last thing he saw before he slept and the first thing he saw when he woke up. He thought about their constant texts, how he missed their banter and inside jokes. He thought about how somewhere in the months that they spent together, his heart had stopped pounding wildly in his chest with each encounter, but instead slowed and steadied, Ilya becoming his grounding force, his regulator, a constant in Shane’s day to day. Was that love? Shane asked himself. Was that what it meant to love and to be in love?
“I think so,” he replied weakly and breathlessly. “Fuck. Yeah. Yes. Rose, I need—“
“I know, Shaney. You got this. Love you so much, let me know how it goes.”
Shane hung up the phone, hands still trembling, and headed for Number Six.
***
The wood of Ilya’s dorm room door was cool against his knuckles. Maybe it was a stupid thing to fixate on, but if he thought about anything else, he knew he’d chicken out. He had let himself into Number Six, sneaking through the back entrance and inputting the door code because Shane may have actually died if he had to explain to a Sixer why he was really here.
He didn’t know for certain if Ilya would be in his room, but he had a good enough hunch that he would be. He knew Ilya didn’t have any winter term plans; he had asked before when they were still talking and Ilya had just replied with a shrug of his shoulders.
After a few seconds, the door creaked open, revealing Ilya’s large muscular frame. Even in the midst of Shane’s panic, his brain temporarily allowed him to register how cozy Ilya looked in his oversized grey hoodie and black sweatpants. His hair was tousled and mussed, like he had just gotten out of bed despite it already being 2pm. (Knowing Ilya, these probably were his first steps of the day.)
“Shane?” Ilya asked, frowning and rubbing his eye with the back of his hand.
“Hi,” Shane said, every second of prep and rehearsal he did on the way over immediately flying out of his brain. “Can…can I come in?”
Ilya’s eyebrows flew up, but he said nothing. He waved his hand in, motioning Shane to step inside. Something akin to nostalgia flooded Shane, if you could be nostalgic for a time that was just two months ago. His eyes scanned over the hockey posters and knickknacks and trinkets, like he was making sure that everything was in place. That nothing had changed. That maybe this was, in fact, the same Ilya that had told Shane he loved him.
“Thanks for, um, having me,” Shane breathed out. His stomach churned with nerves as he grasped for what to say next. Fuck. How was he supposed to do this?
Ilya raised an eyebrow. “Hollander, you’re being weird. What is it? Why are you here?” Shane searched his voice for some sort of hint, like warmth or recognition, but found none. Ilya sounded tired. Bored, even. Shane expected as much from the rigidity of their text messages, but Shane couldn’t let that stop him. He had to get this off his chest.
He took a deep inhale. “Why did you kick me out in December? The last time we slept together?”
Ilya paled. “I’m sorry, I feel badly about that still, and I apologized over text but—“
“No, but why?” Shane interrupted.
Ilya clenched his jaw and turned his head, shrugging and shoving his hands in his pockets. “We had our fun. We were just done,” he replied shortly.
A flash of anger ran hot through Shane. “Is that why you were saying I love you to me in Russian? Because you were done?” Shane bit back. Ilya’s jaw dropped open wordlessly, and Shane took it as permission to keep going. “You’re a fucking asshole, you know? How could you say you love me and then kick me out the next morning? Do you know how confusing that is?”
“Sveta said you were going to do the same thing. You were going to end things anyway, who cares if I’m the one who did it first, Hollander?” Ilya shot back, and Shane groaned because of course fucking Rose and Sveta couldn’t keep a damn secret to themselves.
“When did she tell you that?”
“Before Troy’s kickback,” Ilya replied begrudgingly, still refusing to look at Shane.
“Is…is that why you didn’t go?”
He watched as Ilya leaned back on his deck, gaze fixed out his dorm window. “Thought I’d give you some space.”
“That still doesn’t explain anything. You kicked me out before you even knew I wanted to say things. You said I love you—“
“Hollander, please,” Ilya begged through a strained voice. “Stop. I cannot talk about this, it’s too…”
Shane shook his head. “No, no, we’re talking about this. You can’t just—“
“If I say I didn’t mean it, then can we just drop it?”
“If you can look me in the fucking eye, Rozanov, and tell me it didn’t mean anything then yeah, we can drop it,” Shane said, raising his chin defiantly at Ilya. “But I don’t think you can.”
Ilya sighed defeatedly, running his hand over his face slowly. “Hollander, why are you making me do this?”
“Do you know why I wanted to stop sleeping with you?” Shane asked. Ilya’s eyes flicked to him and he shook his head. “I wanted to end things with you because I was so scared. That night during the party when I had heard about all of your experiences and then the girl at the library and what Sasha said—“
“—Hollander—“ Ilya tried, the pain on his face so clear and visceral now, like the dam had finally broken through.
“No, let me finish. I just felt like I wasn’t good enough for you. I kept asking myself why I cared so much, and why it hurt me so bad, even though I was the one that said I wanted casual, and then I realized something.” He took a step closer to Ilya, continuing to look at him. Made sure that Ilya really saw him. Understood what he was saying.
“What did you realize?” Ilya breathed out, a small flicker of what could only be described as hope flashing in his eyes.
“I wanted you, Ilya, so fucking badly that it scared me. That I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep it casual. In fact, I don’t know if it ever was casual for me,” Shane chuckled out, shaking his head.
“It never was for me, either. Never casual with you, Shane, I’m so sorry. I kicked you out because I was scared and I had said those words and once I said them I couldn’t put it back and it was wrong of me but I just didn’t know what to do and…,” Ilya said quickly. Shane reached for his hand, Ilya letting him grab it easily. He rubbed at the skin placatingly.
“I know that now, Ilya,” Shane replied quietly. “Or at least I think I do. But…I need to know, now, if you. If you still feel that way, or if I’ve been reading this all wrong and—“
“Hollander, oh my God, just, fuck, let me..” And then Ilya’s hands were on his hips and pulling him in and Ilya’s lips were on his. Shane melted into the kiss, meeting Ilya’s eager kisses with his own. It wasn’t heated or dirty—Shane could only describe it, really, as romantic. Like Ilya was trying to say everything he couldn’t say out loud with his kiss.
Ilya broke the kiss, pressing his forehead to Shane and breathing hard. “Shane,” he began shakily. “I…”
“I love you, Ilya,” Shane blurted out. “I love you and I like you so much it scares me. I love our conversations and our banter and texting you and waking up next to you and these past few weeks without you have felt like fucking agony and I just. I love you, and I want this to work. I don’t want fucking casual, I want to be with you and go on dates and grocery shop and cook together and I want you to bring me to every Sixer formal and I want to take you home to my parents and I want to travel with you and I just. Fuck. I want you, more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life. Is that okay? Is this okay?”
“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya said wetly, pressing a kiss to Shane’s lips. “I love you.” He pressed another kiss to his nose. “I love you.” Lips to his forehead. “I love you.”
Then Ilya was pulling him into a tight embrace, Ilya’s face buried in the crook of Shane’s neck. They stayed like that for what felt like hours, just holding each other, making up for lost time.
***
3 Months Later
Shane’s alarm went off, the loud chimes ringing through the air. He clicked his phone on and read the time: 5:15am.
The body next to him shifted with a noise of protest. Shane laughed. “Ilya, c’mon. We gotta go. We have a train to catch.”
Ilya, sleepy and warm, frowned and shook his head. “No, I’ve changed my mind,” he said thickly, voice still scratchy. “New York is stupid. We should just stay here for spring break. Just fuck and kiss and cuddle every single day.” As if to prove his point, Ilya rolled his hips against Shane’s backside, his morning wood poking insistently at the crack of Shane’s ass.
Shane bit back a groan, shaking his head. “Sveta, Rose, Troy, and Harris are all going to be waiting for us in Central. We can’t bail on them now.”
Ilya threw a dramatic hand over his eyes. “Stupid fucking couples’ trip. You kill me, Hollander.” Shane only smiled, pecking a chaste kiss to Ilya’s lips.
“Get up, we have an Amtrak to catch.” He rolled out of bed, grabbing his glasses from the nightstand and wandering over to the dresser in the corner and grabbing fresh clothes. (They had been spending so much time at the other’s dorm that it only made sense they split their clothes between the two places.)
Suddenly, he felt the warmth of Ilya’s body envelop his, soft lips pressing to the nape of his neck. “I think we have enough time for a quick round, don’t you think, moy lyubov? They will understand if we are little late.”
Shane rolled his eyes, grinning. “Fine, but if we miss the train it’s your fault.”
And he turned around, wrapped his arms around Ilya’s neck, and kissed him, passionate and slow.
“I love you,” he whispered against his lips.
“I love you, too.”