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The fridge rattles as Ilya swings it open, and the light gust of cool air was welcome against his overheated skin. It was loud in here, and the crowd was filling out more and more, making the house warmer than he found comfortable. The kitchen was a welcome refuge from it, quieter with the lack of things to do besides grab and go.
He remembers he came in for another drink, and eyes the selection which….is nothing. There’s condiments on the door — relish, pickles, ketchup, mayonnaise — and a lone stick of butter in the dairy door. The shelves are empty save for a line of ginger ale, a carton of eggs, and a half eaten cake on the middle shelf shoved toward the back.
Fucking college kids.
Ilya shuts the fridge and looks around the floor in search of a cooler. He finds one flat against a side of the island under a pair of lightly worn Sperry sneakers. Ilya’s eyes continue their assessment upwards, taking in the accompanying khakis, the phone held between the knees, perfect biceps clad in the sleeves of a short sleeve button up, and…freckles. A perfect dusting over this guy’s cheekbones and over the bridge of his nose, illuminated in the light of his phone screen. Ilya is staring, he knows it, but fuck, he almost wonders how to get the guy to look at him for a full view.
Instead, Ilya rounds the island where Freckles is perched and kneels, grabbing the side handle of the cooler and dragging it from under his feet. He lifts the lid, seeing nothing but hard seltzers in the pool of mostly melted ice. He lifts his sleeve to expose his forearm before he bravely dives his hand in, flinching a bit at the cold and drawing a can up. He doesn’t even look at what it is, just stands and kicks the cooler back to where it was before turning to find somewhere else to go.
A handful of things happen in the span of a blink. Ilya cracks his can open as he turns, and he smacks right into someone, redheaded and smaller than him. His can, slick with condensation, immediately falls from his hands and drops to their feet, tipping in the direction that makes it pool more over her feet over his own. She gasps and looks at him and then her feet. Shit.
He isn’t sure what makes him do it, but he chances a look back towards the island and sees Freckles already looking over, lips parted and eyebrows raised in equal parts muted surprise and amusement. As if Ilya looking over springs him into action, he hops down from the counter and starts towards them, which makes Ilya panic a bit. His focus then becomes cleaning this, fixing it somehow. He looks for a towel of some sorts, and locates paper towels on a stand, clumsily yanking more than necessary before kneeling back down, mopping up what he can.
Above his head, Ilya hears the girl say “I definitely can’t return these anymore,” and a small pang of guilt hits him. He hears who is presumably Freckles tell her it’s fine and to stop. Ilya retrieves the can from between her feet, stopping it from spilling. He notes that she steps back, and glances up just in time to see her clinging to Freckles’ arm, taking small steps between trying to pull off her shoe.
Of fucking course, Ilya thinks. Of course I would drop beer all over Pretty Boy’s girlfriend.
He finishes cleaning up what he now acknowledges is a High Noon from the floor as best as he can before dropping the sopping wad of paper towel into the sink, since the nearest trash is filled with cans and bottles. It hits the bottom with a thwack, but it’s drowned out by the crowd screaming at a song change he can’t make out. He shakes his wet, cold hand into the sink and leans against the spot where Freckles once sat.
Freckles. Shit. He wishes he at least said hi.
•••
Last year, Ilya took a social psychology course to fulfill a requirement for his communications major. Ilya had always found people interesting, and considered himself somewhat of a people watcher. He would watch them share one-liner inside jokes with each other, offer up feigned interest at booths or to people with pamphlets, and even watch the train wreck of someone being objectively weird in public. That course gave him names for the things he was observing every day, and he learned about the Baader-Minhoff phenomenon, also called the frequency illusion.
At the time, he understood it in perfect theory. He was getting firsthand experience with it now. Freckles was everywhere lately.
The Monday after the party, Ilya went to the dining hall on campus after class (the nicer of the two, in his humble opinion), and as soon as he sat down, Freckles and the redhead walked in. His face barely moved when he spoke, but whatever he said made her burst out laughing and swat his shoulder as he shoved his hands into his pockets. Ilya eyed them until they were out of his line of sight, his sandwich forgotten for those thirty straight seconds.
Tuesday morning, Ilya was walking to his 11:15 lecture, headphones over his ears and looking at his phone to change the song. He hit shuffle and skipped twice before looking up, and when he did, Freckles was walking right by him. Ilya walked this same path every day since the semester started, and he was sure he hadn’t seen him before then.
It was even weirder when Ilya went to the student gym on campus at seven like he always did. It was a nice gym, thanks to this school favoring sports, and even had turf in the middle of the floor. Ilya was on it stretching, gripping his ankles in a butterfly stretch, and something told him to look up. And when he did, there he was — Freckles in a black short sleeved compression tee and grey athletic shorts. Ilya’s eyes followed him as he walked over to claim a treadmill, and then started stretching beside it. It made Ilya wonder briefly if he was being stalked, like that Netflix show Svetlana had him watch sometime back. He decided that was self absorbed thinking, and just finished stretching.
The following week, the Freckles sightings dropped to a grand total of two. Both times were in the gym, and Ilya decided it wasn’t weird; the gym was included in their tuition after all, and he quite enjoyed the gun show on Thursday, actually. His biceps were actually huge, and Ilya definitely did not almost trip on the treadmill because he was staring.
The third sighting that followed was honestly just…insane. It was Friday, and almost everyone had cleared out, opting for weekends at home. Ilya didn’t have that. He was smoking in this parking lot, since he obviously couldn’t in his dorm, and thankfully he became cool with campus police; so long as the grounds remained free of butts, they didn’t give a fuck. He watched people come out with duffels or suitcases and on phone calls, telling their people on the other line they’ll be there in thirty minutes, an hour, maybe even two hours. The only cars left in this lot by this time were his own and a Land Rover parked two spaces over.
He hears faint talking first, then a fumble of keys. “Yeah, I know, Mom,” comes next, louder than before and followed by a sigh. He knows that voice. That voice two weeks ago told the redhead to stop. He turns and sees Freckles approaching with a phone between his ear and shoulder. He points the keys in the direction of the Land Rover to unlock it, and of course. Why wouldn’t it be his car?
Ilya decides the universe simply is putting this boy in front of him for a reason, illusions and phenomena be damned. The next time he sees him, he’s going to say something to him.
Challenge accepted, universe.
•••
Ilya is reminded of every single reason why he hates frat boy birthday parties after about an hour of being here. He shouldn’t have come, really, but the group chat asked him more than thrice and even Svetlana asked him if he was going, so he figured it was only fair to show face.
He’s surprised his arms haven’t been dislocated with how hard he’s been shoved around and clapped on the shoulder by meatheads all night, poked and prodded roughly in the chest as they put arms around him and asked him where he’d been hiding lately. He loves a party, don’t get him wrong, but frat parties were always this: loud, obnoxious, and too much.
Ilya evades two drunk blondes who look awfully alike trying to talk to him, and squeezes past a couple taking up the doorway as they eat each other’s faces in his search for somewhere quieter to light up. The back was a no-go already — he heard the splashes of the pool earlier in the night and didn’t even want to entertain that, hence the front door escape. Outside is quieter from sound, yes, but the front lawn and steps are still too crowded.
He rounds the side of the house, and it’s dark as fuck, but it’s empty, which is what he’s looking for. He walks down, sticking a cigarette in his mouth before clicking his lighter a few times, but it doesn’t light. Stupid piece of shit. He smacks it against his palm twice and then sees movement in his peripheral. He startles as he looks, and lo and behold, the side of the house wasn’t as empty as he thought.
The movement was a boy standing up, and Ilya laughs to himself a bit when he sees who it is. Even in the dark, Ilya recognizes him. His arms are folded and his eyes are closed, and he takes a deep breath through his nose. Ilya removes the cigarette from his mouth and looks at him, debating if he actually should say something right now or not. Freckles kind of looks like he might puke, or he’s panicking, and Ilya doesn’t want to make anything worse by blowing smoke in his face.
Ilya moves to stand in front of him, giving him a foot or two of space, and he fiddles with the lighter in his hand.
“Hi,” he says simply. How hard Freckles jumps at his voice makes him startle a bit right back. He stares for a moment, face softening after a bit.
“Hi.”
“You are okay?” he asks. Freckles nods wordlessly. “I can smoke?”
“I’d prefer you didn’t, actually,” Freckles tells him, “but I appreciate you asking first, so. Smoke away.”
Ilya doesn’t need to be told twice. He takes a step back, sticking the cigarette back in his mouth, and wills the lighter to work. He gives it one last tap to his palm before clicking it once more, and it catches with ease this time. Thank God. He takes a drag, letting smoke fill his lungs as he pockets his lighter, and then releases a breath slowly, smoke dissipating into the night. Freckles sinks down to a kneel and watches him, but Ilya pretends not to notice.
The quiet is nice, even under the careful scrutiny of the pretty boy nearby. The noise of the party is still there, but muted enough to serve ambiance from here. Even colored lighting spills from the window overhead, streaking the ground with it. Ilya does wonder why he’s sitting here alone in the almost total darkness, especially if the redhead is here. Ilya finds himself suddenly unable to fight the urge to ask.
“Does your girlfriend know you’re out here?”
Freckles’ head snaps up, brows furrowed. “My what?”
“Girlfriend,” Ilya repeats, and then vaguely gestures to his hair. “Pretty redhead with the shoes.”
“Not my girlfriend,” he insists, shaking his head. “That’s Rose.”
“Mmh. What about you?”
Ilya takes another drag, and Freckles simply stares for a moment, as if trying to figure out how to answer the question. Ilya just waits, hoping he gets it.
“I’m Shane. Hollander.” He says it as if a bit unsure, and it makes Ilya smile. Providing his first and last unnecessarily is more endearing than it should be.
“Ilya.”
“Okay.” Then there’s more silence, neither of them knowing how to fill the space. Shane speaks up first: “She…she knows.” It takes Ilya a second to catch up, but then he gets it and nods in acknowledgement: Rose does know he’s out here alone on the side of a party packed house. “Are you here alone?”
Ilya shakes his head, his face falling into one of confusion. “No. You are right here.” Shane lets out a soft laugh at that, but Ilya doesn’t know what’s funny about what he said.
“I meant, um. I meant here, here. Like, at the party,” he clarifies.
“Ah. No to that, too.”
“And do they know you’re out here?”
“I don’t think so. Does it matter?”
Shane doesn’t answer, just more of that staring. There’s commotion that sounds like arguing, and Ilya turns to look in that direction, giving Shane yet another perfect view of him, this time in profile.
Ilya drops what remains of his cigarette onto the landing, crushing it under his toe and kicking it aside before lifting his gaze to Shane’s again. He kind of couldn’t believe he finally had a name for this face — perfect brown eyes, freckles sprinkled like constellations, and lips that formed a perfect pout.
“Thank you for your company, Shane Hollander,” he tells him, trying it out on his tongue. He likes it, and hopes he’ll get to say it more often.
“No problem…Ilya.”
“Will I see you around?” Ilya asks. Surprise flashes over Shane’s face, as if he isn’t sure why Ilya would ask. He nods, though, just once, sitting flat on the ground now and putting his legs straight out in front of him.
“Sure.”
•••
While it feels like everyone and their mother is talking about all the craziness that went down, Ilya’s brain is stuck on a quieter moment in time: a boy — Shane Hollander — leaning all over a wall like a crutch, telling him he doesn’t have a girlfriend and sure, he might see Ilya around. A grounding cigarette that burned too quick somehow, and more freckles than he could count while it did.
Fuck, Ilya couldn’t stop thinking about him. He had to do something about this.
Ilya has some time before he has to go to class, so he opens his phone and types “shane hollander,” taking a few tries from overthinking the spelling. Shockingly, the first result is him — a simple picture of him on a polaroid, smiling in a hoodie is his icon with the username shanehollander24. Ilya clicks on it, and takes in every detail one at a time. He has just over 600 followers, no bio, and only follows 20 accounts. His six total posts consist of an ice rink, a carousel chronicling someone’s birthday, a shirtless picture of him on vacation (which Ilya does screenshot, sue him), a photo of Shane with Rose, Shane holding a small black cat in his huge hands, and finally another carousel of photos with guys featured in the other ones.
He follows Shane before opening up their DMs, and uses his one DM before Shane accepts the message request very wisely.
Ilya smiles to himself, closing out of the app entirely and preparing to make the short walk over to philosophy. He’s about ten minutes in, music blasting through his headphones, when his phone buzzes four times in succession. It makes him pause, because it doesn’t happen too often; the last time, Svetlana had car troubles, and the time before that, it was campus police calling him to ask him to move his car from the illegal parking spot it was in. He pulls it out now, and can’t help the smile that comes over his face when he reads the words.
Fri May 22
3:41
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Instagram
Shane Hollander
1 min ago
Her name is Marceline.
Text message
Shane Hollander
2 mins ago
Rose's cat. She likes me better though.
Text message
Shane Hollander
2 mins ago
Stalker.
Text message
2 mins ago
Shane Hollander (shanehollander24) is now following you!
Ilya slides the headphones off his ears before he proceeds walking, thinking up how he’ll respond. His heart is racing — why the fuck is it doing that? — and he taps his thumbs together in thought before he decides.
•••
Shane was put on Earth for Ilya to microdose on divine intervention. That’s what Ilya convinced himself of as he drove to Shane’s now, away from his detested three hour, required lecture on this fine Thursday evening.
Ilya hadn’t seen Shane besides at the party some weeks ago and once more at the gym. He utilized Instagram to bother Shane with ridiculous cat videos, though, to which Shane responded by telling him he wasn’t ever going to meet Marceline to recreate any of them anyway. With that being said, he was genuinely surprised when Shane’s distressed baritone came through via Instagram audio in the middle of his class.
His opening line was that Marceline was dying, and for whatever reason, this news about a cat Ilya had never met sprung him into action. He’d packed his things quickly and practically ran to his car, ignoring Svetlana’s curious eyes from the seat beside him and the few heads that tracked him on the way out. Ilya interrupted Shane’s explanation of a weirdly opened bag of chocolate chips falling into her kibble to ask for his address, and Shane promptly provided. Now here he was, pulling into the lot of an off campus apartment building. An expensive looking one at that.
Ilya messaged Shane that he was here, and a moment later, the door buzzed and clicked. Ilya registered that as Shane unlocking it somehow, and tugged it open before it locked back. He only manages a quick scan of the hall before Shane sticks his head out into the hallway, looking so stressed that Ilya wants to hug him.
He starts walking, and Shane’s eyes follow until Ilya’s in front of him. Shane moves aside, allowing Ilya to step into the apartment and informing him that Marceline is in her bed. Ilya enters the space, slowly eyeing the floor for the bed in question as he goes, and his eyes land on a beautiful black cat with hints of white and grey in her fur kneading a heart plush.
“Marcy, my favorite girl,” Ilya says softly, dropping down into a kneel. Marceline actually looks up and Ilya sticks his hand out, waggling his fingers a little. Marceline slowly starts approaching, and Ilya looks back at Shane who seems to be monitoring the interaction, his hands in his pockets. When Ilya feels fur brush his knuckles, he directs his attention back to Marceline, who is sniffing his fingers.
“Does she have cat cage?” Ilya asks, voice low as not to scare her off. Shane clears his throat and steps closer to Ilya.
“Uh, yeah.”
“Okay. What about…a blanket? Or towel?”
“For?”
“If she pukes.”
“Right, but…what are we doing?”
“The vet, Shane. You say she is sick, probably.”
“Yes, but—“
Ilya looks at him over his shoulder once more, and Shane rolls his lips inward before releasing them slowly. He looks at the wall above Ilya’s head, pointedly not looking at him. Ilya doesn’t look away though.
“Shane,” he says gently, “is okay. You called, I came, I am here. I will bring you.”
Shane swallows before finally dropping his gaze to meet Ilya’s. Ilya nods, hoping it comes off reassuring, and Shane mirrors the movement, taking a deep breath.
“Okay.”
•••
An hour later, the vet visit is a proven success. Shane shook like a damn leaf the whole time, though, and it crept into his voice as he explained what happened with the chocolate chips for the second time. When his knee started bouncing anxiously, Ilya placed a gentle hand on it, rubbing circles with his thumb and softly reminding him it was going to be okay. They watched through her check up, listening as the vet told them how her heart rate seemed just fine and there were no detected abnormalities. Marceline was deemed safe to take home, and Shane sighed in relief, dropping his head to Ilya’s shoulder. It surprised Ilya, but he just pet Shane’s hair, noting how soft it was under his fingertips.
It's the very thing still stuck in his brain as he grips the steering wheel now, driving them back to Shane’s place. Ilya makes it a point to check on Marceline from the rearview mirror from time to time, and she ends up falling asleep early into the ride. Shane, on the other hand, is so tense beside him in the passenger seat, Ilya almost wants to check and make sure he’s even breathing properly.
“Shane,” he tries, glancing over quickly, but Shane doesn’t move. “Hollander.”
“I’m really sorry about all this, Ilya,” he says finally.
“All of what?”
“The…crisis management for this.”
“Crisis? Shane, no—“
“I usually can figure this stuff out, you know?” Shane continues. “I’m good at fixing my own shit, but I started Googling, and they said she could die, and I didn’t expect that or know what to do with it. I couldn’t call Rose and say that. She'd lose it, and I didn’t want to get laughed at by anyone else for being stupid, and I just—you were the only one I could think to call, and I’m sorry.”
Ilya, for once, didn’t know what to say, the only sound following that being the faint rattle of the carrier and the soft roar of the tires against the streets as he drove. Pretty boy Shane Hollander was so used to trying to do it all alone, handling things quickly and efficiently, to the point that this small favor from Ilya (and Ilya really found it rather small) was sending him spiraling in the passenger seat.
“You are not stupid, Shane,” Ilya tells him after a bit. “And do not be sorry. I’ve been waiting weeks to meet my dream girl, this was perfect excuse.”
Shane actually looks at him then; Ilya feels it. He’s grateful to the red light they pull up to for giving him the opportunity to meet Shane’s eyes. He turns his head and is met with soft browns and an even softer smile. And the freckles…Ilya wished the light would last long enough for him to start counting at least.
“Should change your name to Cats-anova,” Shane teases, his smile growing just a smidge. His tone is deadpan, which makes it funnier for some reason.
“Don’t tell me it’s a good time, Hollander. Or…wait.”
Shane sputters out a genuine laugh at that, and shakes his head as he looks forward again. Ilya huffs a faux-exasperated sigh and starts driving once more, seeing the light go green.
“Don’t laugh! Help!” he insists.
“Don’t tempt me with a good time,” Shane corrects between giggles. “Jesus.”
“Same thing. Asshole.”
“Fuck you, I am not an asshole! I helped!”
Ilya simply waves him off, and they fall into comfortable silence until Ilya pulls into the parking lot. The engine idles and Ilya looks at Shane, who glances back to Marceline before shifting his eyes to Ilya.
“I can help you bring her in,” Ilya offers, and Shane shakes his head.
“No, no, it’s…it’s fine. I’ll do it.”
“Okay.”
There’s a moment, and neither of them makes a move at all. They just…stare. It’s enough time for Ilya to hold his hand out, and Shane looks down at his empty palm and back up to his eyes.
“What?”
“Your phone, let me see,” Ilya says. Shane, again, makes no moves. “You have phone. Give.”
Shane shifts around in his seat, pulling it from his pocket and unlocking it before dropping it in Ilya’s waiting hand. Ilya searches for his contacts before hitting the plus sign and adding his own, saved as “ilya marcy’s fav”. He even takes a selfie for the contact photo, holding up two fingers and smiling before handing it back.
“Oh,” is all Shane says once he looks at the screen, seeing what he’s done.
“In case you have more…cat problems,” Ilya explains.
“Right. Thank you. I will…get out of your car now.”
“Okay.”
Ilya watches Shane climb out, too focused on him to consider being annoying in any way. His eyes follow Shane as he carefully pulls Marceline’s carrier close enough to take by the handle before shutting the door, leaving Ilya alone to watch him disappear into his building. He sits for a moment, reflecting on how his first hangout with Shane Hollander was taking his cat to the vet, and that instead of finding it ridiculous, he’d started thinking about how he would get to see Shane next.
•••
Ilya is in the middle of a late night coursework session when a text comes through from an unfamiliar, unsaved number. His mind snags on the numbers of the situation — it’s 1:32 in the morning, and the combination of characters that make up the sender’s number just doesn't ring a bell. He taps the message to open it, curiosity winning out, and when he finally reads the text, he feels himself starting to smile like an absolute idiot.
Unknown
1:32 AM
Person B: Today was nice. Thank you again for everything.
Shane. Of course it was. He quickly saves his contact under “hollander” and taps out a quick response.
hollander
1:32 AM
Person B: Today was nice. Thank you again for everything.
Person A: why does that sound like ur going awya
Person A: away*
Person B: I'm not.
Person B: Why are you awake right now?
Person A: why are u
Person A: u texted me first
Person B: Can't sleep. I'm actually quite bad at sleeping.
Person A: noooo just close your eyes!!!
Person A: shaney ;)
Person B: Do not call me that.
Person B: You close YOUR eyes.
Person A: is that an order?
Person B: Stop.
Person B: You didn't even answer.
Person A: writing db
Person B: ?
Person A: discussion board
Person B: Oh.
Person A: im also bad at sleeping sometimes
Person A: so i work
Person A: dont tell people
Person A: they will think i am loser
Person B: Well, you kind of are.
Ilya watches the typing bubble appear and disappear for a bit, which makes him laugh. He imagines Shane is freaking out about hitting send on that, and debating if he should take it back. Ilya hopes he doesn’t.
hollander
Person B: I'm just kidding.
Person A: wowww shane hollander is kidding!!! baby’s first joke!!!!
Person B: You're not funny.
Person A: to u
Person A: are u tired yet
Person B: No.
Person A: want to play a game?
Person B: Isn't this how Scream started?
Person A: maybe
Person A: i can roleplay killer movie with u instead if u would like
Person B: No. Jesus.
Person A: what does he have to do w this
Person B: Just send your game, Ilya.
Person A: fine
Person A: winner gets a kiss ;)
Person B: Absolutely NOT.
Ilya’s first thought was well, damn. Then he immediately wondered why he was kind of bummed at Shane’s quick shut down of the idea.
Instead of dwelling on that thought, he sent the first game of 8 Ball. Ilya was belly laughing through the first round, unable to contain it between Shane’s terrible aim, boring stick, and overall lack of finesse. As Shane got better, though, Ilya got sleepier, and by their fourth round, Shane wiped the floor with him. By the fifth game, Ilya didn’t even try and ultimately fell asleep waiting for Shane to send back his turn.
•••
Ilya Rozanov was proving to be very dangerous.
Shane could tell it was becoming a problem the other night. Ilya had presumably fallen asleep in the middle of their iMessage games, and Shane was actually…sad. He first thought but I wasn’t done with him, and then that was immediately followed with well no, I just wanted more of him, which was then followed up with why do I want more of him?
He had a guess why. A good one. He was trying to ignore it, though.
It was hard to get his brain to stop thinking about how good he looked in the car coming home from the vet with Marceline — soft honey colored curls falling onto his forehead and tucked behind his ears, ocean eyes illuminated by the world outside of the car, and a handful of moles Shane was tempted to touch or put his mouth to. He also couldn't stop thinking about that one picture from his Instagram, showcasing abs and a happy trail bathed in sunlight with the biggest smile on his face, damp ringlets falling onto his forehead. Shane thought he looked like a happy little puppy. A very hot and happy puppy.
If it isn’t enough that Ilya is hot, he also is sweet and considerate in a way that makes Shane want to bite through drywall. Ilya always makes a point to ask about Rose and Marceline when they see each other in person, and even asks about Hayden and JJ on occasion when he hasn’t even met them yet. He never makes Shane feel stupid for anything, always answering earnestly and simply showing him the memes and TikTok jokes he doesn’t understand. Shane also noticed how Ilya hasn’t smoked in front of him since the first time, apparently taking his preference seriously without question.
Shane liked all of it so, so much, and it fucking sucked.
Currently, he was nursing a Cutwater to occupy his hands and attention while Ilya entertained a pair of drunk girls, which also sucked. They were telling a ridiculous story about someone on the roof, and Shane could tell Ilya didn’t believe it, but he was intrigued enough to keep talking to them.
Shane hated it, if he was honest. He was the one here with Ilya, and yet everyone and their mother was stopping him to chat, offering shots and introducing friends and friends of friends as they moved through the party. The only saving grace was the way Ilya was touching him so much. He pet Shane’s hair, lingering on the base of his neck when stopped by a trio of guys, asking them “Do you know Shane?” He told a group of girls “This is my friend Shane!” while smushing Shane’s cheeks in one hand after they asked who he was. It was Shane, Shane, Shane while Ilya touched his shoulder and wrapped an arm around him, and Shane was adding every one to the collection of ‘touches from Ilya’ in his head.
Shane eventually finds himself wandering off to the backyard, bored of waiting for Ilya’s undivided. He loses his can on the way, he can’t say where, and is mildly surprised by how empty it is back here. There’s a few people milling about, smoking or talking, and there’s a couple arguing by the far corner of the fence. Shane heads over to a tree, unceremoniously dropping to his knees to prepare to lay, but the action makes his head swim. He closes his eyes before lowering himself more and rolling onto his back. Fuck, he thinks. I’m more drunk than I meant to be.
He listens to the idle noise around him, including the unfortunate end to that couple’s loud fight (the poor girl was sobbing). There’s muted bass, a loud feminine laugh, and the trees rustle with the slight breeze that blows through them and over his sweat tacky skin. Shane is hyperaware of his breathing and his heart actively beating in his chest as he settles against the Earth beneath him. He isn’t sure how long he lays there, a minute or ten or thirty, but it’s kind of nice, even though he has to keep telling himself don’t fall asleep, don’t sleep, don’t get sleepy.
Then there’s shifting and rustling beside him.
At first, he ignores it, chalking it up to someone just making sure he isn't dead as they pass by. He gets the feeling they’re still there after a bit, though, close beside him too, and it makes him open his eyes, turning his head to look.
It’s Ilya. Of course it is. He’s laying on his side with his head propped up in the palm of his hand, cheek smushed against it, and an all too amused smile on his face. Or…maybe it’s fondness? Shane isn’t sure. His drunk brain can’t discern it right now.
“Good morning,” Ilya says, teasing. Shane’s face scrunches in confusion.
“It’s dark.”
“I know, Shane.” A pause. “You are okay?”
“Yeah,” Shane says, swallowing hard after.
“Tired?”
“Drunk, actually,” he corrects, blinking slow. “How’d you find me anyway?”
“I’ll always find you, I think. You are hard for me to miss.”
The sweetness of the statement surprises Shane, making his stomach feel a bit funny, and he hopes his inhibitions aren’t so low that it shows on his face. Ilya’s face is neutral when he says it too, no trace of joking or anything. Shane doesn’t mean to stare at him, but…what can he say to that?
“Do you want to go home?” Ilya asks, changing the subject. Shane immediately shakes his head, surprising himself.
“No, not yet. I like it here.”
“On the ground?”
“Yeah, I just…I feel good, I don’t know.”
“Fine. We will stay.”
“We?” Shane questions. Ilya doesn’t answer. He watches Ilya shift around once more until he’s laying beside him, their shoulders and arms brushing and touching as he settles. Ilya turns to look at Shane, and Shane immediately averts his gaze back to the leaves above, chest tightening at their proximity. Sure, they’d been about this close before, but with the alcohol still flowing through his system, his brain to mouth and body filter was not working, and he didn’t trust himself with having Ilya’s eyes on him that close.
Ilya doesn't make Shane talk, just lays with him quietly. The simple company makes Shane’s heart squeeze a little more. Especially when he turns down the few people that come by, asking him to come smoke or take shots. He was choosing to lie here in the grass under this tree with Shane, and it’s awful how much Shane likes it.
He isn't sure what makes him do it, but Shane finally turns his head back to Ilya, whose eyes are flitting around the sky above them, seemingly searching for something or accounting for the few visible stars up there.
“Hey Ilya?” he starts. Ilya looks at him immediately.
“Yes Shane?”
“I’m…glad I met you.”
Ilya’s face softens, as if not expecting that. “Really?”
“Really. Or maybe I’m more glad that you’ve been persistent.”
“What a nice way to say I’m annoying,” Ilya teases, but Shane shakes his head.
“No. Persistent. You go for what you want. I like it.”
Neither one of them says anything after, and it makes Shane wonder if he maybe shouldn’t have said that. Ilya’s eyes search his face for a moment, and when he moves closer, Shane mildly panics. Is he trying to kiss me? No, he wouldn’t. But what if he is?
He sits up quickly, and his head hates him tenfold for it. Ilya only tracks the movement with his eyes, raising his eyebrows in inquiry of what the fuck is happening with him right now.
“Sorry,” Shane starts, “I, um. I just realized we’ve been sitting here a while. And we should probably…go home.”
Something shifts in Ilya’s expression, but Shane can’t pinpoint exactly what. He’s quiet and still for another beat before he nods and softly says. “Sure, Shane. Okay.”
•••
Ilya drives him home and waits for Shane to go inside before driving away. As soon as Shane enters the apartment, he clumsily makes it to the bathroom, splashing his face with cold water. He doesn’t even dry it after, just watches the droplets drip down his face as he replays the night’s events and comes to a horrible conclusion.
He definitely fucking likes Ilya Rozanov. Fuck.
•••
ilya marcy's fave
Sat 10:53 AM
Person B: Hey. About last night, I just wanted to say sorry if I was acting weird. I was drunk and tired. If I said anything strange, I’m sorry.
Person A: not weird or strange
Person A: very beautiful actually
Person A: laying there with u was highlight of my life
Person B: Really?
Person A: yes really
Person A: u even sang me songs and spit wine into my mouth
Person B: You are ridiculous. I know I most certainly did not.
Person A: so no repeat?
Person A: i can't do it back?
Person B: Go to hell.
Sun 04:37 PM
Person A: ordered sometjign from tiktok for marcy
Person A: something*
Person B: Oh God.
Person B: What is it?
Person A: so cute right?
Person B: She is most certainly not wearing that. Send it back.
Person A: as her second cat daddy yes she is
Person B: Second cat daddy?
Person B: Ilya, please.
Person A: please what?
Person B: ...
Person A: sorry. too much?
Person B: No. Just couldn't come up with anything appropriate to say.
Person A: oh????
Person B: Yeah. Oh.
Tues 06:28 PM
Person A: where r u
Person A: i miss u lately
Person B: You're too distracting in there.
Person A: ????
Person A: havent seen u here at same time in weeks
Person B: Because the times I saw you, it was distracting.
Person A: wowww !!!!! shane hollander says im distracting
Person A: should i print and frame this text
Person B: You should go back to your workout.
Person A: i miss u too much now tho
Person B: Next time, Rozanov.
Thurs 08:09 PM
Person B: You left your sweatshirt in my car.
Person A: on purppse
Person A: purpose*
Person A: what do they call it
Person A: pheromones ;)
Person B: Unnecessary.
Person A: bc u want me so bad anyway
Person B: Rozanov.
Person A: is okay
Person A: im sexy i get it
Person B: You're obnoxious is what you are.
Person B: Get your shit out of here.
Tues 07:57 PM
Person A: hollander
Person A: your shirt in my bag?
Person A: how
Person A: why
Person B: Don't worry about it.
Person B: On purpose. Pheromones.
Person A: mmm i see
Person A: thank u
Person B: You're welcome.
Wed 05:33 PM
Person A: wyd
Person B: Library. Studying.
Person B: You're welcome to join me.
Person A: mr studious
Person A: mr academic
Person A: what floor
Person B: Six.
Thurs 03:12 PM
Person A: good luck on ur midterm hollander
Person B: Thank you. Have fun in class tonight!
Person A: asshole 👎🏼
Person A: u know i wont
Person A: lets get dinner after
Person B: Really?
Person A: yes duh!!!!
Person B: Alright. But you pick the spot this time. Start thinking.
•••
It was becoming more normal for Shane’s days to end with Ilya somehow rather than not. Dinner, texting, and studying in each other’s vicinity (which Ilya called “parallel play for adults”) were becoming their regularly scheduled program. Sometimes, they didn’t even have anything planned, and randomly decided to meet up for a walk or Ilya’d come over to sit with him in his apartment. The other day, Ilya came over just to play with Marceline after his class was canceled, and ended up falling asleep while Shane sat next to him, working on an essay. Marceline laid on his stomach, purring softly, and Ilya was shockingly still as he slept. He’d left after about an hour of napping, and when Shane was going to bed later on, he traded his usual pillow for the one that Ilya slept on, telling himself over and over that it meant nothing.
Two days ago, they were in the middle of parallel play when Ilya kicked Shane under the table and held his phone up, showing him what appeared to be a group chat. Shane read it, seeing it was something about a party this weekend, and Shane realized Ilya was asking for his thoughts about going, likely hoping for a yes. Shane just couldn’t say no to him, anyways.
So now, here they were -- Saturday night in yet another college house, and Ilya is trying to convince Shane to dance with him.
“I refuse to let you be bug in a room!” Ilya tells him, poking the center of his chest a few times.
“I think you mean a fly on the wall,” Shane deadpans.
“Whatever, same thing! Come dance.”
Ilya takes Shane’s hands in his, holding them behind his back as he brings Shane into the living room, where the music is clearest and the crowd is the densest. Some people are sitting, occupying the couch with more people than it really can take, and some people are talking loudly in each other's ears, drinks sloshing as they laugh and yell, but for the most part, bodies are on this makeshift dancefloor moving to the music however feels right.
Shane does not feel right. He’s being bumped into and brushed against and he feels tenser than ever the deeper they go into the middle of it all. But when Ilya turns to face him, dropping his hands and starting to dance with a smile on his face…Shane’s shoulders drop and he watches.
Ilya moves like someone who knows what he looks like and what his body can do. It’s all effortless, and there’s a confidence in it, trust in his body to do what he wills it. Shane recognizes it because he has it too, anywhere but in this house and in this room. It’s…unexpectedly attractive to Shane, his ability to own the space he’s taking up.
He eyes Shane as he dances, holding his hands out momentarily to nonverbally ask what the fuck?. Shane shrugs, shaking his head, and Ilya suddenly is in his bubble, hands on his hips and twisting him this way and that. Shane lets out a surprised little laugh before pushing his hands off, saying “Ilya, no,” and Ilya huffs a breath.
“Yes. Dance, Hollander, no one is looking. Do it,” he orders.
Shane tells himself that Ilya is right, that if he looks stupid, he can blame it on alcohol when it’s all said and done. He starts with a little head nod before starting to fall into a one-two step, to which Ilya starts smiling in encouragement. Shane feels a bit silly, but he’ll do anything to keep Ilya smiling at him just like this, looking so happy and free.
When the song changes, Shane realizes this must be one everyone knows, because everyone makes a similar sound of recognition including Ilya. Ilya steps a bit closer to Shane, grabbing his hands and dancing with him playfully before starting to sing to him, pointing and nodding to the beat. Shane smiles so much his face actually kind of hurts from it.
It’s already done by the time Shane processes it — Ilya puts his back to Shane’s front and grabs Shane’s hands, placing them on his hips. The computer of Shane’s brain starts to spark and pop as he rocks his hips side to side, allowing Shane to feel the movement. In all honesty, Shane doesn’t know what to do with palmfuls of Ilya besides adjusting his grip, pulling Ilya impossibly closer against him and trying to keep up.
The next thing Shane knows, Ilya bends forward, placing his hands on his knees, and grinds his ass all over Shane’s crotch. Shane’s brain goes blank and his whole body starts going warm, chills crawling quickly up his arms. A few whoops come from nearby, but Shane can’t look away from the vision before him; Ilya’s ass is insane in looks and feel. It’s all so heady and overwhelming, and fuck, he feels himself getting hard. Shane’s never experienced anything like this. He’s honestly scared his nose is going to start fucking bleeding.
When Ilya straightens up, he’s got the biggest smile on his face as he laughs, and he drops his head back against Shane’s shoulder. Shane instinctually buries his face in the crook of Ilya’s neck, breathing him in. He smells like his usual cologne, and also a bit sweaty, but Shane doesn’t even care. He just barely resists the urge to lick him, honestly. To curb that, Shane instead lets his hands wander under Ilya’s shirt, splaying over his torso. He feels the coarse hair of his happy trail under his fingers, and takes in how warm and solid and fucking alive Ilya is. Ilya’s hands come to settle over his own as they fall into a gentle sway, and Shane notes how his own hands actually are slightly bigger than Ilya’s.
Shane’s not drunk, too scarred from last time to even indulge, but having Ilya in his arms like this sure makes him feel like he is. Everything is background noise besides this.
Ilya takes a shuddery breath and swallows, saying Shane’s name in a way that sounds like he meant to say please or fuck. Shane slides his hands down, teasing his fingertips under the waistband of his jeans and brushes his lips against Ilya’s neck. He wonders if Ilya can feel the way his heart is thudding in his chest since they’re pressed together so close, or feel just how hard he’s gotten from this.
“Ilya…” Shane breathes, not even sure what he wanted to say.
Ilya turns in his arms then, and Ilya’s closer to him than he’s ever been. Close enough that his breaths fan over Shane’s face and Shane can see every bit of the scruff coming in across his jaw. Shane’s suddenly nervous about this, especially when Ilya’s hands slide up to cradle his neck, his thumbs grazing his jaw.
His heart practically falls out of his ass as Ilya starts to lean in.
Shane watches it happen for a moment, Ilya getting closer and his eyes slowly starting to close. Before their noses even get the chance to brush, Shane puts a hand to his chest and steps back, bumping into someone behind him. Ilya doesn’t move, and he actually looks a bit surprised. Shane closes his eyes, listening to his own heartbeat in his ears for a moment before looking at Ilya again. His face resembles a kicked fucking puppy, and it makes Shane’s stomach twist, knowing he’s the reason for it.
“I can’t, Ilya,” he says, nonspecific. Ilya seems to get it though, and his face goes from kicked puppy to neutral. Shane wishes he had the clarity to explain more, but nothing comes out. He just shakes his head and balls his hands into fists by his sides, willing them to stop shaking. “I…I want to go home. Please.”
Ilya simply nods and says, “Okay.”
•••
Ilya doesn’t look at him. Shane watches as his jaw clenches a few times on the drive, but no matter what, Ilya does not look at him.
Fuck, he thinks. He hates me now. This is it. The last time I’ll be in this car. I ruined this all because I panicked. Fuck.
They pull into the parking lot of Shane’s apartment building and Ilya parks, the only sounds being Ilya putting the car in park as the engine idles. Shane stares at Ilya, willing him to please look with just his eyes. Ilya’s jaw clenches once more before Shane finally gets his wish.
The look on Ilya’s face makes him wish he didn’t.
Shane’s never had this look directed at him before. It’s not the focused face he makes with the slight scowl, his eyebrows furrowed just a tad, or the one where quiet amusement tinges the edge of his features when he’s teasing Shane or watching videos on mute in the library. No. It’s just completely blank, bordering on bored, and unreadable in every way. Shane almost feels like he could puke.
“Goodnight, Shane,” he says, and Shane just wants to say no. He doesn’t though, instead nodding just once and fumbling to open his door. The stress of the moment makes him stupid; he tries to get up without unbuckling at first, and then his foot gets caught on the way out. He leans in the doorway afterward, face warm and probably red as fuck, but it can’t get worse, so he powers on.
“Goodnight, Ilya,” he says back. This time, Ilya nods wordlessly.
Shane steps back and shuts the door, mentally kicking himself as he makes his way to the door. Before he even gets there, Shane hears Ilya drive off and can’t help but look, watching Ilya’s car back out of the space and go until he can’t see it anymore. His stomach sinks and he swallows hard, trying not to acknowledge the slight tremble in his hands or overthink the whole interaction as he goes inside.
•••
“Alright, fuck it,” Hayden sighs, and J.J. taps the table gently, mouthing to stop. Hayden ignores him. “Why are you acting like an asshole? No more boyfriend?”
Shane looks at him, putting his spoonful of froyo back down into his cup wordlessly. It’s been two and a half weeks since he last saw or heard from Ilya. Even his text to say hi went unanswered. Since then, he’s been back to his old routine — class, studying, gym, meal prep, and hanging out with these two. He knows he quickly fell into Ilya’s orbit and he knows he’s been tense since falling out of it, but an asshole? He didn’t think so.
“I never said I had a boyfriend,” Shane tells him. “Where did you get that from?”
“Well,” J.J. cuts in, and Shane looks at him. “Hayden and I just…assumed. You weren’t around as much, and you were kind of on your phone a lot more. And I love you, Shane, but you’ve been kind of grumpy, and you damn near broke a stick with us the other day over some missed shots.”
“It wasn’t about the shots,” Shane mumbles. J.J.’s exaggerating just a tad, Shane only smacked it against the goal one hard time, but…he does remember doing it. And it really wasn’t about the shots.
“Then spill, Hollzy. Because the neanderthal act isn’t you. That’s how I know you’re all fucked up right now,” Hayden says, chewing noisily on some gummy bears. J.J. gives him a disapproving look before directing his attention to Shane, gesturing for him to go on.
How could he sum up the entire Ilya situation to them? He let Ilya in, liked him too much, and it scared him. And now he doesn’t know what to do with these feelings, all the worry about what he should have said or done to avoid this outcome.
“I just miss him,” Shane says plainly. He looks at the two of them and they look sad. Shane hates it, but he’s fighting to not shut down. “And I have you guys, and Rose, and I know I can just…download Grindr or something, but. It wasn’t about that. I actually liked him. I liked him, and I fucked it up by being a little bitch.”
“Igor, right?” Hayden asks. Shane’s brows furrow.
“Igor?”
“Igor? Ivan? No?”
“Are you okay?” Shane questions, and J.J. sputters out a laugh. Shane is so confused, though.
“What’s the dude's name?”
“Oh. Ilya.”
“Right. So you should block Ilya,” Hayden tells him, “forget about him, because he’s fucking with your head. Fuck that.”
“I can’t believe Jackie voluntarily deals with you,” J.J. sighs, pushing Hayden by the head. He then turns his head to look at Shane. “You’re not a little bitch, Hollander. You just need to text this Ilya, tell him you are sorry, c’est tout. The worst thing that can happen is he doesn’t say anything. Tells you to fuck off. Bon, d’accord, then we sulk, whatever. Until then…” He shrugs, and Shane sighs, eyeing his froyo-soup.
He figured J.J. had a point. It ain’t over til it’s over, or however the saying went. And he liked the persistence in Ilya, so maybe Ilya’d like it in him too. If it all went south, then he’d have to give it to Hayden, and perhaps Hayden wouldn’t be as useless as Shane thinks he is right now.
•••
It’s a couple days before Shane works up the courage to open their message thread and type out a text to Ilya. It’s another day before he actually hits send on it, simply asking him to meet him on the library steps at eight. He was sure to say please, hoping politeness got a response, but when he didn’t get one, he felt a little silly for having just tacked it on at the end.
Shane goes to wait on the steps anyway.
Eight comes and goes. Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. Twenty. Shane still sits, even with no sign of Ilya anywhere. It’s kind of cold, but Shane is fucking trying, hoping if politeness didn’t work, then stubbornness and patience will. The only company out here is his thoughts, though, which start to slip into overthinking mode. Should he text him again? What would he even say? Sorry I rejected you after putting my hard dick against your ass, I won’t do it again. I also still think about your hands on me and mine on you, but I can try and scrub that from my brain if it helps. And maybe I’ll finally let you kiss me so the tension will go away and we can be friends again. It’d all be lies and things he can’t promise, though, and Ilya doesn’t deserve that.
Shane folds his arms and leans forward, resting them against his knees and laying his forehead to them, heaving a big sigh. He considers just giving up after all, but the implication of that just wasn't what he wanted: no more Ilya. Fuck, he didn’t want to have to listen to Hayden either. Just the thought of blocking him at all made his stomach lurch. How could he tell Rose that Marceline was losing her second cat daddy for real? And all the pictures in his phone—
“You look like you’re going to puke.”
Shane quickly picks his head up and looks, scrambling to stand a bit when he sees it’s fucking Ilya. He’s in soft clothes, a huge hoodie and sweats, and Shane takes a few of the steps down, putting himself in his eyeline a little better. Ilya shoves his hands into the kangaroo pocket of the sweatshirt and Shane takes in every bit of him that he can get his eyes on.
“Not gonna puke,” Shane tells him, voice shockingly even to his own ears.
“Good. I’m not good with that.”
There’s a pause, an extremely loaded one, and they just look each other over, trying to see if anything changed in the last two weeks. At least that’s what Shane finds himself doing. Of course, though, he’s exactly like Shane remembers.
“Thanks for coming,” Shane tells him. Ilya shrugs one shoulder, the corner of his mouth quirking up.
“I am nice guy,” he says. “Charity.”
Shane actually laughs, and Ilya’s smile grows. Fuck, Shane’s missed his smile. Shane finishes going down the steps until he hits the flat pavement, and stands about a foot from Ilya, noting the way he looks him up and down.
“Can…we walk?” Shane asks, putting his hands in his own pockets. Ilya looks around at first, clearly thinking about it, before he nods and starts a slow stroll. Shane falls into step beside him, and neither of them speaks.
Shockingly, this silence isn’t awkward or weird. Aside from the slight tension, it’s…pretty comfortable. Some of their steps sync up and Shane catches Ilya’s small smile when it happens. Shane wants to say something, but he isn’t sure where to start, so he enjoys the night sounds — the rustling trees, the doors of buildings popping open or dropping closed, and the indistinct conversations of people doing the same thing they are.
“I hope you don’t hate me,” Ilya says suddenly, clearing his throat after. Shane’s head whips to look at him, sure that he’s joking, but he most certainly isn’t. “I wasn’t going to come, but…you deserve an apology, I think.”
“An apology,” Shane repeats dumbly.
“Yes. I started to like you, and I was…pushy,” Ilya explains. “It was not fair. And I tried to kiss you, and obviously I understood the whole thing wrong. I don't want us to be weird, we can be friends, I promise. I won’t do it anymore.”
Shane stops walking, shock hitting him like a glass of water thrown in his face. Ilya walks a few steps before realizing and he stops too, turning and walking back to Shane slowly.
“What are you talking about, Ilya?”
“The…party. Last time,” Ilya answers, clearly confused. Shane shakes his head, and Ilya’s brows furrow.
“No, I mean—none of that is true,” Shane tells him. “God, Ilya, you haven’t been pushy at all, I can’t believe you think that.”
“But I didn’t ask, and you were upset. I forced you to dance with me and—“
“I was upset with myself, Ilya, not you. And you didn’t force me. If I wanted to leave, I would have, and you would let me, right?” Ilya nods immediately. “Exactly. I was just overwhelmed and I panicked, but…I felt good with you, Ilya, and I trust you. I’m sorry I treated you that way and made you think I didn’t want you.”
Ilya’s face does something complicated, taking the words in. Shane’s heart is hammering in his ears, scared Ilya won’t take well to his mild word vomit.
“Felt,” Ilya says. “Felt is past.”
“I’m too nervous to feel good, present tense,” Shane admits. Ilya starts to smile.
“I make you nervous?”
“Oh shut up,” Shane scoffs, starting to walk again, “I should've known you’d get all smug when I said that.”
“Smug? I’m just saying what I heard!” Ilya laughs, walking with him.
“Whatever.”
“Is very cute, Hollander,” Ilya bumps his shoulder to Shane’s on purpose, knocking him off balance a bit, and Shane does it back, harder. Ilya pretends it hurts, gripping his bicep and telling him, “Ow! I am serious, I have that effect on people, is okay.”
“Shut up, Rozanov,” Shane scoffs, and this time, Ilya is the one to stop him by grabbing his sleeve. Shane turns to look at him, and Ilya’s hands cradle his neck gently, looking at him seriously.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Ilya asks, running the tips of his thumbs along the underside of Shane’s jaw. Shane fights a shiver before he nods. “You make me nervous too.”
“Mmm,” Shane hums, starting to smile, “I make you nervous?” It’s a bad mimic of Ilya’s accent, and Ilya actually cackles at the sound of it, loud and sudden. He looks at Shane when he settles, face falling into a small smile, and Shane’s stomach floods with butterflies.
“You do, Shane. You do.”
“Very cute.”
“Mmm. Say I…put my hands like this,” Ilya starts, moving his hands to hold Shane’s face instead. “Fine?”
“Yes. As long as I can put mine…” Shane finds Ilya’s hips and pulls him closer, and Ilya exhales a soft but sharp breath. “…like this.”
“Mmh. And…if I wanted to kiss you now. Would you let me?”
“We’re in the middle of campus, Ilya.”
“So? Just you, me, and the squirrels. They want us to kiss, they told me.”
“So stupid,” Shane laughs, already closing his eyes when Ilya starts leaning in.
When their lips finally meet, it’s gentler than Shane was anticipating. Ilya’s lips are soft against his own, almost hesitant, but he kisses Shane once, twice, and once more before pulling back just enough that their noses are touching. Shane knows he’s blushing so much, can feel it, but he actually doesn’t feel nervous anymore.
“You think they saw it? Or should we do it again?” Ilya asks, voice low and teasing. “I think one of them blinked.”
“Shut up,” Shane laughs, pushing his hands off. Ilya does move, but he holds one of Shane’s hands and tugs him along, continuing their walk. “You can just ask to kiss me again, the squirrels don’t need to see.”
“No audience?”
“No. Just you.”