Chapter Text
Shane wakes up with a headache that feels like a personal punishment from God. Or whoever is up there. He doesn’t remember the last time he felt this terrible.
For a few moments, he keeps his eyes closed, trying to shield them from the morning sun. The sheets under him are soft. Too soft and certainly too luxurious to be his own.
The mattress beneath him doesn’t dip in with his every move the way his cheap one at home does. The air smells like the kind of soap you only find in the bathrooms of fancy restaurants, with a hint of citrus. The room doesn’t smell like his usual lavender-scented detergent. It makes his headache worse, if that’s even possible.
This is not his bed. His eyes finally snap open.
The room looks like it belongs in a lifestyle magazine. There’s a high, white ceiling above him. When he turns his head, he sees tall windows covered by thin white curtains. He looks around the room. A big, modern leather sofa and at least five lamps scattered around. Everything looks neat and expensive. A suit jacket hangs over a chair, the kind of thing Shane knows he could never afford.
He glances to his side and freezes.
There’s a man lying next to him. Broad and muscular shoulders and the sheets pulled low on his waist. His hair sticks up messily. Right arm stretched above his head, completely relaxed like he doesn’t have a literal stranger in his bed.
“Oh my god,” Shane whispers to himself.
Bits and pieces of last night come back in flashes and make his stomach twist.
He was at a club. Not his club. Some new and fancy place Hayden had dragged them to after a particularly horrible day. People were singing and dancing. Rose yelling over the music, asking the guys to dance with her. Complaining about how “Lana would’ve been dancing with her already”. And JJ was somehow drunker than all of them combined after only twenty minutes of being in the club.
Shane was sitting there, holding a drink he couldn’t even really afford. His heart still burning from the way his teacher had smiled thinly and said, “Perhaps next year,” before handing the principal role (Shane’s dream role) to some rich white kid whose parents had coincidentally made a very generous donation to the school a couple of months ago.
And then he met him.
Messy hair, a sharp jaw, and broad shoulders. The smile on his face almost seemed like a challenge.
Shane can barely hold eye contact with people as it is, let alone a stranger. But thanks to liquid courage, he caught the man’s eyes, and neither of them looked away. He told himself it’s accidental, that he’ll look down any second now, but he doesn’t. The music was pounding, lights everywhere, people moving. Shane could feel it in his bones. The man’s gaze is steady before he finally starts moving toward Shane.
“Hi. Can I buy you a drink?” the stranger asked, smiling widely.
Shane almost said no because he’s already had one. He quickly ran the numbers in his head, thinking about how this extra drink will mess with the calorie deficit he works so hard to maintain. But the guy looked at him like Shane actually matters, like he's interesting.
“Sure,” he said instead. Not wanting to be difficult.
Shane kept drinking and the man kept talking. He mainly talked about his work, mentioning some company with a name Shane’s never heard of. He never really cared about money, or status. But he cared about the way the man leans in to hear him better, the way his attention didn't drift to other (much hotter) people dancing around them. There hadn’t been any romance, no love at first sight. Just sexual attraction, if you could even call it that. Someone looking at Shane like he was wanted instead of tolerated. And for a moment, that felt close enough.
They took an Uber to the man’s hotel. And after that, everything is a blur. Hands all over his body and an uncomfortable breath over his neck.
Shane groans and pushes himself upright, immediately regretting it as the room starts to spin faster. He notices a half-full bottle of water on the nightstand next to him and takes a big sip. He grabs his phone to check the time and sees messages from his friends, but he can’t be bothered to read any of them right now.
He squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the dizziness to pass and for his body to settle back into something that feels manageable.
He feels wrong. Sticky and unclean. Not because of last night, but because everything’s out of order. He should be in his own bed. He should have showered, shaved, and gotten ready for his class across town. He needs his routine. It’s the only thing that keeps his mind from spiraling and his head from overthinking.
This is exactly why he doesn’t do one-night stands. It’s not like he ever particularly enjoyed having sex anyway, let alone casual sex. This was a mistake. A lapse of judgment, if you will. Now all he wants is distance and control.
He glances at the man next to him, still asleep, broad chest rising and falling steadily. Shane freezes, holding his breath, listening.
No movement. Good.
He can’t deal with any awkward small talk or fake politeness right now. He just doesn’t have it in him.
He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and grabs his clothes from the floor, moving as quietly as he can. He dresses as quickly as his aching body allows. His head is still spinning, but he forces himself to focus. All that matters now is getting out of the room fast and making it to class.
He pauses at the mirror on his way out. He looks… rough, to put it kindly. The eyeliner Rose had insisted on putting on him last night now smudged beneath his eyes, making his dark circles look even worse. His straight dark hair sticks out at odd angles, unbrushed and lifeless. The freckles he always hated stand out sharply against skin, now gone pale with exhaustion and dehydration. He would love to take a shower in the fancy hotel room, but he doesn’t want to get caught by the guy whose name he can’t even remember anymore. He gives the room one last look, then slips out as quietly as possible.
The hotel hallway is just as fancy as the room. Wide and spotless, with gentle but bright lighting everywhere. The whole place feels unreal, like he stumbled into someone else’s life or a movie set. Shane looks around wide-eyed, trying to take it all in, knowing he will probably never step foot in a place like this ever again.
He’s halfway to the elevators when he turns a corner and crashes straight into a wall of solid muscle coming from the opposite direction.
“Oh my god. I’m so sorry, I-”
The man’s hands catch him, his big hands firm and strong on Shane’s waist. Shane looks up, and his brain short-circuits. This might be the most handsome man Shane has ever seen in his life.
He’s dressed in a perfectly tailored dark blue suit, hair slicked back, his hazel eyes alert and sharp. Shane can make out a gold chain resting around his neck. There’s something intensely intimidating about his energy.
His gaze lingers on Shane, just a little too long.
“You are running away from serial killer?” the man asks, his thick Russian accent unmistakable. He looks amused.
No, just from a random one-night-stand, Shane thinks, his cheeks burning.
“No. I-I’m late. For class, I mean. I can’t miss it.” He hates that he stutters when he’s nervous, remembering being bullied for it throughout his childhood.
The man raises an eyebrow. “Class,” he repeats, amused. “You are student?”
“Yeah. I mean, yes.” Shane shifts, painfully aware of how he must look next to this man. Dirty hoodie, scuffed sneakers, and a hangover written all over his face. He keeps his head low.
Shane clears his throat, “I’m really sorry for bumping into you, sir, but I really have to go.”
Before the man can even respond, Shane squeezes past him and practically jogs to the elevator, heart pounding. He doesn’t look back.
Behind him, Ilya watches until the elevator doors close. The boy was clearly doing his walk of shame, and Ilya wasn’t one to judge him. Only then does he notice the worn-out black wallet lying on the carpet.
He picks it up and flips it open. He sees a couple of wrinkled dollar bills. As he checks the cards, a driver’s license stares back at him. Delicate smile, brown eyes, freckles.
“Shane Hollander,” he reads out loud, the name rolling off his tongue with a pleasant ease that surprises him.
He pulls out his phone. The call barely rings before someone picks up.
“Boss,” Ivan says in Russian. “What can I do for you?”
“I need a background check,” Ilya replies, already pacing. “Immediately.”
_____
The taxi ride to campus is a blur of anxiety.
He only realizes something is wrong when the driver pulls up to campus and asks for his payment. Shane reaches into his pocket. Nothing.
He checks again. His bag. His jacket. Still nothing.
His chest tightens, breath coming too fast, thoughts spiraling. His hands shake as he forces himself to slow down, to breathe, to think. He must’ve left it in the hotel room he woke up in.
He pays with his phone, politely thanks the driver, and practically sprints into the building.
There wasn’t much cash in it anyway. It’s not like that rich stranger needs his money. Still, getting a new license and ID is a pain. Maybe he can go back to the hotel later and check.
He makes it to the locker room just in time to quickly change, his muscles complaining as he puts on his dance clothes. He rushes into the studio three minutes late.
The teacher’s gaze snaps to him instantly. Shane keeps his eyes on the floor.
“Mr. Hollander,” he says coolly. “How nice of you to finally join us.”
Sergei Volkov is the lean and pale former principal dancer of the Bolshoi Ballet, who rules his class with an iron fist. He left Russia as a child to train around the world, and in his prime, he returned home as a star. Shane was once a huge fan of him, almost idolized him, actually. But that respect was ruined the moment he learned just how cruel and petty the man truly was.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Shane says, with a quiet voice. “It won’t happen again.”
He hears Jacob and his friends snicker behind him. Shane tries not to let it bother him.
“Of course it won’t,” the teacher replies mockingly. “You already seem very determined to prove that my decision regarding the recital was correct. Sloppy timing. Lack of discipline. Perhaps it would do you good to remember that being in my class is a privilege, not a right.”
Shane swallows, jaw firm. Across the room, Hayden meets his eyes, sympathy written all over his face.
After class, Shane feels defeated. It almost feels like the world’s got it out for him. Hayden insists on getting lunch, waving off Shane’s protests with an easy smile.
“Relax,” Hayden says. “Let me play the useful rich friend for once, please. I’ll even grab you that nasty green juice you like. The one that tastes like grass.”
Shane rolls his eyes affectionately.
Hayden’s been his best friend since day one. The first person who really welcomed him when he moved to Toronto. He’s also one of the few people who genuinely doesn’t care that Shane doesn’t come from money, unlike almost everyone else in Volkov’s class.
Once they’re seated in the cafeteria, Rose and JJ quickly find and join them.
As they scroll through Rose’s Instagram stories from the club, JJ laughs and says, “Last night was so much fun, guys. I’m glad we went out like old times. I’m starting to feel young again.”
“JJ, you’re literally twenty-one,” Hayden laughs.
“You’re right, I’m not old…you are!” JJ replies.
The boys keep bickering around and Rose loops her arm through Shane’s, grinning. “Soo… who was that mystery guy you left with last night?” she teases, wiggling her eyebrows.
Shane tenses, his cheeks going red. “Nobody important,” he mumbles, hiding behind his juice.
Rose and JJ share a look, but they don’t press further. The conversation quickly drifts to assignments, auditions, and the latest campus gossip. As always, Shane listens more than he speaks. He’s grateful that his friends never pressure him to talk when he just needs to sit back and recharge.
_____
Across the city, Ilya Rozanov sits in a private meeting room. He’s got his arms folded, face unreadable.
The Canadian businessman across from him is on his knees. Face wet from all the sweating and crying.
“You owe my family a little bit of money, Mr. Harrison,” Ilya says. His voice is calm, almost bored. “And you know we do not appreciate…How do you say? Delay?”
“I-I just need more time, sir.”
llya tilts his head, mocking. “You see, I am not a very patient man.”
A knock interrupts them.
Ivan enters, speaking Russian. “Boss. I got the thing you asked me to look into.”
Ivan is his right-hand man in every sense of the word. He’s only a few months younger than Ilya, but shaped into a man early by a tragic childhood. Just like Ilya himself. People often said that they look like brothers.
Ivan grew up without a mother. After his father was imprisoned and later died behind bars, Ilya’s father took him in, crafting him into the perfect lieutenant. Loyal, lethal, and determined. But somewhere along the way, Ivan also became Ilya’s best and only friend. The one and only constant by his side. Ilya knows that without Ivan watching his back, he would’ve been dead a long time ago.
Ilya stands up, rubbing his temple. “Take our friend outside,” he tells his men in Russian. “Show him how serious we are. I want to see the money on my desk tomorrow.”
When the door closes, Ivan begins his report.
“Shane Hollander. Just turned twenty-one a month ago. Scholarship kid at the Toronto Academy of Dance and Theatre. Ballet program.” Ivan doesn’t need notes, he never does.
Ilya’s mind drifts to the boy he from yesterday.
Shane had been small but not exactly fragile. Slightly shorter than Ilya, but very fit. He remembers the moment his hands had settled on Shane’s waist, meant to only steady him. He’d noticed the muscles there, firm beneath the material of his thin hoodie. A dancer’s body, Ilya realizes now.
He also remembers the freckles scattered across Shane’s face, sharp against pale skin. He thought that they made him look younger than his age, softer too. Almost delicate.
“Originally from a small rural town. Only child. Mother Japanese and father Canadian. Lost his parents in a car accident when he was ten. In foster care until eighteen, then came to Toronto on a scholarship.”
Ilya can’t help but picture a younger Shane. Too small, too thin, a child learning early that no one stays. He is all too familiar with that feeling himself. He feels an unexpected pull in his chest. He feels protective, towards a boy he does not know and who no longer exists.
Ivan continues, “No criminal record. Outside of work, he is frequently seen with fellow students Hayden Pike, Rose Landry, and JJ Dagenais.”
He hesitates, just barely. He eyes Ilya curiously before adding, “He works nights as an exotic dancer.”
Something in Ilya freezes. His jaw clenches.
“Exotic dancer,” he repeats, tone expressionless.
He imagines Shane’s body. Controlled, precise, graceful, even in some grimy club. The thought of this soft and beautiful boy dancing for strangers, his naked body being touched by their greedy eyes, makes something dark curl in Ilya’s chest.
“Which club?” he asks.
Ivan tells him.
Ilya nods once. “Cancel my evening plans.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out Shane’s wallet again, thumb brushing over the worn edge of his ID.
Ivan says nothing, he simply nods.
But he knows that once Ilya Rozanov decides he wants something, he makes the world rearrange itself accordingly.