Chapter Text
Ilya Rozanov was slowly but surely losing his mind.
He smiled at a passing freshman, making his way down the corridor — a perfectly amicable smile, nothing special, but she blushed up to her ears anyway, stuttering out a greeting.
The old him would've turned on his heel — screw classes — given her a little up-down check-out, maybe leaned one hand against the wall to show off his bicep a bit. Have her eating out of the palm of his hand in twenty second flat — maximum.
But that was the old him, so he kept walking.
He was an RA this year, and with that came a new responsibility. He had always been a rake and a scoundrel but he had also been a loyal member of the university hockey team, now captain, and a damn good student to boot, and you would never hear him admit it — especially not within earshot of Marlow or Pike, heaven forbid, but he was honoured. Honoured that the faculty had looked at him and thought he could be a positive influence on frankly anybody.
So there he was. First year of postgrad, no fucking any freshmen, especially not those in his res.
Well, that had been the plan. Until he rocked up on the first day of orientation week and met — him.
Ilya kept walking, shaking his head, as if that might physically exorcise the thoughts — nay, the visions — that plagued him day and night, every waking hour, for the last three weeks.
Visions of big brown eyes, too-wide, darting around nervously at the overwhelming bustle of the first day. Visions of freckles dotted across a button nose, a tentative tilt of his lips as Ilya introduced himself, blooming into a proper smile as Ilya smoothly guided him into a quieter corner while pointing out his teammates and sharing their worst secrets. Visions of ugly hoodies and boring sneakers and a fucking sweater vest, once.
Horny visions of a sweater vest, Bozhe moy.
Would they send him back to Russia, he wondered, once they figured out he was insane? He hoped not. He liked it here. Objectively there was nothing to like about Montreal: it was cold as fuck; colder than Moscow, actually, which was impressive. He wasn't a huge fan of the food, either, and honestly the screaming ducks could go fuck themselves, as far as he was concerned.
But still, he liked it here.
Because Montreal had one thing Russia didn't have.
Montreal had Shane Hollander.
“Ilya!”
Ilya looked up, pulled from his musings, to see Shane standing in the courtyard outside, almost on his tip toes as he waved at Ilya, as if there was a chance Ilya wouldn't see him.
Ilya was going to be late for class if he stopped, but he changed direction anyway, heading to the freshman who had called his name.
And fuck, Shane said his name right, too, every time — not the Ill-ee-yah bullshit he got from most; no, two syllables, with the stress on the end, and Ilya remembered Shane asking him, tentatively but determined, to tell him his name again when they first met, the way Shane watched his lips and mouthed along the second time like a diligent little student, making sure he got it right.
Ilya was so fucked.
“Shane,” he said as he approached, nodding — cool, calm, casual.
Shane beamed. His haircut really was ridiculous, like something his mom chose in the eighth grade and he just never bothered changing — cute little bangs falling into his face, black hair gleaming in the sunlight.
Ilya wanted to fuck him until he cried, and then maybe make him a tuna melt, or something.
He didn't think there was an entry for this in the DSM-5. He would have to ask Svetlana.
“Are you on your way to class?” Shane asked, and Ilya raised an eyebrow.
“What gave me away?” he said, hitching his backpack higher onto his shoulder, and Shane blushed, high on his cheeks, the way he always did when Ilya teased him.
“Shut up,” he said, but he was laughing, and Ilya couldn't help but grin in return.
“What about you?” Ilya asked. He knew Shane was an economics major, but he minored in statistics — and the way he spoke about his first couple classes, Ilya wouldn't be surprised if he switched majors in his first year. Econ was on the other side of campus but if Shane had stats that morning, it would be on Ilya's way to his own office.
He hadn't wanted to walk a crush to class since he was thirteen.
“No, I'm done for today,” Shane said, smiling that smile he did when, Ilya was realizing, he was about to tell Ilya something he was really excited about. “I managed to register all my classes for Monday through Thursday, so I only have an 8am on a Friday. Isn't that neat?”
In his first year Ilya had slept through registration and ended up with a 4pm Romantic lit tut every Friday. Shane must have been planning his schedule for ages. He probably had a spreadsheet.
“Impressive, okay, okay, the student has become the master already,” Ilya said, mock-impressed, just to see Shane roll his eyes, flush with happiness despite himself. “What do you even need me for?”
“No, well I —” Shane said, much too fast, eyes widening, “I mean, of course, I —”
“Rozanov,” a nasally voice interrupted, and Ilya had to physically bite down on his molars as he watched a hand land on Shane's shoulder.
Because ah, there it was. The only flaw Shane Hollander had.
His fucking boyfriend.
Evan Patterson. Senior, a year below Ilya, some snooty family friend of the Hollander's, apparently, which is how Shane knew him. All Ilya knew was that he had voted against Patterson joining the team two years ago; nothing personal, he just really wasn't very good on the ice. He always called Ilya Rozanov too, like they had some sort of esteemed rivalry. Before this year, Ilya couldn't really say he cared whether Patterson lived or died, though.
He definitely had a preference now.
“Evan,” Ilya said, voice flat.
“What are you doing here?” Evan said, slipping his arm around Shane's shoulders, and there were many good, normal responses to that question, but as Ilya watched Shane's shoulders draw up to his ears a bit, Evan none the wiser, apparently, Ilya opted for none of those.
“Shane was just telling me what he needed from me.”
Evan's arm tightened, and Shane squeaked.
“If my boyfriend needs anything, Rozanov, he can get it from me,” he grit out, and Ilya grinned, in a way that he knew showed off his canines.
“Evan,” Shane said, voice sharp, getting a hand between himself and his boyfriend and shoving the other man off, finally. “Ilya is just being helpful, stop being a dick.”
Evan stepped back, lifting his hands in the universal geez-what-did-I-do gesture, and Ilya wondered, for a moment, if he could get away with just one murder. Just a little one.
“Anyway, you probably need to go,” Shane said, turning back to Ilya, and then he was fiddling with the strap of his backpack nervously. “Will I — uh, will we see you later? At the party?”
The old Ilya would never have missed an opportunity for a good rager, and the traditional Welcome To The Semester Bash at Marlow's off-campus housing was just that. Girls, boys, booze, disco balls and buzzing speakers and questionable stains on every piece of soft furniture unlucky enough to exist in that godforsaken house.
The old Ilya would have held court like the king he was.
Ilya watched as Shane's lips turned up optimistically at the edges, his eyes big and bright under his lashes as he gazed up at Ilya, waiting for his response like it actually meant something.
“Maybe,” he said, and given the way Shane smiled at him, then, he almost wished he meant it.
The knock on his door was quiet but sure, just after 10pm. Ilya was lying in bed, on top of the covers, shirtless, only in grey sweats, wondering if he should watch a movie or just give in and admit that he was only procrastinating until it was late enough that he didn't have the brain capacity to feel horrendously guilty about jerking off to mental images of Shane Hollander.
Again.
He expected Marlow, or Pike, or one of the other boys on the team, sent at their behest, to fetch the wayward son; drag him to the party against his will and better judgement. He considered just not answering, but — less likely but still possible, it could be a resident who needed help with something; a burst pipe or homesickness or something. Although he really doubted it: no one would really expect him to be sitting home and alone on a Friday night.
Like a fucking loser.
He yanked open the door, some scathing words on his tongue for whoever had been sent to fetch him, only to find —
The very object of his yearning, in the flesh.
“Uh,” Ilya said, like the very cool guy he was, but Shane didn’t look like he noticed.
“Hello,” he breathed, instead, eyes flicking down to Ilya’s chest — once, very quickly, then back up to his face. Shane looked — almost alarmed. “Can I come in?”
“Yes — yes, of course,” Ilya said, stepping back, watching as Shane shuffled inside. He toed off his shoes, and Ilya watched as Shane bent over to adjust them, lining them up neatly next to the haphazard pile of Ilya’s sneakers.
“Are you okay?” Ilya asked, ducking his head a bit to try to get a look at Shane's face when he fiddled a moment too long.
“Yes. No. I mean —” Shane muttered, standing up again, pulling his shoulders back. “Yes, but also, I need your help.”
Ilya frowned, crossing his arms. Okay. Okay, he could do this. He could help. He was an RA, he was responsible and could think with something other than his dick — Shane had a problem, and Ilya could help.
He should probably put a shirt on, shit.
“Shit, sorry, let me put a shirt on —” he started, turning to his dresser, but Shane caught him by the shoulders before he made it very far.
“No, just —” Shane said, then seemed to realize where his hands were all at once, yanking them from Ilya's bare skin like he was a hot potato.
Ilya tried not to stare at the flush that raced up Shane's neck. “No, just — stand there.”
Shane shoved his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans, and Ilya raised his eyebrows.
“Okay,” he said, slowly, carefully.
What the fuck was going on.
Shane took a deep breath; seemed to steel himself.
“I have a problem,” he said — declared, really, to the room.
Ilya nodded, patiently, and it seemed to be the encouragement Shane needed.
“Evan and I —” he started, and Ilya blinked twice, quickly, to avoid doing anything more obvious with his eyebrows. Shane didn't seem to notice. “We've actually only been together two months. I know he doesn't act like it, but — yeah, we got together over the summer. My family was at our summer cottage, his was as well… Same lake, you know how it is.”
Ilya thought he definitely must've committed a great sin in his past life, because there was no other reason why he was suffering though Shane Hollander standing in the middle of his dorm room, dressed like he was on the way to the library instead of a house party, diligently telling Ilya every detail about his relationship with another man.
“Sure, okay,” Ilya said, despite very much having no idea “how it is”.
“And I didn't really date in school, to be honest,” Shane continued, “I was really focused on my academics. And hockey. And I didn't really party much. I tried, but I don't think I liked it. And dating… I didn't really understand how it was all supposed to work, so many rules,” he muttered, almost to himself.
“Hmmm, yes,” Ilya said, and hoped it sounded sincere. Were there rules? Shit, he hadn't noticed.
“Anyway, the bottom line, the real crux of the matter — Jesus Christ —” Shane muttered, looking up at the ceiling, and Ilya tried not to stare at the way his freckles looked against his blush, and then Shane said: “We've never kissed. Evan and I. I've never kissed him.”
He blew out a harsh breath, making eye contact with Ilya again, and Ilya felt glued in place. “I've never kissed anyone.”
Ilya stared at Shane. At those perfect lips twisting into a stoic little pout. Those perfect lips that have never kissed anybody. Nobody knows what Shane tastes like, Ilya thought, through the static of his brain.
That's cool. That's chill. That's fine.
“Huh,” he said, and Shane frowned. It was adorable. “This is your problem? That you have never kissed anyone?”
“Yes!” Shane hissed, like it was obvious, and — okay, okay, we got this. This is fine.
“This is easy problem to solve, Shane,” Ilya said. Then, even though it almost physically pained him: “Kiss your boyfriend.”
Shane moaned, and Ilya tried not to internalize that sound. “What if I'm bad at it?!”
“You are allowed to be bad at things the first time you do them, Shane,” Ilya said, but this just made Shane look at him like he shot his dog, so he tried a different tactic.
“Listen, that man is not going to be noticing whether or not you are ‘good at it’”, he said, making air quotes with his fingers to emphasize how ridiculous this notion was. “He is going to be standing there thinking holy shit, I get to kiss Shane Hollander, I am the luckiest motherfucker in the world.”
Ilya said it so plainly, so flippantly, before he could really think about it. Shane stared at him for a moment, his mouth dropped open, as if he wasn't sure what to say to that, and Ilya thought: oh shit.
“And then you will see it is not so scary, and you will get some practice, and you will learn quickly like you do, and everything will be fine.”
Ilya shrugged, chill. Cool. Calm. Good job, idiot.
But then Shane took a deep breath, and Ilya would never be quite ready for what he said next.
“Okay but what if you — teach me?” Shane asked, glancing up at Ilya through his eyelashes. “Help me practice?”
And oh. Oooooh, this made sense, now. Ilya saw what was happening here. He had died, hit his head playing hockey, probably, his brains spilling out onto the ice at that very moment, while his soul was stuck — wherever this was. Heaven? No, definitely not. Because he was sure in heaven you weren't supposed to feel this — this — temptation.
Ilya must've been quiet a moment too long, because Shane spoke again.
“I just — I know you've been with so many girls, I've heard — stories,” Shane said, much too quick, the tips of his ears pink. “And you're not into guys, right, so it's… fine.”
Ilya stared at him. He wanted to say “who told you I'm not into guys?” He wanted to say “who told you any stories at all?” He wanted to say “what about any of this is fine?”
What he said, instead, was: “What?”
“I just mean — it wouldn't be, like… cheating,” Shane said, devastatingly, his voice a bit quiet on the last word. “If I practiced with you.” He held his hands up suddenly, between them, a bit panicked, maybe. “If you're willing to look past the fact that I'm a… guy. You can close your eyes and imagine I'm a pretty girl.” He bit his lip, then: “I'll be quiet.”
Ilya watched as he chewed on his own bottom lip, the flesh turning red and raw, and pictured it in a different context, one where Ilya was definitely, definitely not thinking about girls as he finally got his mouth on him and Shane tried so, so hard to be quiet, to be a good boy, just for Ilya.
And then Shane opened his pretty little mouth and sealed the deal.
“You've just been so helpful and kind since I got here and I feel like you would… forgive me,” he said, almost a whisper, at the end, looking up at Ilya through his eyelashes, eyes big and wet. “If I was bad.”
And oh, Ilya was a weak, weak man.
Because Shane had clearly gotten the wrong advice from someone along the line.
And as his RA, his mentor and guide in the first year of Shane's college career, he was meant to correct that. Steer his charge clear of such horrible, terrible ideas as asking their “straight” RA to teach them how to kiss behind their boyfriend's back. Say no, malysh, you really don't need to worry about this, your first kiss should be with someone you love and trust and really want to kiss.
“Okay,” he said, instead, and thought that at least he wasn't going to be sent back to Russia.
He was going to be sent straight to hell.
“Oh — okay?” Shane asked, sounding almost — surprised?
“Yes, Hollander, I will help you. I will kiss you. And you will pretend to be pretty girl for me, hmmm?”
Ilya had meant it as a tease, his voice light and playful, trying to put Shane at ease a bit, but he wasn't quite ready for how Shane's breath hitched at the words, sudden and sharp.
Ilya watched the flush run up Shane's neck; the way the other man's gaze flickered from the floor to Ilya's, Shane’s mouth dropping open as if to say something but coming up short, and Ilya felt the air pull tight between them, thrumming like a guitar string.
He slipped his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants; took one lazy step forward, closer to Shane, and watched as Shane took a small step back, his hand lifting to his mouth as he cleared his throat.
Ilya smiled, razor-sharp.
“Should we — sit down?” Shane asked, faux-casual, almost business-like, if not for the way he sounded almost breathless, and Ilya fought to stay standing where he was.
“You think your first kiss is going to happen while you sit down?” Ilya asked, voice low, ducking his head to meet Shane's eyes, the other man looking studiously at the horrible grey carpet again.
“I — I don't know,” Shane said, a little shaky, and Ilya shouldn't have liked that as much as he did.
Ilya took a step forward, again, hands still in his pockets, then another, and Shane matched him perfectly, one small stumble back for every one of Ilya's advances, until Shane's back hit the wall, and Ilya stopped half a foot in front of him.
“No, moy lyubimiy, your first kiss should never be while you sit down,” Ilya murmured, his tone mocking, testing, just — watching, for the reaction that would get him, and he grinned as Shane pressed the palms of his hands flat against the wall behind him.
“No?” Shane asked, biting his lip, and Ilya itched to reach up and thumb that reddened skin from between Shane's teeth, take it between his own instead.
He allowed himself to lean forward only an inch instead, his left hand reaching up to rest against the wall next to Shane's head.
He shook his head, slowly, and Shane's eyes tracked the movement.
“What does that mean?” Shane breathed, and it took Ilya a moment to understand what he meant, “Moy lyu — moy lyub-ee? Mee?”
His accent was atrocious, barely coherent. Ilya grinned, “It means student. My good little student.”
Shane's breath did that little hitch again and Ilya wondered if it would be too soon to just lean forward and bite him.
“Can I touch you?” Ilya asked, instead, and Shane breathed out a yes, swaying forward slightly, but Ilya didn't take the invitation. Instead, he lifted his hand, the one not against the wall, and pressed it against Shane's sternum, pushing him flush against the wall firmly.
Shane's back hit the wall again, and Ilya hadn't pushed very hard at all, but he felt the breath leave Shane's lungs in a whoosh.
They stayed like that, a moment, Shane’s chest still and unmoving under Ilya’s palm, and Ilya saw the way his eyes glazed over just a bit.
He leaned forward, his mouth so close it nearly brushed the shell of Shane’s ear, and he murmured, “Breathe for me, zaychik.”
Ilya felt Shane suck air into his lungs, violent, sudden, all at once, a bit shaky, like he had been waiting for — something. It sounded almost painful.
Ilya rewarded him by smoothing his palm up Shane’s chest, catching the fabric of his t-shirt on the way up, until his fingers met skin; hot, a little clammy, in the hollow of his throat. He let the pads of his fingers linger there, indulgently, running feather-light up the column of Shane’s neck, feeling the goosebumps break out on his nape as Ilya’s hard-earned hockey calluses grazed Shane’s silky-soft skin.
His skincare routine was probably militant.
Ilya leaned back a bit, just enough to make eye contact, and tried not to think too hard about how glassy Shane’s eyes had gone.
“How is this?”
Shane stuttered in a breath, his mouth dropping open, and Ilya felt him swallow, felt his throat click under his fingers.
“Are you going to kiss me now?”
Ilya should chastise him for not answering the question — checking in was important, and it was one of his own rules Ilya rarely broke. But Shane — well, Shane didn’t know, clearly, hardly knew anything about the dark want raging under Ilya’s skin, and there was never a person Ilya was more inclined to break any and all rules for.
So instead, Ilya tilted his head. Wet his lips, and watched as Shane’s eyes tracked the movement. “What makes you think I am not doing that?
“I know what a kiss is,” Shane said, almost petulant, so quick to anger, his eyes darting back up to meet Ilya’s.
“It's —” he started, then seemed to catch himself; realize what he was about to say. “It’s — your lips,” he whispered, almost, his gaze dropping to — “Your mouth. On mine. A kiss.”
He breathed the last two words and it sounded almost like a dream.
Ilya ran his fingers up Shane’s throat; settled them on either side of his jaw, his fingertips flexing against Shane’s skin, pressing dimples into his cheeks. Shane held still, like a good boy.
Ilya bit down on his molars, sucked a deep breath into his lungs and leaned forward to run his nose along the column of Shane’s throat once; just enough to center himself.
“It’s a good thing you came to me, malysh,” he murmured against the fever-hot skin of Shane’s throat, his lips barely a brush of skin on skin on the way up. “You have so much to learn.”
“O — oh?” Ilya felt more than heard the back of Shane’s head hit the wall, watched as the hand he could see clench against the off-white paint, almost as if Shane was holding back, his hands empty and useless and desperate but holding so, so still.
Waiting.
Good boy.
“Hmmmm. A kiss isn't just a kiss, moy lyubimiy,” Ilya hummed, into his ear, burying his nose in Shane’s hair, and he felt the shiver go right through him.
“A kiss is…” Ilya paused, closed his eyes, taking a moment. He felt Shane’s breath on his neck, small hot pants, and finally took a small step closer, allowed himself to give in to the pull, his chest brushing Shane’s t-shirt, finally, finally.
“A kiss is an understanding, that you build, slowly, between your body, and another,” he husked, and Shane’s next exhale was audible, not quite a moan, not quite not, a helpless sound.
“A kiss is waiting, feeling… breathing them in, imagining what it will be like to taste them,” Ilya murmured, and he felt the tension under his fingers, where he was still holding Shane’s face, not like he was trying to move away, or even into it; just like he was a bit unsteady, and Ilya was all that was holding him fast.
“A kiss is anticipation,” Ilya whispered against the shell of his ear, and he felt the answering shiver go right through Shane, trembling under his fingertips.
“Ilya.”
That was a moan, that time, or a whine, maybe, high and thin and dangerous, and Ilya tightened his grip on Shane’s jaw, just enough.
“Good boys wait, Shane,” he said, sharp, maybe sharper than he intended, and Shane made a noise like he had been stung.
Ilya felt it like a physical ache.
“And then, when they have waited just long enough,” Ilya said, softly, patiently, pulling back far enough that he could see Shane’s eyes again, clouded and a bit wet, but close enough that he could feel Shane’s wet breaths on his lips, “when it becomes too much to bear for both of you, the thought of waiting even a second longer —”
Ilya leaned in, leaned in far enough that his lips brushed Shane’s, barely, just barely, with his next words, the contact like a static shock.
“Do you think you have waited long enough, moy lyubimiy?”
“Please.”
Shane’s response was a wish on the wind, swallowed greedily by Ilya’s mouth.
And oh, for a boy so worried that he would be bad, that he would be anything other than breathtaking, he bloomed so beautifully under Ilya’s attention, mouth soft and pliant for Ilya’s tongue. He tasted like ginger ale and mint toothpaste and Ilya wanted to drink him down like a man parched.
Ilya ran his tongue along the roof of Shane’s mouth, and Shane keened, his hands flying up from his sides, finally, landing on Ilya’s bare chest, short sharp nails curling against his pecs, trying to find purchase, find an anchor.
Ilya pulled away, a moment, to give them both space to breathe, but Shane chased his mouth, swayed forward like a magnet, and Ilya planted his hand on Shane’s chest again, pushed him back against the wall, but this time he followed, plastering his body against Shane’s, chest to thigh, and he licked into Shane’s mouth again, merciless, now, demanding.
Shane did not deny him. It was wet and unsophisticated and Shane had no technique but Ilya was drowning in him, in his soft begging sounds, his greedy tongue, his half-breath half-sobs under the pressure of Ilya’s body weight.
“Shane, Shane,” he breathed, between wet presses of their mouths, and then he bit down on Shane’s bottom lip, pressed his thigh between Shane’s, against the undeniable hardness there, and Shane threw his head back against the wall.
The thud echoed through the drywall, and Ilya acted instantly.
“Shit — shit, solnyshko, are you okay?” he asked, pulling Shane towards him and away from the wall, his hand reaching behind Shane’s head to feel for contusions, but Shane’s eyelids fluttered, once, twice — and then he was looking at Ilya with a startling clarity, eyes wide.
“Oh — oh fuck,” he said, pulling away, and in his shock, Ilya let him.
Shane backed up two steps, then another, towards the door, eyes still too-wide, too-clear.
“Thank — thank you!” he said, too neatly, too politely, too loudly, all of a sudden, in Ilya’s room. “This has been uh — very educational, I appreciate it, thank you!”
Ilya stared at him.
Shane bent over, grabbed his shoes, and yanked open the door, practically running into the corridor in socked feet.
The door slammed shut behind him like a death knell.
Ilya stared at it for a moment longer, then stepped to the wall, the one he had pressed Shane Hollander against but twenty seconds earlier, and pressed his own back to it, sliding down until he was sitting on the ugly grey carpet, knees against his chest.
He leaned his head forward, then threw it back, felt the thud in his skull.
Fuck.