Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Chapter 6 

The day after a panic attack was always difficult in the most annoying ways. He felt slow. Not just in that he felt spacey and couldn't focus on his essay that was due on Monday, but slow in his body. Like he was relearning how to use each limb. His jaw was sore, but he could force himself to speak, even though it sort of felt like dragging his feet through cement. He could do it. He could be an adult. 

And it was because he was an adult that he called what happened last night a panic attack—because it couldn't be anything else. He was far, far too old for the meltdowns of his childhood. It was different anyway. As a child it had involved a lot more hitting (himself) and screaming (incoherently) and crying (inconsolably). He'd learned, somewhere between the tired disappointment of his mother and the wide-eyed fear of his classmates, to make these total breakdowns of personhood quiet. Dismissable. Another thing for Shane to shove onto the highest shelves of his mind. 

He made himself go through the motions of life one task at a time. 

He peeled himself out of bed and onto the yoga mat that existed in the singular available space between his bed and his kitchen counter. That helped. He didn't have to think beyond what his trusted holistic yoga guru (a white woman available for free on YouTube) told him to do with his body. Sun sals, chaturanga, warrior, breathe in, breathe out. He was sweating but he took another boiling hot shower to try to hold onto the warmth. He ate his mush without really tasting it. When his neighbor woke up and started playing Brazilian jazz music while they vacuumed (seriously?), he put on his noise-cancelling headphones. He texted his landlord. Any chance the heat will be fixed soon? He venmoed Jasmine and watched his bank account go down to a number that made him vaguely nauseous. Rose called, but he guiltily let it go to voicemail. He wasn't quite there yet. 

That was the last of his meal-prepped mush, so he didn't pack any lunch for himself. He would have to go to the store, but maybe he could skip lunch today since he was supposedly having dinner with Ilya. Then he could go to the store tomorrow, when his payment for weekend tutoring would come in. Shane bit his lip and stared at the singular shaft of sunlight on his cracked tile floor. Would he even be able to afford dinner with Ilya? What if he wanted to go to somewhere high-end where they didn't even put prices on the menu? A part of him suspected that Ilya was going to pay—maybe even not allow Shane to try and pay for his portion, but it felt vaguely dirty to assume that. 

Shane texted Hayden and said, yes, they could hang out on Monday and have 'bro time.' He allowed himself to wear his noise-cancelling headphones during his entire commute to the library because, well, it was Sunday. Who was out mugging people on a breezy Sunday morning in November? His mom would pause her true-crime podcast and fix him with a raised brow. That's exactly what they want you to think, Shane. He allowed himself that small break of the rules anyway. 

He made it to the library unharmed and with little recollection of getting there. He sat down at his table and wrote half his essay in one sitting but if you asked what he just wrote he wouldn't be able to answer. Oh well. It was time for his first tutoring session. A girl named Cassidy from Nevada. Freshman. Constantly confused about why it was cold. Wrote every essay with single-subject sentences and no commas because why use a comma when you could just start another sentence? He had a $10 bet with Hayden that she would drop out by Christmas. He tried his best to help her anyway. She left perhaps a bit peeved at Shane but with a much better essay. B at least. 

"Hey Shane." 

Shane looked up and smiled genuinely for the first time that morning, "Oh, hi Troy." It's a stiff, half-assed smile, but a smile nonetheless. 

Troy had been one of the first people he tutored, back when Shane was a sophomore. At that time, not a lot of students came to him because, well, he was a sophomore. Juniors and seniors felt too much like idiots going to him for help, and freshmen often didn't yet realize that they needed a tutor. After a month, his advisor gave him some feedback that around the writing center, he was perceived as "aloof," "off-putting," "overly-direct," and (the ever-present), "cold." It would have hurt more if it weren't something Shane had already heard. 

Troy never seemed bothered by Shane's direct, unfussy approach to reworking his assignments. In fact, he kept coming back to Shane, week after week, presenting him with an essay or project with a quiet dejectedness of someone who began each assignment assuming he was going to fail. It was sort of endearing to Shane—Troy's shyness and blushing over essays that really were not that bad. Better that than one of the dozen haughty nepobabies who scoffed and rolled their eyes and insisted that no, that incorrect use of punctuation is purposeful, don't you see? It's artistic. 

Troy even started recommending Shane until he was basically tutoring the entire university hockey team through ENGL-101 and 102, econ, and art history. To the surprise of almost no one, college athletes normally owe a lot to their local tutors. He could probably get very nice tickets to almost any university sporting event if he asked around. He didn't really have the time, but it was a nice thought. 

Plus, Troy was nice. After their allotted 30 minutes to an hour, they'd keep talking—normally about hockey, or weird customers Shane had to deal with at work, or Troy's useless advisor, or any number of meaningless things. Sometimes Troy even brought him a coffee. Shane supposed they were friends, sort of. They only saw each other during tutoring or one of Hayden's parties and at those Troy would slap him on the back in that weird, bro-ish way that always seemed strained coming from Troy. Or maybe it was just another normal thing Shane couldn't get used to. I mean, why can't we just say hi and be done with it? Why do we have to hit each other? 

Troy settled into the seat across from Shane and looked wearily at the excessively underlined and highlighted book he had open, set on top of a dense article (printed out and stapled together, of course) for architecture. 

"Jesus," he said, grimacing like he felt sorry for Shane, "Do I even wanna know what you're doing over there, or is it gonna make me feel stupid?" 

"That depends," Shane yawned and capped his pen (Pilot), "Does Russian poetry or..." he glanced at the article name again, "...examining vernacular architecture through the lens of landscape make you feel stupid?" 

Troy scratched the back of his neck, "Uh, maybe a bit, yeah." 

Shane shot him a look, "You're not stupid." They'd had this conversation before. 

"You might take that back once I show you this," Troy sighed, getting out his laptop and pulling up whatever it was Shane was supposed to look at today. 

"I doubt that," Shane replied, like he always did. He took off his glasses and started wiping at the lenses, biting his lip thoughtlessly as he did so. He didn't notice Troy staring at him for five seconds too long before he reddened and looked away. 

He slipped his glasses back on. Troy flipped his laptop around and Shane moved his notebook to the side to make room, trying to will his mind into Tutoring Mode rather than the sleepy, syrupy slowness he was still trying to shake off. 

"I can't believe you still do that." 

Shane glanced up, "Do what?" 

Troy motioned to the notebook, the page nearly black with Shane's handwriting, "Write everything by hand. I'd lose my mind. I guess you're really committed to the tortured scholar thing?" 

"Oh," Shane hummed, looking back at Troy's computer, "Yeah, something like that." Sure, it was an aesthetic choice and not because he'd sold his computer for rent money his second semester. 

Troy was thankfully quiet for the next few minutes while Shane read through the essay. He watched Shane, engrossed, focused, his chin resting on his hand. He has a new coat today, Troy thought. 

Eventually, Shane glanced over with a confused look, "Are you sure this is the right one? It seems already done." 

"It is—basically done, I mean..." Troy smiled in that embarrassed sort of way he always did around Shane, "It just makes me feel better for you to look it over before I turn it in."

"Oh," Shane nodded distractedly, "You probably already know what I'm going to say about it." 

"Rework the introduction and stop saying the word 'interesting' so much?" 

"Yes," he handed the laptop back, "but you'd probably get an A even if you turn it in as is." 

"Only because I've got the best tutor."

Shane rolled his eyes but the corners of his mouth lifted into a tired smile. Who didn't enjoy a bit of academic praise on a Sunday morning? "Thanks, Troy." 

"Hey, uh," Troy shifted in his seat, "Are you busy tonight?" 

Shane blinked, "Tonight?" 

"Yeah. Tonight? Because—if you're not—I was wondering if maybe you wanted to come to the game?" 

Shane glanced at Troy's knee under the table, where he knew there was a brace, "Aren't you on IR still?" 

Troy scratched the back of his neck again, "Yeah, but I still go if I don't have PT. You know. Support everyone..." he trailed off, his face looking a little pink. Shane supposed it was warm in here. 

"Jackie will probably be there," Troy continued when Shane didn't immediately answer, like this would entice him to go. And truthfully, any other night he would go. 

"Um, I can't tonight, actually. I have...dinner plans." Shane said apologetically. Dinner plans. Yes, that was factual. Date felt presumptuous. Ilya had never said date. Wasn't it sort of more like a business meeting anyway? How did someone know if they were going on a date?

Shane didn't notice Troy visibly deflate in his seat, "Oh, right. With Rose?" 

Like Shane, Rose also loved hockey. On the rare occasions their schedules aligned, they would attend university games together. Shane also brought her around Hayden's parties if he was ever roped into going because Rose was fun, and loud, and if Shane was with her, people might not notice that he hadn't said anything for the past ten minutes or the awkward way he was holding the beer he didn't want. There was also that time when Rose had a brief but explosive fling with Luch, the goalie, which incurred a shutout streak of six games. While this made for entertaining hockey, it also meant that the entire team begged Rose to please, please get back with Luch so we can win state. Please Rose? We know he's an idiot but the team needs you now. Rose did not get back with Luch. They lost the next five games. 

"Not with Rose—with someone I met the other day, actually." Shane found himself saying. He realized belatedly that Troy was the first person he was telling this to and that he should probably call Rose back and ask her if he was going on a date. 

Troy's brows lifted, "Wow. Shane Hollander has a date? Does Hayden know?" 

Shane rolled his eyes good-naturedly, "You know Hayden's just my friend, right? Not my dad or my older brother or something?" 

Troy shrugged, "Maybe you should tell that to him. And warn this guy that if he fucks up, Hayd will bring out the shotgun." 

"He would never have a shotgun." 

"It's more of a metaphorical shotgun." 

Shane huffed a laugh despite himself, and if Troy seemed a bit put out that Shane was busy, he looked pleased to see Shane laugh.

Troy ran a hand through his long brown hair before he continued quietly, "I'm serious, though. Hayden loves you. He still won't even talk to Kent." 

"Oh," Shane flushed with embarrassment, "Sorry. I didn't mean to cause problems in the locker room." 

"Shane, no," Troy shook his head immediately, "You don't need to worry about that shit, okay? We all know he was an idiot for fucking it up with you." 

What we had was good. Y'know? I was being stupid. C'mon baby. Come back to my place after work.

Shane avoided Troy's eyes and swallowed, "Right. Yeah." 

"Anyway," Troy continued after a beat, "Who's the lucky guy? Anyone I know?" 

Shane did his best to snap out of his reprieve. He started stacking his notebooks neatly on top of one another, "I don't think so. Ilya Roznov? He's not a student—" 

Troy choked on nothing and started coughing hard enough that a few people looked over to give him a dirty look. 

"Uh, are you—?" 

"Rozanov?" Troy gasps out, his eyes watering, "You're sure that's his name? Ilya Rozanov?" 

"...Yes? Do you know him or something?" 

"He's—" Troy stops himself and takes deep breath. He seems to be choosing his words very carefully, his posture suddenly stiff as he leans over the table toward Shane, "Our families know each other." 

"Oh, cool," Shane says, and starts clicking his pilot pen idly, "That's a weird coincidence. What does your dad do again?" 

Troy looked momentarily struck dumb before he said stiffly, "Business. You know. Finance and stuff." 

"Right," Shane nodded. What was with everybody having a rich dad involved in some vague, amorphous business? At least Rose could actually describe what her mom and dad did for a living. "So, you've met Ilya?" 

"Not...directly. But you—he just—" Troy scrubbed a hand over his face, "He's taking you out to dinner?" 

"Mhm," Shane nodded, and waited for Troy to say something else. He didn't. He just kept staring at Shane in an oddly panicked way. Finally, Shane huffed, "What?"

"Don't go to dinner with him." 

"...Why?" 

"Just—" Troy dragged both hands through his hair in agitation, "Shane. That guy is bad news. You shouldn't talk to him." 

"Oh, I see," Shane said drily, "You're the one with the shotgun." 

"It's not like that. I'm serious. He's not a good guy." 

"Didn't you just say you've never met him?" 

Troy groaned, "But—that's not—" 

Shane's chest felt warm. Suddenly, he realized, he was getting pissed off. He fixed Troy with a look that would have made Yuna Hollander proud, "Troy, can you give me an actual reason not to go to dinner with Ilya?" 

Troy seemed pinned by Shane's raised brow and unimpressed look. It wasn't often he was on the receiving end of Stern Shane. He had only really known Sweet Shane, Socially Awkward Shane, and Shane when he's had too much to drink and starts rattling off hockey statistics going back to 1917. This was not any of those.

"I just know he's a bad guy, okay? Can you trust me on this?" 

Shane huffed a laugh without any humor and started shoving all of his books, notebooks, articles, and pilot pens back into his bag, "Look, I know I didn't exactly do myself any favors with Dallas, but I'm not a total idiot, okay? I can decide that shit for myself." He supposed this was what he got for dating Dallas. Now everyone thought he needed to be saved from making another bad decision. He could only imagine what he was going to have to hear from Hayden tomorrow. 

"Shane—that's not—" 

"I have to go. Email me if you need more help with your essay." 

He didn't have to go, but Troy was pissing him off and making his headache worse. It didn't help that Shane was hungry but didn't want to spend the money on lunch. He grabbed Ilya's coat without putting it on and left Troy at the table, looking like a kicked puppy. He only felt guilty about it once he'd reached the design room and pulled his model off the shelf. He punished himself for being rude by cutting more herringbone for his miniature floor. Troy didn't email. 

----

In a moment of desperation, Shane slipped into the workroom reserved for the Professors in the art building. He took a singular banana and a stale granola bar. Back in the design room, he glanced around, waiting for someone to stand up and point at him. I know that's not your banana! No one did. When the only other person working put up their model and left, Shane called Rose to confess. She told him it's probably okay, and would he like her to doordash something to the front lobby?

"No. Thank you—but there's something else I need to ask you." 

"Okay," Rose said easily, "Does it have something to do with your sugar daddy? Because, Shane, I've been dying to know—" 

Shane bit into his granola bar guiltily, "He's not my sugar daddy." 

Rose groaned, "Please tell me you didn't tell the hot, rich guy who has taken an interest in you to fuck off. I mean—unless he was weird about it. Was he weird about it? And—" 

"We're going to dinner," Shane blurted, "Or—he's taking me to dinner? I don't know. There's going to be dinner. Tonight. He's...picking me up." 

A squeal came out of Shane's cracked phone and echoed in the empty design room, "Oh my god! A sugar daddy and a gentleman!" 

Shane stared at his herringbone. Something about spending hours cutting tiny pieces of cardboard made him feel morbid, "Or maybe he's a serial killer." 

Rose laughed, "If you really thought that you wouldn't have said yes." 

That was probably true. "Yeah..." Shane sighed, staring absently at the half-built walls of his model, "It's just...Troy said something weird to me this morning. And last night—" Shane's jaw locked up the second he thought about telling Rose what Dallas did. He would tell her. Probably. But she would be so upset. She would make it out to be something more than it was and Shane just didn't want to deal with that right now. Especially when Troy's words had sort of broken open some doubt in Shane's mind. Doubt that he hadn't wanted to examine too closely. He thought Ilya seemed like a good guy. He thought he seemed different from Dallas. 

But there had been a time when he thought Dallas was a good guy too. So what did his perception of people really mean, at the end of the day?

"What did Troy say?" Rose asked gently. Shane jolted. He must have been silent for too long. 

"After tutoring, we were talking, and Troy asked if I wanted to go to the game tonight, and I said I couldn't because, you know, I have dinner plans, and Troy started asking questions about it—about Ilya. And then he told me Ilya is a bad person and I shouldn't be around him." 

There was rustling over the phone. He imagined Rose sitting up straighter on her couch, "What? How does he know that?" 

"He said their families know each other. But when I asked, like, what exactly do you mean he's a bad person, how do you know that—he didn't answer. Troy said I was just supposed to trust him, and that—just—God that really pissed me the fuck off. Like I get it, okay? I know everyone thinks I'm fucking stupid for dating Dallas but I don't need to be coddled—" 

"No one thinks you're stupid, Shane. That's like, the last word I would ever use to describe you."

Shane sighed, "Thank you." 

"Of course. But, is that really why you think Troy said that?" 

"Well...yeah. Why else would he have said that? He got a fucking front row seat to the whole thing. I bet he had to hear about it from Dallas." Shane paused in mortification. He had never thought about it in depth, but it was entirely plausible that Dallas had talked about Shane—complained about him, shit-talked him, whatever—to the rest of the team. He wouldn't care that those were Shane's friends too. In fact, Shane thought dimly, he would probably like that. How much had he been embarrassed without even knowing about it? 

He knew if Dallas had done something like that, Hayden would never, ever tell him. But it would explain his continued hate for Dallas. Shit. 

"Troy has had a crush on you for years. There's no way you didn't notice that." Rose was saying over the phone. Casually. Like she was talking about the weather. 

Shane was shocked out of his spiraling thoughts, "What? He—" Shane laughed incredulously, "No he doesn't. He's not even gay." 

"Oh my god," Rose said, "Please tell me you're joking. Troy is so obvious about it. I mean, Shane, why do you think he comes to your tutoring hours when his GPA is not even that much lower than yours?" 

Shane said the obvious, "I don't know! Because he's insecure about his spelling?" 

There was only laughter on the other side of the phone. 

"There's no way he..." Shane trailed off as he ran through the past two or so years of tutoring Troy Barrett. He had never heard about Troy with guys but that didn't really mean anything. He knew through Hayden that Troy didn't have a great relationship with his dad. Maybe that was part of it? Was it frowned upon for business conglomerate heirs to be gay? Shane pictured Troy, shyly handing over his laptop, bringing Shane coffee, inviting him to games...

"Oh, fuck," Shane said, "Was he asking me on a date?" 

More giggling. "Yes Shanebug." 

Well. At least Troy didn't think he was stupid based on his previous romantic escapades. In worse news, he'd attempted to....what? Keep Shane for himself by claiming Ilya was an awful person? That was still fucking annoying. 

"So, Troy said that because he was..." 

"Jealous? Possessive? Horny? Take your pick." 

"Gross." 

"Yeah. It's tough being so desirable, huh?" 

"Fuck off," Shane replied, but he was laughing a little bit. He felt lighter than he had in a while. 

They talked for a while longer while Shane worked. For a long time actually. About the job Ilya was maybe going to give him and the coat and giving back the money and the bracelet. Shane didn't explicitly talk about the Dallas Incident but he did admit that he was tired of working at the same place as his ex. If Rose thought it was odd that he'd reached this conclusion seemingly between one night and the next, she didn't push. She assured Shane that Ilya taking him to dinner had all the markings of a date, but if he was confused, he should just ask. Like it was that simple, he thought. 

It wasn't just about him though. Rose had plenty of her own problems to run by Shane. Not because he had solutions but because what was friendship if not calling someone up to bitch about everyone else? Her asshole stage manager and her idiot THTR—310 Professor and the guy who lingered outside her apartment building and yelled slut at everyone leaving—but only if they were ginger. 

"I mean, at this point I'm seriously considering dying my hair or something. Or wearing a wig." 

Shane yawned and peeled a piece of glue off his finger, "Just wear a big hat." 

"I feel like he'd know. He'd sense my red hair and know I was a whore." 

It was so stupid. And sort of scary. They laughed deliriously about it anyway. Before Shane knew it, the light filtering into the design room had turned golden, slotting against the peeling window frames so that he could see the dust floating in the air. He could card his hands through it and watch it scatter. His stomach clenched with hungry but at least he was warm from laughing, so he didn't feel it so much. His phone buzzed. 

Ilya: I am here. You have not come down from the rafters yet? 

"Fuck," Shane said, checking the time, "I've gotta go Rose, sorry." 

"Okay!" She said over the phone, "Enjoy your date! Use protection!" 

"Rose—"

Her laughter was cut off as she hung up. 

Shane: Fuck, sorry. I'm not at the library, I'm in the design room

Shane: Just give me like two minutes and I'll be there

Ilya: Is okay. What building? I come to you

He bit his lip hard. If this was a first date, he wasn't off to a great start. 

Shane: MacDaves. Third floor

Ilya: Don't rush. Am coming 

Ilya: ;)

For the next few minutes, Shane attempted to be very Focused on his model but found himself unable to commit to any one task before he was looking at the door. He cut another piece of herringbone. Stupid fucking herringbone—

The door swung open. 

It was absurd really. The way he looked. Seeing him gave Shane a similar feeling to one he'd had the one time he'd been persuaded into riding a rollercoaster. The sort of feeling that started in his stomach and worked its way up until he was dizzy. Ilya stood in a shaft of sunlight that painted him all oranges and pale yellows. His hair glowed. Those fucking curls. Shane could see the pale blue of his eyes even as Ilya squinted across the room. His gaze landed on Shane immediately and he smiled. Sharp, bright white teeth and a grin that said, I know exactly what I'm doing to you. His necklace glinted faintly as he walked over, teasing. How did his hips move like that when he walked? 

All black again. The too-tight button-up and nice shoes. Coat on his arm. Shane suddenly felt unbelievably underdressed in his jeans and worn blue sweater. No, it was worse than that. He was wondering why the fuck this guy had ever given him the time of day. Shane resisted the urge to tug at his too-long hair self-consciously. It was starting to brush the back of his neck. 

"Hi," Ilya said, that deep rolling accent sending Shane to his feet and out of his horny, staring reprieve.

"Hey," Shane said back, willing his cheeks not to warm over one fucking word, "Sorry. I lost track of time." He looked away from Ilya's amused face and started cleaning up. 

He heard Ilya shrug, "Is okay. I'm not in a rush." 

"Okay," Shane said, a little breathlessly. He swept bits of particle board and glue into his hand and then into the trash. He bit his lip hard enough to bruise. 

"Shane." Ilya said this quietly, in a whisper-thin way that Shane's heart beat impossibly faster. 

"Mhm?" he replied, strained, still refusing to look at Ilya again. 

Ilya's warm, callused hand brushed against Shane's and he stopped his frenzied cleaning. Not grabbing. Not demanding. Instead of relief, Shane felt something like disappointment. Before he could think better of it, he was curling his fingers. Not quite interlacing their hands but doing something like holding. His body telling Ilya, before he could even think it, more. Please. 

Ilya must have understood because he stepped closer, around the corner of the metal work table which had been safely between them. He took Shane's hand fully, brought it closer. Something happened when confronted with the broad expanse of Ilya's body. Even completely clothed. Suddenly Shane was doing things that had never come naturally to him before. He was unhooking their hands and bringing his palm to the slight jut of Ilya's hip. Sturdy, warm, even through his slacks. Something changed in the way Ilya was breathing. He leaned imperceptibly closer. Shane only knew because they were standing so close and he was watching the up and down movement of his chest. Alive, alive, alive. Both of them. He couldn't stop staring at the cross, winking between Ilya's collar bones. He didn't even flinch when one of Ilya's hands started rubbing lightly across his arm, his shoulder. Like Shane might be cold and Ilya was rubbing in some warmth. Like he wasn't already on fire. 

Ilya's other hand landed on Shane's waist—not featherlight this time. Firm. His fingers squeezing a little like he was kneading the skin there. Like he was saying I have you with his palm. Shane almost gasped into it, his lips parting slightly. Why was that one sensation making his brain go absolutely, blissfully, silent? 

He couldn't help himself now. Shane glanced up, his lashes fluttering, needing to see Ilya's face. Shane catalogued his quirked lips and his darkened eyes before his brain could arrange the whole picture. Ilya had that same surprised look on his face he'd had when Shane had called him an asshole in the courtyard. Was that only two days ago? Except now Shane was not pissed off or surrounded by dead flowers and cracked concrete. He was smiling a little too. Shyly. He was in the sun. He could smell paint and glue and pine and that little bit of sweetness underneath. 

Was Ilya cataloguing him too? His eyes were so much darker up close, the blue a pale ring taken over by black. His lashes the same blonde of his hair. He seemed much younger this way. No haughty lift of his brow, no cloying smirk. Shane realized, with a small shiver, that this was the first time they had ever been alone. Not in the courtyard. Not on the street. Not in the library. They were still in public, yes, but...no one else was here. 

Ilya must have felt that shiver because he rubbed harder at Shane's arms. Pushing little circles of warmth through Shane's clothes. He felt oddly settled. How long had they been standing like this? Sharing each other's warmth in silence and just...looking? The thought came and passed by. A cloud batted away from Shane's mind by Ilya's hand. 

"Better?" Ilya hummed after a while, the word a slight shock after so long listening to each other's breaths and the distant sounds of the world going on around them. But it was Ilya's voice, so Shane didn't mind. 

"Yes," he nodded, and it was true. He felt infinitely better than he had even before his panic attack yesterday. He'd started rubbing the fabric of Ilya's shirt between his fingers. It was really soft. Good quality. Rose would appreciate it. 

"Good," Ilya nodded and bent to catch Shane's gaze, which had dipped, embarrassingly, to the curve of Ilya's jaw, "Still want to go to dinner?" 

"Yeah. Why? Do you?" 

Ilya squeezed his waist again, like he could hear the little bit of anxiety in that question, "Of course. You just seem like you were freaking out, maybe. When I come in. Maybe you don't want to go anymore but are too Canadian to tell me." The last bit was teasing, but, was it possible there was some anxiousness in Ilya's voice too? 

Shane huffed a laugh, "No. No I just..." he bit his lip, his gaze sliding away from Ilya, "I just don't like not understanding...things. Not knowing." 

"What don't you understand?" 

"Is this a date?" Shane blurted, looking down at their shoes, blushing up to his ears, "I mean, are you—" 

"Yes," Ilya interrupted, and Shane's gaze shot up, "It is. And I am." He looked so serious. Almost a little pained. He stopped rubbing circles into Shane and instead tucked a stray lock of black hair behind Shane's ear. Was he holding his breath? 

Shane tried to link Troy's words from earlier to this man. Warm, and wonderous, and for the first time, a little shy. He wondered how Troy could have ever thought Shane would believe him. 

He opened his mouth to say something—he doesn't know what—probably something embarrassing and far too earnest. Before he could even start though, his stomach growled astonishingly loud in the quiet room. Like, rumbled. 

Ilya threw his head back in a startled laugh while Shane flushed, but really he couldn't help but laugh a little too. Ilya brushed his knuckles over Shane's nose in a way that was fond and mildly condescending, "Hungry, maybe?" 

Shane rolled his eyes, "Fuck you." 

"Not very nice to your date, hm?" Ilya clicked his tongue, "Always forgetting your polite Canadian ways." He squeezed playfully, tugging Shane closer until the tops of their thighs were brushing, until Ilya's lips were so close that Shane couldn't help but look at them. What would happen if he just...leaned forward?

He tore his eyes upward instead, and asked a little breathlessly, "Where are you taking me anyway?" 

Ilya smiled like he knew what Shane was thinking. He played along, "Is surprise." 

"I don't like surprises." 

"Boring." 

"Fuck you." 

Ilya winked, "Dinner first." 

Shane tensed a bit, anxiety bleeding back in with that...implication. He swallowed. Dallas's words washed over him like a bucket of ice water. We both know that guy is going to get tired of you and your...problem.

"Ready? Car is downstairs." Ilya was saying, one hand sliding off, the other going to the small of Shane's back. That guiding pressure behind him lit an uncomfortable feeling under Shane's skin and he stepped out of Ilya's grasp. Stumbled more like. Ilya let him. 

"Yeah, um, let me just put this up," Shane said a little thinly, nodding to his model. He braced himself for Ilya to be offended—for him to greet Shane's brief moment of uncomfortability with an eye roll or a confused frown. He didn't. He just cocked his head and leaned his elbows on the table. He was examining the miniature house, half done on the table. Shane watched him examine it without moving. 

After a second, Ilya bent his head to get a closer look at it, "This is your drawing. From before." 

Shane blinked in surprise, "Oh. Yeah, actually. Not done yet though. I mean, obviously..." 

"I like the floor," Ilya said, nodding to the herringbone, the tiny pieces of cardboard meticulously painted and cut and slotted together. 

Despite himself, Shane blushed a little at the praise, "Yeah?" 

"Yes," Ilya straightened, "You make for class?" 

Shane nodded, "I'm a senior, so, get to do more fun assignments this semester." 

"Ah. Yes. Making tiny paper houses. Very fun." 

"Fuck you," Shane huffed, but he was smiling a little as he picked up the model to store on the shelves. He slid it under Shane H. "It's more fun getting to make a house I like rather than a stupid office building or something." 

Ilya followed him to the shelf, "So this is your house?" 

"Sure, if I had about five million dollars." 

"Hm. And this five million dollar house, where will it be?" 

"Like, where would I build it?" Shane asked, laughing a little at the ridiculousness of the thought. Ilya continued to follow him while he gathered his things. Never behind him. Always by his side or in his periphery. Now a little space kept between them. His stomach clenched. Was he glad or angry? He wanted Ilya to touch him again. He didn't want that too-tight feeling under his skin. He was struck by a sudden, furious hatred for his own body. Why can't you just be normal? 

"Yes," Ilya said as they made their way out of the building, holding open every door before Shane could even reach the handle, "Where would you build it?"

His first inclination was to say I don't know. But that's not true. He knew exactly where. 

"My parents used to have a cottage a little north of Ottawa. I'd put it there. Let them retire in it." 

For the first half of the sentence, Ilya looked like he might make fun of him. In the end, his brow quirked a little and he said, "You give your five million dollar house to your parents?" 

They stepped out onto the sidewalk. After being inside (where the radiator worked) for so long, the cold breeze hit him like a slap to the face. Shane burrowed deeper into Ilya's coat. He didn't notice the pleased look Ilya had. Shane just shrugs, "I mean, yeah. They're my parents, you know?" 

Ilya hummed, giving Shane an appraising look before jutting his chin to the left, "This way." 

Shane followed Ilya down the sidewalk, dodging the few students still scampering around campus at six o'clock on a Sunday. A black car appeared, tinted to a point that seemed excessive, even for rich, business conglomerate heirs. Ilya went to the back seat and opened the door for Shane to slide inside. He didn't know a thing about cars. He hardly ever needed to drive them, except during summer break, but even he could tell that this was a very, very nice car. 

Not to mention the driver behind the wheel, which Shane realized was Ivan. 

"Oh," Shane said awkwardly as Ilya shut the door and went around to the other side, "Hi." 

Ivan looked at him through the rearview mirror as if Shane had somehow broken the script by acknowledging him. He coughed and then said, heavily accented, "Hello." 

They were spared any awkward small talk by Ilya sliding into the back seat next to Shane. He looked Shane over—in his car, in his coat—and grinned before telling Ivan in Russian to "start fucking driving." 

"What?" Shane asked, amused by Ilya's good mood. He almost seemed...giddy? 

Ilya shrugged and sprawled in his seat casually, like he wasn't just smiling like a maniac, "Nothing." But he kept looking Shane over, Ilya's sharp eyes lingering on his face to the point that Shane had to look away to hide his blush. 

"If you start making out in the backseat, I will shoot myself," Ivan said as he pulled into traffic. 

Shane was glad he was looking away so he had a chance to hide his reaction. Should he tell them he knew a little Russian...?

"You would think it was hot if we did," Ilya replied, tapping his fingers idly on his knee and Shane tried not to choke on air.

"Fuck you. No I wouldn't," Ivan honked the horn aggressively and then glanced in the rearview mirror at Ilya, "He is wearing the coat." 

"Yes," Ilya smirked. 

Ivan huffed a dry laugh, "You're fucking gone." 

"Jealous." 

"No I'm fucking not. Ask Mikhail to drive you to your dates next time." 

"Ah, but you are so much more fun Vanya." 

Ivan waved a hand through the air like he was dismissing this, "You are—what is the fucking word Sveta said?" 

Ilya shrugged innocently. 

Ivan switched to heavily accented English in order to say thickly, "Rage baiting." 

"No, I have never done this," Ilya said, but the laugh immediately following that statement was suspect. He looked over at Shane, smiling like he would be laughing too. And he almost was—but he couldn't, because neither of them knew he studied Russian. And really, Shane thought, he should tell them. Was it fucked up that he hadn't mentioned it yet? Would Ilya be mad? 

"Sorry," Ilya said in English (he did not look sorry), "Ivan's English is not good. We are only talking about work. Boring." 

Shane blinked at him. Wow, okay. So it was going to be like that. He smiled back at Ilya, "Oh. It's fine." 

I mean, they were talking about him! In front of his face! It couldn't be that fucked up not to say anything....

"Are you telling him about how you spent all day today freaking the fuck out over one dinner date?" Ivan asked smugly. 

"Shut up. No I wasn't." 

"Sveta said you called her about it three different times today." 

Ilya kneed the back of Ivan's seat, "Shut up."

Ivan started laughing, looking extremely pleased with himself, and said again in English, "Rage baiting." 

Ilya was nervous for dinner? Apparently, to the point that even his coworkers (employee? assistant?) noticed. Shane had a hard time imagining Ilya being nervous about anything—he'd thought he was too arrogant for that—but he'd been talking to someone—Sveta—about a simple dinner. Had he been talking to Sveta just like Shane had been talking to Rose? 

The thought had Shane saying, "His English sounds just fine to me." 

Ilya looked at him in surprise while Ivan gave a noise that meant something like yes! Thank you! 

"Shane," Ilya said, "Do not feed Ivan's ego." 

"It can't be any worse than yours." 

"Oh, okay," Ilya nodded, "So you are the asshole." 

Shane laughed, "No, that's still you." 

The car stopped (parked egregiously in the bike lane, of course) and Ivan pulled out a cigarette. He eyed Ilya with something that looked suspiciously like happiness, but it was hard to tell with the Slavic frowning of it all. "Gone," Ivan repeated pointedly, looking between them in the mirror. He lit his cigarette and started scanning the sidewalk silently. 

Yeah, Shane definitely wasn't saying anything about his Russian just yet. 

----

"You like mozzarella stick?" 

Shane glanced up from the sticky plastic menu he was holding. Ilya was looking at him very seriously from the other side of their booth. 

"Um, they're okay." 

Ilya's foot nudged against his playfully, "'Okay?' They are like, only good thing Americans invented." 

Shane's mouth twitched. He had been surprised when Ilya led him into what was basically a sports bar, it seemed. Green booths. Lots of wood and yellow light. Plenty of people around, but not too loud. It was the sort of place he and Hayden might go if Shane had a few extra bucks in his bank account.

And best of all, they had hockey playing on one of the TV's near their table. 

"I'm pretty sure mozzarella sticks were invented in France." 

Ilya feigned a yawn, "This is what they teach you at your fancy university?"

"No," Shane answered, "Canadian, remember? France is sort of...involved." What the fuck? Why did you say it like that? Obviously he knows France and Canada have a historical relationship. Idiot.

Ilya was silent for a long moment, during which Shane thought through how he could have said that sentence better. Eventually, Shane looked up fully. Ilya had leaned back against the booth, one too many buttons undone on his shirt (is hot in here, yes? He'd said when they'd walked in, winking). Now, he was staring at Shane with half-lidded eyes, "You speak French?" 

"Well, yeah." 

Ilya licked his lips, "Tell me something in French." 

Shane lifted a brow, "Do you know French?" 

"You think while I am learning English I just decide to learn useless language like French?" 

"If it's useless, why do you want to hear me speak it?" 

"Because," Ilya said, sucking his coke straw between his lips sinfully, "Would be hot." 

Jesus Christ. Maybe Ilya was right and it was kind of fucking hot in here. Shane resisted the urge to press the back of his hand against his cheeks and opted to white-knuckle the menu instead. He bit his lip and then said, "Je n'ai aucune idée de la raison pour laquelle tu fais tout ça. Mais je suis vraiment heureux."

He watched Ilya's throat bob. His voice was rough when he said, "What did you say?" 

Shane forced himself to look back at the menu and shrug, "That's you're an asshole."

Ilya laughed and hooked his leg around Shane's. He didn't resist. He sort of liked the contained pressure of it. The warmth of Ilya's leg against his. It made him start thinking about the warmth of the rest of Ilya's body. He wondered if Ilya would be as affected by his French as Shane was by his Russian. What would it feel like to brush his lips against Ilya's ear? To whisper into his curls? To—

"What do you want then, ah?"

Shane startled out of his thoughts. "What?" he squeaked. 

Ilya smirked knowingly, "To eat?" 

"Oh," Shane drew in a shaky breath, "A salad, I think. And maybe..." 

"What?" 

"Nothing. Never mind." 

"Shane. Tell me what else you want." 

Any other time, with any other person, Shane would have bristled at the command. But with Ilya, it was like he took the stubborn switch in Shane's brain and switched it off with a few heated looks and rolling vowels. 

"...Artichoke dip?" 

Ilya made a face, "What?" 

"We don't have to—"

"Choking? What the fuck kind of food is on this menu?" Ilya's face turned sly, "Unless you want—"

Nope. Not finishing that sentence. "It's a vegetable." 

"So boring Hollander," Ilya groaned, and then looked over Shane's shoulder. He gestured with a jut of his chin and, miraculously, a waitress appeared. 

"What can I get you, Mr. Rozanov?" she asked, her pen already poised to take their orders. 

"Amelia," Ilya smiled, all charm, "How is your father?" 

"Better, Mr. Rozanov," Amelia answered, but her eyes seemed to shutter for a second. Maybe Ilya's charm didn't work on everyone. 

"Good," Ilya nodded, "We will have mozzeralla sticks and this—what is it? Choking vegetable dip?" 

"Artichoke dip," Shane supplied with an apologetic smile to Amelia. 

"Yes, this. We will also have cheeseburger, more water for Shane, and..." 

Ilya continued to order, and Amelia nodded intermittently with Yes Mr. Rozanov and Of course Mr. Rozanov every now and then. It was a little bit odd, to Shane. I mean, he worked in hospitality, and this amount of niceness was a little much even for someone angling for a good tip. He wondered if it was a rich people thing. His stomach clenched. He really hoped Ilya wasn't the sort of rich person to treat restaurant staff badly. 

Amelia's pen was shaking. 

She was totally and completely calm. Smiling sweetly at Ilya. Promising to bring him the "good" vodka from the back rather than the shit behind the bar. But her hands were shaking. Was she okay? He kind of wanted to ask her but she wouldn't meet his eye. Shane found himself glancing around, only to realize a lot of people in the bar were already watching them. When he met their eyes, they quickly looked at Ilya and then away. 

What the fuck? 

When she walked away, Shane turned to Ilya, "Do you think she was okay?" 

Ilya blinked, "What do you mean?" 

"I dunno," Shane sipped his water, "She seemed nervous." 

Ilya was oddly still for a second before he shrugged, "Of course. I'm very handsome. This is a normal reaction." 

"Uh-huh," Shane scoffed, "So, you know her family?" 

Ilya's foot started to tap unevenly under the table, "Mhm." 

"So—" 

"We should talk about your job," Ilya said suddenly, planting his elbows on the table. His forearms strained against his shirt. 

"Oh," Shane said, glancing over at the hockey game playing above the bar, "Yeah. Sure." Ottawa Centaurs were playing. They were up by two, but Shane doubted it would last. 

"Okay. This is my offer," Ilya said, clasping his hands and leaning across the table. Was this how Ilya looked during business meetings? His shirt undone and his hair curling in the humidity? "Library. Rare books room. You will work part-time. You will do a good job. And if, sometimes, I want to give you gifts for your hard work, you will accept." 

Rare books room. Holy fucking dream job. That was like the job, coveted by everyone in Shane's cohort. Dust jackets. Organizing manuscripts and articles only needed by the most obscure grad students studying shit like medieval children's jewelry and medical practices of Slavic monks in the 11th century. Latex gloves. And the silence. God, it was always oppressively silent in the rare books room. It was perfect. A warm blanket wrapped around Shane which smothered that irritating headache that accompanied too many noises. And he would never, ever, have to smile and make small talk. If anything, people would think it was weird if he wasn't aloof and sullen. 

It was also utterly impossible. 

Shane tried not to seem too disappointed. He shook his head, "I can't work part-time." 

"You are in school. You should focus on that." 

"No, I..." Shane's cheeks flushed, "I mean, I can't afford to work part-time."

"You will when I am the one paying you." 

Ilya said this completely seriously, staring intently at Shane from across the table. 

Shane continued to shake his head. He felt like a bobble-head about the fly apart by his spring, "You're going to pay me too much, for half the hours, at a job that people on campus would kill to have, when I'm not even really, like, qualified—"

Ilya interrupted this spiral, "Don't forget gifts. I still have your bracelet. You want? Look pretty on your first day?" 

"Ilya," Shane said helplessly. There had to be a catch. There was always a catch. 

He quirked his lips ironically, "Think this way, ah? Is more for me. The less you work, the more dates I get to have with a pretty boy." 

Before Shane could properly react to that, Amelia appeared and slid the artichoke dip and basket of mozzarella sticks onto the table, along with a tiny crystal glass of clear liquid. Vodka. The good kind. Or something. Shane took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes aggressively. 

"Here," Ilya said, smiling at Shane's distress and nudging the dip toward him, "Eat your weird vegetable." 

"S'not weird," Shane said, his throat oddly tight. He ate an artichoke dip-covered chip. And another one. And then another. And then—fuck. He was so fucking hungry. He found himself slipping his hand into Ilya's mozzarella sticks. 

"Just 'okay,' hm?" 

"Shut up," Shane said through a mouthful of cheese. 

His salad materialized. Shane dug his fork in and made a noise deeply unsuitable for the dinner table. He couldn't help himself, though. He loved a good fucking salad. 

Shane moaned again and didn't notice Ilya knocked back the rest of his vodka in response. "Blyat," Ilya muttered, "You normally eat like someone will take it from you?" 

"Oh, sorry," Shane wiped his mouth, "I didn't have lunch." 

Ilya frowned, but didn't push. He let Shane eat his fill without mentioning the job or the...everything else. He followed Shane's gaze, which kept making its way back to the hockey game. Ottawa had lost the lead. Naturally. His mom would be texting him about that tonight. 

"You like hockey?" 

Shane startled out of their comfortable silence, "Yeah. I love it. Do you watch? Or, do you prefer the KHL?" 

Ilya tilted his head, "Is true KHL is faster and more interesting but...I like Boston." 

"Spoken like every Russian hockey fan." 

"Yes. What about you?" 

"Montreal," Shane said immediately, "But...Ottawa's my hometown team. They're kind of hard to route for though." 

"Because they suck?" 

Shane huffed laugh, "Yeah." 

They talked about hockey for a while. Shane was (extremely) pleased to find that Ilya wasn't the casual hockey viewer he seemed, with his nonchalant attitude. Where most people got tired of talking puck after a drink or two, Ilya didn't seem to mind. In fact, he made Shane want to brush up on his KHL knowledge so they could talk more. When had anyone made Shane want to talk more? 

It was also really hot that Ilya could debate Boston and Montreal's power play stats with just as much enthusiasm as Shane. 

Before Shane knew it, their plates were being cleared away, but they were still talking. Ilya sipping another vodka, Shane a ginger ale, because he'd mentioned he liked them when Ilya made fun of him for drinking water. He was full and warm. He might even say relaxed. 

"So, why do you want to leave your job?" Ilya asked. 

Well, there went relaxed. "Um, it's just..." 

Ilya nodded like Shane had said something coherent, "The ex-boyfriend." 

Shane rubbed the back of his head where it hit the alley wall yesterday, "It was just a bad idea. To date someone at work. Awkward, you know?" He realized belatedly he was on a date with someone that might very well be his boss. 

"Mm," Ilya hummed, his eyes oddly flat, "And he made it that way. Awkward." 

Shane shifted uneasily. His clothes suddenly felt too tight. He dug his phone out of his pocket so it was no longer digging into his leg and put it on the table, "Look—" 

"What happened to your phone?"

Shit. "What?" 

"Your phone," Ilya said, nodding to the spider-webbed cracks, "It was not broken yesterday." 

Ilya's eyes had gone all dark and glittery and not in a good way. It was the strangest sensation—Ilya staring at him like he already knew exactly what happened. But that wasn't possible. He'd been alone with Dallas in that alley. And really, Shane didn't want to admit what happened. Not to Ilya. Not when he couldn't even tell Rose. 

"I broke it," Shane tried to say neutrally. He could hear the lie even in his own statement. He'd never been a good liar. He hoped he didn't have that guilty look on his face that Hayden called his "shifty" look. 

"Shane." 

He felt Dallas' hot breath on his face. The lock up in his joints. "I did," Shane repeated, but his voice wavered. He couldn't look Ilya in the eye. The silence that followed was thick enough to choke.

"Has he hurt you?" 

Shane looked up. Ilya's accent was more pronounced, his tone low, and dangerous. He hadn't moved an inch, but he looked like he was about to launch out of his seat and go ask Dallas himself exactly what had happened. Shane swallowed around the lump in his throat. What had happened? Nothing. He wasn't hurt. Nothing happened. 

Nothing happened. Nothing happened. 

"It's not like that, okay? I'm—I'm fine. I—" he took a deep breath. He'd started running out, "Are you serious? About the job?" 

Ilya's jaw worked, but his eyes softend around the edges, "Of course." 

"You're not like, pranking me, or fucking with me, or conducting some elaborate plan to get me to quit my job and become destitute?

"No," Ilya said softly, "I swear. On my mother." He brushed his hand over the cross at his throat. 

Shane imagined himself explaining this whole...arrangement to Hayden, or worse, his mom. Even his dad would pinch his brows together and say something like, are you sure about this pal? It was utterly bizarre and made absolutely no sense, and would probably end badly. Shane could admit that. Rose seemed to think it was a good idea, but she notoriously made bad decisions where men were concerned. Not a great indicator, bless her. 

But when he really thought about it, Shane didn't think he could work even one more shift with Dallas in the same building. Even if nothing happened and he was being dramatic, Shane could feel his jaw start to lock up at the thought. He wanted to trust Ilya. Very badly. He wanted...

"Okay," Shane said quietly, "...When do you think I can start?" 

Ilya's answering smile was, in a word, dazzling. 

----

Ilya absolutely refused to let Shane pay. Of course. Ottawa lost, but Shane already knew that was going to happen, so he wasn't too disappointed. He was going to ask again how Ilya apparently knew the family who owned a sports bar in lower Manhattan and why their daughter seemed sort of freaked out, but was deeply distracted by Ilya slipping his entire arm around Shane's waist. He found himself leaning into the touch and Ilya smiling down at him, one of his curls falling out of place and brushing his brow. As Ilya led him out of the bar (Bye Mr. Rozanov please come see us again!) Shane experienced a sensation he could only describe as feeling dainty, and not in a bad way. Which was fucking weird because he was six feet tall and by no means petite. 

It was dark, and even colder than earlier. Shane yawned into the collar of his coat (Ilya's coat) and blinked when he realized Ilya was watching him. 

"Sorry," Shane said. 

Ilya shook his head, "You are tired. I take you home now, yes?" He nodded to the car, waiting patiently at the curb, no doubt with Ivan inside. 

Oh fuck. Take me home? Was that code? "Oh, you don't have to—" 

"You can either get in the car, or we can take the subway together. You choose." 

Which was how Shane found himself pressed into Ilya's side in the back of the overly tinted car, secretly enjoying the backseat heating vents and wondering how he could discreetly take out his phone and ask Rose what it meant when someone "took you home" after a first date. 

He probably would have spiraled over that more, but there was traffic, and it was so warm in this car with Ilya's heat radiating against his side like a furnace. There was some sort of Russian pop playing on the radio. Ilya and Ivan were talking quietly, and Shane tried to keep himself awake by translating. 

His eyes slipped closed as they went over the Brooklyn Bridge, the lights winking at him over the water.