Chapter Text
Ilya Rozanov was beyond help.
At least that was what his teachers had beaten into his head for as long as he could remember, in clipped Russian syllables; somehow, Mama never sounded like that. In first grade, when his handwriting was bad enough that the teacher tore his assignment into little pieces, right in front of him. In seventh, when he’d tried his first cigarette behind the school building. His personal favorite was when he spiked the punch with his father’s vodka on the night of his batch’s выпускной, what Americans would call prom. Maybe the phrasing changed a little bit between lectures; sometimes it was “wasted potential”, others it was “not mad, just disappointed”. It all meant the same thing, though. He’d never be what they wanted, so he might as well stop trying.
Why Ottawa of all places? Unlike most of the other bad decisions he’d made, this was born out of necessity. His father had given up on him a long time ago. There were only so many cold dinners he could take, so many conversations about a future he didn’t want that he could tune out. At eighteen, he’d scrounged up just enough funds to get the fuck out of Russia and try his luck at any college that would accept him. He didn’t care where it was as long as it was far, far away from there. Any love he had for Moscow had died with her, anyway.
There was one tiny problem in the form of how the hell he’d pay for those four years. Academic scholarships were for boring people who traded any sort of social life for higher grades on a report card. People who got off on joining as many extra-credit classes they could, all so that their application would land on top of the pile of papers from equally boring people who were slightly worse writers. Ilya was good at exactly one thing, didn’t have the luxury of spreading himself thin between extracurriculars. Hockey. Hockey was his one-way ticket out of his personal hell.
Fast forward to now, his third year. Ilya was on top of the world, so close to graduating. Playing came easy, the way it always had even when he was still that little kid skating in the run-down rink, his Mama watching from the stands until it was finally time to go home. It was reasonable enough to assume that this was what he’d be doing for the rest of his life.
All he had to do to keep the scholarship was coast; do just enough to pass. Even better, there was no shortage of pretty things to bring back to his dorm. He didn’t have to write anything on the door for everyone else to know it was his. The near-constant cloud of smoke, not to mention all the noise complaints, said it all. The RAs had their work cut out for them; he didn’t envy them one bit.
True to how his schooling had gone up until this point, he tested his professors’ patience. If he was being honest, maybe he had a favorite professor to piss off in particular. Okay, teaching assistant if someone wanted to get really technical about it.
—
It had all started when Ilya had forgotten to bring an assignment that would count for a sizable chunk of his grade. Shane was making the rounds in the lecture hall to collect everyone’s work, because for whatever reason, their aging professor still required students to do things the old-fashioned way, namely hunching over a desk and writing an essay on pen and paper. He’d been, to put it simply, distracted the nights before. Ilya wasn’t to blame; the bar that had opened a mere five blocks away from campus was. It didn’t slip his mind because of plain forgetfulness; he just didn’t find the subject interesting enough to care about it beyond doing the bare minimum.
Back then, since he always chose to sit far, far away from the overachievers, sacrificing a clear view of the projector screen (not that he needed or wanted to see it), he hadn’t had the chance to get a closer look at the TA, always dutifully standing near Dr. Whoever-The-Fuck just in case his old ass needed help with the Powerpoint slides or something. The only thing Ilya could make out from where he was? The desperation to prove to the professor that he took his responsibilities of keeping the class in check very seriously.
So imagine his surprise when a vision in a knitted sweater, dark locks that were neatly slicked back, not to mention that pair of glasses he had no right looking so cute in, strode to his seat, palm expectantly outstretched. Ilya pulled one earbud out and took his foot off the desk.
“Rozanov, correct?” He asked, in a tone that almost sounded like he already knew. ‘Shane Hollander’, his ID card read.
“Yeah. You are looking for my paper? ” Ilya said, responding to the question with one of his own. Schooling his features into an expression he hoped came across as convincingly apologetic, he geared up to make his excuse. “It’s a funny story, actually. Left it at my dorm, I think. If you can excuse me for…” he paused, voice just a little huskier as he blinked up at Shane, “ten, fifteen minutes tops, I can go get it.”
He was met with a flat “No”. If Ilya was being honest, he expected nothing less.
“Dr. Williams”—so that was his name—”assigned this two weeks ago. There’s really no excuse.”
“I got it done,” Ilya insisted with a grin, though his gaze drifted back and forth from the front of the lecture hall to Shane’s pretty freckles. “Promise. I just have to find it.”
“Sure,” Shane said with his arms crossed, as if he couldn’t be any more distracting. There was no reason for his sleeves to be rolled, exposing lean muscle and smooth skin. “Never heard that before.” He was probably the only person in existence to look better frowning, a flame already beginning to burn in those warm brown eyes. “Did you do the work or not?”
Ilya almost said he wanted to do something (someone) else, but he decided against it. “...No, sir,” he told him instead.
The flush that crept across Shane’s cheeks at those simple words, slight as it was, proved to be far more interesting than any of the lectures he sat through for this class. Ilya committed it to memory.
“You know you’re getting a zero, right?” He didn’t miss how Shane stumbled over the first word of his sentence, the way his jaw twitched. “Do better.”
“But how else will I get your attention?”
Shane’s mumbled reply, you’re an asshole, before he moved onto the students on the other side of the room, made Ilya resolve to make him mad for the rest of the term.
—
Sometimes, Ilya would raise his hand in class to give a purposefully, wildly incorrect interpretation of the assigned readings. He knew that Dr. Williams was more likely to respond than Shane, but on the rare instances he corrected him, always looking to the older for permission first before starting with some variation of “actually, Rozanov”, it might as well have been foreplay. Here was someone who knew the material well enough to be protective over it. Shane loved the boring books so much that he’d stop at nothing to make Ilya, or anyone really, see what he did. He was also passionate enough about them that he hadn’t caught on to the fact that Ilya knew the exact wrong things to say because he’d pored over them just as much. Studied them, in fact, no matter how good he was at pretending otherwise.
He stayed after class sometimes, too. Shane would usually be gathering up all the ungraded papers, no doubt to take home, and Ilya would walk over to him, lean close to read over his shoulder.
“Did you read mine yet?” Ilya asked on one occasion, scanning the stack before his eyes flicked back up to Shane’s nape. “What did you think? I worked very hard.”
“Doesn’t matter,” the older said, back still turned, wholly focused on neatly folding the papers and fitting them into his messenger bag, because of course he had one of those. “You want feedback, come to Dr. Williams during office hours.”
“I’m not asking Dr. Williams. I’m asking you.”
Shane inclined his head toward Ilya just slightly and he swore he could’ve cheered at the slightest glimpse of his furrowed brow. “I don’t have time for this, Rozanov.”
“What would the doctor say if he saw how mean you’re being right now? You’ll hurt my feelings,” Ilya said, not meaning it one bit, hand coming to rest on the desk beside Shane’s. “Please.”
“If I tell you, will you let me leave?”
“No promises.”
What was that saying? ‘If looks could kill’? If looks could kill, Ilya would be dead right then.
“Fine, Hollander.” He relented with a barely restrained smile before quickly correcting himself. “Mr. Hollander, I mean. Just tell me already. I can take it. Unless you’re scared?”
With that, Shane turned fully. “Alright. You wanna know what I think? I think your writing is sloppy. And not even just grammar-wise, either. You get character motivations all wrong. I mean, ‘I don’t understand why Juliet stabbed herself when Romeo died. There were richer, hotter men in Verona to marry, like Paris. No sex is good enough to kill yourself over’? You don’t cite any sources—which, okay, that’s probably because no one dead or alive shares your opinions, thank God—but this is an academic paper. ‘Trust me’ isn’t gonna cut it.”
The fact that Shane had probably read his work enough times to have recited a portion of it from memory (not to mention the image of him scribbling over it with red pen, dissecting every single mistake with a scowl on those plush lips) would’ve been enough of a high for Ilya to ride on the rest of the day.
But what had happened in the midst of his tirade was even better than he imagined. Shane had gotten so lost in lecturing Ilya that he’d gradually backed him up against the wall, chest heaving with the quick breaths he took after so many words were said. They were close enough for him to chart every constellation scattered across the older’s cheeks. He looked down to see an accusatory finger jabbed at his chest, a barrier keeping either of them from closing the distance. Not that it would stop Ilya if he really wanted to.
“Sorry, I-” Shane finally said after far too long, taking a step back. “I’ve had a long day, but I shouldn’t have gone off on you like that.”
You shouldn’t have stopped, Ilya thought. Put me in my place.
“But you were right,” Ilya smiled, allowing the older to put space between them for now. There’d be more chances to cross that line, anyway. “The paper was terrible. And I like honesty.”
“You’re welcome,” Shane said begrudgingly. “Glad I could help. Now can I go?” It wasn’t a question. When Ilya pouted, about to ask why he was in such a hurry, Shane shot him a warning glare. “Rozanov.”
“Okay. But this is not the last time, right?” He called out after the other grabbed his bag and was halfway out the door.
Shane rolled his eyes and shook his head at him. It was more than enough. Ilya would hold him to that.
—
Ilya was getting antsy. He hadn’t seen Shane all day, and it seemed very unlike him not to show up for work. He didn’t even bother to pretend to listen to Williams this time. His mind was elsewhere. It was also unlike Ilya to think about someone when they hadn’t even made it past first base, but he couldn’t help it. Three weeks had gone by, practically an eternity, since he’d gotten cornered and yelled at in the most strangely hot way.
What’s worse, Shane seemed keen not to repeat it ever again, always leaving faster than Ilya could make his way to the front of the room. He never addressed his remarks anymore, either, no matter how baffling they were, choosing to defer to the professor instead. There was an odd twist in Ilya’s stomach whenever he had no problem answering his classmates’ questions, even smiling at them and praising them for getting things right.
Shane didn’t even look at him. Ilya couldn’t understand why. If the older was worried that what he did was unprofessional, it really wasn’t that bad. In fact, he wished he’d do it again, as many times as he wanted.
He didn’t expect to miss it this much. It was enough to make Ilya want a drink, and as soon as classes were over, he headed to his favorite haunt, delusionally hoping that maybe Shane would be there. Never mind that he’d probably win a million dollars or see a shooting star first before the older would ever step foot inside a bar.
Ilya had never been religious, but whoever was up there must have answered his prayers, because there he was.
Shane was tipping his head back, draining a beer bottle of its contents. Under the flashing red and blue lights, he looked completely different, devastatingly handsome. He’d ditched his sweater for a dress shirt that was still sensible but looked slutty in these circumstances, the top two buttons undone and the fabric tight enough to strain against his chest and arms. What's more, the glasses were off this time.
The sight actually made Ilya gulp, his throat suddenly dry and not just because of the lack of vodka in his system. Whatever questions he might have had about what the older was doing here of all places completely left his mind, replaced by a singular thought: I need to buy him a drink before anyone else does.
He strode over to him before he could talk himself out of it.
“Do I still have to call you sir, or is fine to just say Shane here?” Ilya said as he took the stool beside him.
Miraculously, he wasn’t met with a glare. Instead, the corner of Shane’s mouth lifted in amusement. “You never had to call me anything, Rozanov.”
“You looked like you would kill me if I didn’t,” Ilya countered, motioning to the bartender for his usual before he slowly, deliberately looked Shane over, taking the entirety of him in. “Is this night special for you or something? It is the first time I’ve seen you smile, I think.”
“That’s ‘cause you piss me off 99% of the time,” Shane laughed. “Don’t look at me like that,” he added when Ilya raised his eyebrows at him in mock-disbelief. “Sometimes I think you do it on purpose.”
I do.
“You didn’t answer my question.” Ilya said, almost petulant. If Shane was here with anyone, he needed to know now so that he could drown in vodka and tears.
“I’m celebrating,” Shane explained, beaming. “I’m done writing my dissertation. One step closer to getting my PhD.”
Boring, Ilya thought. But he could forgive it because of how gorgeous Shane’s smile was, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners and sparkled in the bright light. It was infectious. “A PhD? Isn’t that for senior citizens? You are what, 24, 25?” He guessed, squinting as if that would help him.
It seemed to amuse Shane, maybe even flatter him. “I’m a little older than that.”
Ilya finally got his vodka, but his eyes never left Shane’s as he took a sip. “I never would’ve known.”
“Flattery isn’t gonna get you better grades.” There was no real heat in Shane’s tone, even as he shook his head at Ilya again and looked away, finishing the last of his beer. It was his fifth bottle of the night. Ilya watched his throat bob as he swallowed it all, trailed his gaze down the long line of his neck that led down to his chest, visible through the open shirt.
“Will it get me a dance?” Ilya asked, voice low, leaning closer to Shane and meeting his eye as soon as he was done drinking. “With you, Mr. Hollander?”
“It’s a bad idea,” Shane said, just barely slurring, the bass pulsing under their feet as they sat there. The sensual song playing was driving everyone else to the dance floor. “I was just leaving anyways.”
“You are celebrating, right? Fuck work. Tonight is about you,” Ilya coaxed, already standing up and offering his hand in an exact mirror of what Shane had done the first time they’d ever talked. “I won’t tell Williams,” he added with a wink.
“Fuck you,” Shane scoffed, but his hand was in Ilya’s five seconds later. “If I’m late for work tomorrow, I’m blaming you.”
With that, the two of them made their way to the midst of the crowd. There were so many people, no doubt students just like Ilya, but all he could see was Shane. For once, he was glad he was sober. He wanted to remember this tomorrow, how Shane toyed with the fabric of Ilya’s shirt before he rested both hands on his shoulders. He took the cue to wrap his own hands around Shane’s waist, thumbs rubbing slow circles on his hips.
Then Shane was letting go, the lack of contact agonizing for the few seconds Ilya had lost it. For a minute, he was vaguely scared that the older really would leave, but the worry was quickly replaced by pleased bewilderment as Shane turned his back on him, rubbing up against him, guiding his hands back to his waist, keeping them there. Testing the waters, Ilya rolled his hips just slightly, and Shane nodded, the ghost of a smirk on his lips.
The two moved in unison, finding their rhythm to the music which was more than enough to set the mood. It was no secret that Ilya was getting hard, cock straining against his briefs, wanting nothing more than to get Shane out of here and out of those clothes. But he knew it wasn’t his decision to make; Shane was in control, and he was more than happy to be wrapped around his finger.
The song was drawing to a close, and that’s when Shane’s hand came to rest on the side of Ilya’s face, the former turning his head just to ghost his warm breath across the latter’s lips and whisper we should leave.
He didn’t have to ask twice.
“We’re taking my car.” Shane told Ilya, not even waiting for him to follow as he pushed the doors to the exit open.
“Yes, sir.” Ilya purred, watching him from behind appreciatively.
“Stop calling me that or I’ll change my mind.” Shane said in a keep going way, leading the two of them to his car, a black SUV.