Chapter Text
Shane had been quiet for a while, seemingly focused on the plate of spaghetti in front of him. He mentally went through his checklist again: Fill out room preferences, choose audition monologues, make packing list, sort clothes into take and leave…
This list had been running through his head for two weeks, since he’d gotten his acceptance letter to Winchester Arts Conservatory. It was March, too early to be worrying about most of his school preparations, but Shane couldn’t help it. He had to channel his nervous and excited energy somehow.
“Shane,” his mom said quietly.
Shane snapped to attention, realizing just how thoroughly he’d spaced out.
“You’re shaking the whole table,” his mom, Yuna, said, smiling gently.
Shane realized he’d been jiggling his leg. He quickly stilled it.
“Sorry,” he said, turning his attention back to his plate.
“It’s alright,” Yuna said. “I know you’re excited.”
“Maybe a little,” Shane said, smiling.
His parents were well aware of how much he’d been wanting to go to Winchester Arts. Since learning it housed the top Shakespeare program in North America, Shane hadn’t been able to think about anything else. He’d agonized over his application, writing and rewriting his essays, wondering if he had too many or too few extracurriculars, and asking his mom three days in a row to read over his application and give him notes. He’d turned in his application two weeks before the deadline, then lamented not turning it in earlier, convinced there would be no spots left. Shane’s parents had been there through it all, the months he’d waited for a response, when he’d vacillated wildly between certainty he’d be accepted and certainty he’d be rejected. They’d done their best to distract him from his overwhelming hope and despair. They’d been there when his letter had arrived, his father opening the envelope when Shane’s hands had been shaking too badly. They all screamed together when they read he’d been accepted. Since then, his parents had patiently borne Shane pacing the living room, listing his hopes and worries without taking a breath, then staying in his room for hours, muttering to himself, silently taking a book or notebook from his shelf, flipping through it, then shaking his head, and replacing it. Shane knew he must’ve been hard to live with through all of this, but his parents had been grounding and supportive, usually more amused than exasperated.
“You’ve still got six months,” his dad, David, said. “I’m worried you’ll launch yourself into the atmosphere before you even get on the plane.”
“I know,” Shane said, sighing. “Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow / Creeps in this petty pace from day to day.”
“Well, pleasure and action make the hour seem short,” his mom said.
“Should we be taking advice from Iago?” Shane said, smiling.
“It’s not like Macbeth is any better,” Yuna said.
“Mm, but that speech isn’t advice,” said Shane. “It’s more of an observation.”
“So is Iago’s,” said Yuna.
“Ah,” Shane said, pointing his fork at his mother. “But you were using it as advice.”
“I was making an observation,” Yuna said. She paused for a moment. “If you want to take it as advice….”
“I’m trying,” Shane said, sighing. “But nothing else can hold my attention right now. All I can think about is getting to Winchester.”
“Well,” his mom said slowly. “I can think of one thing you might be able to occupy yourself with.”
“Oh?” said Shane, looking back down at his plate. He glanced up in time to see his mom nudge her husband with her elbow.
“Hm?” said David. Shane smiled down at his plate. His dad usually stopped paying attention when Shane and Yuna started talking Shakespeare.
Yuna Hollander had devoted most of her life to studying Shakespeare. She’d put getting her PhD on hold when Shane had been young, but she’d finished her degree almost five years ago now. Since then, she’d been an assistant professor at the University of Ottawa, teaching Shakespeare. Yuna had instilled her love of the Bard into her son from a young age, reciting sonnets and soliloquies in place of nursery rhymes. It was no wonder Shane had developed his own obsession with Shakespeare, devoting most of his free time to studying plays and poetry. While most of his classmates dreaded units on Shakespeare, Shane loved them. He had never had trouble understanding the antiquated English Shakespeare wrote in. Shane and his mother had developed their own sort of language over his lifetime, easily interjecting quotes and references from Shakespeare’s works into their conversation. David Hollander had studied English in college, but preferred literature from the past two or three centuries. He now worked in some sort of banking job Shane didn’t really understand. He enjoyed Shakespeare, but not quite as much as his wife and son.
Now, David surfaced from wherever his mind had drifted to when his wife nudged him. She gave him a pointed look.
“Oh!” David said. He nodded at Yuna.
Shane glanced between the two of them.
“What?” he said.
“Well,” Yuna said slowly. “You could spend some time helping us pack up the house.”
Shane froze. He searched his parents’ faces for any sign they were kidding. But they were just looking at him cautiously, braced for his reaction.
“Pack up the house,” he repeated. “Like…to move?”
“Yes,” said David. “We’re moving.”
“What?” said Shane. “To where? Why?”
“I got a new job,” said Yuna. “A new teaching position.”
“What about U of O?” Shane said. “I thought you liked it there.”
“I did,” said Yuna. “But I’ve been feeling boxed in for a while. I need a change.”
Shane sighed, sitting back in his chair. He could hardly argue with his mom doing what she felt was best for her career. He pushed down his protests about his parents selling the house he’d grown up in, having to come back on school breaks to an unfamiliar place, maybe even an unfamiliar city. He couldn’t be selfish right now.
“Well then,” Shane said. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you, honey,” Yuna said, giving him a small smile.
“Where’s the new job?” said Shane. He started twisting spaghetti around his fork, thinking the hardest part of the conversation was over.
His parents exchanged another look.
“Winchester Arts Conservatory,” his mother said.
Shane dropped his fork. He gaped at his parents, hoping more than ever that they were joking. If anything, they looked a little guilty.
“Is this a joke?” Shane asked.
“No, honey,” said Yuna.
“We’re moving to Boston,” said David.
“You’re going to teach at my school?” said Shane. He knew he was starting to raise his voice, but he found he couldn’t stop.
“Yes,” Yuna said, her gaze steady.
“You’re gonna teach Shakespeare,” said Shane. “At the school where I’m studying Shakespeare?”
“Yes,” Yuna repeated.
“Are you fucking serious?” Shane yelled. Some part of his brain tried to pump the brakes. He never talked to his parents like this. But he was spiraling out of control.
“Shane,” his mother said, soothingly.
“I should’ve known something like this would happen,” Shane said. He stood up from the table and started pacing. “Of course you guys are gonna come to school with me. I’m never gonna leave the nest, am I?”
“Shane–” David started.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Yuna, starting to raise her own voice..
“What’s next?” said Shane. He continued to pace around the dining room. “Are you gonna move into my dorm with me? Maybe we can all share a bed!”
“Shane–” said Yuna.
“How’s it gonna look,” said Shane, pulling at his hair. “For my mom to be one of the professors in charge of the super competitive program I’m trying to get into?”
“I’m not going to treat you any differently–” Yuna said.
“I know that, but the others won’t!” Shane shouted.
“Shane!” Yuna shouted. Shane stopped. It’d been years since his mother shouted at him. In a quieter voice, she said, “Will you sit down and listen for a minute?”
Shane took a couple of deep breaths and sat down. He found he couldn’t look his parents in the eye.
“I didn’t take this job to follow you to school,” Yuna said. “I almost didn’t take it because I was worried you’d feel this way.”
Shane felt a pang in his chest. He was immediately ashamed of his outburst.
“I’ll be able to teach more advanced courses at Winchester,” Yuna continued. “I can dig into the text in a way I never could at U of O.”
“We’ll make sure you’ll have your space,” David said. Yuna nodded. “We found a house in Boston. You’ll be living in student housing in Winchester. We’ll be close enough that you can visit whenever you want, but you can choose how involved you want us to be in your life.”
“I do want you involved in my life,” Shane said quietly.
“We know,” said David, gently. “But you’re not a kid anymore. You deserve space.”
Shane nodded, still looking down at his plate.
“And honey,” said Yuna. She slid her hand across the table toward him. Shane looked up at her and found her smiling. “You’re too good for anyone to think you’re getting special treatment.”
Shane smiled in spite of the guilt roiling in his stomach.
“The minute they see you on stage,” said Yuna. “They’ll know you earned your spot there.”
“Thanks,” Shane said sheepishly. “I’m sorry I freaked out.”
“You’re allowed to freak out,” David said, waving his hand.
Shane looked at his mom.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I’m happy for you.”
Yuna smiled at him.
“Do as the heavens have done,” she said. “Forget your evil / With them forgive yourself.”
“Evil is too strong a word, I think,” said David.
“It’s how the line goes,” said Yuna.
“You can’t expect Mom to misquote the Bard,” said Shane, smiling.
“Especially not Winter’s Tale,” said Yuna.
“It’s her favorite!” said Shane.
He and his mom grinned at each other as David sighed.
Later, after watching a movie with his parents (Baz Luhrman’s Romeo+Juliet), Shane flopped onto his bed and put his pillow over his face. In the relative dark and quiet his pillow provided, he let everything wash over him.
He was going to his dream school.
But so were his parents.
He’d lost his opportunity to decide who Shane Hollander was at Winchester Arts. Everybody would think of him as the professor’s son before they thought of him as anything else.
Shane supposed it’d be nice in some ways to have his parents so close. He was going to school in a different country. Shane had struggled with smaller transitions than that. Having his parents 20 minutes away would probably make it easier.
He just wished they weren’t selling his childhood home. They’d reassured him they were keeping their summer cottage in Ottawa, but they were going to live full time in Boston.
A confusing cocktail of anticipation, dread, grief, anger, and excitement swirled through Shane’s chest. These were quickly overpowered as guilt settled in his stomach like a stone. He should be happy his mom found such an amazing job that she was clearly excited about. Feeling upset about it was selfish.
Shane sighed and moved his pillow off of his face. He reached for his phone, pulling up a YouTube playlist called “Killer Performances”. He scrolled until he saw Cyrillic script. Shane couldn’t read it, but he knew what it said: “Young Ilya Rozanov plays Prince Hal with Russian Shakespeare Company - Henry IV, Part I, Act 1, Scene 2”. He clicked on it.
The clip was in Russian, but Shane was familiar enough with the scene that he didn’t need subtitles. At this point, he’d watched the clip enough times that he could anticipate the actors’ every movement and inflection. As he always did, Shane focused on the young, handsome man playing Hal. Ilya Rozanov. He was handsome, with a mass of golden curls framing his square jaw and sharp cheekbones. He had clear blue eyes and a wide smile. He was tall and broad-chested and moved with an easy grace. But more than all of that, Ilya Rozanov was an incredible actor. The description below the video said he was sixteen in the clip, but his skill surpassed any of the older actors on stage with him. He was playful and nonchalant through most of the scene, easily joking with his companions as they planned a robbery and a prank. He got several laughs from the audience. But Rozanov’s demeanor changed as soon as he was alone on stage. He became quiet and sincere, entrusting the audience with his plans to be better than he had been. He was alone on a large stage, but his monologue felt incredibly intimate. The complete silence whenever Rozanov paused told Shane how captivated the audience was by the performance. He was too.
Shane had watched the clip several times since he’d discovered it a few months ago. He’d found himself turning to it when he was upset or overwhelmed. Watching Rozanov perform never failed to make him feel better.
– ♥ –
Ilya was tense. It wasn’t unusual for him, especially when he was alone with his father. Most nights, after dinner, when they sat quietly in the sitting room, each involved in their own pursuits, Ilya could avoid his father’s attention, and more importantly, his critiques.
But tonight, Ilya had something to say.
He thought about the texts from Svetlana he’d read a dozen times.
Don’t ask him, tell him. He can’t stop you.
Ilya sat on the sofa with two copies of Hamlet on his lap. One was in Russian, the other in English. He had a notebook next to him where he was writing English words and phrases to look up later. He’d made no progress through the text since he’d sat down nearly an hour before, too focused on getting up the courage to speak.
Ilya’s fingers found the familiar golden chain around his neck. They followed it down to the cross that hung on his chest. He rubbed the skin-warmed metal between his fingers.
“Father,” he said.
Colonel Grigori Rozanov grunted without looking up from the papers in front of him. Ilya took this as a sign to continue.
“I wanted to talk to you about school,” he said.
“What about school,” his father said shortly. “What did you do?”
“No,” Ilya said quickly. “I meant college. Next year.”
“What about it?” the colonel said, still not looking at his son.
Ilya took a deep breath and tried to steady his nerves.
“I want to go to school in America,” he said.
Ilya’s father froze. He slowly turned to look at his son.
“America?” the colonel repeated.
Ilya nodded.
“Why would you do a stupid thing like that?”
Ilya had been prepared for this kind of response, but the words still hit like a physical blow.
“There is a very good school near Boston,” Ilya said. “I’ve already applied and been accepted-”
“There are very good schools here,” his father said. “There’s no reason for you to go to an expensive American school.”
“I got a scholarship,” said Ilya. “You won’t have to pay anything-”
“And what would you study,” said the colonel, fixing Ilya with a hard stare. “At this ‘very good’ American school?”
Ilya braced himself.
“Shakespeare,” he said.
The colonel slammed his hands down on his desk. Ilya suppressed a flinch.
“When are you going to grow up?” his father shouted. He stood up and strode over to stand in front of Ilya. “When are you going to forget the fantasies your mother filled your head with?”
It’d been years since Ilya’s father had mentioned his mother. He wished it were now under different circumstances.
“When will you forget this stupid, dead Englishman and do something that matters?” the colonel continued, gesticulating wildly. “Something that brings honor to your family, your country-”
“I do bring honor to my country!” Ilya said, matching his father’s volume. “I’m the youngest actor-”
“Actor!” his father roared. “Actor! Faggots! Useless idiots playing make believe! I will not have my son be one of them.”
“You can’t stop me!” Ilya shouted. He stood so that he and his father were nose to nose. His books fell to the floor. He clenched his fists to keep his hands from shaking. “I’m going. I’ve got my plane ticket, I leave in August.”
“Liar,” the colonel spat. “Where would you get money for plane tickets?”
“Svetlana,” said Ilya. “She’s going too.”
“I should have known,” the colonel said, sneering. “You follow that girl like a sick dog. You are weak. Pathetic.”
Ilya let his father’s voice wash over him. He’d heard all of this before. It shouldn’t bother him anymore, but the words still stung like salt in familiar, open wounds. He took a steadying breath.
“I’m going,” he said again, quietly this time.
His father searched Ilya’s face for any sign of cracks in his resolve. Finally, he waved his hands dismissively.
“Out of my sight,” he said. “I don’t want to look at you anymore.”
The colonel turned back to his desk and papers, leaving Ilya to scoop up his fallen books and flee.
Ilya made himself walk to his bedroom, resisting the urge to run.
When he’d shut the door behind him, Ilya closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. He’d done it. He’d stood up to his father.
Ilya pulled out his phone, hands shaking in earnest now. He went to Svetlana’s contact and hit call. It had barely rung twice before she picked up.
“So?” she said without preamble.
“I told him,” Ilya said, softly.
“And?” Svetlana prompted.
“He’s pissed,” Ilya said. “But I don’t think he’ll stop me.”
“He won’t,” Svetlana said. “You’re going.”
Ilya allowed himself a small smile. He let Svetlana’s certainty sink in. He began to believe it too.
“I’m going,” he repeated.
“Good,” said Svetlana. He could hear she was smiling too. “Should we go out to celebrate?”
“Tomorrow,” said Ilya. “I’m too tired now.”
“Boo,” she said. “Don’t turn boring on me, Rozanov.”
“I’m not,” Ilya insisted. “I just…”
He sighed.
“I would not be good company right now.”
There was silence for a moment.
“Fine,” Svetlana said. “But remember, this is a good thing. Don’t wallow.”
“I know,” said Ilya. “I won’t.”
“See you tomorrow,” she said.
“Good night, Sveta,” said Ilya.
He hung up, then collapsed on his bed and stared at the ceiling.
His thoughts raced, running through every worst-case scenario he’d thought of since he’d received his acceptance letter to Winchester Arts Conservatory. He’d gotten through the worst of it, he’d told his father his plans. But he couldn’t make his body forget the dread he’d been carrying for almost a month.
Ilya stood, walking quickly to his bedside table. He yanked open the bottom drawer and pulled out a half-full bottle of vodka and a glass. He dug a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of the top drawer. He glanced at the picture on the table: him, age 7, grinning widely as his mother, also grinning, squeezing him tightly. They were both in costume, having just finished a run of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. His mother played Titania, and he was her little changeling boy. It had been Ilya’s first time on stage. He had always loved watching his mother perform and had secretly dreamed of being up there with her. His chance came when the director of Midsummer was looking for a young actor to play the small role. Ilya never felt nervous during rehearsals, but on opening night, when he peeked through the curtain and saw the audience, he clung to his mother’s skirts in terror.
“What is it, solnyshko?” she asked him. Little sun, she’d always called him.
“There’s so many people,” he said softly.
“I know,” she said. “But don’t look at them. Look at me.”
So he had. While on stage, Ilya kept his eyes fixed on his mother. He remembered her, draped in flowing pink and green fabric, crowned with flowers, leading him by the hand across the stage. The warm pressure of her hand on his, her smile gentle and reassuring. He hadn’t felt stage fright again until several years after that.
Ilya turned back to the task at hand, putting his cigarettes and vodka on the bedside table. He grabbed his laptop from his backpack and flung himself onto his bed. As he waited for his laptop to wake, he poured himself a generous helping of vodka and lit a cigarette. When it finished loading, Ilya went to his browser. The home page for Winchester Arts Conservatory was still up.
As he took long drags of his cigarette, Ilya flipped through pictures of the campus. Trees, old brick buildings, dark wood lecture halls, and beautiful auditoriums. Ilya had pictured himself in these places hundreds of times, but now each location felt so close he could touch it. He would be there in just a few months. The cold dread that had sat in his stomach for weeks began to subside, replaced by a feeling Ilya felt so rarely he almost couldn’t name it: excitement.
By the time his first cigarette had burnt down to almost nothing, Ilya had looked through all the pictures twice. As he pulled out a fresh one, he switched tabs and pulled up YouTube. He went to the only video he had saved: Romeo and Juliet, Ottawa Arts Center - Shane Hollander, Romeo Highlights.
At first, Ilya had just been trying to practice Shakespeare in English. He’d watched every English film adaptation of Shakespeare’s works he could get his hands on. Once he’d exhausted those, he started watching random clips on YouTube. He’d seen many that were good and some that were truly terrible. Shane Hollander’s was the only one he’d come back to.
The video showed four scenes from the production, each highlighting Hollander’s talent. The balcony scene, Romeo’s fight with Tybalt, his “banished” monologue, and his death scene. Ilya had never been fond of Romeo and Juliet. He’d always been irritated by Romeo in particular, finding him to be whiny and fickle. But he could never hate Hollander’s Romeo. Hollander couldn’t have been more than sixteen when he played the role, and his boyishness allowed Ilya to forgive some of the character’s stupidity. He walked the line between idealist and naive without ever becoming annoying. Hollander’s Romeo was so earnest, Ilya couldn’t help but root for him. More than that, Ilya could tell how carefully Hollander had made each acting choice. Hollander understood every word he was saying, and Ilya felt like he understood too.
It didn’t hurt that Shane Hollander was one of the most beautiful people Ilya had ever seen. His hair was short, smooth, and black, with feathery bangs falling across his forehead. His big brown eyes were so expressive, turning red and filling with tears at the perfect times. His lips looked plush and soft, with a pronounced cupid’s bow. He was wearing a jacket for much of the show, but took it off during his sword fight, showing off his muscular arms. Ilya had wondered before whether they’d had Hollander shirtless in Act III, Scene 5. He wished that’d been included as a highlight.
The last of Ilya’s panic melted away as he watched Hollander perform. He didn’t know why this video always calmed him, and he chose not to examine it too closely. But so far, it had been reliable in getting Ilya out of whatever funk he was in, if only temporarily. Together, the alcohol, the nicotine, and Hollander’s voice lulled him to sleep.