Chapter Text
1. i wonder who i'm looking for
November 2016 - Ilya
Ilya took a breath as he looked across the crowd of people in front of him, shoulders drawn back and his spine tight as he surveyed his empire. It was crowded, so loud in the packed living room that it would make no sense to catch the head of straight, black hair. Body to body, sticky with sweat? No, he wouldn’t be there.
He felt stupid. He felt helpless. He felt hopeless. He never expected to feel so negatively about a party, especially a house party for his own fraternity, but here he was. Shouted greetings were being hurled at him, clapping hands on his back as his brothers passed him in the doorway he stood in.
“God, why won’t he move?” He heard two sorority sisters scoff as they turned sideways to squeeze past him. The archway he stood in was wide, but as he stood with one arm resting at the top frame, feet planted wide, Ilya took up most of the area. He was trying to make himself appear bigger than he felt.
That’s who he was, right? Right, he thought, glancing down at the two women and giving them the infamous Ilya Rozanov smirk. That was usually all it took for a sorority girl to spend part of the evening with him, if not the whole evening. These Delta Mu sisters didn’t seem to agree, because they looked across at each other, rolled their eyes, and then the taller brunette literally laughed aloud.
Ilya turned away, feeling a bit hurt. There was no way he looked as pathetic as he felt. Unless he did. And if that were the case, he needed to change something. He was not pathetic. In fact, he was anything but pathetic. He was the president of Phi Kappa Tau, he was the co-captain of the University of Montreal’s hockey team, and he was well-liked by both of those groups.
Turning away from the crowd of dancing people ahead of him, Ilya realised that he was liked by almost all of both of those groups. He gave a slight turn of his head as he walked through to the kitchen, his head on a swivel for a certain someone. He stopped briefly to grab a plastic cup, reaching for the bottle of bottom-shelf vodka. He poured too much into the cup, setting the bottle down without bothering with the screw cap, taking a long drink before grimacing. Disgusting.
He did have his bottle of nice vodka in his bedroom upstairs, but he had failed at convincing himself he was not pathetic, so he did not deserve the nice vodka. Besides, he would find Shane soon enough. Ilya knew that Shane would be around the house somewhere, in one of the quiet rooms of the packed house.
Ilya wasn’t so drunk, but after draining the first cup of vodka and then returning to the bottle to give himself a quick refill, it vaguely crossed his mind that this was his fourth cup of liquor tonight. He felt it all the way to his toes, the warm flushing feeling he typically felt when a bit further than tipsy. He shrugged it away, giving his body a little shake to focus himself on the task at hand.
Find Shane. Kiss Shane. Fuck Shane.
This thought kept replaying like a mantra as Ilya turned down one of the hallways connected to the kitchen. He passed from room to room, holding his cup by the rim with two fingers, sometimes raising it to his mouth and taking a sip that burned straight down to his stomach. When he thought of fucking Shane tonight, he felt giddy. It had been a while, much too long. He couldn’t even remember how long it had been at this point, which meant that it would be the best sex either of them had ever had.
Pulling him out of his thoughts, Wyatt grabbed Ilya’s arm as he passed through a small room with a beer pong game happening. “Hey, I need a teammate! Barrett disappeared to who knows where,” he said, rolling his eyes.
Ilya was pretty sure where Troy Barrett was, though; he had been seen on more than one occasion sneaking out of parties with Harris, a journalism major who sometimes wanted to do sports pieces on the hockey team for the university paper. Somehow, Troy was always asked for comment, and was almost always being interviewed for anything about being the only (openly) queer member of the Montreal Carabins.
Ilya was only slightly bitter about it. Ilya should be able to comment about being a queer member of the hockey team, but that would require him to come out. Which would probably be a very long time. He still had hopes of going to the NHL draft, mostly because, if he didn’t, he would have to go back to Russia after graduation in the spring. He needed to get drafted. He would. There was no other option.
It was hard, though, sometimes, to stay in the closet with his teammates and fraternity brothers. They treated Troy so great, and nobody ever gave him shit for coming into practice with hickeys after seeing him sneak Harris upstairs the night before. Everyone was cool with it, at least on their team. Ilya wouldn’t allow it any other way anyway, but it had never seemed to take much convincing.
“I, uh, can’t,” Ilya finally responded after a moment of Wyatt staring expectantly at him. Wyatt’s face dropped into what Ilya thought was supposed to be a pout, but looked more like constipation instead. Ilya patted Wyatt’s arm, looking over his head and through the door behind him, seeing the closed door to the den, one of the quietest rooms in the house. He shook his head as he looked down at Wyatt, who was frowning back at him.
“No, please,” Wyatt pleaded, squeezing Ilya’s arm. “I promise, we’ll smoke these guys, and it’ll take like, twenty minutes, tops,” he was begging, and Ilya still had enough of his mind to be a good friend for his teammate. Ilya let out a heavy sigh, relaxing against Wyatt and nodding his head once. A few of the pledges surrounding the table whooped as he turned towards the ping pong table in the middle of the room.
Ilya took the time to recenter himself. He shook his shoulders out, setting his half-full cup of vodka on the table, shoulder to shoulder with Wyatt. The two guys across from them looked almost sober. Ilya was definitely not sober, and if Wyatt’s pouty face was any indication, neither was he.
He settled in for a rough game of beer pong.
--
Halfway through the game, approximately thirty minutes after the match had started, Ilya was feeling antsy. His head was on a swivel again, focus snapping away from the table anytime he saw a flash of dark hair. It meant that Hazy had elbowed him about six times in the last six minutes. This one was a bit sharper, and Wyatt’s unfocused glare was trained mostly at Ilya’s face.
“We cannot lose to these lacrosse players,” he grumbled, shaking his head. Wyatt was typically laid back, but in any party game competition, he was all in. Now, that didn’t mean he was overly good at party games, but Ilya and the rest of their team (and fraternity, for that matter) often indulged Wyatt. They always had party games on, and someone was always around to be Wyatt’s partner. But on nights like this, when Ilya’s body is hot from the liquor, his mind is fuzzy, and his heart is thinking about a certain teammate, Ilya couldn’t make up the extra cups Wyatt had left behind, not fast enough for a win.
“Maybe if you actually hit the cup then, da?” Ilya smirked down at his friend, giving a hard pat to his back before picking up the ping pong ball that had just sunk into the cup nearest Ilya. He removed it from the lineup, reaching down for his own and taking the last sip. He frowned at the empty cup before setting it back on the table, turning back to the game.
He inhaled dramatically, blowing a puff of air onto the neon yellow ball for luck, and bounced the ball along the table, aiming for the centre of the last five cups on their target side. Luckily, his half-focused bounce landed the ball into the cup with a soft plop.
Ilya took a moment to pull his phone out and check the time while the other teammates took their turn. No new messages. 00:48. It wasn’t that late, but he knew that soon enough, people would begin filing out of the frat house, and Ilya knew he had to end this game so he could keep looking for Shane. He would be surprised to find him here still, anyway, as late as it was.
When he looked up again, one of the pledge brothers had brought him a beer, which he took, rubbing his thumb against the neck of the bottle, swiping the condensation around. He thanked the guy, Luca, with a quick smile and nod, taking a sip of the liquid. He didn’t like beer after he’d been drinking vodka; it felt all wrong in his mouth. He grimaced before looking back to the game, willing it to end.
There were only two cups left on Ilya and Wyatt’s side. Ilya almost wanted to throw the game, tell Wyatt that he did not give a shit about losing right now. But he didn’t. He gritted his teeth as he watched Wyatt bounce the ball just over the back left corner cup. Wyatt swore, shaking his head.
“Sorry, Rozy,” he groaned minutes later, tossing his head back in defeat after the ping pong ball fell into the last cup. Ilya grabbed the cup before Wyatt could, setting it on his side and taking another long sip of his beer.
Shaking his head, Ilya forced a smile on his face. “Is okay,” he says, nudging his friend’s shoulder with his own. “We will beat them next time,” he promises, the smile on his face widening genuinely at the sparkle in Wyatt’s eye.
Ilya turned away abruptly a moment later, returning to his search. He stopped in the next room briefly, peering over a few heads, but no one had dark enough hair. He found a small table with various liquors on it and poured himself a new cup of vodka. He left his empty beer bottle on the table, downing the entire cup of vodka before refilling it. His head was fuzzy, and the warmth he had been feeling earlier almost felt uncomfortable from how warm he was in the packed house.
He kept going until he got to the end of the hallway. He took a deep breath, unsure of what to do if Shane wasn’t in the den. He was fully drunk now, swaying a bit as he walked down the hallway. He almost knocked on the door of the den, even though he knew that it wasn’t locked. He took a shaky breath, reaching out and opening the door. He was clutching the plastic cup now, no suaveness left in his movements as he stepped into the lowly lit room. The smell of weed hit his nostrils as he inhaled deeply despite himself. As much as he loved to indulge, he couldn’t tonight. He was already tipsier than he had planned on being, and he needed to find Shane.
There were fewer than a dozen people in the room. On the one hand, that was great, because it meant Ilya could look at every person in record time. On the other hand, when he had finished, there was a pit in his stomach upon noticing Shane was not part of the group. He wasn’t here. He hadn’t been outside, in the kitchen, he wasn’t even standing outside Ilya’s bedroom door, for fuck’s sake.
Shane hadn’t shown up to the party.
In his drunken state, the thought weighed heavily on him. He hadn’t seen Shane since practice yesterday, but more importantly, he hadn’t seen Shane in months. They ignored each other in the locker room, were tense on the ice, and only interacted when Coach Wiebe made them. They had gotten into an awkward, mechanical rhythm since September, when they had to start this game of pretend.
Ilya shut his eyes for a moment, leaning against the wall in the den to steady himself. Obviously, he wouldn’t show up, Ilya thought, tilting his head back. Why would he?
There was no answer that he could give that made sense. Shane hadn’t spoken to Ilya unless necessary since June, and even before that, Shane had never wanted to be a partygoer. Ilya convinced him to come to his parties a few times over the years, mostly costume parties where Ilya could use the team bonding guilt trip card. Shane would do anything for his teammates.
Ilya opened his eyes again, blinking slowly as his gaze refocused. He couldn’t remember how many drinks he’d had at this rate, but he knew it was a lot. He turned back to the door, still open from where he’d entered only a few moments ago, and stepped back over the threshold.
Blindly, Ilya weaved back through the house, filling up his cup along the way, one more time. He decided that if Shane wasn’t here and he was going to be even more miserable than he always was, Ilya was going to be so drunk that he wouldn’t even remember this pain by the time he woke up in the morning.
Upon making it back into the living room turned dancefloor, he noticed a group of his friends stood in a circle, partially talking, partially swaying along to the song playing on the speaker. They typically had a DJ at the Phi Kappa Tau parties, but tonight, it was just a playlist. Someone’s Spotify was connected to the large flatscreen TV on the main wall of the living room, blasting a playlist called “Frat Bro Party Mix”, in a Made for You section. Ilya rolled his eyes; he wasn’t sure which of his brothers had picked the playlist, but it was a bit on the nose, a little too ridiculous. He wished he could point it out to Shane, laugh at how silly the name was, and kiss him when Shane’s laugh got to Ilya too much.
Ilya pulled his phone out, snapping a quick photo, explicitly ignoring the lack of notifications on his screen. 01:12. It wasn’t that much later, but Ilya saw the crowd thinning a bit. Once this party was over, Ilya would go back to moping about being alone, while pointedly ignoring every sorority girl who had given him a look tonight.
He had looked nice at the beginning of the night, in his dark wash jeans and fitted light grey t-shirt, a soft V-neck that was almost threadbare in some places. It made his arms look great, and he knew that these jeans made his ass look heavenly. But it didn’t really matter; he was drunk and probably flushed, his hair sticking up in all directions from how often he’d been running his hand through it tonight. He was distracted, as he always was when he was thinking about Shane Hollander.
He weaved through the remaining people, stepping out the front door and off to the side of the porch. He pulled the pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket, leaning against the wall as he pulled one out. Last pack, he thought bitterly to himself. He’d been saying that for months now, probably six packages of cigarettes ago. He lit it anyway.
He closed his eyes as he took the first drag, feeling the nicotine sharpen his thoughts for a moment, allowing everything to be a bit clearer. That also meant his thoughts of Hollander were sharper, but he could take the pain of it. He took the pain of everything; why should this be any different?
Upon opening his eyes again, he pulled his phone out one more time. Still no notifications. Not even from an old hookup asking to meet up after the party ended. He scoffed, taking another drag off his cigarette. He inhaled for a second longer than usual, enjoying the pleasant buzz that crept into the edges of his mind, the softness of his peripheral vision with the short burst of nicotine.
His text thread with Shane was open before he realised what he was doing. The last message was from late August, Ilya asking when he’d be around so they could talk. Shane hadn’t responded.
01:28, 18th November, 2016
Ilya:
stupid frat brothers put a playlist on called frat bro mix
you would’ve hated it
Sent
Ilya hadn’t meant to actually send either of those messages. Maybe it was the alcohol. Or the second cigarette he had dangling in his mouth. He chewed on his lower lip, willing the message to shift to Read and for those three dots to come up. He decided he was happy with any response, even if it was only being called an asshole or to shut up. He could take that.
It would at least mean Shane was talking to him again. He couldn’t remember the last time Shane called him an asshole, a fond look in his eyes. Ilya wasn’t sure he’d ever hear it again, if he was honest with himself.
He finished the cigarette quickly, inhaling long drags and holding them for long enough that the nicotine buzz propelled him back into the house after stamping it out on the porch. He went straight up to his room, ignoring the people making out on the staircase, in the upstairs hallway, in front of his frat brothers’ rooms.
He used to have that. He used to have someone to kiss at these parties. He had someone he could count on ending up in his room, and he ruined it all. He took a breath as he opened his door, both relieved and disappointed to find it empty in front of him.
He had left it unlocked tonight, in the hopes that if Shane showed up, he could go to Ilya’s room without being bothered. It also left the risk of other couples occupying his room for their own sex, but luckily, with a sign on the door saying ROZANOV, Ilya doubted anyone would be entering his room without explicit permission.
There was no couple on his bed, but there was also no Shane. He deflated as he shut the door, the copious amounts of alcohol hitting him all at once as he realised he was sleeping alone. Again.
A little choked sound left Ilya’s throat as he stripped out of his jeans, tossing his phone onto the bed so hard it bounced up and hit his headboard with a thud. He couldn’t bring himself to care. He took his shirt off next, tossing it on the floor next to the jeans. He turned to his drawers, digging through the top drawer to the very back corner. He felt something wet on his hand, and he realised he was sobbing.
Wiping the tears away angrily, Ilya found what he was looking for. A black Carabiners shirt, balled up, wrinkled. He shut the drawer quickly, gripping the shirt as tightly as he could in his hands. He slowly unballed the shirt, smoothing out a couple of the wrinkles before he turned it over to look at the back.
Hollander 24
His vision blurred then, and stayed blurry as he quickly pulled the shirt over his head. It was tight, stretching over his biceps and not quite meeting the waistband of his briefs. He didn’t care. He wiped his face with the collar of the shirt, closing his eyes. He breathed in through his nose, hoping to get a whiff of Shane, of his ocean body wash, or anything.
It wouldn’t smell like him anymore, he thought abruptly, causing another sob to escape, and he felt so miserable that he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. Sleep, he guessed. Or try to, anyway.
He turned to his bed, still unmade from this morning when he had woken up. He climbed into the bed, ignoring the nighttime routine he should be doing before going to sleep. Pulling the duvet over him, he couldn’t find it in himself to care.
The only person who cared about his nighttime routine is also the only person who nagged him to do it for “health”, and so he would have nice skin into his forties. That person doesn’t care anymore if he has nice skin tomorrow or in forty years.
The tears were flowing freely now, but he was no longer sobbing loudly. The room was quiet, but Ilya could hear the bass from the music downstairs. He couldn’t tell what song was playing, but he could guess that it was shit. He closed his eyes briefly, a shaky breath coming from his lips.
He took one last chance. He grabbed his phone off the nightstand, and he took a moment to plug it into his charger before opening the screen to the text thread with Shane. His message sat unread, but at least it had been delivered. There were a couple of weeks when Ilya was blocked on Shane’s phone, so even just seeing that Shane would see his messages was enough to allow him to breathe easier.
--
Ilya didn’t fall asleep immediately. He had stopped crying finally, and he was just lying in bed with his duvet up to his chin, trying to make himself feel like he was a child tucked in by his mother. His heart ached, his brain was still fuzzy from the alcohol, and he couldn’t think of anything other than Shane and how wrong he’d gotten everything between them.
His phone buzzed next to him on the nightstand, and Ilya contemplated even looking tonight. It was late, and realistically, it was either one of his fraternity brothers or an old hook-up who’d come to the party tonight and wanted to come to Ilya’s room.
But it could be him, the tiny voice of hope that Ilya typically crushed into the corner of his conscience said. He knew that wasn’t true. Why would Shane choose those messages to respond to? When Ilya had left him so many messages before, so many voicemails, and they were all more profound than Ilya bitching about the frat party playlist.
His hands moved without his consent. One second, he was gripping the duvet, and the next, his phone was in his hand, face down against his chest so he couldn’t see the message immediately. He took one shaky breath before flipping his phone over in his hand, tapping the screen to wake it. His next breath was a gasp as he stared down at the message in front of him.
03:03, 18th November, 2016
Shane:
I bet I would have.
Ilya cried himself to sleep that night.