Chapter Text
The light above the seat was mocking Ilya. No smoking. As if there was a plane in this world were smoking was allowed. Annoying, taunting little fucker. This was a new plane; why the fuck do they make new planes with no smoking signs? No one smokes on fucking planes. There's probably no one alive who can remember smoking on planes. Except Scott Hunter, probably. As if the little back-lit symbol could serve any other purpose than remind the passengers of one more thing to be fucking nervous about. Fuck. Ilya could really use a cigarette just then. As if flying across half the planet wasn't hell enough, he had to undertake the endeavour while 6'3''. The seat, the whole concept of commercial flying was not made to accommodate a man of his size.
He tried to flag down a stewardess to get a drink — something to settle his stomach, upon which the combination of endless turbulence and air plane food had taken it's toll. He was denied by another flashing of the fasten-your-seatbelts sign. Ilya sighed. His seatbelt was still on from the previous burst of turbulence. He was about to put his headphones back on when the speakers about him crackled with static and a robotic rendition of the pilot's voice announced they were beginning their descent. Ilya had to open the blinds to check and see the lights below and not the endless ocean to believe it.
A young man in American Olympic sweatshirt was trying to get his attention across the aisle. Ilya sighed. Told the American he didn't speak English. Put his headphones back on.
The plane was full of last-minute Olympians or their families. Most of them American, but he'd also spotted and exchanged nods with a couple of European hockey players whose MLH teams wouldn't free them any earlier either. It was close to a miracle they interrupted the season for the Olympics at all, but that didn't change the fact that the majority of his team — arriving from KHL, northern Europe, or teams already eliminated from MLH playoffs — had already been on ice for the past week while Ilya and the other MLH players were given one day to adjust to the Olympic ice, rules and team. While dealing with jet lag and, in Ilya's case, the Russian fans.
Ilya pressed the volume button on his headphones. The music got louder. The angry chorus giving way to melodic Russian verse. Singing about home. He quickly hit the next song button. The melody changed. The thoughts remained.
In 2014, wearing the C on his Russian jersey was an honour. Four years later, it was a taunt. His country felt he'd already let them down once. The failure felt personal to them and the fans didn't hesitate to let him know. The MLH fans who hated him were nothing compared to the disappointed Russians. Russians loved hockey and were used to winning. They weren't hoping for a medal, they felt entitled to it. They blamed Ilya personally for taking it from them. Ilya couldn't check VK or any other social media for months without getting spammed with hate.
After four years, the Russian fans were willing to give him another chance. If he failed them again, there won't be any forgiveness. And if things go according to plan, there will never be another chance to make it up to them.
The impact of plane wheels hitting the runway was a welcome sensation. It couldn't come soon enough and Ilya was on his feet the moment the plane stopped moving. With a backpack slung over one shoulder, he made his way towards the exit. He tried to get lost in the crowd of the airport, but anonymity wasn't a luxury afforded to 6'3'' Russians in Korea.
Ilya passed through the passport check and the baggage claim with the crowd of incomers, a sea of American parkas enveloping him from all sides. The procession was endless. Not even Russian face and a death stare could speed up the process. At least it kept the conversation to a minimum.
Emerging from the crowd, he was met with a familiar face, a shit-eating grin splitting it in half.
'Rozyyyy!' Marleau, who himself looked like he was running on the last bit of his battery, enveloped him in a fucking hug. Ilya froze in place.
'Get your fucking hands of me. What the fuck?' Ilya tried to push him off when the initial shock of more physical contact that he's had in the past ten years with Marleau wore off. Marleau let go and Ilya slapped him over the head.
'Never do that again! Fuck!' Ilya shouted into his face, finger almost poking Marleau's eye, fighting and loosing to control the corners of his mouth. Marleau didn't blink. Slapped the finger away. Forced Ilya into a second hug.
'You will push my lunch out!' Ilya protested. Marleau didn't let go. Ilya stood there, arms at his sides. Only then he noticed the second man waiting for him. His knees buckled. Marleau, who was the only reason he didn't stumble, couldn't have missed it.
With his balance restored, Ilya took a step towards Shane, and wasn't gentle when he pushed away Marleau this time.
'You look happy to see me,' Shane smirked, mixing the words Ilya knew were sincere with a sarcastic tone.
'Are you sure you're in the right place, Hollander?' Ilya teased back, not fighting his own smile, looking around for a dramatic effect. He knew they were straddling the line between flirting and chirping, but something about being exhausted, nauseous and in the middle of an airport in Korea made reality feel less real. Plus, with the number of people and lack of privacy in the Olympic village, the line was the only thing getting straddled for the meantime. The blush Ilya felt rising into his cheeks… yeah, there was no explaining away that one if anyone was looking.
'Definitely not. I was told we're waiting for someone else actually.' Shane gave him a lazy smile. In Shane Hollander facial expressions, that was basically beaming.
'Yeah, I lied' Marleau pitched in. Unnecessarily. Proudly. Ilya slapped him over the head once more.
'Should I take your bag?' Shane ignored their shenanigans. Reached out for the duffel, forgotten at Ilya's feet. Fully serious again.
'Do I look like your girlfriend, Hollander?' Ilya tried to copy his expression.
'You look like a fucking corpse.' Shane grabbed his bag and Ilya couldn't complain. But they were in public, so he did.
'Mister nice guy, mister I-carry-my-rival's-bag so everyone knows I'm nice!' he teased Shane's back as he walked with Ilya's back towards the shuttle station.
'Try saying that to me on ice,' Shane shouted back without turning. 'When we beat you, Sochi will look like a fond memory in comparison.'
Marleau laughed, wrapping his arm around Ilya's shoulder. Ilya gave him a death glare that shut him up, but he didn't let go and Ilya was too tired to fight. In the ensuing silence, he got to quietly enjoy his view. It was an excellent view. With the Canadian jacket slung over one shoulder, the tight undershirt underneath wrapping around the muscles on Shane's back were a treat for Ilya's eyes. Ilya enjoyed watching the muscles on Shane's back move. It was a view he was intimately familiar with. Fuck. Ilya realised he was digging his fingers into the fabric on the inside of his pants pocket a little too hard.
Too long. It has been too long. Flying between Russia, Boston, now Korea. The schedule before, the already packed MLH schedule, compressed even further to allow for the Olympic break. It didn't leave much time for… anything.
And the first time he got to see Shane afterwards, it had to be in an airport. He could hardly imagine anything more public. People everywhere. People who were already starting to notice the three hockey players that were probably never photographed together off ice ever before. Well, they were photographed together now. Repeatedly.
Ilya wished they could get some privacy, but knew better than to hope for it. There was no privacy in an Olympic village. Thousands of athletes. Shared rooms. Every hotel in 50 mile radius sold out to journalists, families and fans. Ilya had checked. He had spent the last fifteen hours travelling and he spent fourteen of them checking. He considered buying a fucking building, in Korea. It didn't help his disdain for the event ahead. If he had to keep staring at Shane, at his fucking back, without getting to get his hands on it…
Marleau, still draped around his shoulders, shook him with a belly laugh that made them both vibrate.
'Oh boy, your Montreal girl is still working you up, huh?' Marleau shook Ilya's shoulders so hard he managed to get him to stop staring at Shane, if only because it re-awakened his barely settled stomach.
Ilya tried to elbow him into ribs. The effort was so half-hearted it was embarrassing. The plane food and lack of sleep had really done a number on him.
'I need a fucking beer,' he shouted into Marleau's ear, unnecessarily loud. Marleau flinched. 'For stomach.'
'If you're sick, there is a pharmacy around the corner,' Shane called to him. Helpful in the most boring way possible. Ilya flipped him off. Shane stopped walking. Turned around. Dropped Ilya's bag at Marleau's feet.
'You're it.'
Marleau looked at him. Looked at Ilya's bag. Stepped over the bag. Ilya had to pick it up. He was not expecting anyone to carry his bag when he got off the plane, but now that the option was offered and taken away, he was not thrilled. He tried to look around for a place to get a beer, but the airport was packed, all signs were in Korean, and Shane was hauling ass towards the exit, clearly trying to minimise the time they'd be seen together in public.
'So, tired of boring Canadians, huh?' Ilya turned to Marleau. He wouldn't admit it, but he'd definitely missed the idiot. Then a horrific thought occurred to him. 'What time is your bed time? Will Hollander ground you if I want to grab beer with you?'
Marleau laughed. Punched Ilya's shoulder. 'You'd be surprised. Playing for Canada, it's not so different from Boston, actually. The captain is just as big an asshole.'
That comment earned Marleau a shower of curses from both directions simultaneously.
'I'm the bigger asshole,' Ilya fake whined, because letting Shane win anything, be bigger anything, was unthinkable. And because it would make Shane laugh.
'Actually, yeah, I think we can agree here,' Shane let him have it. Ilya smirked. Didn't get to reply because they reached the shuttle station.
They lined up with the other athletes. Showed their credentials. The procession was fast and they were directed to a platform with a group of American athletes Ilya vaguely remembered from his flight. Ilya protested sharing a ride with Shane, because it was expected and because it was fun. 'No no no I cannot ride with Hollander! My swagger could not survive it!'
Shane gave him the middle finger. Ilya pretended to be horrified. Marleau dragged Ilya to a minibus where the three of them squeezed into the the back seats. The squeeze was tight, Marleau in the middle digging his elbow into Ilya's ribs, probably the same on the other side. A group of other athletes — figure skaters, if Ilya cared to guess — filled the seats in front of them. They offered polite greetings. Ilya raised his hand in acknowledgement before leaning his head against the cold window. He could hear Shane's voice, engaging them in a polite discussion about their flight and the upcoming competitions.
Ilya had almost let Shane's voice lull him to sleep when his phone buzzed against his thigh. He managed to retrieve it, which required significant concession both on his and Marleau's side, to allow his hand into the pocket wedged in between them. Marleau used the opportunity to retrieve his own phone and start scrolling his Instagram and Ilya was glad, especially when he noticed whose message woke him.
'U ok?' from Jane. That was it, the whole message. Ilya laughed.
'So eloquent.' Then, because Shane probably actually cared about his well-being, he added, 'Bumpy flight. Will be fine when I get my beer to set my stomach.'
'Drinking is terrible idea for an upset stomach.'
'One beer is not drinking. One beer is medicinal.'
No reply. Ilya was both disappointed and glad. He was not in mood to fight and not about something petty like this. He's been flying weekly for the past decade of his life. He had been sick plenty before. He knew what worked on his stomach.
'Eloquent? Where did you learn that word?' Shane changed the topic and it made Ilya smile.
'Not from you.'
'Obviously.'
'How eloquent. Again.'
'What do you want me to write? A poem or something?' Shane typed back. Ilya wished he could turn to him and see if he was smiling. Or maybe blushing. But there was Marleau, sitting in the middle, hunched forward over his phone, blocking his view. It was smart not to sit together. Ilya regretted being smart.
'Do I not deserve poems? Am I not beautiful? You are not romantic.' Ilya typed. He smiled, knowing Shane couldn't see.
There was a pause between the texts. Shane was obviously thinking. Was he actually composing a poem? That would really be something. Shane Hollander, mister serious, writing him a poem. It better be about his eyes. Does Shane think he has pretty eyes? He said something like that once. Maybe it will be dirty. Not that Shane could sext to save his life, but maybe he has secret talent for poetry? Ilya was hoping for something a little dirty.
His phone buzzed. He picked it up with excitement and there really was a poem in his texts. A short one.
'Roses are red. Violets are blue. We'll win the Olympics. No medal for you.'
Ilya laughed. Loud. Made Marleau raise his eyes from his phone and raise his eyebrows. Ilya raised his eyebrows back. What made him laugh was none of Marleau's business.
Ilya's phone buzzed again.
'Your turn.'
Right. He looked at Shane's pathetic poem. He didn't think, just copy the first half of Shane's poem and added the only thing he could think of.
'Roses are red. Violets are blue. I want to fuck you.'
It was Shane's turned to laugh. Marleau in the middle of them, who was pretending not to notice up until that point, loudly groaned. He, too, began furiously typing into his phone and Ilya's soon buzzed again.
A group chat. Cliff Marleau to Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander. One word. 'Perverts.'
'Are you reading my texts?' Ilya texted back. He could see Shane's name pop in and out of existence with the adjacent istyping. 'Fucking creep,' Ilya added.
'You're actually being perverts! I fucking knew it!'
'Fuck you.' From Ilya.
'We're not.' From Shane. Then the message got edited to I'm not.
Marleau laughed, loudly. Again.
Shane spoke to Marleau, in fucking French. Ilya hadn't realised before that was an option and he did not care for it one bit. He wanted to punch Marleau about it. Only the literal physical impossibility of the small space spared him.
'Oh so you're best friends now? Sharing secrets?' Ilya huffed, leaning forward to look at both of them for the first time since they boarded the shuttle. It was a wrong move. His stomach turned with a sharp turn in the road.
'Jealous, Rozanov?' Shane laughed. An honest laugh that could come out in the back seat of a bus when no one was looking. Ilya wanted to kiss him.
Marleau said something in French back to Shane, making Shane turn serious. Him, Ilya wanted to punch.
Instead, he turned away and pushed his face against the cold window again, trying to focus on anything but his stomach. The road reached a hill and the serpentine climb was testing the limits of what Ilya could handle. He didn't care anymore about the discussion in French happening next to him.
He watched the view from his window, as finally, the road began to straighten again and the mountains were subsiding from his view, hidden as more and more buildings started appearing but the side of the road. The foreignness of it, the difference between Korea and Russia, or even America, breathtaking for a moment. Moreover, he realised, welcome.
In Boston, everyone cared only about hockey. Ilya himself never really cared about sports outside of the hockey. Never watched the Olympics, or followed other sports besides hockey. He'd watched a little basketball, when he was really desperate for something to fill the room with noise, but his life had only ever had space for hockey. But here, things would be different. Hockey was only one of the sports people would be buzzing about. He was just one person, in the sea of thousands of other athletes. So was Shane. And although Ilya was a realist, he found himself, since the time he spent at Shane's cottage, a little more hopeful. And a little more brave. And brave usually went hand-in-hand with wicked for him.
But, as another curve of the rose reminded him, the wickedness would have to wait. At least till he regained the control of his stomach.
Ilya groaned. He was contemplating just asking the driver to stop, but someone must have beaten him to it because the bus was coming to a stop already. He didn't really register what was happening before the bus door was opening and he could feel the cold air from outside reach his face.
'Sorry guys, our teammate is car sick so they're going to walk the rest of the way,' he could hear Shane talking to the confused athletes they were sharing the ride with. It was strange to hear Shane call him a teammate, strange to hear him say what Ilya was thinking before he had the time to say it, and even stranger when he processed the words and realised he was getting kicked off the bus, probably. By his boyfriend. That was the kind of day Ilya was having, apparently.
Ilya managed to climb out, closely followed by Marleau. He braced against his knees and took a deep breath, enjoying how good the fresh air felt. The door of the bus closed and the vehicle started moving, without them, before he had a chance to ask what the fuck was happening. Only then he realised that Shane did not get off. And that his bag also stayed on board.
'Are you going to murder me? Is that some Canadian plot to win tournament?' Ilya turned to Marleau, confused and very much not in mood for whatever the fuck was happening.
'Why would we do that?' Marleau asked, annoyingly happy. 'Is Russia supposed to be good at hockey? Not what I remember from the last Olympics.'
Oh, Marleau had got mouthy during his little stint in Canada. Forgetting who he was talking to. Ilya would have to remind him, once he regained control of his stomach. Except, not even Ilya Rozanov could look threatening while bent over, dry heaving over his shoes.
Then Marleau started walking… somewhere. Ilya had no idea where they even where, or where they could possibly be going. So he followed. Seething. Ilya Rozanov did not sheepishly follow second-grade Canadian players. He kicked rocks on the path. It wasn't what he really wanted to be kicking.
They arrived… somewhere. The writing above the door was in Korean. For all Ilya understood, it could have been a fucking library. Marleau opened the door like he knew where he was, which was ridiculous. He arrived barely an hour before Ilya, flying in together with the Canadian team.
Ilya, in the absence of better options, followed Marleau inside. To his pleasant surprise, he found himself in a bar. Marleau was already trying to talk to the bartender with the help of a translator app on his phone. It was the same application Shane had urged him to put on his phone, that Ilya promised to do later and forgot.
Ilya watched Marleau get handed what had to be two beers although he was not familiar with the brand. He found a table and sat down. He was halfway through the bottle before he first set it down. He tried and failed to stifle the burp the beer produced.
'Rough travel, huh? Fuck, it won't be fun to destroy you when you look like this,' Marleau was poking at him, but Ilya didn't mind. He got his beer. The ground underneath his feet wasn't moving for once. The things were looking brighter already.
'What the fuck are you talking about? We're not in same group, we won't play together until at finals!' Ilya laughed and Marleau took no objection to being laughed at.
'I think you mean quarterfinals?' he replied, but Ilya shook his head.
'Russia is winning our group. Are you not winning your group? You have Hollander, who are you losing to, fucking Sweden?' Ilya slapped Marleau's shoulder.
Russia was winning their group. The only option. He was not losing a single match. No. Fucking. Way. Winning only, all the way to and including the finals. He knew Shane felt the same way about the Canadian team. Shane was wrong. Russia would win. They'd both win their group effortlessly. Play and beat the lower placed teams. Then meet in finals at the end. And Ilya will win. Simple.
'So, speaking of Hollander…' Marleau changed the topic. Ilya knew he was waiting to bring it up for a while. It didn't change how much he wanted to punch him for it.
'There is no speaking of Hollander,' Ilya said. Then, as if to an unrelated topic, which they both knew it was not, added, 'I need another drink.'
'Me too,' Marleau replied. He did not show any inclination of going to get it. So Ilya stood up. Grabbed the bottles to show the bartender. He put them on the bar and tried to communicate with his hands he wanted two more. The bartender smile and asked him in perfect English, 'Two more for you?'
Ilya could kill Marleau. He considered it. He considered sitting alone, drinking both beers himself. In the end, he decided to forget the beers and order vodka instead. He drank one shot immediately before ordering two more and bringing them to the table.
Marleau accepted his glass without questioning the fact that he must have been expecting beer. He raised it in salute and said, 'So, about you and —'
Ilya raised his hand to stop him. Downed his vodka in a single gulp. Made another trip to the bar, asking the bartender to make his next drink a double.
'So,' Marleau started again.
'Yeah, yeah.' Ilya knew the conversation was inevitable. Playing with the glass in his hand, he looked around himself, the place was mostly empty, but still… 'What you want to know?' Ilya asked, quietly, trying to communicate with his eyes what would happen to Marleau if he didn't follow suit.
Marleau laughed, defensively raising his hands. 'None of my business. I just wanted to say, nice pull.'
Ilya stared at him. 'That's what you said to —' he hesitated, '— what you said to Jane, yes?' Because clearly. Clearly. Something must have gone lost in translation. Because Marleau couldn't be saying he thought Ilya wasn't the catch here — however much Ilya actually thought the same himself.
'And you told no one,' Ilya asked, because he had to, when it became clear there was no response coming to his previous question.
'Fuck no.'
Ilya nodded. He needed to hear it.
'So, it's serious, right?'
'I thought you said no questions,' Ilya raised his eyebrows over the rim of his vodka glass.
'So that sounded like a yes…'
Ilya knew he was guessing. Didn't care. Realised, to his own surprised, he actually wanted to talk to Marleau. About Shane. Not that he would ever admit it.
He pushed his empty glass across the table. Marleau gave him an unbelieving smirk, which soon turned into a staring competition, and Ilya always won those. His prize was a fresh glass of vodka. Only after a sip, he answered Marleau's question, as casually as he could, shaking his shoulders as if it wasn't a big deal. As if it wasn't everything.
'Is serious. I'm in love.'
Marleau chuckled. He slapped Ilya's shoulder. 'Right on!'
'This changes nothing,' Ilya warned him. 'Is still a secret.'
'That must fucking suck.'
'Is hot,' Ilya lied.
'I can imagine,' Marleau laughed.
'Oh so you imagine? What you imagine? Who fucks who when you imagine?' Ilya wasn't sure why he was being a dick. Maybe it was the fifth shot of vodka on an empty stomach. Maybe he wanted to see Marleau crack and admit he was not actually all that okay with the information as he acted.
Marleau only laughed at him. His resolve didn't seem to be cracking in the least. 'Yeah I don't want to imagine that and I don't want to fucking know. I just meant, having someone who can match your… stamina.' Marleau didn't look like he wanted to say stamina. Insanity, maybe.
They sat in silence. Drank vodka. Ordered more.
'Jane is lucky. Very fucking lucky,' Marleau said out of nowhere. Ilya raised his eyebrows, but Marleau said what he had to say. So Ilya just nodded. And bought them another drink. It was how Russians said thank you. Marleau knew him long enough to understand.
Ilya was surprised to learn, as he was carrying the fresh glasses to the table, that he was very much drunk. It took him a moment to stumble back to their table and when he did, he found Marleau deep in thought.
'You know,' Marleau said, accepting the glass with a nod, 'I was so fucking excited for the games. I said to myself, this will be good for you, Cliff. Nice break from all the fucking drama around Roz —' he sighed. The vodka was having an effect on him too, although he was still at least two glasses behind Ilya. Maybe three. Ilya could hardly keep count of his own drinks at this point.
'Well here's to taking a break from your fucking drama,' he continues, taking a large gulp from his glass before bringing it towards Ilya's with a loud clink. 'Also, I lied before. I have so many questions. Like, how good is Jane in bed?'
Ilya laughed. And found himself giving out enough details to regret everything the next morning.
_______
Sometime during the evening, Ilya managed to answer a call from a distressed Russian player who was supposed to be one of his roommates. His luggage had, apparently, made it to the room, but the person dropping it off couldn't say how he got it or where its owner might be. Ilya, who had not thought about his bag since he took first sip of vodka that evening, was delighted to rediscover its existence. The player on the other end of the line must have felt the same way about Ilya. And Ilya must have been slurring his words enough that he was not asked about his whereabouts any more, just wished a good night.
'I do not know where my room is,' he turned to Marleau when he ended the call, only then realising the fact. Marleau laughed for a moment, then stopped quiet suddenly.
'Fuck. I have to call Hollander. Let's hope it's not his bedtime yet.' Marleau was suddenly very serious. Ilya wasn't sure why Shane would know where his room is, but then again, he had to figure it out since his bag had already made it there. So Ilya waited while Marleau went outside to make a call. Patiently. Somewhat patiently. Not patiently at all.
He joined him after maybe fifteen seconds with the excuse of going out for a smoke. Marleau just rolled his eyes when he saw him and hanged up before Ilya had chance to steal his phone.
'We should get you to bed,' Marleau sighed, looking at Ilya's trying to look cool and lean against the wall as he played with his lighter. Except Ilya misjudged his distance from the wall by good half meter and found himself splayed on his ass. Marleau didn't even attempt to prevent the fall.
'Do you know where my room is?' Ilya asked, getting up and trying to brush dirt of his pants. Marleau laughed.
'I don't even know where mine is,' he said, but once again, he simply took off, leaving Ilya to follow. So Ilya did. Making a mental note of another thing to hold against his friend. To punish when they got back to Boston.
'Where are we going?' Ilya cried after him, stumbling to follow. He cursed as he was forced to admit what little control remained over his body wasn't enough to work the cheap lighter he bought at the airport newsstand. He pushed it into his pocket, along with the box of cigarettes. When he tried to retrieve it couple minutes later, he realised he had lost it.
'Bed! We have practice tomorrow morning and you probably too!'
'You don't know where your bed is,' Ilya protested. He was not drunk enough to forget a conversation they just had.
Marleau laughed. Looked around, checking if there was anyone within earshot.
'Your boyfriend is picking us up.'
Ilya's heart did a weird thing. The weird thing was followed by an urge to fight Marleau, and what was said. Then a realisation, that the fight was unnecessary. The accusation wasn't an accusation. It was the truth. And the truth made Ilya's heart do the thing again.
And so, Ilya found himself, at the entrance to the Olympic village, drunk and grinning like an idiot. He registered — barely — Marleau at his side, reminding him to be cool. Then there was Shane, approaching them, looking sleepy and amused. Ilya took a step forward and found himself pulled back by the collar of his shirt. Good call. Too eager. Except he was eager. So fucking eager, so he did what he knew best. Focused his energy on being an asshole.
'Hollander!' he tried again. Marleau let go this time and Ilya properly, formally, greeted his boyfriend. Shook his hand. There. Very official. Not romantic at all.
Shane and Marleau were exchanging glances. Someone laughed. Not Shane. Ilya knew how Shane laughed.
'Do you know where my bed is?' Ilya asked and winked. He convinced himself that still counted as chirping. 'Or can I come to your bed?' that one was just Ilya being honest. Shane only laughed.
'Hollander, pleaseeee,' he pleaded and didn't care how pathetic he sounded. Marleau, in the background, was howling with laughter.
'You're sleeping on the ground,' Shane sighed, turned around, and lead the way. Ilya only registered the fact he was going to sleep in Shane's room. He didn't try not to stare at Shane's back as they walked. Maybe if he did, he would have heard Shane very explicitly mention roommates. And when they reached the room, he would not have been shocked to find himself face-to-face with equally disturbed Hayden Pike.