Chapter Text
The cold in Canada was different.
Ilya Rozanov had grown up with winter in Russia, of course, snow, ice, grey skies that never seemed to end… but this cold felt sharper somehow. Maybe it was because everything else here was unfamiliar too.
The school building loomed ahead of him, red brick and glass, students spilling through the doors in loud groups. Their voices blurred together into a fast stream of English that Ilya could barely keep up with.
He understood some of it.
Not enough.
He shifted the strap of his bag on his shoulder and stepped inside.
Immediately, the hallway noise doubled. Lockers slammed. Someone shouted down the hall. Music leaked from a pair of headphones.
Ilya kept his face neutral.
Back home, he had learned something important: if people thought you were confident, they usually stopped asking questions.
So he walked like he belonged there.
Tall. Shoulders back. Calm.
It worked for about twelve seconds.
“Yo, are you the exchange kid?”
Ilya turned.
Three guys stood near a row of lockers, watching him. One of them had messy brown hair and a hockey jacket. Another was tall and lanky, leaning against the wall with a grin.
The third one, blond, sharp eyes, confident posture, looked like he ran the group.
Ilya caught maybe half of what the first guy said.
Exchange kid.
That must be him.
“Yes,” Ilya said slowly. His accent was thick, vowels heavier than the English around him. “I am…exchange student.”
The messy-haired guy’s eyes widened slightly. “Dude, that accent is sick.”
Ilya blinked.
He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.
The tall guy laughed. “Where you from?”
“Russia.”
That got an immediate reaction.
“No way,” the blond one said, pushing off the lockers and stepping closer. “That’s actually cool as hell.”
Cool.
That word he understood.
The messy-haired guy stuck out his hand. “I’m Matt.”
Ilya hesitated for half a second before shaking it. “Ilya.”
“Illya?” Matt repeated.
Ilya corrected automatically. “Ee-lya.”
“Okay yeah, that’s cooler.”
The tall one pointed at himself. “Connor.”
Then the blond guy gestured casually. “Dylan.”
They looked him over for a second.
Ilya knew the look.
He was used to it from hockey back home, people sizing him up.
Tall. Athletic. Quiet.
One of the girls walking past glanced at him too.
Then another.
Connor elbowed Matt. “Dude,” he muttered loudly, “the girls are already staring.”
Matt smirked. “Bro hasn’t even been here five minutes.”
Ilya didn’t fully understand the sentence, but he understood the tone.
Dylan grinned. “You play sports?”
That question was easy.
“Yes. Hockey.”
The reaction was instant.
Connor slapped his shoulder. “Of course you do.”
Matt laughed. “Dude, he’s literally the cool exchange hockey guy.”
Dylan nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, this guy’s gonna destroy here.”
Ilya tilted his head slightly.
Destroy?
Before he could ask, Connor leaned closer.
“Trust me,” Connor said, nodding toward a group of girls whispering nearby, “you’re gonna have like ten girlfriends by next week.”
Ilya blinked again.
Girlfriends.
Oh.
He forced a small smile. “Yes,” he said awkwardly.
Inside, though, something twisted uncomfortably in his chest.
Back home, people had said things like that too.
He never knew how to respond.
Not because of the English.
Because of the implication.
He pushed the thought away immediately.
No.
That wasn’t something he let himself think about.
Ever.
Matt clapped him on the back. “Come on, we’ll show you around.”
And just like that, they adopted him.
They walked him through the school hallways, pointing things out while talking way too fast.
“Cafeteria’s there.”
“Gym’s downstairs.”
“Don’t take the stairs by the science wing unless you wanna die.”
Ilya nodded along, catching maybe sixty percent.
But he noticed things.
People staring.
Girls whispering.
Someone muttering “That’s the Russian exchange kid.”
Connor leaned toward him. “You’re already famous, dude.”
Ilya frowned slightly. “Famous?”
Matt laughed. “Yeah. Tall Russian hockey guy? Bro, you’re basically a movie character.”
Ilya didn’t know what to say to that.
They stopped at another hallway intersection.
That was when Dylan nodded across the hall. “Oh, and that’s Shane.”
Ilya followed his gaze.
A boy stood by a locker down the hall.
Dark hair. Quiet posture. Freckles…Focused expression while he read something on his phone.
He wasn’t talking like everyone else.
Just existing in the middle of the chaos.
Connor waved. “Hollander!”
Shane looked up.
His eyes moved to the group first.
Then they landed on Ilya.
For a moment, everything felt strangely quiet.
Shane studied him.
Not in the same way everyone else had.
Not like they were measuring how “cool” he was.
Just… looking.
Curious.
Matt spoke up. “This is Ilya. Exchange student from Russia.”
Shane nodded once. “Hey.”
His voice was calm.
Simple.
Ilya searched for the right English. “Hello.”
There was a brief silence.
Connor smirked. “Careful, Hollander. This guy’s already stealing all the girls.”
Matt laughed again.
Shane didn’t.
His eyes flicked back to Ilya for a second.
Something unreadable crossed his expression.
Then he shrugged slightly. “Good for him.”
But for some reason, Ilya felt heat rise faintly to the back of his neck.
Because when Shane looked at him again for half a second…
It didn’t feel like the other looks he’d been getting all morning.
Not at all.
And Ilya didn’t know why that made his chest feel tight.
~~~
By the time the final bell rang, Ilya’s head hurt.
English all day felt like trying to swim while someone kept pushing his head underwater. He could manage it …barely but it took all of his concentration. Every sentence required effort. Every joke from the guys took a second longer for him to understand.
Sometimes by the time he did understand, the conversation had already moved on.
Still, they had been nice.
Matt had walked him to his last class. Connor had told him which teachers were “cool” and which ones were “absolute nightmares.” Dylan had spent half of lunch trying to teach him slang that Ilya was almost certain he would forget immediately.
And Shane…
Shane had mostly just been quiet.
But he had stayed near them the entire lunch period, listening. Sometimes his eyes drifted to Ilya when the others were talking too fast.
Once, when Matt asked Ilya a question he didn’t understand, Shane had repeated it slower.
Ilya noticed.
He noticed everything.
But now school was over.
The hallway emptied as students flooded toward the exits, laughter echoing through the building. Someone shouted about a party that weekend. A group of girls walked past, one of them glancing at Ilya and whispering something to her friend.
He kept his expression neutral.
Connor nudged him. “So where you staying? Host family?”
Ilya shook his head. “Apartment.”
Dylan raised an eyebrow. “Alone?”
“Yes.”
Matt looked impressed. “Dude, that’s actually sick. Freedom immediately.”
Ilya gave a small nod, though the word freedom felt strange in his chest.
Connor slung his backpack on. “You should come to the rink sometime,” he said. “If you play hockey, you’ll fit in instantly.”
“I will try,” Ilya said.
Then Matt grinned. “And bring some of that Russian charm, man. The girls are gonna love it.”
Connor laughed. “Seriously, you’re gonna destroy it here.”
Ilya forced another small smile. “Yes.”
The conversation moved on quickly after that, the guys heading toward the parking lot.
“See you tomorrow, man!” Matt called.
Ilya lifted a hand in a small wave. “Tomorrow.”
Then they were gone.
The noise of the school faded behind him as he stepped outside.
The air was colder now, the sun already dipping lower in the sky. Students walked past in groups, voices overlapping, plans for the evening spilling out easily.
Ilya walked alone.
The apartment building was only a few blocks away. His footsteps crunched softly on the sidewalk while cars passed on the street beside him.
He kept his hands in his pockets.
The key was cold in his fingers when he unlocked the door.
The apartment was small.
Just a kitchen, a narrow living space, and a bedroom with a desk that faced the window.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
He set his backpack on the floor and stood there for a moment, listening.
Nothing.
No voices.
No television.
No familiar sounds from another room.
Back in Russia, there had always been something.
His mother humming softly while she cooked. The kettle boiling. The faint sound of music drifting from the radio.
Now there was only the low hum of the refrigerator.
Ilya moved automatically, pulling food from the fridge and setting water on the stove. Simple dinner. Bread. Soup.
Things he could make without thinking.
While the water heated, his phone buzzed on the counter.
A message.
He already knew who it was from before he opened it.
Father
Ilya stared at the screen for a moment.
Then he opened the message.
–Ты туда добрался? (Did you get there.)
No question mark.
Just words.
-Да, (Yes,)
Ilya typed back.
- Сегодня была школа.(School was today.)
Several seconds passed before the typing dots appeared.
Then the next message came.
-Не позорь меня там. (Do not embarrass me there.)
Ilya’s jaw tightened slightly.
The kettle began to whistle behind him.
Another message appeared.
-Твоя мать хотела бы, чтобы ты сосредоточился на учёбе. (Your mother would have wanted you to focus on studies.)
That one made something twist painfully in his chest.
He stared at the words for a long time.
His mother would have wanted many things.
But she wasn’t here anymore.
The last message came a moment later.
- И помни, что я сказал перед тем, как ты ушёл. (And remember what I said before you left.)
Ilya already knew what it would say.
But he read it anyway.
- Я не буду жить с сыном, который — пидор. (I will not live with a son who is a fag.)
The word sat on the screen like something rotten.
Ilya felt the familiar numbness settle over him.
Not anger.
Not sadness.
Just something quiet and heavy.
He locked the phone and set it face down on the counter.
The soup had started boiling over.
He turned the stove off quickly.
For a moment he just stood there, staring at the steam rising from the pot.
Then, very quietly, he spoke in Russian. “Я не такой.” (I am not like that.)
The words felt hollow the moment they left his mouth.
Because deep down, in the quiet parts of his mind he refused to look at…
He wasn’t sure they were true.
And earlier that day, when Shane Hollander had looked at him across the hallway…
Something unfamiliar had stirred in his chest.
Something dangerous.
Something he absolutely could not allow himself to feel.
Ilya grabbed a bowl and poured the soup.
The apartment stayed silent around him.
Tomorrow he would go back to school.
Back to the loud hallways.
Back to the guys who thought he could get any girl he wanted.
And back to the quiet boy named Shane who looked at him differently than everyone else.
Ilya had a feeling that was going to become a problem.
A very big problem.