Chapter Text
In their second year of college, Jessica Tremblay sat him down in the off-campus café Beans & Berries and told him as kindly as she could, “You're a nice guy. But sometimes you are a little self-centered.”
Shane Hollander, seemingly unaware of this characteristic about himself, blinked in confusion and asked her to elaborate. He wasn't being rude, just curious.
“I mean, you don't put yourself in other people's shoes. You should try that more. Explore all sides, you know?”
Though Shane had nodded in understanding back then, he didn't know. Not really. How does one do that? Feel things they don't typically feel? How can someone feel like someone else? How can Shane be anyone but himself? He didn't know how to do that and it had never occurred to him before that people actually went around trying to feel other people's feelings.
His and Jessica's relationship had been short-lived. But her words stuck with him long after.
Shane was aware of the concept of empathy, but he wasn't aware that he lacked it for other people. For one scary moment Shane wondered if he was a psychopath. He'd heard somewhere that they didn't have empathy or any feelings really. But Shane felt things just fine, in fact, some days he thinks he feels a little too much. Everything overwhelms him; from the way his roommate slash best friend Hayden sips his coffee to the dig of his Reeboks against his ankle. He hates those days. The urge to have something heavy over him until he can't breathe, think, move becomes too much.
But Shane has a reputation to hold up. He's the college Ice Hockey captain (and he's still a junior) with Ottawa Centaurs waiting to draft him as soon as he graduates. He has a good GPA so far in his degree for Sport Analytics. He plans to keep it that way for the two years he has remaining for his degree. He has two best friends. He has two parents who are alive and healthy and really love him. He is well-known around campus. The freshmen look up to him, the seniors are fond of him. His professors like him. He has everything a 20-year-old college student should want. He probably has more than that.
He has no student loans to worry about. He drives his own car. He lives in an apartment with Hayden with reasonable rent and good facilities.
There's no reason why he should feel the gnawing void inside him. It's illogical. And Shane doesn't like anomalies in his data sets.
Shane can tell something is different the moment he walks into the apartment. Hayden is sitting on the couch with Jackie; his girlfriend and one of Shane's friends by association. They're both holding each other's hands and looking… guilty?
“Hey buddy,” Hayden tries to smile big but ends up looking like he's flinching.
Jackie takes the lead, sparing her boyfriend the hardship. “Hey Shane. Can you come and sit here? We'd like to talk about something.”
Shane can feel his anxiety creep in. His mind starts to do calculations a mile a minute trying to figure what could've happened—what is it that he's possibly done for his friends to have an intervention?
“You guys are being weird,” he says as he sets his bag down and sits on the loveseat.
“We know,” Jackie gives him an apologetic smile. “We want to tell you something but we don't want you to think it's something you've done.”
“Okay?” Shane frowns. He feels like the kid who's about to get told that his parents are getting a divorce.
“We were thinking that we should take the next step in our relationship. It's been two years of us dating. And we were looking for small apartments.”
It clicks. Hayden wants to move out and move in with Jackie. His apprehension about the entire thing was how Shane was going to react. Which is fair. Shane's not a big fan of change. And Hayden moving out will change things. For starters, the place will be a mess. And then he'll have to look for a new roommate. Shane has never lived with anyone but Hayden—he's an only child—and he's known Hayden for nearly 14 years.
He doesn't like the fact that his life will change. But what Jessica said all those years ago comes to mind again. Empathy. Putting himself into other people's shoes. So Shane tries. He looks at Jackie and then at Hayden. He looks at the way they're holding each other's hands. The way they're looking at Shane and each other. He thinks back to the day Hayden met Jackie and remembers that he's never seen his best friend smile quite that big before.
“That's great news guys!” He makes himself smile as brightly as he can. “Have you found anything you like so far?”
“Anyone here doing it for you?” Rose yells next to his ear over the music. Shane tries not to flinch.
“Not really, no.”
“Oh c'mon! This place has at least one guy cute enough for our campus star,” she pouts.
Ah yes. A guy. Isn't that just nerve-wracking?
Shane met Rose during Psych 101 in his freshman year. He hated the course but absolutely loved the friend he'd made. Jessica was not the biggest fan of Rose, so they had barely hung out when she and Shane were dating. But now Rose is hellbent on making up for lost time. Which also means Shane has to mourn the lack of his alone time and come to loud, crowded college frat parties with her every other weekend.
But that's not the reason why he has his stomach in knots. It's the prospect that he might be here to hookup with a guy. That he might be… not straight?
That revelation can also be attributed to Rose Landry, for he was just fine going about his day until she dropped next to him during one of his free periods in the cafeteria and without any preamble asked, “Would you fuck me?”
Unfortunately Shane was sipping his spinach-banana-peanut butter smoothie (Hayden calls it disgusting, Shane calls it “It’s not that bad once you get used to it.”) at that time and proceeded to choke on it. After he had gotten past the coughing and wiped the tears from his eyes he managed to wheeze out a weak “what?”
Rose, seemingly unperturbed, had repeated herself. “Do you think about fucking me?”
Shane is not ashamed to say this but he was speechless. For someone who always knew just the thing to say, Shane was not used to being dumbfounded. “Do you want me to think about fucking you?”
Rose had given him The Look. Shane had recognized it as her you're-so-full-of-shit-and-you're-doing-a-terrible-job-hiding-it look.
“Hollander, I've been friends with a lot of guys in my life. The ones who are into pussy have hit on me approximately an hour into getting to know me. You know the ones who haven't hit on me? Ever?”
The ones who aren't into pussy?
“The ones who aren't into pussy,” she answers her own question.
“Okay…”
“You've never once hit on me.”
“Okay…” he repeated.
“C'mon Hollander, use those analytical skills! Correlation, variation, coefficient, whatever.”
Shane could hear his heart beat in his ears. Is he… no that can't be. Is he gay? Not straight? He's had girlfriends. He's had… sex. Albeit not very good sex. But it was… passable. Nothing to write sonnets about but it was… not bad, right?
“I'm not gay,” he said with the confidence of someone saying 8 a.m. classes “won’t be that bad.”
Rose gave him another variation of The Look. Shane couldn't meet her eyes after that.
That was nearly a month ago.
During that time Shane thought about it. A lot. He thought and thought and thought until he missed a bunch of passes in practice and during an actual game against McGill. And then he thought some more while sulking about the loss of their first game of the season (he'd still scored two goals. McGill just happened to score one more. Nobody blamed him, but he blamed himself enough).
This thing was becoming a problem, he realized. He tried to put it in the backburner of his mind, but it was like Rose had kicked open a door he couldn't quite close again. Worst of all, he started to notice things—notice men to be specific.
He noticed the TA in his econ class, the rolled up sleeves of his forearm, the way his glasses framed his blue eyes. He noticed the barista at Bean & Berries, his tattoos and piercings (he has a tongue piercing that nearly stopped Shane's heart), his flirty grin (Shane blushed—blushed!—when he smiled at him the other day), his Quebecois accent. But the nail in the coffin for him was when he noticed his left winger Troy Barrett and his back muscles in the shower the other day and felt a pang of desire in his gut.
No, no, no, absolutely not. Shane will chew on a handful of nails and ask Hayden to beat him with a hockey stick before he even considers a teammate in that light.
So here he is, Shane “I will try anything once” Hollander with his friend Rose Landry, trying to find himself a hookup in a Lambda Chi Alpha party on a Saturday, sore from practice and the weight of the week—trying to solve his gay problem.
“I am not a campus star,” Shane mutters but Rose hears him nonetheless.
“Tell that to the group of freshmen making heart eyes at you,” she subtly points to four girls standing a distance away shooting him smiles. He noticed them, didn't know they were trying to get his attention.
Shane doesn't drink for dietary reasons and because he just doesn't like the taste of alcohol. But tonight he definitely needed some liquid courage and thus has chugged three red solo cups worth of shitty beer. And now he's a little buzzed.
“I'm gonna get some air,” he says and makes sure not to slur. He's not too out of it. Maybe a little trippy on his feet but he's fine. He could probably even drive. He won't, obviously, but he could.
With his newly filled solo cup, he makes his way toward the large porch that's mostly empty. There are a few people there; drinking, smoking, and chatting. Shane doesn't enjoy the smell of nicotine but he'll tolerate it over the loud music. He really doesn't like parties. He wishes he had an excuse to stay home.
There's an empty chair next to the darkened corner of the porch. It's dingy, therefore void of people milling about. Shane goes to sit there.
Something—or someone moves to his left making him jump. He looks to find a red ember burning. Ah, another smoker. There's a bunch of dried up bushes next to where the person is standing. If he manages to not put out his cigarette properly, it could be a fire hazard given the dry weather they've been having for the past few weeks.
“You're not supposed to smoke here,” he finds himself saying. Even drunk Shane is a stickler for the rules. God, he's uptight isn't he?
The person, Shane can't see his face, doesn't say anything. But Shane can feel himself watching.
With nothing to do, he drinks his shitty beer and takes out his phone. There are a few texts from Hayden.
Shane has given the duty of finding him a roommate to Hayden. Well, if he's being honest, Hayden has taken it upon himself because he feels guilty for leaving. To his credit, Shane has tried to explain that he doesn't mind finding a roommate by himself. But his friend had been insistent. And between him and Jackie, they have a pretty good idea what kind of a person Shane would be comfortable co-habitating with. So he was actually happy to have one less thing to worry about on his long to-do list. Plus, Hayden's schedule is wide open for a short while.
He got a mild concussion during their last away game and has been ordered to keep off the ice for three weeks. Shane is guessing he's decided to make use of the time to meet with some people who've responded to the ad flyer hanging in Beans & Berries.
Shane has a game in Vancouver next weekend so he won't be here.
The chair across from him creaks and Shane finds the guy suddenly sitting face to face with him. The only light source are the string lights hanging across the porch beams. But even in them Shane can see the guy's face.
He's… beautiful. Holy shit!
He's not wearing anything extravagant. In fact Shane's not sure he's even dressed up for the party. He's wearing a grey hoodie. His long stretched out legs are clad in dark jeans. His hood is not pulled up so Shane can see the messed-up dark blond curls spilling over his neck, ears, and forehead. Shane can feel his fingers twitch on the table.
He wants to look away, wants to stop staring. But he can't. He's watching the cut of the stranger's jaw. The beauty mark on his cheek. His sharp nose. His… his eyes. Shane can't make out the color from here. He wishes he could. The guy is smoking the last bit of his cigarette.
Shane feels his throat dry out from the way his red lips curl around the cylindrical shape of the cigarette.
A ridiculous urge to put the cigarette to his own lips comes over Shane. He quickly brushes it off and reminds himself that he doesn't smoke, that he hates the way it smells.
He looks down at his phone.
He can feel the guy watching him and squirms in his seat. The cool night breeze does little to settle his nerves or the rapid thumps of his heart. He has never been noticed by a guy before, at least not to his knowledge. Is this what it feels like?
“Are you freshmen?”
Shane's not expecting the deep voice or the Slavic accent. He snaps his attention back to the stranger.
“Uh, no. Junior. You?”
The guy shoots him a smirk that makes Shane squirm again. Is it hot out here? He's only wearing a linen sir and denim jeans. But he's suddenly feeling flushed.
“Senior,” he says before taking the last drag of his cigarette and putting it off on the iron table.
“Transfer?”
The guy shakes his head. “International.”
“Oh. You must be smart.”
The guy snorts and looks away.
“What are you studying?” Shane asks, intrigued now by the person.
“Computer science.”
“Cool,” he says because it is. Sitting in front of a computer and developing whole programs and apps? Yeah Shane could never acquire that level of patience.
“What about you?” the guy asks, looking at him again.
“Sports Analytics.”
He's met with a raised and inquisitive eyebrow. So he explains. “I'm being drafted by the Ottawa Centaurs after I graduate. I wanted to study something that's close to my career, so that I've something to fall back to in case…” he shrugs.
“In case what?”
“In case of an injury that takes me out of the game for good. It's also a good option after retirement.”
“You are very—” the guy moves his hand around as if searching for the right word, “Think very far ahead?”
“Strategic? Forward-thinking?” Shane tries.
“Da.”
He feels himself blush but plays it off with a shrug. “My mom thought it'd be a good idea and I agree.”
The guy nods.
Shane realizes he doesn't know his name. “I'm Shane by the way.”
“Ilya,” the guy introduces himself. Shane tries to memorize the way he says it. Il-ya. Two syllables. “You come here by yourself?” the guy—Ilya—asks.
Shane shakes his head. “My friend is in there,” he motions toward the rowdy living room. “Having the time of her life.”
“Why are you here then?”
“It's too loud,” he decides to be honest. It's a stranger. He could be honest and not make a big deal out of it.
“Parties tend to be loud, yes.” The hint of amusement in Ilya's tone makes Shane chuckle.
“Why are you here? Are seniors too cool to party now?”
Ilya shrugs. “Boring party. Met no one interesting.” Then he looks Shane directly in the eyes and says, “Until now that is.”
Shane gulps feeling flushed all over again. Fuck, this guy is hitting on him. He's sure of it now. “Oh?”
“Are you seeing anyone, Shane?”
Shane can feel his breath coming in short puffs. “No?”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes?”
That judgy eyebrow raises again. So Shane amends himself. “Yes.”
“Are you into men?”
Well, isn't that a loaded question? Shane tries to answer as honestly as he can. “I don't know.”
Ilya makes a gesture that conveys, ‘go on, explain.’
“I didn't think I was. But my friend—one dancing in there—pointed out some things a while back and now…”
“You're not sure.”
“I'm not sure,” Shane nods and then chuckles. “Aren't I a college cliché?”
“What do you mean?” Ilya prods.
“I mean, I'm having a sexuality crisis and thinking about experimenting like probably every other college student.”
“And that is bad?”
“No? I don't know. Even if I'm… not straight… my career isn't really queerness friendly.”
“But isn't it better to know who you are than not at all?”
Shane sighs, his mood getting heavier. He realizes that he'd relaxed in the past half an hour from the way his body goes rigid again.
“Have you done it?” Ilya asks, making Shane look at him again.
“Done what?”
“Experimented.”
Shane blushes and looks away. “Uh, no. Not yet,” he mumbles.
“Would you like to?”
And oh fuck. His heart kicks up a notch. He swallows the saliva that pools into his mouth. He tries to joke. “Why? Are you offering?”
Ilya doesn't say anything. He just looks at him. And just by the way he looks at him, Shane knows his answer.
“My roommate is home,” he says and realizes with a sudden revelation that he's very much wishing that Hayden wasn't home.
“Mine isn't.”
Ilya's day started with him staring at his computer screen once again. Well actually, saying his “day started” would imply that his night had ended at some point. It didn't. Because like every other night of his life since he can remember, he didn't sleep. If he's being accurate, he couldn't sleep.
He's had a terrible case of insomnia since stepping into double digits, and only got worse after his mother—well after his mother.
He has been to sixteen doctors about this, and all of them have suggested the same variation of pills and natural techniques. But he nearly overdosed on a concoction of barbiturates and benzodiazepines when he was eighteen, Sveta had cried until she hiccuped after Ilya woke up in a hospital bed. That was when Ilya promised himself to be more careful.
The first plan of action was to move away from Russia. So he applied to every college he could find in the northern hemisphere (45 to be exact) and heard back from 18, got offered a partial scholarship from 14 of them, and a full ride from 4. This one was the farthest away from Russia, so here he is.
After arriving, he developed a system. He couldn't sleep at night, so he worked on his freelancing stuff (and now his final year project) instead. He designed his routine in a way that gave him mostly morning classes, leaving the afternoons free, because it's only then that he can sleep. Not for a long time, of course, maybe an hour or two. Four if he's lucky.
Since he's on a full ride, he has to keep up his GPA. So Ilya works harder than anybody he knows. He takes extra credits, works internships during his summer breaks, and is set to start a remote job once he graduates. He is going to fight tooth and nail to not go back. That is if his lack of sleep doesn't kill him first.
A perpetual tiredness festers inside Ilya. His muscles ache, his eyes burn and there's a fuzziness inside his brain he just can't get rid of. He's functioning at 70% of his total capacity, at best. Most days Ilya feels like he's living through a haze.
The only time he even remotely feels alive is when he's having sex. Sveta had snorted when Ilya told her that once after he'd given her back-to-back orgasms and received a very good one himself in return. The only time he can get a solid four hours of sleep is when he has had a good fuck.
So Ilya goes out and has sex when he feels his body shake from exhaustion and begging him for a shut eye. He finds himself at college parties, looks for a suitable one night stand (girl, guy, whatever, Ilya's not picky), takes them home), makes sure they have a good time, and then lets oblivion take over for as long as she'll have him.
Is it healthy? Fuck no. But does it work for him? Barely. But what else can he do? As he said, he has a system. Being a guy's first gay experimentation isn't part of said system.
But Ilya took one look at the guy across the table; took in his wide eyes, plush lips, shock of black hair, and those damn freckles and he knew he'd make an exception this one time. Plus, he knows how to treat a partner well. If Shane's going to have sex with a guy for the first time, Ilya can confidently say that he's not a bad option himself.
His apartment is a fifteen-minute ride away, so they haul a cab from the street. Shane is next to him, vibrating out of his skin if the tension Ilya can feel roll off him is any indication. He leaves him to his devices and checks his own phone.
9:35 PM
Saturday, October 14
MESSAGES
2hrs ago
Ilya clears the notification and closes his phone.
He lives—well, lived with a roommate up until two months ago. His roommate, Maya, has met the love of her life in a club and after only eight weeks of dating they have decided to move in together. Yes, it was a little fast, but it was also very stereotypically lesbian of them.
So Ilya kept his mouth shut, his support vocal and helped her pack. She moved out on Thursday. And Ilya is expected to find a new home for himself in a week and half. He could get a roommate but honestly, he'd been living there purely because of Maya.
His last summer internship paid him well enough to rent a shared apartment which didn't have a leaky faucet or didn't faintly smell like black mold. He could've moved out, sure, but he also didn't like the prospect of him being replaced by some creep that Maya had to live with. He's rather fond of her and her herbal teas.
She's also the one who gave Ilya his piercings for free as a birthday gift. They've healed up nicely and now Ilya can wear his small hoops from time to time.
Ilya unlocks his apartment door and lets Shane in first. As he passes Ilya, his cologne draws Ilya's attention. He smells like a forest; earthy and fresh. Maybe with a hint of citrus. Like a wild orange.
Ilya trails in and switches on the softer yellow light, bathing the room in a gentle glow. Shane meets his eyes and Ilya can tell he's nervous.
“Do you want something to drink?” he asks as he drops his keys on the side table. It makes a clanking sound and Ilya realizes that Maya has taken with her the misshapen clay bowl she made in a pottery class. The one they used to keep their keys and other miscellaneous things in.
“Do you, uh, do you have ginger ale?” Shane asks, looking around the somewhat barren living room. It occurs to Ilya that he must come across as a fucking weirdo to someone who isn't privy to the information that he'll be moving in less than two weeks.
“No, sorry,” he says but opens up the fridge anyway. “I have coke, water, orange juice, and some milk I will not recommend.”
“Water is fine.”
Ilya takes out two bottles of water and hands one to Shane.
“I'm moving in a few days,” he informs the man in front of him. “That's why everything looks like a mess in here.”
“Oh,” Shane looks around again. “Yeah, that makes sense.”
“The coffee cups are in that cupboard. The blue one is mine. You're free to choose from any of the others. I don't drink coffee. So it's mostly decaf. If you're into herbal tea then a few teabags are next to the coffee pods with the kettle.”
Shane frowns. “Okay?”
Oh, Ilya needs to explain it to him. “For the morning. I will be sleeping. Don't wake me unless there is emergency. But help yourself.”
He watches in thinly veiled satisfaction as a flush crawls up Shane's neck. “Oh. Well, thanks I guess.”
Ilya smirks.
“I didn't know people do that for, uh, for one-night-stands. That's nice.”
“I'm nice,” he shrugs.
Shane chuckles. “Yeah, I'm starting to see that.”
Ilya takes the half-drunk water bottle from Shane and puts both of them on the counter before slowly backing Shane up against the wall next to the fridge.
“Have you ever kissed a guy before?”
Shane's breathing picks up. Ilya can feel it. He's dying to touch the guy. Feel the warmth of his skin, taste the salt of it. Hear him make pretty noises for Ilya.
“Uh, no.”
“Mm. I should make it good for you then.”
Shane takes in a sharp breath. “Yeah. I think you should.”
Ilya holds on to Shane's chin—his touch feather-light—and plants a gentle kiss against his lips. They're soft and nervous, but they kiss him back just as gently, tentatively. Ilya goes for another kiss, a little firmer this time. His other hand comes to rest flat against Shane's chest. He can feel the thumping of his beating heart against his palm.
He runs his fingers resting against Shane's jaw slowly through his hair. His hair is soft and silky, Ilya scratches through them and gets a firmer grip. Shane makes a soft sound. A whimper maybe. Ilya feels his arousal kick up a notch.
He deepens the kiss, nipping Shane's lower lip this time. Shane responds beautifully, surging to kiss Ilya when he pulls away. Ilya lets him, caressing his jaw in encouragement.
Ilya can tell he'll have fun with Shane tonight, if his eagerness and hard dick against Ilya's hip are anything to go by. He pulls in closer, pushing Shane against the wall. One of his hands circles around Shane's waist and the other grabs holds of his nape. Ilya pulls him closer and feels his erection against him properly. He knows Shane feels his arousal just as much because he moans, a little louder this time, and Ilya takes the chance to slip his tongue into Shane's mouth.
The moment their tongues touch, Ilya feels the familiar buzz of electricity jolt through his veins, even harder than usual because he's making someone else experience this for the first time. The power of being someone's first is heady enough to pull some noises from him too.
Shane is inexperienced and there's no nicer way to put it. He doesn't know how to move his tongue or kiss back. He takes and takes and tries to mimic Ilya's strokes. He's unconsciously grinding his hips against Ilya, frotting their dicks together. Ilya lets him. He is so charmed by the messiness of the kiss that he doesn't mind the naiveté.
When they separate to breathe, he trails soft kisses from Shane's jaw down to his neck. He slowly undoes the first few buttons of Shane's shirt and exposes his collarbone. The taste of Shane's skin is so good. Ilya loves it. He licks a wet stripe and earns himself another moan.
Shane is grabbing his hips and then trying to get him to remove his hoodie. Ilya does. He drops it on the floor and goes back to touching Shane again. He's a firm body, not like the girls Ilya fucks; soft and smaller. No, Shane could most certainly take Ilya down in a fight. But he's so… compliant. He's melting into how Ilya touches him, tempting Ilya to touch him for hours. He needs to fuck this guy so that he can finally sleep. Then he has to go back to working on his program.
“Shane,” he whispers and hears a whimper in response. When he looks up, Shane has his head against the wall, eyes closed, lips wet and parted. Ilya can't help himself, he surges in to kiss him again. And this time Shane kisses him back with equal fervor. He's picking up the skills rather quickly, Ilya notes.
“Come,” Ilya grabs hold of his hand and drags him to his bedroom.
The room is messy. Ilya knows it when he turns on the bedside lamp. But he doesn't care. He has a beautiful guy waiting and willing.
Shane, debauched from the make out, panting and aroused on his bed makes a beautiful picture. Ilya feels himself getting painfully hard in his jeans.
“Take off your clothes,” Ilya instructs, keeping his tone tender.
Shane nods and slowly unbuttons the rest of his shirt. Ilya is in the process of flinging off his t-shirt and undoing his belt when he notices Shane folding the shirt he just took off. He does the same with his jeans and then neatly coils his belt and socks on top of the pile. When he looks back at Ilya, he blushes. “What?”
“Nothing,” Ilya smiles and wills his heart rate to go down, because what the fuck? Why is he getting worked up over a folded pile of clothes?
Shane, sitting on his bed in his black underwear with his bare torso and muscles on display, is a sight to behold. Ilya looks a second too long to imprint it in his memory. He finishes undressing, not caring where his clothes end up on the floor. He sees Shane stare wide-eyed at his erection.
Ilya is aware he's bigger than the average. He's pretty fucking proud of it actually. Crucially, he knows how to use it to get his partners off.
He slowly crawls up over Shane and kisses him; slow and sweet. Shane relaxes a little and grabs onto his biceps.
“We don't have to fuck,” Ilya says when he pulls away. “It's your first time, yes?”
Shane nods, nervous.
“We do other things. There's a lot to do. But we can skip the fucking if you want.”
Shane seems to contemplate. “You wouldn't mind?”
He's so earnest in the way he asks that Ilya has to kiss him once more before answering, “No. I just want you to have a good time. I wouldn't mind.”
Shane's shoulders go lax. He smiles, small and timid.
Ilya kisses his jaw, neck and then his collarbone, letting his tongue map Shane's skin. He trails his mouth lower and lower until he finds a dark nipple. When he grabs Shane's pec and takes the nipple into his mouth, the man beneath him jolts in surprise and arches up.
“Holy shit!” he gasps out and grabs onto Ilya's hair.
Ilya smiles into the bite before sucking on it. Shane's dick jumps in his underwear and Ilya feels it against his belly. He grinds down onto it.
Shane moans again.
Ilya switches and gives the other nipple the same attention. Shane keeps squirming beneath him while tugging on his hair. Ilya loves it and shows his approval by groaning.
After he's satisfied with the attention he's paid to both nipples, he trails wet kisses down Shane's torso all the way to the waistband of his underwear. He looks up and finds Shane looking back at him; mouth parted, cheeks flushed, chest falling and rising rapidly.
He holds eye contact as he takes the underwear off. He would usually throw it away but he leans back with it in his hand and folds it twice before setting it aside. Shane's cheeks darken in a blush and Ilya can't help smirking.
“You didn't have to do that,” he says.
“I know,” Ilya replies and goes back between Shane's thighs. The first look at Shane's cock makes him think one thing.
“You have a pretty cock,” he says and plants a kiss against Shane's inner thigh. It's trembling slightly, he notices.
“Fuck off,” Shane breathes out.
“Mmm. No,” Ilya says and takes him into his mouth.
Shane lets out a shout when Ilya sucks his cockhead into his mouth, hard, and tastes him; good, clean, salty, and something unique. Ilya's an instant fan.
“Holy fuck! Shit!” Shane curses breathily and grabs two fistfuls of Ilya's hair.
Ilya planned to take it slow but that goes out the window, he loves this too much and the feel of Shane. Taste of him. The sounds he's making for Ilya. His warmth. Ilya is embarrassingly close to coming from the combination of all of it.
Shane is big, and Ilya has to work to get him all the way down his throat. He does and then looks up at him. Shane’s wide eyes looking at Ilya like he's a deity. Ilya pulls out his trick. He groans, making his throat vibrate. Making Shane feel it.
“Oh my god!” Shane moans loudly and his eyes roll back.
Ilya does it again. And again. And one last time before he starts to bob his head up and down in quick succession. He keeps his tongue flat, his cheeks hollow and sucks Shane down so well that he knows nobody will probably ever measure up to him again.
“Oh fuck—I'm—fuck!—I'm close. I can't stop—you've to—fuck fuck—Ilya you better get off.”
Ilya in fact doesn't get off. He moves faster. His greedy hands grab onto Shane's tits, his hips and squeeze. He can feel Shane's stomach clench, can feel him withering beneath him and he knows he's close. Ilya takes him all the way down his throat and a second later Shane is coming.
He comes a lot. And Ilya drinks him down.
When he finally releases Shane's dick from his mouth, Shane has all but melted into the bedsheet. Ilya leaves a soft kiss against Shane's belly before coming face to face with him.
“Was it okay?” he asks. He doesn't need any confirmation because the evidence is right in front of him. But hearing it wouldn't hurt anybody.
Shane doesn't say anything. He pulls Ilya in for a hungry kiss and moans when he tastes his release. Ilya feeds his need and properly settles between his thighs.
But then he's being flipped and Shane is over him. He breaks the kiss and in a breathless whisper says, “I want to do that to you. Teach me.”
Ilya is at a loss of words. No one has ever been this eager to reciprocate after he’d taken care of them. Usually he takes care of his own orgasms if his partner has received theirs beforehand. And in the orgasm satiated haze they don't complain when Ilya uses them to chase his own pleasure.
“You don't have—oh fuck!” Ilya curses mid-sentence when Shane's hand circles his hard cock and gives it a firm jerk.
“Teach me. Please.”
Ilya nods at the please. Shane kisses him, quick and chaste and goes down to where he needs him the most.
Ilya is uncut and by the looks of it, Shane has never touched an uncut dick before. “Roll it down,” he instructs and shows him, “like this.”
Shane does and then without further prompting takes Ilya into his mouth. He licks at the crown and tongues the slit. Ilya guesses he's going off on the things he enjoyed himself and catalogs them for next time.
There will be no next time. One night stand, remember?
Right.
Shane gives a particularly hard suck and Ilya groans. “Fuck. Can you—” he tries to explain but Shane takes him in further so that gets lost somewhere between the obscene sounds Shane’s making and the sensation of his warm mouth around Ilya's cock.
Shane gives a sloppy blowjob. It's too wet because Ilya can feel him drool all over his cock. He feels him gag around him a few times. He hasn't quite figured out his hand and mouth coordination of sucking a cock and jerking it at the same time. He is, for all intents and purposes, very green at this. But Ilya enjoys it nonetheless.
When Shane starts to bob his head up and down while sucking him harder, Ilya encourages him. “Da. Like that. Good. Keep going.”
Shane moans at his words. Ilya grabs his hair and just keeps it there. He doesn't push him or make him do anything without his own accord. And surprisingly, all this rookieness doesn't starve off his orgasm. He's close to the edge soon. And he's not coming in Shane's mouth for his first time.
He pulls him off his dick and Shane moans in dissatisfaction. Ilya gives himself a handful of strokes and then he's coming all over his own stomach. Shane, resting his head against Ilya's thigh, watches while breathing heavily.
Ilya slumps back and moans at finally getting his release. He jerks in surprise when he feels a pair of lips against his cockhead again. Shane is… fuck! Shane is licking him clean in kitten-like strokes. Ilya groans at the sight.
“Come here,” he pulls Shane up to him. Shane rests his head against Ilya's bicep and leans in to kiss him. Ilya meets him half way and kisses him with all his remaining energy.
He feels Shane's hand in his hair, scratching his scalp softly, pulling him closer and closer until they're pressed against each other.
They have to clean up. Maybe put some clothes on. Ilya doesn't care if Shane stays the night. But he won't push him if he doesn't want to.
But before all that, he's going to kiss him a little longer. Shane's gotten significantly better at kissing since the beginning of this and Ilya is immensely enjoying the lazy sweeps of his tongue. And fuck, his lips are soft. So, so soft. Ilya sinks his teeth into the lower lip and pulls, momentarily separating from the kiss and Shane is surging into locking their lips again.
They kiss and kiss and kiss until Ilya lets the oblivion take him.
Shane wakes up to the sun shining directly at his face. It's not as romantic or sweet the TV shows or movies make it out to be. He has to scrunch his face and bury it into… not his pillow.
What is that?
Whatever it is, it moves, forcing Shane to blink open his eyes. It's an arm… attached to a person… who is also sleeping.
What the fuck?
Shane surveys his current situation and tries to think of the events of the night before.
He had… sex. Well, not sex exactly but it was… something. With a man.
And it was… good. It was very good in fact. He feels his morning wood give a valiant twitch at the memories that flash before his eyes.
Nope. Not happening.
Shane looks back at the man next to him. Ilya, with two syllables.
Ilya is sleeping peacefully. His lips are slightly parted, letting soft breaths pass. His eyelids are fluttering. His one hand is stretched out, letting Shane use it as a pillow and the other over his torso. His left leg is tangled in between Shane's thighs.
It's a disgustingly intimate situation, one Shane is sure one night stands don't do with each other.
He slowly extracts himself, careful not to wake Ilya. When he sits up, he locates his solitary underwear first; folded and set aside, before finding the pile with the rest of his clothes.
His phone is still inside his jeans. He takes it out and opens the lockscreen.
10:46 AM
Sunday, October 15
MESSAGES
3hrs ago
MESSAGES
1hr ago
Holy shit he slept in late. Thank God, he has evening practice today.
Typically Shane goes on a run every morning, but he's clearly skipped it today. He wants to feel disappointed but then he looks back at the sleeping figure on the bed and finds himself blushing again. Yeah, he doesn't regret skipping his morning run. Not one bit.
He could use a shower though.
Ilya doesn't look like he minds, so Shane leaves his clothes, locates a towel from the small pile of unfolded laundry (it passes the sniff test with its fresh detergent smell), and goes to shower.
When he's out and putting his clothes back on, he hears some shuffling on the bed. He has to actively stifle a laugh because, oh god!
Ilya is looking at him with barely opened eyes, his curls are sticking out all over the place. He looks sleep soft, confused, and so fucking adorable. The sunlight makes his hair look almost yellow and all Shane can think about is an orange cat being woken from its slumber without its consent. He tries not to ogle at the expanse of skin and muscle in front of him. Tries not to stare at the golden chain hanging from Ilya's neck.
“Good morning,” he greets and realizes his throat has dried up a little.
Ilya makes a noise. His deep voice sounds deeper with sleep still laced in it. Shane really likes the sound and wishes to hear it again.
“What time is it?” Ilya asks and Shane takes a moment to process his question through the haze of his horniness before checking his phone.
“11:22.”
“In the morning?” Ilya sounds surprised.
Shane looks at him perplexed. “Yes?”
“But I was sleeping.”
Shane frowns. What is he saying right now? “Yes? I saw you sleeping.”
“I never sleep this late.”
Oh. Is he an early riser like Shane?
“Yeah me too. I guess we both were more tired than we thought.”
Ilya doesn't answer him. He looks lost in his own head, trying to figure something out.
Shane straightens his shirt. “So I'm gonna go.”
Ilya looks up at him. In the morning light, Shane finally sees his eyes properly. They're the most beautiful shade of sea-green; like the water meeting land. His heart stutters in his chest.
He realizes he wants to see those eyes again. He wants to see Ilya again. He wants to ask for his number. He wants them to meet again, talk more, maybe… be friends? Hookups can be friends, right?
But maybe Ilya doesn't share his ideas. Because all he says is “Okay.”
So Shane nods and leaves. He tries to ignore the lump in his throat and the tug in his chest.
This is hard because he's never done this before. He'll get used to it once he's done it a couple more times with other people—other men. Because one thing he can be absolutely certain about is: he's not straight. With a start Shane realizes he's not very bothered about that either.
College experimentation phase, here I come.
Shane makes it through his weekend and the next week without much of a hitch. He has two games this weekend. One at home against Carleton University Ravens on Friday and one against Queen’s Gael Kingstons away on Saturday.
Hayden is unfortunately benched for the both of them so Shane needs a new right-winger. They've tried a few combinations during practice but no one has clicked for him.
He's discussing this exact dilemma with Barrett as they both grab lunch in the cafeteria, only for them to turn a corner and Barrett to be slammed by a cup of cold coffee.
“Oh Jesus!” squeaks a short and stocky guy with a beard and round framed glasses. He's… colorful. It is the first thing Shane notices. His clothes are very librarian coded with brown cardigan and black pants but he's wearing a bright red tuque and his messenger bag is adorned with a lot of pins. Shane spots the pride flag pin right away.
He also spots a bunch that say “Women run shit”, “Running on spite & iced coffee”, “I support women’s rights and wrongs”, “This is my villain origin story” and snorts.
The guy is frantically trying to wipe Troy's shirt. And Troy is turning an alarming shade of pink in the process.
“I'm so sorry,” the guy says, his voice loud and apologetic. “I was running late and didn't have the time to finish my coffee. And I should've been more careful. Oh gosh this is a mess!”
“It's okay,” Troy chokes out. Shane watches in amusement. He had surely thought Troy would say something cold and distant but he's rather… flushed.
“Oh I know you! You're in my Performance Studies class!” says the guy and Troy blushes impossibly deeper.
Shane knows Barrett is a business major and therefore has absolutely no reason to take a performance studies course. But he chooses not to point it out. This is rather interesting actually.
“Yes,” Barrett manages to say.
“I really am so sorry. Can I do anything to make it up to you in the next 2 minutes? Because I really have to go. Mr. Franco doesn't allow late attendance.”
Troy is predictably silent. Shane has always known him to be quiet and a little cagey. Incredibly awkward when put in the spot. The only time he's heard Troy speak willingly is when they're playing or talking about hockey.
“How about—” Shane interjects because this is frankly a tragedy, “you both exchange numbers and then decide over text how to fix this.”
Troy shoots him a panicked and wide-eyed look and Shane thinks he has either misinterpreted the entire situation or has overstepped his boundaries.
“Oh yes that works. Here,” the guy takes out his phone which is equally decorated with niche stickers and jewels—again Shane spots a pride sticker—and holds it out to him, “put in your number. I'll text you.”
Troy awkwardly fumbles the phone and manages to put his number in before handing it back.
The guy bids them a quick goodbye and types something on his phone as he walks away. “My name is Harris by the way. Harris Drover,” he calls out.
Shane hears Troy mumble to himself, “I know.”
When they have walked in silence for a few moments, Shane finally says, “So, Harris seems nice.”
Wrong thing to say apparently because Troy literally locks up. He looks at Shane, his face set hard. “Don't talk shit about him, Hollander. Leave him out of this.”
Shane frowns. “Out of what?”
“Out of whatever homophobic bullshit you're about to say. Say whatever you wanna say about me. Not him.”
It takes Shane by such surprise that he has to stop walking. “Barrett, have you ever heard me say anything homophobic?”
Troy looks away and doesn't answer him. But Shane gets the message anyway. Yes, he has never outright said anything homophobic about anyone. But he hasn't exactly stopped his teammates from saying it either. And as a captain he's supposed to lead by example.
“I was just gonna say,” Shane sighs. “He seems like a cool guy. You should… talk to him more. He'd be open to being friends, I think.”
When Troy looks at him this time, he seems disarmed. “I don't know about that.”
Shane shrugs. Talking to Troy is like trying to domesticate a feral cat. He has to be careful in his approach. “You could try talking to him. Over text and over phone. See how it works out maybe.”
Troy doesn't answer him. Shane doesn't push. From experience he knows this is a conclusion Troy will have to reach on his own.
“What about Bood?” he asks, stirring the conversation back to their previous topic.
“No. We need him on the second line. Krevasky will fumble hard without him there.”
The first thing Shane notices in warmups is the gap. It’s supposed to be Hayden on his right. Shane likes his predictable routine and right now there's a Hayden sized hole in it.
Instead of Pike, it’s Evan Leduc, a second-line winger who’s been bumped up for the night. He has good hands, decent speed, but he doesn’t fit yet, only in his rookie season. Not in that instinctive, no-look, tape-to-tape way the first line usually moves. Leduc hesitates half a second too long on every pass in warmups, and Shane can tell this is going to be a problem later tonight.
Shane taps his stick against the ice.
“Just play your game,” he tells him, it's not life altering advice. He has never been very good at it. But it'll have to do. Leduc nods, but his face is set in a tight line.
Barrett, on Shane’s left, leans in. “We’ll carry him for the first few shifts.”
Shane exhales. They might have to.
The puck drops during the first period, it’s immediately messy.
The Ravens come in hard; heavy forecheck, finishing every check like it’s a statement. Shane takes the first draw, wins it clean back, but the breakout stutters when Leduc circles too deep instead of pushing the lane. Barrett has to double back, and just like that, they’re defending.
“Talk! Talk!” Shane barks.
They survive the first shift, but it’s not clean. Nothing is.
Every rush feels half a beat off. Shane sends a pass to the right wing—where Hayden would already be cutting inside—but Leduc is still along the boards. The puck clanks off his stick, turnover.
The Ravens capitalize.
A point shot through traffic, tipped just enough.
Goal.
1–0.
The arena goes quiet in that tight, uncomfortable way when the home team is losing. Shane skates past their net, glancing at Wyatt “Hazy” Hayes. Their goalie just taps his post twice, like it’s nothing.
“I got you, Hollzy. You watch your winger's back,” Hazy says, calm as ever.
Shane nods. They'll be fine.
They aren’t—yet. But they will be.
Coach shortens the bench early, double-shifting some guys, but keeps Leduc up top. Trust or necessity, Shane can’t tell.
Midway through the period, something finally clicks. Not like the usual way it does. Not perfectly enough. But it'll do.
Shane wins another draw in the offensive zone, kicks it back to the point, then cuts hard to the slot. Barrett retrieves the rebound off a blocked shot and, instead of forcing it, rims it around.
Leduc actually reads it this time.
He steps into the puck, doesn’t hesitate and fires it low.
Rebound.
Shane crashes the crease, jamming his stick through a tangle of legs.
The puck trickles over the line. The lamp lights up.
Goal.
1–1.
Shane doesn’t celebrate big. Just a sharp exhale, a tap of sticks with Barrett, a quick glove bump with Leduc. The crowd roars like life is breathed back into them, however.
“Good read,” he tells Leduc.
Leduc’s grin is brief. “Thanks Cap.”
They’re still not smooth. But now at least they’re functional.
It turns into a grind in the third period.
Carleton tightens up defensively, clogging the middle. Shane’s line cycles, but nothing clean opens up.
And when they make mistakes, Hazy is there. Just like he said he'd be.
A breakaway midway through the third, Carleton Ravens slip past the defense on a bad line change. Shane is still coasting off the bench when he sees it unfold.
One-on-one.
The shot comes fast, glove side.
Hazy snatches it out of the air like it’s routine.
“Atta boy, Hazy!” someone yells.
Shane just points at him. That save keeps them alive. The crowd rejoices harder than anybody on ice.
It all comes to head when there's only five minutes left.
A tied game.
Shane leans over his stick at the faceoff dot, sweat dripping, lungs burning. He looks left—Barrett steady as always. Looks right—Leduc, breathing hard but holding his ground.
“Simple,” Shane says to himself. “Keep it simple.”
The puck drops.
Win.
Barrett chips it forward, Shane drives wide, pulling a defender with him. It’s not pretty hockey but it'll have to make do now.
The puck gets jammed along the boards. Leduc digs it out, takes a hit, but holds on. That’s new.
He shovels it to Barrett.
Barrett cuts middle, draws coverage—
—and slides it across.
Shane’s already there.
One-timer.
Clean.
Goal.
2–1.
The arena explodes.
Shane feels Barrett slam into him, followed by Leduc, and then someone else.
The final 120 seconds are the longest of Shane’s life.
Carleton presses hard, throwing everything at the net, and Hazy stops all of it.
With ten seconds left, the puck sits loose in the crease. Shane dives, sweeping it out just as the horn sounds.
They win.
2–1.
Shane straightens slowly, chest heaving. He looks over at Hazy, who’s already being mobbed.
He glances at Leduc, who’s leaning on his stick, exhausted but grinning.
Not Hayden. Not the same chemistry. But tonight it's good enough.
Shane skates over and taps his helmet. “You held your lane,” he says.
Leduc shrugs, still catching his breath, “Tried not to screw it up.”
Shane smirks. “Next time, try doing that from the first shift.”
Leduc laughs.
They win the away game against the Kingstons too.
4-1.
Shane manages to score a hat trick and assist Barrett with a goal. Leduc holds up better on his own this time.
As they take the bus back home, all Shane can be grateful for is that he gets to go home and sleep and not worry about a new linemate from tomorrow. From tomorrow his life can go back to its boring and predictable routine.
All that however goes to shit when on a Tuesday afternoon, Shane comes back home to find new boxes strewn up all over the living room. He remembers that Hayden is helping the new guy move in. He realizes that he has no idea who it is.
Mid-week is a weird time to move in, if he's being honest. But then again, college has everyone on a weird schedule. All Shane knows about the guy is that he's a senior.
“Won't I have to look for a new roommate next semester then?” he had asked Hayden over facetime while eating his steamed salmon and rice.
“No, my friend. Your best friend has thought of everything. He's starting a remote job after graduation. So he's not exactly looking to move either.” Hayden had momentarily disappeared from the frame to hang his clothes in Jackie's—well now it's actually both of theirs—closet.
“Also he's really good looking Shane,” called out Jackie from a distance and also out of frame. “I asked him if he modeled.”
“He looks like he hasn't slept in like ten years,” Hayden grumbled as he wrestled his gameday suit out of the cardboard box.
“Yes, he does have a grumpy look about him. Maybe a few of Shane's disgusting smoothies ought to fix him,” said his friend's girlfriend, stepping into frame. She was wearing one of Hayden's hoodies with her hair up in a bun held by a pencil. The domesticity of it all had made Shane's heart ache in a weird way.
“Aren't you a nursing student? Shouldn't you be appreciating my healthy habits?” he had pointed out.
Jackie gave him a condescending smile and said, “Honey, there's being healthy and then there's crushing it in a blender and mixing it with protein powder and kale. There's no joy in it. It should be considered a hate crime if you ask me.”
Shane remembers rolling his eyes and hearing Hayden cackle off screen.
“Hey,” Hayden greets him from the kitchen counter. He's sipping on one of Shane's ginger ales.
“Hey,” he greets back. “Is he here?”
“Yeah, just settling in his room. Not much of a talker so good news for you. I'm just heading out. You go say hi.”
Hayden gets up to move and pats Shane's shoulder on his way out. “Remember the party we're having at our place on Friday, okay?”
Shane calls out an “okay” just as the front door slams shut behind him.
He sets his bag down in his room before going to grab a can of coke—Hayden buys them and then ends up drinking Shane's stuff anyway—and walks into the room now occupied by a stranger.
“Hey,” he calls out to the half hidden figure inside the closet as he sets down the coke on the new desk next to the door. “I don't know if you like coke but I brought you one. I'm Shane by the way.”
The face that peeks out from behind the closet door makes Shane's eyes widen.
Holy shit.
“Holy shit,” he breathes out. “Ilya?”
Ilya, to his credit, recovers quicker than Shane. “Ah, yes. We're roommates I think.”
Well, fuck!