Chapter Text
Shane
Shane takes a deep breath and shrugs his backpack further up on his shoulder. The (definitely rotting) wood of the PIKE porch creaks ominously under his feet, and Shane wonders if it's an omen. God, he does not fucking wanna be here. Some of his worst teammates are part of this frat— Dallas Kent and Troy Barrett, to name a few. Both walking red flags. They tried to convince Shane to rush with them, but Shane respectfully declined, already very aware of the house's reputation and more than a little offended that they thought he might fit in there. Shane has successfully managed to avoid it for two and a half years, but now he's here, the beginning of a migraine pressing against the back of his right eye as he works up the nerve to enter. He takes another deep, resigned breath and knocks.
The door swings open so quickly Shane almost jumps. Cliff Marlow, running back for the school's football team, leans against the doorframe casually. He's tall and broad and has quite possibly the lushest head of hair Shane's ever seen. It's thick and shiny and nearly as dark as Shane's. He runs a hand through it, then sticks the same hand in the pocket of his gym shorts.
"Who do you know here?" Marlow asks, voice low and gravelly like he just woke up. It's four in the afternoon.
Shane frowns. He's met Marlow, like, at least a dozen times. They had a class together last semester. Not that Marlow showed up after syllabus week, but still!
Shane pulls off his hat, like maybe that's obscuring the fact that he's one of the three Asian guys on campus. "What? Marlow, it's me, Hollander—"
Marlow's face splits into a broad grin. "Ah, I'm just fuckin' with you," he says, giving Shane a jovial shove.
"Oh." Shane laughs nervously, replacing his hat. His chest feels hot from Marlow's hand long after he pulls it away. "Yeah. Funny."
Marlow slings an arm around Shane's shoulders and guides him into the house. "You're here for Rozy, right?"
"Yeah," Shane says. He clears his throat. The cocktail that is the heavy warmth of Marlow's body plus the overpowering cologne he wears has Shane's head spinning. God, he literally just walked in and he's already a disaster. "Um, I gotta tutor him in French."
"French? I didn't know he was taking French."
"I mean, it sounds like it's not going great if he's looking for a tutor two weeks into the semester, so…" Shane trails off. He'd posted an ad in the library expecting not to have any takers for at least a few more weeks, but Rozanov had emailed him the next day. He was kind of weird and cagey about it, too. He barely mentioned what he was struggling with, just that he needed Shane to come over ASAP.
Marlow barks a laugh and says, "You're right, he's probably too embarrassed to mention it."
He brings Shane up to the second floor and down a narrow hallway, then stops at the very last door. There's a crudely drawn sign designating the room as the Pussy Palace accompanied by what Shane can only assume is supposed to be a vagina. It looks more like an oyster to him, but what does he know? He's only ever seen one in real life, and it was pretty dark.
"Here we are," Marlow says. He drops his arm from Shane's shoulders and gestures to the door theatrically. "Casa Marlanov, AKA the Pussy Palace."
"Nice," Shane grumbles, then he adds more clearly, "uh, thanks."
"Anything for my boy— what is it they call you? Hot Cakes?" Marlow throws the door open and barges in. Shane furrows his brow. Do people call him that? "Rozy! I hear you're taking French."
Rozanov is lounging on his bed, scrolling on his phone. Hanging behind his head is one of those flags that says BUTTWEISER: KING OF REARS with a bunch of girls' asses in thongs. At least three of Shane's teammates have the same one in their rooms. The navy blue duvet is bunched up by Rozanov's feet and several hoodies hang from the posts of his bed. It's the most stereotypical frat bro room Shane could've possibly imagined.
Rozanov tosses his phone aside and sits up when he notices Shane. His eyes dart between the two new arrivals before finally settling on Marlow. He looks annoyed, like Marlow shouldn't be here, and it only adds to Shane's discomfort.
"Is the language of love, yes?" Rozanov says with an easy shrug. "I love love. Is fitting."
Marlow scoffs. "You just wanna use it to get laid."
Rozanov rolls his eyes. "I do not need to learn new language to get laid."
"Hm. Whatever," Marlow says, clearly skeptical. He pulls out his phone and starts typing furiously. "I'm getting food. Later."
Marlow turns abruptly on his heel and marches out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him. There's a long moment of silence during which Shane becomes acutely aware of the following:
-
The room is very small. There are two twin XL beds maybe six feet apart, one desk, and one dresser that's bursting at the seams with t-shirts and boxers. Shane can reach almost all of it from his spot standing by the door.
-
The room is very stuffy. It stinks like jock and it's hot as hell. The window's open, but it's such a humid night that it's not helping at all. Sweat is already starting to prickle under Shane's pits. He curses his past self for deciding to wear a white shirt.
-
Rozanov is wearing sweatpants. Like, just sweatpants. Not even socks, and by the looks of it, no underwear, either. It's more than a little distracting.
Shane has met Rozanov a few times. Newly appointed captain of the football team, but apparently he's amazing at every sport, which Shane can attest to because he's seen Rozanov play hockey before. They've even played a couple of pickup games against each other. Even though playing with him was fun, Shane doesn't like him much. Rozanov is kind of a cocky asshole, but he's an incredibly impressive athlete, so maybe he's allowed to be cocky. Shane was torn when the email requesting a tutoring session came through. Obviously, Rozanov will be a pain in the ass to deal with, but Shane's also kind of excited to get a chance to pick his brain. He's desperate to know why he chose to play football when he's just as good, if not better, at hockey. Plus, Shane loves a challenge.
And, well, Rozanov is really fucking hot. Especially right now, a hand splayed over his defined stomach, scratching absently at the trail of golden hair beneath his belly button. He's not much bigger than Shane, but the guy has muscles Shane didn't even know existed. He wonders if it would be weird to ask about his diet.
But the way Shane is ogling him is definitely weird, so clears his throat and forces himself to meet Rozanov's eye. "Um, ok. We should probably get to work, right?"
"Probably," Rozanov drawls, sounding not the least bit enthused about getting to work.
"Where do you want me?" Shane asks, and then he feels his cheeks heat. God, he's such a fucking dork. Why'd he have to ask like that?
Rozanov smirks at him. "On the bed," he says, patting the spot next to him. "Desk chair feels like sitting on cement."
Shane does as he's told. It's lofted slightly so Shane has to haul himself up, and he can feel Rozanov's eyes on him as he settles in at the very end. He pulls his backpack into his lap and fiddles with the strap anxiously. Maybe he should request they do this at the library next time. This feels way too intimate.
Rozanov slides down and digs through a pile of clutter on the desk. He takes up most of the tiny room just standing there. Shane's no stranger to roommates— he was in a triple with two of his teammates his freshman and sophomore years— but this is just absurd. Marlow and Rozanov aren't small, and from what Shane's heard around campus, they aren't hurting for hookups. But how the hell does that even work in here? Do they have some sort of rotating sex schedule to plan out who can bring a girl back when, or is it just like, you snooze you lose? That would suck.
"What?" Rozanov asks, snapping Shane out of his sex spiral.
"Nothing," Shane says quickly, busying himself by unzipping his backpack while Rozanov joins him on the bed. He tries not to pay attention to the way Rozanov's massive biceps flex as he pushes himself up.
"Is not nothing. You are making a face," Rozanov says as he makes himself comfortable. He sits just a little too close to Shane. Not touching, but Shane can feel the heat radiating from the skin of his bare torso. He smells him, too. The same cheap cologne that Cliff was wearing— the chocolate Axe, judging by the can on the dresser— but with a heady bottom note of sweat. It makes Shane's mouth water.
Because Shane is curious about the logistics and absolutely nothing else, he says, "It's just… You expect me to believe this shoebox is the Pussy Palace?"
Rozanov splutters a surprised laugh. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means this room is fucking tiny," Shane explains, gesturing broadly at the room. "How do you…"
Rozanov quirks a brow at him. Shane's pulse quickens under his gaze. It's intense, like he can see right through Shane and his awkward questions and weird mannerisms and sweaty pits. He probably fucking can. Probably anybody could.
"How do we…?"
Shane huffs out a breath. He wishes he never brought this up. Now Rozanov's gonna know he's been thinking about him having sex. "You know, like, bring girls back here?"
"We just do," Rozanov says with a casual shrug.
"Yeah, but like, do you guys have some sort of system? Is one of you constantly sleeping on the couch or something?" This is embarrassing. Shane clearly cares too much about Rozanov and Marlow's sex lives, but the words are already out of his mouth. He can't suck them back up.
"Constantly, hm?" Rozanov teases, the corner of his mouth ticking up. "Is not that constant. And we do not always kick each other out."
Shane's eyes go wide.
"What, you have never fucked someone while your roommate is in the room?" Rozanov asks innocently.
And no, of fucking course Shane hasn't. Hayden and JJ did once in a blue moon when they all shared one room, but their dorm was at least twice the size of this closet and their beds weren't directly across from each other.
"I mean, I guess," Shane lies, because he wants Rozanov to think he has a lot of sex for some reason, "but never that close to them. Your beds are practically on top of each other."
"I have never had any complaints," Rozanov says, his voice low and rumbling. Cool waves washing over smooth stone, an oasis in this sticky fucking room. Shane swallows hard and Rozanov's eyes jump to his throat as he does.
"We should probably, uh, get started," Shane says, nodding to the paper Rozanov is holding. "Can I see what we're working on?"
Rozanov hands him the sheet and Shane looks it over. As he gets further down the page, his frown grows deeper. It looks like it's probably his first homework assignment from an intro level french class. Shane had been expecting at least, like, 200 level coursework, but this is all just vocab words and conjugations. All Rozanov really needs to do is look at his textbook.
Shane fiddles with his hat brim. "This is… do you have your book?"
Rozanov looks at him like he's stupid. "No."
"Ok. Um, I don't mean to be an asshole, but you kind of just need to look the words up and translate them," Shane explains. He hands Rozanov back the paper. "I don't really think you need me for that."
There's a very brief moment where Rozanov's face flashes with something that looks like annoyance. Shane braces himself, but it's gone as fast as it came.
"Oh. Well, you see, am Russian," Rozanov says, and Shane swears his accent sounds thicker than it normally does. He reaches up to comb his fingers through his curls and Shane does a piss poor job of not drooling over his now exposed armpit. "My English is ok, but… is difficult when there is French, too. You understand?"
Shane nods, suddenly feeling like a huge asshole. "Your English is great, for what it's worth, but I guess it does make sense. Like if I was learning Russian at a school where everyone only spoke French… Yeah, that would be hard."
"Yes, exactly," Rozanov says, the distressed wrinkle that was starting to form between his brows smoothing over. Shane pats himself on the back for navigating that relatively successfully.
"You do still need your textbook, though. I'm not just gonna tell you what all the words mean," Shane says. "I'm not here to do your homework for you."
"Of course not," Rozanov agrees quickly, a mild smile on his face. He flicks the brim of Shane's hat. Reaches up, plucks it from Shane's head, and flips it around before setting it gingerly back on Shane, now facing backwards. Shane blinks at him, stunned and confused, but Rozanov just smirks back. "You are teaching me, Professor Hollander."
"Don't call me that," Shane grumbles, his body hot from head to toe. He goes to fix his hat, but Rozanov stops him.
"No, leave it," Rozanov says firmly. He reaches for Shane's arm, but stops before he actually touches him. He lets his hand fall to his lap. "Looks good like that. Can see your freckles now."
Shane can't speak. Rozanov is staring at him. Like, really staring at him, and it's making Shane incredibly uncomfortable. He squirms in his spot on the bed and looks everywhere but into Rozanov's eyes.
He clears his throat and tugs at the collar of his shirt. The fabric is wet and clingy with sweat. "So, um, are you gonna get your book?"
Rozanov shrugs impishly. His gaze falls to Shane's mouth, his eyes heavy lidded and hazy. "I could. Or we could find another way to pass the time."
Shane's stomach flips, but not in a pleasant way. Clarity hits him like a truck. This was all just some stupid ploy. A trap. His mouth goes dry and all the heat drains out of him. He forces himself to look back at Rozanov, eyes narrowed dangerously.
"Are you fucking with me?"
"What?" Rozanov blinks at him. He straightens, seemingly sobering. Blue eyes, clear and alert, darting between Shane's frantically. He looks scared. Good. "No, of course not."
Shane rolls his eyes. "Sure." He hops down from the bed. "Whatever bullshit you've heard about me from Kent isn't true. He's just making up rumors 'cause he's pissed off he got moved to fourth line."
Shane roughly zips up his bag with shaking hands and slings it over his shoulder. He's already in the hallway when Rozanov finally seems to register that he's leaving, but he's barred from getting any further when Rozanov grabs him by his backpack. Shane's fists clench. He gets ready to square up, throw Rozanov off him, but when Rozanov steps in front of Shane, his expression is disarmingly earnest. Shane doesn't drop his guard, but he doesn't swing, either.
"Hollander, wait. What are you talking about? What rumors?" Rozanov implores. He's gripping the strap of Shane's backpack so hard the fabric crumples in his fist. He lets go, his fingers dragging against Shane's shoulder as they pull away. Rozanov looks genuinely confused. Maybe Kent hasn't said anything to him. Or, probably more accurately, maybe Rozanov just has the sense to ignore whatever comes out of Kent's mouth. Either way, this still feels dangerous, and Shane needs to get the fuck out of here.
"Nothing, it doesn't matter," Shane huffs impatiently. "I just…"
He glances around. The hallway is empty. Every door is closed except for Rozanov's, but he can hear muffled chatter from the floor below them. He lowers his voice and leans in slightly. They're too close. Shane can see flecks of green in Rozanov's eyes, a scar on his cheek, sweat pooling in his cupids bow. Shane swallows hard and pretends not to notice how beautiful he is.
"I'm not fucking gay and I don't appreciate whatever you were trying to do in there," Shane hisses. The lie tastes bitter in his mouth, but he can't risk it. Rozanov, a football player in the frat that's most notorious for being full of intolerant assholes? Not worth the trouble, no matter how hot he is.
He expects Rozanov to scoff at him, maybe get mad at Shane for trying to insinuate that he was hitting on him, but he doesn't. His expression has turned into something unreadable, but he simply nods and takes a step back.
"Ok. Sorry," Rozanov says. A pause, then he adds, "But I still need tutor."
Shane sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. He should tell him to fuck off and find someone else. Instead, for some fucking reason, he says, "Fine. Tell me when you get your hands on a textbook and we'll reschedule. Next time, we're doing this at the library."
Rozanov wrinkles his nose at that. "Library is boring."
"Library is for learning," Shane says emphatically.
"Fine, fine," Rozanov says through a dramatic sigh. He pulls out his phone and hands it to Shane. "Here, put your number in. I will text when I have stupid book."
Shane accepts it hesitantly and punches in his number. When he hands it back, Rozanov has a smug little smile on his face. "Don't abuse that or I'll block your number."
"Do not worry, Hollander," Rozanov purrs, then he fucking winks. "I will treat you well."
And with that, Shane turns and bolts out of the house.
Ilya
When Marly gets home, Hollander has been gone for almost an hour, but Ilya is still wallowing in his failed seduction attempt. He's sprawled across his bed on his stomach, his face buried in the crook of his elbow, Ke$ha blaring from the blown speakers of his laptop. Not even Sleazy is enough to soothe him.
Marly slams the laptop shut and the room goes too quiet. Ilya lets out a pathetic whimper.
"No luck with Hot Cakes?" Marly asks, punctuating his question with a stinging slap across Ilya's ass. Ilya hisses and rolls over. He glares at Marly, who is now sitting on his own bed across the room and watching Ilya expectantly.
"I do not know what you are talking about."
Marly gives him A Look. "Come on, Roz. I saw Hollander at the dining hall like, fifteen minutes after your bullshit 'study session' started. How'd you blow it?"
"Study session was real," Ilya argues. It kind of was. He really had intended to have Hollander teach him French for an hour. Ilya had homework and everything. It wasn't his, but it was real homework. "I just did not have my book."
"Right," Marly smirks at him, "cause you're not enrolled in a French class."
Ilya blanches, but he pulls himself together quickly. "You do not know my schedule."
"Look me in the fuckin' eyes and tell me you're taking a French class this semester."
Ilya takes a deep breath. He looks at Marly very deliberately and tries to keep his expression neutral. "I am taking—"
"You're a liar!" Marly half laughs, half shouts. "You're such a fucking liar. God, I can't believe you. Hot Cakes? Really? For how long?"
"Who calls him this? Where does this nickname come from?" Ilya grumbles, rolling onto his back and glaring up at the ceiling.
"I call him that. Have you seen his ass?" Marly asks incredulously. "Well, obviously you have, since you're trying to fuck him."
"I am not!" Ilya snaps, but the whiny edge to his voice gives him away.
"Hey," Marly says. Softer, gentler, but still edged with his familiar gruffness. "It's cool if you are. I know we're all brothers here or whatever, but you're like, my brother brother. You can trust me, man. I won't tell anyone."
Ilya groans. He squeezes his eyes shut and presses his fingertips to them until colors flash behind the lids. He feels so stupid. Why did he ever think this was a good idea?
"Talk to me, Rozy," Marly says when Ilya doesn't respond. Finally, he sits up, turning to look at Marly. He's watching Ilya warily, chewing on his lower lip.
"I think that I freaked him out," Ilya admits, raking his fingers through his hair. They snag on a knot but he keeps tugging, ignoring the way his scalp stings.
"Did you make a move or something?"
"I tried," Ilya sighs. "He thought I was making fun of him, I think. He said… well. Have you ever heard Kent talk about him?"
Marly shakes his head. "I try not to listen when Kent talks."
"Mm. Me too," Ilya says. "Anyway, Hollander says he is not gay. He got angry that I was hitting on him and he left."
Marly winces. "Yikes. Sorry, man. At least he didn't deck you or something."
"A good sign, yes?" Ilya says, opting not to point out that it did look like Hollander had to stop himself from punching Ilya on his way out.
Ilya knows he should drop it, but he can't help it. He's had heart set on Hollander since he first saw him freshman year. It was before the school year had even started. Ilya had only just met Marly a few weeks before at training camp. He was still trying not to come on too strong and forcing himself to make other friends, but Ilya didn't like any of the others as much. He attended the stupid student athletes mixer thing in the hopes of finding someone else he could bother, to share the load with Marly, but everyone he talked to that night was so fucking lame. He was smoking a cigarette in the bathroom when Hollander came in looking all sweet and innocent and fucking delectable.
"I don't think you're supposed to smoke in here."
"…Ok."
And then Hollander had said something about Ilya being an impressive athlete, and Ilya clammed up completely, lost in big brown eyes and freckles, and then Hollander gave him a wet, soapy handshake on his way out, leaving Ilya alone and obsessed.
"Maybe still some hope," Ilya says desperately, because he can't have been pining after Hollander for years for fucking nothing.
"Eh, I dunno, man," Marly says carefully. "He said he wasn't gay."
"He was lying," Ilya says. He's sure about this. He doesn't know how, but he can feel it in his bones. "My… what is it? The gay sense?"
"Gaydar."
"Gaydar. Yes. My gaydar is never wrong," Ilya says. This is true— he figured out their old frat president, Scott Hunter, immediately. And Luca Haas, who has clung to Ilya's side since he rushed PIKE earlier this semester. He's even pretty sure about Barrett, too, but he'll never bring it up for fear of getting his teeth knocked out. "I know Hollander was lying to me. And he said he will still tutor me. And he got pink and nervous when I winked at him. Was very cute."
"If you say so," Marly says, sounding skeptical. Ilya gets it, but it's still annoying. He knows he's right about this. "So are you, like…?"
"Not gay," Ilya says, shaking his head. "I like both. Is only fair, yes? I look like this. Would be cruel not to share with everyone."
Marly snorts. "You cocky motherfucker." There's a long silence before he speaks again. "Have you ever been with another dude before?"
"Yes," Ilya says quietly. Only one, but Marly doesn't need to know that. "But I have never, you know, done this. They are usually the ones doing the work."
"Like hitting on you?"
Ilya nods.
Marly cocks his head at Ilya. "Wait. Is this your first time being rejected?"
Ilya scoffs. He wants to argue that he wasn't rejected. That's ridiculous. But… he kind of was. Hollander got up and ran when Ilya tried to flirt with him, and god, that's so much worse than just being told no. And now that Ilya thinks about it, nothing like that has ever happened to him before.
"Blyat," Ilya hisses.
Marly, because he is so cruel and finds joy in Ilya's pain, bursts into laughter.
"Shut the fuck up," Ilya grumbles. "Is not funny. My heart is broken and you laugh at me!"
"Sorry man," Marly says as he tries to catch his breath. He wipes a tear from his eye. "Fuck. Sorry."
"Yes, you sound very sorry," Ilya says, rolling his eyes. "Help me, asshole. What do I do?"
"You move on," Marly says, like it's that easy. "Leave him alone. Even if your gaydar is right and Hollander does play for that team, he told you he isn't interested. Find someone else."
"I cannot just find someone else. We are talking about Shane fucking Hollander here," Ilya argues. He's being dramatic, but he doesn't care. He's wanted Hollander for years. He can't just drop it. "There is no one else."
Marly sighs. "Alright. Well, if you're so convinced he's the one, you need to let him be in control."
Ilya wrinkles his nose.
"No, seriously, Roz. If you keep trying to get with him after he told you he's not interested, he's gonna think you're a creep," Marly says. He gives Ilya a look. "And he'd be right."
"How do I make sure he makes a move on me, then?" Ilya huffs. The tutoring was the perfect opportunity and he completely fucking blew it. Well, maybe not completely, since he managed to get Hollander's number, but it hadn't at all gone how he'd planned it to. "I have been waiting since freshman year."
Marly whistles in disbelief. "Freshman year?"
"Few weeks before," Ilya admits with a shrug. "We met at that stupid athletes mixer."
"Wow. Ok. Well, I mean, it's been two years. A little more waiting won't kill you," Marly says. Ilya groans and collapses back into his bed. "Oh, calm down. Just… I dunno. Try being his friend first, and keep being your irresistible self the whole time. He'll be begging to jerk you off before you know it."
"I think a little more waiting will kill me," Ilya complains. "My balls are going to explode."
"Ok, well, you're not fucking married. You can fuck other people while you wait around for Hollander," Marly tells him with an eye roll. "In fact, you should, because you're being really pathetic right now and it's freaking me out. How long has it been since you've gotten laid?"
"Few weeks," Ilya mumbles.
"Good lord. No wonder you're being like this," Marly says. "Call up Sveta or something. Please. I don't like seeing you like this."
"Fine, fine," Ilya grumbles, and he does text Sveta, but instead of inviting her over to 'watch a movie,' he asks if she or Sasha happen to have an old French textbook lying around.
Ilya manages to get his hands on a French textbook and several classes worth of homework for the low price of twenty dining dollars and a single Adderall. He sends a (shirtless) picture of himself holding the book to Hollander, who responds that he'll meet Ilya in the library at seven o'clock the next night. Ilya tries to negotiate— the library is the last place he wants to be at seven on a Friday night, even with Hollander there— but Hollander holds firm. It's the only time he can fit Ilya in before his away game that weekend, apparently. Mr Hockey Star.
The first official session goes well enough. Shane shows up with damp hair and pink skin, fresh from the showers after practice. He smells like the soap the school keeps stocked in all the locker rooms and he wears a faded SAC Athletics t-shirt that Ilya is desperate to touch. He has the same one, but there's a little football in the middle of Ilya's instead of a pair of crossed hockey sticks. Ilya knows exactly how soft it is, especially after a few washes, and it makes it that much harder for him to restrain himself. He manages, though, and he fries his brain so badly between concentrating on not being a creep and trying to parse out French that he nods dumbly when Hollander asks if he's cool with the same time next week.
Fuck. Is he really gonna let Hollander co-opt his Friday evenings for tutoring sessions in the library?
Yes, of course he fucking is.
The second session is decidedly worse. For Ilya, at least. He goes into it vaguely aware that he hasn't hooked up with anyone in a few weeks, but as soon as Hollander arrives, it's all he can think about. He's so fucking horny, it's like he's been possessed. There's a perverted worm burrowing into Ilya's brain and making him think things like sniff armpit and foot job under table. Fucking stupid. But maybe—
No, definitely fucking stupid.
Hollander is wearing his hat again. Backwards, which makes Ilya preen with pride and poorly contained lust. He sits across from Ilya this time, which Ilya doesn't love because he can't smell him from over here. At least it provides him with a full frontal view of Hollander in all his freshly showered glory. He's gorgeous, but he always is. His freckles aren't quite so obvious now that his skin is paling with the approach of winter, but Ilya's favorites are still holding on. The one just below his eye and the tiny, dark one on the bridge of his nose. The t-shirt he wears has a notch cut out of the collar, exposing the smallest triangle of his chest. Ilya wants to taste that skin, all salt and soap. He wants to suck a bruise into the spot that Hollander won't be able to— won't want to hide.
"So," Hollander says, and Ilya drags his attention from his chest to meet his gaze. "What did you want to work on tonight?"
"Pronunciation," Ilya says. He's been thinking about it since their first session, how to get Hollander to speak more French to him. Last time, he mostly just sat quietly while Ilya flipped through the textbook. "Is difficult, for me."
And it is difficult, but mostly because Ilya is learning this on the fly without ever having attended a single lecture. He made Sasha sit with him last week and practice a little so he didn't look like a complete idiot it front of Hollander, but Sasha thought Ilya was trying to fuck him, so they both left annoyed and unsatisfied.
"Ok," Hollander says, and he looks happy to have something to actually help with. He reaches over and slides Ilya's homework across the table to look at it. Ilya watches the way his long fingers tap against the page idly. God, he's even got good hands. Big, well manicured. Ilya wants to suck on his thumb. "Um, looks like you've been learning numbers. We could start there?"
Ilya nods eagerly.
"I'll count and you repeat after me," Hollander says. "Ready?"
It's very normal and chaste for all of forty five seconds. Un and deux are fine. But then trois is…
"Mm, you're a little off," Hollander says with a small frown. He rests his elbows on the table and leans in slightly. His short sleeves strain against the swell of his biceps as he puts his weight on them. Ilya bites down hard on the inside of his cheek.
"Watch my mouth," Hollander says, and Ilya doesn't need to be told twice. He focuses on Hollander's mouth. Pink, plush lips, a prominent cupid's bow, white teeth. Ilya can see the tip of his tongue poking through when he purses his lips and says, "trois."
"Again," Ilya says roughly, without taking his eyes off of Hollander's mouth. "Slow."
Ilya can just make out the way Hollander's face flushes, the pink bleeding all the way to the tip of his nose. He wets his lips and says it again.
Ilya doesn't even hear it; he's too focused on the way Hollander's pillowy lips purse around the word, the gentle flick of his tongue. A kiss. Ilya shifts in his seat. He mimics Hollander's movements, subtle and silent, barely a movement at all.
He imagines climbing over the table, closing the space between them, planting his lips on Hollander's. Making him speak French into Ilya's open, panting mouth as he grinds into Hollander's lap. Hollander's probably got a big dick. Not as big as Ilya's, obviously, but he's got that look about him. Ilya can picture it. Thick, flushed, probably uncut since he's Canadian—
Fuck. Ilya must be staring a little too wantonly because he watches Hollander's mouth form the shape his name.
"Rozanov?"
Suddenly, he's face planting back into reality. The quiet sounds of the library are back in a rush. A pair of girls a few tables away giggling quietly, the click-clacking of someone typing away on a university computer. Fingers flipping through pages, chairs creaking, the librarian's scanner thing beeping. They're not alone. Ilya has an unwelcome boner in public. This hasn't happened to him in fucking years. He can feel heat flood his face as he snaps his eyes up to meet Hollander's.
"Sorry," Ilya says hoarsely.
"S'fine." Hollander frowns at him. God, even the wrinkle between his brows is fucking adorable. "You try saying it now."
"Oh. Yes. Um, trois."
Hollander nods. "Better. Still needs a little practice, but you're pretty close."
Hollander leads Ilya through his numbers for a little while longer. None of them are quite as sexy as trois, so Ilya has a chance to cool down before they switch to short, simple sentences. We are in the library. You play football. I play hockey.
And Ilya's worked up again.
In Hollander's mouth, the words are spun sugar. Delicate, sweet. Ilya chomps them to pieces, but they melt on Hollander's tongue. Ilya wants to open wide and let Hollander spit them into his mouth. Instead, he white knuckles the edge of his seat with one hand and tries to surreptitiously adjust the tent in his pants with the other.
"Are you ok?" Hollander asks when Ilya fidgets uncomfortably one too many times.
"Fine," Ilya says through gritted teeth.
"We can take a break if you want, it's been…" Hollander pulls his phone from his pocket. As he unlocks it to check the time, his brows fly to his hairline. "Shit, it's been almost two hours. We should probably wrap this up, I haven't eaten dinner yet."
"You have not eaten?" Ilya asks because he's fighting for his life here and needs to stall before he gets up.
"No, I can't really eat before a heavy workout and I came straight here after practice," Hollander explains. "Anyway, same time next week?"
"Actually, I cannot next week," Ilya says with a genuine frown. He may hate the fact that he's at the library on a Friday, but he wants to cling onto this thing with Hollander for as long as he can, wherever he can. "Is Marly's birthday. I'm in charge of the party set up."
"Oh, cool," Hollander says, and they lapse into an awkward silence. "Maybe another—"
"You want to come?" Ilya cuts in. He's pretty sure he's never wanted anything more, but Hollander looks at him like he's crazy.
"To Marly's birthday party?"
"Yes. Why not? Will be fun," Ilya says, stretching for casual and pulling something.
Hollander makes a face. "I dunno, it's probably gonna be all PIKE guys, right?"
"No," Ilya says. "Mostly, maybe, but some of the guys on the football team are not in PIKE. And Marly is friends with some of your hockey guys. Vaughny will be there."
"Oh," Hollander says, and he looks like he's genuinely considering it. "It'll probably have some insane theme though."
"Not insane," Ilya says, rolling his eyes. "Fun. This one is GI Joes and army hoes. Wear camouflage. Is easy."
Hollander laughs, and Ilya can't help but smile at the sound. "Do I look like I own any camo?"
Ilya shrugs. "Go to army surplus store near the Chinese restaurant. They have the pants." He cocks his head at Hollander and lets his eyes rove appreciatively over what little of his body is currently visible. Ilya can't see his legs, but he's certain Hollander's ass would look fantastic in anything. "They will look good on you, I think."
Hollander twists his mouth as he thinks it over, but Ilya knows in his gut that he'll be at this party.
"Come on, do not be boring," Ilya taunts, the corner of his mouth ticking up into a half smirk. "I need new blood for pong. I have already beaten everyone else that is coming."
The challenge makes something flash in Hollander's dark eyes. He matches Ilya's smirk. "So you're ready to dip your toe into the big leagues?"
Ilya scoffs. "I am the big leagues."
"Sure, sure. You've been playing against who, Barrett and Kent?"
Ilya waves a vague hand. "And some others."
But not really, because nobody else in the house wants to go up against Ilya anymore. Apparently, he takes it "too seriously." He thinks they're just weaker than him.
Hollander breathes a laugh. "Fuck it. Fine, I'll come. Finally give you some real competition."
And if that's not the hottest fucking thing Ilya's ever heard. "Ok. What is it they say— bring it on?"
Hollander laughs again. Louder this time, and the sound garners looks from the girls at the nearby table. Ilya winks at them and doesn't wait for their reaction before turning his full attention back on Hollander. He's sitting up tall in his seat, big arms folded across his broad chest and a blinding, incredulous grin on his face. Ilya wants to swallow him whole.
"Bring it on, Rozanov."