Work Text:
The fall 2011 ACS (American College of Surgeons) meeting was held at a hotel lobby in Chicago, Illinois. Shane Hollander was getting ready in one of the rooms of the same beat-up place. He could sense that the budget had gone down since last time . He could barely afford his tickets or a good suit for the conference. His mentor was able to cover for the printing costs of his poster and pamphlet. He was just a broke medical student whose debt kept piling up. Why the conference was broke? That was an enigma.
He could feel his palpitations, tachycardia without stimulants. He was nervous for his presentation. He had missed breakfast at eight, and now it was too late. He and Hayden, his research partner kept reading over their notes. He would not be able to answer all questions, that is fate. Unfortunately he always tried his best. They were aiming for the first place in the poster presentation. This perfectionism has bit him in the ass a few times. He had frantically checked LinkedIn and Twitter for everyone attending, gone through their published works. He compared it against his own . He was confident that his research was innovative enough to get the top place (prayers).
He knew about nearly everyone who was attending but couldn’t find out about the one he was searching for. Ilya Rozanov. What was he showcasing this year? Shane had neither seen or heard from him. He deluded himself into thinking he was just curious. Except he had searched the depths of internet to find Rozanov’s recent publications. None. Either he is working on a big breakthrough or disappeared from the face of the earth. Shane didn’t know what to feel about either of it. He won’t admit but he had created a fake account to message Rozanov on twitter but got no reply. Normally everyone has to talk about their world breaking, mind-bending, universe collapsing research all the time in their posts. Why Rozanov was silent?
They were both competing for the same residency position at Johns Hopkins next year. A detestable fact. He wanted to secure the interview. The admission committee was surely to be here. He had to make a good impression. “Networking” they said. He sucked at it big time. Hated talking to strangers. Worrying about being liked all the dam fucking time. He preferred letting his work do the talking.
His demeanour at this enormous crowded place hid the fact that his head felt light and his heart wanted to escape his body. Splatter into the pavement in a squishy goo.
____________________
Hayden was busy setting up the poster. It was huge, 42 by 72 inches, themed blue. Shane had spent twenty hours making it. He even kept changing the text alignments till the last moment. Alas, He could spot a line (or two) still wrongly aligned in the methodology that he was trying his best to ignore . His software had managed to glitch. He had run out of time to submit the abstract. There was nothing much he could do now, anyways. There was a lot to worry about. He faced away from the poster so that freaking mistake didn’t come into his line of sight.
Role of SALL4 Immunohistochemistry and Serum β-hCG in Predicting Residual Disease Following Gynaecological Surgery for Choriocarcinoma
The work he meticulously spent time working on last year. Collecting data, evaluating, and writing. Shane knew he did most of the work, but seeing his mentor add four other people and take his first authorship position still hurt. He couldn’t say anything. He needed that letter of recommendation. So He put up his fake smile and added forty exclamation marks in the email saying how excited he was to collaborate with them. Sending that email had made him fume. It had to be done. He was fucked, otherwise. He still is if he doesn’t get his act together and impress these folks.
The day couldn’t be over sooner. How politics had taken the joy out of everything. This field was cruel where you had to eat or be eaten. Yet everybody wants to write ‘helping others’ as their sole purpose for becoming doctors. Liars.
Shane had looked around searching for the signs of a certain someone whom he didn’t want to see. He couldn’t let himself be happy due to Rozanov’s presumed absence so early . What if Rozanov’s abstract didn’t get accepted? Can that dude seriously lag behind for once? Can one good thing happen today? He really didn’t want to face that cocky bastard. Rozanov had published generously last year. Yes, he was stalking Rozanov on PubMed. He just wanted to test the competition.
Rozanov had only published five more articles than him. Two of them were mere literature reviews. Not too innovative. He could also do that. A meta-analysis in a niche unrelated to surgery. Didn’t count. He could too churn papers like a paper factory. Low quality in a shady zero-impact-factor journal, but he was not Ilya Rozanov . He made sure his research showed his grit. Each addition to his portfolio showing his dedication to the work. Yeah, he was better. Also, he couldn’t really afford publishing into open-access journals like Rozanov.
His work always had to be top-tiered to find a senior author to sponsor it. He had to get a good residency. He had to do all these things.
“Who fucked up the alignment of your poster, Hollander?” Shane heard a deep voice behind him. His SA node stopped firing for a second. His fists tightened as he turned around to face one and only Ilya Rozanov. Who stood with his hands in his pant pockets. He looked like a Versace model with his suit, golden brown hair slicked back. Tall, proud and Russian. Too much Russian. His eyes scanned Shane’s poster from side to side. Taking in the abundance of blue, brows furrowed. Shane’s anxiety kept peaking. For a fucked up reason he didn’t understand, he wanted Ilya Rozanov to be impressed.
Was the misalignment that obvious? What if his research was not good? What if he could never compete with Rozanov no matter how hard he worked. Talent beats hard-work that much he has seen. For Rozanov who was combination of both. It was lethal. Shane’s face remained passive, not betraying any of his emotions.
Finally, Rozanov’s eyes met his. Shane could sense the world stopping. How could a medical student manage to look handsome was beyond him. Shouldn’t he have a receding hairline by now? Was it the Russian genes? Shane was acutely aware of his hair falling and myopia worsening.
Rozanov’s lips moved to the side as he smirked at him.
“Not bad” he mocked. His voice laced with hidden sarcasm. Shane wanted to cry.
“Thank you for your appreciation. The lines are supposed to be like that. (A lie)....Hmmm I would really like to see what you have managed to do.” Shane said, pointedly. His eyes never breaking contact . It was hard to look at that face. But he was up for the competition, always.
“Follow.” Rozanov said in his deep, husky voice and turned around. He walked twenty paces to stop in front of his poster. Red and white. Shane was anxious to look at it. Rozanov stood to the side. Hands in pocket, a proud gleam in his eyes.
Association Between National Robotic Surgery Penetration Rates and Procedure-Specific Mortality: An International Comparative Study
An international study. With more than fifteen authors. Shane was in awe as he kept reading. The data was enormous. Just thinking about how to collect it would have taken ages! The analysis was complex. The results were significant and, worst of all— Rozanov.I being the first author. How did Rozanov manage this? How?
Shane didn’t want to look back at him. He knew the face Rozanov would be making. Asshole. Cocky bastard. Shane wanted to curse him aloud when two more people came to stand by him. A woman and a man, both in professional suits. Senior doctors and researchers.
The woman started interacting with Rozanov. Asking questions about his methodology. Shane tried to focus on the man’s badge trying to find his affiliation.
John Hopkins.
“ It would be lovely to meet you at the elective when you join. When will it start?” The lady asked Rozanov. A huge smile plastered on her face.
An elective at John Hopkins. Ilya Rozanov.
What the fuck.
That was all Shane had to hear before he took two steps back and walked (nearly ran) towards the restroom. He could sense his world crumbling. What kind of competition did he make up in his mind? He couldn’t even stand near Rozanov. He was nothing in front of him. This was not the first time he had felt this. Ilya Rozanov managed to infiltrate his mind even when he didn’t want him there. He thought about him every day of every week.
What a fool he was. Rozanov probably didn’t even perceive him in his periphery. He was so insignificant. While he woke up at four in the morning, went to the library to do those one thousand anki cards just so he can one day stand beside Rozanov, and not feel shit about himself.
The restroom was empty. Shane loosened his tie. This old suit that belonged to his dad. This ugly fucking tie. He couldn’t look at himself in the mirror. He thought of himself beyond jealousy…. why then he felt this way? Just about one person.
Ilya.
Fucking
Rozanov.
The washroom door opened. Rozanov walked in. Worry etched on his face.
“Hollander?”
Shane didn’t reply.
“What happened? Talk to me.”
“What happened! You. You have been the bane of my existence since college. Why are you everywhere I go? Every single place. What have I done to you?” Shane nearly shouted. He didn’t care if anyone heard. Shane wanted to say a lot but couldn’t. His breathing quickened. His voice would break if he tried to say more.
Rozanov didn’t reply. He just kept looking at Shane. The intensity in his eyes unwavering. Shane didn’t know if he could look at that face anymore. That chiselled jaw, the mole on his face. God even had to make him beautiful… so fucking unfair.
“You are clueless.” Ilya said finally, his voice barely a whisper, face softening.
“Fuck you” Shane said. He could feel his anger dissipating. His jealousy dimming out. He never found it in himself to stay mad at Rozanov for a long time. Not even after all these years. Not even after Rozanov showed up everywhere he went and instantly stole everyone’s attention. Even his own.
Rozanov always managed to find him, no matter where he went. Every room, every conference hall. Coming up to him with confident strides and saying “you also here Hollander?” With his dam sarcastic smile. Every dam time.
Fuck him.
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