Chapter Text
Shane Hollander did not give a single flying fuck about soccer, and you could quote him on that if you cut out the curse words.
Ilya Rozanov was not altogether interested in volleyball, but seeing as his ability to afford college -- this one, in particular -- was dependent on being one of the best applicants in any sport, he was vaguely aware of his competition. That is to say, when his high school counsellor outright said ‘one of the scholarships is definitely going to go to a Canadian volleyball player named Shane Hollander’, he listened.
(How she knew that was a different conversation entirely.)
Ilya was smart. Very smart. When he moved to the States for high school -- or was sent, more accurately -- he knew what he needed to do to stay. Do well academically. Excel athletically. Get the goddamn scholarship.
He got it. And, as predicted, so did Hollander.
They met three weeks before the fall semester started: Shane, Ilya, and the two female recipients, for a full day of meeting middle-aged rich people who sponsored the Cath Reagan International Athletes scholarship and taking promotional photos and pretending to be best friends or whatever.
It managed, somehow, to fall short of even his low expectations.
Someone introduced him to Shane Hollander by saying they were “natural rivals” and making a comment about how they’d probably fight over girls; Shane laughed awkwardly and Ilya just looked stone-faced. Someone managed to be both racist towards Shane and sexist towards Giuliana in the same sentence. Ilya couldn’t stop staring at Shane, but it definitely came across as either aggressive or creepy. He tried to talk to the women, who didn’t make him nervous in the same way, but Jiyoon couldn’t really understand him through his accent and Giuliana, reportedly very jetlagged, kept falling asleep. Then, when they went to take photos, Shane and Ilya were apparently too slow to respond to whatever directions they had been given because a woman with a lanyard asked them if they could understand what she was saying.
Ilya just looked at her for a moment. She looked simultaneously frustrated and pitying. Then he said, “I went to high school in Boston.”
“I’m Canadian,” Shane said.
She tried and failed to salvage the situation. Ilya tried and failed to not be a creepy dick around Shane. Jiyoon tried and failed to wake Giuliana up. And thus began his four years at college.
-
“I sort of know him, that’s all.”
“In the biblical sense? Or…”
Shane rolled his eyes. Four weeks in, and with no disrespect to his teammates who he liked adequately, Rose Landry was probably his best friend at college. This was sometimes a shame, as she took immense pleasure in speculating about his feelings towards Ilya Rozanov. Like now.
“As in, I know that he’s an arrogant dickhead.”
“Who you’re attracted to.”
“Who I am not attracted to.”
They were walking the path from the library to Rose’s dorm, and she was dissecting the sharp, intense look that Rozanov had given them as they passed each other moments ago. Shane, on his part, was sure he had been looking at Rose, who in addition to simply being gorgeous was very much a celebrity among student athletes. For, you know, the whole ‘Olympic medalist’ thing.
“Your dynamic is super weird,” she said. “And sexually charged.”
“It is not sexually charged,” he protested. “There’s -- we don’t have a dynamic. We’ve spoken, like, five times, and I’m pretty sure he hates me.”
“I think he just has a crazy RBF. You see him at the gym all the time and he just, what, stares at you?”
“I’m going to stop telling you about that,” he threatened.
“I’ll come with you, then.” She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow happily. “See for myself. I’m telling you, this is the year I become a morning person.”
“Sure, Rose.”
-
Shane frequently texted the Ilya-Shane-Giuliana-Jiyoon group chat with questions he could have answered by emailing people. Ilya always opened his messages immediately and never replied. Once, thrillingly, Shane texted him:
Can you stop leaving me on read in the group chat?? I’m just trying to figure out the dress code
no, he responded, also immediately.
You’re very annoying, you know
i know
Ilya tried to think of a reason to text Shane. Twice he came up with one.
what’s your major was the first, even though he knew Shane’s major was sports science, and was thus unsurprised when he responded with
Sports science.
Why?
friend was asking about good majors for student athletes
you are the most perfect archetypal student athlete i know that isn’t a total meathead
volleyball princess
WTF?
x
Even better, Shane asked the next day:
What’s yours?
guess
No.
Why do I have to guess?
I told you mine!
idk i want to know what you think of me
I don’t know!
Something business related?
Economics? Doesn’t half of the soccer team major in economics?
The international student scholarship program he and Shane were enrolled in was a mixed academic-athletic scholarship that put a lot of constraints upon them. One such was that they had to enter with their major decided, and any changes required the program’s approval. Between the level of academic performance required for entrance and the unusually strict standards to which they were held; it was hard to imagine a world in which Ilya would be cruising along, as Shane seemed to be implying, with an Athlete A+ (also referred to as ‘a near-fail in the easiest major possible’).
wtf hollander
just because i’m a sexy 6’5” blonde russian soccer player doesn’t mean i’m a brainless jock
You’re not SIX FIVE
Ilya was horrified to realise he was grinning at his phone.
no disagreement with me being sexy i see
Shane typed for a long time before replying, You are insufferable.
it’s psychology, if you were wondering
I wasn’t.
you literally asked
Bye
-
Their relationship unfolded strangely. Shane and Ilya saw each other at student athlete events, at the gym sometimes, and occasional run-ins on campus because men’s volleyball and men’s soccer were housed close to each other, in communal frat-like buildings. They shared no classes and really had no reason whatsoever to interact outside of said events, but whenever they crossed paths Ilya would give him that intense look and sometimes they’d stare at each other across rooms. On occasion one of them would make conversation; once they talked for three tipsy hours at a stuffy cocktail event. Sometimes they texted. Ilya was usually a dick, which checked out, but not in a properly mean way. Sometimes he was funny, even. And Rose was absolutely right in that Shane was attracted to him, which was really a recipe for disaster, so he resolved to be reasonable, resist provocation, and put douchey Russians who may or may not have been sexy out of his mind.
In short: to just fucking ignore him.
This worked for about two weeks. Then Rose befriended Svetlana Vetrova.
Svetlana was terrifying, stunning, Russian, the only person Shane was sure really knew Ilya. He had friends -- plenty, probably too many -- that Shane knew, but it was clear that Svetlana was in a category of her own.
How he knew this was not something he wanted to give too much thought to. But he knew this. Svetlana was Ilya’s Rose, or something reasonably equivalent. And they were definitely talking about Shane and Ilya together, because he ran into her at a coffee shop on campus and she explicitly told him as much.
“I like you,” she decided. “I see why Ilya is so funny about you.”
“...What?”
“Rose asked me to go out with you and her sometime. I’d like that.”
“Um. Sure,” he said, flummoxed. “Yeah. Whenever.”
“Nice meeting you, Shane Hollander. Enjoy your class.”
-
Finals came and went and Ilya learned Shane’s preferred spot in the library that was closest to both of them. Shane texted him one evening:
Can we temporarily suspend the thing where we both pretend we don’t see each other in the library? I really need a coffee and I know it’s on your way.
Ilya didn’t respond, but eighteen minutes later he put an iced almond latte down next to Shane’s laptop with its stupid UPENN VBALL sticker and sat opposite him at the table.
“Thanks,” Shane said quietly, and definitely didn’t feel weird about drinking coffee out of a cup that -- inexplicably -- read ‘Lily’.
Ilya hummed noncommittally in response and opened Psychological Science, 3rd Edition (Gazzaniga, Heatherton, and Halpern).
Two days later, Shane wordlessly set a cup on his desk. It said ‘Shain’ on the side.
is shain even a name????
I don’t think so.
-
Winter break arrived. He spent a few days with Rose in New York before flying home to Ottawa. She texted Svetlana every day and relayed news about Ilya if there was any. Shane wasn’t wondering if Ilya was going home to Russia (yes, but he wasn’t happy about it) or if Svetlana had known him since they were kids (yes, he lived with her family in high school), or if he had a good relationship with his family (no).
And then Christmas came and New Year’s too, and Ilya wasn’t wondering if Shane had brothers or sisters in Ottawa (no, but he used to have a rabbit) or if he went skiing over the break (yes, his whole life) or if he kissed anyone at midnight (no). And Ilya went out to a stupid party in Moscow and didn’t think of Shane at that very moment and didn’t think at all about how, for something that was decidedly nothing, this whatever between them had become pretty important to him.
-
The first night back, some Greek house had a party that Rose insisted they attend. ‘They’ as in Rose, Svetlana, Shane, Ilya; he had a strange feeling this was how it was going to be from now on, whether he liked it or not, was annoyed to discover that he did, and resolved to tell no one.
They met outside the dorm Svetlana and Rose both lived in (this was how they had met) at eight forty-seven, Svetlana in a slinky gold dress with a very low neck and very high hem and Rose in a similar ensemble covered in blinding sequins. Ilya had dug up some gossamery silver-ish shirt and his hair was wet and Shane was staring.
“You look like you are being held at gunpoint,” Ilya told him.
What Ilya did not tell him: he looked exactly as he had in Ilya’s imagination for the past fortnight, only with slightly longer hair, and the effect was completely ruinous. What Ilya did not tell him: going back to Moscow, which he did twice a year for two weeks, left him with far too much time to ruminate, and the third time he had re-read his (sparse and generally rather boring) texts with Shane he had admitted to himself what he had been denying. What Ilya did not tell him: he had been legitimately nervous about seeing Shane that night. He had stopped walking when he caught sight of him across the courtyard because he had genuinely felt dizzy, and now, looking at him -- real, solid, decidedly not a figment of his imagination -- Ilya didn’t know quite how to react now that he was consciously and knowingly talking to his crush.
Embarrassing as hell that his crush was a five-foot-ten Canadian volleyball player with cute little freckles, but whatever.
“I feel like I am,” Shane said. He was in a white t-shirt that was, Ilya noticed, a bit too big, and someone -- probably Rose -- had sliced off the neckline so it kept falling off one of his shoulders.
“Don’t be boring, Shanya,” Svetlana said, and Ilya gave her an irritated look for reasons he couldn’t quite explain to himself. “Gold or silver?”
“What?”
“Both,” Rose said, already a little tipsy off of some cheap premixed cocktail. “Glitter time, Shanya.”
Shane backed away, alarmed, but Ilya grabbed him by the biceps and pushed him forward so Svetlana could dust gold and silver glitter across Shane’s freckles and cheekbones and messy hair and forearms and collarbones and exposed shoulder and --
Ilya did not stare. He did not. He did not see Shane Hollander for the first time since the break had finished and think distantly, he might be the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.
It was dark and sticky and loud inside the frat-or-maybe-sorority house. Rose had already told Svetlana she wasn’t allowed to complain about the drinks, which she always did, and belatedly extended this instruction to Ilya.
“Ilya is a whiny little bitch about everything,” Sveta had said in reference to the drinks, which was probably somewhat true. But it didn’t sting in the same way it did when his brother said the same words. All the way across the world, the Rozanov name fell off his shoulders. For now he was just Ilya, halfway to drunk in a sweaty room full of glitter.
-
Rose’s New Year’s resolution involved getting up early and drinking a lot of green smoothies, so Shane also had to get up early and drink a lot of green smoothies. The men’s and women’s volleyball teams alternated using the same spaces, but they studied together before training and Shane would walk Rose to her dorm if night practice ran especially late.
Some people assumed they were dating, which Rose found uproariously funny and Shane found a little bit annoying, albeit flattering; if he had been into women, he supposed she would have been a rather good one to pick. Once Ilya Rozanov asked him about it while Shane wheezed on the Stairmaster, so sweaty and breathless he could barely think, let alone explain to Ilya that they really weren’t dating and he really wasn’t interested in her.
“Why do you care, anyway?” he eventually asked, and Ilya shut up. Next to him, Hayden Pike shot them a strange look but said nothing.
Hayden Pike was also one of Shane’s close friends, although in a different way to Rose. He was not nearly as smart as her, but he was an alright roommate and a good volleyball player, loyal and reasonably funny and very well-intentioned. Ilya liked to tease him as well, but it wasn’t the same as with Shane, and when Shane complained about Ilya to Hayden he would look at him with a smile that was hard to parse and say things like ‘okay, buddy’.
Hayden was also Canadian, and a lot of their time was spent talking about how the snow in Pennsylvania was weird and pro volleyball players didn’t make much money. When this came up, Shane never missed an opportunity to bring up how Ilya Rozanov was almost certainly going to be a professional soccer player and make millions of dollars.
Ilya never talked about it, though, unless someone asked.
How much do professional soccer players make?
depends how good you are
brand deals and stuff make a difference as well
why? changing sports? i think you are too short for soccer
Fuck you.
I’m five ten.
And I’m too short for volleyball anyway but here we are.
sure you are
I was just curious.
about soccer?
About sports other than volleyball.
It doesn’t really pay well enough for it to be a career.
ok so
you go to the olympics, get your medal
be pretty poster boy
lots of brand deals
pivot into modelling
easy
Fuck off!
i’m serious
shane hollander and rose landry right?
olympic volleyball player to model power couple pipeline
finish your physiotherapy or exercise physiology degree whatever you have in your 10 year plan
coach if you want to. train future olympians/models
whatever
? What is your thing with me and Rose?
I’d sooner date Hayden than her, for fuck’s sake.
And I don’t have a 10 year plan.
yes you do
no pike will not be able to fund your expensive lifestyle
and he’s not going to go to the olympics
True and true, although he wasn’t sure how Ilya knew.
Okay, then you can fund it.
Consider it a charity initiative.
hollander i will bet you $100 your life goes exactly as i have outlined
pretty boy like you? activewear brands and sports drinks and weird protein-fortified yoghurt companies are frothing at the mouth to have you in their commercials
If you’re including me dating Rose, I’ll up the bet to a million.
i thought i was going to fund your expensive lifestyle with my soccer money $$$$$
Well then there’s no point, because if you win the bet I’ll just pay you with your soccer money anyway.
Ilya did not grin at his phone. Cliff did throw a shirt at him and tell him to go the fuck to sleep.
-
“Do you have Shane’s number?”
“Why do you need it?”
“Jesus,” she said. “No need to get jealous.”
“Fuck you,” he said, in English. “I’m not jealous. I am just asking.”
She shrugged. “I want to ask about his classes, maybe. I don’t know. I like him.”
Ilya stared at her, eyes narrowed.
“You’re not fucking subtle, Roz,” she said, also switching to English. She, unlike him, had no Russian accent whatsoever. “Number, please.”
“Three-four-three five-six-something,” he said. “I do not know.”
“Fucking Christ,” she said. Svetlana swore too much. “I thought you might check your contacts like a normal person.” She flicked his ear as she often did when he was being weird about Shane. Which was always.
He cursed at her in response.
“I’ll ask Rose, then.”
“No,” he said, immediately, and pulled out his phone. “I’ll tell you.”
She hummed knowingly.
“You know he’s gay, right?” she added after a minute, and Ilya choked on air. Svetlana thumped him on the back with a smug look.
-
“You’re being weird,” Shane Hollander said to Ilya one morning. It was the third time that week that they had run into each other in the gym, and this time he had panicked and made to leave the locker rooms without actually changing out of his sweaty gym clothes.
He scowled at him. “No I’m not.”
He was. He absolutely was. Ever since learning Shane was gay, he had been acting like a complete and utter idiot. Not in a homophobic way, in a homosexual way. It was like his brain had melted and turned to soup. Before he hadn’t had enough hope to be truly pathetic. He could admire Shane from a distance, think about him in the showers in a very nonplatonic way, look for excuses to hang around the cafe he frequented.
Now he was pathetic, yearning, horny, weird, and hopeful. Because he knew Shane was gay.
Shane was five inches shorter than Ilya, but he seemed taller right now. He was leaning against the wall, gym bag over one shoulder, wearing Penn State sweatpants and a black compression shirt despite the fact that it was about thirty-negative-balls degrees outside and that was coming from a Russian native.
“Yes you are. Why are you being weird?”
‘Because I found out you’re gay and I also have this insane crush on you that’s making me feel thirteen again’ seemed an inappropriate answer. Either part of that explanation on its own would be, somehow, even worse.
“I’m not,” he repeated.
Shane shrugged, unpersuaded but apparently not convinced this conversation was worth his time. “Has Sveta talked to you about spring break?”
“Why are you calling her Sveta?”
“Calm down, Rozanov, I’m not going to steal your girl.”
A wild misread of the situation. Both in the sense that Ilya would rather stab himself in the eye socket than enter a romantic relationship with Svetlana Vetrova, and also in that he was so wildly attracted to Shane himself that he was becoming nonfunctional. Maybe that was how Shane felt about Rose Landry.
Ilya liked Rose a hell of a lot more now that he knew he and Shane weren’t … well. Compatible, so to speak.
“My …? What the fuck? No.”
“Okay.”
“She has not talked to me.”
“Okay.” Shane looked at him for another minute before moving past him to drop his bag on a bench. “You stink, by the way.”
“Fuck off, Hollander.”
-
Rose and Svetlana didn’t drag them out together, but they never seemed surprised to run into each other.
Ilya was starting to wonder if it was on purpose. Shane was not, because he already knew full well it was.
Shane knew a lot of things that Ilya didn’t seem to realise. Like: he didn’t need to put both his hands on Shane’s waist as he leaned over his shoulder at the crowded bar to order. He didn’t even need to lean over Shane’s shoulder.
Rose eyed them both with zero subtlety from across the room. Shane looked away from her.
“Heard of personal space, Ilya?” he said, and if his voice came out lower, hoarser than usual, that was no one’s business but his own.
“I am Russian,” he said, without turning to look at him, as if that excused everything.
“You’re a soccer player,” he corrected. “Weird-ass touchy sport. And I’m not going to listen to you whinge about how bad the vodka here is again.”
“I’m not going to do that,” he lied. Then he reached over to take a sip of Shane’s drink.
“Hey!”
“I’ll buy your next one,” Ilya promised. And, well, fuck. That could have been construed as flirting, if you thought about it.
Misconstrued. Right. Misconstrued.
-
fucking DC???????
Oh so now you stop being weird.
i wasn’t
You were ignoring me.
well
you are very boring
and yes what the actual fuck? i have many questions
Okay, Ilya.
Anyway. Yeah. I tried to veto DC as well.
And also the whole idea, just in general. I told them you’d hate it.
But Svetlana said “weird little russian boys who don’t respond to texts don’t get to decide”.
Her words, not mine.
………
i don’t have an american drivers licence
cannot come so sorry
??
First of all, you don’t need to drive to come. Second of all, I know you do.
I’m pretty sure that’s the only licence you have, actually.
You seem like you’d be a bad driver, though.
wtf
just for that i am demanding to drive to dc
So you’re going to come?
don’t see what choice i have
are you?
Well
I guess so.
do we have to go to dc specifically
The girls have made up their mind.
okay so yes we have to go to dc specifically
Ilya texted their group chat, which mostly existed to organise nights out at the bar and field Ilya’s various insults and complaints. It cycled through terrible names, but at that exact moment the notification Shane received was in a chat entitled ‘i will defenestrate you’.
IR:
what the fuck
fucking dc
you are all so fucking boring
i thought no one could be more boring than shane hollander
but nooooooooo
you want to make us all drive, WITH shane hollander, to DC
ON PURPOSE
RL:
(1) Washington DC is nice
(2) It’s literally a 2.5 hour drive
SH:
What did I ever do to you, Ilya?
IR:
be cute
SH:
????????
IR:
why do i even have to be in this chat anyway