Chapter Text
To say that Shane isn't a little bit afraid of having to share his house with another boy is an understatement. Shane is very afraid. Not only did his parents drop the news that they were going to be hosting some other kid from some place in Europe, but they also spent the summer having Shane help pick out new things for their already perfectly decent guest room to make the space more "tween" friendly.
Shane had to remind them that just because he's a tween boy doesn't mean he represents all tween boys, and in the end, the room ended up very… basic. Nothing like Shane's room which has hockey posters all over the walls and glow in the dark stars on the ceiling. The guest room is pretty much decked out in that coral color his mom's been obsessed with lately. The bed-set is coral but with a gray duvet and the curtains are coral and so is the rug on the floor she agonized about buying.
They don't even find out where this alleged boy is coming from until July. Mom makes Shane sit in the living room with her while she reads the email out loud to him and Dad.
"My name is Ilya Rozanov, I just turned 13 in June and I'm from Moscow, Russia. It is a cold country, yes, and sometimes very miserable. But it is my home and very beautiful."
Shane can't imagine what could possibly be beautiful about Russia, but he keeps that thought to himself.
"My mama put me in skates when I was two and I have not been off the ice ever since—" Mom takes a breath, smiling at Shane knowingly. Shane finds himself sitting up a little more. "At first, she tried figure skating but it apparently became obvious that I was not meant for that sort of thing. That was how I ended up in hockey and I've continued playing ever since. My dream is to one day join the NHL and play for a team like Pittsburgh or Boston."
His heart thumps against his breastbone. So, this guy plays hockey too— that's good! At least Shane will have something to talk to him about, "What does the rest of the email say?"
Mom clears her throat, exchanging a pointed look with Dad that Shane chooses to ignore, "I've chosen Canada as my preferred country because of the historical rivalry in hockey between Russia and Canada. That, and the weather is very similar in both countries and while I'm very excited to have the opportunity to study abroad, I'm afraid of becoming homesick. Attached, you will find my grades and their Canadian equivalent. Thank you for reading this and I hope to meet you soon— Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov."
"Wow," Dad says, then laughs, "Did he know he was supposed to put things like his favorite foods and colors in that?"
Mom shrugs, "We can ask him once he gets here. So," she turns to Shane now, expectantly, "Are you excited? He plays hockey too."
Shane nods, for once feeling enthusiastic about this whole exchange student living in his house situation, "Yeah! We're going to play lots of hockey together. I'm going to give him a tour of the rink and introduce him to the school team— oh, we probably have to get him rental gear too, and his own stick— we should ask him what his favorite brand is—"
"One step at a time, honey. He has to get here first," Mom tells him, smiling from ear to ear.
"Right. Right, yeah. But we should make an itinerary, just in case."
"That's a great idea."
Shane knows his idea is good because he tries to put himself in Ilya Rozanov's shoes and beyond being in a new country far away from his own home, he can't think of much that would bring him comfort beyond at least knowing there's a plan.
They arrive at the Ottawa airport to pick Ilya up a little after three o'clock in the afternoon. Shane buries his hands in his pockets and does his best not to bounce his knee while he and his parents wait by baggage claim. Dad's holding up a big sign that says in English and Cryllic Welcome to Canada, Ilya. Everyone around them is sort of giving them stink eye about it.
I wonder what he'll look like. Shane thinks to himself, keeping his eyes locked on the escalator. There's lots of Russian-Canadians in his class but they, a lot like Shane, impress more upon their Canadianness than their Russianness. He wonders how they'll react to Ilya— a Russian-Russian
"Oh, honey, I think that's him."
Shane looks at the top of the escalator and his chest tightens. Yes, he's certain that's him. Ilya Rozanov, descending the escalator while sweeping his curls out of his eyes so he can scan the area. Ilya Rozanov, who's very green eyes widen when he sees the sign Shane's dad made. Ilya Rozanov, who has a pretty beauty mark on his left cheek and a couple of acne spots a lot of the boys in Shane's year started to get before summer break hit.
Ilya Rozanov who is currently wearing a striped red and gray henley tucked into a pair of baggy jeans. Shane wonders if he's been wearing those clothes for the entirety of his 22 hour flight. Is there deodorant in Russia? Oh God.
"Ilya Rozanov?" Mom calls once he's close enough.
"Yes." Ilya closes the distance while keeping a good chunk of personal space between all of them as he tugs his passport out of his back pocket to show them his picture and name as if he could possibly be anyone else, "Mister and Misses Hollander, yes?"
His accent is so thick that it's almost impossible to understand him, yet Shane's parents can because they're awesome like that.
"Please, Yuna and David is fine."
Ilya shakes his head with a laugh, "I-I cannot. Sorry."
"Manners?"
He nods and immediately locks eyes with Shane. Shane is unsurprised to find that Ilya is taller than him. Just about every kid in his year is at this point— he's used to it. Still. Ilya isn't just taller he's also, like, lanky. Shane's never met a hockey player so long-limbed and uh… skinny.
But he decides not to say anything about it especially considering he's not one to talk given the fact that he's several inches shorter than his peers. Shane holds his hand out to Ilya, "Hi, I'm Shane. We'll be playing hockey together."
Beside him, he hears Dad inhale sharply.
Ilya's face lights up, "Really? That is best news. I love hockey."
"I love hockey too!"
"Favorite player?"
Mom laughs, "Let's go over to the carousel, I'd hate to miss your bags."
"Right, yeah," Shane nods Ilya towards the carousels, following the signs for his flight so that they don't end up standing at the wrong one. "I like Sidney Crosby the best."
"Not Ovechkin?"
"He's American?"
"No, he Russian—"
"But he plays for an American team, I mean."
"Oh, yes. So… national pride for Crosby?"
"And he's awesome."
Ilya smiles, "Not as awesome as Ovechkin, his hat trick at playoffs… perfection."
"It was perfect," Shane agrees. "I want to join the NHL too but definitely not for the Capitals."
"No?"
Shane shakes his head and says, "I'm going to play for the Voyageurs someday."
"Okay."
"In Montreal?"
Ilya nods before hiding a yawn in the crook of elbow, "Yes that is—sorry— was long flight."
"Oh, you're tired."
He nods again.
"That's okay. It's an hour long drive back home, so you can nap in the car. You'll be super jet-lagged if you sleep too long. Mom wants to do dinner at home anyway. Have you ever had Japanese food before?"
Ilya shakes his head, "Uhm, no?"
"Okay, well. My mom is Japanese, and I'm half-Japanese and sometimes she cooks Japanese food," Shane can feel his defenses rising, "Is that okay?"
"…I do not think is bad? I do not know what you mean."
"I mean," Shane sighs, "I mean, if you think Japanese food is weird or gross, you should say something now—"
"I've never had Japanese anything, I do not know."
"Oh."
Ilya tugs his suitcase off the conveyor belt with a grunt. How he managed to cram a year's worth of clothes in there is beyond Shane— except then Ilya grabs a second smaller one— leopard print. Weird.
Clearing his throat, Shane tells him, "Japanese food is very good, but sometimes the people at my school get weird about it."
"Then they are dumb."
Shane chokes, "What!? How can you say that when you haven't met them?"
"Food is food," Ilya says with a shrug, "Is best when made by your mama, no?"
The food his mom makes is the best. Don't get Shane wrong— his dad can cook awesome food too but the food his mom makes is just… the best. He stopped bringing lunches from home after second grade when someone called his bento box fish food and proceeded to make fun of Shane's eyes and lips. That had been the worst day, like, ever. Shane still thinks about that comment every time he looks in the mirror. Does Ilya think he looks like a fish? Shane really hopes not.
"Ilya, do you like music?" Mom asks once they've returned to Shane's parents. Dad tries to grab one of Ilya's bags but Ilya clutches his hand around the handle at the very last second. Stalemate.
"Uhm, yes."
"What kind?"
Dad's grinning like he might make a pass again and Ilya's face is so serious that Shane can't help but laugh a little, "Dude, he's trying to help you."
Ilya's face turns beet red, "I can carry myself!"
"It's a long walk from here to the garage, kid. Let me take your book-bag at least. I gotta be useful somehow."
Mom hides a giggle behind her palm as Ilya slowly and carefully hands Dad his book-bag— also leopard print for some reason with weird hardware on the pockets. Shane catches his mom examining his bags and clothes as if she can somehow come to some great conclusion about Ilya's personal style which so far seems to be skater meets Dolce and Gabbana.
"How did you fit your whole life in there?" Shane blurts, ignoring his mom's pointed stare.
Ilya merely shrugs, "Lots of shoving. I could not fit my winter coat—"
"We can go shopping for one in winter," Mom offers, leading the way out of the airport, her heels clicking on the tiled floor, "No sense in getting you one now while it's still summer. Ilya, are you hungry at all? We can stop to get you something on the way home if you are, it's a long drive."
"No, Mrs. Hollander. I'm okay. Thank you."
"He's tired, he said," Shane offers.
"That's alright. You can sleep in the car if you'd like, Ilya. A nap probably isn't a bad idea. Did you sleep at all on the plane?"
Ilya gives a meager little shake of his head. Shane feels his jaw drop a little bit, "You didn't sleep at ALL? That flight was like a whole day long!"
"Shane," Dad warns, "You're at a ten, buddy, lets drop back down to a five. Our new friend is probably jet lagged like crazy. Don't worry, Ilya. We'll introduce you to the Canadian monument of Tim Horton's tomorrow morning."
"I cannot wait to meet him," Ilya says around a lionish yawn, blinking rapidly.
Shane tamps down the urge to correct him and let him know that Tim Horton's is a coffee chain, not a real person in favor of just… looking at him. Ilya is, like, really pretty for a guy. Everyone at school and on the team calls Shane pretty boy to piss him off, but Ilya is sort of…
Pretty.
For a guy.
Like his hair is really nice and he's got good eyes. It's like all of the flecks of gold and green in the universe have been compressed into his irises. Then there's the henley that clings tight to his body, showing off the corded muscle of his arms and his chest. His body is such a sharp contrast to Shane's body, which is still covered in a stubborn layer of baby fat his mom won't let him diet away even though half the guys on his team are also on a sports diet for basically the same reason.
It's not fair.
He wants to be a little bit mad at Ilya for it, but he finds himself unable to. Not when Ilya's sleepily climbing into the back seat of Shane's parents' hatch back and immediately closing his eyes, forehead pressed against the window.
Shane pockets his irritations, buckles his seat belt, and does his best not to look at Ilya for the entirety of the drive back home.