Chapter Text
When Shane Hollander knocked on the dorm room, Ilya was half-naked and covered in scratch marks and lipstick stains.
He didn’t mind the state of debauchery, and it wasn’t like he shied away from people’s gaze, from whatever atrocious thoughts they had about him. But Hollander didn’t look away, wasn’t deterred when Ilya fixed his eyes on him. There was a flower crown on his head, made from baby’s breath, and there were three people behind him, each one holding something—a suitcase, a backpack, a box filled with myriads of things. Two of them were men, one of them a small woman with a bright grin. The men stared Ilya down, and he stared back, until Hollander looked at them with disappointment on his face and they averted their gaze.
Huh, Ilya thought, before he moved away from the door so Hollander could step inside. He sat on his bed, and watched as they moved about. The room had two beds, wardrobes, and desks and chairs. A window dividing the beds, and a small bathroom inside. It was one of the fancier ones, reserved for those who had scholarships or had contributed a lot to the Uni. Ilya might not be cut out for college workloads, but he was their best hockey player; it was enough. Svetlana sighed about this at least three times a week, lamenting about his grades and how his scholarship was hanging by the threads.
Hollander was new here, but Ilya had known about him all the same. They had played against each other before, when the other man was still in another Uni. So, Ilya knew that Hollander was an incredible player, had a high hockey IQ, and had a weak backhand. What reason for his transfer, Ilya didn’t know, and didn’t want to know, either. It wasn’t his goddamned business. It didn’t change the fact that Ilya had read about him on online articles, however, and watched his games before. It was merely for opponent research.
“Cherry,” Hollander called out when the girl made to advance on Ilya, crossing the room with tiny steps. He sounded admonishing, and Cherry let out a giggle before she winked at Ilya and went back to the crowd. They were unloading Hollander’s belongings, and Ilya noted that they knew what to put and where, even the arrangements on the desk, soon to be filled with a laptop, books and documents, and a digital clock. They didn’t exchange words, but they worked around each other seamlessly. It made Ilya curious—he only ever had Svetlana to behave like that around him. These people must have known Hollander for a long time.
After they were done, Cherry stood on her tiptoes to bestow a peck on Hollander’s lips, followed by a firmer kiss from the two men, and Ilya blinked at that. From what he had known, Hollander was a clean player, never chirped on the ice, was thoroughly media-trained, and never discussed about his personal life. And yet here he was, kissed three times by people Ilya knew he never mentioned on the media. It stumped him, but also made him intrigued. Hollander was such a boring, despite his excellence, player, and Ilya had thought that it translated to his every day’s behavior. Seemed like he missed the mark by a thousand yard.
After they were gone, and it was only Ilya and Hollander in the room, the newcomer turned towards him and smiled cautiously. Ilya braced for useless pleasantries.
“Hi,” Hollander started, voice soft. “I think we’ve known each other before? From our matches.” He seemed to mull about something, so Ilya waited for him to finish his sentence. After a moment, Hollander’s smile turned a smidge more genuine, and there was a look in those brown eyes that Ilya didn’t understand the meaning of. “You’re an incredible player. If I’m accepted by the Uni’s team, it’d be an honor to play with you.”
Ilya cocked an eyebrow at the man, then smirked. “If you can catch up to me, sure.”
Hollander chuckled, and didn’t say a reply, just moved towards the door and arranged the shoes there until they lined up neatly. Ilya always took off his shoes haphazardly and never thought about it; his old roommate also did the same. He supposed it’d be vastly different, living with Hollander. Ilya had heard that the man ran his team like the navy since his second semester and he was crowned the captain, that he had specific rules. Ilya was not good with rules, and he wasn’t about to follow Hollander’s, but he was curious.
“Why put them like that?” he asked, looking at the shoes facing the wall on a neat line.
“To ward off ghosts,” Hollander said simply, and Ilya laughed at the incredulous answer.
So, he continued. “Who are the people? Your… ah, lovers? You have a lot, да? What is it called… polymer?”
“Polyamory,” Hollander corrected with a small smile. “And, no. They’re not my lovers; we’re just close friends.”
Ilya hummed and leaned back; his palms braced on the bed. “Близкие друзья, которые целуют тебя в губы?”
“Yes,” the other man said without a pause, and Ilya had to blink in surprise. Hollander reached for his baby’s breath crown, and put it on his desk. “We’ve known each other for a long time. It’s not something weird between us.”
“Mm,” Ilya said noncommittally, still surprised that Hollander knew Russian, or at least understood it. There went his chance to confuse the man. “I thought you are… straight man. Clean player, ruthless captain, never involved in scandals, have boring life, probably will marry at the age of twenty-five and have two children.” Ilya wasn’t afraid to say these things, because Hollander didn’t rise up to his bait previously. He wanted to know just how different the man was compared to the perception about him.
Hollander laughed; it was something that pulled at his eyes until the skin crinkled. He looked pretty like that. Ilya was never afraid to stare at pretty things. “I do want to marry, but I’m still skeptical about children. I’m not mature enough to consider one. But I’m not, you know? Straight. I’m not straight.”
“Obviously,” Ilya drawled with a raised brow, and it made Hollander smile softly at him. “So, you agree that everything else is correct, yes?”
Hollander’s smile didn’t waver. His eyes were earnest, big and brown, and Ilya wondered what he had done to be gazed at so tenderly like this. Was this how Hollander normally looked at people? If yes, then he was trouble. People might covet something from him, might want to destroy the world just to come back to that gaze. Pretty things inspired within people the need to possess and to destroy. Ilya was neither; he was merely an observer.
“I’m not ruthless,” Hollander then said.
“Mm, no,” Ilya replied. “Worse. You are ruthless and good player. Not a good combination for opponents.”
“You think I’m a good player?” Hollander asked, and it was… was he teasing? Ilya didn’t know it was possible for Hollander to have a sense of humor.
“Да, just not the best,” he said.
Hollander tilted his head to the side, that damned smile still on his lips. “You’re such a dick, Ilya.”
“And happens to have a dick, what is so new about it,” Ilya said, because Ilya poured from Hollander’s mouth so easily, warm and gentle. He didn’t want to think about it; about the last time someone ever called his name that way. So, he looked away and moved to lie on the bed, ignoring the fact that the other man had called him with his first name with such a familiarity, and let Hollander do whatever he needed to. Ilya was not responsible for him, despite how Hollander had made him so curious in such a short amount of time.
But Hollander wasn’t done with him, apparently. “Are there any rules? For you?”
“What rules,” Ilya said, not moving from his position, just opened his eyes enough to stare at the ceiling.
“Like, how we will be living together,” the man said. “Curfews, items placement, schedules—things like that.”
“Ah,” Ilya dragged the a. “None, nothing. Except maybe you need a place to stay if I bring someone,” he paused, then shrugged, “unless you want to watch. Same to you, if you want to bring your lovers here, though just because they won’t fit on your bed, does not mean you can do it on mine.”
“Uh, no, that’s gross and a breach of privacy,” Hollander said. “But, okay. I have places to bunk when you… need alone time.”
“I will be with gorjus… gorges… um, beautiful people,” Ilya said. Fuck English. “I will not be alone.”
“Gorgeous,” Hollander corrected promptly.
“That’s what I said.”
“Sure,” Hollander said, and Ilya wondered if it’d always be this easy for that man, rolling with the punches. Ilya was skilled at it, mainly because he forced himself to. But Hollander was different, more… relaxed, like it was something he had always known instead of something he had to learn.
There was no conversation after that, and Hollander didn’t make a sound, either. Ilya was lulled into sleep by the silence.
By the next week, Hollander had bought a mini fridge for their room, got accepted into the Uni’s team as alternate captain and replacing Ilya as center, and apparently had brought an entourage to walk him to and from classes and practices. He also said something when he went out, and another thing when he was back. Ilya didn’t know what those meant, just knew the sound of it. Itekkimasu, Hollander said to the room, and then tadaima when he came back. He didn’t explain and didn’t seem to expect an answer.
He was an annoyingly excellent player, did his drills dutifully even when they were bordering on arduous, and had so many good strategies hiding beneath that awful haircut of his. Ilya complained about this at least twice a day to Sveta, which she replied with a roll of eyes or a scoff, then вы безнадежны, Ilya, while looking at him like she knew something he didn’t. It wasn’t new; she probably knew the secret plans of the world’s governments or something. Ilya wouldn’t be surprised.
What did surprise him, was that, one day, Hollander woke up late for a meeting with his ‘friends’, and Ilya had watched him scurry to the bathroom, take a quick shower, and come out with a towel on his hips. All this time, Hollander had always taken his change of clothes to the bathroom, so Ilya never saw him expose patches of skin except for his legs. And thus, with miles of bare skin on display, Ilya’s eyes widened and he swallowed back his questions when he saw the tattoos covering the entirety of Hollander’s back. It was a big tree, the roots extending below the waistline and there were nine branches that ended in circles with different flowers within. Ilya didn’t know what they were, what the tattoos in their entirety meant, but it was such a different thing than what he had expected from Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes Hollander.
It was also fucking hot and Ilya watched with a dry mouth as Hollander’s back muscles moved as he rummaged for his clothes, and the tattoos moved with it. Ilya had a strong urge to trace the lines, the branches and the flowers, see where the roots disappeared beneath the towel, ask what they meant to Hollander. They were not the only tattoos on the man, for Ilya had seen a lotus on the inner side of his right arm, and what he guessed as a medusa on the back of his left thigh. Ilya could see them because Hollander was probably distraught enough that he woke up late for whatever he needed to do, and had stood there naked as he put on his clothes.
Hollander had never woken up late, as far as Ilya knew, these past few weeks. Ilya didn’t wake him up when his alarm blared, because he wanted to see Hollander panic. Sue him, that guy seemed so perfect that Ilya found the need to see the chinks on his shiny armor. Sveta had said that shiny armors were historically incorrect, because it’d just be a beacon for enemies; they were matted instead. It sounded less cool in Ilya’s head, so he ignored it.
And his decision had netted him an interesting result, so Ilya was content to just sit there as Hollander hurried along, whispering something under his breath that sounded like curses, just in a language Ilya didn’t understand. He listened, a little disappointed now that those tattoos were covered by layers of clothing, as Hollander called someone on his phone. I’m so sorry, I slept through my alarms. Yes, I’m ready now; can you pick me up, please? Okay, thank you, Dee.
“Going somewhere?” Ilya then asked, finally opening his mouth after spending his silence watching the other man.
“Yeah,” Hollander said, sounding distraught. “Arka’s birthday party. I should have been there twenty-minutes ago. Fuck, the traffic—”
Ilya hummed. “Почему они не позвонили тебе? Я думал, что они уже будут стучать в двери, думая, что ты пропал.”
Hollander just sighed. Then said, “Our matches are coming fast and they knew I’d probably be exerting myself from practices and workouts. At least, that’s what Dee said.”
“Who is this… Dee?” Ilya asked slowly.
At that, Hollander gave him a smile. “I think you might know him,” he said. “He’s the basketball team captain, Xavier Deimos?”
Ilya rolled his eyes. He knew that guy, a towering mass of ruthlessness and muscles. He was even taller than Ilya, and apparently played just as violently. He was reserved, though, didn’t talk much. Ilya just chalked him off as a pompous asshole, despite being one as well, for different reasons. “Да. What kind of name is that? Ridiculous.”
"His whole family has the same kind of names,” Hollander explained. “His only sister is Lucifer, but they call her Lucid. Then Nirvana, and the youngest, Somnium."
“What,” Ilya deadpanned. “Из какого рода фантастического мира они пришли?”
Hollander laughed, a peal of tinkling laughter that made it a little difficult for Ilya to breathe. “They thought the same, don’t worry. But those are the names from their late mother, so they never tried to change them.”
Ilya fell silent. He knew that feeling so well, and they were in the same boat as him, so he shut his mouth and nodded instead.
A few moments later, someone knocked on their door and Hollander stood up to open it. Standing there with a casual attire that did horrible at hiding the muscles beneath, was Xavier Deimos—Dee, as Hollander had called him. It was such a cutesy nickname for a wall of brick, but whatever floated their cruise ship, or something like that.
“Shane,” Xavier breathed out, a smile on his cold face as he leaned down to kiss Hollander. Ilya tried not to frown; he should be used to the habit by now, this closeness Hollander had with his supposed friends. Xavier then implored at the room, and his brows furrowed at the sight of Ilya, and Ilya smirked when the taller man looked pissed as all hell. He didn’t know the reason, but pissing people off was Ilya’s specialty, even without doing anything, and it brought him immense joy.
“Dee, yame te. Rūru wa shitteru daro,” Hollander said, tone firm. Whatever it was, it brought a dismayed expression on Xavier’s face, then resignation.
“I know,” he sighed. “Let’s just go. Un ga yokere ba, the traffic won’t be as bad.”
Hollander looked back at Ilya, and waved a little. “I’ll see you later.”
“I won’t be waiting,” Ilya called out as they went. Hollander probably wouldn’t be back, anyway. Probably had an orgy after the birthday party or something. Ilya rolled his eyes again and reached for his phone to complain to Svetlana, bitching about Xavier.
Stop being a jealous wife, she sent.
He scowled at the reply. Я не ревнива, а я недовольна, he wrote.
He wasn’t jealous; why would he be? He didn’t even like Hollander, even if he could admit that the man was one of the prettiest things he had ever seen in his life, especially with those damning freckles, and he had seen plenty. Hollander was not someone he could like, from his haircut to his reserved personality. He had never talked about himself, but he was willing enough to indulge Ilya about the people around him, as if he loved them enough to prioritize them compared to himself. He had strict sleep schedule, as well as workouts and his meal plans, which only consisted of bird food, in Ilya’s opinion. He didn’t drink and instead stuck to his ginger ale. The only thing he put inside the fridge was his yakult, ginger ale, and protein shakes. His clothes were boring, his personality was boring, and the things he read were also boring. He was a boring man, in Ilya’s eloquent opinion.
Except that now Ilya knew that his back was covered in tattoos, that he kissed his friends on the mouth, that he was always guarded by someone, that he came back at the end of the day with different kinds of flower crowns—of which he let dry and stacked on the top of his wardrobe. Ilya had watched him, these past few weeks. He always woke up before the alarm, finished showering in eight minutes then another three of putting on clothes, never smelled like anything but clean and minty, folded his clothes before putting it in the hamper at the end of his bed. He had a fixed set of rules, and Ilya had never been good with those.
Still, Hollander put their shoes in a straight line, picked up Ilya’s clothes strewn about the room, arranged the beer in the fridge so the brand was facing out, and dutifully opened the window when Ilya smoked. Hollander also didn’t smoke, and Ilya had half-expected him to say something along the line of you can’t smoke here; smoking is not good for you, but he didn’t. He just continued with his reading of some book about hockey, and reminded Ilya about his ashtray, so that Hollander didn’t have to sweep the ashes, again.
Shane Hollander was a walking contradiction of rules and strange behavior, and Ilya didn’t know what to do with it.