Chapter Text
First track meet of senior year. This meant a lot to Shane Hollander, who had been racing for years in middle and high school. This also meant a lot to a foreign exchange student, currently attending a neighboring high school. This newcomer had been running since he could walk.
Shane’s team got to the indoor stadium with quite a lot of time before his race, so he got comfortable on the metal bleachers and set his stuff down. As the other schools arrived, he saw a new face. Sharp jaw, curly light brown hair, eyes cold and bored. He didn't recognize him from any meet, any camp. After doing this for 5 years, Shane got pretty good at recognizing other runners, though he wasn't the best at talking to them. Shane watched him walk over to a wall off by himself, and couldn’t help but hear his mom’s voice in his head. “Shane, you need to try and make more friends at these meets, make connections. Who knows, maybe one of them will be your teammate in college one day!” Yuna was always thinking of the best way to make connections. She was always thinking of everything, actually. So Shane reluctantly left his things and walked over to the guy.
“Hey, I’m Shane Hollander, from Blue Field High School. I- uh, didn’t recognize you. Are you new to the area?” He reached out his hand. The stranger stared at his hand for a moment before Shane put it down. “Ilya. Rozanov. From Russia.” Whatever answer Shane was expecting, Russia was not it. “Oh wow, that’s…pretty far away,” Shane said, mentally chiding himself.
Yeah, it’s far away; it’s on a different continent, idiot.
Ilya gave no response, just sort of inspecting something on Shane’s face. “What race do you run?” Shane asked. “The 100 meter and 400 meter,” the cold Russian responded. “Oh, cool, I do the 100 meter too,” Shane said, awkwardly toying with the drawstring on his hoodie that it wasn’t cold enough to wear, but he did anyway. “We'll see each other then, good luck.” “You will not be so nice when I beat you.” “Not happening….See you there.” No response. Embarrassed at the awkwardness of it all, the Canadian walked away, confused about the curt Russian and wiping at whatever he thought Ilya had been looking at on his face. Ilya Rozanov watched as Shane walked away, his mind still focused on the freckles that littered the Canadians face.
“On your marks, get set, go!” The whistle was blown, and Ilya was running. Only 400 meters; he just had to pace himself.
Shane watched, finally shedding his unnecessary blue hoodie. It was an indoor track because it was winter, and winters in Canada were not well fit for meets like this. But the indoor stadium was regulated well enough that a hoodie wasn't needed, and Shane was comfortable in his singlet. The first runner crossed the finish line with an obvious lead, and Shane watched as Ilya slowed to a stop, resting his hands on his head to regain his breath. He was good.
A while later, it was time for Shane to run. Ilya, who had found a spot alone on the bleachers, watched as he took his position. By the looks of him, Shane seemed to be a trained runner, but Ilya had to watch and see if he’d be any real competition. The whistle blew, and they were off. Ilya watched the race, faking nonchalance despite his intense gaze on the track. He’d stop occasionally to take a sip of water or wipe some of the lingering sweat off his brow, but every time he looked up, Shane was in the lead. He was absentmindedly biting on his cross necklace, given to him by his mother, when Shane crossed the finish line and won the race. Maybe he would make suitable competition. Not that Shane would win, but maybe come in second.
When it was finally time for them both to run, Shane had a little more energy than usual. He was going to do his best, as he always did, but he was curious to see how well Ilya would do. Running the 100 was a lot more sprinting than the 400. “On your marks, get set, go!” and Shane was off. Keeping a steady pace, his feet never spending too much time on the ground. He was focused and in the zone, and didn't get out of said zone until he crossed the finish line, just to see Ilya, taking a sip of water, a little bit in front of him.
Ilya turned to face Shane. A good runner, yes, but not quite good enough. He smirked, holding out his water bottle. “Here, drink.” Shane eyed the bottle for a moment before taking it, Ilya’s hand remaining a second longer than necessary. Shane took a sip, and when returning it, noticed Ilya’s hand lingering again. He saw Ilya smirking at him; he saw him making their hands touch for longer. What was he doing?
That night, Shane returned to his loving parents, David and Yuna, still thinking of the Russian who beat him, and Ilya returned to his family friend, Svetlana, and her family’s house. Ilya’s phone rang, and he immediately answered.
“Ты выиграл?” Did you win?
His father’s voice, calling from Russia, was cold and serious.
“Да, пап, оба.” Yes, dad, both of them.
“Когда у тебя следующая гонка?” When is your next race?
“на следующей неделе.” Next week.
“Не ленись. Не проигрывай.” Don't be lazy. Don't lose.
“Да, папа.” Yes, dad.
And with that, Grigori Rozanov hung up, leaving Irina Rozanov’s son staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched and expression cold.
It was the last meet of the season, and Shane was ready to win. For him, winning wasn’t just getting a gold medal. It was beating Ilya Rozanov one more time than Ilya had beaten him. Every meet, they would lock eyes. Every meet, they were 1st and 2nd place in the 100 meter. So far, they were tied at 5-5. But Shane was determined to beat this competition in his mind. Surely he was the only one keeping track? He was not. Ilya was also determined to win, to best the freckled boy. Plus, his father was never pleased when he placed 2nd. It was the same thing, every call, his slightly glitchy voice repeating the phrase Ilya had heard his whole life.
“Второе место — это недостаточно. Либо первое место, либо провал.” Second place is not enough. It’s either first place or failure.
When it came to the 100-meter, they positioned themselves, eyes locked on the track in front of them. “On your mark, get set, go!” The sharp sound of a whistle rang in their ears, and they were off. Once again, Shane and Ilya took the lead, Ilya a step or two ahead. When Shane pushed harder, sprinting even faster, so did Ilya. The finish was so close, Shane just had to put his remaining energy into finishing. He pushed himself, crossing the finish line, but not before Ilya did.
Shit. Fuck me.
Ilya seemed pleased, though, as he caught his breath and cooled down.
6-5. I beat him. Hollander did well. Just not good enough.
“You see scouts?” Ilya asked, his accent thick, a trace of a smile on his face. “Yeah…they’re right there…” Shane said, turning before stopping. “You knew where they were.” “I did,” The Russian responded, now fully smirking before walking away to his coach. “Asshole,” Shane muttered under his breath.
2 months later, May 1st
“So…it’s decision day…” Yuna Hollander began, leaning against her son's door frame. “Yes, Mom.” Said Shane. “You’ll figure it out in like 5 minutes when I get dressed,” He said, currently sitting on the side of his bed in a random sleep shirt. “Fine, fine, I’ll leave.” She said, closing the door and walking away. Shane rummaged through his dresser to find the shirt hidden at the very bottom. His mother had been very helpful during his application process, and insisted on having a small celebration when the acceptance and rejection letters came back. She was his biggest fan, track-wise, and was a sport mom in every way. She made sure her son was in every scout's mind, even as a freshman. Shane put on the T-shirt and jeans and left his room, finding his mom with her eyes closed at the dinner table while his dad, David, stood near, eyes open, hand on her shoulder. “Can I look now?” “No one was making you close your eyes, Mom.” She looked, and her face broke into a smile. “Massachusetts State, oh honey, that’s a great one, you’re going to do great.” She said, standing up and hugging her son. “That’s the one I was guessing, remember?” David said, patting Shane on the back. “Great pick, son.” “That’s one of the ones that offered you a track scholarship, right?” Yuna asked. “Yeah, it is.” “I'm proud of you, honey.” “Yeah, yeah, I have to go to school,” Shane said, leaving, feeling slightly embarrassed but also strongly supported.
“Where’s your t-shirt?” “Svetlana, I told you, I’m not doing that.” “Come onnnn, I want to know what school you picked.” “And why can’t I just tell you?” “Because that’s boring, come on, have some fun.” She crossed her arms, her shirt reading “Massachusetts State”. “I know you have it somewhere…” Svetlana said. Ilya sighed, standing up and grabbing a blue shirt from a plastic bag, reading “Massachusetts Metros”. “There, happy, Massachusetts State.” “Really? Ilya, that’s great! We’ll be there together! Now go put it on.” “Fine,” He said reluctantly, rolling his eyes. But inside, he was holding back a smile.
3 months later, August
Shane was in Boston for Massachusetts State Fish Week, a welcome event for freshmen, two weeks before the semester started. He was in group 3, which was led by a senior, who gave them a tour and such. They walked past the Engineering building, which Shane would be in a lot, as that was his major. Technically, Fish Week wasn’t a full week, but they packed as much information as possible into those 3 days.
Shane would be staying with an aunt who lived in Boston, so he wouldn’t have to fly back to Canada for a week, then back to Massachusetts. As soon as he got there, he found a gym. He hadn’t stopped running, determined to make a good impression and make sure those coaches didn't regret giving him a scholarship. He was listening to music and running at his normal pace, not noticing the other person enter the room until they got onto the treadmill next to him, which was odd, since the gym was empty. Shane spared a quick glance at this person, just to see light brown curls bouncing as none other than Ilya Rozanov ran. Right next to Shane. What is he doing?? Shane was confused but tried to stay focused on his run. But then Ilya increased the speed of the treadmill. To be a little faster than Shane. So Shane did what any competitive person would do. He sped up, going faster than Ilya. This back and forth went on until Shane’s watch beeped, telling him he had finished his run. Shane stood, arms on his head to regain his breath, while Ilya leaned against a wall, eyeing him, as if evaluating his body. Ilya grabbed his water bottle and drank from it, maintaining eye contact with Shane. He held it out for the Canadian, who groaned internally. Is he really doing this again? Shane reluctantly grabbed it, quickly this time, and took a big sip before handing it back. He wiped his mouth and saw Ilya smirking. Why is he smirking? What is he doing? God, this guy is weird. Ilya thought it was all very funny. Was this Canadian getting flustered? It could just be lingering redness from the run. Or maybe Ilya was right.
The next week, Shane left his aunt to move into his dorm room. There was also a track thing happening that day, a whole photoshoot for the team, and a chance for the freshmen to meet everyone. Shane wasn’t very sociable; his mother was the sole figure encouraging him to go and meet new people and talk to them about track or something. His father, on the other hand, understood his reservedness. But he needed to make friends on the team, so he walked up to the only person he sort of knew: his new roommate, sophomore Hayden Pike. “Hey, we talked briefly before, but I’m Shane Hollander.” “Oh yeah, hey. You know, I was excited to get you as a roommate because of how much Coach talked about you last year- this really impressive high school runner.” He seemed nice; at least Shane would have one friend. They kept talking, Hayden introducing him to some other teammates. There was JJ, who spoke with a thick French accent, and Scott, a senior. Shane didn’t notice another freshman entering until the others all turned to look at him. “That’s the Russian one, right?” He heard someone ask. Without processing that question, Shane turned and saw none other than Ilya Rozanov. What the hell is he doing here?? Does he go here?? There’s no way. Hayden interrupted his inner monologue. “Oh yeah, we were really lucky to snag both of you, some of the top runners” Great. A more adult voice spoke over them. “All acquainted? Great, now come here, the photographer’s here.” It was a needlessly long photo shoot: team, individuals, divided by distance races, individuals again. “Freshmen, this one’s just you guys!” He heard someone yell. There were about 10 freshmen, and for some reason, Ilya and Shane were placed next to each other. “You look pretty,” Ilya whispered. “We’re wearing the same thing,” Shane whispered back. “Yeah, but I don’t look pretty,” the Russian said before smirking and turning back to face the camera. What the hell was Rozanov doing? And why was it affecting me?
After the shoot, they were introduced to the locker rooms and left to freshen up. Shane tried to ignore Ilya Rozanov, who seemed to be keen on getting his attention, for no apparent reason. When in the showers, Ilya made a point to stare, and not just at Shane’s dark eyes or freckles. Uncomfortable would be an understatement to describe how Shane felt. Uncomfortable, freaked out, nervous…horny. Which was weird. Shane had never had many partners, much to his mother’s disappointment. He never stayed with one girl for long; he just didn’t really feel much, like what he felt he was supposed to. So why was he getting flustered at Ilya’s gaze?
After Shane had dried off and was changed, Ilya came up to him, still in his towel. “Hey…we don’t have to mention the whole…thing.” Shane really didn't want to talk about what Ilya had done. “Is what you want?” Rozanov replied in a heavily accented voice. Why is he being weird this is so weird oh my god. “Yeah, for sure.” The Russian’s face broke into a smile. “Oh wow, you are really bad liar.” Ilya stepped closer. Why is there no one else in the locker room? How did they all leave so fast? “What's your dorm room? You have roommate?” “I’m in Forest Hall, room 1410. First floor. My roommate’s busy tonight.” Why was he saying all of this? Ilya leaned against a locker, hair still wet, towel tied carelessly around his waist. “And if I come at…9 tonight?” After a beat, Shane replied. “I might open.” “I might knock,” Ilya responded casually, turning away with a smirk. Does he always need to have the last response?
Well, 9 pm came, and Shane was nervous. Very nervous. "What am I doing? Am I about to hook up with a guy? This guy? What do I wear? What do I say?" he thought. Ilya held up on his end, knocking at 9:03. “I thought you’d chicken out.” Ilya said, sounding almost amused. “Well, I didn't. I’m not a chicken.” That only made Ilya more amused. “I think we need to…do you want to talk first, maybe sit?” “Mm, no.”
"Well, no talking, I guess," thought Shane.
Shane was right. No talking, at least any that was intelligible, happened.
A...period of time later
“You’re not going to tell anyone, right?” Shane asked, somewhat nervous.
“Yes, Hollander, I’m going to tell everyone,” Ilya said dryly, putting his T-shirt back on.
“No one can know, Rozanov. I’m not joking.” A warm flush was creeping up, blooming across Shane's face.
“Hollander. I’m not going to say anything.” Ilya said, slightly more reassuring.
“Ok.” “Ok.”
And with that, Ilya Rozanov left, the door shutting behind him.