Chapter Text
September 2003
It’s been almost an hour of the same hard stare burning the back of Shane’s head. He has enough going on with all the other kids flinging mud at his new skates, kicking stones at the goody-two-shoes. He is not enabling another of his lanky-legged, snot-nosed classmates into, god forbid, flick his ear or something.
Whatever. In just–he checks the garish clock beside the blackboard—yes! ten minutes, he will be out of the room. He can already picture the comforting bright lights at his favorite hockey rink, usually too overwhelming for his eyes anywhere else, but there’s just something so staggeringly calm about the way everything shuts out of his system once he’s got his gear on. The way his skates hugged his legs so tightly, it was a security more than a pain.
Nothing touches him in the ice. The scary boys in the playground become more like blank effigies that he could easily topple over with just a little bend in his knee or a stronger spin in his small form. He wonders so often why the world isn’t as simple as it is in the rink. The constant pattern of pivoting his body this way and that way, hockey stick playing with the puck like he does sometimes with untouched food in his bowl, and a manouver that leads to his body drifting dangerously, almost falling over, but instead, the puck bounces off the boards and–in!
In the classroom, however, it’s all look me in the eye when I talk to you, Shane! or no doodling during discussions, kiddo, but he swears his ears work the exact same regardless of where he looks.
Really. He listens. Honestly, he listens way too much sometimes that he just can’t get that irritating scratchy noise behind him out of his head. The same one that was the start of his whole internal dilemma in the first place, and why is this kid even staring at him and isn’t being called out on his inability to listen to the discussion. Damn these double standards. Front seats have no perks; he should’ve told his mom about the headaches he suspects are slightly connected to his eyes, but ugh, glasses are so nerdy, and oh, if he isn’t doing so well in that department already–
A little tap on his shoulder sobers him up, willing him to finally snap out of his trance.
Shane startles lightly. The kid behind him says nothing, though, but instead, a folded yellow sticky note was tossed on his desk. He was really hoping he wasn’t going to open it to anything too bad. He hasn’t even spoken to the guy for God’s sake.
He slowly unfolds the worn out paper, revealing messy handwriting amidst crossed out words as if it was thoroughly considered.
hi what page again? sorry did not hear
Shane is a little concerned. They’ve been on the same chapter for maybe half the class, and the kid only thought to ask now?
He turns his head slightly so as to be unnoticed by the teacher. “Um. We’re on page 34?” his sentence coming out as a question. Bad habit.
The kid startles slightly, wide-eyed for some reason, soft blonde curls jumping along with his head as he unplasters it from the notebook he was scrawling on.
“Oh. Thank you,” he states slowly, consonants rough on his tongue but melodic in a way, a small smile highlighting his crooked teeth.
Shane’s never heard this kid speak, and maybe he’d like to hear it more.
He nods and faces back to the front of the room. Looks back at the ugly clock.
Okay. Two minutes. He can hold out for that long, he thinks.
Ugh. He should probably ask for the kid’s name. And also for the reason he’s been shooting lasers at Shane’s head for this long. It’s only polite.
He turns to his side. “By the way, can I ask–”
“I saw you–”
They both stare at each other for a beat.
The boy with the curls giggles a little, head bowed slightly in sheepishness.
Shane swiftly darts his eyes to the front and shifts it back to the boy. “Sorry! What were you going to say?”
“No, no. Is nothing, you go first,” he insists.
“Oh. Um, okay, I was wondering about your name?”
“Ilya Rozanov.”
Ilya.
Pretty.
Woah. Okay.
Ilya’s head tilts in confusion. “You okay?” He taps on Shane’s shoulder.
Shane startles. He is an idiot. It’s either no eye contact or full-blown death glaring at the other person, and he’s working on it. It’s a process anyway. Or so his mother always tells him.
Ilya doesn’t seem to mind, though, his eyes crinkling in amusement. Shane thinks it’d be a little taunting, but that’s not the vibe he’s getting at all. For once, Shane is actually part of the joke and not, well, the joke. Maybe he’s a little mean for not saying hi sooner. Besides, he hasn’t seen Ilya around the school; maybe he’s new? He would’ve noticed those curls anywhere. Maybe he should ask for his hair routine ... it must be really difficult maintaining the texture, and, oh boy is he glad to not have to deal with that with his own straight hair.
Right. Ilya’s still staring at him. Oh god.
“I’m Shane. Hollander. Sorry. Have I seen you anywhere? I think I would have remembered anyone with your name. I mean it doesn’t sound like ... um. Are you from here?” He splutters out.
“Hi, Shane,” Ilya brightens, enunciating his name so it sounds a little exaggerated. “I’m from Russia! Ah, I just came last week?”
“Wow. That’s so far!” Shane says. He notices Ilya isn’t wearing any sort of coat. “Is it cold there too?”
“Yes. But not me. The cold is scared of me,” he declares.
Shane highly doubts that.
He suddenly remembers what Ilya was wanting to tell him at the start. “Hold on. What were you saying before? Sorry, I almost forgot!”
It was the first indication of any discomfort appearing on Ilya’s face. “Um...”
His words are interrupted by the bell ringing, finally, and Shane quickly fixes up his things, shoving his pens into his boxy pencil case and then shoving that into his bag.
Shane stands with an urgency, body alight with excitement, and balks. “Ilya! Sorry, I have to go. I’ve got...” he hesitates with the admission. He knows it annoys the other boys when he talks about hockey because (and he admits) objectively, he’s just better than all of them. It’s not, in any way, boastful, just the plain truth. He doesn’t want to make a new friend annoyed so quickly.
The said friend beats him to the punch. “Hockey?” the smile replasters itself on Ilya’s face. “I play too! In Russia. I’m the best in my team. Soo fast, I’m like rocket. Like whooosh!” he exclaims.
Shane’s whole face lightens up. “Yes! I’m going to practice my handling so I can get even better. I’m the best, too! I mean...” He pauses.
“Nuh-uh. Bet I’m faster,” Ilya taunts.
And well. Shane’s competitive, okay? Manners be damned.
“You’re bluffing! Prove it then,” Shane challenges. “Come with me to the rink.”
“Okay,” Ilya grins.
And Shane swears Ilya’s curls shine with the same intensity of his smile.
***
They were making their way to the rink through the snow, and Shane almost forgets again.
“How’d you know I was coming here to practice?” Shane asks, breaking the silence.
“Ah. I was going to say,” Ilya says slowly, scratching his head in embarrassment. “After school, I sometimes don’t feel like going. I walk here.”
Shane stops at that. “You stalk me?”
“No, Shane! I don’t!” Ilya struggles to get out. “Would not do that.”
“Is that why you were staring at me earlier?” Shane teases.
“Hm, no. I think you are very pretty,” Ilya states.
Shane’s brain short circuits.
Right. What? He’s a little upset now. They were having fun, and they didn’t even get to have the challenge yet!
“Really? That’s just like you. Is it because I’m what? Smaller? Because I look different? I’ve had enough of that from everyone, Ilya,” Shane says flatly. He thinks he deserves to be at least a little defensive, thank you.
Ilya’s face contorts in confusion, eyebrows furrowing. “Shane, what? Speak slow, please, what are you saying?”
Unbelievable. Little off-putting Shane Hollander, a little weird, an oddball. The playground’s pretty boy!
“Don’t call me that.”
“But what? Shane, I don’t lie,” Ilya blurts out. “Is the truth! Look.” He slowly moves forward, his hand outstretched.
Ilya’s fingertips are cold (Ha! That liar cannot handle it after all) when they poke at Shane’s nose.
“Wha-”
“Stars. All over your face! Here,” Ilya pats his cheekbones like he can’t get enough of them. “See!”
“What? Ilya, stop, you’re cold!” Shane yelps, scrunching his nose.
Ilya’s eyes widened at that. “Зайчик!” He gasps out.
Shane is so confused.
“Ilya! Are you okay?”
“Shane, you do not see this? This! Is so, so pretty, Shane,” Ilya sighs, this time grabbing Shane’s gloved hand to point it at the dots splattered on his cheeks, now faint thanks to the lack of sunlight.
Oh.
Shane’s cheeks heat up under Ilya’s scrutinizing gaze. “Do you mean freckles?”
Ilya pumps up his fist in gratification. “Ah! Freckles,” he whispers, not wanting to get it wrong.
Ilya brings up his hands again to caress Shane’s cheeks as they scrunch up in the lack of warmth.
“Like bunny, Shane.”
Up close, Shane can see the beauty marks on Ilya’s face, his mole prominent on his cheek, and Shane blushes like a mad man. Oh my God. Ilya eyes Shane’s reddened cheeks and downright giggles at his suffering. Oh, how funny this must be for him, who is oh so confident (from what Shane can tell this far into their very short relationship) about everything, oh the fucking dream.
Ilya’s blue-green eyes seem to shine even brighter with amusement the longer Shane keeps his own glaring onto his. Whatever. It’s really not his fault with the way Ilya just flaunts his stupid, stupid golden curls that just flow so perfectly underneath his beanie, which is also blue and matches his eyes–oh what the hell.
Shane jumps and turns toward the rink, wrenching his warm face off Ilya’s cool fingers, snapping out of whatever that was.
“Right. Um. Whatever, let’s just go,” he splutters out. “It’s cold and you’re cold too, you liar.”
Ilya beams like he just succeeded in his super secret mission to fuck with Shane and his weak heart and follows him on the pathway. “You’re the liar, Shane,” Ilya teases, poking his side with his cold (cold!) finger.
“Shut up.”