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Svetlana begins her campaign on a Tuesday morning, which is how Ilya knows that she's clearly lost her fucking mind. Normal people do not start harassing their friends about their romantic lives before nine on a weekday. Normal people wait until at least lunch.
Sveta💄🔪: I have a surprise for you.
Ilya reads the message while walking across campus, his hockey bag slipping down one shoulder. He adjusts the strap to sit further up and considers ignoring the text, but Svetlana has never allowed Ilya to ignore her a day in his life, so he resigns himself to whatever it is she's been plotting against him.
Ilya: no.
Sveta💄🔪: You don’t even know what it is?
Ilya: answer is still no.
Sveta💄🔪: You're going on a blind date this friday.
Ilya: absolutely not
Sveta💄🔪: Rose says you’re scared.
Svetlana's reply is followed by a photo of Rose Landry looking disappointed in him.
Ilya: rose did not say that
Ilya shoves his phone into his pocket before Svetlana can send him any more lies. He has a 6 :30am practice, two lectures set back to back right after said practice, a meeting for the economics group project he has contributed exactly nothing to, and zero interest in going on a blind date with one of Svetlana’s friends.
There's nothing wrong with them, Ilya knows most of them and they get along fine, but he has his sights set on a much better prize.
Shane Hollander is the captain of the university hockey team, which means Ilya sees him almost every day. What a sight it is too, pretty Shane Hollander with his freckles and big brown eyes, shiny black hair, and rippling muscles. Ilya is drooling just thinking about the way he scrunches up his face when he argues with Ilya, looking like an adorably angry kitten as he chews him out.
Ilya has been doing everything he possibly could, for the last two years, to put that look on his absolutely stunning face.
He flirts with Shane at parties, in the locker room, and during movie nights at the apartment Svetlana shares with Rose. Once, when Shane bent over to pick up something, Ilya had whistled as loudly as he could and told him that his ass could heal the sick. Shane had gone red all the way to the tips of his ears, shooting Ilya a truly disgusted glare, and then spent the rest of the evening with his legs pulled up against his chest, clutching the pillow in his arms for dear life, like that would protect his virtue.
There have been moments when Ilya thinks Shane might be flirting back, or at the very least, shown some semblance of interest; Shane usually saves him a seat when they are out as a team, and he often has an amused little smile that only seems to appear when Ilya says something stupid. At a Halloween party last semester, Shane let Ilya fix the crooked collar of his vampire costume, and then never told Ilya to move away when he caught Ilya staring at his plush pink lips, which looked delectable and so very kissable.
Before Shane, Ilya’s sex life had been both active and uncomplicated. He and Svetlana used to hook up whenever they were bored, until she started dating Rose two years ago and became disgustingly in love. Ilya and Sasha stopped sleeping together around the same time, partly because Sasha’s spent most of his time in between classes getting high and hopping between bed partners, and partly because Ilya met Shane and discovered that—apparently—a serious crush could destroy his ability to enjoy casual sex.
He still hooked up with other people occasionally: there was a guy from the university swim team, a teaching assistant from the English department that loved to bat her eyelashes at Ilya, and a very flexible dancer whose name Ilya never managed to learn. For the past six months, however, there has been no one.
Every time someone touches him, Ilya thinks about Shane. It is incredibly unfair, if you ask him.
Svetlana texts again during Ilya’s first lecture.
Sveta💄🔪: Friday night. I’ll make the reservation.
Ilya: no.
She tries again during Ilya's lunch when she should be paying attention to her 12pm History course.
Sveta💄🔪: One date. If you hate him, I’ll never ask again.
Ilya: i am already in love, sorry.
It takes her less than ten seconds to respond. Ilya hopes she misses something important during her lecture and that nobody is willing to give her their notes.
Sveta💄🔪: You are obsessed.
Ilya stares at the screen. He can't entirely argue with that assessment, but he objects to her dismissing two years of dedicated suffering.
Ilya: i have been celibate for six months. what is that if not love?
Sveta💄🔪: You’ve been celibate for six months because you’re obsessed.
Ilya: i have whimsy and romance in my heart.
Sveta💄🔪: Friday. Eight o’clock.
Ilya refuses again on Wednesday, sending her a single middle finger emoji right as he's leaving his first lecture of the day. He refuses twice on Thursday, once when Svetlana corners him outside the student union and again when she sends him a calendar invitation titled ILYA’S BLIND DATE — DO NOT BE A COWARD to his school email, a glittery pink heart gif included.
By Friday afternoon, he has said no at least a hundred times, yet Svetlana keeps persisting, Ilya's vague humor over the situation quickly souring.
“I’m not going,” Ilya tells Sasha that evening, barely two hours before he is supposed to show up for said blind date.
They're sprawled across opposite ends of the battered couch in Sasha’s dorm suite, waiting for one of Sasha’s roommates to return with a cheap bottle of vodka; all the good stuff is hidden in Svetlana's closet, only meant for emergency situations, such as when Svetlana accidentally CC'd the TA for her Russian literature class on an email to Ilya where she referred to him as being 'the embodiment of a LinkedIn post with a receding hairline.'
Ilya and Sasha both thought it was hilarious; Svetlana, not so much. Thus, the good Russian vodka.
Sasha has a script open across his lap and a neon pink highlighter twirling along his fingers. He has been pretending to study it for twenty minutes, very poorly pretending to not be scrolling through a dating app and rejecting anyone that says they are over six feet and clearly lying about it.
“You’ve mentioned that,” Sasha says, grimacing slightly at whatever he's reading on his screen.
“She is obsessed. Every day, more messages. She made a reservation even though I didn't even agree to go.”
Sasha glances up. “Where?”
“The reservation is at Das Tünamelt," Ilya replies. Ilya loves a good tuna melt, don't get him wrong, but there’s something about the pompous presentation and overpriced entrées that just reads as evil to him.
The script slides off Sasha’s lap as he jumps up, gaping at Ilya. “You’re lying!"
“I am not," Ilya replies with a raised eyebrow. "Why would I lie about the pretentious hot fish sandwich themed restaurant?"
“Ilya, they have a six month waiting list! I tried to get in for my birthday, and the hostess laughed at me,” Sasha complains, staring at Ilya with sudden intensity. “Ilya, they have a seven course tasting menu that includes a tiny deconstructed tuna melt that costs thirty dollars and arrives beneath a glass cloche filled with smoke!"
“Yes, I know. Svetlana sent me the menu like an hour ago.”
“The caramelized scallop tuna melt looks like art.”
“It looks like a very small piece of fish, on an equally small piece of bread, placed on a ridiculously large plate," Ilya replied with a deadpan tone, rolling his eyes. What ever happened to good ol' canned tuna and fake American cheese? Slap some Cains mayonnaise on it—not Hellmann's, dear god—and you have yourself a meal!
Sasha presses a hand to his chest as if Ilya has wounded him, the dramatic bastard. “You don’t deserve Das Tünamelt.”
“I do not want Das Tünamelt, or this stupid blind date. I want Shane Hollander!" Ilya complains with a groan. Sasha, of course, is also more than aware of Ilya's little—harmless!—crush. He has been forced to listen to detailed descriptions of Shane’s forearms, his freckles, the briefest glimpse of stretchmarks—which Ilya lovingly refers to as his tiger stripes, so sexy—that he has seen during post-game showers, and Shane’s inexplicably erotic habit of pushing his glasses up his nose while studying.
Sasha has endured all of it with impressive patience for someone who once announced that sustained romantic yearning is a waste of Ilya's good cheekbones.
“Then ask Shane Hollander out,” Sasha says.
“I have been asking him out for two years.”
“No, you’ve been telling him that you want to lick his abs.”
“Is this not a clear invitation?”
“It’s clear that you want to lick his abs.”
“I also told him I would take him to dinner.”
“You said you wanted to eat him for dinner.”
“The difference between those is very small.”
“The difference is why you haven’t had sex in six months.”
Ilya throws a stained decorative pillow at him, which Sasha catches without looking; it is both a little hot and a little infuriating.
Sasha keeps staring at his phone, cushion in hand, with a pout on his lips as he starts scrolling. “One of their tuna melts is called The Trust Fund,” Sasha says wistfully. "It has Bluefin tuna belly, black truffle, and raclette cheese, served on a brioche bun and drizzled with a balsamic glaze that's been aged for twenty years."
Ilya looks at him, at the script on the floor, and then at the smears of pink highlighter on Sasha’s fingers. The gears in his head start turning.
"It's accompanied by a tiny silver spoon you're not allowed to keep," Sasha continues mournfully, eyes practically tearing up.
A wonderful, terrible idea takes shape inside his head.
“You should go.”
Sasha slowly lowers his phone. “To your blind date?”
“You should go and pretend to be me.”
“You and I look nothing alike.”
“It's a blind date. They don't know what I look like.” Nearly everyone on campus knows what Ilya looks like, but that's neither here nor there.
He is delighted by his own brilliance, truly; there is not a single person Ilya know who is as clever as he is.
Sasha studies him. “You want me to impersonate you?”
“Yes. You go, eat tiny fish abominations at ugly, pretentious restaurant, and be terrible.”
“I can be terrible," Sasha nods, looking thoughtful.
“Oh, I know.”
Sasha narrows his eyes. “How terrible?”
“Obnoxious. Arrogant. Talk about yourself and don't let them get a word in edgewise. Flirt with the waiter, for all I care. Make them hate you.”
“So, your personality, but without the underlying vulnerability.”
Ilya throws the other stained decorative pillow, glaring as Sasha catches this one too, the fucking dick laughing at Ilya's misfortune.
“And then what?” Sasha asks after a moment.
“Then I tell Sveta I tried. Her mystery friend tells her the date was a disaster, everyone agrees we are incompatible, and she leaves me alone.” Ilya sits up and crosses his arms over his chest, deeply pleased with himself. “It is perfect.”
“It’s not perfect.”
“It is very perfect.”
“It’s a farce.”
“You are an actor. Go act.”
Sasha looks at the menu again; whatever nonsense food item he sees results in his resolve lasting approximately three seconds. “I’m going to need your reservation details.”
Ilya sends him the screenshot from Svetlana, then pats Sasha’s knee with grave approval. “Make me proud.”
“I’m ordering the wine pairing; it's supposed to enhance the emotional journey guests go on.”
“Hell, order two.”
Sasha grins. “I knew there was a reason I keep you around.”
They're still laughing when Sasha heads to his room to change. Ilya walks back to his own dorm feeling lighter than he has all week, smug in the certainty that he has solved the problem without any issues.
At exactly 7:53pm, Sasha texts him.
Sasha🎭🍆: Are you sure about this?
Ilya takes a few seconds to glance at his phone, enraptured by the completely avoidable romcom misunderstanding happening on his TV screen. He reads the text and rolls his eyes, assuming Sasha has seen the prices. Ilya is willing to pay whatever it takes to put this nonsense to bed.
Ilya: completely have fun.
A second message appears almost immediately.
Sasha🎭🍆: You’re seriously asking me to do this???
Ilya: yes. commit. to. your. role!
The typing bubble appears, vanishes, and then appears again.
Sasha🎭🍆: Fine. I hope you know what you're doing.
Ilya sends him a row of applause emojis and tosses his phone onto the bed beside him. He finishes watching his movie, shaking his head at the main characters' stupidity, and then heads off to take a shower. He spends the rest of the night watching game tapes while eating off-brand Cocoa Puffs straight from the box. At some point, he imagines Shane sitting beside him on the narrow bed, warm and sleepy, and has to turn off the video; he previously promised himself that he wouldn't accidentally condition himself to get a boner while watching Shane play hockey, so he needs to take preemptive measures where he can.
The first few weeks knowing the other man was abysmal for his stats.
The next morning, Ilya is still asleep when his dorm room door slams open hard enough to strike the wall.
“What the fuck is wrong with you!?”
Ilya bolts upright, tangled in his sheets, and completely certain for one disoriented second that the building is under attack. Svetlana stands in the doorway wearing a beautiful cream coat and the expression of someone contemplating murder-suicide.
“How did you get into the dorm?”
“Troy let me in.”
“Troy is a traitor.”
“Troy has common sense. What the fuck did you do last night?”
Ilya scrubs a hand over his face. He's wearing nothing but boxer briefs and feeling a little vulnerable right now; Svetlana’s gaze remains firmly above his neck, which hurts his ego a little, he's not going to lie.
“Sasha told you,” he says.
“Sasha?”
Ilya sighs. “I warned you I didn't want to go on any blind dates. You wouldn't listen.”
Svetlana stares at him. “What does Sasha have to do with this?”
“Don't pretend, I know he must have told you."
“Told me what?”
“That he went instead.”
The room becomes very quiet, Svetlana’s expression changing so slowly that Ilya has time to watch every stage of it: anger, confusion, disbelief, horror, and then anger again. “Sasha went on your date?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I did not want to go.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, I thought getting Shane to agree to go on a date with you would have you jumping for fucking joy!”
Ilya stops breathing, his lungs freezing and then collapsing in his chest. Svetlana is still talking, but the words stop making any sense. All he hears is one name, ricocheting around the inside of his skull hard enough to wipe out every other thought.
“What do you mean, Shane?” Ilya screeches.
Svetlana's mouth falls open, shocked at the volume of his completely valid question.
“Shane Hollander?” Ilya asks. “Shane, captain of my hockey team, Hollander? Shane with the freckles? Rose’s best friend? The Shane I have been futilely flirting with and pining after for two years?”
“Who else would I mean?” Ilya throws the sheets aside and stands. He's already forgotten that he is nearly naked until Svetlana looks down, rolls her eyes, and snatches a pair of sweatpants from the floor to throw at his chest. “You said it was a blind date,” he cries, letting the pants hit him on the chest and fall uselessly to the ground.
“It was blind for you!”
“Why would you make it blind for me? I already know Shane!”
“I was trying to do something nice for you!”
“You should have said, ‘Ilyusha, Shane Hollander would like to go on date with you.’ This is very important information, Sveta!”
“It was supposed to be a surprise!”
“It is a surprise; I have been surprised into wanting to die!”
Svetlana points a furious finger at him. “So you didn't even consider showing up? You sent Sasha instead?”
Horror crawls cold and terrible through Ilya's entire body, a gasp leaving him as he chokes out, “He wanted to try the restaurant.”
“Ilya.”
“I did not know!”
“What did you tell him to do?”
Ilya’s eyes burn. He is not going to cry in his underwear while Svetlana stands in front of him, but the universe appears determined to make it happen anyway.
“I told him to be obnoxious," he says, Svetlana closing her eyes at the confession, her chest expanding as she takes in a deep breath. “And arrogant,” Ilya admits, “and I told him to flirt with the waiter.” Her eyes stay closed as she slowly lets her previous deep breath loose.
“I may have told him to make them hate me.”
“You told Sasha to make Shane hate you?”
“I didn’t know it was Shane!”
“Oh my God.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me it was him?!”
“I was trying to do something nice for you!”
“Sveta, you have destroyed my life!” Ilya cries out, his arms flailing for dramatic emphasis.
“I destroyed your life?”
“It is over for me,” Ilya mourns as he leans down to grab his sweatpants, pulling them on with jerky, furious movements, nearly falling when his foot catches briefly in one of the pant legs. “Take me out back and shoot me! Tell Coach Wiebe I died in a tragic accident. Tell my mother I fought bravely.”
“Your mother is dead.”
“So she will be waiting on the other side to greet me!”
Svetlana makes a strangled noise and turns away from him. For one hopeful second, Ilya thinks she might be overwhelmed by sympathy. Then he realizes her shoulders are shaking because she is laughing at his misery.
“This is not funny.”
She covers her mouth with one hand. “You sent Sasha to impersonate you on your date with the man you’ve been obsessed with for two years.”
“I will never know happiness.”
“You told him to flirt with the waiter.”
“I was betrayed by your out-of-character need to be nice to me for the first time in the twenty years we have known each other!”
Svetlana leans against the wall, laughing hard enough that tears gather in her eyes. Ilya glares at her, which only makes it worse. He snatches his phone from his nightstand and calls Sasha. The phone rings four times before Sasha answers with a wary, “Good morning.”
“You had dinner with Shane Hollander.”
There is a slight pause before Sasha hums. “So you finally figured that out.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I did! I texted you asking if you were sure.”
“I thought you meant about prices!”
“Ilya, Shane was sitting at the table.”
“You should have used his name!”
“I thought you knew,” Sasha says, sounding genuinely baffled. “He knew he was supposed to be meeting you. What was I meant to think?”
“That it was a terrible mistake!”
“I thought you’d panicked and sent me to reject him.”
“You know I am in love with him!”
“You’re also an emotionally constipated asshole. I assumed you had some kind of plan.”
“I did have a plan. The plan was for my blind date to hate me!”
“Yes, well, congratulations. Hollander definitely hates you now.”
Ilya sinks onto the edge of the bed, wallowing in his misery.
Svetlana stops laughing long enough to ask, "What happened?"
Ilya puts the call on speaker. “Tell us what happened,” Ilya demands.
Sasha exhales. “I got there, saw Shane, and nearly left. Then he looked at me and said, ‘Sasha?’ and he looked like he was confused, but maybe also already starting to get where the whole blind date thing was going to go.”
Ilya sets his phone down and presses both hands over his face.
“I asked if he was waiting for Ilya,” Sasha continues. “He said yes. I said, ‘For tonight, I’m Ilya.’” Svetlana winces, hissing out a slight 'ooh.’ “I panicked,” Sasha says defensively. “You’d told me to commit to the role.”
“What did Shane do?” Ilya asks through his fingers.
“He asked if you were coming.”
“And?”
“I told him you had delegated to me.”
Ilya falls sideways onto the bed, utterly certain he was never going to recover from this.
Sasha’s performance, once begun, had apparently been impossible to stop. He complained about the table, sent back the wine, flirted shamelessly with their waiter, and spent twenty minutes talking about a student film role in which he had played a corpse. He also made sure to order the tasting menu—and a couple of extra tuna melts to go—because Ilya had promised to pay.
“To be fair, the Sandwich in Negative Space was inspiring and I couldn't resist,” Sasha says.
"The Sandwich in Negative Space?" Svetlana asks.
"Tuna crudo with Gruyère crisp, brioche crumbs, and mayonnaise dots. It's arranged around the precise outline of the sandwich that is not there."
“I don’t care about stupid negative tune melt!” Ilya shouts.
“You will when you see the bill; that shit alone cost, like, $26.”
“How did Shane seem?” Svetlana asks, striding towards Ilya's bed and making herself comfortable next to his despondent form.
“Humiliated, then angry. Mostly he was very quiet.”
That is probably one of the worse things Ilya has ever heard. Shane doesn't make scenes when he is hurt. He becomes polite and distant, like he is locking himself away from the person who has hurt him. Ilya has seen it happen twice while playing with him; they've had a couple players dropped from the roster after saying something insensitive and crude about their captain, one such player being an ex-friend of Shane's.
“He stayed through dinner?” Svetlana asks.
“Rose apparently told him it was supposed to be a serious date, and he didn’t want to accuse me of lying without hearing me out,” Sasha hesitates, then says, “I think he kept hoping Ilya would show up.”
A miserable sound escapes Ilya, like a dying whale left to rot on the beach as various sea creatures ascend to eat his bloated innards. He rolls facedown and pulls a pillow over his head.
“He asked me why,” Sasha continues more quietly. “I said I was only doing what Ilya asked. After that, he paid for his own drink, thanked me for my time, and left.”
“I am dead,” Ilya says into the mattress.
“You’re not dead,” Svetlana says.
“I am a ghost. You are being haunted because you assisted in killing me.”
Sasha clears his throat through the speaker. “For whatever it’s worth, I feel terrible.”
“It is worth nothing.”
“I saved you half a dessert.”
Ilya lifts his head. “Which one?”
“Mayonnaise, But Make It Dessert.”
"Worth less than nothing," Ilya mutters.
"I'm sorry, what?" Svetlana asks.
“It's an olive-oil lemon custard with a whipped white chocolate topping and a pinch of sea salt. The waiter told me that the word mayonnaise, in this case, was conceptual."
"Could not even spring for miniature sandwich iron," Ilya grumbles.
"Hey, that Melted Sandwich dish was ten dollars more than my metaphorical mayonnaise; I was trying to be considerate."
Svetlana ends the call before Sasha can say anything else. She sits beside Ilya and takes the pillow away from him, forcing him to look at her. “Get dressed,” she says. “We’re going to fix this.”
“How?”
“I’ll talk to Rose.”
“No, I do not want to talk to Landry, she will torture me and then kill me. Call Shane instead.”
“Rose is my girlfriend.”
“Shane is my future husband.”
Svetlana’s eyebrows raise slowly, a skeptical look on her face. “You haven’t even been on one date.”
“I have a fifteen step plan.”
“You have a fifteen step plan?”
“Yes. Step one is make him laugh. Step two is make him see I am serious, responsible person. Step three is dinner, but not too romantic, because he may become nervous. Step four is—”
“After what you just pulled, you’re starting on step negative five.”
Ilya covers his face again. “I know.”
Svetlana uses her own phone to call her girlfriend, Rose refusing to let them ambush Shane out of nowhere, which Ilya reluctantly agrees is reasonable. She does, however, text Shane and explain that there has been a catastrophic misunderstanding. Ilya sits beside Svetlana on his bed while waiting for Shane to reply, and every second he doesn't feels like another knife jabbed in between his ribs.
When Rose finally unmutes her side of the call, her voice is stern enough to make Ilya’s stomach drop. “He’ll meet you,” she says.
Ilya jumps to his feet. “When?”
"At 1pm. The coffee shop beside the arts building.”
“Today?”
“He wants to get this over with.”
Ilya’s hope suffers a serious, but nonfatal, blow.
“You need to understand something: Shane already thought you weren’t serious about him,” Rose says, her voice turning menacing.
“I am extremely serious,” Ilya replies, rushing to start going through his drawers to find the perfect outfit to meet up with Shane in.
“I know that. Svetlana knows that. Sasha knows that. Half the hockey team also probably knows that,” Rose says, a little scoff following each sentence. “Shane doesn’t.” Ilya looks toward Svetlana for confirmation. She grimaces, looking away from him and back to her phone. “He thinks you flirt with everyone,” Rose says. “He knows you’ve slept with Svetlana, Sasha, and what sounds like a statistically significant portion of campus. When you flirt with him, he thinks you’re joking.”
“I stopped sleeping with Sasha when I met Shane.”
“He does not know that.”
“I have not slept with anyone in six months.”
“He definitely does not know that.”
Ilya pauses his search for the perfect shirt that says 'I'm so sorry, please accept my hand in marriage as compensation for any emotional damages I may have caused,' long enough to press a hand to his heart. “My suffering has been completely invisible.”
“That’s because nobody wants to listen to you whine,” Svetlana says.
“But I sound so pretty when I do.”
Rose’s voice turns deadpan as she says, “Please don’t say that during your apology."
“I would not.”
Svetlana turns to look at him, silent.
“Not during my first apology,” Ilya amends, heavily implying that he would probably have to apologize again at some point in the future, and that he very well could bring up how pretty he sounds when he whines.
Ilya arrives at the coffee shop twenty minutes early, wearing the dark green sweater Svetlana says makes his eyes look unfairly good, and a pair of jeans that make his already fat ass look irresistible. He changes tables three times before settling on one near the back, only to change his mind again because it looks too intimate, and instead moves closer to the window.
By the time Shane walks in, Ilya has consumed most of an espresso and none of the biscotti he purchased in a panic. Shane looks beautiful, obviously. He is wearing a navy jacket over a gray university sweatshirt, and his ugly-cute bangs are slightly askew, making Ilya's dick twitch. His expression is as blank as he can make it.
“Hi,” Shane says.
Ilya stands so quickly that his knee strikes the table, making him whine a little. The coffee cup rattles in its saucer, and several people look over.
“Hi. Shane. Hello," Ilya stutters, giving Shane an awkward little wave before once more taking his seat.
Shane pulls out the other chair and calmly sits down. “Rose said you wanted to explain.”
“Yes. Very much. I have prepared a speech.”
“Okay.”
Ilya has, in fact, prepared three versions of the speech. Every one of them disappears the moment Shane looks at him. “I didn't know it was you,” he blurts out, internally tossing out his speech at the first sign of pressure.
Shane’s mouth tightens and he gives a controlled little nod. “Right.”
“If I had known, I would have been there one hour early. Probably two.”
“But you didn’t want to go on a blind date?”
“No. I wanted to go on date with you.”
Shane looks away from him, eyes drifting toward the window. “You could’ve asked.”
“I did!”
“When?” Shane asks, turning back to Ilya with an incredulous look.
“Many times. I asked you out just a week ago at the gym.”
“You told me you wanted to see me sweat.”
“Yes.”
“That isn’t asking me on a date.”
“I understand this now,” Ilya nods, doing his best not to get distracted by thoughts of big, muscley Shane Hollander, covered in sweat and smelling good enough to lick.
Shane folds his arms over his chest, his cheeks beginning to turn pink. His expression, however, remains guarded.
Ilya sits up straight and clears his throat, his nerves starting to get the best of him. “Svetlana told me she found someone. I said no because I wanted you. I have wanted you for two years. I asked Sasha to go because he’s been wanting to eat at that stupid restaurant,” Ilya continues. “I thought some stranger would meet him and believe Sasha was me. This was stupid for many reasons, including the fact that any friend of Svetlana's would know my face.”
“Quite a few people know Sasha’s face too.”
“Yes. He is campus slut.”
Shane coughs into his fist, a strangled sound leaving his throat. His eyes drop, but Ilya catches the the little amused sparkle in them.
Encouraged, Ilya leans forward and continues, “When Sasha saw you, he thought I knew. He thought I had become frightened and sent him to reject you. But I didn't know, Shane. I would never send someone else if I knew you were waiting for me.”
“You made me look like an idiot," Shane whispers, a sad look briefly flashing across his face.
The words hit him right where it hurts. Ilya can see it in his head: Shane sitting across from Sasha at a table meant for them, realizing in increments that Ilya has not only refused the date, but turned that refusal into a humiliating performance. Shane must have wondered how many people knew, whether Ilya and Sasha were laughing about him, and whether his feelings had been obvious enough to become a joke at his own expense.
Ilya can't stop himself and he reaches across the table, his hand finding Shane's forearm. “You are not an idiot.”
“I waited for you.”
“I know, I'm sorry.”
“I actually thought you might show up.”
Ilya’s chest caves in. “Shane.”
“I should’ve left immediately, but I thought maybe there was some explanation,” Shane says, a brittle laugh following his confession. “And I guess there was, just not one I would’ve predicted.”
“I am so sorry.”
“Rose said you didn’t know it was me. I believe her," Shane says, his gaze dropping to the table where Ilya's hand rests on Shane.
“But not me?”
“I don’t know what to believe about you,” Shane replies, his voice barely above a whisper. Shane sounds so vulnerable and devastated, that it makes Ilya realize there is only one thing he can do to fix this.
Ilya gets out of his chair and drops to his knees.
Shane’s eyes widen, and the flush in his cheeks spreads rapidly down his neck. “What are you doing?”
“Begging.”
“Get up.”
“No.”
“Ilya, everyone is looking.”
“They should see my shame.”
“Oh my God," Shane mutters, watching Ilya in disbelief.
Ilya reaches for Shane’s hand again, then stops before touching him. “Please give me a second chance. One real date. I will plan everything, and I will be there myself. I'll arrive early, even. I promise not to flirt with the waiter, even if they're extremely attractive.”
“That last part isn’t helping.”
“I won't look at the waiter at all, actually; I'll wear a blindfold the whole time.”
Shane presses his lips together. He looks slightly mortified, but his gaze keeps flicking over Ilya’s face, clearly searching for something.
“I have wanted you since I met you,” Ilya says. “For six months, there has been no one because every time I try, I only think of you.” Shane’s lips part and Ilya forces himself to continue before he gets distracted by the sight of Shane's pink tongue darting out to wet his lips. “You are not a joke to me. Teasing you is sometimes a joke because you are very cute when embarrassed, but wanting you is not. I want to take you out. I want to know everything you do when we're not with a group of people or playing hockey. I want to learn what food you order when no one is watching and what movies make you cry.”
“I don’t cry at movies.”
“You cried during the Spongebob movie.”
“They were dying, Ilya. They were singing the Goofy Goober song, and dying.”
“I want to watch you do it all over again.” The warmth in Shane’s face deepens at the words, his eyes brightening, and there is a helpless curve tugging at his mouth. “I had a plan,” Ilya tells him earnestly. “Fifteen steps for making you fall in love with me.”
“You had a plan?”
“Yes.”
“How far did you get?”
“According to Svetlana, I am on step negative five.” Shane laughs. The sound is soft and startled, escaping before he can stop it. Ilya’s heart leaps so violently that he nearly falls forward. “Step one,” he whispers, slightly dazed.
“What?”
“Make you laugh.”
Shane shakes his head, but the smile stays. He looks down at Ilya kneeling before him and swallows, his gaze catching briefly on Ilya’s mouth. “You really haven’t hooked up with anyone in six months?” Shane asks.
“No.”
“Because of me?”
“Yes.”
Shane's pupils dilate slightly and he shifts his weight, leaning forward slightly. “You’re still an asshole,” Shane says.
“I can improve.”
“And you humiliated me.”
“I will spend the rest of my life making up for it.”
“Let’s start smaller.”
“Rest of semester?”
“One date.”
Relief crashes through Ilya so powerfully that he grabs the edge of the table to steady himself. Shane glances at his hand, but doesn't linger, his eyes returning to Ilya's relief-filled face. “One date,” Ilya agrees. “Then fourteen more steps.”
“I’m not promising anything beyond the first one.”
“You will not need to. Plan is excellent.”
“Your last plan ended with Sasha eating seven courses of food while I contemplated transferring universities.”
“This plan has since been revised.”
Shane looks down at him for another long moment. There is still some lingering hurt in his expression, but something much warmer has appeared beside it; it makes Ilya want to stay on his knees for as long as it takes to keep that look in Shane's eyes.
“You’re going to have to work like a dog for this,” Shane says, his tone teasing.
Ilya woofs. It is not a quiet woof either, the sound carrying through the coffee shop, clear and obedient. The woman at the nearest table chokes on her drink.
Shane turns scarlet. “Ilya,” he chastizes.
Ilya woofs again.
Shane releases the grip he had on the edge of the table and reaches forward to haul him to his feet. “Stop that.”
“You told me to work like a dog.”
“I didn’t mean literally.”
“You must be more precise. English is my second language.”
“You’ve spoken English since you were ten.”
“I am overwhelmed by too many emotions.”
Shane is very clearly trying not to laugh again, biting at his bottom lip to keep himself under control. His hand remains twisted in Ilya’s sweater, and they are close enough now that Ilya can see every freckle across his nose.
“Tomorrow night,” Shane says. “Seven.”
“Yes.”
“You plan it.”
“Yes.”
“You show up.”
“I will send pictures when I leave my dorm and give you live updates on how far away I am."
“Just show up.”
“I will.”
Shane loosens his grip but doesn't release him entirely. His gaze drops to Ilya’s mouth again, and Ilya’s entire body heats up at the flash of hunger that crosses Shane's face.
“This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you,” Shane murmurs.
“I know.”
"Good, just wanted to get that out of the way," Shane whispers. Before Ilya has the opportunity to ask what he means, Shane pulls him down and kisses him. It is not soft or hesitant; Shane devours his mouth like he's hungry, spit wet lips sliding against Ilya's with a touch of tongue that makes his entire body start buzzing. Shane pulls away before Ilya can suck on his tongue, both of them out of breath and staring at the other.
A sudden surge of wolf whistles and applause breaks them out of their staring contest. Shane whips around to look and Ilya peaks over his shoulder, waving with enthusiasm as he sees several of their teammates congregated in the back corner.
Shane looks ready to disappear through the floor. Ilya, meanwhile, has never been so in love.
“I'm going to die from embarrassment,” Shane mutters.
Ilya grins. “After our date?”
“Possibly during," Shane replies, pushing his chair in and moving towards the door, still bright red. Ilya watches him go with his fingers pressed reverently to his own mouth.
At the door, Shane glances back. “Seven o’clock, Rozanov.”
“I will be there at five.”
“Don’t.”
“Six?”
“Seven,” Shane stresses and he finally leaves.
Ilya waits until the door closes behind him before pulling out his phone. He opens the group chat with Svetlana and Sasha, then starts to type with trembling fingers.
Ilya: step negative five complete. Shane kissed me. i am going to marry him.
Svetlana replies first.
Sveta💄🔪: Did you tell him that?
Ilya: no i am not insane.
Three dots appear beneath Sasha’s name.
Sasha🎭🍆: You sent me to sabotage your date with the love of your life.
Ilya considers this briefly, before replying.
Ilya: i am selectively insane.
Then he opens his notes app, finds the fifteen step plan, and adds a new item.
Step negative four: Buy Shane flowers.
Then, because Ilya believes in being prepared, he starts researching rings, a giddy smile spreading across his face as he heads towards the exit, a little pep and shimmy in his step. He has a hockey captain to woo!