Chapter Text
Ilya Rozanov doesn't use dating apps.
Frankly, he doesn't need to. He's pushing six foot four. Spends the majority of his time between the curl machine at the gym and ice hockey practice, so admittedly his body is very easy on the eyes. And now that his grasp of the english language has improved, his leftover accent is a definite plus.
But his friends are a very convincing bunch. They are also chronic dating apps users. Over breakfast, they're swiping. In class, when they're supposed to be paying attention to biomechanics and kinematics, they're swiping. In the locker room before practice, they're swapping texting advice and anecdotes of their last failed date.
Ilya isn't sure how he ended up downloading Hinge. He woke up, after one of their infamous house parties with way too much straight tequila involved, and found the app on his home screen. Not only the app, but an entire profile. And three matches. One of the girls had sent him a text that simply read: Sexy. He clicked into her profile, and frowned. Bleach blonde hair, fair skin, bright blue eyes. Pretty, yes, but not his type. Wyatt's, maybe.
He walked into the kitchen rubbing his eyes, his phone displayed to them, and asked, "Which one of you fuckers did this?"
Wyatt had laughed through a mouthful of eggs, and said, "You, Rozy. You did this."
He squinted, then replied, "Ah, no. Not me. I do not use these stupid things."
Wyatt groaned, "Give it a chance, buddy. It's just for fun."
Why do Canadians think everyone is their buddy?
Ilya vowed to delete the app. He settled on the couch with a repulsive ‘hangover smoothie' Bood had made, and opened his profile, searching for the option to delete. But a message appeared at the top of the screen and distracted him before he could get any further. Hey! You're suuuper hot. It wasn't the message that made him pause. His ego may have spiked a little, but ultimately it was the profile picture that he got stuck on.
He tapped back out, and into her profile.
Hayley. She had shiny, perfectly curled, jet-black hair and olive tanned skin. Pink-dusted cheeks, deep brown eyes, and a very nice smile.
He'd messaged her back before he had the chance to think better of it.
Which is why he's currently getting heckled in the kitchen as he tries to get his car keys.
"Is this the first date you've been on?" Bood asks across the island, knuckle deep in a bag of tortilla chips. He buys the organic kind to make himself feel better, but it sort of becomes counter-productive when he eats two bags a day.
"I have been on dates." Ilya returns, thoroughly annoyed with them all, "This will be the first date I miss if you idiots do not get out of my way. I am five minutes late already."
Marleau grins, "And they say chivalry is dead."
"You look great, man." Bood comments.
“I know." Ilya shoves past them all, ignores whoever's hand claps his shoulder, and whoever’s lips smack his cheek, "Get away. I am leaving now. Goodbye."
"Wait - where - where does she live? Where are you going? Rozanov!”
Ilya waves over his shoulder, pulls open the front door, and heads out.
He isn't nervous. Not at all. He's been texting Hayley for the last few days, and has decided that she's not the kind of person to get nervous over. He's also decided that she's not going to be any future girlfriend of his. She seems somewhat high maintenance. Which is fine, for someone who has the time and desire to put in the work. He does not.
One date is fine. One date is enough. Plenty, even.
He gets to his car - parked further down the street. It sticks out sorely amongst the line of college students' cars that are parked there. A bright, orange Porsche 718 Cayman. His pride and joy, his baby.
He gets in, puts Hayley’s address into the navigation system. She lives in a more secluded area, outside of the main hub where most students live. A nicer area with much less noise pollution and much less partying.
It takes him around ten minutes to drive there. He pulls up in front what he believes in her place. A white, two-storey house with a pale blue front door. There's window boxes with spring-coloured flowers, and a very tidy, small lawn. Extremely different from his own street, which is usually littered with empty beer bottles and stubbed out blunts.
He checks the clock; 8:07pm. He's seven minutes later than he said he'd be. He debates just texting her, stating that he's here, but Svetlana's voice rings in his head. Since their childhood, she's been schooling him on being a gentleman. You get out of your car, come to the door, and ring the doorbell, Ilyusha. Or knock, but don't knock more than three times.
She'd be glad to know her incessant nagging wasn't in vain. Ilya gets out of his car, and walks up to the door. There's a Ring camera on the side, so he presses the button, and waits.
He's left waiting for a brief minute. Shifting on his feet, taking his hands out of the pockets of his jacket. Svetlana again. He runs a hand through his hair, cheeks to make sure he's got a lighter in his back pocket, and then finally, the door opens.
He looks up, and falters.
Jet black hair. Tan skin. Brown eyes. Only, it's not Hayley that's stood there. It's a a very attractive, very pretty, very perturbed boy.
He's got a plain, grey crewneck on. Navy blue drawstring shorts. Only...purple? Socks on his feet.
He blinks, neat eyebrows pulling together, and speaks. "Hello."
His voice is sweet. Ilya stares, dumbfounded.
"Uhm - Can I help you?"
Drawn back to the reason he's even standing at this door ogling this beautiful man, Ilya nods. He steps closer, and says, "Yes, I think. Hayley lives here, yes?"
"Oh. Yeah, she's my roommate." The boy answers, "Why?"
Ilya almost laughs. "I am picking her up at eight...for a drink. I am Ilya." As Ilya speaks, the boy looks increasingly confused, "Are you two not friends? She does not tell you this?"
“No. I mean - yes, we're friends. But she's..." The boy sighs, "Rose is her actual friend."
“Sorry, what is an actual friend?" Ilya smiles.
The boy sighs, and says, "I'll get her." He steps back hesitantly, asks, "Do you wanna come in and wait?"
"No, I am good here." Ilya returns. Before the boy can close the door, Ilya intercedes, "What is your name?"
"Shane."
Ilya looks at him. Up and down. Shane. Yes, that seems right. He is very...Shane. And now that Ilya's looking properly, he can see the spatter of freckles that cover Shane's cheeks and nose. And a tiny, faded scar by his eyebrow. Fuck. He's really fucking pretty. His skin might be glowing, actually. Or maybe that’s just the porch light.
"You can come in." Shane opens the door more, and steps back, "Hayley's always late, so...you probably don't wanna wait in the cold."
“Okay." Ilya shrugs, and steps through the threshold.
The house is clean. There's a neat line of shoes by the door. Plum-coloured ones, white sneakers, Ugg boots, and a more randomly placed pair of gold heels. In an attempt to be polite and respectful, Ilya steps out of his and leaves them there. There's a few coats on a rack in the hallway - a big, fluffy beige one that Ilya seen Hayley wearing in her profile. A few caps at the top, hanging.
He walks further in. There's a faint, lingering smell of sandalwood around the place. A cork board along the wall to the living room, pinned with all kinds of memorabilia. A midterm paper with a sad '43%' etched in red ink. Photo booth strips. A missing cat poster and a Costco receipt.
He follows Shane into the living room, and non-subtly takes a look at Shane's ass as he goes. Shane's in good shape too, it seems. His calves are defined, his shoulders broad, and Ilya can see the way the crewneck tightens a little over his biceps.
Shane stops by the couch, and says, "You can sit, if you want. Hayley should be in her room."
Ilya nods, takes a seat on the soft, grey couch. Shane lingers for a second, then mumbles an 'Okay.' and walks towards the staircase.
Ilya peers around while he's gone. Everything is organised. There's no unnecessary clutter lying around, no dishes by the sink, no half-empty liquor bottles and UberEats bags. It's like a breath of fresh air, compared to the dire state of his house with the guys. None of them know the meaning of the word 'clean.'
He can hear a knock upstairs. Hayley's voice, muffled, saying 'I know, I know! I'm trying!' Shane asking 'Can I come in?' Ilya smiles to himself. Very polite, Canadian Shane.
A few more moments of quiet. Then, footsteps. Only one pair. Shane reappears in the living room, looking a little apologetic. He sits down on the other couch. Where there's an open laptop, a textbook, and a notepad with a pen placed on top.
"She says five minutes." Shane informs him, smiles just a little, "She's not the best at time management."
Ilya gestures to the laptop and books, "These are yours?"
Shane looks at them, "Oh. Yeah, I was taking notes."
"You were taking notes." Ilya repeats, "It is 8pm on a Friday."
“Yeah." Shane blinks. "I like to get work done on Fridays. Because I see my parents at the weekend. So it's just...easier, I guess."
Ilya looks at him, then says, "Exciting."
Shane frowns, "I just think it's better to get it done so I can relax."
Ilya nods.
"Are you in college? Here?" Shane asks him.
Ilya pops the 'p' when he says, "Yup."
"Oh. Cool." Shane smiles, "What do you study?"
"Sports science." Ilya says.
Shane's smile widens a little, "My friend Hayden does that too. Hayden Pike?"
The name sends a shudder through Ilya’s spine. Hayden fucking Pike. Ilya, unfortunately, is very aware of who Pike is. Scrawny little Hayden Pike, who only talks about his girlfriend and fucking high school accomplishments.
Ilya's smile dissipates quickly, “You are friends with Pike?”
"Yeah." Shane falters, "Is that...bad?"
"No. Pike is just an idiot."
Shane's eyes narrow, "I like him. He’s my best friend.”
"Hm. Is probably...stockholm syndrome."
Shane straightens a little, "What's your last name?"
Ilya doesn't know why he feels nervous, all of a sudden. Shane’s eyes are boring into him so intensely Ilya thinks he might disintegrate into stardust right here on the couch, “Rozanov."
"Rozanov." Shane parrots, then dimly says, "I know you."
“Do you?" Ilya hums, "What for?"
Shane seems to hesitate for just a second before he replies, "Being an asshole."
Ilya wants to roll his eyes, but he refrains. He doesn't think Shane would like that. Not in this clean little house where they probably keep a chore chart and a swear jar, "You hear this from people who don't like me, probably. Pike, girls..."
Shane is looking at him even more intensely now, if possible. It makes Ilya want to get up and manhandle him into the couch. "How'd you meet Hayley?"
"Dating app."
"Do you use them a lot?"
"Is this a fucking interrogation? You are Hayley's father? You will ask me what my intentions are next?”
Shane huffs out a laugh, short and humourless, then says, "You are an asshole."
Ilya sighs, grumbles, "Maybe you are just boring."
Shane opens his mouth-
"Hey! Sorry." Hayley rushes down the stairs, jewellery clinking, fighting with a black handbag, "I'm sorry, this stupid fucking zipper..." She looks up, at Ilya, then sighs, and says, "Hey."
She's wearing a cropped black leather bomber with plush white along the collar. Under, a red cardigan over a simple white top, and a black mini skirt. She's hot, for sure. Pretty in a natural way. And she smells good too, her perfume is floating into the living room and it smells like a bouquet of flowers.
Ilya rises from the couch, "Hello." Chivalry. Maturity. Svetlana. Fuck, his mind is spinning. He quickly tacks on a, "You look nice."
Hayley seems surprised, "Thank you. You too."
She seems to have fixed the zipper malfunction, and swings the handbag over her shoulder, then says, "Okay, let's go. Shane, I'll be quiet when I come back."
Ilya looks back at Shane, who looks taught on the couch. Their interaction had been...strange to say the least. Ilya doesn't know why he feels so bothered by it, but it's buzzing underneath his skin and making him agitated.
"Okay. Have fun." Shane returns simply.
Ilya tears his eyes away, reaches over Hayley's shoulder to open the door for her. She steps out, and he follows.
"Is this your car?" She turns around, eyes glinting, "It's nice."
"Yes. It is."
"I've always wanted to make out in a sports car." Hayley says easily, gives him a wink as she turns back around, "Is tonight the night? Finally?"
Ilya unlocks the car, and smirks, "We will see."
He rounds the car to open the passenger side door for her, to which she brushes his arm with manicured nails and says Gentleman.
They're in the car for all of five minutes before Ilya can't help himself any longer. He turns the radio down a fraction, one hand on the wheel, the other twiddling with his ear as he asks, "Your roommate, he is...uptight, yes?"
She looks over, "Shane?" Ilya gives her a nod. She smiles, looks back ahead, "I guess, yeah. He's kinda...particular. But he's, like, the nicest guy ever."
Ilya listens, "What does he study?"
"Biomedical science. He wants to be a paediatrician."
Biomedical science might explain the studying on a Friday night, but Ilya thinks that Shane is probably the kind of person who’d do that anyway. Spend all his free time in the library, like a nerd.
"I have never heard of him." Ilya comments.
"Yeah, he's quite introverted. He doesn't go to parties much. He stays home, mostly. Apart from like…the gym, and seeing his friends.” Hayley explains, "He's super sweet, though. I met him through Rose. She's my best friend."
Ilya nods, and sort of stops listening as Hayley launches into a story about how she met Rose at some welcome week party last year.
The date goes well enough. They have a few drinks at a small downtown bar. Ilya pays the bill. They make out in his sports car, and he brings her back to his place.