Chapter Text
Marleau was a monkey in Versailles, or however the saying went, Ilya had decided.
He could tell right away the moment Marleau graced his hall. He did not even need to wait until Marleau got near his door. Just him swaying down the hall, bumping into the walls and yelling loudly in greetings at his friends was enough.
If it wasn’t because the girls were not allowed in the boys’ dorm, he would have asked Svetlana.
Nothing against the guy, he was just so goddamn loud sometimes.
He hoped Hollander wouldn’t mind. He was friends with Hayden Pike after all, and that boy was one of the loudest fuckers at some of those pre-school year parties they happened to attend together.
Ilya perked up his ears toward the bathroom as he waited for Marleau to finish his long meet and greet. The shower had been running for fifteen minutes nonstop. Another ten, and if Hollander didn’t make an indication of life, Ilya might have to knock down that door himself to make sure the other boy hadn’t drowned in their shower.
“Open up, Rozanov, it’s the FBI!”
Ilya rolled his eyes, throwing his phone on the mattress as he made way to the door. His knee was still swollen, but he had lived through worse. Nothing an extra-strength Paracetamol wouldn’t fix.
Marleau wouldn’t be perceptive enough to ask anyway. His tunnel vision only had two things: pretty girls and prettier girls who speak French.
He opened the door and was greeted with Marleau’s wide grin. In his hands by his side were two brown paper bags, one smelling faintly of bacon and eggs.
“Long night last night?”
Marleau pushed his way through the threshold like a bear in the Kremlin, only having enough grace to place the two bags on Ilya’s desk before flinging himself onto the bed.
Ilya whacked him across the head with the pillow.
“Can you take off your fucking shoes, Marleau? Fucking blasphemy!”
“Big word, Rozanov! Big word!” Marleau laughed, throwing the pillow back at him, but he did toe off his sneakers as he was asked before pulling his legs back up.“Who taught you that word?”
“Your people, Marleau,” he grabbed the pillow and pretended like it was a book, holding it out in front of him, making the worst impression of a French accent. “B? Blashphemy.”1
Marleau laughed even harder, holding his stomach, rolling on the bed, taking Ilya’s blanket with him.
Ilya knew he was hilarious, so he left Marleau to his laughing fists and began digging around in the bag, pulling out a white take-out container that was still piping hot to the touch. The lid was still dripping with condensation as Ilya opened it, inhaling two lungs full of scrambled eggs and French toast.
“You got me my Nutella?” he asked, holding a plastic fork in the corner of his mouth.
“In the bottom of the other bag with the drinks, I think,” Marleau answered, wiping tears into Ilya’s blanket.
Okay, so he would also need to strip his bed when he did his laundry tomorrow.
The room went quiet for the two seconds in which Marleau took a breath, and Ilya shoved a mouthful of egg in his mouth. And in those two seconds, Marleau caught the water running.
He threw Ilya one of those looks with a quirk of his brows, grinning pervertly.
“Damn Rozanov, how did you sneak her in here?”
Ilya swallowed the molten lava down his throat, confused. “ What?”
“You slept with her and are now getting her breakfast? What a gentleman, ” Marleau shouted gleefully, jumping out of bed to grab at Ilya’s shoulders, shaking him. “You have got to tell me, Rozanov! How did you get her to pass the dorm's office??”
Ilya wanted to stab Marleau with his fork.
He pulled out of the way before the other boy could potentially shake him enough that his food ended up all over the floor.
“She needed a dick, Marleau.” Ilya stabbed a piece of bacon instead. “Is my neighbour using the shower.”
Marleau groaned.
“So who was all that for?? Since when do you drink—” Marleau pulled out his phone, tapping at the screen, squinting as he read out the text message, “—protein green smoothie with turmeric— Why turmeric?”
He threw his hands in the air in a frustrated expression, “ You know how humiliating it is to order that at the counter?”
Ilya shrugged, shoving another mouthful of eggs in his mouth. He chewed around it. “It’s just food, why humiliating?”
Marleau groaned again, rubbing his hands on his face in defeat. “Man— and here I thought you got a girl in your shower. Like, what am I supposed to think when you open the door without a shirt, bro?”
Ilya shrugged, “That I like to sleep naked.”
Marleau shuddered, pulling a face. “No thanks.”
Ilya grinned at him, "Your loss.” He nudged his head toward the drink bag on the table. “Can you put that in the fridge for me? Not gonna drink it now.”
Marleau huffed but did it anyway, tucking the offended mossy-looking plastic cup of smoothie next to Ilya’s Coke in the mini fridge.
The shower had since come to a stop.
Ilya rushed to put his food down on the desk the moment he noticed. He pushed Marleau out of the way to come to the bathroom door, knocking on it in a few clear raps of his knuckles.
“Hollander, come over when you're done!”
Silence.
It wasn’t like Ilya expected him to answer, but a sign of life would be nice. What if the water ran out and Hollander actually cracked his head slipping on the tiles? He did not hear anything hitting the floor, however.
Marleau threw him a look. As if he did not expect Ilya to extend such an invitation.
Ilya flipped him off.
“Hollander?” he knocked again, pressing his ear against the door.
He could faintly hear the bathroom fan sucking out the moisture, but there was no sign of movement. Did he actually miss Hollander coming out of the bathroom, or did Hollander actually slip and crack his skull open?
Just when Ilya was about to twist the knob, he heard the faint footsteps coming up to the door.
“Give me a minute.” Hollander finally said, his voice muffled.
“Okay!” Ilya replied, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
He turned on his heels to return to his desk.
He took out the can of soda and finally found the sweet, chocolaty nectar of God in a small plastic container at the bottom of the bag.
Marleau threw himself on Ilya’s bed again, pulling out his phone.
“Don’t you have something better to do?” he asked, licking the lid clean.
“Nope,” Marleau replied, dragging out his word with a pop.
“Don’t you need to do your laundry? Call your girlfriend? Do your homework?”
“Already did. Already called. Will copy it off Connor.”
Marleau flipped over on the bed, his legs in the air as he hugged Ilya’s pillow to his chest. His wrists rested on it as he turned his phone sideways, tapping furiously, deep in a game of some sort. It sounded like some table tennis game, judging by the sound effects at full blast.
Ilya nodded nonchalantly, spreading Nutella on his toast. “Can you, like, play your games elsewhere and not my bed?”
“Are you kicking me out, Rozanov?” Marleau lifted his head, stared at Ilya and with his hands clasped together on his chest, in the most heartbroken tone, “I thought you loved me.”
“Actually—”
Knock, knock, knock.
Marleau jumped.
If it wasn’t because he had a mouthful, Ilya would have laughed. He wiped his hands on his pants, pulling a shirt he found at the foot of his bed over his head and went to open the bathroom door.
Hollander stood on the other side, fidgety, his hands by his side. His hair was still damp, having lost all the volume with the shower, dark strands sticking to the side of his face. His skin flushed a healthy pink, his cheeks rosy. He had changed back into one of his usual attire, a blue colored hoodie that looked like it could have been navy blue before the thousand wash, buttery soft to the touch, and sweatpants. He looked a little intimidated, like he was terribly sorry that he interrupted something important. His hands came to rest in his hoodie pocket, hiding the new bandage he certainly redid himself.
Ilya found it incredibly hard to wrap his head around the fact that the boy who was ready to give him a broken nose just under an hour ago was also the boy standing in front of him, rolling on the balls of his bare feet, steaming in his own anxiety.
“Come on in, come in,” Ilya moved out of the way, and Hollander sneaked past him into the room, “Sorry, it is a mess.”
Hollander threw him a look over his shoulder.
Of course, he knew Hollander knew it was a mess. He was in his room just half an hour earlier.
But Marleau didn’t. Something told him he didn’t want Marleau to know.
He slammed the door shut.
“Marleau, fuck off! Make some room!” he yelled at the boy on his bed as Hollander looked around for a place to sit.
“It’s okay, I can sit here,” Hollander said, his tone still small, a little rough on the edge.
He pulled out the desk chair, using his non-bandaged hand, and sat down on it, his knees tucked in, his hand returned to the pocket.
Ilya did not miss the way his eyes lingered on the can of green ginger ale that sat next to his half-eaten Nutella.
Before he could do anything, Marleau decided to be friendly and insert himself into the narrative, scrambling out of bed to put his hand out in front of Hollander, beaming.
“Hello, Cliff Marleau!”
Hollander’s eyes rounded in surprise, the words slipping out easily, “
Marleau’s grin grew impossibly wide. “.”
Hollander nodded, a polite smile spread on his lips as he clasped his hand with Marleau, shaking it once. "
Ilya, who stood there in the middle of his own room, being bombarded by Canada’s second official language, was stunned speechless.
“What the fuck?”
Marleau pulled Hollander into a bone-crushing hug by his shoulders, almost pulling him out of his chair. He had to grab onto Marleau’s side so he would not topple over. The touch itself, however brief, burned into Ilya’s retinas.
“Now you understand how I felt when you and Svetlana kept going on and on and on in Russian, bitch.”
Ilya turned to Hollander, completely disregarding Marleau.
“You said it was not the best, and you could hold a conversation with him?”
Hollander shrugged out of Marleau’s grip. The other boy happily let him go, but he had resorted to just sitting down on the floor next to Hollander’s legs, his elbow resting on Hollander’s thigh.
The sight somehow made Ilya want to take Marleau outback and shoot him, or something.
“It is not good, I speak like a child,” Hollander said, embarrassed. The pink on his cheeks spread to his ears.
Marleau tutted; his head came to rest on his elbow, still too close to Hollander. He glanced upward, eyes sparkling in awe, or infatuation, whatever it was. “
Hollander blushed, honest to God, blushed at that, whatever it was. And Ilya had unconsciously made it a mission to make Marleau’s life fucking terrible from this point on.
“English! English!” he yelled, throwing his hands in the air, “You need to speak English! Where is yall manners?”
Marleau blew him a kiss, and it made Hollander’s lips turn up in a pressed-down smile.
Ilya kicked Marleau out of the way to grab the ginger ale can on the desk.
Despite yelling in protest, he stood right there on the spot between Hollander’s legs and Marleau’s elbow and forced the other boy to climb back up on the bed to make room.
“Here you go.” He pressed the cold can on Hollander’s cheek, making him jump.
But from how much glee his eyes sparkled as he grabbed onto it, Ilya felt like he deserved a pat on the back.
“I bought that!” Marleau complained loudly.
“And I ordered it, bitch.” Ilya said, grabbing his half-eaten breakfast.
“Can I have a straw, please?” Hollander asked, keeping his voice small, as if he felt embarrassed.
Ilya dug around the bag and found one paper one. When he passed it over, Hollander’s face felt, but he took it anyway.
He sat down on the floor in the same spot Marleau had been earlier, but unlike Marleau, who had no manner of personal space, he drew away to rest his back on his bed and just stretched out his legs under Hollander’s chair. He spread a thick layer of Nutella on his second piece of bread and began eating it.
Hollander took a few sips of his drink, and his feet tapped rhythmically on the floor by Ilya’s foot.
“Are you going to the party tonight, Roz?” Marleau asked, hovering over his shoulder to show him his phone.
On the screen, a Facebook event with a few hundred invitations, a house party hosted by a frat at UBC. Marleau, and not surprisingly, Svetlana, had already indicated that they would be attending it.
Ilya vaguely remembered being added to the event page, but couldn’t remember who did.
“Marleau, I just got in trouble for smoking, and that is inside campus,” Ilya pushed Marleau’s phone out of his face. He did not miss Hollander’s little grimace at the mention of their mutual issue, “If I got caught underage drinking outside of campus, I am dead.”
“That didn’t deter you before.” Marleau sang-song, kneading him on the shoulder like a coach to a boxer before a match, “I heard the president’s sister attend the girls’ school on the other side of the island—”
He pulled close to the side of his head, his breath hot on the shell of Ilya’s ear.
“—and she is bringing everyone—”
Ilya jerked away, rubbing at his ear.
“You’re lying.”
“Am not, scouts’ honour!” Marleau pulled off of him in a laugh.
Ilya lifted his gaze to meet Hollander, trying to find a mutual agreement, but Hollander wasn’t even looking at him. He was staring at some spots on the wall, where the sunlight filtered through Ilya’s closed curtains fell in patches.
Ilya nudged him by the foot, and like a mirage breaking, he shifted his gaze back down at Ilya, his head tilted in question.
Hollander was very good at removing himself from the conversation when he didn’t feel like it. Ilya had started to catch on. He would just sit there and listen to the conversation in silence, reacting properly whenever attention drifted back to him, and then, once the spotlight had moved on, he would once again fade into the background.
Ilya’s brow arched in question.
“Sorry, the leaves,” Hollander explained in a hushed tone, but his voice grew louder as Marleau climbed out of the bed and made himself comfortable next to Ilya on the floor, “I got distracted, what did you say?”
Marleau’s eyes dashed in between them, and he could feel the lightbulb come to life on top of his head.
“Party! You can come too!” Marleau clapped his hands together, his voice booming in the small room, “Rozzy didn’t wanna go because he is a sissy who is scared of getting caught. But let me tell you, he used to party all the time with the senior girls when we were in Boston a few years back. And drinking age is twenty-one, let me remind you.”
Hollander leaned back against his chair, a tight smile pressed on his lips. The straw swayed lightly in the ginger ale can in his grip, its tip chewed and wrinkly. “It is nineteen here, so you would still be underage drinking. Parties are also really not my thing—”
“Of course it is not, you are from Ottawa—”2 Marleau laughed. “Why would you care if the law said we cannot drink yet? Live a little, Hollander.”
Hollander actually looked mildly offended. Or freaking out internally, Ilya couldn’t tell.
Ilya nudged his foot against his again.
Ignore him. He is an idiot. He wanted to say.
Hollander bumped his toes against the top of Ilya’s in response.
“Wouldn’t it be a lot of people, if the president’s sister is bringing everyone from—”
Hollander’s words faltered, his gaze flickered as Marleau’s laugh started to swell. Ilya shoved his half-eaten bread into Marleau’s gaping mouth.
“He means she is bringing all the hot senior girls,” Ilya explained, keeping his palm over Marleau’s mouth, his other pressed against the back of his skull. Marleau screamed around the piece of toast, clawing at his forearm, trying to get him to let go. He held his grip tighter. “Not the entire school. That would be impossible.”
Hollander’s face felt. “Oh.”
“Do you want her to bring the entire school?” Ilya grinned, “ My, my, I wasn’t aware of your game, Hollander.”
Hollander’s brows furrowed, “Uhm, I don’t know? That would be a logistical nightmare, isn’t it?”
Ilya felt his face grow into a huge smile even before he could suppress it.
Marleau licked a fat strip on his palm, broke free from his grip, and Ilya slapped him across the head.
He could count on Marleau in breaking the moment, the fucker.
“You should come—” Marleau crawled over to Hollander, his hands landed on the boy’s knees. “Come on, don’t you want to hang out with the prettiest girls on our tiny little island?”
“But where is it?” Hollander asked, pulling his legs away from Marleau’s claws.
“Vancouver! They have a frat house on UBC grounds, it would be fun!” Marleau came to a stand, his large bull-like body trapping Hollander in his seat.
Ilya wiped his hands on the back of Marleau’s shirt. “ Marly—”
“We will have to take the ferry?” Hollander looked at his watch. His voice grew tight, “We will not make it back in time for the last ferry, are we not?”
Marleau tutted, bright and cheery.
“Maybe? I don’t know! It is part of the fun, isn’t it? You can hook up with a girl, and she can take you to her dorm. Or we can bar hop with the frat brothers until the morning ferry!”
Hollander’s gaze flickered, his hand closed tightly around the empty aluminium can, and it creaked, wrapped with force.
“I don’t know—” Hollander’s voice faltered.
Ilya shuffled closer, pulling on Marleau’s shoulder.
“Leave him be, Marly”, he said, jerking Marleau away and back next to him.
The guy didn’t seem to know how to give up, or read a room, it seemed.
He pulled Ilya in by the neck, an arm around his nape, like he was showing that they were a package deal.
“Come on, Hollander,” Marleau pressed, his hand moving in the space between him and Ilya, “We used to do it all the time! Don’t you want to experience it a little?”
Hollander’s gaze flickered from Marleau and then landed on Ilya. He didn’t meet his eyes, however, but he could see the bob of his throat as he swallowed, his brain working in full gear to find an answer.
“But I have so many things to do—” Hollander said, his voice grew tighter, as if they were stuck inside his throat.
“Oh come on,” Marleau groaned, a hint of frustration began to bleed into his words, “Why are you so uptight, relax a little—”
Ilya kicked Marleau on the shin and used the momentum as he fell down to turn him on his heels, grabbed him by the scuff of his shirt and pulled him toward the door.
“Out, Marleau, out!” he hissed.
“What the fuck, Rozanov?” Marleau snapped back at him, pulling himself out of his grip.
“You are noisy and disturbing my rest, leave!” he yelled back, pulling himself into Marleau’s personal space, pressing forward toward the door.
He pushed back into Ilya with a slam with his shoulder as Ilya reached past him to open the door.
He staggered on his feet but held his ground. He slammed the door against Marleau’s back as payback. The knob dug into his side, and he hissed painfully, grabbing at where it made contact.
“What the fuck, Rozano? Why are your panties in a twist?”
“Because of your stupid face, leave!”
He pushed Marleau out of his room, despite screaming protests and slammed the door in Marleau’s nose. His finger came to his temple, where he felt a blooming headache that came with his blood vessels throbbing under the skin.
Marleau cursed against his door, punching it before cursing loudly as he walked down the hall.
When he turned around, Hollander had already come to his feet, the can crumpled between his hands. His lips pressed tightly together.
“Fuck, sorry, Marleau is so fucking loud sometimes,” Ilya said, turning on his heels and closing the distance between them.
Unconsciously, Hollander faltered, stepping back, until his shin met the chair he was in and he fell back onto it once more.
“Why are you sorry?” he asked, confusion laced in his voice as he rushed his words, “He is your friend, you shouldn’t fight with him—”
Not over me! Shane wanted to add. You should hyped him up, agree with him, and go to the party. Why did you fight with him? Why did you kick him out? He is your friend, your friend Rozanov, your friend for years.
Weren’t you afraid that he would hate you if you didn’t go along with him?
The thought made his chest tighten. He couldn’t fathom disappointing someone who’d shown him loyalty.
Rozanov only shrugged. His shadow fell on top of Shane, stretching out long and dark in the morning light.
“He was pushy, and he was loud. I want my sleep.”
That wasn’t enough!
“Why would you even do that?”
He couldn’t understand. He couldn’t understand why Rozanov would do such a thing.
He didn’t have lots of friends growing up.
No one stuck around for long.
He was too quirky, they said. Too quirky. Too particular. He liked things in order. Could talk for hours about colours, shapes, hockey, once it entered his life.
He was not exactly the popular kid on the team. The coaches said he was good, they liked his skill, that he learned fast, and he would be exceptional once he grew older. And Mom was so proud. That must be the first time he realised how much his eventual success meant for her. And he wanted that so badly.
But they also told her he would have trouble fitting in. He wasn’t entirely sure what they meant by that.
Mom wasn’t happy after that. He couldn’t understand that either. He would do anything to make her happy. But he didn’t know how.
He wanted to play, he loved to play, and he had always wanted to be the best. For the longest time, it was all he could think about. Had that not been enough?
What else did they want from him?
For a long time, he felt so incredibly alone.
Alone and confused, as he tried to grapple with the spiralling aspect of growing up.
There was a girl, when he was seven or eight, whose name he couldn’t remember anymore, whose family moved in next to theirs for about a year. Her brother was signed up for training with the same team as his, just a level lower that winter. They had skating training on the weekends together. His mother would drive all of them, including her, for babysitting, to the training rink and back, as her parents were always busy.
She was nice; she didn’t make fun of him. On the ride home, she would talk with him about going to the river to find dinosaur bones or a book that she just read. He liked to talk to her about those things; he liked them so much better than talking to her brother in the locker room about which girl in their neighbourhood he thought already had boobs.
He told her brother that he didn’t think about those things, and he didn’t have any real opinion on it. Perhaps it was the biggest mistake he had made.
That weekend at practice, her brother told the boys on their team that he was a girl because all he wanted to talk about was playing house with his sister.
He learned that weekend that it didn’t matter if he was the best or not. He could never be one of them.
Not with how he wanted things that were different from them. Not with how he looked different from them, how he talked differently, thought differently, played differently.
The epiphany hit him so hard he felt like he was stripped bare.
Change or be left behind, that was it. It didn’t take him long to choose what he wanted.
Smile when they smile, laugh when they laugh. He already had it better, he reminded himself. He was allowed to stay. He should not be swallowed in his own self-pitiness.
He called the only person who wasn’t making fun of him and his hobbies a word that was so sinister to call a child that he couldn’t repeat it.
But he did, and he did because he couldn’t fathom the idea of being alone again.
He just wanted them to accept him and maybe some of his quirks, whatever they wanted to call it. But if they couldn’t accept that, he just wanted them to accept him, just him. Even if he wasn’t sure, now, what it was that he wanted them to accept.
Why couldn’t Rozanov understand?
Why did Rozanov not need to please everyone?
“Hollander,”
Rozanov’s voice pulled him out of his head.
He shuddered, blinking as he lifted his head to look at Rozanov.
The other boy just stood there, his hands in his pockets. The expression on his face was blank. Or he thought it was blank; he didn’t know. He was so confused, he couldn’t spare another ounce of energy to try to understand what Rozanov wanted.
The colours of Rozanov’s eyes in the morning sun had turned golden, like garnet, like the eyes of Greek gods in mythical stories. He looked divine, a marble statue carved by the hands of Michelangelo himself. He should be on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and not here, in this room, in front of Shane, unworshipped.
He was perfect, beautiful, untouchable.
He looked like one of the boys Shane tried so hard to be like when he was a kid. He looked like the brother of the girl he called a slut just because her brother couldn’t share her attention with him.
The thought of disappointed Rozanov crossed his mind, and he felt it deep between his ribs.
“Fuck, I am so sorry,” he heard himself say, his throat closed as he tried to find a way out, stammering, “I overreacted. I’m sorry. I had a plan, a routine, for the weekends. I didn’t—”
He bit his mouth shut before he said too much.
Rozanov’s head tilted in confusion.
Fuck. What did he do wrong? What did he say that Rozanov didn’t get? He always said things that set people off.
Shane wanted to run.
He could have run if Rozanov had not lowered himself to the ground in front of him, his legs stretched out, the tips of his toes touching Shane’s own. The slight pressure of their skin grazing didn’t pull away as Rozanov leaned back, supporting himself with his hands on the ground.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” Rozanov shrugged nonchalantly. “I didn’t want to go because I don’t want to get in trouble so soon again. It has nothing to do with whether I want to make Marly happy or not.”
Shane nodded, the empty can pressed into his palm, and the bandage over his knuckles itched sharply.
He didn’t understand what Rozanov meant, but he nodded anyway.
“If you don’t want to go, that’s fine.” Rozanov pulled away, his one leg bent at the knee, the not-hurt one, as he hugged it to his chest, his arm went over it.
“I do.” He blurted out, even before he could stop himself.
He did not. Not actually.
He had a plan to do his laundry, finish his homework, go eat something, and go on another run, now that his hand hurt and he couldn’t box.
Rozanov’s eyes narrowed.
“You do?”
No. No, he didn’t.
“Yes, it would be fun,” Shane felt his face stretched in a smile, “I have never been to a party before.”
Rozanov looked at him, his eyes so piercing it felt like he was standing in front of a raised arrow, any misstep would have it lodged into his bones, between his ribs.
Shane lifted his gaze away.
“Okay,” Rozanov said, clapping his hands together as he pulled himself back up from the ground. “I will let Marleau know.”
Shane nodded, and regret started to steam inside his stomach.
“Am not going through,”
What?
Rozanov shrugged, leaning down to open his mini fridge by the bed while texting on his phone, to Marleau, perhaps. “I told you I don’t want to get in trouble again. It is only the first week of school, Hollander. I don’t want to lose my study permit. ”
Oh.
“Okay.” Shane nodded again, and anxiety flooded his stomach.
He needed a new plan, now that his evening plan had been scrapped. He had no idea when the party was, but it took an hour for the ferry to get into port at Vancouver, so he needed to leave at least an hour early. So all of his plans today would need to be pushed at least a few hours ahead.
He would also need to look up to see when the last ferry out of Vancouver was. He would rather not get stranded in a new city overnight. If he didn’t show up in the dorm at curfew, his parents would be notified, and he would rather not have the Dean call his mom again within days of each other.
He would also need—
“Here, drink this.”
Rozanov pressed something cold against his forehead, and Shane jumped, dropping the ginger ale can on the floor, the aluminium can clanking noisily. He scrambled to pick it up. It had been empty, so nothing spilt, luckily. His ears were red.
He glanced up at Rozanov.
Rozanov smiled at him, in his hand a to-go cup from the cafeteria, one that he was more familiar with. He lifted his eyes from the drink to Rozanov’s face, then back down again.
The boy rolled his eyes when Shane didn’t react, yanking the empty ginger ale from his hand and replacing it with the cup of smoothie. The drink was still cold, condensation from the warmth of Rozanov’s hands wrapped around it just moments earlier was still cool to the touch.
Rozanov pulled the paper straw from the empty can and reached to jab it into the smoothie cup. But Shane was faster. He quickly covered the top of the cup with his other hand, turning sideways to hide it away.
He realised almost instantly what he had done. Embarrassment flooded his system.
Rozanov’s hand froze in the air, still holding onto the used straw between his middle and index fingers. His face was even harder to read.
“Sorry,” Shane stammered, slowly turning around to face him, his hand still covering the top of the cup, gripping onto it slightly. “Force of habit,”
Rozanov broke out of the trance, waving the straw at him, but he didn’t take it. “You don’t like paper straw?”
Shane’s face flushed pink, “No—Yes, something like that.”
He didn’t want to tell Rozanov that it was because the straw had already been used for his ginger ale; it couldn’t be used for actual food. That would contaminate the food with extra sugar.
He felt stupid, but he couldn’t help but shake it off, the feeling.
Rozanov held the straw in his hand for a moment before, without a word, throwing it off to the trashbin by the bathroom door.
“Okay, hang on,” he said, opening his room’s door, “Let me see if anyone has a straw they can spare.”
“Wait!” Shane stood up, chasing after him, the smoothie still clutched in his hand.
Rozanov was fast, he already come knocking on a door a few rooms down. Shane didn’t leave the room; however, he lingered by the door to keep it from slamming shut.
A boy who was still half asleep opened the door, squinting through his skewed glasses.
“What do you want, Rozanov?”
“Straw? You have one?” he asked, raising his hand between them.
The boy yawned, holding a hand at the edge of the door so it didn’t slam as he retreated into his room. A few seconds later, he remerged with a small, long string bag.
“Here,” the boy said, yawned again, handing the bag over. “Wash it before you use it. Thank you for saving the turtles.”
The boy slammed the door in Rozanov’s face.
Rozanov turned around to face Shane, raising the strange object to show it to him, a big grin on his face.
Shane had no idea what he had.
Rozanov pushed past him back into his room, shaking the contents of the bag into his hand.
“Metal straw!” he waved it at Shane, showing it to him, along with a small, long white brush, as he walked into the bathroom. “I remember he said he was with the environmental club; they gave out recyclable straws on orientation day.”
“You mean reusable?” he said, following Rozanov to their sink, where he ran the tap to wash the straw with the brush.
“Toe-may-tee, toe-muh-toe. Same difference, Hollander.”
“It is to-may-to, to-mah-to.” He replied, grumbling.
Rozanov rolled his eyes at him.
“Give.” He put out a hand, beckoning for the smoothie cup, which Shane gave over without arguing.
He jabbed the newly cleaned straw into the cup before handing it back to him.
“Aren’t I a wonderful roommate to have, Hollander?”
Shane took the cup, putting the new straw in his mouth, biting slightly on the hard, metal tip. He didn’t particularly like it. But he didn’t hate it either.
He shucked in a mouthful of the drink to not have to answer Rozanov’s question.
☾∗𖤓∗☽
Shane managed to finish his homework in a little under two hours, ate a bagel sandwich he got from the dining hall, went for another run, tried on ten different outfits and had to skip doing his laundry because at precisely five pm, Cliff Marleau showed up in front of his door, banging on it as if his life depended on it.
He stared a hole into the pile of unwashed uniforms in his laundry basket, feeling like he was having ants crawling all over his neck and then went open the door.
It wasn’t just Marleau that showed up to "pick him up", but also Hayden and his roommate, a guy named Jean-Jacques that nicknamed himself J.J., who surprisingly also spoke French. Marleau was in the middle of a conversation that appeared more like a shouting match, with him and Hayde,n who got stuck in the middle looking like he wanted to jump off the nearest roof.
The moment he opened the door, Hayden jumped to the front to grab onto him, arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug.
“Fucking save me Hollander,” he said, defeated, “They have not stopped fighting ever since they met ten minutes prior.”
Shane peeled Hayden off his shoulder, patting all over his body to mentally check off that he had all he needed. Key, in his jacket pocket, phone in his back pocket. His cardholder was tucked in the inner breast slot of his windbreaker, and earphones wrapped around it.
Once he was confident he didn’t forget anything important, he slipped out of his room and closed the door behind him.
Rozanov was already waiting on the other side, leaning against the door frame, looking like he wanted to commit first offence murder on both Marleau and J.J., who, mind you, still had not stopped bickering.
Shane didn’t want to translate the French in his head anymore, so he tuned it out; their voices hushed behind him like white noise, even if the noise level was already putting him on edge. He met Rozanov’s gaze and gave him a wave. Hayden’s arm, which had since returned to his shoulder was heavy.
Rozanov gave him a look over from top to toe. His eyes pierced through the layers, and Shane couldn't help but feel his skin break out in goosebumps under his clothes.
He looked down at his outfit.
He spent an hour trying to figure out what he wanted to wear and ended up with a white shirt, black khaki pants, a light jacket and his usual windbreaker over it. He glanced over at Hayden, who wore something similar. J.J. was a little cooler with his leather biker jacket, and he wasn’t sure what Marleau was wearing because all he had on was a black tank top over sweatpants. Fashion choices of the people around him were, inherently, very confusing for him to judge whether he tried too hard with what he chose to wear.
Apparently, Rozanov had a different opinion.
Because he disappeared into his room for a moment before reemerging, in his hand was a jean jacket.
He came toward them, and Hayden beside him looked like he was about to size Rozanov up, his chest puffed out, standing in front of him like a mother hen.
Rozanoz looked down at Hayden, who, only an inch or two short, shrank significantly under his stare. Boredom was visible in his eyes.
“Move, Pike.”
“What do you want with him?” Hayden bumped against Rozanov’s chest.
Behind them, Marleau and J.J. had stopped arguing, sensing tension in the air.
The other boy rolled his eyes, waving his free hand at Hayden.
“I ain’t letting Hollander go to his first party looking like a fashion disaster like the rest of you lot.”
Both Marleau and J.J. broke out in a bickering protest.
Even Shane made an offended noise, looking down again at his clothes again.
Surely it had not been that bad, hadn’t it?
Rozanov shoved Hayden out of the way and into J.J.’s and Marleau’s arms.
He gave Shane one more look from top to toe, making a grumpy face at his sneakers before dragging his gaze back up to Shane’s face. If he didn’t feel so intimidated by the stare, he would have said something, or felt the blush that spread from the back of his neck to his face. Or he would hear the profanity Hayden was throwing at Rozanov.
“Strip,” Rozanov said.
Shane shuddered at the command? Request? Electricity ran through his spine into where his back dipped.
He didn’t know how to describe it. It was, for lack of better words, strange.
He shrugged out of his windbreaker, dropping it into Rozanov’s waiting hand.
Rozanov’s brow raised, his hand nudged in the direction of his second jacket.
Shane took that off, too.
“Pike,” Rozanov didn’t even look back; he just turned around and dropped Shane’s two outer layers carelessly, as if he was expecting Hayden to be there waiting, “hold this.”
Hayden made a noise in protest, but he caught the jackets in his arms, grumbling.
Shane felt a little weird. A little naked, despite being fully clothed. He tried to understand Rozanov’s expression, but he couldn’t wrap his head around the meaning of the pressed lips and intense stare.
Rozanov nudged him on the shoulder, holding the jean jacket.
“Turn around.”
Shane obliged without arguing, and Rozanov slipped the jacket on him, arm in each sleeve. He patted the shoulder, smoothing out the wrinkles there. When his fingers gazed at the exposed skin on Shane's nape, he had to curl his hands into fists so that he wouldn’t jump.
The jacket was slightly bigger than him, loose around the shoulders, but otherwise comfortable. It was surprisingly soft, despite the material. It felt washed out, like it had been around for a long time, accompanied Rozanov from Boston to Moscow and now, British Columbia.
It smelled faintly of some type of cologne around the collar. He did not mean to inhale it so deeply as he turned around, but he couldn’t help it. Its fragrance reminded him of his parents’ cottage in winter, something spicy, like eggnog, and the scent of roasted chestnut over burning cedar logs, surrounded by freshly fallen snow. He inhaled another hungry breath, savouring it in his lungs. 3
He spread his arms out, showing off his new borrowed clothes.
“Good?” he asked, wondering if he had to do a twirl, like what his Mom used to do in their living room, whenever she wanted him and Dad to give her compliments on a new dress.
Rozanov nodded, handing him back his key and the cardholder wrapped in earphones that he took out of Shane’s pockets, a smile finally graced his lips.
Behind him, both Marleau and J.J. whistled loudly. Hayden, on the other hand, looked like he might punch Rozanov.
“Better.”
Something gleeful bloomed in Shane’s chest. He liked it when Rozanov praised him; it made him feel a little easier to read what Rozanov wanted from him.
Rozanov pushed him toward his friends, and a grin began to form on his face. He waved at them as J.J. pulled him in by his shoulders and started dragging him down the hall.
“Have fun! Don’t subtract or add to the population.”
“My jackets—” he turned his head back, trying to yell at Rozanov through the booming laughter of Marleau.
“I’ll keep them for you,” Rozanov yelled back, slipping back behind his door with a slam.
Hayden pulled him out of J.J. 's grip as they descended the stairs. The other two started chasing each other, racing down to the ferry port.
“What the fuck was that?” Hayden shook him by the arm.
“What the what?” he replied, shifting in his jacket, his fingers pulling at the hem of the sleeves, feeling the materials.
“That!” Hayden said, frustrated. He waved his hand behind them.
“I don’t know what you're talking about.”
He didn’t, truly. Hayden did not indicate what he meant.
“Rozanov!” he hissed, pulling at Shane’s forearm. “Since when have you been friendly with Russia’s rage machine?”
“He is not a rage machine,” Shane replied, slotting his hands into the pockets. His fingers gazed at something small, made of hard plastic. He closed his fingers around it, but didn’t take it out.
“That is what you got out of what I just said, Shane!?” Hayden slapped him on his shoulder as they walked across the lawn in front of their dorm.
“He isn’t,” he replied, turning the object in his palm, trying to figure out what it was, “He is my neighbour, is it so strange we know each other?”
“Yes!” Hayden yelled, his face red, like he was frustrated, which Shane also did not get, “He got you in trouble the first week of school! He was the trademark bad boy of our school! He is nothing but trouble, Shane!”
Now Hayden was just being ridiculous.
Rozanov was hard to understand, sure. He also seemed to have an anger issue. But that probably came with the sport. And his moods swung like the pendulum sometimes. But who wouldn’t at their age?
Shane didn’t see anything that Hayden was talking about.
So, in order to not offend Hayden, he shrugged instead.
“Okay.”
Hayden threw his hands in the air.
“Exactly, Hollander! Get away from him!” he said, putting his hands down and suddenly pulling Shane on his shoulder, his voice dropped to a whisper, “But like, if he is bullying you, I will fuck him up, yeah?”
Was Rozanov bullying him? What did Hayden get that from? They were in grade twelve, not twelve years old.
Shane nodded. “Okay.”
“Good!” Hayden dropped his arm down from Shane’s shoulder to look at his watch, “Okay, we gotta hurry up! Ferry is in ten!”
As Hayden pulled up ahead in a rush, Shane slowed his steps, pulling out the object he had been holding in his hand from the pocket.
A lighter.
He could recognise it immediately.
A cheap, plastic, yellow lighter that you could get at most anywhere.
Unconsciously, he turned around to look up at the windows of the fourth floor. His window didn’t look out into this lawn, but he didn’t remember if Rozanov’s was. He couldn’t tell, now that he looked back at them. All the lancet windows of their dorm building were glazed over in the late afternoon sun, sparkling and dancing like waves on water.
He turned back, pocketed the lighter next to his key, wrapping his fingers around them both.
He inhaled another breath, and the cologne on his collar filled his lungs.
He didn’t know what it was, but he thought Rozanov was definitely not what Hayden said. He just knew, perhaps, Hayden had seen one side of Rozanov that he didn’t see. It didn’t mean Rozanov was like that all the time; it couldn’t define him as a person.
He thought of the boy who sat up in that tree, holding a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers. He thought of the shift of the chair in the quiet archive, how the sun climbed but never reached his eyes. He thought of the twisted pain in Rozanov’s jaws when he reached out to help. He thought about the young prospect with the youthful face and crooked teeth who lured the puck into the net with a move that was so distinctly signature.
He wanted to know more about Rozanov, the good and the bad. He wanted to give Rozanov the same respect that he wanted others to give to him.
As Shane scanned the ferry ticket that Hayden pushed into his palm and nodded thank you to the fare inspector, he looked back over his shoulder.
The afternoon sun had begun to set over the horizon, on the other side of their dorm building. The warm scent of chestnut by his collar could not dissipate in the ocean winds. He inhaled another breath, feeling regret pool at the pit of his stomach.
He wished he told Rozanov he didn’t want to go to this party.
He wished Rozanov protested and told him not to go.
But Rozanov wouldn’t do it. That was not who he was.
And Shane, he wouldn’t say what he wanted at that moment.
He wouldn’t want to disappoint Rozanov in any way.