Chapter Text
With the harsh sound of the last piece of masking tape being cut, Shane sealed the box, tossed the roll onto the bare mattress, and dropped to the floor, letting out an exhausted sigh. The room around him felt strangely empty. Most of the weight of that move—literally and figuratively—came down to dense books, handouts, and piles of old papers from his four years of college.
He could hardly believe that this phase of his life was being boxed up. His eight semesters of Psychology helped him rationalize the situation: cycles end, people evolve, it's the natural flow of things. His neurodivergent brain, however, hated interruptions to the flow. The sudden break in routine and the change of environment made an uncomfortable static buzz at the base of his skull.
"Man, I'm going to cry," Hayden's voice sounded from the doorway.
Shane looked over his shoulder and let out a snort of laughter. His friend was leaning against the doorframe, wearing an undeniable look of a stray dog in the rain.
"Don't do that, because in a few months that's going to be the main sound coming out of this room," Shane retorted, using sarcasm as a shield as he stood up and dusted off his hoodie. Facing his friend's tearful face, his tone softened. "Hayden, I already told you it's fine. And that I'm going to come back to annoy you guys."
"This is our home, Shane!" Hayden stepped forward, grabbing his shoulders dramatically. "Bought with the Herculean effort of six combined jobs, liters of bad coffee, exhaustion tears, and questionable thoughts during four years of Psychology and Physical Therapy classes!" The blonde spoke fast, shaking Shane at every comma.
"And now it's going to be the home of a new family," Shane reassured him, holding his friend's wrists to stop the shaking.
He knew perfectly well how guilty Hayden felt. After all, a baby wasn't in his and Jackie's plans for this exact moment. Just now, when she had landed the nursing job at the hospital and Hayden had finally snagged a spot at his dream clinic. But, as biology loves to prove, condoms aren't infallible.
The moment the pregnancy test came back positive, Shane did the mental math and removed himself from the equation. It hadn't been just "Hayden and Shane's apartment" for a long time. Jackie practically lived there, bringing her things in little by little, so gradually that the transition from visiting-girlfriend to third-roommate was almost imperceptible.
Now, with the newly discovered three-month pregnancy, it was time to transform that space into the sanctuary of the new family. And there was no room for a third adult in that dynamic.
"You're still going to come back here so we can watch the Metros games, right?" Hayden asked, letting go of him.
"Obviously!" Shane rolled his eyes, smiling. "We have to honor J.J., don't we?"
The third pillar of the friend group had started Physical Education college with them, but in his third semester, he was drafted by the NHL and now shone on the ice for the Montreal Metros. It was still surreal for Hayden and Shane to process that the guy who shared instant noodles with them was now a ridiculously rich professional athlete. Rich to the point of trying to offer a down payment on an apartment for Shane as soon as he heard about the move. Shane refused right away; mixing money and friendship was the perfect recipe for disaster.
The search for a new roof was quick. Almost a month ago, Shane found a place half an hour away. It was a nice neighborhood, no frills, which perfectly fit an administrative assistant's tight budget. Yes, his current job was far from Psychology. He spent his days feeding spreadsheets and organizing the endless stock that arrived at the Game Changer bookstore.
Sometimes, he thought the mental resilience needed to endure eight hours behind a counter, forcing smiles and interacting with the public, was the true practical application of his degree. But on the days when eye contact felt painful and smiling was impossible, Jacob, his boss—who bordered on sainthood—let him go to the back. There, with his noise-canceling headphones snug over his ears, Shane organized the shelves in peace, respecting his spectrum's boundaries. Jacob had even given him two consecutive days off just to make that move easier.
"Have you met this new roommate yet?" Jackie asked when Shane reached the kitchen.
She was leaning against the island, still in her pajamas on her day off from the hospital, waiting for the water for her chamomile tea to boil. The contrast with Hayden was glaring: her boyfriend was running back and forth like a headless chicken, already wearing his clinic uniform and hopping on one foot down the hallway while trying to force his sneaker on.
"Not yet, only via text," Shane answered, sitting on the island stool, perhaps for the last time as a resident of that space.
"If he turns out to be a sociopath, just know our door is always open!" Hayden yelled from the hallway, finally putting his shoe on. "Or, I don't know, a pervert. A dirty old man!"
"He's not a dirty old man," Shane laughed, sharing an amused look with Jackie. "He's our age. From the little we talked, he said his former roommate moved in with his fiancée and he needed someone to split the rent. Classic stuff."
"What's his name?" the blonde asked, dunking the tea bag into the steaming mug. Hayden passed by her like a hurricane, grabbing his thermos of coffee.
"Ilya. Ilya Rozanov. He moved here from Russia when he was eighteen to study," Shane recapped the few practical details they had exchanged throughout the week. "I found his Instagram last night. It was a pain to find because the username has some Cyrillic alphabet characters in it."
"Show me!" Hayden demanded, stopping abruptly and capping the thermos.
Shane fished the phone from his pocket, opened the profile already in his search history, and turned the screen to the couple.
"Hmm. Tattoo artist," Hayden murmured, evaluating the feed.
"What a hottie!" Jackie exclaimed, eyebrows arched in appreciation.
Hayden turned his head to his girlfriend in slow motion, indignation stamped on his face. Shane let out a loud laugh.
"What? You saw the picture too!" she defended herself.
"Sometimes, I think you hate me," Hayden overacted, earning an affectionate slap on the shoulder that made him laugh. "I'm heading to work. Kiss for you guys."
He and Jackie exchanged a loud peck. Shane instantly grimaced.
"Do you want a little kiss too?" Hayden turned to Shane, puckering his lips exaggeratedly.
"Get out of here, gross!" Shane pushed him away, laughing.
The blonde grabbed his backpack and left the apartment with hurried steps. When the door shut, the environment grew comfortably quiet.
"But, seriously about Ilya... I thought he was a cool guy, at least from his looks," Shane picked the subject back up, locking his phone screen. "I took a good look at his tagged pictures. You can tell he's a bit of a partyer. A lot of photos in bars, crowded tattoo studios..."
"You don't like noise and people," Jackie pointed out immediately, maternal worry already evident in her voice.
"I don't, but I'm already used to sleeping with my ear muffs. I think I can handle it."
The blonde sighed, leaned her elbows on the counter, and reached out to hold Shane's arm.
"Stay. Please."
Shane looked up from his phone. He pressed his lips together, forming a thin smile filled with affection, but shook his head.
"And where is the baby going to sleep? In the living room drawer? I'm being a great godfather in advance, giving up my room for him. Or her. Or them..."
"Don't jinx it! Just one is already sucking my soul dry!" She weakly slapped his bicep, laughing, but quickly grew serious again. "Are you sure you're going to adapt, Shane? Your routine is super strict, your sensory accommodations... Hayden and I already know everything like the back of our hand. It won't be easy with a stranger."
Shane left the phone on the marble island and held Jackie's hands.
"Jackie, look closely at me. I'm going to hold your hands while I tell you this..." He took a dramatic pause. The blonde was already holding back a laugh. "I hate noise. Babies make an unholy amount of noise. This whole 'altruistic gesture' for my godchild is pure facade. I'm running away. Just like that stereotype of the man who gets his girlfriend pregnant and goes out to buy cigarettes, I'm hitting the road to save my ears. The only difference is I wasn't the one who got you pregnant, it was Hayden."
She let out a genuine laugh, throwing her head back.
"And if he ran away, I would hunt him down to hell!"
"Don't worry," Shane winked. "I'd help hide the body."
[...]
Around nine in the morning, Shane’s phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. It was a message from his newest, unknown roommate.
[Ilya Rozanov – Roommate]
any time in mind to come here?
i go down to lobby to wait and help with boxes
[Shane Hollander]
I already put my things in the car. Was just waiting for you to text first.
Didn't want to wake you up.
[Ilya Rozanov – Roommate]
can come then
and i didn’t sleep
[Shane Hollander]
You know staying up all night is bad for your circadian rhythm, right?
[Ilya Rozanov – Roommate]
i’m russian. another timezone.
Shane let out a snort of laughter, stuffing the phone into his pocket. It was a lame excuse, but a clever one.
Ten minutes later, when he announced he was leaving, Jackie vehemently insisted on tagging along. Her argument was twofold: Shane shouldn't meet a stranger alone, and an extra pair of hands would be useful. Obviously, Shane would take on all the heavy lifting—no matter how much Jackie stomped her foot saying that pregnancy didn't make her made of glass, he would never let a pregnant woman carry his psychoanalysis books.
"It’s a building..." Jackie murmured some time later, tilting her head to the side as she evaluated the brick facade, weathered by time.
"With stupidly cheap rent," Shane retorted, pulling the handbrake with a sharp click before getting out of the car. "Let’s go to the lobby first. The front desk should have one of those luggage carts to make our lives easier."
Jackie adjusted Hayden's hoodie, which looked huge on her, and followed alongside Shane.
As soon as the automatic glass doors opened, the Canadian spotted his new companion. Sprawled on a synthetic leather couch that had seen better days was a guy who exuded an aura of someone who absolutely did not care about anything. His arms, exposed by a frayed gray tank top, were a mosaic of dark tattoos. His curly blonde hair fell messily over his eyes, and the metallic click of silver rings against his phone screen echoed in the quiet lobby. He had a septum piercing, another on his eyebrow, wore ripped jeans at the knees, and black Adidas slides.
"Ilya Rozanov?" Shane called out.
The blonde raised his head slowly, putting his phone away.
"Shane Hollander," the Canadian completed. "I wanted to introduce myself properly before invading your place full of boxes."
"Pleasure." Ilya stood up with a feline slowness and extended his hand. The grip was firm, the texture of his silver rings contrasting against Shane’s skin. "Taller than I expect."
Shane frowned immediately, his mind calculating the information literally. He shoved his hands into his pants pockets.
"We are exactly the same height."
Ilya seemed surprised for a second, but soon his lips curved into a lazy half-smile.
"Still didn't expect," the Russian shrugged, discarding logic. "Where is your things? There is cargo cart in alley right here next to building."
"The car is right out front," Shane indicated with a nod toward the lobby glass. "Oh, by the way, this is Jackie."
"Hi. Jackie Dubois." The blonde extended her hand, flashing a social smile.
Shane noticed the Russian's pierced eyebrow arch imperceptibly.
"Ilya Rozanov," he introduced himself, and Shane could swear the tattoo artist's voice sounded an octave raspier and deeper than when he had spoken to him thirty seconds ago. "Boyfriend and girlfriend?"
"No, I date his best friend," Jackie replied without missing a beat.
Ilya nodded, as if the information made no difference, and pointed his chin toward the door, indicating he would follow them. As soon as the Russian turned his back to walk ahead, Jackie gripped Shane’s arm tightly. Her eyes were wide, and her expression screamed a silent and scandalous "Holy shit, he is hot!"
"You are committed and carrying a fetus. Calm down," Shane whispered out of the corner of his mouth, giving her a light elbow nudge, making her stifle a laugh.
Outside, Ilya pulled out a bulky ring of keys. He opened a accordion-style gate that led to a dark alleyway beside the building and vanished into the shadows. There was a loud clattering of metal, some junk hitting the ground, and he re-emerged dragging a cargo cart, its wheels screeching with rust.
"It’s not much, to be honest," Shane commented as they walked to the trunk. "Most of the boxes are just books. A lot of books."
He said this in an almost defensive tone, as if expecting Ilya to veto the entry of literature into the apartment. Analyzing the Russian's grungy, sloppy style, Shane's brain had already filed his roommate under the "people who probably don't read anything besides bar menus" folder.
Was that the message Ilya wanted to send to the world? The untouchable, detached, and superficial rebel who, deep down, hid complexities and unresolved traumas?
Shane blinked hard, shaking his head to brush the thought away. He had exchanged exactly three sentences with the guy in person, and his former psychology student brain was already trying to dissect him. He needed to focus on the move.
The boxes that didn't fit on the rusty cart were split between Shane and Jackie. In a single trip, the elevator swallowed all of Shane's material baggage. During the slow ascent to the apartment floor, Jackie took on the role of unofficial interrogator, filling the metallic silence of the cabin with questions fired like darts.
Ilya, leaning against the back of the elevator with half-closed eyes, answered with the precision of a telegram: yes, he was from Moscow; yes, the tattoo studio was only three blocks away; and yes, he owned the place.
The last answer sent a sharp pang of envy and admiration into Shane's chest. If a twenty-five-year-old guy, in a foreign country, already owned his own business, why was he, at the same age, filling out inventory spreadsheets for Game Changer?
"Home sweet home," Ilya announced in a drawn-out voice, unlocking the door and pushing the cart inside. "Not much to show, but make yourselves comfortable."
As soon as Shane crossed the threshold, the apartment hit him full force. It was a dense blend of industrial aesthetic and dark comfort. The open kitchen displayed a black refrigerator fossilized under dozens of travel magnets—including a worn-edged Russian flag—and polaroids where Ilya appeared in blurry parties. The living room was dominated by a dark brown modular leather couch, covered in chaotically thrown blankets. And, completely breaking the "tough tattoo artist" aesthetic, a huge Umbreon plush rested in the corner of the couch. Shane arched his eyebrows, his brain immediately trying to fit that unexpected variable into the equation he was building about the Russian.
The wall behind the TV stand was painted matte black, supporting shelves that served as an altar for alcohol bottles, with an alarming predominance of foreign-labeled vodkas. All around, frames displayed elaborate old-school tattoo flashes. A sliding glass door led to a balcony, and thick black curtains framed the glass, wrapped in unlit fairy lights.
But it was the smell that truly invaded Shane’s senses.
Stale nicotine. Tobacco. An unmistakable trace of weed.
Shane had smoked before, of course—it was impossible to survive four years of Psychology major parties without stumbling into a joint—but the residual smell of regular cigarettes felt like sandpaper scraping the inside of his nostrils. It was the chronic aroma of the apartment. He quickly mapped the area and located ashtrays scattered like landmines: one on the kitchen island, two on the coffee table, another on the sideboard. All of them housed crushed butts. The realization weighed heavily: I am going to share oxygen with an active smoker.
"This first door is bathroom," Ilya pointed lazily as he pushed the cart down the narrow hallway. "My room." He indicated a closed door with his chin. "And yours."
Shane set his boxes down on the hardwood floor and helped Jackie drop hers. Breathing deeply, he felt immediate relief wash over his shoulders. The room didn't smell like an ashtray. The air here carried a subtle, clean scent of cleaning products, something like bamboo or white tea.
The first thing that captured his attention was the natural light. Between the room's two windows, there was a narrow built-in bookshelf that went from floor to ceiling. Shane's chest warmed at the sight. Maybe some of his books would have to be sacrificed and condemned to live in boxes under the bed due to a lack of horizontal space, but that vertical bookshelf would be a perfect organization project to soothe his nerves.
"Wow... It’s much nicer in person than in the photos," Shane murmured, looking around before turning to his friend. "So? Do I have your approval, Miss Dubois?"
"Hmm..." The blonde crossed her arms and scratched her chin, feigning a rigorous technical evaluation. "I like the burnt concrete ceiling. Gives it a rustic feel. Approved."
Ilya, standing in the doorway, nodded slowly. The tattoo artist's movements were heavy, his eyes blinking slowly. Shane quickly realized that the Russian's brain was running on battery saver; the lack of sleep was taking its toll.
Even so, the three of them began opening boxes, setting up a makeshift assembly line to unpack the essentials. Shane stacked shirts, Jackie unpacked items of sentimental value, and Ilya tried to be useful without passing out.
In the middle of a box of Freud books, the Russian's phone began to ring loudly.
"Just a minute," Ilya muttered, unceremoniously handing the reading lamp he was holding into Jackie's hands. He stepped out into the hallway, and immediately his voice sounded low and rough, speaking in rapid, guttural Russian.
As soon as his footsteps faded, Jackie leaned in toward Shane.
"He seems, I don't know, weird. Don't you think? Way too quiet. You said that from Instagram, he looked like the party king," she whispered, in a considerably loud volume.
"He's been up all night, Jackie. His social battery must be in the negatives," Shane replied in a practical tone. He stepped onto the mattress without shoes, reaching the top of the bookshelf to align his hardcover books. "And I'm trying my hardest not to stare or analyze his things. First, because it's invasive. Second, what if he thinks I'm gay?"
Jackie stopped unwrapping a mug and put her hands on her hips, looking up at him from below with a broad expression of disapproval.
"So what if he does?" she scoffed, her voice losing its whisper. "Seriously, Shane, I hate this habit you guys have. You, Hayden, J.J... You live in this panic of 'looking gay.' Being gay isn't an insult, let alone a flaw."
"I know it isn't, I swear to God!" Shane defended himself immediately. He dropped the book and squatted on the edge of the bed to be at her eye level, raising his hands in surrender. "But the guy is Russian, Jackie. You read the news."
"And that automatically makes him a homophobe?"
"It’s a valid statistical precedent to worry about one's safety. Even if I'm not gay, you saw the size of the guy, he could kill me if he wanted to."
Jackie let out an exasperated sigh and arched her eyebrow.
"You are Japanese. By your brilliant logic, can you tell me the names of three new animes by heart?"
Shane opened his mouth, ready to argue, but froze. The gears in his head turned, processing the sentence fragment by fragment. He blinked a few times before answering, his tone perfectly serious:
"I am half-Japanese. Which alters the margin of your comparison."
Jackie just rolled her eyes and went back to the box. She had known him for years. She knew perfectly well that wasn't sarcasm or mockery; it was just Shane's neurodivergent, literal mind completely ignoring her sarcasm and focusing relentlessly on the precision of facts.
[...]
Shane continued unpacking his things until the exact moment his brain decided that the day's quota had been reached. Mental exhaustion hit like an invisible wall, instantly draining any spark of motivation to deal with the rest of the boxes. Leaving them halfway done would have to suffice for now. Besides, he still needed to take Jackie back, which served as the perfect excuse to abandon the task.
Leaving the bedroom, his eyes swept the dimly lit living room in search of his roommate. He found Ilya on the other side of the balcony's glass sliding door. The Russian was pacing back and forth like a caged animal, his phone pressed to his ear. His expression was tense, his lips moving aggressively, but the apartment remained plunged in absolute silence.
Shane's analytical brain processed the information and cheered internally: high-quality acoustic sealing doors. Excellent.
Through the glass, Shane saw the exact moment the tattoo artist's patience evaporated. Ilya let out a frustrated grunt that was visible by the clenching of his jaw, pulled the device away from his face, and ended the call aggressively. He slid the door open—allowing the distant traffic noise to invade the living room for a brief second—and closed it right after, letting out a long sigh through his nose.
"Hey. I'm going to take Jackie back home, okay?" Shane informed, breaking the silence.
Ilya stopped in the middle of the room and blinked slowly, as if the simple task of focusing his vision required a Herculean effort.
"Already finish with boxes in room?" he asked, but the sentence was almost swallowed by a monumental yawn that made his shoulders slump. "Gospodi..."
"The bulk of it is done, yeah," Jackie replied, closing the distance between them with a sociable smile. She extended her hand. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Ilya."
"Same." The smile he returned was purely mechanical, slack with lethargy. The Russian didn't even shake her hand with the same firmness as before. "Ah, Hollander. Take your keys before leaving. I will be in dream world when you come back."
The blonde pointed distractedly at the rustic wooden coffee table, where a metallic keychain with two solitary keys rested next to an ashtray.
"One is for main lock and other is for alley gate. All residents have copy," he explained in a monotone voice. Without waiting for an answer, Ilya turned his back to them, dragging his slides heavily down the hallway. "At night we talk about... things."
His bedroom door closed with a definitive click, ending the subject.
Shane and Jackie stood in the living room for a few seconds, absorbing the suddenly empty atmosphere of the apartment. They looked at each other. The corner of the blonde's lips twitched upward into a restrained, dangerous smile.
"Hayden is going to have a psychotic break when he finds out this is your new roommate," she whispered, visibly amused by her boyfriend's future drama.
"He's not that bad," Shane shrugged, walking to the coffee table. He picked up the keychain; the metallic jingle seemed to seal the deal of this new phase. "He's just a quiet guy who stays awake at night and sleeps during the day. Like Batman."
Within half an hour, Shane dropped Jackie off at home and returned to the building. Locking the door behind him, he was met with absolute silence. With the rest of the day free and the absence of his new roommate, who was probably already in a deep sleep, he decided to map out and understand the logic of his new ecosystem.
In the living room, a ceramic skull-shaped planter housed a trailing pothos. It was a bit tacky, but strangely cohesive with the concrete and leather aesthetic. Below the vodka shelves, there was a rustic cabinet holding a modest collection of vinyl records. Shane tilted his head, running his fingers along the spines until he stopped at the first one. He frowned. It was Olivia Rodrigo's SOUR.
"Stop judging the guy, Shane," he muttered to himself, sliding the record back into its exact place.
Next to the record player, a brushed metal picture frame caught his eye. The photo showed Ilya smirking, while a stunning woman, with mixed black skin and voluminous curly hair almost shaped into an afro, planted a loud kiss on his cheek.
His girlfriend is very pretty, Shane concluded logically, logging the information.
The Canadian continued his patrol down the hallway until he reached the guest bathroom. Shane had a very particular fondness for bathrooms. To him, they were sanctuaries of hygiene and isolation. And that one, surprisingly, was fascinating.
The wall inside the shower stall was lined with glossy tiles in a deep burgundy red tone—a bold choice Shane would never make in a project, but it caught the light in an incredibly pleasing way. The rest of the room followed the burnt concrete pattern. The sink was carved from matte gray marble and rested on a solid wood vanity.
The problem was the countertop surface: an absolute chaos of scattered hygiene items. There were uncapped aftershave bottles, loose razors, hairbrushes, and a hairdryer with its cord coiled like a snake. But what really made Shane pause and stifle a laugh were the two framed pictures hanging perfectly aligned above the toilet.
He whipped out his phone immediately.
| Group: Uni-Hoes |
[Shane Hollander]
📷 [Image: Two framed pictures. One shows a tiny chihuahua, the other a tuxedo cat. Both are inside bathtubs, covered in suds and wearing floral shower caps.]
[J.J.]
Aww!! Such fucking cute little paintings. Where is that??
[Shane Hollander]
In my new roommate's bathroom.
[Hayd]
Hold up. The buff tattoo guy has framed pets with shower caps in his BATHROOM?
And first of all: who hangs art in the bathroom???
[Jackie 👑]
I thought it was a great idea to break up the dark palette. Ask Ilya where he bought them.
[Hayd]
100% agree, babe. They are beautiful paintings.
[J.J.]
Fucking whipped.
[Hayd]
Bro, you don't argue with a pregnant woman. It's survival instinct.
[Shane Hollander]
My God. Forget the paintings. I just processed what kind of plant is in the giant pot in the corner here 🫥
📷 [Image: A wide angle of the bathroom, showing the pictures and, next to the sink, a tall pot housing an extremely familiar plant with serrated green leaves.]
[J.J.]
AHAHAHAHAHAH I ALREADY LOVE THIS GUYYYYYYY
IT'S A FUCKING CANNABIS PLANT, AHAHAHAHAHAH
[Hayd]
Ok, suddenly I'm way more chill about you abandoning our home. That is, of course, assuming I can go visit you and take a cutting of this beautiful plant.
[Jackie 👑]
No you won't.
[Hayd]
Agree, babe. I really won't.
Shane put his phone away in his hoodie pocket and rubbed the rough texture of one of the leaves between his thumb and index finger. It was, without a shadow of a doubt, a marijuana plant. It almost reached his shoulder.
His brain started firing off purely logistical questions. Grown in the bathroom? Why? The balcony has direct sunlight, which would optimize photosynthesis. Does the shower's humidity emulate a specific tropical climate the plant needs?
He shook his head, giving up on understanding it, and went back to analyzing the environment. Ilya's volume of products was intriguing. The Russian owned three distinct types of shampoo, conditioners, leave-in creams, hydration masks, and several tubs of body lotion—mostly intensive care labels for tattoos, which made perfect logical sense. His dark blue towel was hanging on the shower's polished bronze frame. The glass featured colorful stained glass details that, in theory, would sound like an aesthetic nightmare, but here worked perfectly.
What didn't work, however, was the absence of a bath mat.
Shane looked at the cold concrete floor. The idea of stepping out of a hot shower directly onto the freezing stone sent a shiver down his spine. That should be classified as an unbailable crime. He made a mental note to buy a rubber mat on his way back from work tomorrow.
Returning to his bedroom, Shane grabbed his toiletry box. His mission now was to insert his existence into that space without disturbing the fragile ecosystem of Ilya's chaos. Opening the wooden vanity doors, he felt a wave of satisfaction: Ilya had emptied an entire shelf, leaving it clean and meticulously sectioned off for him. Shane aligned his backup shampoos, neutral soaps, and unscented creams with geometric precision. Inside the shower, he found a vacant corner and positioned the bottles he was currently using. He stored his white towels on the empty shelf of the hanging cabinet, perfectly folded. Order restored.
His stomach growled, announcing it was time to explore the final frontier: the kitchen.
Shane opened cabinets and drawers, building an instant mental map. Pots to the left of the stove. Spices on the top shelf. Cups and silverware in predictable spots. Everything was fine, until he opened the door to the black fridge.
The scene was clinically bleak.
On the middle shelf rested a glass container with sad slices of leftover pizza. The door was crammed with beer cans and a single half-empty water bottle. In the crisper drawer, two dull apples kept company with an avocado that was already past its prime. Shane closed the bottom door and opened the freezer, only to confirm his suspicions.
"More vodka..." he sighed into the cold air.
He closed the appliance and processed the data collected so far. Constant smell of cigarettes. Beer. Industrial quantities of vodka. Inverted nocturnal routine.
"Right. I'm living with a chain-smoking alcoholic with nocturnal habits," he decreed out loud, without moral judgment, merely listing the facts.
Grabbing his car keys from the coffee table, Shane snatched his raw cotton tote bag. It was time to go to the grocery store before he ended up having to eat half a slice of cold pizza for dinner accompanied by despair.
[...]
Around eight in the evening, Shane was locked in his room, immersed in his own bubble. He adjusted the desk with millimeter precision, aligning pen holders, notebooks, and his laptop into the exact configuration his brain was used to. With his Bluetooth headphones snugly fitting in his ears, he let Hozier's voice fill his mind as he muttered the lyrics under his breath, enjoying the feeling of restored order.
The acoustic isolation, however, was broken when he caught the soft creak of the bedroom door next door, followed by a long, drawn-out groan of someone who had just resurrected.
"Hollander?" the deep voice called from the hallway, muffled by the headphones.
Shane took them off, paused the music, and peeked through the door. Ilya was wearing the same frayed tank top from earlier, now paired with loose red shorts. He rubbed his sleep-creased face, his curly hair defying gravity.
"What is that smell?" the Russian asked, sniffing the air with half-closed eyes.
"Food. Real food," Shane answered, stepping out of his room. "I cooked. The pizza in your fridge looked like it was developing its own ecosystem, so I preferred not to risk it. It's Kung Pao chicken. I already ate, but I made extra, you can have some if you want."
"Chicken what?" Ilya blinked slowly, confused.
"Chicken with vegetables. Peanuts. Soy sauce," Shane summarized. The explanation didn't seem to clear the tattoo artist's foggy mind much, but he nodded anyway. "Want to take advantage of the fact that you're awake to talk? House rules, routine, boundaries..."
"Ah. Yes... That," Ilya agreed slowly, turning his back and dragging his slides down the graffiti-walled hallway.
Shane left his headphones on the desk and followed him to the kitchen. He found Ilya leaning over the stove, inspecting the inside of the pan with an expression that mixed suspicion and a lethargic hunger.
"So..." the blonde started, leaning his tattooed hands on the counter. "What was setup with your old roommate?"
Shane sat on the island stool, adopting a straight and comfortable posture.
"Hayden and I have known each other since we were fifteen. The system was basic, but functional: each of us had a specific day of the week to do chores. Laundry every Friday, clean the house every Monday. If one did the monthly grocery shopping, the other organized the cabinets."
"Okey," Ilya nodded slowly, processing. "Sounds good."
"And your last roommate?"
"Ah, me and Connors do like one week each. But I prefer your idea, is more logical." The Russian scratched the back of his neck. "Okay, critical point: what time you usually sleep?"
"Around ten at night. Eleven at the latest. I need to be up by six in the morning to clock in at work at seven," Shane answered, crossing his arms over the cold marble.
"Understand. I leave for work at nine at night and come back at six in morning," Ilya countered naturally.
Shane frowned, his brain immediately trying to make sense of that logistics.
"You tattoo at night? Who gets a tattoo at two in the morning?"
"Drunks." A thin, wicked smile appeared on Ilya's lips. "Usually, they are best paying clients. Especially college groups who want to tattoo stupid things on friend who is almost throwing up."
"Like tattooing a dick on the arm of a guy about to pass out?"
"I already do many very detailed genitals," Ilya's tone was of pure professional pride.
Shane let out an incredulous laugh.
"And I also work as bartender," the Russian added. "In studio I make my own hours, but bar work needs whole night."
"Fascinating. I hardly noticed your affinity for drinks," Shane said sarcastically, pointing his chin toward the vodka collection in the living room.
Ilya let out a raspy laugh.
"What? You are pure? Not alcoholic... anymore?"
"Rehabilitated?" Shane offered the correct word, arching an eyebrow.
"That." Ilya snapped his fingers. "Rehabilitated."
"No, I'm none of those things. I just don't usually drink very often. Only on specific social occasions."
"Right. Well, maybe on my social nights, I come back to apartment with company, so..." Ilya gestured vaguely in the air. "When one of us wants to bring company, just tell the other first. I don't know, half hour? One hour before?"
"One hour," Shane determined right away. He needed at least sixty minutes of advance notice to recalculate his mental route and accept the presence of a stranger in his safe environment.
"Deal. Walls here are not paper, but still can hear noises between rooms if things get loud. That is why it's good to warn. But I sleep like stone in day, so do not worry about making noise when you want to bring girlfriends, hookups or whatever."
"Alright," Shane agreed, even though he knew the chances of that happening bordered on zero. He even had profiles set up on Tinder and Hinge, but the sheer social exhaustion of having to interact from scratch with new people made him ignore the apps. "Hayden and I had a calendar on the fridge to mark each person's days for chores. We can get one of those."
"Okey." Without asking for permission, Ilya grabbed a spoon from the drawer, fished a broccoli floret straight from Shane's pan, and popped it in his mouth. He chewed slowly, his eyebrows rising in surprise. "Uhm... not bad."
"You don't cook?"
"No," the answer was immediate. "I know enough not to die, but I hate it. And, because of our schedules, I think we rarely fight for stove. What time you get home from work?"
"Around four. Sometimes five in the afternoon."
"Yeah," Ilya sighed. "I will be in deep coma."
The Russian clapped his hands once sharply, rubbed them together, and cracked his neck, producing a hollow cartilage sound that made Shane wince involuntarily.
"That is it, I think. I go get ready for work," Ilya announced, his voice still a bit rough from sleep.
"Alright. See you tomorrow, then," Shane nodded, getting up from the stool and watching the tattoo artist drag himself down the hall until he disappeared behind the bathroom door, locking it with a metallic click.
Returning to his own room, Shane's phone screen glowed on the bed, displaying unread notifications from his mom. He sat on the edge of the mattress and unlocked the device.
[Yuna ❤️]
move updates? did u like the apartment? is the guy nice to u?
[Shane Hollander]
we just discussed dividing the house chores. he's a cool guy.
his routine is the exact opposite of mine, but i don't think it'll be a problem.
he's a tattoo artist and a bartender, so he lives during the night.
[Yuna ❤️]
yeah, and you're in your 20th beauty sleep by 10 pm 😂 how are jackie and the baby?
[Shane Hollander]
good. she has an appointment next week.
first ultrasound of the second trimester.
maybe they can already tell the bio sex.
[Yuna ❤️]
aw, i still can't believe hayden is gonna be a dad.
seems like yesterday that boy lived here more than at his own house, holed up in ur room playing video games all day long.
[Shane Hollander]
he was the only friend i had for years, mom.
it was statistically probable that he'd stay glued to me.
[Yuna ❤️]
i know, my love 🤍 and this new guy? what's he like? what's his name?
[Shane Hollander]
his name is ilya. all tattooed, obviously.
has face piercings and a strong fondness for vodka and cigarettes.
[Yuna ❤️]
my god...
[Shane Hollander]
mom, stop judging.
pointing out flaws in other people that are also present in your own family history is pure hypocrisy.
i drank and smoked plenty during college. you know that.
[Yuna ❤️]
stop psychoanalyzing me over text, shane hollander!
but i admit i judged just a tiny bit... 😅
[Shane Hollander]
i know. i know you. saturday i'm driving down to ottawa to spend the day with u and dad.
gonna finish organizing my things here.
[Yuna ❤️]
deal! your dad sends a kiss and so do i 😙
Shane liked the last message with a heart, dropped the device, and went back to focusing on the meticulous organization of his desk. He grabbed a stack of polaroids and small metal clips, starting to attach the images to the wire grid panel screwed into the wall above his monitor. That was his visual anchor, the little reminder that he had a place in the world.
He clipped photos of him and Hayden in college, their faces exhausted under fluorescent light. Next, photos of him with Jackie. He carefully aligned some pictures from the day J.J. managed to sneak them into the official Montreal Metros locker room—without a shadow of a doubt, one of the happiest, most chaotic, and sensorily stimulating days of Shane's entire life. Finally, he centered a photograph of Yuna and David, the three of them smiling, bundled up in thick coats during a Christmas in Central Park, New York.
He was adjusting the alignment of the last photo when the wet sound of bare footsteps on the hardwood floor echoed down the hallway.
Shane glanced sideways, out of the corner of his eye, just on motion reflex.
Ilya had just gotten out of the shower and was walking into his own room. In the exact second the Russian crossed the doorframe, he pulled the towel from his waist quickly and casually.
For a terrible, unfortunate, and long half-second, the door still hadn't closed completely.
And Shane saw his ass.
Wow.
The metal clip slipped from Shane's fingers, dropping onto the desk.
Wow.
He blinked twice, trying to reset his optic nerve.
Wow...
Shane's clinical brain went into emergency mode, desperately trying to regain control through logic. He reasoned that, in order to have that absurd muscle density and symmetry, Ilya absolutely needed to have a strict routine of weighted squats and very specific hypertrophy training aimed at the glutes. It was just basic anatomy. Physiology. A medical fact.
But rationality failed miserably to contain the heat that crept up his neck when his eyes registered one last detail before the door shut definitively.
Right below the Russian's hip, etched in black and red ink, was a vertical tattoo in a rustic typography. The word LOSER, but with the letter "S" roughly scribbled out, replaced by a red "V" over it.
LOVER.
[...]
Ilya threw his leather jacket over the chair behind the reception desk and leaned over the computer screen, checking the night's schedule. Two clients. The first would be a quick, sentimental piece; the second, something more time-consuming.
"What's up, Bratva," Jazz appeared from the back hallway. She dried her hands on a paper towel, which she tossed with surgical precision into the trash can behind the counter. "Did you get any sleep? Wasn't your new roommate arriving today?"
"He arrive," Ilya replied, stepping out from behind the counter and walking to his station.
He put on a pair of black nitrile gloves and began the almost sacred ritual of prepping the massage table, spraying green soap and alcohol before isolating everything with plastic wrap. Jazz leaned against the partition, ready for gossip.
The studio was immersed in its natural ecosystem: well-directed lights, indie music playing on the speakers, and the continuous, high-pitched buzz of two tattoo machines at work. Two stations to the left, Marco was focused on the dense shading of a lion's mane on a client's calf. More to the center, Presley carefully applied the fine stencil of a dragonfly to a girl's ribcage.
"Guy is bizarrely quiet. Stays to himself," Ilya continued, stretching the plastic over the metal counter. "Walks around house like spirit. Make no noise."
"Who?" Marco asked, looking up for a second. His voice sounded muffled by the black mask over his face.
"His new roommate," Jazz updated the tattoo artist, and even Presley stopped what they were doing to pay attention. "So, Ilya? What's he like? Is it possible for him to be worse than that traitor Connors?"
"Connors trade me for pussy, that asshole. Bar is low," Ilya grumbled, cutting the plastic with a box cutter. "But this one cooks, so is already way above Connors in food chain."
A collective laugh echoed through the studio, mixing with the buzz of the machines.
"Don't know how to cook, Bratva?" Marco's client, a regular named Tyler, teased, turning his neck on the table to look at the Russian.
"Know how to make and make well are very different concepts, Ty," Ilya pointed out, spraying alcohol on the ink bottles he would use.
"That's exactly what she said," Presley and Marco fired off in unison. The fifth-grade joke drew laughs from everyone in the room.
"Idiots. Look here, I find his Instagram last night," Ilya pulled his phone from his pants pocket and swiped his thumb across the screen to unlock it.
"Dude, why don't you change that screen protector? You're going to cut your finger," Jazz scolded, peeking at the device.
Ilya just clicked his tongue dismissively, ignoring the spiderweb of cracked glass, and turned Shane's profile to the receptionist with long, colorful braids.
Jazz gasped. Her jaw dropped in a perfect dramatization, her hand covering her mouth.
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"Guys, what a hottie! Look at this man's jawline!" She snatched the phone from Ilya's hands and started a tour around the studio.
First, she stopped at Presley's station.
"Wow, Rozy... Even I, who hate human interaction, have to admit, the guy is a showstopper," Presley evaluated, impressed. "Doesn't he want to get some art done? I have room in my schedule for a fineline piece."
"Let me see that," Marco asked, moving the machine away from the client's skin and pulling down his protective mask. The bald, heavily tattooed man arched his eyebrows upon seeing the photo. "Mmhmm! Always loved some Asian cuisine."
"Check it out, Ty," Jazz turned the screen to the client on the table.
Tyler squinted, visibly trying to find the safest possible answer.
"A very... handsome young man. Indeed. A respectable physique."
"Ugh. Straight guys are so terrified of complimenting another man and sounding gay," Jazz rolled her eyes and handed the device back to Ilya, who had already finished setting up his station. "But seriously, if this cutie wants a watercolor tattoo, I'll do it for free."
"I will ask. If he wants, I offer one of you to do intimate tattoo on him, how about it?" Ilya gave a wicked smile.
Jazz and Presley returned equally diabolical smiles.
"You and Boodram are the only ones certified for intimate piercing and tattooing here, you piece of shit. Don't even start with that," Marco cut in, pulling his mask back up.
Like a Swiss watch, the nine-thirty client walked through the door. It was a simple, quick, and meaningful job. The guy had brought a photo of the paw print of Chiron, the puppy he had just adopted. Ilya transformed the photo into the exact stencil of the paw and transferred it to the client's forearm. Forty minutes and some black lines later, the plastic bandage was placed, and an emotional client walked out the door, emptying his wallet.
The schedule dictated that the next client would arrive at ten-thirty.
As soon as the doorbell rang, Ilya looked up while cleaning the table. It wasn't the woman described in the reservation name. It was a young man. Young, hitting his early twenties at most. From his slightly hunched posture, his still-softened features, and his vocal tone, Ilya read the situation in milliseconds. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jazz smiling broadly behind the reception desk, her eyes shining with that kind of pride and mutual admiration of someone who recognizes another walking the same path.
Ilya finished spraying the sanitizer and walked to the front.
"Hey. Ten-thirty client?" he asked, his tone casual and welcoming.
"That's me." The boy extended his hand. His voice wavered slightly, still feeling out the new texture thickened by hormones. "I... I made the reservation during that crazy week when I was running around getting the paperwork to rectify my documents. Completely forgot to call here to update the file."
"No problem. Happens all the time," Ilya replied immediately, shaking his hand firmly, without making a big deal out of the revelation. "And what we call you, then?"
"Luca." The blonde raised his chin. The firmness with which he pronounced his own name shone through.
"Alright, Luca. Your parents know you are here? Because if you are minor, I need signed paper with notarized signature and all that shit," Ilya joked, turning his back and motioning for the boy to follow him to the station.
Luca let out a nervous laugh that broke the tension in his shoulders.
"Everyone says I look younger, but I swear I'm nineteen." He patted his pants pocket. "I can show you my new ID to prove it. Got it last month. Honestly, I actually hope people ask for my ID nowadays, just so I can have the pleasure of showing my name on it."
Ilya laughed, shaking his head in understanding as he put on a new pair of gloves.
"Very fair. Sit there, Luca. What we do today?" The Russian made sure to anchor the name in the conversation again, noticing how the boy's eyes subtly lit up.
Luca sat on the edge of the table. The confidence he had suddenly gathered wavered. He sighed, and his hands, in an almost automatic defensive motion, went up to cover his chest.
"I... I wanted to cover the scars. From the surgery."
Ilya stopped setting up the machine. He didn't look away, just nodded slowly, giving the boy the time he needed.
"You sure?" the tattoo artist asked, his deep voice dropping an octave, serious and professional. Luca forced his head up, his eyes meeting the Russian's, and nodded. "Okey. What you have in mind? Blackwork? Heavy Old School? Geometric pattern?"
"The scars aren't hypertrophic, but they are very red because I'm so pale... it bothers me a lot in the mirror," Luca confessed, the agony clear in the crease between his eyebrows.
"Jazz?" Ilya called without looking back. "Bring your reference book for chest cover-ups, please?"
Jazz was already halfway there, the heavy leather binder against her chest. Luca finally noticed the tall woman, with stunning features and a maternal gaze, who approached. Jazz gave a sly smile and winked one of her eyes.
"Are you really nineteen, kid?" she asked as she placed the binder on his lap. Luca nodded. "Ugh, so jealous. My dream. I was only able to start taking my blockers at that age."
"I was really lucky. My parents put their foot down and fought alongside me so I could get the treatment early." Luca pressed his lips together, the shy smile returning. He looked at her name tag. "Was it hell for you to choose a name too?"
"I felt like I was giving birth to and baptizing myself!" Jazz gestured, making Luca laugh. "Look, I didn't hate my birth name, because I knew my mom had chosen it with a lot of love, but it didn't belong to me. Choosing my real name was the biggest cry for freedom I've ever let out in my life. I love who I am. Jazmin."
"It's a very beautiful flower," Luca pointed out, his voice soft.
Jazz lightly touched the boy's shoulder, her eyes shining in gratitude for the invisible validation they exchanged.
"Take look at the pages," Ilya intervened gently, tapping the cover of the binder on Luca's lap. "Have many styles of cover-up. See what matches the Luca that mirror will show tomorrow."
The next three hours were consumed by the continuous buzz of the machine and Ilya's absolute concentration. He managed to cover the bulk of the scars with solid, dark art. The fine detailing and white highlights would have to wait until the skin healed for a second session, but the initial result was already impressive.
When Ilya wiped away the excess ink with green soap for the last time and Luca finally walked over to the studio's full-length mirror, the expression of pure relief and the invisible weight falling off the boy's shoulders made the throbbing pain in the Russian's lower back worth it.
Minutes later, Luca walked through the glass door of the studio with a smile too big for his face, heading toward a gray sedan parked across the street.
"So young... Just a little baby discovering the world in the trans community," Jazz sighed, standing behind Ilya. She squeezed the tattoo artist's tense shoulders, giving him a quick massage. "Wow, I even feel like I'm lactating watching this."
"And I am ovulating," Ilya retorted in the same dramatic tone, without opening his eyes as he cracked his neck. The receptionist let out a loud laugh.
The doorbell rang again, but this time, Ilya didn't need to open his eyes to know who it was. The strong cherry perfume and the unmistakable sound of chunky-heeled boots announced her arrival.
"Let's work, suka?" The female voice sounded harsh, but laden with affection.
Ilya gave a half-smile and turned around. Svetlana was leaning against the inner doorframe, already wearing the tight black uniform of the nightclub where both would work the graveyard shift, located a few meters away, at the end of the street.
Svetlana wasn't just his cocktail-shaker colleague. She was his best friend since they were five years old. The girl who had agreed to the insanity of leaving Moscow to try making a living in America by his side. The same girl he shared an honors degree in Architecture with—which now gathered dust at the bottom of a drawer, since the job market had systematically rejected them. And, above all, the woman with whom he had forged a marriage in Montreal, a risky and bureaucratic sham that lasted the exact, meticulously calculated time needed for Ilya to secure the coveted permanent residency in Canada.
They were partners in crime and in life.
"Let's go," Ilya sighed, the lethargy of exhaustion already hitting. He pulled off his nitrile gloves, threw them in the medical waste bin, and grabbed the leather jacket Jazz was holding out to him. "See you tomorrow."
"See ya, boss," Jazz waved. Presley echoed the goodbye from their station, while helping Marco sanitize the floor.
As soon as they stepped onto the sidewalk, the freezing Montreal wind cut through their clothes, reminding Ilya that summer's days were numbered. He put on his jacket quickly, popped the collar, and threw a heavy arm around Svetlana's waist, pulling her close to share body heat as they walked down the dark street.
"How did it go with the new roommate?" Svetlana asked, her tongue switching to Russian with the fluidity of someone breathing.
"It was fine," Ilya replied in the same language, his raspy voice muffled by the wind. "He's quiet. A little weird, you know? Extremely organized and silent. Walks around the apartment without making a single sound, it's actually bizarre. When I went to the bathroom, I noticed he aligned all his toiletry bottles in the cabinet. And it's not just aligning them. They're all unscented. Neutral soaps, neutral creams. His razor even has a little plastic protective cover snapped onto it."
Svetlana let out a nasal laugh.
"A serial killer or a systematic virgin. Interesting."
"The thing is, he cooks, Sveta. And he cooks well." Ilya shrugged, as if that single detail canceled out all the other weirdness. "That alone is enough for me."
"From the picture you sent me yesterday, I don't doubt you'll be fucking him by next week," the redhead teased, making a graphic and obscene gesture with her free hand.
Ilya threw his head back, letting out a rough laugh that tore through the night.
"What? Are you going to tell me the unscented-soap handsome guy is straight?" she insisted.
"I have no idea. I've spent, at most, two hours with the guy since he stepped foot in that apartment. If he brings someone over to hook up, we'll find out which team he plays for."
Svetlana rolled her eyes, painted with dark eyeliner, and stopped in front of the nightclub's service door, crossing her arms.
"Ugh, the juiciest meat always lands on the vegan's plate," she grumbled. And then, without warning, she jabbed her index finger hard into Ilya's chest. "But if he's straight, I get first dibs. Consider yourself warned."
Ilya laughed, rubbing the spot where she had poked him, and pushed open the heavy metal door.
"All yours, girl."