Chapter Text
“…And while I am aware that you are here on a sports scholarship, Mr. Rozanov, I urge you to take a stronger interest in your academic pursuits. I would strongly advise fixing your lack of-“
Ilya glanced up at the ostentatious analog clock on the wall of his academic advisor’s office. The man had been rambling on for half an hour now, and while Ilya had perfected looking chastised over the years, excelling in the perfect nodding-your-head-and-looking-abashedly-down-at-your-hands ratio, even he was getting tired of the performance.
His mind tracked off, thinking about whether he would go to the training gym at the rink or maybe make use of the membership gym that was a little closer to this faculty building. Ilya wasn’t a member there, but they had a pay-by-day policy with a gracious student discount, so it might make sense. Ah, but his gym bag was already at the one at the ice rink.
Upon hearing his professor clear his throat, his head snapped back up from his lap. From the expectant look, Ilya briefly panicked before deciding to just go with something that always worked.
“I understand,” he said solemnly, nodding his head heavily.
When the professor didn’t look too convinced, he threw in his well-practiced “I apologize.” He relaxed back into his seat when the lines on the professor's face smoothed over, the man nodding to himself.
“Might I suggest tutoring? I have a student who has some experience in that regard. They haven’t taken on any new students in a while, but well, I think with you there’d be no issues,” the professor went on, chuckling to himself afterwards. Ilya was a bit confused about what he meant with that. He didn’t dwell on it though, too appalled by the idea of spending any of his free time on fucking math.
It’s not like he needed to excel in his perfunctory Business major anyways. He was here to excel at hockey, like he had done all his life. And either he’d become a professional player or-
Well. Anything as long as it didn’t have him going back to Russia.
The thought made him sober up immediately. Maybe he’d take the offer on tutoring up after all. Plus, that old man had finally admitted himself that Ilya wasn’t hopeless, just that he didn’t study enough to pass the assignments, which was true. A few good midterms and he’d be right on track.
So fine, Ilya conceded and agreed to meet up with some nerd in the library “just to see how it goes.”
And if it didn’t work out, Ilya could always ask around and get some answer sheets from one of his friends or hookups or his friends' hookups. The athletes were always taken care of.
Only did he hear a voice in his head that sounded a little too much like his father telling him he was lazy, useless, and shameful, which made him reserve that as the last option.
After that meeting, he desperately needed a cigarette. And maybe more than the gym.
He quickly sent a text to a girl he had hooked up with last Saturday at a party. She had been eager and said she lived near campus so it would be easy. When she replied with a thumbs-up and kiss emoji followed by a suggestive selfie, he nodded to himself, not feeling a particular sense of excitement but mere satisfaction, as if he completed a simple business transaction. In a way, that’s all it was. He’s horny, she’s hot. The end.
He pointedly ignored the unanswered messages from his brother, the preview showing enough of the insults hurled at him to make him consider finally archiving the chat he had already muted.
Instead, he pocketed his phone and took a long drag from his cigarette, leaning his head against the ivory-covered brick facade of the faculty building, closing his eyes and craning his neck side to side. He was still a bit sore from practice yesterday.
“Hi. Excuse me?”
He groaned internally at the interruption by the timid voice, inhaling to brace himself against whoever wanted something from him now. He opened his eyes and rolled his head in the direction of the speaker, expecting to find a baby-faced freshman asking for directions.
Pretty.
It was simple, but it was his first thought upon seeing him. Followed by Freckles. красивый .
Ilya had met plenty of beautiful people in his life, but he couldn’t recall a time when someone had ever genuinely taken his breath away. Until now.
He took in the stranger's features one by one. The high cheekbones with those gorgeous freckles, the straight nose, the wonderfully curled lips stretched out into a shy smile, and the bright clear skin were all highlighted by the thick glossy black hair that hung clumsily across his forehead.
And god, those deep brown eyes, looking at him so curiously.
Ilya must have been staring for too long without saying anything as the beautiful man shuffled anxiously, frowning down at his feet before uneasily running his eyes back up Ilya’s form.
At the look of disapproval that graced the stranger’s face, a thrill of excitement shot through Ilyas's entire body, almost lifting him off the wall and swaying him fortoward the beautiful man.
“Yes?” he wanted to say. Instead, a garbled noise of confusion escaped him.
What the hell?
The stranger's frown relaxed at finally getting a response from Ilya, and he smiled shyly, looking down to his feet again.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. That smile.
When he looked back up again, he chuckled awkwardly, taking a step toward Ilya.
“Ilya Rozanov, right?” he said, his hand lifting his hand useleslly before quickly letting it fall to his side as if unsure wether to reach out or not.
Ilya had never liked how Americans said his name. It felt foreign, without the familiar intonation of his homeland. He preferred to be called by his last name, and hockey culture thankfully took care of that. Only a few people here would call him by his first name, usually in an attempt to get close, which made Ilya instantly distance himself.
Hearing the freckled man say his name, however, caused nothing but pleasure to course through him. He instantly wanted him to say it again.
“I've seen you play in the tournament against Havard, you’re an awesome player to watch,” he went on, shuffling another step toward Ilya.
So a fan, he thought with delight. Ilya got that often, and it instantly made him relax a bit. Yes, the stranger was perhaps the most beautiful person he had seen in his life, instantly taking his breath away and apparently stealing all the useful fucking English from his head, but if he was one of Ilya’s admirers, he could work with that. It brought him the upper hand in the social interaction, in a way, which for once in his life he felt like he desperately needed.
He smirked, nodding his head in acknowledgement at the compliment. He let his eyes sweep over the stranger’s form, noting his strong build and the array of thick leather bound books he carried under his arm, showing off his bicep even through the bulky grey sweatshirt with their university logo on top. From his build, he was definitely a sports guy. Maybe even another athlete. Ilya just didn’t know many athletes who carried around that many old-looking, heavy books.
“I just wanted to say…um-”
Oh.
Yes.
At last, the nervousness, the way his eyes roamed over Ilya’s form as if he couldn't look away but at the same time never dared to fully meet his gaze, and the awkward chuckling made sense. The beautiful guy was about to ask him out.
Ilya’s smirk grew, and he cocked his head to the side, muttering a simple “Hm?” to encourage him. The noise made the boy's eyes snap up to him, and Ilya used the opportunity to deliberately place his cigarette between his lips, taking a long drag from it and relishing in the way the gorgeous guy's eyes were now glued to his mouth. He did his best to keep appearing nonchalant, fighting the urge to let his smile stretch out with the cigarette still in his mouth.
“-that you’re really not supposed to smoke here,” the stranger continued, his voice rising a bit in an apologetic tone.
Cigarette still in mouth Ilya stopped mid-inhale, frowning at the words he just heard. The guy just kept looking at him, adorable frown back on his face but this time biting his lip as well.
Ilya’s mind was still processing the unexpected direction the interaction had suddenly taken when, for the first time since he had been fucking 13 years old and first tried a cigarette, he forgot to exhale.
He instantly had to cough, which took him by surprise, making him double over before he swiftly got a hold of himself. When he looked back at Freckles, he looked alarmed, one hand raised mid-air as if to reach out for Ilya, but instead hovering awkwardly in the air.
“Oh shit, I’m sorrry. It’s just…” he trailed off before pointing to something, Ilya’s head following the direction. A bit off to their side was a big sign near the door that read “No Smoking In Front of The Building” which Ilya had actively chosen to ignore.
He furrowed his brows, his mouth falling open as he slowly turned his back towards the stranger. Surely this wasn’t what he had meant?
“S-Sorryyyyyyy,” the boy winced awkwardly, slowly lowering his hand and clutching it into a fist by his side, releasing it once before clutching it tight again.
Ilya just blinked at him, feeling an unfamiliar pang of rejection. And maybe even a bit of embarrassment.
“Yup, so…yeah,” the stranger stumbled on, shifting his weight on his feet. He didn’t seem to know what to do with the hand that wasn’t holding his books, clenching and unclenching it once more before promptly stuffing it into the front pocket of his hoodie.
“I should go, so, um, it was nice to meet you. Please don’t smoke here again,” he said earnestly, already tracking off towards the building’s entrance.
Ilya was still reeling from his inner turmoil when the boy passed by him, walking by closer than was strictly necessary and shooting him a painfully obvious glance through those dark lashes.
“What is your name?” Ilya quickly called out when he was almost by the door, his voice still rough from the coughing and making his accent more pronounced.
The stranger stopped in his tracks, as if cemented to the spot by Ilya’s words before slowly turning his head towards him. Ilya was helpless to smile at the action, gaining back a bit of confidence. Even if he hadn’t asked him out directly, his eyes were terrible at disguising his interest.
“Oh. Shane. Shane Hollander,” the boy said. He inhaled deeply but when their gazes finally locked, he appeared to completely cease breathing.
At the eye contact, Ilya sensed a shift within him. If he thought he was simply curious or attracted before, nothing could have prepared him for the electricity he felt when he was finally able to look into the other's eyes directly.
He was enamored.
And for the first time in his life, he instantly wanted to know more, everything, about someone instead of simply acting on whatever impulse got stirred up by meeting them.
“Nice to meet you too, Shane Hollander," he eventually purred, letting the syllabus drag out and rolling the ‘r’ purposefully, testing the name out in his mouth.
The corners of that wonderful mouth began twitching before finally lifting up into another coy smile, and Ilya was delighted at being the cause of such a reaction. He instantly wanted to coax many, many more reactions out of the boy.
Without saying more, Hollander took two large steps forward, reaching out his hand to Ilya.
Who shakes hands like old men? That’s fucking hilarious. And adorable.
I’m so fucked.
Without breaking their gaze, Ilya deliberately throws the cigarette on the ground, stamping it out before gently turning towards him, intending to prolong the moment as long as possible. He watches Hollander's eyes follow the cigarette to the ground, his mouth opening in complaint, but when they return to Ilya, he quickly shuts his mouth, swallowing his words.
Finally, he takes Hollander’s hand, letting his fingertips touch the other’s before smoothly gliding over his fingers and then his palm, wanting to feel every ripple, every callous on him.
Hollander’s eyes don’t leave his, but his smile falls slightly and his chest rises quickly. "A beautiful reaction," Ilya mentally praised him.
While they shook hands, Ilya didn't know how he was ever meant to let go, his gaze fixed on the other's face and finally drinking him in up close. He was certain that those freckles would haunt him.
When Ilya’s eyes landed on his lips, Hollander suddenly jerked his hand away from him as if burned.
“I should go,” he quickly rushed out, promptly shoving his hand back into the safety of his hoodie.
For a moment, Ilya worried that he had done something wrong. But then he couldn't help but smile once again as Hollander's eyes shifted from his left to his right eye before involuntarily lowering his gaze down to Ilya’s lips and releasing a shaky exhale.
Suddenly, Hollander's gaze snapped back up to his and he muttered a brief “See you around” before abruptly spinning around and dashing inside the building.
Ilya remained cemented on the spot, gazing at the door long after he had left.
He wanted him. Wanted to talk to him more. Wanted to touch him and hold him down and see what else he could make him blush about. He wanted him more than he had ever wanted anyone, perhaps and maybe the thought should have scared him. Instead, it left him with an intoxicating rush of anticipation. He had always loved the thrill of the chase, after all. Of going after something he probably wasn't supposed to.
Ilya had completely fumbled the interaction, barely remembering any English beyond the words "freckles," "beautiful," and his oh-so-eloquent “What is your name?” instead of asking for something useful, like his number. But oh well. Not to bust his own horn, or whatever the expression was, but he was Ilya Rozanov. If people on this campus didn’t know him, they knew of him. It shouldn’t take too long to find him again.
And until then, Ilya would still have fun as usual.
It was only a few hours later when he was zipping his pants back up in Stacey’s - or was it Lacy’s ? - dorm room.
The sex had been…okay. Somehow, Ilya had been too in his head through it. Which felt counterproductive since he usually participated in casual sex to get him out of his head.
Yet when he had pulled back from kissing her, he had felt a strange sense of disappointment upon seeing her unblemished skin, devoid of any markings. Any freckles.
And when he was caressing her slim thighs as they wrapped around him, he couldn’t help but wish for his hands to trace along thick muscles instead.
From the way Stacey - or Lacy - lounged happily on the bed, she hadn’t noticed. Ilya always made sure to be thoughtful in that regard anyway.
He looked around for his shirt he had discarded aimlessly earlier, finding it rumpled on the desk. He reached for it, revealing a mess of notes and sticky tabs plastered over her desk, which amused him. Then his gaze got stuck on something.
Thick inbound leather books.
He inhaled deeply, his eyes seemingly stuck on them and trying to make out the lettering on the spines.
“See something you like?” Stacey slash Lacy laughed on the bed. Ilya frowned at her before looking back to her desk. Over the books, different Polaroids of her and some hot friend were plastered on the wall, lots of bikini shots from some summer vacation.
He felt a bit embarrassed at her assumption and even more so at himself for not noticing them, instead his mind choosing to fixate on some stupid books. And immediately thinking of those freckles again. Fuck, they really wouldn’t let him go.
Ilya played it off and laughed at her remark to imitate agreement. Then, he pretended to let his eyes linger on the photos appreciatively before slowly letting them roam over the rest of the desk.
He raised his eyebrows at the books, pretending to have just discovered them before pointing at them.
“What do you study again?” he casually asked.
Usually, he tried to show as little interest in the personal lives of the people he hooked up with as possible, unless he knew they were going to be a more regular thing, like Svetlana. It wasn’t that he thought they weren’t interesting, it was usually quite the opposite, but he wasn’t looking for anything serious, and too many questions sometimes implied such interest in something more. He didn’t like leading people on.
However, one innocent question wouldn’t hurt her. And if she texted again after this, Ilya was sure she’d get the message eventually if he simply didn’t reply.
“I’m a nursing major. Those are my roommate’s. She’s pre-law. Their textbooks weigh like a ton,” she sighed.
“Ah, hm," Ilya replied absentmindedly. He fiddled with his shirt before pulling it on.
He should just let it go. There was no point in digging deeper. He’d see him again, one way or another. He should just get out and finally get it over with.
“Does your friend know a Shane Hollander?” he blurted out before he could help himself.
What the fuck.
Ilya didn’t dare look at her reaction to see if she found it odd, feigning innocence by walking to the door to grab his shoes.
On the bed, Stacey laughed brightly, which made Ilyas's head snap back to her.
“Oh, don’t get me started on the Shane Hollander,” she giggled.
She had a nice laugh. Ilya remembered now why he had been drawn to her. Smirking, he walked back over to her, sitting on the edge of the bed. He gently brushed some hair out of her face before placing his hand next to her head, making her smile up at him.
She really was pretty. Maybe she could become a more regular thing after all. The mediocre sex just now had been mostly Ilyas's fault anyhow.
At least that’s what he told himself. Admitting to himself that he was lingering to get more information on the pretty freckled boy felt like too…much, all of the sudden.
“Oh? What about him?” he inquired.
She playfully rolled her eyes before sighing.
“He’s also pre-law and some genuis or something. Darling of the faculty. And obviously extremely gorgeous,”
Ilya could confirm.
“He was in some study group with her and kept helping her out with things so of course she falls madly in love with him. I had to hear about him for weeks,” she groans, dramatically throwing her head back into the pillow. Ilya chuckled, though something in his chest felt tight.
He wasn’t…jealous. There was just no way. He had barely just met the guy.
“She kept putting the moves on him, but nothing worked. He just didn’t reciprocate. After a while, it’s clear that he’s just not that into her. And apparently she wasn't the only one,” she continued conspiratorially, leaning in a bit. Trust a nursing major to deliver good gossip, he thought, smiling to himself at all the information he was receiving.
“Oh?” Ilya drawled, letting his hand wander over her exposed thigh.
“Yeah, a bunch of girls from their major were into him. Or are. He’s like, the definition of a nice guy. And not one of those cringe ‘nice guys finish last’ types but an actual, sweet nice guy."
Ilya had no idea what she meant, so he just nodded casually, urging her to go on.
“But he never shows any interest in any of them. Can’t even say he leads them on; he just acts like that with anybody, apparently," she shrugged.
By the time he had kissed Stacey goodbye (a peck that incited no spark, Ilya abandoning the idea of putting her on his roster altogether) and left her dorm, he was grinning like a shark.
A name, a major, and apparently no interest in beautiful girls that threw themselves at him.
Ilya could work with that.