Work Text:
Ilya has only been in Montreal for a week. McGill's dorms don't open until the end of August, so he's stuck living with a cousin of Svetlana's friend for the next month. It's not a bad situation. The man is kind, but generally uninterested in Ilya beyond the money he's paying for the privilege of sleeping on the couch. He doesn't even mind that Ilya feeds the stray cat who lives in the alley. Still, neither he nor Ilya cared to spend a day at Fierté Montreal with a stranger. So, Ilya wanders the crowds alone.
Being bisexual in Russia was always an exercise in subterfuge. Sasha was an option, of course, but rarely a good idea. It was much easier, safer, and smarter to spend his time with Svetlana. Up until she moved to America, at least. After that, it was better to just find some random girl for a night.
This celebration is the complete opposite of what he’s used to. The weather is moderately hot, with sun beating down on the crowds and turning skin rosy. Ilya has never seen so many rainbows in his life. It's like a rainbow glitter bomb exploded all over Rue Sainte-Catherine. Everywhere he looks, people are dancing and shouting and milling around.
He sees, for the first time in his life, a pierced and tattooed woman wearing a pink, purple, and blue flag as a cape. She's hand in hand with someone of indistinct gender wearing another flag that Ilya can't even identify; something with yellow and purple in it.
It's a weird feeling. He doesn't have a better way to describe it. People here are so open, so proud, living without the fear of persecution that he's used to. Some reflexive part of him wants to hide away or shout at them that this isn't safe. Except it is safe, or at least as safe as things get for people like them.
Walking around, Ilya feels occasional pressure behind his eyes. It happens when he sees a young boy holding a rainbow flag that's bigger than he is, as well as when Ilya spots two middle-aged men walking hand-in-hand. He has to clear his throat and swallow down the lump that has settled there. For once, he's out of his element at a party. It's not his fault, he tells himself, this is just a naturally overwhelming situation. New country. No Russian. More French than he's comfortable with. Men flirting with him openly. He's no blushing virgin, but back home the flirting happened in subtle glances and coded phrases, not overt once-overs and cheesy pick-up lines.
Despite his general discomfort, Ilya tries to lean into the excitement. He buys a blue, purple, and pink pin. Then one of the mini flags, which he sticks through a loop on his backpack for lack of anywhere better to put it. When someone asks if he wants glitter, he says yes and gets showered in it.
Then he sees something that just doesn't compute for a moment. A young teenager runs up to a middle aged man and embraces him. The man has dark hair that is threaded with silver and a build that suggests he might once have been an athlete and has kept in shape. That, or he's just into going to the gym. He wraps his arms around the kid — who really does appear to be a complete stranger — and lowers his head to speak in their ear.
When the kid pulls away, they're wiping tears from their face, but absolutely beaming at the man. They run towards Ilya and the man turns to wave, watching them go. His shirt says "FREE DAD HUGS" in big, rainbow letters. When he turns around again, Ilya reads the back.
"Not everyone has a dad they can hug. I'll be yours for today!"
Ilya is knocked breathless. He stands still, the crowd parting around him, as it hits him that not every dad is like his. That's something he knew, obviously, but this cheerful man in a rainbow shirt offering hugs is just so far removed from Ilya's own father that it's hard to comprehend.
And honestly? He could really use a hug.
Ilya walks over before he can think better of it.
"Excuse me," he says. The man turns around with an almost comical level of excitement and greets Ilya with a grin.
"Hi! Need a hug?" he offers immediately. Ilya, struck speechless, can only nod.
The man doesn't hesitate to step forward and wrap his arms around Ilya, pulling him in close. Ilya's so startled by it that it takes him a second to return the hug. He hasn't been held like this since he was twelve. Six years. In fact, he can hardly remember a time his father has touched him, unless it was to cause pain. Tears spring to his eyes and he's helpless to stop them. It feels like minutes before they part, but it's likely only a couple of seconds.
"Sorry," Ilya says, sniffing and wiping his face, but the man shakes his head immediately.
"No need to apologize, son. It's what I'm here for," he says with an understanding smile. "Are you far from home?"
And isn't that a question? There's no home for him in Russia, not anymore, not after he snubbed his father by moving to Canada for school. Still, a couch in a stranger's apartment isn't a home, and the dorm won't be either. He opens his mouth to answer, but he struggles for a word.
"Yes," he finally settles on. By that time, though, the man's warm smile has morphed into something sadder.
"I'm David," the man offers.
"Ilya."
"Nice to meet you, Ilya," David replies. "Where are you from?"
"Russia. Moved here last week," Ilya says.
"Oh, that's interesting! What brings you to Montreal?"
"Ah, school. I go to McGill. Or, I will go," Ilya explains in stilted English and David brightens immediately.
"I went to McGill! It's a great school, I'm sure you'll love it. My son is starting there this year, too!" David says.
"Maybe we will be classmates," Ilya says, despite the odds being extremely low.
"Maybe! I know it's a big school, but the campus world is smaller than you'd think," David says, leaning in and nudging Ilya slightly in a strange, friendly sort of way. As if they're in on a joke together. Ilya isn't sure what to say, but he doesn't have to worry about it. Someone else speaks instead.
"Dad, are you talking to people about me again?" asks a voice from behind David.
Ilya glances past David and finds himself frozen. Approaching them is the most beautiful man that Ilya has ever seen. A few inches shorter than Ilya is, maybe, and he's standing with a hand on his hip. He’s also wearing the most bland outfit Ilya has seen all day. Shorts that Ilya wishes were an inch or two shorter, a white undershirt, and an open button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up in a way that emphasizes his muscles.
"Shane, this is Ilya!" David says, patting Ilya on the arm. "Ilya, this is my son, Shane."
Shane's dark hair is straight and short. Unstyled, but he makes it work. His expression is a bit pinched. Then there are the freckles. They stand out in the summer sun like constellations on his face. And his eyes. Oh, his eyes are dark brown and beautiful, and they widen slightly when they meet Ilya's gaze.
"Nice to meet you," Shane says with a tight smile and holds his hand out to shake. He's adorable. Ilya reaches out and gives his hand a firm shake, flashing him his most dazzling grin.
"Nice to meet you too. Your dad says we might be classmates," Ilya replies.
"Oh, you're going to McGill too?" Shane says, but Ilya can tell that there's a strained politeness to it.
Shane's eyes drop to Ilya's lips. Interesting.
"That's nice. Weren't we just saying that we wish you knew more people around campus?" a woman next to Shane pipes up with a smile. Ilya is a little embarrassed to realize that he didn't even notice her standing there.
"Mom," Shane says warningly, but she ignores him entirely and holds out one slender hand for Ilya to shake. When he does, he's surprised by her strength.
"Yuna Hollander, Shane's mother. What's your name?" she asks politely.
"Ilya Rozanov," he replies, giving his last name only because she did.
"Ilya, we were just about to grab a bite to eat. You should come with us," Yuna suggests. Shane's head whips to the side and he stares, wide-eyed, at his mother.
"Yes, it would be great for you both to have a friendly face on campus, don't you think?" David asks, oblivious to the flush creeping across his son's freckled cheeks.
Ilya searches Shane's face. He looks mortified by his parents, but he's also not subtle. His eyes keep catching on Ilya's lips and muscular arms. Under normal circumstances he would never consider this, but if it gives him a chance to talk with this gorgeous man? Ilya would happily allow this cheerful Canadian couple to kidnap him.
"Yes, would be fun," Ilya agrees and relishes in the momentary glare Shane gives him.
"So much fun," Shane echoes sarcastically.
"It'll be a nice chance for you to get to know each other," Yuna says, elbowing Shane lightly.
Shane meets Ilya's eyes again for only a split second before he looks away again. His cheeks get redder.
"Yeah, alright. Let's go, then. I'm starving," Shane says.
The Hollander parents start walking toward a nearby restaurant, leaving Shane to walk with Ilya. Ilya leans a little closer.
"If you want me to leave, I will," he says just loud enough for Shane to hear.
"No, it's fine. My parents like to adopt strays," Shane says flatly.
Ilya blinks a few times as he parses the English. Strays. Like animals without a home. A slow grin spreads across his face. Apparently Shane isn't just a pretty face, he's got a bit of bite to him too.
"You should not feed strays, you know," Ilya says as they approach the restaurant.
Shane looks unimpressed. "Oh?"
"Yes," Ilya insists, grin wider than ever. "If you feed them, they come back.”