¯\_(ツ)_/¯

“I don’t mind,” Shane says, hovering awkwardly in the doorway, “Um. You staying over. I mean, obviously. I’d be an asshole to kick you out.”

Ilya is used to him, by now; the way it can sometimes take a few seconds or minutes for Shane to get to the fucking point, mincing his words and dancing around whatever it is he’s actually trying to say. In anyone else it would be unbearable, but Ilya is finding it harder and harder to begrudge Shane anything.

It’s a scary thought, so Ilya schools his expression into something close to nonchalance, and shrugs. His bare shoulders brush the fabric of Shane’s fancy headboard. “If you want me to stay, I stay. If not, I go home. I’m not homeless, Hollander, I have my own bed.”

All of Shane’s peculiarities, all of his strange quirks and habits, have made a home in the back of Ilya’s mind. The old-fashioned alarm clock on the nightstand so he doesn’t have his phone around the bed, now blinking just past 5AM. The dimmer switch in every room because he hates overheard lights, the way he’ll transfer $500 to Ilya’s checking account every Friday because aren’t college students supposed to have fun on Fridays?

It’s Saturday morning, now. Shane is pulling a T-shirt over his head, sweats to cover the hickeys on the inside of his thighs. Ilya blinks once, twice, then looks away.

“I know you’re not homeless,” Shane scoffs, but it’s not mean, or mocking; if anything it sounds closer to fond, which only adds to the creeping, sickly feeling of anxiety growing in Ilya’s chest. “There’s a keycard on the counter in the kitchen, and you know the door code, so come and go as you want while I’m gone.”

“You can be an asshole,” Ilya says, biting down on the urge to snap at him. It’s not Shane’s fault if he’s never had this kind of arrangement before, not his fault if he thinks he has to be kind and charming for Ilya to sleep with him. “You barely know me, Hollander. You shouldn’t let strangers just come in and out of your apartment.”

Shane shrugs again, seemingly unwilling to take the bait. The more he resists, the more Ilya feels the itch, the tickle under his skin begging him to pick a fight. A big one. An excuse to say awful, hurtful things; maybe then Shane will understand who he’s dealing with, here, and why the kindness and the blushing and the thoughtful gestures aren’t necessary, or deserved.

“You have finals next week, right?” Shane asks, rhetorical, because Ilya saw it marked on his fucking calendar. His physical fucking calendar. ILYA - SMALL ANIMAL DENTISTRY FINAL on Tuesday, and ILYA - DIAGNOSTIC IMAGING FINAL on Friday. He has more, obviously, but those are the two he mentioned to Shane. The ones he’s worried about, because they’re the classes in which his grade is the lowest. Probably because he goes straight from hockey practice to class, and he’s usually exhausted by then. Shane keeps talking, pulling his jacket on and pulling Ilya from his spiralling thoughts. “It’s a quiet place to study. Housekeeping will keep kitchen stocked, so, y’know. You can help yourself.”

It’s fucking obscene. Shane Hollander is the captain of a Stanley Cup winning NHL team, and they’re headed to the playoffs in a month, and he’s wasting his fucking mental space on Ilya’s finals and his practice schedule and the fucking quality of his study space.

ALSO I'M NOT DONE because can you imagine being the poor fuckers who have to be their roomies on roadies? Hayden and Cliff have to get used to sharing space with an extra codependent bestie on the other end of a nightly phone call

Hayden is at the club getting nagging texts from an overprotective Russian to "go get him from the bathroom right now, Pike, I told you he's a lightweight and now he's calling me about how he can't feel his feet and he needs his feet to skate!"

Cliff gets secondhand critique because "Hollander agrees with me you could've made that goal against Toronto if you're a little less obvious when you feint, Marley"

Pls. do not re-post/reupload or use outside of tumblr without my permission.

Colored version: Link

WIP: Link