âI donât mind,â Shane says, hovering awkwardly in the doorway, âUm. You staying over. I mean, obviously. Iâd be an asshole to kick you out.â
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 heâs actually trying to say. In anyone else it would be unbearable, but Ilya is finding it harder and harder to begrudge Shane anything.
Itâs a scary thought, so Ilya schools his expression into something close to nonchalance, and shrugs. His bare shoulders brush the fabric of Shaneâs fancy headboard. âIf you want me to stay, I stay. If not, I go home. Iâm not homeless, Hollander, I have my own bed.â
All of Shaneâs peculiarities, all of his strange quirks and habits, have made a home in the back of Ilyaâs mind. The old-fashioned alarm clock on the nightstand so he doesnât have his phone around the bed, now blinking just past 5AM. The dimmer switch in every room because he hates overheard lights, the way heâll transfer $500 to Ilyaâs checking account every Friday because arenât college students supposed to have fun on Fridays?
Itâs 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.
âI know youâre not homeless,â Shane scoffs, but itâs not mean, or mocking; if anything it sounds closer to fond, which only adds to the creeping, sickly feeling of anxiety growing in Ilyaâs chest. âThereâs a keycard on the counter in the kitchen, and you know the door code, so come and go as you want while Iâm gone.â
âYou can be an asshole,â Ilya says, biting down on the urge to snap at him. Itâs not Shaneâs fault if heâs 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. âYou barely know me, Hollander. You shouldnât let strangers just come in and out of your apartment.â
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 heâs dealing with, here, and why the kindness and the blushing and the thoughtful gestures arenât necessary, or deserved.
âYou have finals next week, right?â 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 heâs worried about, because theyâre the classes in which his grade is the lowest. Probably because he goes straight from hockey practice to class, and heâs usually exhausted by then. Shane keeps talking, pulling his jacket on and pulling Ilya from his spiralling thoughts. âItâs a quiet place to study. Housekeeping will keep kitchen stocked, so, yâknow. You can help yourself.â
Itâs fucking obscene. Shane Hollander is the captain of a Stanley Cup winning NHL team, and theyâre headed to the playoffs in a month, and heâs wasting his fucking mental space on Ilyaâs finals and his practice schedule and the fucking quality of his study space.




















