Chapter Text
September 2010
Freshman Year Rush Week
_____________________
Shane is vibrating.
Not visibly. No one looking at him would notice anything wrong. His shoulders are squared, posture straight from years of hockey drills and preemptive media training he never asked for.
But under his skin, everything hums too loud.
Caldwell University isnt new to him. Recruiting visits, campus tours, charity showcases in buildings he now walks past without thinking. He knows the layout, the shortcuts, and how the light hits the quad differently in September than it did in June. Ann Arbor, however, is still learning him back.
His dad went here. His dads dad went here. Its familiar.
Three generations of Hollanders had crossed into the states for this school. Shane had always been the fourth.
And in some way, thats the problem.
Because nothing about this feels familiar anymore.
Rush week or hell week, depending on who you ask has turned campus into something unrecognizable. Music spills out of the houses along Greek Row, bass thuds through the brisk autumn air. Freshmen cluster in nervous groups on the sidewalk, laughing too loudly, adjusting collars, trying desperately to look like they belong.
Its too many voices, too many smells, and way too many variables.
Shane presses his thumb into the seam of his sleeve and focuses on breathing.
In through the nose for four. Hold a sec. Out through the mouth for four.
Somehow that helps.
The Delta Kappa Phi house glows at the end of the street, with warm light splayed across the lawn. Shane has known the house his whole life. From alumni barbecues, to charity events, to fundraisers where men with greying hair clapped him proudly on the back and told him hed be run the place someday.
His fathers name still lives in the house like a ghost.
Hollander.
Its the first thing people know about him.
A guy further up the line glances back, then does a double take.
Fuck bro, he whispers to his friend. Thats Shane Hollander.
The reaction spreads quietly through the line subtle shifts, murmurs passed shoulder to shoulder, people straightening when they realize someone important is standing behind them.
Shane pretends not to notice.
Off to the left of him, someone loitering on the front steps leans close to another rushee, whispering in a thick French-Canadian accent, voice low but not nearly low enough.
Do Everything Daves kid? The hockey player? Holy balls.
Shane hears it anyway. He always does.
His mouth pulls into an automatic, polite smile he doesnt entirely mean, eyes fixed forward as if he hasnt understood a word. He adjusts the strap of his backpack, shifts his weight, inches forward with the line.
The gravel crunching under his Reeboks.
He keeps his expression pleasant, doing his best to appear approachable.
As if this is normal.
Like he isnt already known before hes said a single thing.
Technically, he doesnt even need to be here.
His bid to Delta Kappa Phi has been inevitable since before orientation started. Legacy status. Hockey recruit. His last names framed on the wall inside next to championships and alumni plaques.
Still.
Rules are rules.
Everyone rushes.
So Shane rushes.
***
The line moves forward slowly.
Someone passes him on the sidewalk instead of joining the line right away, and the smell hits first. The sharp unmistakable smell of cigarettes.
Shane wrinkles his nose automatically before he even looks up.
When he does, he recognizes him immediately.
The whispers about this guy had started about two weeks ago. The Russian exchange recruit, the one scouts were already talking about. An eighteen-year-old point guard with hands too fast for junior leagues and a temper coaches couldnt quite control.
Young Russian Basketball Phenom.
Ilya Rozanov.
Ilya walks like the sidewalk belongs to him.
Deep brondish curls peek out from under his wool beanie. His jacket half-zipped despite the weather. He stops near the line, scanning the house with an expression thats nearly impossible to read.
Then his gaze lands on Shane.
Theres a pause.
Not the nervous or excited one everyone else keeps having around him. It's more so a moment of assessment.
Shane holds his stare without meaning to.
The right corner of Rozanovs mouth curls up, like hes amused by something only he understands.
He steps into the line beside Shane instead of behind him.
The cigarette smell lingers when he moves, and Shane resists the urge to shift away.
You are Hollander, he says.
The accent is thick. Heavy in a way that makes Shane unable to look away just yet.
Its definitely not a question.
Shane nods once, awkwardly. Yeah.
Rozanov studies him another second, head tilted a bit.
Then he holds out his hand.
Ilya,
Shane takes it automatically.
His grip is firm and steady. He doesnt let go immediately, letting Shane do so first.
Right, yeah... Youre Ilya Rozanov, youre on the basketball team, Shane replies.
Around them, the line moves forward. Neither of them go with it. Rozanovs eyes flick briefly to the Delta Kappa Phi house, then back to Shane.
You stand in the line, he speaks slowly, like hes working through the phrasing. Even though they already choose you.
Shane blinks and for a moment he just stares at him, caught off guard.
Thats not, he starts, the words tripping slightly as he rushes to correct it. They havent chosen. Not yet.
The other boy shrugs, shoving his hand back into the front pocket of his jeans. Just a loose, careless movement of his shoulders.
We all know who you are, Hollander. Rozanov smirks. Mr. Hockey Star. Mr Future Delta Princess.
His accent bends the words, but the tone is unmistakable. Hes taunting Shane, amused by his own words.
Shanes mouth presses into a thin line and he thinks:
Wow. What an asshole.
Im just rushing, Shane explains stiffly. Like everyone else.
The guy watches him for a second, eyes flicking over his face again just taking him in again.
Then he huffs out a quiet laugh through his nose. Okay.
Shane feels the back of his neck grow warm.
Before he can decide whether to defend himself further, or just ignore him entirely, the line suddenly erupts with noise.
No way. No way! Move, move.. sorry, excuse me.. holy shit.
A body barrels straight between them.
Dude!
An arm lands heavily across Shanes shoulders, knocking them apart.
Youre Shane Hollander, right? the guy grins like he just won the lottery.
Shane startles, looking up.
The guy is a little older, a sophomore maybe, Delta Kappa Phi letters stretched across his chest, dark hair windblown like he sprinted across campus to get here.
Im Hayden. Hayden Pike. Social chair. He laughs, clearly thrilled. Man, weve been waiting for you to show up.
Before Shane can respond, Hayden is already steering him forward, guiding him out of the line entirely.
Come on. We gotta get in there we're about to start. Ive gotta introduce you to everyone.
Shane barely has time to register whats happening before hes being pulled toward the front steps of the house, past the rest of the pledges still waiting in line.
The door swings open and voices spill out from inside.
As Hayden hustles him up the stairs, Shane glances back over his shoulder. The line has closed again but Rozanov is still standing there, still watching.
Theres a faint, crooked smile on his face now. Something smug in it, like hes just proven a point.
The sentence echoes in his head again:
We all know who you are, Hollander.
Shane looks away quickly as Hayden pushes him through the doorway. But all of it lingers in the back of his mind.
***
Alright, superstar Welcome home, Hayden beams, guiding Shane through the foyer like he belongs there.
He does.
Warm air fans down to meet them, carrying the smell of polished wood, detergent, and something faintly citrusy. Voices echo deeper in the house, layered with music turned low enough to sound respectable.
Hayden doesnt let go of his shoulder, noticing the tense expression on Shanes face.
Im serious, man, I cannot believe this is actually happening, he says, half laughing. You showing up? Huge. Freakin huge.
Shane huffs a small, awkward breath through his nose. Im just rushing.
Hayden shoots him a look. Yeah, okay. And Im just casually the social chair.
He steers Shane through the entry hall, past framed photos and banners without slowing.
Think I said it already but Im Hayden.., he continues, talking fast, clearly running on adrenaline. Second year. Which means I run basically everything fun that happens here. Parties, mixers, alumni events, damage control when things go sidewaysMostly damage control.
Shane nods politely. Nice to meet you. Im Shane.
Hayden laughs. Dude, I know who you are.
They pass a wall of composite photos, and Hayden gestures toward them as they walk. He flicks his finger against a glass frame, pointing at a man that could only be his father.
My dad was here too, Russell Pike. Same era as your dad. Late eighties. He grins and taps the frame once, satisfied. Left wing to left wing. Some things just run in the family.
Shanes shoulders tighten on instinct at name.
Hayden doesnt notice at the very least, he pretends not to.
Do Everything Dave, right? he asks, clearly delighted. Hockey captain, student council, charity chair. Fuckin killer with the ladies and a party animal like no other? Man, my dad swears the guy didnt sleep for four years.
Shane gives a small, chuffed laugh. That sounds like him.
Dude, the board lost their minds when they heard you committed to Caldwell, Hayden goes on. Legacy kid, elite prospect, its like the sequel nobody thought theyd get.
He finally pauses long enough to glance sideways at Shane.
And for the record, Hayden adds, tone shifting just slightly more sincere, you dont have to prove anything here. Your spots yours if you want it.
Theres nothing smug or transactional about it hes just simply certain.
Shane absorbs that quietly as they move deeper into the house. The familiarity of expectation settles around him like something tailored.
He belongs here. Even if part of him still isnt sure how he feels about that.
Hayden is still talking when they reach the living room.
..and this is where the magic happens, he gestures toward the wide upstairs lounge.
A few heads turn when they walk in, and recognition sparks almost immediately.
There he is, someone gasps.
Hayden spreads his hands like hes presenting a trophy. Gentlemen.. We got Shane Hollander in the building. Better be on your best behavior.
A ripple moves through the room. Curious looks, and a few scattered whistles. Before Shane can even process it, a voice cuts loudly through the conversation.
Tabarnak!
(Holy shit!)
Shane turns at the sound of the french-canadian accent to see a curly haired guy is staring at him like hes just seen a celebrity walk through the door.
Then he grins.
Okay, he says through a toothy grin, clapping once. Now I am fucking excited!
He strides across the room with the confidence of someone who has already decided theyre friends.
I am Jean-Jacques, he grabs Shanes hand and shakes it enthusiastically. But everyone says JJ because they are cowards.
Or because its easier, Hayden mutters.
JJ ignores him completely.
Youre the star center, yes? he asks Shane. Hollander. The one every scout in North America is drooling over.
Shane blinks at the bluntness.
I
JJ turns to Hayden, pointing dramatically between the three of them.
You see this? he announces. The future of the NHL is being formed right here in Delta Kappa Phi.
Hayden snorts. Relax, Ovie.
Im serious! JJ insists, throwing an arm around Shanes shoulders like theyve known each other for years. He is the golden boy center, I am a winger. Fast hands, beautiful shot, extremely charming personality. You are a sick forward. Quick and good with the ladies. Just what we need.
Right. I see the vision. Im hearing you, buddy Hayden rolls his eyes.
JJ grins wider.
I cannot wait to get on the ice with you, he tells Shane. Imagine it. The three of us. Defenses will cry to their mamas!.
Shane cant help it, a laugh escapes him.
The enthusiasm is overwhelming, but genuine.
And if you pass the puck to me, JJ adds thoughtfully, I promise to score at least sixty percent of the time.
Wow, Hayden responds dryly. Generous estimate.
JJ shrugs. I am humble.
Shane shakes his head slightly, amused despite himself.
Nice to meet you, he smiles.
Enchant, JJ replies happily.
Hayden claps both of them on the shoulders. Perfect, he grins. Look at that the line is already forming.
And for the first time since stepping onto the row, Shane feels some of the tension ease out of his posture.
Still... somewhere in the back of his mind, he cant quite shake the image of that tall Russian standing in the line outside. Those blue eyes just watching him.
Shane doesnt get to sit with the thought for long before someone is already stepping forward to shake his hand. Then another. And another.
Names come quickly, layered over laughter and familiarity. The existing brothers and a handful of rushes fold him into conversation before he has time to retreat into himself.
Matt, he thinks. Quincy. Someone introduces himself as Jaime. Antoine, maybe..or Andr. The voices blur together, smiles overlapping, hands clapping his shoulder like hes already one of them.
Its plain sailing.
And, unexpectedly, comforting.
The rhythm of introductions gives him something to focus on. Eye contact, firm handshake, polite smile, repeat. A structure he understands even as the room buzzes louder around him.
Still, the names refuse to stick. They slide past faster than he can organize them.
Hell have to look over the ledger later, he decides automatically. If he gets in.
The realization warms quietly in his chest: he doesnt feel out of place at all.
He feels welcomed.
And yet, beneath the ease of it, a small, stubborn thought lingers.
He cant help wondering if its all real or if its only because everyone already knows exactly who Shane Hollander is.
***
The first three days of rush week pass in a blur.
Names melt into faces, handshakes and mantras that are repeated so many times Shane starts recognizing people more by posture than appearance. Meetings in rooms that smell of burnt coffee and whiteboard markers. Academic presentations about GPA requirements and alumni networks delivered with surprising seriousness.
Then games: Team challenges. Trivia. And, inexplicably, a hot dog eating contest.
Shane still isnt entirely sure how that one happened.
Tradition, Hayden had said solemnly while handing him a plate. Dont question it.
So he hadnt. Though he did thank his lucky stars his performance diet was enough of an excuse to sit that one out. Hayden ended up throwing up halfway through. Gross.
Somewhere between late night conversations, early morning workouts, and structured bonding activities, the house had started to feel familiar the creak of certain stairs, how the sun hits the upstairs hallway in the morning, which doors slammed and which stuck slightly when you pushed them closed.
And somehow without anyone officially saying it Shane had ended up sleeping in one of the upstairs bedrooms.
He ended up in his own room while the other pledges unrolled sleeping bags across the living room floor downstairs.
Hed protested once.
Hayden had waved him off. Legacy privilege. Enjoy it.
Shane still isnt sure how he feels about that.
A part of him feels guilty every night when he hears laughter and muffled conversations drifting up through the floorboards. Another part a quieter, more honest part is enjoying all of it more than he expected to.
The ready-made structure and the sense of belonging thats settling into place piece by piece.
That said the clearest memory from those first few days isnt any of the structured stuff.
Its the second night. Late past midnight, the house finally exhaling after a full day of activity. Shane had come downstairs for water and ended up staying for two hours without entirely understanding why.
Someone had pushed the living room furniture back. Six or seven guys sprawled across the floor and the couch and the wide sill of the bay window, nobody doing anything in particular. Hayden was asleep sitting up with his mouth open, which meant JJ had already drawn on a penis on his cheek. Someone was doing a piss poor job of strumming a guitar he clearly couldnt play. Jake, maybe or the guy Shane was pretty sure was named Jake had a box of cereal he kept passing around without comment.
Nobody was pretending to be anything.
That was the part that stayed with him.
All day it had been handshakes and names and the energy of people trying to make an impression. But this this was just people existing in the same room. Taking up space without questioning it.
Shane had sat on the floor with his back against the couch and eaten a couple fistfuls of someone elses frosted flakes and listened to a guitar player massacre the same four chords on repeat.
And somewhere in there, without noticing it happening, his shoulders had lost their tension.
He hadnt expected that.
Now, four days in, he sits at the edge of the bed in his new room, elbows resting on his knees as he laces up his sneakers.
The room still doesnt fully feel like his yet. Its just bare walls and a neatly made bed. His hockey bag is tucked carefully in the corner like an anchor to something familiar.
He could have gone straight to the draft. Every scout in North America had made that abundantly clear. His mom had said the same thing, in her carefully vague way that college was a detour he didnt need, that the league was already waiting, that David Hollanders legacy was not a good enough reason to delay the inevitable.
His dad had disagreed college first, then the draft, and if the league still wanted him after four years, that would be the proof it was real and not just everyones projection of what a Hollander was supposed to become.
Shane hadnt had a better argument.
So Caldwell it is.
He can already hear the music thumping faintly from outside. A mess of voices gathering along Greek Row.
Tonight is the block party. Its the first real Greek night of the year.
Every fraternity and sorority on the row participates. Houses open wide, music spilling onto sidewalks, lights strung from porch to porch until half the street glows. Upperclassmen had described it less like a darty and more like pure chaos.
Its a tradition older than most of the students attending it.
His dad had told him about nights like this; Stories half nostalgic, half cautionary. Rival houses trying to outdo each other. Old competitions disguised as friendly celebrations. Lines drawn long before Shane ever stepped onto campus.
Delta Kappa Phi always did things right, David had said once. They were respected, above the noise.
Shane had believed him.
He double knots his laces and stands, smoothing a hand down the front of his shirt automatically.
Through the window, strings of lights glow across the street as crowds begin to form groups drifting between houses, laughter carrying through the cooling September air.
The energy hums with anticipation.
Shane grabs his phone and heads for the door, the sound of voices grow louder with every step down the hall.
Tonight feels important.
Not because of anything specific.
Just the sense that something is about to begin.
***
Within the hour, Shane finds himself leaning against the white painted railing at the front of the house, a red plastic cup balanced carefully in his hand.
Canada Dry, of course. The carbonation biting pleasantly at the back of his throat.
Hed managed to dump out the beer JJ had insisted they sneak him earlier, timing it perfectly while everyone else shouted over the music in the kitchen.
Rushes arent supposed to drink, Shane reminded him quietly.
Technically, JJ had said, already opening another can. But also.. fucking live a little, mon ami.
Especially not in this house, Shane added internally. Delta Kappa Phi had an honor code to uphold. Academic standards. Athletic expectations. Reputation.
But if hes honest, the code isnt the real reason.
He just isnt ready to lose himself yet. Not tonight. Not surrounded by strangers and expectations and eyes that already seem to know too much about him.
So he stands at the edge of the porch instead, shoulder resting lightly against the railing as the block party unfolds in front of him.
That said Greek Row is alive now.
Music pouring from every direction at once. Competing basslines overlap with laughter rising above it, people move in loose currents between houses. He looks over all the strings of lights glowing overhead, turning the street gold.
Other pledges have already scattered into the crowd.
He spots a few from earlier laughing too loudly, chatting up girls with a confidence Shane suspects is at least partially borrowed from cheap beer and group courage. Hands gesturing, heads thrown back, bodies leaning closer and closer together.
They look effortless.
Shane takes another sip of ginger ale, watching rather than participating, content in the quiet pocket hes carved out for himself.
From here, he can see everything without being pulled into it.
It feels safe. Comfortable, even.
The music vibrates faintly through the porch boards beneath his sneakers as conversations blur into background noise. Every so often someone recognizes him, shouting a greeting as they pass, but no one lingers long enough to demand more than a polite smile and a raise of his cup.
For a moment, he lets himself simply exist inside it. Taking in the lights, the movement, and the hum of possibility hanging in the warm September air.
Simply observing as he does best.
***
The shift happens before Shane even understands why.
Theres a sudden eruption of noise cuts that across the street. Its louder than the music, sharper than the hum of conversation.
It sounds like barking? Barking and Shouting.
Someone chanting unintelligibly.
A bunch of heads turn almost in unison toward the fraternity house across Greek Row as its front doors burst open.
A pack of guys spills onto the lawn like theyve been released all at once. It all appears loud, loose with an energy that feels intentionally disruptive. Someone lets out another dog like bark. Then another. Then the whole front line of them, howling and woofing into the air like thats just a thing people do.
Shane straightens slightly against the railing.
Whats that? he asks, nodding his chin in their direction.
Hayden appears beside him a second later, following his line of sight. He groans immediately. Oh, for fucks sake.
What? Shane asks.
Hayden jerks his chin toward the chaos. Alpha Tau Rho.
The name rings heavily. His dad had mentioned them plenty. Theyre the rival house. The Caldwell Party house, known for having no discipline. They also house 90% of the basketball team.
Everything Delta Kappa Phi wasnt.
At the center of the commotion is a broad shouldered upperclassman Shane doesnt recognize hes scruffy and dark, confident in a careless way, and already halfway down the lawn with a case of Heineken tucked under one arm.
That, Hayden says dryly, is Cliff Marleau. House Manager this year. Total human liability. Be careful hell also try to steal your girlfriend.
Cliff whoops loudly and tosses a beer can toward a line of pledges forming in front of their house.
The crowd cheers.
One by one, the pledges catch the cans, crack them open, and shotgun them immediately foam spilling, people shouting approval as each empty can hits the grass.
Shane watches, discomfort curling low in his stomach. It feels aggressive, maybe even a little performative. Like a test he doesnt understand the appeal of.
Another can flies and another pledge drinks. Cheers growing louder with each one.
Hayden shakes his head beside him. They do this shit every year. Think it makes em look tough.
Shane barely hears him because at the end of the line: He recognizes a familiar figure stepping forward.
That same tall guy, with curly bronze hair, and broad shoulders. Rozanov.
Ilya catches the can easily when its thrown to him, barely sparing it a glance before his fingers curl around the aluminum. Of course its effortless.
He cracks it open with a sharp hiss. One Shane swears he can hear even from 20 meters away, despite the blaring music from all sides.
Theres no hesitation from Ilya. He tips his head back and drinks, swallowing steadily, like the noise around him doesnt exist. Like the cheering crowd is just background static. Beer spills past the corner of his mouth almost immediately, foam slipping down his chin and tracing a slow line along the strong column of his neck before dripping over his forearm.
The crowd erupts anyway, shouting approval.
Shanes face wrinkles on instinct. Freckles cinching together across the bridge of his nose.
It looks messy and incredibly pointless.
It looks like everything David ever described as the reason Delta Kappa Phi existed in opposition to houses like that.
And yet:
Ilya doesnt look sloppy.
He looks comfortable. Certain in his own body in a way Shane has never quite understood how to be.
He finishes quickly, crushes the can in one hand, and tosses it aside without looking, already turning toward his pledge brothers as if the moment means nothing at all. Exactly like he belongs there.
Something twists low in Shanes stomach. It's not quite disgust, not quite curiosity. Something harder to name.
He should look away. He knows he should. But his gaze lingers anyway, tracking the roll of Ilyas shoulders as he laughs at something shouted nearby, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist, utterly at ease in the chaos surrounding him.
He doesnt look toward Shane. He probably doesnt even know hes being watched. And Shane doesnt understand why he cant seem to stop watching.
The music fades slightly beneath the rush of his own awareness: the strange pull of recognition without reason, irritation tangled with something more pointed.
He blinks hard, almost startled by himself.
Hollander!
JJs voice cuts through the noise from somewhere to his left.
Shane turns on his heel immediately, grateful for the interruption, tearing his attention away as if hes been caught doing something he shouldnt.
JJ is waving him over toward a small cluster of girls gathered near the bottom of the steps. Its a group of soon to be sorority girls giggling loudly, plastic cups in hand.
Viens ici! JJ calls, grinning. You cannot hide all night, mon ami!
Shane exhales quietly and heads toward them, slipping back into the conversation and noise and expectation like stepping onto familiar ice.
One of the girls, a bubbly blonde, perks up immediately as he joins the group, shifting closer to make space beside her.
Im Emma, she beams.
Instead of offering her hand like the others had, she reaches out and gives his bicep an approving squeeze, eyebrows lifting in clear appreciation.
Shane blinks.
Oh, Hey he tilts his chin up in her direction.
Oy vey.
He manages a smile anyway, nodding along as introductions blur together. Theres names, majors, sorority spiels, giggles that come a little too easily. JJ carries most of the conversation effortlessly, filling gaps Shane isnt quite sure how to navigate, while Shane contributes where expected, all careful and sweet.
He knows how to do this part. He knows to smile, to listen and respond, to be agreeable. And yet, even as he settles into the rhythm of small talk and harmless flirting, a small, stubborn part of his attention remains pulled elsewhere.
Across the street.
***
Across the street, Alpha Tau Rho feels alive in a way the rest of Greek Row doesnt quite match.
Their music blasting louder than the rest. People crowd closer. Someone has dragged speakers onto the lawn, bass rattling through the grass beneath Ilyas shoes. The air smells like beer and weed smoke.
In truth, Ilya hadnt meant to fall into it so easily.
Hed spent weeks in Ann Arbor, barely understanding half the conversations around him, and somehow hed still ended up exactly where he was supposed to be.
Cliff had clapped him on the back the first night and declared, Youre one of us now, Rozy, like it was already decided.
The nickname stuck immediately.
Rozy! someone shouts now, tossing him another beer.
He catches it easily, grinning despite himself.
! He quips back, using the ring on his index finger to crack into the aluminum.
Around Ilya, the brothers move like a single organism: arms slung over shoulders, shouting over music, pulling strangers into conversations that start loud and only get louder. Someone lights a joint beside him; someone else starts chanting random lyrics near the porch.
Girls linger at the edge of the lawn, drawn closer by the noise and the energy. Maybe also by Cliff, especially. With his dark hair, scruffy jaw, and suave confidence as he leans into conversations like he owns them. A cluster of sorority girls laughing too loudly at something he says, their attention split between him and the tall curly-haired Russian standing just behind him.
Ilya notices the glances. Hes truly no stranger to what they mean. One girl catches his eye. He notices the scatter of freckles across her cheeks, long hair cascading down her shoulders, smiling like she knows she'll be invited closer.
For a brief, inexplicable second, the smattering freckles remind him of someone else.
Someone with dark brown hair, and a careful posture. That boy he stumbled across who stood way too stuff in that rush line.
Shane Hollander.
The thought flickers through his mind and disappears just as quickly. He snorts softly to himself, shaking it off. The girl steps closer anyway.
Hi you, she singsongs, almost louder than necessary over the music.
Ilya smiles at her, charming as ever. His hand gestures toward the battered couch someone has dragged onto the front lawn.
Minutes later, shes laughing in his lap, one arm looped loosely around his shoulders as people move and shout around them. Someone hands him another drink. Cliff whoops nearby. Music shifts into something faster.
Ilya leans back into the cushions, relaxed, perfectly at home in the noise and movement.
Cliff appears at the edge of the couch, already halfway through another beer, eyes bright.
Jeez, you work fast, he comments over the music.
Ilya shrugs, unfazed. Im sitting still. They come to me.
Cliff snorts, gripping his knee giving it a shake. Thats what I'm talking about Rozy.
The girl in Ilyas lap tilts her head up at him, smiling like shes waiting for something a question, maybe her name. maybe any interest in her attendance at this school.
You are having fun? Rozanov asks instead, casually , like the answer doesnt particularly matter.
She laughs. I think so.
Good, he nods, satisfied enough.
The conversation dies there, comfortably unfinished. Ilya doesnt try to fill the silence, talking somehow already feels unnecessary. Shes still in his lap, giggling over things happening around them, all without requiring anything from him. Shes become an accessory more than a person now, part of the atmosphere like the music or the noise spilling through the house.
He settles deeper into the couch, gaze drifting past the crowd, past the porch lights and movement, landing somewhere across the street.
A beat passes.
Wow, Ilya speaks finally, squinting slightly. They really are most boring frat. Nothing fun over there.
Cliff follows his line of sight, huffing a laugh. Yeah, well. He takes a drink. Give it a minute.
Ilya glances over, eyebrow cocked. Oh?
Marleau grins, already anticipating something. Yeah. Its gonna get interesting soon.
He checks his watch, then looks back toward the street.
Almost go time.
***
On the other side of the street, Shanes halfway through a conversation he isnt really invested in when a sudden weight crashes into him from the side.
Sorry, ladies, Hayden slurs cheerfully, draping himself heavily over both Shane and JJs shoulders, smelling like beer and bad decisions. But I need these guys.
JJ immediately lights up. No way. Already?
Hayden grins, eyes glassy but sharp with excitement. Its almost midnight, you know what that means.
Shane blinks. I absolutely do not.
JJ lets out a loud whoop beside him, nearly knocking Hayden off balance. Its time.
Damn right it is, Hayden says, straightening just enough to adjust and give Shanes neck a rough squeeze. Alright, Hollander.. Now I know youre Delta royalty and all, but your dad is the reason were still allowed to do this, so you gotta participate too.
Shane looks between them. Allowed to do what, exactly?
No one answers him.
Instead, Hayden grabs the front of Shanes shirt and starts dragging him forward along with JJ and the other rushes, herding them toward the edge of the lawn.
The noise grows louder the closer they get to the street. Shane slows as they reach the curb, confusion settling deeper in his chest. He glances down Greek Row. He quickly realizes every house looks the same. Lines of fraternity brothers stretch across each lawn, shoulder to shoulder. Music blares from open doors. Porch lights burn bright. At the front of every group stands a single older guy composed, expectant clearly in charge.
Frat presidents.
Waiting.
Shane frowns. Whats going on?
JJ barely hears him, bouncing on his heels.
My dad never mentioned this, Shane adds.
Hayden suddenly steps forward like hes been waiting his entire life for this moment. He clears his throat loudly.Then, with great ceremony, raises his half empty beer bottle to his mouth like a microphone.
The chatter around them quiets just enough for attention to shift his way.Hayden begins pacing slowly in front of the lined up Delta rushes, shoulders squared, expression grave with importance.
Gentlemen, he announces. He pauses dramatically, taking a long sip, swallows, then burps. excuse me.
JJ claps once, fully invested already.
Hayden resumes pacing.
Since the dawn of time, he declares, gesturing broadly toward absolutely nothing, we as men have been awarded and appreciated for many things.
He counts on his fingers.
Our sharp wit. Our brute force. Our undeniable charisma.
He takes another sip, giving a thoughtful nod.
But most importantly.. he wiggles his eyebrows exaggeratedly, scanning the line, our stellar physique.
A few brothers cheer and someone else wolf whistles.
Shane just stares straight ahead, deeply concerned.
In the year nineteen fifty two, Hayden continues, voice dropping into reverence, our founding father, Sir Arthur Michael Moreaux, mayherestinpeace, looked upon this very campus and thought..
He motions dramatically toward the dark stretch of campus beyond Greek Row.
for one night only we ought to honor our divine masculine beauty.
He spins back toward them.
With what he called
Hayden lifts the bottle high.
The Midnight Baptism!
A roar of stomps and cheers erupts from the brothers. JJ nearly jumps out of his shoes. Lets fucking go!
Shane blinks.
Im sorry, he asks, completely convinced he misheard. The what?
Hayden holds up a finger. Let me enlighten you,
He resumes pacing, now fully in performance mode.
Each of you will strip down, to your most natural state, he says solemnly, and run toward Keswick Lake on the opposite end of campus. For a little, uh, polar plunge.
Shanes stomach drops and he goes completely still.
What. The. Fuck.
Only the strongest and most resilient, Hayden continues, will avoid capture by campus police.
Those who reach the water, Hayden proclaims, pointing dramatically into the distance, shall be deemed worthy.
He lowers his voice ominously.
Those who do not
A beat.
may suffer the consequences.
He takes another sip, thinks about it, burps again.
Historically speaking.
Silence hangs for half a second then Shane turns toward the curly haired man to his left, horrified. You knew about this?
Its legendary, JJ whispers, awestruck.
Shane looks back at Hayden, then at the street. He tries again to take in the dozens of frat guys stretching like theyre about to run a marathon. He watches as their shirts and pants are shed with an eagerness that resembles wild dogs being taunted by fresh meat.
You want me to streak, Shane asks carefully.
Hayden grins, delighted. Now youre getting it.
And run naked, Shane continues, across campus?
Freedom is encouraged.
Absolutely fucking not.
The brothers and rushes immediately boo him.
Hayden clutches his chest. A Hollander refusing tradition? Do everything Dave would weep.
That stings.
Shane grimaces. Do not weaponize my father against me right now.
Pike throws his hands up in lazy defense. And after a beat. Shane truly cannot fucking believe hes doing this.
Somewhere, a rational version of himself is screaming to abort mission. To grab his shoes and walk straight back inside like a normal person with dignity. But the chanting grows louder, JJ already halfway out of his shirt beside him, and Shane realizes with a sinking certainty that this is what being part of something looks like here.
He exhales sharply thinking to himself:
Im a team player.
Howls and whistles erupt the moment he reaches for the hem of his shirt, dragging it over his head as the brothers lose their minds.
My fucking underwear stays on, Shane barks, pointing warningly at Hayden.
The crowd only cheers louder.
***
Cliff had barely finished explaining the Midnight Baptism before Ilya was already shoving himself upright, adrenaline snapping through him like a live wire.
Da, he mutters, grinning. This I like.
He kicks off his shoes first, then wrestles himself out of his dark blue jeans in one smooth motion, laughter breaking loose from his chest as the ATR brothers howl approval around him.
He doesnt hesitate or overthink. He just strips down without ceremony. One hand lazily covering the last shred of modesty more out of tradition than shame.
Smugness settles across his face. He knows exactly how he looks and he knows people are watching.
A random brother jogs past, clapping Cliff hard on the shoulder. Its go time.
Cliffs grin turns feral. He steps forward, cupping his hands around his mouth.
Alright Alphas... Make papa proud. Go! Go! Go!
And suddenly Greek Row erupts.
Its instant chaos. With whistles, shouting, laughter exploding into the night as bare skinned freshmen pour off lawns and sidewalks all at once. What had been organized lines seconds ago dissolves into pure disorder, bodies sprinting toward the dark stretch of campus leading to the lake.
For a moment it looks less like a fraternity tradition and more like Lord of the Flies.
Ilya takes off at the front without thinking, long strides eating up pavement, cold air biting at his skin while adrenaline drowns out everything else. Someone whoops behind him. Another guy nearly wipes out on the grass. The siren of a megaphone echos faintly somewhere in the distance, which only makes the crowd louder.
Ilya laughs wildly, pushing faster. He cuts across the quad, speeding past another cluster of runners just as a familiar figure comes into view.
Hollander.
His gaze drops briefly and he snorts under his breath when he notices the underwear still firmly in place.
Of course.
A crooked smile pulls at his mouth.
Ilya adjusts his pace without breaking stride, angling slightly until hes running alongside him. Their shoulders brush as they match steps for half a second close enough to feel the heat rolling off Shane despite the cold night air.
Ilya turns his head, flashing him a smug, breathless grin.
See you in the lake, he taunts, accent thicker under exertion.
Before Shane can answer, Ilya kicks forward again, lengthening his stride and pulling ahead. He disappears back into the pack like hed only slowed down for the interaction on purpose.
Shane barely registers Ilya pulling ahead before something snaps awake inside him.
Competition.
His feet hit the rough concrete harder, faster, breath settling automatically into rhythm. Years of conditioning take over before he even makes the decision consciously. The noise of shouting pledges fades behind him, replaced by the steady cadence of motion stride, inhale, stride, exhale.
He is not losing this. Not to Ilya Rozanov. Certainly not to an Alpha Tau Rho pledge.
The cold air burns in his lungs as he pushes forward, weaving past slower runners, shoulders brushing strangers as the quad opens ahead of him. Adrenaline hums through his veins, drowning out embarrassment, doubt, common sense.
Ahead, the lake comes into view dark water reflecting scattered campus lights, the dock stretching out like a finish line.
Hes gaining.
Rozanovs broad frame appears just ahead, curls bouncing with each stride, completely unbothered, like hes enjoying himself.
That alone is enough to irritate Shane into digging deeper.
He lengthens his stride, hockey trained legs firing effortlessly beneath him. This running, endurance, pushing through discomfort is familiar territory. Both of them are built for this sort of punishment. Elite conditioning carved into muscle memory. Early mornings, brutal drills, coaches barking through exhaustion.
A chaotic naked sprint across campus might be insane. But physically? Its nothing. Shane surges forward and pulls even. For half a second they end up running shoulder to shoulder again, breath steady despite the distance already behind them.
Shane glances sideways, competitive instinct overriding everything else.
Youre slacking, Rozanov, he pants, the insult settling somewhere between teasing and breathless bravado.
Its lame and he knows it immediately. But he doesnt slow down. Instead he pushes ahead.
Behind him, something hot flashes through Ilyas chest. Its unexpected, despite the chill of the night air biting at his skin. The challenge and recognition, coupling with the fact that Hollander is actually playing back.
Of course he is. Good job, Hollander.
Shane pulls ahead by a step. Then two. Within seconds the dock rushes closer. Cheers echo faintly from behind as runners spill onto the shoreline, gravel crunching under pounding feet.
Shane doesnt hesitate. He hits the edge of the dock at full speed, momentum carrying him forward before doubt can catch up.
Holy fuck! The words rip out of him as he launches himself into the black water without a second thought.
The lake swallows him whole. Rozanov hits the water a second later. A massive splash crashes down beside Shane, cold lake water slapping hard across his face and shoulders as Ilya disappears beneath the surface entirely.
For a few seconds, its silent.
Then he bursts back up with a breathless gasp, curls plastered to his forehead, immediately barking something furious in Russian through chattering teeth.
Blyat! So fucking cold.
His accent thickens with the shock, laughter already breaking through the curse as he wipes water from his eyes.
Behind them, chaos follows.
One body after another launches off the dock: shouting, whooping, screaming as the freezing water claims each new victim. Splashes overlap, waves rocking the dock as pledges pile into the lake in rapid succession, turning the quiet shoreline into pure, roaring mayhem.
***
Despite hitting the water first, Shane isnt the one who climbs out ahead.
Rozanov reaches the dock and hoists himself up using both hands, arms locking as he lifts his weight in one smooth, practiced motion. Water streams off him in shining rivulets, tracing the broad line of his back, catching along the deep flex of muscle as his hamstrings tighten with the effort.
Shane cant help but watch.
The movement is effortless, coming from the strength that can only be built through years of training. Water rolls down the curve of Ilyas mole splattered spine, over the sharp definition of his hips, the unmistakable roundness of his cheeks as he pulls himself fully onto the dock.
For a second, Shane forgets where he is.
Then Ilya turns back toward the water.
And the reality of it hits all at once: Ilya is completely bare, illuminated by sodium light and moonlight alike, and Shane is very obviously looking at the weight between his legs.
Freezing cold water and it looks like that? Fucking hell.
Shanes chest fills with heat before he can brace for it.
His eyes snap away, fixing hard on the dark surface of the lake. But hes not fast enough. Because when Shane dares a glance upward again, Rozanov is already looking straight at him.
And he knows.
Ilya doesnt look away.
If anything, he grins knowingly something smug settling in as he watches Shane pull himself out of the water next, movements a little less smooth now, a little more hurried.
There it is.
That flicker of something.
Something in the back of Ilyas mind hums, satisfied. He shifts his weight slightly on the dock, arms loose at his sides, entirely unbothered by the cold or the fact that hes still completely nude.
When Shane gets his footing, dragging himself up onto the dock with a sharp inhale, Ilyas there still waiting and watching.
He raises an eyebrow, smugness smeared across his mouth.
Careful, Hollander, his voice is llow, accent curling around the words.
Shanes head snaps up, eyes flashing.
Fuck off. I wasnt he starts immediately, sounding defensive.
And then;
There he is!
Haydens voice cuts through everything as he barrels down the dock, already halfway out of his mind with excitement, a pile of towels thrown over his shoulder.
Thats my boy! he shouts, gesturing dramatically at Shane like hes just won a championship. First one in. I knew it! Of course a Hollander would do it!
JJ whoops behind him, nearly slipping on the wet wood. Le Roi!
Hayden skids to a stop in front of Shane, shoving a towel at his chest. King amongst men. he boasts quickly, grinning, my guy David would be so proud.
The moment fractures into chaos again as more bodies haul themselves out, laughter and shouting overlapping, towels being tossed around haphazardly.
And suddenly, the cold hits. Hard.
Shane sucks in a sharp breath, the adrenaline dropping out from under him all at once. Jesus fuck, its cold
Yeah, yeah, reality really sets in, Hayden laughs, already turning to hand off more towels to the others.
Around them, teeth start chattering, guys swearing under their breath as they scramble to dry off.
Ilya just snorts quietly, dragging a towel over his shoulders. But not before throwing Shane one last look. Its irritatingly smug. Like he knows exactly what just happened and exactly what it means.
***
Alright, now nobody is freezing to death on my watch. lets move ladies! Hayden calls, clapping his hands loudly as he starts herding bodies off the dock. Athletic centers this way, showers, heat, maybe a little dignity and a beer or two if you earn it!
A mix of groans and laughter ripple through the group as towels are wrapped tighter, wet footprints slapping against the pavement as theyre funneled back toward campus in a chaotic pack.
Shane keeps his head down, clutching his towel close, chewing on the inside of his cheek to avoid hearing chatter from his teeth as the cold clings stubbornly to his skin.
Ahead of them, another surge of noise builds.
Cliff Marleau is already at the doors, hauling his freshmen forward like an amused drill sergeant, shoving one of them lightly between the shoulders.
Move, move. That's it! he calls out, laughing as he holds one of the double doors open.
Alpha Tau Rho floods inside first.
Delta Kappa Phi isnt far behind.
By the time Shane steps through the doors, warmth finally hitting his skin in a rush, the building is already packed echoing with voices, and the unmistakable sense that the night is nowhere near over.
***
The energy shifts as the locker room empties out, tiredness washing over Shane.
What had been loud and chaotic just minutes ago settles into something quieter. Theres steam still clinging to the air, water dripping steadily from the tiled floors, the distant echo of voices bleeding in from somewhere down the hall.
Shane doesnt realize he is one of the last two until he steps out from the showers.
He stops in his tracks when he sees Rozanov still in there. He sees him moving about the locker room like he has nowhere else to be.
Hes got a towel hanging low on his hips, his damp curls are pushed back from his forehead, skin still flushed from the heat of the shower. Hes composed, completely at ease as he crosses the space, grabbing something from a bench without a second thought.
Like being alone isnt something to notice.
Like Shane isnt something to notice.
They went to basketball court, Ilya says, completely casually. Your annoying friend says is time for the next game.
Hayden? Probably.
Shane blinks. Oh. Right.
Silence stretches for half a second.
Ilya glances back at him then, adjusting the towel at his hips with an absent tug, like hes aware of exactly how he looks without making a show of it. The shift in fabric causes some dark tufts of hair at the very base of Rozanovs midriff to coil out around the top of his much too lowly worn towel.
Fuck.
Just us, he adds.
Something in how he says it makes Shanes stomach tighten. Nervously, he chews on the inside of his lip.
Is he taunting me?
Am I being tested?
What the fuck is happening?
Shane stands there for a second too long, his own towel secured tightly around his waist, fingers gripping the fabric just a little too hard.
The air feels hotter and thicker now from the proximity. And then, his body betrays him. Theres a sharp, involuntary twitch that makes the fabric of his towel jump against him. Its a subtle sight , but an unmistakable one. The material tents just enough that theres no denying it, no pretending its anything else.
Shanes bulge has begun to ache, his dick swelling up as he stays fixed on Rozanov. Heat flooding him all at once, freckled cheeks flushing deep red.
No. No. No.
He shifts immediately, angling his body away from Ilya, one hand squeezing hard around the heavy bulge like he can press it down, hide it, will it away.
He cant. Poor Shane.
The awareness only makes it worse. It throbs in his hand, against the rough compression of his palm. And when he glances back over, Ilya is staring at him.
His teal gaze lingers, dropping just briefly before returning to Shanes face.
Ilya doesnt say anything. Instead, he lets the silence stretch thick before he shifts his weight. His hand drags lazily down the center of his own chest, over damp skin, over toned muscle still warm from the shower.
Once it reaches the top of the towel, Ilya cant help but mimic Shane. The muscle fibers of his chest flex from the rough grip Ilya manages on himself through the towel. Large hand wrapping around his even larger, heavier sex.
The grip he maintains on himself is tight Hed pulled his heavy length away from his thigh enough to give Shane a clear outline of it. Hes thick and aching and now fully hard, taking painfully slow strokes through the fabric thats covering it.
Oh fuck me.
Shanes thoughts trip over themselves, panic and something hotter tangling together in his stomach.
Ilyas eyes never leave his and there's nothing subtle about it now. Its nothing accidental. It feels almost like a challenge.
Fuck off, Shane manages out , voice tight, breath uneven. You cant be doing that.
But he doesnt look away.
He fucking cant.
And he doesnt even realize his own hand is still clenched tight around his bulge, still trying (and miserably failing) to force his body back under control.
Though at this point the squeeze he has on himself is going the exact opposite. Pre-come begins to bead out of Shanes swollen tip. The wetness smearing against his thigh under the towel.
Fuck, it aches. Its begging Shane to join Ilya to give it attention. Or to let Rozanov do it for him.
The thoughts seesaw in his head as he continues to watch. Pathetically white knuckling his own sex. Curious and eager for more.
Ilya tilts his head slightly, watching him flush a deep pink with quiet, unmistakable interest.
Why not?
Ilyas voice is low, almost lazy. Though his eyes dont stay on Shanes face, they drop straight to Shanes grip on himself.
Shanes breath stutters. Dont, he starts, ready to argue, to push back.
And instead: A small, involuntary sound slips out past his lips. A soft and broken sound. A whimper? Maybe. His lips snap shut immediately, horror flashing across his face.
What the fuck was that???
Ilyas expression shifts, still tugging at his heavy sex in languid strokes.
You want to stop? Rozanov asks, voice lower now, edged with something heavier. You can leave. Get dressed and go join your friends for boring basketball game.
Shane swallows hard.
Fuck you, Rozanov, he manages, but it comes out weak. Completely lacking bite.
His face burns but doesnt move. Naturally, Ilya starts walking toward him. Like he already knows how this ends. His strokes never falter still dragging idly over himself. The ache in him becoming harder to ignore. Ilya needs more. He needs Shane.
Shanes pulse spikes. He should step back but of course he doesnt. The space between them shrinks and shrinks until theyre standing just inches apart. Close enough that Shane can feel the heat of him again, even in the humid locker room air.
The smell of the soap dispenser body wash lays heavy on Ilyas skin. It smells different on him. Close enough that breathing feels different.
Ilya tilts his head slightly, eyes still locked on Shanes.
You know, Hollander, Ilya pauses until Shanes gaze lands where he wants. We could play game of our own.
Shanes mouth goes dry.
A game.
Something about that makes Shanes stomach cool.
Ilya is still watching him with his head tilted. Hes wearing a patience that feels almost worse than impatience. As if he has all night. Like he already knows Shane isnt going anywhere and finds that quietly, insufferably satisfying.
Shanes jaw tightens.
I dont play games just hockey, he quips.
No? Ilyas mouth curves. You run naked across campus but you dont play games.
That was, Shane stops. Exhales hard through his nose. Thats different. Plus, I never took my boxers off.
All Ilya does is scoff. Shane opens his mouth to protest but ends up closing it just as quickly. Nothing worth saying comes to mind.
Ilya steps into the remaining space between them, and Shanes back meets the lockers before he fully registers moving cold metal shocking against his shoulder blades, the contrast sharp against the locker room heat.
Ilya doesnt press against him. He just stays close. Too close.
If you want to leave, Ilya starts, eyes fixed his on Shanes face, then leave.
Shane doesnt budge. Of course he doesnt. He wouldnt have been ogling at Ilya's junk on the dock if he wanted to leave.
Rozanovs hand finally reaches out to touch him. The pads of his middle and index fingers drag carefully down the toned center of Shanes torso. Tauntingly lining the edge of the towel.
He waits for protest but there is none. Just the sound of Shanes breath quickening, the muscles in his lower abdomen fluttering under the featherlight touches.
Mm, thats what I thought. Ilya mutters mostly to himself.
Ilyas fingers trace the edge of the towel.
Then he glances down at Shanes hand still pathetically squeezing himself. willing the ache away. and nudges it off.
Shane cant help but whine under his breath. Shifting from apprehensive to impatience. The makeshift knot gives easily.
Ilyas own towel follows a second later, and then theres nothing just both of them standing bare in the steam thick air, the locker room quiet around them, every previous pretense stripped down with the fabric pooled at their feet.
Ilya doesnt rush to close the space, he just looks at Shane. Looks at all of him. The swollen tip of his cock glistens in his arousal. Ilya cant help but lick his lips at the sight, his fingers dance across the line of his hip, finally inching towards his length.
, Ilya exhales, almost to himself, his voice gravel soft.
What?
So Pretty.
The praise makes Shanes body feel like someones held a candle to it. Before he can respond or react, Ilya takes hold of him big hand wrapping around the base of his length, sliding careful and slow toward the shiny pink head, where his thumb collects the slick bead of pre and smears it downward in one decisive stroke.
Shane whines loudly, the pitched sound bouncing off the tile making his face go scarlet. Ilya doesnt react, just tightens his grip and begins to stroke.
Fucking hell, Rozanov, Shane mewls, breathless, hips bucking upward into his hand. Chasing the friction with an eagerness that makes Ilya smile.
Good, Ilya coos, free hand reaching up to grip the softness of Shanes chest, squeezing his pec. Good boy, Hollander.
Fuck off, Shane curses feeling mocked by it, even as some traitorous part of him loves it too much to mean it. His head tilts back against the lockers, lidded eyes watching Ilya through his lashes as he works him.
The slick, wet squelch of it barely audible beneath the distant drip of showers.
Ilyas cock aches watching Shanes body give way beneath his hands, but he decides he can wait. Finds it much too delicious just doing this pulling these sounds, these reactions, out of someone whod been standing so straight and composed in a rush line just four days ago.
He looks so pretty like this, Ilya thinks to himself.
Shanes cock twitches with every turn of Ilyas wrist, the ruddy tip of him constantly oozing slick that leaves Ilyas palm wet and filthy. Its an obscene sight. Ilya loves it.
You are so wet, he observes, voice low.
Shanes hips jut forward helplessly at the words.
Like a girl, he taunts.
Jesus Christ is all Shane manages, the words dissolving in his mouth before they fully form, hips rutting forward again like his body has simply stopped consulting him.
Just as Shane can feel himself start to twist in the pit of his stomach his edge visible on the horizon, close enough to make his thighs tremble a very loud kick and holler cuts through the room.
Yo, Rozy.
Cliff mother-fucking Marleau.
The door swings open. Shane hears two, no, three footsteps before they pause.
You in here man? Whats taking so long?
Da. Ill be out in a minute.
Shanes entire body jolts, dropping him roughly back on planet earth. The panic that sets in is fast and total. He looks to Ilya with wide, frantic eyes freezing for a split second before his hands fly forward to push him away.
What will he say? What the fuck! Holy shit. Oh my god.
Ilya squeezes the base of Shanes cock, hard. He holds him tight enough to pull a strangled sound up his throat that he only barely swallows. Shanes hand clamps over his own mouth, staring at him in pure disbelief.
Ilya looks at him with a smirk on his face. The expression saying:
Stay Still.
Good boy.
Hurry up, man. The fucking Kappa Knu Gammas are kicking our asses. Cliff calls out from the other side of the locker panel.
Ilya does not flinch. While Shane can feel himself beginning to freak out, chest heaving with a panic hed never felt before.
Coming, he calls back, voice completely even. Barely raised. Zero strain in it. Give me second.
His hand resumes its movement, not giving Cliff the chance to leave before his thumb slips over the soft underside of Shane's tip.
Shanes eyes slam shut, his teeth find the inside of his cheek, biting down hard, hips stuttering forward despite every frantic instruction his brain is screaming.
Fuck. Fuck. Dont cum.
Rozy, man, Pike is already whining
One second, Cliff. His tone stays even, like hes tying a shoelace.
The footsteps start back up again, then a pause. Yeah, aight. Dont take all night.
The door swings shut and Shane exhales so hard his shoulders shake. Ilya watches him, clear he has no intent of leaving the locker room until he makes a mess of himself.
His thumb traces slow circles over the sticky opening of his tip and Shanes head drops back against the lockers with a soft, helpless sound.
Oh my fucking god, Rozanov. Shane gets the words out the second the door hinges shut. Why didnt you stop?
He whines it out, though his hips are still rolling forward into Ilyas sticky hold in direct contradiction to the flushed, wrecked expression smeared across his freckled face.
Ilya shrugs. Reaches up to cup Shanes soft chest again, thumb grazing over his nipple.
A pitched sound tears out of him. Hes so impossibly close.
You did not come yet, Ilya responds, as if the answer is obvious.
God. Were, Shane pants, sense of urgency spiking tenfold even as the words dissolve into alphabet soup before they reach his mouth. We cant. Should stop Fuck, feels so good.
The words leave him in a jumble that visibly amuses Ilya. Like hes trying to convince himself far more than he is Rozanov.
I dont think that is what you want, Hollander, Ilya taunts, giving his length another squeeze. I think you want to come for me.
Shanes head falls forward onto Ilyas shoulder. His whole body courses with a white hot urgency that makes him dizzy, cock aching and desperate in Ilyas grip.
The entire encounter hed kept his hands uselessly to himself fidgeting, smoothing down his own sides, throwing an arm over his eyes but now his fingers are grabbing at Ilyas sides. Clutching. Anchoring himself to the Russian as his cock thrashes in his grasp, dragged ruthlessly toward his end.
Shit. Shitshitshit youre gonna make me, Shane grits out through clenched teeth.
Do it.
He didnt need anything else.
Before he can draw another breath his climax spills across Ilyas knuckles in hot, wet ropes, a string of trembling, unintelligible words muffling into the warm skin of Rozanovs shoulder.
There it is, Ilya hums, stroking Shane through it.
His clean hand comes up, settles at the back of Shanes head, and stays there until the shuddering stops.
Shane looks at him, still breathing messily. Fucked out and pliable, hair damp against his forehead, freckles dark against flushed skin. God, Ilya would bend him over right now if he could. The ache between his own legs throbs with an almost unreasonable insistence.
Rozanov.
Shane catches a glimpse of the mess hed made across his knuckles. Before he can comment on it: before he can really begin to come back to his senses Ilya raises his hand and licks it clean. Each movement considered, eyes never leaving Shane.
Shane mouths a silent, breathless fuck.
See, Hollander, Ilya starts, smug as ever. You do like games.
Shane huffs a half laugh despite himself.
And then reality arrives. It hits fast and it hits hard. He just got jerked off. In the athletic center locker room.
With every frat on Greek Row just outside that door.
Oh my god. Did he make noise? Did Cliff hear? Was this a bet? Oh my god it was definitely a bet. Is this some sick hazing thing? Oh my god.
The crash after the high is instant and merciless. Shane scrambles for the clothes Hayden had dropped for him, shimmying into them with shaking hands, yanking fabric over his head like he can outrun the last ten minutes if he moves fast enough.
Look, Shane bites, trying to sound tough. Not like hes currently fighting down nausea. You cant tell anyone.
Hollander...
Ilya can see the spiral written plainly across his face. He just stands there, watching it happen.
Im fucking serious, Rozanov. Shanes voice bites now, hard and clipped. That didnt happen.
Something in Ilyas expression shifts.
The amusement dies. Quietly, but visibly. His boner too, thankfully. I mean, how he was supposed to go play horse in that state is genuinely beyond him.
Da, he nods. I know, Hollander. I am not going to tell anybody.
The air between them tightens.
Shane just nods and slides into his hoodie, throws the hood up, immediately finds the drawstring and puts it between his teeth.
See you around.
He doesnt wait for a response.
***
Shane managed to avoid Ilya for the rest of rush week.
Those next few days were spent waiting anxiously for the shoe to drop. Shane had convinced himself it was some sort of twisted hazing. That there would be a video or whispers in the Row but thankfully nothing came.
And with that it wasnt exactly difficult to avoid Ilya. Greek Row sorted them neatly into opposite sides of the street, separate houses, separate rituals, separate everything. The infrastructure of it did most of the work for him.
He got his place in Delta Kappa Phi.
Ilya got his with Alpha Tau Rho.
Exactly as everyone had always expected. Exactly as it was always meant to go. And somehow, along with that Shane managed to avoid him for the entire fall and winter semester.
It wasnt a decision exactly. It was more like a shared, unspoken agreement. Something that doesnt require negotiation because both parties already understand the terms.
Their sports kept them in different corners of campus. Different practice schedules, different facilities, different rhythms to their weeks. The athletic center was big enough that you could spend a whole semester inside it and only ever see the people you were already looking for.
Shane made sure he wasnt looking.
Ilyas nickname had reached him sometime in November. Someone had pulled up an ATR Facebook page in the Delta kitchen Hayden, probably, doing the thing he always did with information he wasnt supposed to have scrolling through blurry photos from a darty they hadnt been invited to, narrating.
The Campus bike, hed said, laughing, nodding at a photo of Rozanov doing a jell-o shot from between a girls boobs, everyone gets a ride.
Shane had laughed too, an automatic social chuckle, and looked back down at his phone.
Hed thought about it for three days. Which was fine. It was nothing. It meant nothing.
There had been another kegger in October. One of the sororities celebrating something. Shane had been there long enough to watch Rozanov and Marleau take turns kissing the neck of the same girl while she giggled and blushed inbetween them. Then Ilyas mouth found the soft skin below her ear and stayed there, sucking a mark into her skin that shed be explaining to her roommate the next morning. Shanes stomach had turned over completely. Hed left twenty minutes later. Told himself it was because he had practice in the morning.
Hed had practice every morning.
So apart from the occasional unavoidable overlap a passing glance across the dining hall, a brief wordless crossing outside the library, the rare moment they both happened to be leaving the athletic building at the same time before one of them found a reason to look elsewhere they didnt speak.
Not once.
Like it hadnt happened.
Like it didnt exist.
But it did.
It lived there between them in every non-interaction. In every glance missed on purpose. The silence had weight to it the quiet strain of two people avoiding the same truth.
***
March 2011.
Suddenly its six months later, and spring is arriving regardless of if campus is ready for it or not the air softening, the last of the grey retreating, students already halfway checked out of classes before break has officially begun. Their conversation drifts toward plans and parties and temporary escape. The energy of the semesters final stretch humming restless beneath everything.
And Rozanov, cant stop thinking about that night.
It comes back at the worst times. In the middle of practice, his feet moving through drills his body knows well enough that his mind wanders without permission. Halfway through a conversation he stops tracking. Lying in bed in the small hours when the ATR house finally goes quiet and theres nothing left to drown it out.
The look on Shanes face, and the adorable way he froze when the door swung open. The fact that he didnt leave. The pretty sounds he made. The pink on his freckled cheeks.
Fuck, hes so pretty.
Ilya exhales sharply, dragging a hand back through his curls.
He doesnt understand it. He doesnt understand why it stuck why he stuck when nothing else from that night had. The lake, the chaos, Cliffs voice bouncing off tile. All of it had blurred into the general noise of a semester.
But not that.
Not Hollander.
Its not like it meant anything. Ilya has told himself this with some regularity. It was one night. A stupid fraternity tradition and a humid locker room and a boy who looked at him like he was something worth looking at.
It did not mean anything.
Thats what Ilya has told himself.
But still six months later, lying awake in the dark, he finds himself wondering whether Shane thinks about it too.