Chapter Text
Sunday had started exactly the way Shane wished every Sunday would start: no obligations, no chores, no schedules, and no one telling him what to do.
He was sprawled dramatically across the living room couch, taking up far more space than necessary, his legs draped over one of the armrests and his phone held just above his face.
He was wearing an oversized T-shirt that was obviously too big for him and a pair of wrinkled sweatpants. His dark hair was a complete mess because he hadn't even bothered brushing it after getting out of bed.
Rose, sitting on the opposite end of the couch, watched him for a few seconds before tossing a pillow straight at his head.
—Could you stop acting like a depressed movie star for five minutes?
The pillow smacked him in the forehead.
—Ow.
—You didn't even try to dodge it.
—Because I'm tired.
—It's eleven-thirty in the morning.
—Exactly.
Rose rolled her eyes.
They had known each other since they were kids, and by now she had developed an astonishing tolerance for Shane's ridiculous behavior.
—You're doing absolutely nothing.
—I'm resting.
—From what?
—Existing.
—You're so dramatic.
—Thank you.
Rose threw the pillow at him again, and this time Shane caught it.
From the kitchen came the sounds of Yuna preparing lunch while David talked to someone on the phone. The whole house had that quiet Sunday atmosphere that seemed to slow everything down.
Rose leaned her head against the back of the couch.
—Are you ever going to leave this house?
—Not anytime soon.
—Are you going to get a hobby?
—No.
—Are you going to study for your history exam?
—No.
—You're impossible.
—I know.
Rose laughed, and Shane smiled back. It was a perfectly normal moment.
Until he heard David's voice from the kitchen.
—What time are you getting here?
At first Shane didn't pay attention. David was always on the phone.
Still, something about his father's tone caught his attention.
—Perfect. We'll be waiting for you for lunch.
Shane raised an eyebrow.
—Who's coming?
David appeared in the kitchen doorway.
—Ilya.
The world literally stopped.
For one full second Shane froze, and Rose watched the color drain from his face.
—Oh.
—What do you mean, "oh?" David asked.
—Nothing.
—Is something wrong?
—No.
—You look sick.
—I'm fine.
Rose had to turn her head to hide her smile. She knew that reaction far too well.
David went back into the kitchen, and the moment he disappeared, Rose looked at Shane.
—Oh my God.
—Shut up. Don't say anything.
—He's not even here for another forty minutes and you're already acting weird.
—I'm not acting weird.
—Your voice got higher.
—Shut up, idiot.
Shane grabbed another pillow and threw it at her. Rose dodged it, laughing.
—I can't believe you're still like this.
—I don't know what you're talking about.
—Yes, you do.
—Rose, please...
—Shane.
—Rose.
—Shane.
—I hate you.
—Liar. You love me... just not as much as—
Shane let out a huge sigh. He tried to look back at his phone, but he couldn't anymore because now he knew Ilya was coming, and suddenly everything had changed.
The T-shirt he was wearing was awful.
His hair was a disaster.
The house was too quiet.
Time was moving painfully slowly.
He sat up, and Rose grinned.
—There it is.
—What?
—The phenomenon.
—What phenomenon?
—The transformation.
—There is no transformation. You're ridiculous. Cut it out.
—Sure.
Shane got off the couch.
—I'm going to my room.
—Of course you are.
—I need to change.
—Of course you do.
—It's not because of him.
—Of course not.
Shane shot her a glare, and Rose laughed again.
Fifteen minutes later he was standing in front of his bedroom mirror for the third time.
He had already changed shirts twice, fixed his hair four different times, and he still felt like something was wrong. He didn't know what. It just was.
He stepped closer to the mirror.
Then farther away.
Then closer again.
—Ridiculous, he muttered to himself.
Even so, he fixed one stubborn lock of hair.
When he finally came downstairs, he tried to act normal.
The moment Rose saw him she had to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing.
—Funny how you suddenly look like an actual human being.
—Would you shut up already?
—What a miracle.
—Rose.
—Yeah?
—I'm going to push you out a window.
She burst out laughing.
Then the doorbell rang.
Shane's heart lurched so violently it actually hurt.
He hated it.
He hated that it happened.
He hated that he couldn't control it.
David walked toward the front door, and Shane tried to keep looking at his phone, but it didn't work.
His eyes moved on their own.
The door opened.
There was Ilya.
Tall.
Ridiculously tall.
Wearing a dark jacket over a simple button-up shirt.
His blond hair was slightly messy from the wind, his blue eyes calm, his usual serious expression in place.
He filled the doorway as though he belonged there.
—David.
—You made it.
The two men greeted each other with the easy familiarity of people who had been friends for decades.
Ilya stepped inside.
Only then did he glance toward the living room.
His eyes found Shane.
—Hey, kid.
It was a completely ordinary thing Ilya always called him. To the Russian, it was affectionate, almost paternal.
To Shane, it was enough to forget how legs were supposed to work.
—Hi.
His voice came out strangely, but Ilya didn't seem to notice.
—You grew again.
—Not that much...
—Yes, that much.
David laughed.
—I keep telling him the same thing.
—Because it's true.
And that was it.
To Ilya, just another casual observation.
To Shane, a sentence he would probably remember for the next three weeks.
Rose was watching everything.
Rose, the traitor.
Ilya greeted Yuna, set down the bottle he'd brought for lunch, and started talking with David about work.
Nothing extraordinary.
Nothing special.
Nothing important.
And yet Shane couldn't stop looking at him.
It was unbearable.
He tried to focus on something else.
He couldn't.
He tried listening to Rose.
He couldn't.
He tried checking his phone.
He couldn't.
Every few seconds his eyes drifted back to Ilya.
The worst part was that Ilya didn't even notice because, to him, Shane was simply Shane: David's son, the kid he'd watched grow up for fifteen years.
Nothing more.
When they finally sat down for lunch, Shane ended up directly across from him.
It felt like both a blessing and a form of torture.
Now he could see him perfectly.
Now he could hear every word he said.
—How's school going? Ilya asked at one point.
Shane almost dropped his glass.
—Fine.
—Fine?
—Yeah.
—That didn't sound very convincing.
David laughed.
—Because it's a lie.
—Dad...
—He's losing another battle with history.
—I'm not losing.
—You got a four.
—It's just one grade.
—It's a bad one.
Ilya shook his head.
—Study, Shane.
—Yeah...
—I'm serious.
—Yeah.
—Shane.
—Yeah.
Ilya watched him for a few seconds.
—You're not going to study.
—Probably not.
That earned laughs all around the table, even a small smile from Ilya.
To Shane, that smile was worth more than anything else that had happened all week.
The conversation continued.
The adults talked.
Rose joined in.
Yuna told stories.
David argued with Ilya about some hockey game from twenty years ago.
Meanwhile, Shane sat there listening to Ilya's voice, watching his gestures, memorizing tiny details no one else seemed to notice.
And he felt that horrible, wonderful mix that had been following him for months.
Having Ilya close was the best feeling in the world.
And the worst.
Because every time he saw him, he was reminded of the same truth.
Ilya would never look at him the way he wanted.
Never.
Even so, when the Russian stood up to pour himself more water and casually rested one enormous hand on Shane's head as he walked by, ruffling his hair the way he'd done hundreds of times since Shane was little, Shane felt his heart flip inside his chest.
—You're awfully quiet today, Ilya commented.
—Me?
—Yeah.
—I am talking.
—Less than usual.
—Maybe I'm maturing.
Ilya laughed softly.
—No. That'll never happen.
The whole table burst into laughter.
Shane laughed too, even though deep down he already knew he'd remember that laugh for a very, very long time.
•••
The afternoon drifted by slowly after lunch.
David and Yuna were out in the backyard.
Rose had ended up helping Yuna with something in the kitchen.
The television stayed on in the living room, though no one seemed to be paying attention to it.
Ilya sat in one of the armchairs, checking messages on his phone.
Shane was painfully aware of every movement he made.
He hated that his entire day seemed to revolve around one person.
But he couldn't help it.
From across the room he watched Ilya rest an arm over the back of the chair while reading something on his screen.
The afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows.
The Russian looked completely relaxed.
Completely comfortable.
Completely unaware that there was a teenager only a few feet away slowly losing his mind.
Shane watched him for several seconds.
Then he stood up.
He had no plan.
He never had one.
He simply felt a desperate need for Ilya to look at him.
To pay attention to him.
To notice that he was there.
—What are you doing? Ilya asked as Shane walked past him.
—Nothing.
—Interesting activity. I wish I could be you.
Shane let out a small laugh.
Good.
He was talking to him.
That was good.
He stood there for a few seconds.
Ilya looked back down at his phone.
The conversation died instantly.
Shane felt a stab of frustration.
—Rose says I could beat you at chess.
Ilya raised an eyebrow.
—Rose lies a lot.
—She doesn't.
—She does.
Finally, Ilya slipped his phone into his pocket.
—Do you even know how to play?
Shane hesitated.
—Sort of...
—Then you can't beat me.
—Maybe I can.
—Definitely not.
He sounded so carefree that Shane wanted to kick something.
He didn't understand.
He didn't understand that Shane had spent ten whole minutes working up the courage to walk over.
He didn't understand that every word cost him an absurd amount of effort.
He didn't understand anything.
Of course he didn't.
How could he?
To him, it was just another conversation.
They ended up playing chess for ten minutes.
Ten humiliating minutes.
Because Ilya beat him effortlessly.
—That was quick, Shane said.
—I warned you.
—It didn't count.
—Of course it counted.
—You distracted me.
—Shane.
—What?
—You lost. Accept it.
—Barely.
—By a landslide.
Shane crossed his arms.
Ilya laughed quietly.
Then he reached over and ruffled Shane's hair.
Like he was eight years old.
Like he was a little kid.
Like he was an annoying nephew.
Like he was anything except the person who desperately wanted to be seen as someone attractive.
Heat rushed straight to Shane's face.
An awful, humiliating embarrassment.
—Don't do that...
—Do what?
—That.
—Mess up your hair?
—Yeah.
—I've always messed up your hair.
—Well... not anymore.
Ilya looked surprised.
—Alright.
He didn't sound offended.
He didn't sound confused.
He simply accepted it and moved on.
And somehow that was almost worse.
Because he hadn't even realized how much it meant to Shane.
Shane lowered his eyes to the chessboard, feeling the frustration building inside his chest.
He wanted to be treated like someone older.
He wanted Ilya to see him.
Really see him.
Not as David Hollander's son.
Not as the kid he'd known since childhood.
Not as a nephew.
But no matter what he did, he always ended up exactly where he'd started.
A little while later, while Ilya was talking with David in the backyard, Shane decided to try again.
He had grown several inches over the past few months, and he was convinced he no longer looked like a child.
Maybe not an adult.
But not a child either.
So he walked outside trying to look relaxed.
Trying to look mature.
Trying to look interesting.
David and Ilya were discussing something work-related.
—I think you're both wrong, Shane interrupted.
The two men looked at him.
—About what? David asked.
Shane opened his mouth.
Then froze.
He hadn't been listening.
Not a single word.
David started laughing.
—You have no idea what we're talking about.
—I do.
—No, you don't.
—I do.
—Then explain it.
Shane gave up.
—Okay... I didn't hear the beginning.
Ilya shook his head as a small smile appeared on his face.
—What a disaster.
David draped an arm over his son's shoulders.
—He's exactly the same as when he was ten.
Something twisted painfully inside Shane.
Ten years old.
Again.
Always the same.
Ten.
Twelve.
The kid.
The boy.
David's son.
Never Shane.
Never someone who could be seen any other way.
—I'm not ten anymore, he muttered.
—I know.
—You keep saying it.
—Because we've known you since you were this tiny.
Ilya held a hand at a ridiculously short height.
David burst out laughing.
Shane smiled too.
Because that was what he was supposed to do.
Because he couldn't say what he really felt.
He couldn't say that every time they treated him like a child, he wanted to disappear.
He couldn't say that he'd spent hours in front of the mirror trying to look older.
He couldn't say that he'd changed clothes three times before Ilya arrived.
He couldn't say that he'd been dreaming about him for months.
He couldn't say any of it.
So he smiled.
And pretended everything was fine.
Later, as the sun began to set, Rose found him sitting alone on the front steps.
—What's wrong?
—Nothing.
—Liar.
Shane looked out at the backyard.
Ilya was still there talking to David.
Completely relaxed.
Completely oblivious.
—Sometimes I hate him, Shane murmured.
Rose followed his gaze.
—No, you don't.
—A little.
—No.
—Yes.
—Why?
It took Shane several seconds to answer.
—Because he doesn't even look at me.
Rose fell silent.
For the first time, she didn't tease him.
She knew her best friend.
She knew that underneath all the tantrums, the dramatics, and the theatrics, there was something real.
Something that genuinely hurt.
Shane rested his chin on his knees and looked at Ilya one more time.
The man was smiling at something David had just said.
He hadn't looked toward the house even once.
That tiny reality, insignificant to anyone else, broke Shane's heart far more than he was willing to admit.
Author's Note: Just to be clear, nothing is going to happen between them while Shane is underage. Nothing at all. I don't write that kind of story. So you can read with complete peace of mind as Shane hopelessly falls in love while Ilya remains completely oblivious.