Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Let me in, Hollander!” 

Shane sighs at the banging echoing through his dorm room. He hasn't even been back at school for 24 hours, and yet. (One day. Can he not get one day of peace around here?) 

“You could just IM me to say you’re coming over,” he says as soon as he’s wrenched the door open, barely even flinching as Rose breezes by him into the room, McGill lanyard swinging from her neck. “You know, like I do every time I go to yours?” 

“Yes, but where’s the fun in that, my sweet Shane?” She plops down onto his bed with a bounce, her dip-dyed hair flying over her shoulders. “Also, you have a key to my apartment. If you didn’t IM, I’d think you were an intruder.” 

He laughs despite his faux-annoyance, reaching into his mini-fridge to toss Rose one of the energy drinks he keeps on hand for her. She mutters a soft thanks before cracking it open and taking a long sip. 

“So, how was your summer?” she asks, clearly trying for nonchalance but failing terribly, eyes too wide and smile too polite. (How Rose can be a stellar actress on stage and a terrible one in real life is beyond him.)

Shane snorts. “You know exactly how my summer was. I lived with you for most of it.” 

“Can’t a girl check in with her best friend?” 

He sighs, ready to put them both out of this minor misery. “What do you want, Rose?”

She stares up at where he’s perched on his desk, her mouth screwed to one side and green eyes narrowed with something Shane knows from experience will not work out for him. “You know how I’ve been talking about Warped Tour for like, ever? And how I was so, so sad that I didn’t get tickets?”

“Yeah?”

Rose bites her lip around a smile, pulling two slips of paper out of her bag. “I won a radio giveaway and got two Saturday passes!” 

“Shit, Rose, no way! I didn’t know people actually won those.”

“Right?! I had to go by the station this morning to pick them up, actually. Building was kinda sketchy, but I was on a mission,” she says, satisfied.

“Well, congrats. Who are you gonna bring with you?”

At that, Rose's smile goes a little crooked. (Oh, no.) 

“Well, Shane, my closest and dearest and loveliest friend, that’s where you come in.” 

Absolutely not. 

“Rose, no.”

“Oh, c’mon, Shane!” she protests. “It’s Warped Tour!” 

(Exactly.) “Rose, you know I love you, but that is your thing and not mine.” 

“But it could be!” 

“Don’t think so.” 

She groans, rolling her eyes. “Give me one good reason why you can’t come with me on Saturday.”

“I have work to do,” he protests, gesturing to the syllabus on his desk and the email open on his PC screen. 

“Classes haven’t even started yet, Shane.” 

“Work doesn’t really stop when you’re pre-med. And you know Saturday is my reading day.” 

“Okay, Mr. Sports Medicine,” she scoffs. “Aren’t you jocks constantly telling each other to work hard, play hard?” 

He squints. “I think you’ve been spending too much time with Hayden.” 

Rose barks out a laugh. “More like Jackie’s been spending too much time with him. He's at the apartment all the time. It’ll be a miracle if they’re not engaged by the end of the semester.” 

“He’s gonna be a child bride,” Shane mutters, shaking his head. 

“And then I'll be down a roommate, and we can finally live together for more than a few weeks each summer.”

“Hockey scholarship covers dorms, remember?”

“Boo,” she says, blowing a raspberry at him. 

He rolls his eyes at her, knowing they’ve had this argument (if he could even call it that) a million times over the three years they’ve been at university. 

“You really won’t go? I did a fresh dye job for this,” she insists, holding up a chunk of bright pink hair. “You wouldn’t let that go to waste, would you?” 

(Honestly, Shane’s just happy she didn’t decide to redye her hair in his bathroom this time. The Great and Terrible Red Dye Incident of 2004 can never have a sequel.) 

“Rose, why are you asking me to go with you?” he asks, kind of at a loss. He’s not exactly known for having a robust social calendar or emo music tendencies. “It’s gonna be loud and hot and crowded, which are the three things I literally hate most in life.” 

She sighs, leveling him with wide, earnest eyes. “Because you’re my best friend,” she admits, and Shane can already feel his resolve crumbling behind his ribs. “And I want to do something fun with you before you disappear into homework and hockey land for another semester.” 

Shane tucks his chin to his chest, sighing. (Yeah, she got him there.) “I want to do something fun with you, too. I just…” he trails off, the first twinges of anxiety licking at the divots of his elbows. “I don’t know about the crowds, Rose. Don’t people get hurt in those pits all the time? And I should probably start on these readin–” 

Rose huffs and reaches over, hitting a button on his keyboard that sends his PC screen to dark. 

“Hey!”

“Your hot Russian drummer boy is playing.” 

Shane freezes. He doesn’t know the guy’s name or the band he’s in, but Rose had played enough of his music videos over the past few months for Shane to develop a…crush, of sorts. He doesn’t know a damn thing about the guy other than the fact that he’s Russian, according to Rose, and he’s never even heard him speak, but — 

Those curls. And his drummer arms. 

(Shane’s mouth goes dry just thinking about him.) 

He clears his throat. “His band will be there?” 

Rose grins, knowing she’s got him hook, line, and sinker. “They’re on one of the smaller side stages. And their set starts at 4:00, so it shouldn’t be too hot out.” 

Okay. 

Pros: he hangs out with Rose, gets out of the house for a bit before hockey season, maybe finds a new band he enjoys (unlikely, but still), and sees the hottest guy on earth bang on some drums, shirt optional.

Cons: too many to fucking name.

But that drummer…

Shane sighs, dropping his head back to stare at the ceiling. “What time do you wanna leave on Saturday?” 

Rose squeals, throwing herself at him and smacking a kiss to his cheek, nearly knocking them both over. He’s beyond used to it by now, though, and the arm that wraps around her to steady them is more instinct than anything. (She may be annoying as hell sometimes, but he really fucking loves his best friend.) 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm the best best friend you could ever have.” 

“You'll have fun, I promise,” she tries to assure him.  

“Fuck, don’t put that kind of pressure on me, Landry,” he laughs, knowing her hopes are probably futile. “I’ll do my best, okay?” 

“That’s all I ask.” 

On Saturday, Rose shows up at his dorm an hour before she said she would, because, as she’d so delicately announced, this is a concert, Shane, not a training session, and his usual athletic wear just won't do. 

Within half an hour, there are many, many rejected clothing options scattered around his floor, he’s finally been shoved into something deemed acceptable, and Rose is coming toward him brandishing an eye pencil that’s been sharpened to the point of torture, surely. 

“Rose, absolutely not.” 

“Oh, come on, Shane. Guyliner is a sacred emo tradition!”

“And one that I’m just going to sweat off within, like, five minutes.” 

Rose scoffs. “I can’t believe you think I would use anything but waterproof eyeliner on you.” 

Shane rolls his eyes. “Rose.” 

“Anyway,” she continues, as if he hadn’t said a damn thing. “If it does smudge a little bit, then that’s even hotter.” He narrows his eyes at her. “Their set is during the day, Shane. Perfect view out into the crowd.” 

“I’m sure there’ll be too many people around to pick out a single face.” 

“Your face is too pretty not to notice.” 

Shane rolls his eyes, resolutely keeping his head to the side to avoid looking at his best friend. (He’s seen Rose’s pleading, faux-defeated face far too many times in his life. And somehow, he’s still not immune to it.) 

“Who knows, maybe he’ll see how wrong the eyeliner looks on me and set his sights on you instead.” 

“Then I’ll let him down with my lesbianism and redirect him back to you.” 

Shane snorts. “You don’t even know if he —” 

“He's bisexual,” Rose says like it’s nothing, like the world hasn’t just stuttered to a halt in his dorm room. “Talked about it in the same interview where the lead singer came out.” 

“When the fuck did that happen?”

“Like, a year ago?” she answers, unsure, throwing Shane’s world off-balance even more. “Did I never mention it?”

“No! No, you fucking didn’t!” Shane spits, an absurd panic starting to simmer through his bloodstream. 

Why is he fucking —

It’s…it’s a joke, this stupid celebrity crush is a silly little joke between him and Rose, never meant to get out of the confines of their friendship. Shane's been more than happy to stare at him through the safety of a fuzzy TV screen for the past few months, separated by static and the inherent truth of them being from very, very different realities.

But even the possibility of Hot Russian Drummer noticing Shane the same way Shane notices him during the one time Shane would ever be in his vicinity makes this entirely too real and entirely too nerve-wracking and wait, when did his breathing start speeding up? 

“Shane?” 

“I…”

“Hey, I didn’t mean to —” 

“No,” he chokes out, running his hands through his hair in an attempt to ground himself. “No, it’s fine, I’m just being stupid.”

“Shane, don’t say —”

“It’s not like he’d even be into me like that anyway,” he wheezes out, more for himself than Rose, more a confession than a reassurance. “It just…got a little real and weird for a minute, but it’s fine. I’m fine.” 

Rose stays on the other side of the room, tense where she stands in the middle of a pile of clothes, the damn eye pencil still clutched in her fingers. And he fucking hates it, hates getting a front row seat to how he ruins things with his panic and anxiety. It knocks him askew, sends boulders tumbling into his gut in an avalanche of shame and insecurity. 

(Fix it fix it fix it.)

“Go ahead. Fuck it, put the eyeliner on me,” Shane stammers out as he tries to slow his breathing, desperate to cure the moment. 

“You sure?” she asks, wary and familiar with the way Shane usually needs space and quiet after an anxious flare.

“Yes, Rose, I’m sure.”

“...okay.”

She waits for him to nod again before stepping into his space, holding his head still with one hand while she slowly drags the pencil across his lid with the other. 

“He’d be a fool to not be into you, Shane,” she whispers, quiet and earnest and so wonderfully her.

“Rose —” 

“He would.” She pauses, something glinting in her eye. “And this eyeliner will make sure he doesn’t miss his chance!” 

Despite himself, Shane snorts, letting his chin bounce out of her grasp. And it helps the weight in his gut feel lighter, but it also drives that damn pencil into the corner of his eyeball.

“Ow! Shit, Rose!” he shouts, leaning back on the bed and pressing his thumb to where his eye’s now watering, hot tears clumping along his lashes.

“Hey, that was your fault!” she protests, pointing the eyeliner at him like she’s a slasher in a bad horror movie, come to kill him with the power of drugstore makeup and emo music. 

There’s a beat where they look at each other, mirrored tension on their faces, before they burst into laughter at the same moment, filling the room with sound. 

Rose collapses on top of him with it, and when he shoves her to the side, the way she flops onto the mattress sends her into another round of ridiculous, honking giggles. Shane throws himself down beside her, shoulders shaking as his laughter fades and clears his dark cloud from the room. 

It’s still a little shaky, but Shane takes his first real deep breath of the day. 

“All good?” Rose asks, reaching over to squeeze their palms together. 

“All good.” 

She uses their joined hands to drag him upright, swiping a thumb under his eyes to clear away any lingering tears before she takes the eyeliner back to his skin. (Shane really fucking loves his best friend.) 

“Now, let me finish.”

“Don’t fucking poke my eye out,” he teases, smirking.  

“I would never,” she scolds, pulling her eyebrows together in faux offense and splaying a hand across her heart. “You need it to see your boy play.” 

(A joke, a joke, it feels good to joke.) 

“Why do I put up with you?” Shane sighs, putting on the drama he knows Rose loves, as he tilts his head back to the ceiling. 

“Because you love me,” she says, drawing the last bit of eyeliner underneath his lashes. “And because I’m getting you in front of your future husband today.” 

“Rose!” 

“Hey, it could happen!” she insists, snapping the cap back onto the liner. “He could see you in the crowd while he’s drumming and be like —” She pauses to clear her throat, dropping her voice low. “Wow.” 

“That is the worst Russian accent I’ve ever heard.” 

“Oh, shut up.” She picks up one of his discarded shirts from the floor and throws it at him, hitting him square in the chest. He laughs, folding it in his lap and sliding the bundle over to the other side of the bed. “The point is that you look hot, okay? See for yourself.” 

Rose shoves one of her compact mirrors into his hands, open and waiting for the moment of truth.  

And, well — 

Rose kinda did work her magic with that eyeliner. 

It’s a little messy underneath his eyes, adding a bit of shadow and drawing attention to the smattering of freckles along his cheekbones. It’s lighter on the top, barely visible along his tightline, but Shane thinks it’s better that way. And with his black jeans and the oversized mesh top Rose had given him to wear… 

He looks good. The kind of good he can’t deny, better than any outfit he’s put together for his hockey formals or the rare frat party that Hayden and J.J. force him to attend. 

A flash of heat shoots through his chest, pulling his posture up taller and settling him into his frame. (Maybe he could do this.) 

“Good, right?” Rose asks, eyes a little wide. Shane sees it for the check-in it is, knows that she has makeup wipes in her bag ready to reverse her work, but he finds he doesn’t need them. 

“It’s good,” he admits, a bit of awe seeping into his voice, and the smile Rose gives him soothes any lingering tension left in his chest.  

“Told you.” 

His laugh echoes around the room, only made louder by her answering giggles. 

“Okay, give me 15 minutes to change, do my makeup, and crush this Red Bull, and then we’ll go.” 

This place is overwhelming as fuck. 

It’s not even that hot out (not that it ever is in Montreal), but there are so many people and they’re all yelling and it feels like there’s a wall of sound and sweat pressing against him on all sides. They’ve barely entered the festival grounds, but Shane can already feel the chaos creeping into the back of his brain, the constant push and pull of people going between the merch booths and the food trucks and the stages creating a fuzz of noise at the base of his skull. 

How the fuck is he supposed to get through another eight hours of this?

“Merch and then we’ll find a spot, okay?” Rose asks, and Shane can really only nod before they’re on their way. He clings to her hand as she drags him through the throng of people around them, sticking close as she edges up to the merch booth and buys a shirt she’ll surely hack up once they get home tonight. 

His grip tightens as they enter the festival grounds properly, the music steadily growing louder and the space between people growing smaller with every step towards the stages. 

“This seems good!” Rose declares as she drags Shane to their final spot, close enough to the stage to see clearly but far enough back that they’re not squished by other fans. (Small mercies, right?)

The band Rose wants to see first is thankfully on the same stage as Hot Russian Drummer’s band, so at least they won’t have to move for a few hours. 

Except, Shane realizes, they’ve placed themselves directly under the hot August sun with nothing to keep them cool, or hydrated, or remotely comfortable. Fucking hell. 

“I need some water,” he says, turning to Rose. “You?” 

“Oh, yes, please! Get two bottles for each of us, okay?” 

Huh? “You’re not coming?” 

“I’ve gotta save our spot.” 

Shane whips his head around, surveying the mass of sweaty teenagers and day-drunk adults surrounding them.

“I don’t want to leave you alone here.” (And I don’t want to brave that crowd solo.) 

Rose hums around a pout, reaching down to squeeze his hand. “You're a good best friend. But I’ll be fine, Shane, I promise. You’ll be gone for ten minutes at most. And hey!” She leans back, pulling her bag up to her shoulders and reaching for a cylindrical chrome keychain clipped to the side. “The security guy didn't even confiscate my pepper spray! I’ll be double fine!” 

He rolls his eyes around a snort, shaking his head. “Alright. But don’t cause too much trouble while I’m gone, okay?”

“No promises!” she responds with a wink, knocking his elbow with hers to get him to move. 

Slowly, he winds his way through the mass of people around them, skirting around clumps of fans until he’s back out in the main area. Shane doesn’t have the slightest clue where the water tent actually is, because Rose’s tickets hadn’t come with any sort of festival map (a terrible decision on the organizers’ part, truly), so he tries to retrace their steps back to the merch booths. 

He manages to find a very bored-looking worker lingering just outside one of the tents.

“Hey, uh, water?” he asks. 

The worker just waves off to their right, but Shane has no fucking clue if that means water’s over there or fuck off, kid. 

He decides to go with the former (Rose always says he’s too optimistic, too trusting) and slides along the plastic wall to the back of the tent, dodging a few stumbling teenagers along the way.

Somehow, he manages to find a seam in the structure and bursts through the tarp curtains, praying that this is the magical doorway that’ll take him to the water tent, but it’s no use. Shane stumbles into a clearing of sorts, an empty stretch of tamped-down grass hidden behind the row of collapsible booths. It’s a little quieter back here, the rows of plasticky tarp muffling some of the sound echoing out from the festival behind him, and that fuzzy feeling in the back of his brain finally starts to recede. 

But he shouldn’t be here. 

There’s no one around. Like, not even a rogue assistant or a roadie or whoever the hell works on these sorts of tours. Just him, an empty field, and an overwhelming mob at his back that he does not want to rejoin. 

Shane knows he should turn around, but — 

There’s a little building ahead, some sort of shack, and he’s willing to bet the festival organizers shoved some backup supplies in there. 

Jackpot.

With a quick look over his shoulder to make sure the worker didn’t follow him back here, Shane jogs off towards his hopeful oasis, sending off a quick wish for the door to be unlocked. He slows as he curves around the corner, expecting to see the area deserted, but — 

There’s a guy leaning against the building door, one leg kicked up behind him to rest on the worn wood as he lights a cigarette. (Gross.) 

Shane panics. 

“Oh, sorry,” he stumbles out, quick and fast and hoping he’s not about to get thrown out of the festival. “I was looking for the water tent, but I…” 

The man turns to face him, a puff of smoke wafting over his face, and the words fall off Shane’s tongue. 

Fucking hell. 

Hot Russian Drummer (fuck, why didn’t he ask Rose for his name?) stands in front of him, a ratty graphic tee hanging off his frame and a toque tucked over his head, letting wisps of honey brown curls sneak out and wrap around the fabric. It brushes the edge of his forehead where a sleek silver hoop pierces through the tail of his eyebrow, pointed ends resting against tanned skin. A gold chain peeks out from underneath his collar, glinting in the afternoon sun and drawing Shane’s eye to the hard swell of muscle along the man’s chest. He’s got a cigarette between his heart-shaped lips, plush and pink and holding so, so loosely onto the smoldering cig. 

(This man should come with a warning sign, the way this single, not-even-that-up-close glimpse has wiped Shane’s mind blank and put his heart on a high-speed treadmill.) 

“This is not the water tent,” Shane says as soon as he can form words again, because apparently, normal conversation goes out the window when he’s faced with hot men (specifically hot men he’s been lusting after from afar for the better part of six months). 

“Ah, no,” Hot Russian Drummer responds, accented voice low and rumbling across the grass. “Smoking area. Unofficial, of course.” 

Shane’s eyes flick to the vivid red sign behind the man’s head, the vibrant strike cutting the cigarette illustration in half.

“Of course.”

Silence falls over them, only broken by the low crackling of Hot Russian Drummer’s cigarette every time he breathes in. Shane kicks at the ground, the toe of his sneakers digging a shallow grave in the dirt. He can barely look at the man in front of him, too busy fighting the flush that’s threatening to bloom across his cheeks.

(Fucking say something, Hollander.)

“You’re, uh, you’re in one of the bands today, right?” Shane spits out, desperate to clear the silence (and get maybe a minute or two with this boy before he’s inevitably forced back into the festival crowd). If the universe is going to drop Hot Russian Drummer right in front of him, Shane’s going to take advantage before his terror takes over.

“Yes. Cent Street.”

“Right. I’ve heard your stuff before.”

“Our stuff? Not our music?” He raises a brow. “You too good for us?”

Shane’s eyes go wide. (How is he fucking this up already? This has to be a new record.) “What? No, no, that’s not what I —” 

Hot Russian Drummer’s smirk cracks in two, and a wide smile splits his face around a laugh, bold and bright and booming over the din of the crowd at their backs. 

“Oh, fuck off.” 

Hot Russian Drummer only laughs harder, waving his still-lit cig around. “Sorry, sorry. I could not resist.” He leans back against the shack, looking at Shane with an easy smile on his face, and Shane feels himself go hot underneath the man’s gaze. 

Suddenly, there’s a hand shoved into the space between them. 

“Ilya Rozanov.”

Ilya. Ilya Ilya Ilya.  

(Of course, his name feels like music on Shane's tongue.)

“Shane Hollander,” he responds, stepping forward to shake Ilya’s hand and praying he can’t somehow feel Shane’s blush through his fingertips. 

(Ilya’s hands are calloused, rough patches of skin brushing along his palm and the inside of his wrist. Shane tries not to think about how they’d feel against other parts of his body.) (He fails.) 

“And what are you doing backstage, Shane Hollander?”

“I told you! I was trying to find water!” he sputters, dropping Ilya’s hand (he feels the loss immediately).  

“And you managed to get very lost doing it.” 

“I asked a worker where the water tent was, and they waved over here.” 

“They were probably telling you to fuck off.” 

“Oh, you don’t say?” 

He shakes his head and tries to look away, but his eyes are locked on Ilya’s teasing smile. (This is going to be a problem, isn’t it?) 

Shane’s so focused on the quirk of Ilya’s top lip that it takes a second for his earlier words to really register. And what are you doing backstage, Shane Hollander? 

“Wait, this is backstage? Not just a staff area?” he asks, whipping his head around. (Shit, he’s definitely gonna get him and Rose kicked out.) “Shouldn’t there be security around here or something?”

Ilya shrugs. “This tour is held up by duct tape and a dream. No one but headliners gets security.” 

“Oh,” Shane mutters, relaxing an inch back into himself. “Are you not considered a headliner then?” 

Ilya lifts a brow, pulling at his piercing.

“Sorry, I don’t know how any of this works,” Shane blurts, immediately apologetic. “It’s not really my scene, honestly.” 

“No,” Ilya answers, taking pity on him. “We are not headliners. We are not big like other bands.” 

“Really? But Rose plays your music all the time.”

“Ah. Then she is the fan?” 

“I mean,” Shane starts, “I like the stuff she’s played for me.”

“Yeah? Then what is your favorite song?” 

Shane grimaces. (Why has he never fucking asked Rose about this?) “That one that goes, uh, the way that you left me is alright, it’s alright,” he says, hoping beyond hope that he actually got the lyrics right and that his voice isn’t so terrible that he scares Ilya off. 

But to his surprise, Ilya bursts out into a laugh. 

“Clairvoyant? Our slowest and saddest song is your favorite?”

(Well. Can’t win ‘em all, right?) “It’s good!” Shane insists with a tense, cringing smile.

“Yes, I know,” Ilya says, smirking. “I wrote it.” 

What the fuck. 

“Shit, you did?” Shane asks, face dropping into curiosity. 

Ilya nods, lifting his cigarette to his lips for another drag. 

“Wow,” Shane breathes. “I mean, I knew you were good on the drums, but like…that’s really fucking cool.” 

Ilya’s answering smile is soft, something just this side of bashful. 

“I write most of our music, actually.” 

“No way.” 

A few lingering tendrils of smoke drift out of Ilya’s mouth as he starts to speak. “The others help sometimes, because English is a horrible language. But I write most of each song on my own, yes.” 

Shane lets out a surprised laugh, just a quick burst of air. (Of course, he’s a fucking songwriter. All cool and artistic where Shane is rough and sporty. Of fucking course.) (Ilya is going to be a problem for him.) 

“Really fucking cool,” Shane repeats, because what else is there to do, really? His only other option is to clench his fists around the dopey smile begging to be set free. 

Ilya ducks his chin, but Shane can still see the hint of pink up by his temples. (Maybe he hasn’t ruined anything, actually.) 

“I'm surprised your Rose didn’t mention it,” Ilya says, flicking his cigarette with his thumb. “We add writing credits to everything we post on MySpace.”

“Oh, I don’t…” 

“You do not even follow our MySpace page?”

“Well, I — “ 

Ilya tsks, shaking his head. 

“You are a bad fan, Shane Hollander.” 

“Okay, listen…”

He trails off as Ilya snorts out a laugh, his offended expression melting first into a smirk and then into something outright joyous. 

“Fuck off.” (Ilya just laughs harder. Something in Shane’s chest squeezes.) “For the record, I don’t even have a MySpace page, okay? I’m taking a stand against my friends’ constant nagging.” 

“Ah, but then how do they do the nagging if not on MySpace?”

“I have IM. And a cell phone,” Shane insists. “I’m not totally under a rock.” 

“Good to know,” Ilya says, smirking as he takes another drag of his cigarette, barely anything left to it now. 

“Honestly, I should probably call Rose and tell her where I am.” 

A shot of tension flickers across Ilya’s face, just a slight twinge in his brow that Shane really only catches because he’s having a lot of trouble looking away from Ilya’s eyes. (How the fuck are they so blue but also so green?) 

“And this Rose, she is your girlfriend?” 

“What?!” Shane nearly screeches, face screwing up in shock. (He thought… Were they not flirting, kind of?) “No, oh god, no. She’s my best friend.” He pauses, considering. (If Ilya is asking, that means he’s checking and —) “I mean, we tried to date in high school for like, a week, but it ended when right after we kissed, I told her I thought I was gay and she told me she was a lesbian.” 

The clench of Ilya’s jaw releases as Shane looks at him with wide, trusting eyes, hoping he understands everything Shane is holding in his gaze. And the smile that Ilya gives him isn’t a smirk, exactly, but it’s crooked and it’s slow and it’s paired with a very purposeful drag of Ilya’s eyes across Shane’s face, taking in every detail. 

“Probably for the best it did not work out, then,” Ilya mutters, low and heading straight for the fire burning in the pit of Shane’s stomach.

“Definitely.” 

And Ilya's shifting to face him, leaning one shoulder against the scuffed wooden shack, and his lips are parting to say something, sending a zip of anticipation through Shane's chest, when —

“Ilyushka!” 

He looks over Ilya’s shoulder to see a woman come around the corner, her deep red curls flouncing with every step. (Ilya turns away to look at her, and Shane is hit with a wild need to have Ilya's eyes on him again.) 

“Sveta, I am —” 

She cuts him off with a flurry of what Shane assumes is Russian, with Ilya responding in kind. They go back and forth for a minute, with the woman (Sveta?) shooting glances at Shane every few seconds, sending him squirming under her wary eyes. 

“I’m giving you five minutes,” she says in English as she walks off, clearly for Shane’s benefit as much as Ilya’s. 

“Yes, Sveta,” Ilya sing-songs, rolling his eyes. He waits until Sveta is out of earshot to speak again. “Sorry about that.” 

“It’s fine. Seemed important.” 

Ilya nods. “That was Svetlana. She has been my best friend…since birth, really. And now she is our manager.” 

“And that hasn’t messed with your friendship?”

“Nah. She has always loved bossing me around. And I trust her too much to say no.”

Shane snorts. “Sounds like me and Rose. She’s the only reason I’m here today.”

Ilya hums, tossing his cigarette to the ground to stamp it out. “I’ll have to thank her later.” 

The determination in Ilya’s tone makes warmth bloom across Shane’s chest, weaving through his ribs and settling him from the inside out. He wants to step closer, get in Ilya’s space, see if he’s feeling the same mix of curiosity and gravity as Shane. 

“But I need to go. Sveta was giving me the hour warning.”

Never mind.

“O-oh, right,” Shane stammers out, clearing the disappointment from his throat. He drops his gaze, focusing on a patch of dried-out grass by Ilya’s boot. “Yeah, you should…you should get ready for your set.” 

(Fucking why would you ever think a guy like him could —) 

“I’ll see you there?”

Shane snaps his head up, confusion and hope swirling through his veins. 

“Yeah, I’ll watch your set, of course.” 

“No. I meant I will see you from the stage, yes?” 

“Oh.” Shane feels like he’s drowning a little bit, his heart suddenly rattling in his ribcage at the intensity in Ilya’s eyes, so fierce and wanting. “Then yeah, for sure.” 

“Good.” 

Ilya nods once, eyes darting a messy path across Shane’s face. 

“I’ll look for you out there, Shane.”

Holy shit. 

Is Shane dreaming? Did he get hit in the head and not realize it, and now he’s in some sort of magical fantasy world? He thinks he might be, at least a little bit. He definitely entered a new plane of existence when he snuck through those booths, because nothing is making sense right now. 

This feels too good to make sense. 

“Luckily,” he starts, letting this weird euphoria take over and wash away the waver in his voice, “I won’t have to look too hard to find you.” 

Ilya lets out a breathy laugh, something close to a snort but not quite, his smile stilted by the teeth clutching at his bottom lip. 

“No, you won’t,” he says, leaning closer. “Just don’t confuse me with one of our guitarists, yes? Would be quite awkward to explain why I spent the set staring at a pretty boy who wouldn’t look at me.” 

Normally, being flirted with so openly would send Shane into a minor panic (and Ilya calling him pretty is definitely spiking his heart rate), but nothing comes. No buzzing, no static, nothing. Just peace, warmth, and the overwhelming need to flirt right back. 

“You don’t have to worry about that,” he responds, mouth twitching around a smile. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re the only one up there.”  

(Honestly, the very concept of Shane looking at someone other than Ilya is fucking absurd.) 

He watches as the words hit Ilya, cataloguing the way his stance shifts, shoulders going loose and chest dipping with his exhale, slow blinks with eyes that aren’t pinched at the corners. It’s equal parts powerful and terrifying, sending a little thrill dancing down Shane’s spine. 

Ilya shuffles forward, just a single step, but close enough for Shane to get a whiff of his cologne, deep and smoky with a spiciness he can’t quite name. It fills his lungs, swirling into his bloodstream and sparking a heat that’s no match for the blazing sun above them. 

They’re pretty much the same height, he realizes, their proximity erasing the distortion of distance. It makes it easy for him to inch across the grass, barely three feet between them and eyes locked on the target of Ilya’s lips, and —

A burst of sound shoots out of Ilya’s back pocket, and the surprised grumble he lets out shouldn’t be as fucking cute as Shane thinks it is. Ilya pulls his cell phone out, whipping it open to answer the call with a groan. 

“I know, I am coming, bye,” he rushes out, hanging up immediately before looking at Shane with an apology written across his face. 

“Sveta,” he explains. “I need to go get ready.” 

(Yep. Cool. That’s fine, that’s fine, that’s —) 

“Of course,” Shane says, waving off the disappointment. “Yeah, you should…you should go. And I should too, honestly.” 

In front of him, Ilya leans down to scoop his cigarette butt off the ground and drop it in his pocket, probably to throw out later. (Okay, maybe Shane could get over the smoking thing if it's paired with a no littering thing.) 

Their eyes meet again when Ilya stands back up, and Shane shoves his hands into his pockets to keep them to himself.

“Have a good show, alright?”

Ilya sighs. “Thank you, Shane.” 

He steps backward, giving Ilya a small smile before he turns to leave. 

“Wait.”

Shane whirls around to see Ilya pulling the shed doors open and ducking inside. “How many waters do you need?” he calls. 

“Uh, four.”

A ripping sound echoes through the doorway, followed by the scrunch of plastic against itself. Ilya emerges from the shed with four water bottles clutched in his hands and a pleased grin draped across his lips. 

“For you.”

“Thank you,” Shane says, a little stunned. He reaches for the bottles, careful to let his fingers overlap with Ilya's and delighting in the lingering drag of skin against skin. 

“I’ll see you on stage, Ilya.”

“Bye, Shane.” 

The smile he gives Ilya is wider this time, and he clutches the water bottles to his chest to hold Ilya’s answering grin close as he goes. 

Shane tries not to look back over his shoulder when he reaches the tarp doorway to the festival, but he does. The clearing is empty around him, so Ilya is still at the shack, still standing in their spot, and Shane has to speed up into a jog to stop his legs from turning back around. 

He replays their conversation with every step he takes, letting the melody of Ilya’s voice drive him forward through the masses and back to the audience area by the stages. 

Normally, when he’s searching for Rose, Shane just looks out for a shock of brightly-colored hair, but that’s pretty much everywhere here. He slowly fights his way toward the back of the crowd at the stage Ilya will play later, praying Rose is still where he left her.

And thank fuck, she is. 

He calls Rose’s name when he’s a few rows behind her, sneaking through a group of fans to reach his best friend. 

“Shane! About time!” Her smile is wide when she turns to face him, but it drops the second she sees the tension he knows has settled into his brow. 

“Rose, you are never gonna fucking believe this.” 

He shoves the water bottles into her hands and launches into his story of the past 15 minutes, how he took a wrong turn that led him to Ilya and he’s felt off-center ever since, how Ilya teased him and riled him up but it was nice, it was playful, and Shane never once felt mocked like he sometimes does in the locker room after practice. 

“It felt like he was gonna ask me out, Rose, I swear to god,” he laments with a groan, unable to stop thinking about the flash of relief in Ilya's eyes when Shane said he wasn't dating Rose. “But then his manager —”

“You met their manager?” she interrupts, and — 

What? 

“Svetlana?” he asks, trying to catch up with their sudden diversion (he’s got a boy to talk about, thank you very much). “I mean, I didn’t exactly meet her, but —” 

“Shane, oh my god, you need to see him again,” Rose rushes out, eyes wide. “Because that woman is so fucking beautiful and I can’t find a single bit of info about her on any of my forums, so I’m gonna need you to do it for me.”

Hold on.

“Seriously? That’s what you got from everything I said?” 

“Did you or did you not see her? That hair, those eyes?” 

“Rose.”

“She’s been in the background of so many of the band’s pictures —” 

“Rose.” 

“No one knows a thing about her, and you just met her —” 

Shane sighs, knowing there’s only one thing that could stop her spiral now. 

“Rosalyn Nicolette Landry.” 

It works. 

Rose freezes, mouth agape around her tirade. “You dare pull out the full government?” 

He shakes his head, grabbing onto her shoulders and leaning down to get a bit closer to eye level. “He asked if he’d see me from the stage.” 

“He what?!” 

“And when I said that he would, he said good, because he’ll be looking for me.” 

“Holy shit.” 

“And when I said that you were the reason I came today, he said that he’d thank you later.” 

Somehow, Rose’s eyes go even wider. “Shane, you need to marry this boy.” 

He huffs. “Let’s get through today first.” 

“No, no, you do! You do, and once you’re married, then I can marry his manager!” 

“Rose, oh my god.” 

“What?” she squeaks, tossing her hands in the air. “It's a good plan!”

“No plans, Rose!” he protests. “Just…just watching him play from back here. Or, maybe we'll move a few rows up, I don't know.”

Rose narrows her eyes at him. 

“Nope, denied. We’re getting to the barricade.”

“What?! No, absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes!” Rose insists, smacking his bicep. “Shane, he said that he wanted to see you from the stage.”

“That doesn’t mean going to the fucking barricade.”

“It’s the best view in the house!”

“We’re outside.” 

Rose groans and rolls her eyes before grabbing him by the shoulders. 

“Shane Hollander, you listen to me right the fuck now. We are getting to the barricade, and you are going to stare down your man for the entire set.”

“He’s not my ma–” 

“And every time he looks out into the crowd, he will see you and see how hot you are, and he will fall in love in the span of 45 minutes, so help me god.”

“I think you’re overestimating —” 

“Shane, I'm saying this with all the lesbian love in my heart.” She shifts her hands to cradle his face, making sure their eyes meet. “You are kind and funny and smart and talented and attractive. Any guy would be lucky to be with you, and I guarantee you Ilya knows that already. It doesn't take long to figure out how fucking great you are.” 

“Rose,” he chokes out, throat suddenly thick with emotion. (She’s gonna make him cry in the middle of a fucking pop punk festival, isn’t she?)  

“So, let yourself have this. Whatever it ends up being.” 

Could he do that, though? Could he really let go of control and hand the pieces of himself he’s kept so protected over to Ilya, this boy he’s only known for a matter of minutes but is already far too attached to? 

Shane doesn’t really think he’s capable of that. Letting go has…kind of always been impossible for him.

But if Ilya is even the slightest bit interested in him, then it seems like impossibilities are already happening. 

“...okay,” he decides, a little reluctant, a little wary, but on his way to sure. 

“Okay.” 

Rose pulls his face down so she can smack a kiss on his forehead. “Now let’s get to that barricade, baby.” 

They spend the rest of the set slowly moving up through the crowd, Rose grabbing his hand and darting forward anytime she sees a bit of space. Every step they take makes the world louder, both from the deafening speakers by the stage and the anxiety screaming its way through his bloodstream. 

(Thank fuck Shane brought earplugs.) 

By the time the current act finishes their last song, Shane and Rose have settled far closer to the barricade than expected, only about a dozen feet from the metal barrier. 

The band steps off stage, the crew swarms for a set change, and every single nerve ending in Shane’s body lights up like a fucking Christmas tree. 

“Oh, god,” Shane mutters, looking down at his watch. Ten minutes until Ilya’s on stage. “We’re close enough, right?” he asks, turning toward Rose. “Like, he’ll definitely see me from here?” 

“He will, I promise. We’re barely five rows from the front.” 

“Okay,” he breathes, bouncing a bit on his heels. Nine minutes. 

“Shane?” 

“Distract me, please?” 

He tries to keep the tremble out of his voice, but he knows it doesn’t work because as soon as he makes eye contact with Rose, her entire face softens, understanding falling over her features. 

“Of course, Shane,” she says, taking one of his hands in both of hers. “Did I tell you about the last time I walked in on Jackie and Hayden?” 

“You mean from yesterday? Because yes, and it was scarring to just hear about.”

“No. From this morning before I left for yours.”

“Oh god,” he groans. 

“It was traumatizing, Shane, I swear!” she laughs out before rambling on about her…unfortunate roommate situation (they love Hayden and Jackie, they do, but do those two ever cool down?). And it works, distracting Shane’s brain enough that he can feel his fingers again, at least, even if his heart is still pounding a little too fiercely in his chest. 

He doesn’t realize how much time has passed until people start to shuffle into the pockets of space around them, pressing Shane even closer to the barricade. He checks his watch. 3:59. 

Shit. 

Cent Street steps out on stage, and the crowd roars around Shane. 

Ilya has changed clothes since Shane saw him last, now clad in a black muscle tee, loose and billowing around his sides, and dark jeans that are so tight he wonders if they’re cutting off his circulation. (Then he realizes he’s thinking about Ilya’s circulation below the belt and nearly has to shake himself to stop his mind from wandering.) 

Ilya gets settled behind the drumset, twirling a drumstick around his fingers as his feet find the pedals below him. His other hand reaches up to adjust his backwards cap, bulging biceps on full display. (Oh, god.)  The late August sun lights him up beautifully, turning his skin golden and glowy, and Shane wants to get close enough for it to burn. He drinks in the sight from afar, suddenly wishing he and Rose really had gotten to that barricade.

In front of him, Ilya’s eyes scan the crowd, darting across faces until he locks into Shane’s and fucking winks. Shane feels himself flush down to his fucking toes. (Ilya won’t be able to see him turning red from all the way up there, right?) He forces himself to maintain eye contact with Ilya as the rest of the band gets settled into their stations, and the smile that breaks out along Ilya’s lips sends the air sweeping out of Shane’s lungs. 

It’s beautiful and stunning and astounding and breathtaking and every other adjective that has suddenly vacated Shane’s vocabulary because he’s here and Ilya is looking at him and every passing fantasy he’s had in the past six months is suddenly coming true. 

(What the fuck is his life right now?) 

“Hey, guys,” the lead singer says into the mic, and somehow, the crowd gets louder. “I’m Troy, this is Hazy, Bood, and Roz, and we’re Cent Street. Cens if you’re cool. We’re gonna play you a few songs, if that’s alright.” 

The band rides the wave of cheers and shouts as they launch into their first song, Ilya's arms flying around the drumset in wild patterns that Shane could never even hope to keep track of. 

He’s a fucking miracle up there, laser-focused on the beat and hammering down on the drums in front of him. God, it’s better than anything Shane’s seen in a music video, any live performance Rose had TiVo’d off MuchMusic and put on in the background while they study. 

(Shit, if Shane thought he’d had a crush on him before…)

It’s borderline hypnotic, the way Ilya moves, shifting and shaking with the beat as the stutter of Shane’s heart races to keep up. Shane couldn’t look away if he tried.

“All good?” Rose asks, shouting over the swell of sound as Cens closes out their first song.  

“So good.” 

Shane wants to rush the stage, stand right beside Ilya to feel each bang of the drums bounce down his sternum, watch from up close as Ilya breathes heavily from exertion, feel the heat and sweat flying off his skin with every movement. But he can’t stop thinking about how Ilya’s laugh felt like music in Shane’s ears, the only song he’s ever loved on first listen, and maybe he wants to get up there and see the playful glint in Ilya’s eyes instead, hear his delighted whoops every time he nails a tough sequence and the crowd grows louder. 

It’s a lot to handle, realizing he’s so desperately drawn to Ilya barely an hour after meeting him. Celebrity crushes are one thing, knowing the difference between Ilya’s teasing smile and his genuine one is another. 

(Shane’s probably going to think about today for the rest of his life.) 

The set passes by in a blur of sweat and shoves from the people around him, but Shane keeps his eyes on Ilya the entire time. (Well, except for whenever someone decides to launch themselves off the barricade. Never in Shane’s life did he think he’d spend an hour dodging crowdsurfers and avoiding getting pulled into the pit, but here he is.)

He barely registers the song titles Rose screams into his ear every few minutes, letting himself get carried away in a sea of dancing bodies and electric blue eyes staring him down from the stage. It’s a little euphoric, having this attention on him in a crowd of anonymous faces. It’s nothing like on the ice, where he feels every last eyeball tunneling into his skull and creating a thousand little pressure points on his skin. 

Shane doesn’t think he’s ever enjoyed being watched like this before. 

Cens’ set ends far too soon, in Shane’s opinion (he’d stay here for hours, no matter the heat or volume or crowd size), and before he knows it, Troy is yelling that it’s the last song, thank you for coming, we’ll see you again soon, Montreal! 

Shane forces himself to let the world fall away, just for this moment. He holds onto every beat of Ilya’s drums, feels the triumph in each note that soars through the speakers. The song starts a little slow, at least compared to what he’s heard today, with a bit toward the middle of Ilya just tapping one of the cymbals on the beat, building and building to something Shane knows he isn’t ready for. At the last second, Ilya catches Shane’s eye and winks, his piercing catching the evening light. 

And then Ilya fucking launches. 

His arms are everywhere, muscles bunching tight as he slams into a syncopated beat, mouth curling into a snarl as he speeds through this unbreakable pattern. His whole torso shifts with it, bouncing back and forth on the seat to keep up with his pace, head bowed like he’s bracing for impact. Shane feels his jaw go slack at the sight. 

Fuck, Ilya is so talented. And so hot. And so cool and funny and kind and teasing and so totally taking the shape of Shane’s dream man. (The speed of Shane’s heartbeat right now cannot be healthy. Is it possible to die of a heart attack from falling for someone too fast?) 

Shane feels like he’s floating above the audience, fucking astral projecting at the pure want coursing through his veins and pulsing in time with the song’s melody. 

And it’s silly to feel like this so soon, and about someone he’s 99% certain he will never see again after today, but Shane just wants to give in to the feeling for once in his life. He never lets himself do anything so reckless, so frivolous. Hockey comes first, always, then school, then whatever small dose of family or friend time he can squeeze into the remaining, like, hour per week. It’s never about what he wants, not really.

But today, he wants. 

It’s clawing out of him, ripping his ribs to shreds and shooting shrapnel out of his chest, not a care in the world for the collateral damage. It’s terrifying, but Shane wouldn’t mind getting used to the feeling if it meant Ilya was sticking around. 

On stage, Troy grabs onto the mic, breaking from the lyrics to shout a request to the crowd: “Sing it with us, Montreal!” 

Hazy and Bood drop their instruments to join in, leaving Ilya alone to fill the space with his wild rhythm as everyone chants along: 

It gets worse before it gets better

It gets better, and then we’re all gone 

Shane’s kind of having trouble getting air into his lungs right now, mouth dry as a desert as he watches Ilya slam the drums. He’s almost relieved when Ilya shifts back into a more basic beat, drawing the song to its close as fans shout the refrain on their own. There’s one last rush of sound at the end, of everyone letting themselves go a little rabid on their instruments and extract as much euphoria out of the moment as possible, and then it’s over. 

Shane misses the music immediately. 

Troy, Bood, and Hazy pull off their guitars and toss them to the handlers waiting in the wings, and Ilya emerges from behind his drumset to throw his drumsticks out into the crowd. The four of them collide in a hug, Ilya smacking a kiss to the top of Hazy’s head as they stumble off stage as a unit. 

The band’s about to step fully into the wings, everyone jumping around and waving at the crowd, when Ilya turns, eyes zeroing in on Shane’s one last time. 

(Shane doesn’t know why, but he holds his breath.) 

Ilya gives his head a sharp tilt, nodding over to the side of the stage before the bassist, Bood, pulls him away, eyes still on Shane as he goes. 

Holy shit.

Rose starts squealing somewhere off to Shane’s side, but he can’t fucking tell sounds from shapes because Ilya wants him to go backstage again. Ilya looked him dead in the goddamn eyes and said you, I choose you, don’t leave me hanging. He wants to see him again, and he wants it now (and good god, does Shane want it, too). 

“Rose?” he tries, voice way too low to be heard over the fans still screaming for the band in the wings. “Rose, I gotta…” 

“Don’t worry about me; I’ll be fine here. Go get your man!” she says, giving him a bit of a shove. Shane throws a grateful smile over his shoulder, reaching out to squeeze her hand once before he’s off. 

He follows the flow of the crowd leaving to get to another stage, letting it carry him out to the center of the festival and back toward the row of tents lining the side of the grounds. 

By some miracle, he manages to locate that same tent he’d walked through before, staying at the sidelines until he can push through the tarp and all but run into Ilya’s backstage hideaway. 

The clearing is empty when Shane arrives, steadying himself with a hand on the supply shack as he calms his breathing. It feels quieter back here without Ilya, and Shane feels a brief flash of panic itch at his ribs until he hears the thump of boots on grass coming closer. 

He spins around to see Ilya jogging toward him, his muscle tee shifting with every step to expose the slant of his toned torso driving down toward his waist. He comes to a stop with a heaving chest, arms hanging loose by his sides. 

“Shane,” he breathes out, and the hint of reverence, of disbelief, in his tone sends Shane reeling. 

“Hey.” 

They stare at each other for a second, and Shane lets himself soak in the sight, basking in Ilya’s focus. His eyes catch on the beads of sweat dripping down Ilya’s temples, drenching the curls around his ears and sticking them to tanned skin. Ilya seems to be doing the same, even though Shane knows the eyeliner Rose forced on him must be a mess and his hair probably isn’t much better, and his shirt’s definitely a little crooked on his collarbone from being pushed by the crowd. He can’t imagine he looks all that good, really, but — 

Ilya kind of looks like he’s thinking of devouring Shane. (Shane kind of wants to let him.) 

“Sorry,” Ilya blurts out, breaking the silence. “It takes a few minutes to take off all the tech and —” 

“Oh, no, don’t worry. I just got here.” 

“Good, good.”

Ilya takes a deep breath as he nods, and out of the corner of his eye, Shane can see Ilya running his thumb along the side of his pointer finger. 

“Did you like the set?” 

(Did he like the set?! As if Shane hasn't felt like a different person since the first beat of Ilya's drums, didn't feel his cells rearranging and clicking into place every time they locked eyes. Did he fucking like the set…)

“Ilya,” he starts, an almost hysterical laugh bubbling up from his chest. “You were fucking amazing out there, oh my god. Of course, I loved your set.” 

Ilya’s answering smile is blinding, his skin going rosy on the apples of his cheeks. 

“Thank you. I had someone in the audience I wanted to impress, you know?” 

(Oh god, oh god, oh god.) 

“Did you, now?” 

“Yes. Maybe you know him,” Ilya starts, a flirty, smug smile gracing his lips. “Dark hair, beautiful freckles, a terrible sense of direction…”

Shane huffs. “Asshole.” 

Ilya smirks, falling to the side to lean his shoulder against the wall of the shack. He doesn’t need to say a damn thing to make Shane blush even harder. The way he’s standing, so casual but so, so aware of everything he’s doing to Shane is enough. 

And because he apparently can’t help but be drawn into Ilya’s orbit, Shane finds himself taking half a step forward, lips twitching against his teeth as he rests his shoulder against the shack, a perfect mirror image. 

(Ilya’s smile eases at the corners, going soft. Shane tries not to think too hard about what that means and why it makes his heart speed up in return.)

“You definitely impressed him,” Shane finally says, a little breathier than intended. 

“Yeah?”

“Very, very much so.” 

Ilya’s eyes flicker over Shane’s face, getting caught somewhere along his cheekbones before meeting his gaze again. 

“I’m glad.”

They’ve drifted closer to each other, just over a foot of space between them now. He can almost feel the heat radiating off of Ilya’s skin, taste the adrenaline lingering in his system as he’s coming down from a good show. Ilya’s eyes are more vibrant this close, blue-green irises glowing as the sun falls through the sky. 

“So,” Ilya starts, shifting to shove his hands into his front pockets. “Are you looking forward to seeing the other bands tonight?”

(Logically, Shane knows Rose came here for those other bands, that she’s waiting for him out in the crowd. And he could say that, tell Ilya that he promised his best friend, and he’s gonna be here all night watching bands he doesn’t care about because they’re not Ilya’s.

But. 

Ilya fucking Rozanov is standing in front of him, eyes guarded to hold back a spark of hope threatening to get out, and Shane feels something magnetize deep in his chest. 

He lets the pull make him brave.)

“I already saw everything I came for.” 

“Ah, really?” Ilya asks, quirking up his brow.

Shane nods, sustaining the eye contact, challenging Ilya to join him out on a ledge. 

“Well, then you must find something else to do.”

“Any ideas?” 

Ilya sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, and Shane thinks he might be feeling that same pull. 

“There’s an afterparty tonight,” Ilya starts, fast like he’s expecting Shane to walk back everything he’s said. “I do not have to be there long — 30 minutes at most. But after we could go somewhere, if you want?”

Shane’s nodding before he’s even finished the question. 

“I want.” (I want whatever you’ll give.) 

“You have your cell phone?”

“Yeah, here,” he answers, digging his cell out of his pocket (that stupid fucking antenna always gets caught —) and flipping it open so he and Ilya can exchange numbers. “My texting plan is like, really limited though, so just call me, okay?”

“Okay. I will call when we are done, unless you’d rather…”

“No, that’s perfect.”

He tears his eyes away from Ilya to enter his number into the man’s phone, hesitating for a split second before adding a little smiley face to the end of his name. But then Shane Hollander :) looks a little too weird, even for Shane’s limited emoticon protocol knowledge, and he makes a mad dash to delete his last name from the contact before handing the phone back to Ilya. 

(Ilya’s hand nearly fully cups Shane’s as he slides his phone out of the other’s grasp. Long, rough fingers with a calloused palm. God, Shane can’t believe this man is real.) 

“I have to get back to the band to do some press,” Ilya says, apologetic and never taking his eyes off Shane. “But I will see you tonight?”

“Yeah, for sure.” 

Ilya’s eyes flick down to Shane’s cheekbones again, and for a second, Shane thinks he’s going to dive in to press a kiss to his cheek. (Please.)

Instead, he just nods, mutters a quick bye, Shane, and walks off, slow and steady. Shane watches him as he goes, watches the surprised smile that overtakes Ilya’s features when he turns back and sees Shane still standing there, holding onto the moment as long as he can. 

(He’s gonna try and hold onto this forever, even if only in his mind.) 

Once Ilya is fully out of sight, the thump of his boots on the ground gone silent, Shane flops back against the shack with a shaky, stunned laugh. 

“Oh my fucking god,” he chokes out, hands on his knees and head hanging low, because, again, what the fuck is his life right now?

Shit like this doesn’t happen to him. He skates out on the ice, plays some good, clean hockey, and goes home. He works hard in his classes, studies at the library, and goes home. On the rare occasions he actually does go out, he spends it glued to his friends’ sides, half out of anxiety and half because he wouldn’t really want to spend his nights with anyone else, and then he goes home. Alone. 

Guys like Ilya don’t look his way at parties or at games, let alone actually talk to him. He’s always too awkward or too quiet or too preoccupied with trying not to panic for them to get close enough to want to stay. He shuffles around the sidelines, ducks into corners and slips out of view like a shadow at dusk, and he likes it that way. It’s better, easier than letting the longing in his veins find a home and unlock the door to a world of inevitable hurt. He’s doesn’t need the distraction, anyway. 

So, why the fuck is Shane breaking all his rules for a boy he barely knows?

He gives himself a minute to pull himself back together, breathing deep and staring at the new contact on his phone, the way the pixels add a slight curve to the y in Ilya, the five A’s he’d added onto the end of his name. Shane runs a thumb over the screen, slow and bordering on devout, before flipping his phone closed and standing up. 

(According to his watch, it’s a little past 5:00. Last set ends at 10:00, then he’s gotta wait until the afterparty is done…

T-minus six-ish hours until he has either the greatest or most devastating night of his life.) 

This time around, Shane doesn’t even need to brace himself before diving back into the festival crowd. He’s on too much of an Ilya high to care. 

Shane slips through the horde until he gets back to Ilya’s stage, ducking through the throng of people to get to the head of strawberry blonde-turned-pink hair up ahead. Thank fuck Rose had moved back a few rows. 

She turns around as he calls for her, face lighting up when she sees him fighting his way toward her. 

“So?”

Shane doesn’t even try to smother his grin (he must look ridiculous, the wide, too-happy shape unfamiliar on his lips after keeping it at bay for so long, but he doesn’t give a fuck). “Once the last set is over, I’m dropping you at your apartment and turning right back around.” 

“YES, Shane!” she yells, nearly throwing herself into his arms in celebration. “Oh my god, I’m so happy for you!”

And Shane giggles, fucking giggles, light and airy and swaying in the hot summer air. (God, he feels giddy. Shane didn’t know he could feel giddy.) “He said he has to stop at an afterparty for a bit, but we’ll hang out after that.”

“Hang out or hang out?” she teases, wiggling her eyebrows. 

“Shut up, oh my god,” he scolds, much to her delight. “I just want to like…talk to him. Find out who he really is, you know?” 

“Of course, you do. You’re Shane.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re wonderful and Ilya’s gonna end the night with a ginormous crush on you.” 

He snorts, rolling his eyes. “Well, I already have a ginormous crush on him, so.” 

Rose smiles, shifting to stand beside him as the band on stage begins their next song. “Ilya fucking Rozanov with my Shane,” she muses, shaking her head in wonder. (Do their names actually sound that good together, or is Shane too blinded by the joy pooling in his chest?) “I’d say I can’t believe it, but I actually really can.” 

“I can’t.” 

She hums, leaning her head on his shoulder. “You will.” 

God, if only he had the same level of confidence in himself. But with Rose by his side, her easy, unshakeable trust keeping him upright, he can pretend, at least for now. 

“Does this mean you’re glad you came with me today?” 

Shane barks out an incredulous laugh. (Of course, that’s her main focus.) “Yes, Rose,” he says, jostling her with his elbow. “I really, really am.” 

She’s quiet for a moment, mouth screwed to the side and gleaming eyes shifting across Shane’s face. “I’m totally bringing this up in my maid of honor speech at your wedding, by the way.” 

“Rose, oh my god.”

Shane doesn’t really register the rest of the day passing. It’s a million years long and a split second at the same time. He puts in his earplugs at some point, determined not to get a headache before seeing Ilya, and he knows he and Rose scarfed down some hot dogs in a break between sets, but that’s about it. The bands blend together, the crowd blurs at the edges, and it all becomes background noise to the anticipation building at the base of Shane’s spine, shooting zips of lightning down to his toes whenever his mind drifts to what’s to come. 

He’s seeing Ilya tonight. Mere hours ago, the name alone didn’t mean much to him, and now it’s the only thing getting him from one minute to the next.

Finally, finally, the last band of the night steps off stage, and Shane immediately pulls Rose to the exit. 

“Jesus, Shane, slow down. He’s not going anywhere, yeah?” 

“I know, just,” he trails off, curving around a group walking entirely too slowly. “The sooner we get out of here, the sooner I can come back. Don’t wanna keep him waiting, you know?” 

She snorts. “I don’t think you have to worry about that.”

(Well, he doesn’t want to take a single fucking risk here.) 

They weave their way to the exit, slipping past the horde of drunk fans headed toward public transit and making a sharp turn into the parking lot. 

Once they’re in the car, Shane is more fidgety than ever, fingers tapping out a staccato beat as they sit in traffic, getting out of the lot and onto the expressway in a slow crawl. 

Shane has never been so grateful to live 15 minutes away from the festival grounds. 

Beside him, Rose tries her best to distract him with a rambling monologue of her thoughts on each band’s set, and he appreciates it, he does, but the only things that’ll help his anxiety tonight are clear roads and a beautiful boy in his passenger seat. 

It takes nearly three times as long as it should to reach Rose’s apartment building, but at least there’s an empty parking spot not too far from the entrance. He doesn’t even bother with a true parallel park, just swerves up as close to the curb as he can before stopping, eyes flicking to the clock on his dashboard as he shifts into park. 

“Shane —” 

“I’ll tell you everything in the morning, I promise,” he cuts in, words sliding together in his rush. (How soon after a music festival does an afterparty start?)

“No, don’t worry about that. Just…” Rose trails off, sighing. 

“Yeah?”

She fully turns to face him, wide eyes locking onto his. “Let yourself have this, okay?” 

All the air whooshes out of Shane’s lungs, immediately replaced by something warmer and softer, soothing him from the inside. 

(Back in high school, Rose slept over the night before his first junior hockey game because she was the only one who could calm him down after a panic attack. She’s always known how to find his off switch, hidden in the sludgy depths of his spiraling, swirling brain, but she only got there by wading through the muck with him first. Rose knows him. Better than he knows himself, really. And if she thinks he can do this, give Ilya a glimpse of his mess, then maybe he really can.) 

“Yeah,” Shane breathes. “I’ll try.” 

“That’s all I ask.” 

She reaches over to squeeze his shoulder, nails catching against the mesh of his shirt, before grabbing her bag and getting out of the car. 

“And if you don’t find out if their manager likes girls, I’m disowning you.” 

He bursts into a laugh, eyes already rolling, cutting the tension. 

“Bye, Rose.” 

She blows him a kiss as she slams the car door, and as soon as he sees her disappear into her building’s front entrance, Shane peels out of his makeshift parking spot to head back the way he came.

The festival grounds have mostly cleared out by now, booths broken down and loaded up onto whatever truck will take them to the next city. He can see the rows and rows of tour buses lining the backstage area past the parking lot, and a slow trickle of anticipation flows down Shane’s spine. One of those is Ilya’s. One of those cradles him in its hands out on the road.

He scans the festival grounds through the windshield, knee bouncing against the steering wheel in time with the nervous thrum of his heart. If Shane didn’t know better, he’d say those buses were totally deserted, but the afterparty must be happening somewhere out there, right? It’s not like everyone piled in and drove to a club downtown for this (the traffic alone would be impossible). 

There must be some other party bus, or some building hidden deep in the festival grounds, hosting the party tonight, a loud, dizzying room filled with pretty people in bands who probably have way more in common with Ilya than Shane ever will. Who are more interesting, more creative, more fit for a musician’s life, speeding through shows and studios and late-night ragers they both want to be at. 

(Maybe it’s better if Ilya doesn’t call, finds someone else at the party instead. Would probably save Shane some heartbreak down the line, right?) 

Part of Shane feels silly waiting out here, cell phone sitting in the driver’s side cup holder like a grenade waiting to be pulled. It’s a ticking time bomb without a countdown, an open-ended threat that’ll destroy him one way or another. 

Either Ilya calls, or he doesn’t. Shane’s done for no matter what.

The watch on his wrist clicks forward another minute, and the festival grounds stay still.

Suddenly, Shane’s phone blares, the ringer going off at full volume and ricocheting around his beat-up ‘96 Civic. He flips it open, eager, too eager, and sucks in a deep breath as he puts it to his ear. 

“Hi.” 

“Shane, hey.” (Good god, did his voice get lower in the past six hours?) “We are just about done here, if you want to head back.”

Oh. He rolls his bottom lip between his teeth, tasting his embarrassment. (Too eager.) “Ilya, I’m already in the parking lot.” 

There’s a pause, just long enough for Shane’s heart to pulse in his ears, before Ilya’s answering laugh crackles through the phone, a little choppy but so, so happy. (Could he make this boy happy?) 

“I will be there in a minute,” he huffs out, and Shane wishes he could see his smile.  

“Alright. See you soon.” 

He hangs up, flipping his phone closed, and the panic from earlier pours over his bones again.

Shit. Does he…does he stay in the car? Get out and wait? Rose showed him a movie once where the characters sat on the hood; should he do that? 

Fucking hell. 

He throws himself out of the car and opens up the backseat to grab the hoodie he’d stashed there this morning, pulling it over his head and only kind of getting lost in the soft fabric. He slips his phone into his front pocket, making sure that the damn antenna is actually pushed in all the way, before rounding the car to lean against the passenger side door. 

His nerves grow stronger in the night air, sparking along the insides of his elbows as he knocks a heel into the opposite ankle, bouncing it off the bone and willing it to calm the racing blood in his heart. 

The fence at the far end of the parking lot shudders, the sound of shaking metal shooting across the blacktop, and Shane whips his head up to see Ilya coming towards him. He’s back in his clothes from before their set, this time with a worn denim jacket draped around his shoulders, his toque hanging out of its pocket. 

Shane is hit with the feeling that he is very out of his depth here, punching so far above his weight that it’s not even on the scale anymore. He’s felt drawn to Ilya all day, felt that desire simmer at the pit of his spine, but now that he’s actually here, he has no fucking clue what to do with it all before it boils over. 

“Hey,” Ilya says as he comes to a stop in front of Shane, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. 

“Hi,” he responds, shoving his hands into his hoodie’s front pocket. “Uh, good party?” 

Ilya hums, tipping his head to the side. “Eh. Better now.” 

It’s a balm on Shane’s pounding heart, gentle in its calm. (A relieved grin twitches at his lips, and he has to bite down to keep it smothered.) 

“I’m glad you came back,” Ilya continues.  

Shane lets out a disbelieving huff. “You thought I wouldn’t?” 

Ilya shrugs. “Long festival. Would not blame you if you changed your mind.” 

“You don’t have to worry about that happening,” he responds before he can think better of it (eager eager eager). A shot of worry tightens along the hinge of his jaw, but Ilya just shuffles closer, a half step and a smile, eyes locked on Shane’s.

“How long do we have tonight?” Shane continues. 

“Our bus leaves in the morning. 8:00 AM.” 

Shane peeks down at his watch. 11:07. Not as long as he’d like, exactly, but not bad. (He’d prefer forever, please and thank you.) 

“Anything in particular you want to do?” 

Ilya hums, considering. “You know this city well?”

“Been here for three years.” 

“Then show me what you love about it.” 

That, he can do. 

Shane reaches behind him, fingers curling around the passenger side handle and popping open the door. 

“Get in.”

He holds the door open as Ilya ducks inside, a smile on his face as he goes. Shane shuts the door as soon as Ilya’s buckled in and jogs around to his side of the car, trying desperately to suppress the wild grin that's threatening to take over his lips.

“You ready?” he asks, settling in his seat and lifting the keys to the ignition.

“Let’s go.” 

Shane points out some of his go-to places as they drive, whizzing down the expressway, past the McGill campus, and further into downtown Montreal. With his hockey schedule being so busy, he doesn’t get out of his little university bubble often. But whenever he gets a chance to escape, steal a few hours for himself, he takes it. 

There’s the coffee shop he’d found on a long, winding walk that has the best croissants he’s ever tasted, the thrift shop he’d spent half a day in helping Rose find an outfit for her first date with her ex-girlfriend, and, notably, the ice skating rink he once bought a day pass for just to sit in the stands and study, because the steady scrape of skating was the only thing that could calm his finals season anxiety. 

They drop the car on a side street and walk over to Shane’s favorite late-night joint, a hole-in-the-wall Japanese spot with the best ramen in the city, to grab a bite before they continue. 

“This place’s broth is the closest I’ve found to what my mom makes at home,” Shane says as they wait for their food, tucked into a corner table with his back to the front windows. The harsh fluorescent lights bear down on them, but somehow, Ilya still looks so good, skin flushed and eyes bright. “It’s something in the seasonings, but I can’t figure it out.” 

“You don’t know how to make it yourself?” 

“My mom won’t give me the recipe,” Shane groans. “Says she doesn’t trust my kitchen to handle it.” 

Ilya snorts. “Does not trust the kitchen or does not trust you?” 

“I can cook,” he insists. “I’m just forced to do it in a tiny dorm kitchenette with a shitty old oven.” 

“You’re in a dorm?”

“My hockey scholarship covers housing,” he explains with a shrug. “And I don’t really mind it, since I have a single room and it’s a super convenient location, but it’ll be nice to have a real place after I graduate in the spring.” 

“You’ll stay in Montreal?”

“I’d like to, but it’ll depend on hockey.” 

Ilya raises his eyebrows, questioning. 

“I’m, uh, I’m going for the draft,” Shane explains, waving it off. “Not getting my hopes up, though.” 

Ilya squints at him, and Shane feels like he just failed a test. “You are being humble, I can tell.” Shane’s jaw drops. “They have been asking you to enter the draft for a while, yes?”

“How did you —” 

Ilya shrugs. “If you were terrible, you would’ve told me about the draft right away. The ones who think they’re better than they are always do.” 

Shane laughs. (Ilya is…definitely not wrong.) “Dealt with a lot of hockey assholes before?” 

“Oh, yes,” Ilya confirms, and something in his tone, teasing but too cutting to not be personal, makes Shane want to ask more, but he’s cut off by the waiter bringing their food over.

He mutters a soft thanks as the bowls are placed on the table, both piled high with toppings and wafting steam into their faces.  

“Dig in,” Shane encourages, chopsticks already in Ilya’s hand. He pauses, watching as Ilya takes his first bite, eyes going wide as he chews the tender noodles. 

“Shane, holy shit.” 

“Right?” 

“I’m never leaving this restaurant.” 

Shane huffs out a laugh around his first bite. “Well, they close at 1, so you’ve got, like, an hour.” 

“Then I’m taking my hour.” 

Shane laughs, unbothered by how it fills up the nearly-empty restaurant around them. “What if I wanted to take you somewhere else?” 

Ilya hums around another bite. “I could be convinced.” 

Shane hides his smile in a mouthful of food, and they fall silent as they eat, both polishing off their meals in a matter of minutes. It’s a comfortable quiet, only broken by the faint sizzling sounds emanating out of the kitchen and the shuffling of the cashier killing time at the till. When Shane takes his final bite, he looks up to find Ilya’s eyes already on him, crooked smile across his lips. (He doesn’t have food all over his face, does he?)

“You all good?” he asks, clearing his throat and trying to subtly swipe at his lips.

Ilya nods. “Where is the check?”

“Already paid when I ordered for us,” he responds, waving Ilya off.  

“Ah. I will get it next time, then.” 

(Next time next time next time.) 

“Alright,” Shane chokes out, voice as wobbly as his knees as he stands up from the table, gathering their bowls and utensils in the center. (Can next time be soon?)

He leads Ilya out of the restaurant, tossing an appreciative nod at the staff as they go back out into the night. 

“So, what is next?” Ilya asks, voice close and smoothing down Shane’s side. The rough hem of his jacket brushes against the edges of Shane’s hoodie when he turns, and Shane forces himself to take a deep breath and a step back for his own sake. (Close enough to touch, close enough to kiss.) 

“You’ll see,” he says, giving him a small smile as they continue their walk back to the car. 

Ilya fiddles with the radio the entire drive to their next stop, flipping between channels before Shane can even identify the song that’s playing. 

“Particular, huh?”

“I am a musician, Shane. We have high standards for our radios.” 

“Fair enough.” 

Eventually, he settles on some sort of alternative station, keeping the volume low as they curve through the Montreal streets. Shane doesn’t know much about music at all, really, but he thinks it sounds sort of similar to what he heard at the festival today. Not as good as Cent Street, of course (Shane’s definitely not biased), but he can hear the similarities. 

A guitar lick reverberates through the speakers, and Ilya lets out a surprised noise from beside him, reaching forward to turn the volume up a notch. 

“Fucking love this song,” he mutters as he nods his head to the beat, mouthing along to the lyrics. 

And it’s so…so intoxicating seeing Ilya caught up in music like this, even just out of the corner of his eye, fingers tapping out a beat on his thighs and eyelashes fluttering every time he hits a lyric he likes. 

Before Shane can really process what he’s doing, he reaches for the volume control and spins it louder than he’d ever set it on his own. 

Ilya jerks his head to the side, eyes sparkling as he catches Shane's satisfied gaze. He’s still singing along, muscle memory carrying him as he stares with something Shane is kind of terrified to name. 

It's soft, and a little wondrous, and it drips something warm and syrupy down to his fingertips. Heat floods Shane’s face, and he’s sure the streetlights flashing through the window aren’t doing much to hide his ruddy skin, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not with Ilya looking at him like a worshiper at church, come to find salvation in the brush of a hand over the gearshift. 

Shane keeps his eyes on the road, teeth nibbling at the inside of his cheek as Ilya sings along, voice rising to be just barely heard through the blast of the speakers. 

This all was only wishful thinking

This all was only wishful thinking 

Ilya’s voice is smooth, his accent molding itself around harsh consonants and lilting vowels to sculpt something so uniquely him that Shane feels it down to his toes. 

He wants that voice to surround him forever, rough and gravelly in the early hours of the morning, soft and slow at night, melodic and bright under the afternoon sun. Shane would give himself a million migraines, strain his ears until they bleed to hear Ilya through any rush of sound, whether he’s in front of a stage, lost in a crowd of strangers, or speeding down an expressway with only the lingering Montreal nightlife as their witness. 

(He wonders how Ilya’s voice tastes, if it’s as sweet on his lips as it feels in Shane’s ears. He wonders what sorts of sounds he can unlock with his touch, how Ilya’s tone would choke and lift with a bite here, a squeeze of a hand there. He wonders, he wonders, he wonders.) (He wants.)

They reach their destination sooner than Shane would’ve hoped, only getting through another two songs before they pull up to an empty curb. 

“A park?” Ilya asks, peering out the window. “Really?”

“Really.” 

They get out of the car, Shane locking it behind them before stepping onto the deserted sidewalk. He murmurs a low c’mon as he leads Ilya to the entrance, reaching forward to open the gate and let them pass. The streetlamps along the road give off enough light to make their path visible, and Shane slowly takes Ilya down the winding road to his favorite place in the city. 

The gravel crunches under their feet with every step, filling the night with a melody that's only theirs. A cool breeze brushes against the back of his neck as they move deeper into the park, twisting off to a side path that Shane has walked more times than he can count. 

“Did you buy me food just to murder me here?” Ilya pipes up, eyeing the trees shrouding their view of the moon.

Shane laughs, cutting through the night. “This park will be flooded with kids in the morning. Pretty shit murder spot if that was my plan.” 

“I had to ask.” 

Shane snorts. “No, this is…this is my spot. Not my murder spot,” he adds, protesting against Ilya’s raised brow. “But just. Mine.” 

Their path takes a final curve, and there, lit by a single flickering lamp, is the dingy playground Shane has returned to over and over. It's laid with tamped-down mulch, punched flat by the hordes of kids who love this place in the daylight. He bypasses the play structures on each side and leads Ilya to his corner. 

“How did you find this?” 

“Went for a drive one night after a game. I wanted to be outside, but I didn’t want to be with anyone. Just…in the world, you know? And I ended up here. Stayed out until I nearly froze my ass off, but it was worth it.” 

They descend on the swings at the back of the playground, the chains creaking with their weight as they sit. 

It's quiet, peaceful, a few random chirps echoing from the nearby trees as the park's animals settle into the late hours of the night. Shane breathes it in, lungs welcoming the familiar shock of cool air, each inhale scented with mossy earth and the faintest hint of love-worn rubber from the swings. Silence settles comfortably between them as Ilya kicks at the mulch beneath his feet. Out of the corner of his eye, Shane can see him surveying the space, and as much as he wants to know what the boy thinks, he leaves it alone for now. 

This place is already special to him. He’ll let Ilya find its wonders for himself. 

“Tell me about you, Shane Hollander,” Ilya says, voice hushed underneath the moonlight.  

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Everything.”

Oh, god. 

Shane shifts in his seat. “I’m kind of boring, actually.” 

“I don’t believe that.” 

“Compared to you, I’m boring. For sure.” 

“Sometimes boring is nice. I like boring.” 

Shane raises an eyebrow at him. “You’re in an emo band currently touring the entire fucking continent, traveling all the time, meeting famous people, going to afterparties. That’s, like, the farthest thing from boring.”  

“Yes. But sometimes you need boring to bring you back to center.” Ilya pauses, locking his gaze with Shane’s. “So, please, Shane, tell me about your boring.” 

(The hopeful, trusting spark in Ilya’s eyes lights a flame at the base of Shane’s spine, and he feels himself tumbling over the edge of something he feels powerless to fight against. He goes willingly.)

Shane tells Ilya about being a student, about the biology classes he doesn’t really like and the kinesiology ones he loves, about long nights at the library after practice, with only the shitty student kitchen coffee and the three albums Rose downloaded onto his iPod Shuffle to carry him through. He talks about Rose, how they met in 7th grade and have been inseparable ever since, how they brought Hayden and Jackie and J.J. into their circle at McGill, but it’s still best when it’s just the two of them. He talks about his parents, about their family’s cottage on the lake, the place that feels more like home than anywhere else he’s lived. 

And he tells Ilya about hockey, the first and only love of his life (though he thinks hopes wishes he’s on his way toward making some room in his heart). How peewee games and participation medals turned into junior hockey with real trophies and real injuries and real teammates who didn’t like that he was so good on the ice. He talks about how that ice made him the person he is today, the constant chill in his bones rattling him into doing more, becoming better, shutting everyone up with something they couldn’t deny. How it makes him work hard, sometimes too hard, but he knows that the ice loves him back, even if the people on the ice don’t. 

“And you were right, before. I could've gone pro right out of high school, actually,” he says, almost as a throwaway. 

“Seriously?” Ilya asks, boots scuffing along the mulch as he cuts his swing to a stop. 

“Yeah. Had NHL scouts at games, played in World Juniors a couple times. But I didn't want to be left stranded if an injury took me out, so university came first.” 

“An injury took me out.”

Shane whips his head up to face Ilya so quickly that the chains of his swing rattle. “What?” 

Ilya nods, solemn. “I was sixteen. ACL tear didn't heal right.”

“Shit, Ilya, I'm sorry.”

He waves it away. “Is fine. I enjoyed hockey, yes, but I did not love it the way you do. And that's how I found music, so,” he trails off, shrugging. “Still won in the end.” 

“Replaced checking guys into boards with hitting drums?” 

“Pretty much, yes,” he smirks. “I had to quit the hockey team, of course, but I didn’t want to go home after school, so I would hide out in different rooms until I had to leave. One day, I went into the music department and sat in front of the drums, and that was it.” 

“That was it,” Shane repeats, letting a soft smile settle across his lips.  

Shane can see it: Ilya as he is now, maybe a little shorter, maybe a little less broad, but still with a ratty band tee falling off his shoulders, sitting himself down at a drumset and taking a few tentative swipes, feeling the thrum of each drumhead reverberate back through his bones with every hit. Warmth blooms in his chest at the image, the innocence of it, the endless path to greatness laid out in front of this boy. 

(Good god, he hasn’t even known Ilya for 12 hours. He’s so fucked.) 

“Hazy nearly sent out a search party because I did not meet them outside the locker rooms after practice like usual.” 

“He played hockey, too?” 

“Yes, we all did,” Ilya confirms, one corner of his heart-shaped lips quirking up just slightly, just begging to be kissed. “And we all loved it, but we ended up loving music more. Or maybe music worked out sooner, I don’t know.” 

(Well, thank fuck for that.) 

“How did you guys come up with your band name?” 

“My family moved to Canada about a year after Svetlana’s did,” Ilya starts, leaning across his swing to press the dip of his shoulder to the scuffed suspension chain. “Got an apartment in the same building on Central Street. When we met Hazy, Bood, and Troy, they’d always say they were going to Central Street to hang out with us. After a while, they started calling it Cent Street, then just Cens.” 

“That’s sweet.” 

Ilya levels him with a glare, his piercing glinting with moonlight as it lifts with his furrowed brow. “Pop punk is not sweet, Shane,” he deadpans, almost admonishing.  

“Okay, but you’re sweet.” 

Ilya rolls his eyes, shaking his head slightly as he looks away, voice going rough. “You don’t know me.” 

Doesn't he, though, at least a little bit? What have the past few hours been if not an introduction to Ilya Rozanov 101, the first class on a syllabus he never wants to finish? 

(But, Shane thinks, with startling clarity, how much of the night has been Ilya asking and Shane telling? How much of Ilya's world has been Shane coloring in the edges of a black-and-white page? How much has the work of knowing been pulled out of his grasp by an unwilling partner, deflected with soft smiles and an interest that still somehow feels so, so genuine?)

“Well, not yet,” Shane starts, feeling himself flush like he'd been caught, bright red and spreading across his cheekbones. “But I’d like to.” 

Ilya lifts his gaze to meet Shane’s, and Shane's breath catches in his chest. The world narrows to just that moment, to the way Ilya seems to be searching for something, eyes careful and flickering between both of Shane’s, a heady mix of heat and fear behind them. It leaves Shane a little dizzy, a little exposed. But he won’t take it back, because he does want to know this boy, good god, does he ever. And if all he gets is this one night, then he’s going to get as much as he can out of these few hours, nerves be damned. 

“Is that okay?” 

“Yes,” Ilya answers, quick and simple, like Shane is that easy to want. “It is very okay.” 

Thank fuck.

Shane exhales around a smile, pushing off his legs to sway closer to Ilya. An invisible tether catches between them, pulling tight as the earth drags him back to center, and Shane wishes he could just dive in and take Ilya by the shoulders, let a kiss do all the talking for him. 

But he can’t, not right now, at least, so instead, he whispers good across the mulch as they wait to see who will break their stare first. 

Everything feels more intense out here, shrouded in starlight and the soft sighs of their breathing. Shane is fully aware of every inch that separates him and Ilya, so attuned to the air between them that he can feel every time the molecules shift, every time the shape of him presses closer by a hair. Ilya has his own gravity, Shane thinks, and he's more than willing to let himself be pulled in, praying it doesn't end in a crash. 

“Does your family still live in that building?” he asks, clawing at something to keep Ilya talking, keep himself stuck in the boy's orbit.

Ilya nods, but it’s tense. “My brother lives there with his wife and daughter.” 

Brother. Not mother or father. 

It’s not the moment to push, Shane knows, so he files that knowledge for later, counting on his wild hope that this won’t be the last he sees of Ilya Rozanov. 

“You should play a show right in front of the building,” he says instead. “Shut down the street, only let the neighbors in. Make it a block party, you know?” 

“A block party? What the fuck is a block party?” 

“Like, a party out on the street for everyone who lives near you. People at school throw them all the time. Fucking nightmare to get through when I’m coming out of a late practice, but they like them.” 

Ilya quiets for a moment, looking at Shane with a puzzled expression. “You Canadians are very weird.”

Shane snorts, hiding his smile in the collar of his hoodie. 

“No, Shane, it is important that you know this,” he says, voice light but tone serious. “You Canadians are very weird.” 

“Are you just figuring that out?” 

“No, I’ve always known this. Just making sure you know.” 

Shane rolls his eyes. 

“Alright, so no block parties, then. But tell me about touring, the band, all of it.” 

“Why, you want to start your own group?”

Shane snorts out a laugh. “God, no, it’d be a disaster. I’m more than happy watching you from the crowd.” 

“It’s a good spot for you. Gives me something to work for.” 

“Oh, does it now?”

“Yes,” Ilya smirks. “How else will I impress pretty boys in eyeliner?” 

“Oh my god,” Shane groans, covering his face with his hands to hide his flush. (He really needs Ilya to stop calling him pretty for the sake of his own sanity.) “I told Rose not to use the eyeliner.”

“No, no, no, it looked very good,” Ilya insists, swaying forward into Shane’s space. “So pretty. It's almost gone now, and I miss it.” 

Shane snorts. “Well, get used to it. 

“But you look so good in it!”

“Fuck off.” (Stop talking or I’ll kiss you, right here in this empty playground on these rusty old swings, fucking pull you down into the mulch and get dirt in my mouth while I taste your skin and —) 

“Boo,” Ilya protests, blowing a raspberry out of the corner of his mouth. 

Shane’s answering laugh echoes through the dark and bounces back at them, reverberating off flickering streetlights and empty play structures.

“Tell me,” Shane pleads, soft and curving around their bubble of night. “I want to know you, remember?” 

Ilya’s hand twists around the swing’s suspension chain, fingers smoothing out a beat Shane isn’t privy to. He nods, teeth tugging at his bottom lip.

“Okay.” 

Ilya, as a storyteller, is…dynamic. Shane understands why he writes the band’s songs, a natural rhythm spilling out into each anecdote and tidbit, building glimpses of Ilya’s world in blinding technicolor. 

There’s his childhood with Svetlana, spent running around too-big estates with too-big dreams, pretending to be hockey players who were also pirates or dragons or mermaids or, one time, polar bears. A little Ilya follows a little Sveta wherever she goes, ready to play and ready to protect, already knowing their lives will sprawl out by each other’s sides, someway, somehow. 

And there’s the band, Ilya’s shaky beginnings in Canada, when his English barely got him through hockey practice, let alone a full day of school. How he sat by Hazy in one of his classes because he seemed nice enough not to poke fun at Ilya’s speech, only for him to help Ilya with the entire lesson, invite him to sit with him at lunch, and introduce Ilya to his two best friends. How the four of them became brothers at that lunch table, then on the ice, then in Bood’s garage where they tried playing music together for the first time. Bood, Hazy, Troy, and Roz, with an exasperated Sveta as their big sister, knitting together a life out of loud guitars, echoing drums, and a bottomless desire to make something of themselves.

“They are my family now,” he finishes, swaying back and forth on his swing and making moonlight reflect off his cheekbones. “I would do anything for them.” 

Shane knows the smile taking over his face is silly and smug, but he can’t help it. “I was right.”

“About what?” 

“You are sweet.” 

Ilya groans, leaning forward so he's nearly draped over the swing's suspension chain, the cut of the metal digging into his shoulder. “Shut up, Shane.” 

“Nope. I knew it. I knew it.” 

Ilya looks up at him through his lashes, and there’s something soft and searching in his gaze that sends Shane’s heart stuttering in his chest. 

(Maybe Shane is flying a little too close to the sun here, but maybe he's okay with getting burned.)

Off in the distance, one of the old churches along the street rings its bells, three echoing booms acting as their clock. 

“Shit, is it that late?” Shane says, looking down at his watch to confirm the time. 3:00 AM. Ilya leaves in five hours. 

“It is.”

“Oh,” he mutters, and he knows the disappointment is clear in his voice, but he can't muster up the nerves to care right now, not when the timer’s ticking down and he has to say goodbye to the only person who’s made him understand what it means to want. Fuck. “Do you need to…”

“We probably should head back, yes.” 

“Okay,” Shane agrees with a shaky exhale, pushing away the burgeoning hope that had been ready to rear its ugly head. Time’s up. 

(What a beautiful delusion, thinking he could keep this boy.) 

Shane pushes himself off the swing and to his feet with a reluctant huff. He stretches once he stands, twisting around to release the tension along his spine. 

“Let's go, then.”

He’s about to step away when he hears shuffling behind him and feels a hand grasp his arm, tugging at the material of his hoodie and pulling him back to face Ilya. 

“I do not want to head back, Shane,” Ilya says, chin dipped and eyes wide like he’s desperate for Shane to hear this. “But I know we need to.” 

Oh. 

It hits him like a hurricane, floods his chest with relief and sends his heart on a path toward stammering, helpless desire. Everything and nothing all at once. 

It's as good a confirmation as he'll get tonight, Shane thinks, that there’s something here, something neither of them has the time nor space to name. That they’re feeling the same tugging behind their ribs, the same aching need to reach out and hold. There’s a nebulous ball of tension swirling around them that’s threatening to burst, but Shane knows he’s not the one who will push it over the edge. 

(This was always just going to be one night, he reminds himself, chanting it like a mantra, as if it’ll soothe the sting of losing without ever having.) 

“Me neither,” Shane breathes out into the still of the night, because what else is there to say? (He just hopes Ilya knows, somewhere deep inside of him, that once their night is over, he will always be Shane’s biggest what if.) 

He tries to start their short trek to the park exit, but Ilya’s fingers are still wrapped around the sleeve of his hoodie, rooting Shane to his spot. 

The fabric wrinkles into Ilya’s palm as he steps forward, hesitating directly in front of Shane, too close to not be purposeful. The inches between them crackle with want.

And for a second, it feels like Ilya is going to tilt his chin, pull Shane close, press their lips together, shatter the glass wall between them. 

But he doesn’t. 

He keeps walking, releasing his hold on Shane, and Shane rearranges his hopes to fit into a box shaped like regret.

The drive back is calmer, the radio turned low and stuck on a single station. Out of the corner of his eye, Shane can see Ilya fiddling with his hands, running his thumb over his nails and twisting his fingers against each other, reaching and holding back at the same time. 

Shane recognizes it for what it is, all too familiar with the stilted bursts of anxiety that shoot out through tapping fingers and bouncing knees, and his heart sinks.  

He’s sure Ilya is figuring out how to let him down easy once they’re back at the festival grounds. 

Shane’s been too greedy tonight, too obvious, his growing affections leaking out through soft words and the smooth glide of a swing over mulch. It’s not what Ilya had signed up for when he asked Shane to hang out tonight, and how would they fucking work anyway? He’s not — he’s not exactly offering up anything worth staying for. Ilya may have wanted to hear about his boring, but would he ever want to live it? 

Not likely. 

It was a good night, a great night, and whatever hell he feels tomorrow (and every day after that) will be worth it. 

He’s got about ten minutes until he breathes the same air as Ilya for the last time, so he’s gonna savor every last fucking second. 

Shane takes the expressway a little too slowly and lets the few cars still out at this hour pass by with ease, eyes on the road but his mind preoccupied with the boy sitting next to him. 

Ilya doesn’t sing along to a single song for the entire drive. 

Too soon, Shane pulls back into the festival grounds’ parking lot, turning the ignition off with a reluctant sigh. 

The silence that settles over them isn’t uncomfortable, exactly, but it’s not easy. Not like before. It’s splintering between them, carving a chasm over the gearshift that Shane doesn’t dare cross. He knows the fall is inevitable, but the hungry, screaming beast in his chest refuses to step toward its own destruction. 

Ilya takes the plunge for them.

“Thank you for tonight, Shane,” he murmurs, eyes hovering somewhere over the steering wheel before they flick over to meet Shane’s. They’re guarded, hidden behind slow blinks that make Shane want to dive across the car and into Ilya’s arms. (It’s terrifying, and he has to break it.)

“Thank you for not calling security on me when I ended up backstage.” 

Ilya laughs, a light, breathy thing, before dropping his gaze to the hands in his lap. “I am…very, very happy you took that wrong turn.” 

Please don’t do this. 

“So am I.” 

The hands in Ilya’s lap squeeze into fists, and Shane can’t let that be the last image he has of Ilya.

“Can I — can I walk you to your bus?” he asks, feeling a little like a middle schooler asking their crush to the school dance, all wobbly and too earnest for his own good. 

“Will you get lost on the way back?”

“Asshole.” 

He can feel Ilya’s eyes drilling into the side of his face, and he keeps his head down so he doesn’t have to see the soft smile he knows is being sent his way. (Don’t hope don’t hope don’t hope.)

“I would like you to walk me there, Shane.” 

One simple, devastating request. 

“Then let’s go.” 

Ilya gets out of the car too quickly for Shane to rush over and open his door for him (which is fine, it's fine, this was a one-night thing and Shane can have his indulgences but not all of them). With a deep, steeling breath, Shane follows him into the waning hours of the night, coming around to meet him on the other side of the car. 

Ilya waits with a smile on his face.

“There may still be people out, so stay with me, yes? Don’t want to lose you in the crowd.” And Ilya is teasing, trying to lighten the mood, but —

Shane flicks his eyes downward, a little unsure but a little brave, before slowly slipping his hand into Ilya’s. The weight of Ilya’s fingertips instantly folding over and pressing against the back of Shane’s palm soothes him.

“Of course.” 

Ilya’s chest inflates with a slow breath, and the soft smile that pulls at the corner of his lips feels like reassurance. 

They set off at a leisurely pace, weaving through rows of supply vans and tour buses, and Shane gets the feeling that maybe Ilya wants this night to end about as much as he does (which is not at all, not ever, please let Shane keep him a little longer). 

After a few minutes, they come up on Cent Street’s tour bus, only identifiable by the massive decal with their band name plastered over the bus’s door. 

“This is it,” Ilya says, throwing an arm out wide as he falls back to rest against the navy blue bus, keeping his other hand intertwined with Shane’s. 

“Your humble abode, huh?”

“For the next three weeks, yes.” 

“How cozy.”

“Is not so bad. Once you get used to Bood's snoring, of course.” 

Shane snorts, dropping his chin to his chest to press a smile into the soft cotton of his hoodie. He shuffles forward a bit, close enough that their tangled fingers aren't pulling on each other anymore, the meat of his palm resting on the delicate skin of Ilya's wrist. His head stays down, memorizing the crunch of the grass beneath his sneakers where they just barely brush Ilya's boots. 

“When can I see you again?”

Shane whips his head up so fast he feels a pull in his neck. “You'd want to…?”’

“Yes,” Ilya responds with an almost frantic nod. (Is this real is he feeling this too do I really get to have this?) “Yes, Shane.”

“Okay,” he sighs out around a smile that tastes like relief. “Um, hockey starts next week, so most of my nights will be spent at practice. But I could see you on the weekends before our preseason games start in September? Or –” he pauses, stopping his excitement from getting too loud. “Wait, do you even live in Montreal?” 

“Ah, no,” Ilya reveals, and Shane never wants to see that sheepish, apologetic look on his face again. “We are in Ottawa.”

“Oh,” he says, trying to ignore the way part of his heart deflates in his chest. (It comes back to life once Ilya reaches out to grab Shane's free hand.) “Well, that's not too far, right? Like, two hours is still super close. You could drive up for one of my games, if you want.”

“I want,” Ilya says, echoing Shane's words from earlier and punctuating it with a squeeze of their joined hands. 

“I’ll save you a ticket. For literally any game, okay?” 

“Okay.”

“And I'll find out when we play UOttawa or Carleton. You can see me skate on your home ice.”

“As long as they don't kick me out for wearing the other team's jersey.”

Huh?

“You'd wear a McGill jersey?” 

“No, I'd wear your jersey.”

And that's —

The only people who have ever worn his jersey are his parents and Rose. And most of the time, it was just a generic team shirt that they'd done arts and crafts on to add his name to the back. His parents refuse to wear his actual jersey (something about messing up the winning energy), and Rose had tried to wear it once and promptly handed it back, claiming the fabric was too rough on her skin (Shane agrees). 

But the thought of Ilya willingly, proudly, having Shane's name on his back, cheering him on from the stands where everyone can see, claiming Shane as his, as part of an us…

Fuck it. 

“Can I kiss you, Ilya?” 

There’s a terrifying moment where they both stand frozen in the night, eyes locked in shock, before Ilya fucking melts.

A wild grin spreads across Ilya’s face, and then he’s nodding and he’s whispering a low yes, Shane, and he’s sinking his teeth into his bottom lip and Shane wants to drown in him. 

He takes a careful step forward, their fingers still intertwined, and leans in.

It’s a slow press of lips at first, tentative and soft. But then Ilya’s hand comes up to grip Shane’s waist, and his mouth falls open in a gasp, and suddenly Shane is being kissed within an inch of his life. 

Ilya is everywhere. One hand on Shane’s hip and another at his jaw, a knee slotting between both of his, the hot slide of their tongues together in Shane’s mouth. The force of it pushes Shane back into a lean, and he throws his arms around Ilya’s shoulders to keep him close. It’s overwhelming in the best way, and Shane feels himself getting addicted to the tingling in his toes and the heat licking at the base of his spine, to the breathy moans Ilya lets free when Shane diverts his lips to the soft skin of his throat. 

He runs blunt nails over the grooves of Ilya’s scalp, feels how even the slightest pull makes Ilya keen under his grasp.  

“Shane.”

It's a whisper in the dark, the softest plea for more, and it sets Shane on fire.

He pauses his ministrations and lets Ilya pull his chin back to center, diving back in for an open-mouthed kiss that has him pressing Ilya fully against the bus with a hand cradling his head to protect it from the impact. 

(Shit, he's gonna feel these lips in his dreams.) 

Shane breaks away to catch his breath, and Ilya takes the opportunity to flip them around, chest to chest with the cool metal of the bus against Shane's back. He hooks his thumbs into Shane's belt loops and tugs, hips lifting off the bus wall and sending sparks down every last vein. (Again again again.) A whine sneaks out of Shane’s lips, a high-pitched, hungry thing that brings Ilya’s mouth back to his, a moth to a blazing, destructive flame. 

Shane lets himself get lost in the slightest hint of cigarettes on the back of Ilya's tongue, the sting of teeth biting at his lips, the choked moans escaping the hollow of Ilya’s throat. 

God, it’s good. It’s so good, and Shane knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that this night has fucking ruined him forever. Ilya has ruined him forever. 

(He can’t be too mad about it, though, not when it feels so fucking heavenly to be kissed by this boy.) 

Ilya’s fingers start climbing up his spine, sneaking under his hoodie and curling the soft mesh of Shane’s top into his palms. Every dot of pressure in their path turns into a burn, marking Shane's skin through the thin fabric and claiming him as Ilya’s. (He's gonna buy Rose a fucking fruit basket for lending him this shirt, holy fuck.)

Ilya breaks away to mouth at Shane’s neck, lips hot like a brand and teeth scraping gently at his pulse point. His eyebrow piercing is cool against Shane’s flushed skin, and that really shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but holy fuck. Shane tries to hold back a whimper but fails miserably, letting his head fall back against the bus with a thud. 

He opens his eyes lazily, dazed, only tethered to earth by the rough denim of Ilya’s jacket underneath his fingertips. Shane stares up at the small smattering of stars that are bright enough to escape the city’s light, and normally, it would make him feel small, insignificant, but he can’t help but feel like the world is tilting around him now, an entire universe anchored to him and Ilya holding each other in the night. 

A shocked laugh escapes his throat, a sharp barb breaking through the dark, too euphoric to hold in. 

“Are you laughing at me, Shane Hollander?” Ilya teases, his voice muffled by the thick fabric of  Shane’s hoodie. (Shane knows the exact smirk that Ilya is pressing into his skin right now, and isn’t that a fucking miracle right there?) 

“No, I just —” he starts, breaking into a round of giggles.

(Shane thought that bringing the championship trophy home to McGill last year, straight off his buzzer-beater of a winning goal, was the happiest he’d ever feel. He stands fucking corrected.) 

“Alright,” Ilya says, pulling back but keeping Shane close, running his hands around Shane's hips and lower back. “What’s so funny, huh?” 

Shane sighs, looking at Ilya with something like awe, lifting a hand to trace his eyebrow, fingertips trailing over the arch with the lightest pressure, brushing over the spike of silver. (Ilya’s lips are pink and puffy and spit-slick and Shane wants another taste.) “How the fuck did we end up here?” he whispers, wonders.  

There’s a pause, a tense moment where Ilya’s brow drops just a hair, and his eyes start flicking back and forth between both of Shane’s. “Are you not happy about it?” he asks, and oh, no. No no no. 

“Ilya,” Shane deadpans, leveling him with a stare. “I thought I’d be ending my night nursing bruises from accidentally getting caught in the pit, or something.” 

Ilya snorts, dropping his forehead against Shane’s. 

“I didn’t think I’d meet the hot drummer I'd had a crush on for months and have him be… be you. Kind and funny and sweet, you.” 

A breath shudders past Ilya’s lips, whether from disbelief or surprise or want, Shane can’t tell. He’s about to shift forward to fold him into his arms when suddenly Ilya’s hand curls around Shane’s jaw, tilting it up to seal their mouths together in a messy, crushing kiss. 

It steals his breath, sending him reeling and sparking a hunger that gnaws at the center of his chest. (He’s definitely in too deep, but fuck, does it feel right.) 

When they part, it’s with a gasp. Ilya slips his thumb over Shane’s chin and swipes it along his bottom lip, and if they weren't outside and they weren't on borrowed time, Shane would take the digit between his teeth. 

“I like you, Shane,” Ilya says, announces, declares, his voice a little shaky with his labored breathing. His eyes are locked somewhere below Shane’s eyes, so Shane sneaks a hand between them to tap at the bottom of Ilya’s chin, bringing their gazes together.  

“I like you, too.” 

A million emotions play out across Ilya’s features, and Shane knows that every last one of them is reflected in his own eyes. Relief, fear, excitement, anticipation, gratitude, joy, sincerity, desire.

A new world has formed around them, and Shane is so fucking happy to be living in it.

Ilya presses forward, brushing their noses together once, twice, before leaning back with a glint in his eye. Shane blinks away the haze, catches the smirk on Ilya’s lips, and braces himself for the inevitable. 

“So you think I’m hot, huh?”

(What a fucking asshole. Shane is gonna fall in love with him.) 

“You’re so annoying,” he mutters around a breathy laugh, rolling his eyes. 

“Had a crush on me, too,” Ilya nearly sings as he sways closer, erasing the space between their lips with desire in his eyes. 

“Shut up,” Shane whispers, but any heat behind it is lost in the smile etching itself across his lips. 

Ilya joins in his joy, smacking tickling kisses along Shane’s jaw and up to his ear. 

“I think you are very beautiful, Shane,” he whispers. 

The heat of his breath sends shivers down Shane’s spine, only soothed by the sweetness dripping off his words, the truth so evident in his tone. It puts a lump in Shane’s throat, and he pulls back to meet Ilya’s eyes, bright under the moonlight. There’s nothing but heart in them, aching and honest and open, and Shane doesn’t know how to handle such devastating earnestness. 

Fourteen hours ago, he had no fucking clue who Ilya Rozanov was. And now this boy is making his way up the ranks of the most important people in Shane’s life. 

He’s never wanted like this, never been wanted like this. No one has ever lit him up from the inside out, left him dizzy at a single touch. 

(This boy is magic, he must be.)

And to have it be Ilya standing in front of him saying these things, this larger than life, daydream of a boy telling him that he’s beautiful and he likes him and he wants to see him again…

Shane can’t put it into words, so instead, he lifts his hands from where they’ve fallen onto Ilya’s biceps to cradle his face and tilt it down, falling forward to kiss his forehead, the apex of his brow, the bridge between his eyes, the tip of his nose, his cupid's bow. By the time he gets down to Ilya's lips for a proper kiss, Ilya’s shaky hands have completely fisted themselves in Shane's hoodie, holding him close and so, so dearly. 

(He thinks Ilya understands what he’s trying to say.)

They kiss without hurry, taking time they don't have to learn each other's rhythm. Shane’s hands run over Ilya’s ridges, the raised moles on his cheeks, the hollow of his collarbones, the peaks and valleys of muscles along his chest. He wants to map every inch of him, learn his shortcuts and then take the scenic route to what makes him tick.

Shane holds tight, kissing Ilya until his lungs burn alongside his heart. He stays close even as he breaks for a breath, dipping in for quick pecks and chaste drags of their lips. 

Ilya stills him with a hand at the center of his chest, gliding up to hold Shane's face in both palms.

“These freckles,” Ilya whispers, swiping the pads of his fingertips over Shane’s cheeks. “So, so pretty.” 

“These curls,” Shane chokes out around the emotion clogging his throat, twirling a lock of hair at the nape of Ilya’s neck around his finger. “Prettier.” 

“Ah, no. Not possible.”

“Oh, no?”

“No. I’ve never seen anyone as pretty as you and your freckles. And I look at me everyday.” 

Shane huffs out a laugh, letting his head drop forward to rest on Ilya’s shoulder. (Ilya’s lips are at his temple almost immediately. It does nothing to help soothe the speed of Shane’s heartbeat.) 

He sneaks his hands under Ilya’s denim jacket, feeling the heat of Ilya’s skin seep through the cotton of his t-shirt and warm Shane’s palms. His back is tough and sinewy, hard planes of muscle that tense and ripple under Shane’s touch. Slowly, reverently, he smooths his hands up the length of Ilya’s spine and back down again, curving carefully around the dip of Ilya’s waist and just holding. 

They fit together so well. (Not perfectly, he shouldn’t say that, not this soon. But.) He’s never felt this comfortable with someone else so quickly, and that should knock him off his feet, but he feels so good here that it turns him immovable. 

Ilya is pressing tiny pecks along his hairline, one hand drawing shapes on his shoulder blade while the other trails lightly along the back of his neck. 

Shane never wants this night to end.

But then he barely suppresses a yawn, and he knows it has to. 

“Ilya,” he whispers.

“Shane.”

“It’s like, 4 AM.”

Ilya hums. “Probably.”

“I should go.”

“I don’t want you to.” 

He lifts his head, straightening up so that the tips of their noses brush. 

“I don’t either.” 

Ilya chases after a kiss that Shane is all too happy to give away.

“I’d take you on tour with me if I could.” 

Shane doesn’t know much about being a musician, thinks the constant travel and changing schedules sound like hell on earth if you don't get to play hockey at the end of each day, but he'd gladly flit from city to city in a cramped tour bus bed if it meant staying in the circle of Ilya's arms. 

Shane leans forward to steal another kiss, then two, then three, then four more. He can’t get enough, wants to squeeze every second for all its worth and drink his fill of Ilya before he’s left bone dry and starving for him. (He’s fucked, he’s fucked, he’s fucked.) 

When he pulls away, Shane searches the cool depths of Ilya’s eyes, and all he finds is reassurance. 

“We’ll see each other soon, yes?” Ilya confirms. 

“Yes, yes. Come to a game, or I’ll go to one of your shows.” He tightens his arms around Ilya’s waist. “Hell, Ilya, I’d meet you for a ten-minute pit stop on a road trip if it meant seeing each other.” 

Ilya smiles, wide and so, so beautiful, and falls forward to press his lips right under Shane's eyes, smoothing light pecks across both of his cheekbones (good god, is Ilya kissing his freckles right now? Holy fucking shi—). 

“Call me when you get home, yes?” Ilya whispers, and he’s so close that Shane feels more than hears his words.  

“Shouldn’t you go to sleep?” he mutters into the curve of Ilya's cheekbone. “You’re leaving in like, four hours.”

“Yes, but I won’t sleep until I know you’re home safe. Is late, Shane. Could be murderers out there.” 

A laugh punches itself out of Shane’s lungs, a trembling, incredulous little thing, and he pulls Ilya back in for another kiss, slow and wanting with fingers sliding through curls and hands squeezing at Shane’s hips. They come away from it panting, foreheads pressed together as their chests heave in tandem. 

“I’ll call when I’m home.” 

“Please do.” 

Shane leans forward, pressing a slow kiss to one of Ilya’s cheeks while his thumb brushes over the other in soft strokes, the spike of his piercing scraping against Shane’s forehead (he hopes it leaves a mark). 

“Talk to you in, like, 20 minutes.” 

Ilya tilts his head, and Shane can feel when the smile pressing against his skin turns into a kiss, lips just below his ear. 

“Hurry up,” Ilya breathes. 

Fuck, Shane has to kiss him one more time. (Okay, maybe many more times.) 

“I really need to go,” he says after too few minutes (will any amount of time ever be enough?), forcing himself to pull back from Ilya’s perfect, perfect lips. 

“Drive safe, solnyshko.” 

The term of endearment (because that’s what it is, isn’t it? That’s how Ilya feels, isn’t it?) sends a shiver down Shane’s spine, a magnet settling low on his back and refusing to be pulled away from Ilya. 

He groans, reaching down to take Ilya’s hand in both of his and pull it to his lips, raining kisses over the crests of his knuckles and the calluses on his fingertips, a little delirious with it. 

Shane can’t even begin to think about whatever Ilya just called him. (That’s gonna be a spiral for Tomorrow Shane.) All his effort right now is going into forcing his legs to take a step back and move away from Ilya, who's looking at him like he just saw an angel come down to earth. 

Fucking easier said than done. 

Shane squeezes Ilya’s hand once, letting their tangled fingers linger in the air between them, before he steps out of the warmth and safety of their little corner, out here with the moon and the stars and the damn tour bus that’ll take Ilya away from him.

And it’s ridiculous to feel this way, to feel like a part of him is literally getting ripped out of his chest and getting left behind, but he does. And it sucks. 

“Goodnight, Ilya,” he murmurs, voice soft and low and longing.

“Goodnight, Shane.” 

Shane holds onto Ilya’s hand for as long as he can, steps slow like honey. But then suddenly, Ilya’s grip tightens, and Shane is being jerked backward into a final, devastating kiss, the bruising force of it knocking their teeth together and pushing a choked, surprised groan from Shane’s throat. It’s over almost as soon as it starts, Ilya barely giving Shane enough time to kiss him back properly. He’s still reeling when Ilya dives back in for a smacking peck, dazed blinks only catching glimpses of Ilya kissing Shane’s palm and stepping back to rest against the bus. 

“Needed one for the road,” he mutters, eyes scanning Shane’s frame like he’s memorizing every last curve and plane. 

Fucking hell. He’s not gonna survive this boy. 

Shane shakes his head, fondness sweeping into the muscles. “I’ll call you.” 

“Can’t wait.” 

Shane turns to leave, fingers twitching in the empty night air as he starts to wind his way through the empty festival grounds. He’s just about to curve around the next row of buses, taking him fully out of Ilya’s view, when — 

“Don't get lost!” 

This fucker. 

Shane whirls around, walking backwards with two middle fingers in the air and a wild grin on his face. “Fuck off, asshole!” he shouts. 

He lets Ilya's answering laugh carry him the rest of the way out of the festival grounds and back to the parking lot, echoing in his ears with every step. 

(Maybe it’s just recency bias talking, but this might be the best night of his life.) 

He digs his keys out of his pocket as he rounds the car, unlocking his door and throwing himself into the driver's seat. 

Holy mother of god.

The laugh that bursts out of him is borderline hysterical, a thin, wobbly wheeze that crushes his chest and bands tight around his heart. 

He can’t fucking believe he just did that, that any of tonight happened at all. Ilya fucking Rozanov, following him around Montreal, so interested and genuine and sweet, chipping away at his walls to get into what’s real. Has Shane ever spoken that much about himself before, shared so much of himself with another? 

(But then — has Ilya? Can Shane count himself among a special, chosen few who have gone under the surface to mine even the tiniest details out of Ilya’s heart? He hopes, he hopes, he hopes.) 

He collapses onto the steering wheel, forehead pressed to the leather as his body shakes with stun.

It’s only when he straightens up, many, many deep breaths later, that he realizes his mind has been quiet almost the whole night. 

He feels…settled, despite the pure bliss streaming through his veins. No static, no fuzz, no thoughts on a speeding treadmill. Just relief, joy, and Ilya. 

Ilya, Ilya, Ilya.

Out of the corner of his eye, Shane notices a navy blue bundle of fabric peeking out from below the passenger seat. He reaches for it, feeling the plush knit mold to his fingertips. Ilya's toque. 

A delirious laugh bubbles out of him. Of course, Ilya forgot his fucking toque in Shane's car. Of course, he left him a souvenir, concrete proof that tonight was real, that what Shane felt tonight (has been feeling all day, really) cannot be denied. 

God fucking dammit, he really fucking likes this boy. 

Shane hugs the toque to his chest, breathing deep. It smells like him, a hint of tobacco mixed with something warm and spicy, almost totally concealing the fresh scent of detergent beneath it all. He runs his fingers over the fabric one more time before placing it delicately on his passenger seat, holding his boy's place. 

With a happy, satisfied sigh, Shane shoves his key into the ignition and turns, finally okay with going.

And if he drives a bit over the speed limit to make it home, make it to that call, a little faster, then it’s nobody’s business but his.