Chapter Text
An elbow drives into Ilya’s ribs, and he looks up from where he’d been doodling on a Post-It note. “What?” he asks indignantly.
“We’re moving,” Svetlana says. “Find your card suit.”
Ilya groans, gathering up his laptop and water cup and finding the card he’d tossed aside when he sat down—black nine of diamonds. “This is stupid,” he says.
“Yes,” Svetlana agrees. “Have fun with your team.” She says it too cheerfully, and it’s easy for Ilya to figure out why; when he finds the table with a construction paper diamond taped to it, he’s sitting down with Hayden fucking Pike.
“Rozanov,” Pike says tersely, tapping his four of diamonds card on the table.
“Pike,” Ilya says. “Did you have a nice summer?”
“Very,” Pike says. “Took the kids out to the lake, got new couches. My sister-”
Ilya waves his hand dismissively. “You can stop,” he says. “I am not actually interested.” Pike scowls at him, but forces it into a tight smile when they’re joined by one of the newer hires, a nervous, second year Spanish teacher.
He hates staff days. The games and icebreakers are always tiresome, and the sun streaming through the library windows doesn’t make it any more bearable. He’d much rather be setting up his classroom or planning, though he frustratingly hasn’t met his co-teacher yet.
On the threshold of his fourth year teaching, Ilya thinks he has most things down. His curriculum is solidified, they haven’t moved him to a new classroom since his second year, he’s built up an arsenal of techniques and methods that serve his kids well. He’s good at what he does and he knows it. But this, the bureaucracy and the showing off, has always driven him crazy.
He idly scans the room, seeing where people landed. Svetlana and Bood are at the same table, the motherfuckers. Cliff is next to them with Hayes and Jackie, Hayden’s wife. By the time he turns back around, the last seat at their table has been filled. And of course, it’s by Hollander.
Fucking Shane Hollander. He and Ilya had started together four years ago, and they’re the only two left from their incoming cohort. He is, and always has been, frustratingly perfect. He took on an AP class a year before Ilya. His test scores have never dipped. He and Rose Landry, the junior class advisors, run their class so well that they’ll be a real threat to the seniors in Battle of the Classes this year. Ilya and Bood’s sophomores are nothing to sneeze at either, but the eleventh graders are formidable. Because of Hollander.
Ilya knows it’s ridiculous to be so competitive. They should be on the same team, teachers aligned in helping their students succeed, but there has always been a thrum of that ferocity between them.
“Nice tan, Hollander,” he says.
Hollander blushes, making the already darkened smattering of freckles on his cheekbones stand out even more. “Thank you,” he says cautiously, as if waiting for the punchline. But Ilya just gives a small nod and pretends not to notice Pike rolling his eyes. He likes throwing in the occasional genuine comment with Hollander. The less predictable he can be, the better.
“Alright, folks!” Scott Hunter’s voice carries easily from the front of the room. He’s far too energetic, annoyingly dressed in his usual full suit even in the late August Boston. As far as administrators go, he’s truthfully not terrible. Ilya knows there are far worse assistant principles out there. He just wishes Hunter had an off switch. He should not be this peppy every single day. “First thing we’re gonna do is use the chart paper at your tables to list out five success criteria that you can apply to everyone at the table,” he says. “Don’t limit yourself based on subject or grade. We are looking for Metropolitan High School success criteria.”
“Guess this is the thing of the month,” Hayden says, and against his better judgement, Ilya laughs. Metro admin has a habit of introducing new strategies every few weeks, insisting that every teacher use it, then letting it fall by the wayside when it doesn’t quite work out.
Hollander is writing their names on the chart paper in obnoxiously straight, neat letters. He crosses the ‘z’ in Ilya’s last name, then numbers the paper. He never bitches about these rollouts. “We should include something about literacy,” he says. “They’ve been big on that lately.”
Ilya doesn’t know how he does it. Most teachers who are such sticklers for policy and rules are disliked by the students, but the opposite is true for Hollander. He manages to be the history department’s golden child while also consistently popping up as a favorite. The kids like to hang out in his room, and he regularly shows up to chaperone and work events. He’s just so fucking perfect that it makes Ilya crazy. Ilya’s beloved by the kids himself, but can’t seem to stay on admin’s good side.
He zones out while Pike and Hollander and the other few at their table write buzzwords and the same recycled phrases onto the paper. He’ll throw them on the whiteboard when the year starts, but his priority right now is actual planning. If he volunteers to share when the time inevitably comes, nobody will know that he wasn’t paying a bit of attention.
Sure enough, “Alright, can we get some volunteers to share out?” Hunter asks.
Ilya throws his hand up, and tries to believe Hunter’s smile doesn’t tighten. “Mr. Rozanov, thank you,” he says. “Go ahead.”
Sharing drags for what feels like hours. The newbies are too into it, and kiss asses like Comeau keep jumping in to contribute and make one person’s response last even longer. Ilya doesn’t realize he’s staring at the ceiling until his phone buzzes.
sveta
you look like you want to die
Ilya finds her in the room again. Her expression is impassive, like she’s actually interested in whatever it is Comeau is rambling about.
Ilyushka
i do
i’m bored
i have shit to do
sveta
tell me about it
coffee order?
Ilyushka
yes please
sveta
bood wants me to ask why you’re bored with Hollander to stare at
Bood’s poker face isn’t as good as Svetlana’s, and he’s visibly suppressing a smile when Ilya shoots him a dirty look. He and Svetlana have no issues with Hollander, and love to poke fun at Ilya’s blood feud with him. More than once, Svetlana has made a point of praising Hollander’s classroom environment because she’s always amused by Ilya’s reactions.
Ilyushka
tell bood im going to toss the stuff he stored in my closets out the window
“Okay, thank you to everyone who shared!” Hunter says. “I want to move us into the focus of today so you can all have some time in your classrooms before we go.” Ilya almost groans out loud. Was this bullshit not the focus?
“You’re going to find the person at your table who has the same card number in the opposite color,” Hunter says. “So if you have the red three of clubs, partner with the black three of clubs. I’ll give you all a second to find your partners.”
Pike, he knows, is not his partner. His luck stops there, though, because the red nine of diamonds is in front of Hollander.
“No,” Hollander says, at the same time Ilya swears. He’s just stretching out to steal Pike’s card when Hunter appears at their table.
“Ah, Hollander and Rozanov,” he says. “This should be interesting.”
“Absolutely,” Hollander says, ever the professional. “Is this for something we’re doing today?”
Hunter claps a hand on Hollander’s shoulder. “You’ll see,” he says.
Hollander scowls as soon as Hunter is out of view. “You gonna be an asshole during this, too?” he asks.
“Probably,” Ilya says. “Are you going to be boring know-it-all?” Shane huffs and folds his arms.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” Hunter says. “We want to collect data across subjects and work on vertical alignment through all four grades. You should be partnered with someone who teaches a different subject and different grade than you.” At least Hollander, in history, is close to Ilya’s English lit.
“Every week, you are going to meet with your partner to use in class and assessment data to work on designing universal goals for all students,” Hunter continues. “We want our students to be prepared for the upper grades, and then for college. Share your knowledge and your skills.”
Rose Landry, partnered with Cliff, raises her hand. “How long is this going to go on?” she asks.
“At least until winter break,” Hunter says.
Hollander’s mouth actually drifts open. This time, Ilya doesn’t stifle his groan, and slumps forward onto the table.
—
“Is not funny,” Ilya says.
“It’s a little funny,” Svetlana says. She’s set up shop in Ilya’s classroom for the rest of the day, sitting on a student desk with her laptop on her knees. “I mean, you and Hollander? Co-planning?”
Ilya’s standing on his desk to rehang his posters, and wonders for a moment if jumping would take him out. Teasing Hollander is fun in small bursts, like when they’re seated together on staff days or chaperoning, but meeting with him once a week indefinitely sounds miserable. He doesn’t really hate Hollander. It’s the uptight, constant perfection that he can’t stand.
“Who’d you get?” Ilya asks, hopping off his desk and unfortunately landing safely.
“Miitka,” Svetlana says. “I would have preferred Hollander.”
As if on cue, there’s a knock on the door. Hollander has his arms folded again. “I’ll leave you to it,” Svetlana says, sliding off her desk. Ilya glares at her as she goes.
“Look, I hate this as much as you do,” Hollander says.
“Doubtful,” Ilya says, breezing past Hollander to open another box of books.
Hollander lets out one of those little huffs and joins Ilya at the box. Ilya quirks up an eyebrow. “You are going to keep following me?” he asks.
Hollander ignores him and takes out a stack of books. “Can we maybe just figure out the basics now?” he says. “That way we can keep it brief when we meet.” He’s in a T-shirt, and when he stretches to place his stack, a sliver of his back is exposed.
It’s gone as quick as it came, but something sparks in his chest. Perfect fucking Hollander is perfect in this way, too. Ilya wishes he could pretend it’s not true, but Hollander is damn pretty.
Svetlana and Bood are the only ones who knows, and that’s only because he let it slip after too much vodka at Svetlana’s house. Ilya’s little crush on Hollander is inconvenient at best and frustrating at worst. There is no world where Hollander feels the same, and trying to get over it has been less than successful.
It started not long after they met. He and Hollander were in orientation together. Ilya had an excellent hold on English by then, enough so that he was comfortable teaching literature, but some things still overwhelmed him. Orientation was one of them. Admin spoke fast, shared a lot of information at once, didn’t have handouts. Ilya was terrified trying to figure out what he’d missed, and Hollander had silently slid his laptop over. He’d typed copious notes, and had opened the window for Ilya to enter his email, allowing Hollander to share the document.
He doubts Hollander remembers it and they’ve long since landed in this place of butting heads, but the way he felt that day has stuck with him.
“Whatever you come up with is fine,” Ilya says. “I trust you.”
Hollander narrows his eyes. “What, you just want me to do all the work?” he asks.
“No,” Ilya says. “You are better at this. The phrasing. I know what works, not how to say it.”
Hollander pauses where he’s about to take out more books. He looks somewhat taken aback, like he didn’t realize Ilya was capable of this kind of humility. “You don’t mean that,” he says.
Ilya shrugs. He’s made peace with the fact that he will never be perfect at the jargon. “Is true,” he says. “Not a big deal. You are good at this.”
“I still ask Hayden for advice on everything,” he says. “Whenever I schedule my observations, he proofreads. Jackie, too. And Rose sometimes.” A smile tugs at the corner of his lips, the softest thing Ilya’s seen from him in a while. “It’s a team effort,” he says. Ilya hasn’t seen the orientation version of Hollander in a long time. It does not help the crush.
Bood passes by the classroom, then doubles back. He gives a pointed look to Ilya, eyes flitting purposely to Hollander. Ilya angles himself so he can’t see him.
“I’ll come up with a few things,” Hollander says. “But don’t sell yourself short, Rozanov. You’re good at some stuff.”
“Ah, that makes one of us,” Ilya says. “I feel sorry for the juniors that you will lose to us next year.”
“You’re such an asshole,” Hollander says, and they’re back where they always are. “That’s never going to happen.”
Ilya puts his hands up, letting his usual cocky grin take over. “We’ll see,” he says.
He makes it all the way home before that strip of Hollander’s back pops into his head again. He knows how wrong it is, but in the shower, alone with himself, his hand wraps around his cock. His fingers could press so nicely to those little dimples framing Hollander’s spine. He wants to see Hollander on his knees, feel his hands grip Ilya’s hips.
But deeper than that, deeper than he wants to examine, he wants Hollander’s hands on his back, pinning him into the mattress. He wants to know if he’s as capable at that as he is with everything else.
“Fuck,” he gasps, stroking himself faster. He doesn’t know what to do with wanting this, but it’s rapidly tightening the coil in his stomach. When he comes, it’s with sinfully pink lips and soft, brown eyes flashing in his mind.
He has no fucking idea how he’s supposed to spend that much alone time with Hollander.