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McGill University Auditorium — 2022 — Fall Season Debate Qualifiers
McGill University’s debate team felt like a second home to Shane Hollander during his sophomore year in college. It's what he craved, and what kept him stable, and he was damn good at it. Already following in his father's footsteps, becoming the youngest debate team captain since him, it was clear that debate was everything to Shane; it was what calmed him down after a long day, brought his creative and analytical thinking together into a single working machine, and, most of all, he loved it. He loved the rush, the win.
Call him a nerd, but one thing you could never call Shane Hollander? A bad debater
“Rozanov, nice seeing you again. Are you ready?” Shane said with utmost sincerity, he was being honest; he did enjoy seeing Ilya Rozanov, the debate captain for the University of Ottawa.
“Hollander! Is nice to see you. Are you ready to lose?” Ilya chirped back, slowly encroaching a smile.
“How classy, I missed this, you know?” Shane said, adjusting the cuff of his suit casually.
“You missed me, not this.”
Shane turned away, pink fleshy tones contrasting the dark freckles orbiting his cheeks and nose.
It’s true, Shane did miss Ilya, “he’s a good opponent!” Is what he tells himself, but there's something different with Ilya; he's a distraction.
His toned body, clearly bulging through his nice suit, was the biggest distractor to Shane.
Last year after seeing Ilya’s workout reels he posted on Instagram, that Shane definitely didn't find by stalking the Ottawa debate team account, he almost lost his section of the debate, xraying through Ilya’s suit, seeing everything that lied underneath, how his body was dotted with moles, or the fuzzy trail of golden hair laying itself along Ilya’s belly button, traveling down into his waistband. It was safe to say Shane was obsessed with his biggest rival. Which, for obvious reasons, was not good.
“Hollander!” The voice shot back into frame. It was his best friend, Hayden.
‘Yeah?” Shane responded with quickness, “Sorry, I was distracted.”
“Are you ready? Do you have everything prepared? This is serious, man. We almost lost last year!”
Embarrassment burned into Shane’s face, recalling just how easily Ilya’s appearance was able to undo any prior planning he had for the competition.
“Yeah, we’re good, we got this year!”
“That’s the spirit, we got this bro.” Hayden finished, planting a soft punch on Shane’s shoulder.
Behind him, chairs scraped across the auditorium floors, and papers shuffled in hands. Qualifiers always had this particular energy.
Half excitement, half quiet dread.
Shane was ready for this, no distractions, at least none from Ilya, he hoped, until his phone buzzed. The sound felt louder than it should have. Glancing down, he expected group chat chaos or schedule updates, but no.
*@/Ilyarozyroz requested to follow you on Instagram*
His stomach dropped before his brain caught up.
They had just spoken. Why now?
For some reason, though he was just speaking to him, Ilya decided to taunt Shane once more in the form of a haunting notification bright on his phone.
The timing felt intentional, almost premeditated.
Shane looks around. Now, he spots the mischievous Russian glaring at him with a smirk. Shane turned his head back so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash, but he had bigger issues at hand, like the warm heat pooling in his lower belly and that smirk, that smirk causing a slight twitch in the front zipper of his already tight suit pants.
This was a tactic. It had to be. Ilya thrived on disruption; he always played aggressively and impatiently, and he was brilliant when someone faltered. If Shane let himself spiral over a notification, that was on him.
He felt so useless, so easily torn, “It was just a smirk! Jesus Shane, pull it together.” Obviously, doing nothing for the ever-growing bulge in his pants.
To accept or not accept was the question reeling through Shane’s mind.
Outside of debate, Ilya was a mystery to Shane. Could he trust him? Why? Why did he follow him now? Would he like him? As a friend, of course.
All Shane knew of the Russian was that he had a hard body, in a 6 '0 frame, with beautiful ocean colored eyes and somehow perfect golden curls. Outside of that, nothing important, he knew Ilya was an aggressive debater, which never stopped Shane from dog walking him. Ilya gets mad fast; he gets deductions easily, but all in all, he is still a really good debater and a damn good captain, which slightly terrified him.
Shane decided to leave the request in his inbox until he was a little more mentally sound and a little less hard.
“Five minutes until opening statements,” the moderator called.
Five minutes.
Pulling his phone back out, Shane’s thumb hovered over the screen. Accepting felt like submitting to whatever sick game this was.
Ignoring it felt equally deliberate.
Control the variables, Shane. That’s how you win.
He moved toward the stage when his name was called out, laying out his notes with an almost robotic precision. Everything was aligned, tabbed, highlighted, marked, and color-coded in true Shane Hollander fashion. His preparation was meticulous; he’d run through the framework multiple times.
Across from him sat Ilya, with unnerving ease, leaning back slightly in his chair with steady eyes.
“You seem distracted,” Ilya murmured, low enough that no one else could hear.
The air felt thick, but Shane didn’t look up. “Don't flatter yourself.”
A soft huff of laughter answered back at him.
The clock above the auditorium doors clicked automatically; normally, it would drive Shane insane, but this time the sound was sweet; it sounded like the beginning of a good match.
Shane rolled his shoulders once, grounding himself. This was familiar territory; it was predictable, down to the last second.
“Begin,” the moderator said.
Shane stood smoothly, with notes in hand and an impressively straight posture. The room quieted at once, attention narrowing into something almost tangible. He opened his mouth, the first line of his statement perfectly memorized-
-and for the briefest second, his mind blanked.
There was nothing.
It wasn’t panic. Not yet. But it was enough for him to feel the shift in his balance, the awareness of being watched, not by the audience, of course, but by one person in particular.
He found the words in a heartbeat.
“Honorable judges,” he began evenly, his voice carrying across the auditorium, “today we will demonstrate–”
Across the table, Ilya smiled. Something sweet.
Not wide.
Just enough.
And Shane realized, with a flicker of something dangerously synonymous with uncertainty, that this round was going to be far less predictable than he’d planned.
After finding his rhythm again, he quickly sprang into action.
Once the opening framework was settled into the ground, his confidence returned in layers. Economic stability, long-term infrastructural modeling, impact calculus–he moved through it all cleanly, with a steadfast voice and controlled gestures. He commanded the room without even needing to raise his voice.
Judges leaned forward. Pens moved. The air felt balanced again.
Across from him, Ilya didn’t interrupt. He didn’t even take many notes.
He just listened. Which, in and of itself, unsettled Shane more than anything.
When Shane finished, he smoothly sat down, offering a polite nod and a chummy smile as if nothing inside him had tightened at all.
The moderator gestured toward Ilya, “Opposition may begin.”
Before the debate, Shane had noticed the uncomfortable temperature the room was set at; it wasn’t unbearable, but when you’re in four layers of clothing, it could get uncomfortable quickly.
Ilya stood without looking at his notes.
“Thank you,” he began calmly, his accent softer than its usual harsh grating against ears. “My opponent has presented a very confident model. Structured. Polished.” His eyes flicked to Shane briefly. “Familiar.”
A few quiet laughs rippled throughout the audience.
Shane noticed how calm Ilya looked, how confident, even while glistening from the sweltering heat.
Yet he kept his expression neutral.
Ilya paced once behind his podium. “However, what Captain Hollander failed to address is the volatility of his own data assumption.” With confidence, Ilya even unbuttoned the top of just his dress shirt whilst talking, just barely enough to see his tanned skin, a few moles, and that glistening gold cross he seemingly never took off.
Shane’s heart launched into his throat, feeling a little hotter now, a little more uncomfortable, thinking.
He was staring. Ilya knew he was staring. His head pounded with thoughts.
One more button? Please? Show off, Ilya.
He snapped back into the debate, reprocessing how gritty and unfamiliar the word volatility sounded against Ilya’s throat.
That wasn’t true anyway. Shane had addressed volatility. Twice even.
He reached for his notes, flipping to the page he knew covered risk projection. The paper felt slightly less steady between his fingers than it had moments ago.
Ilya continued, “You see, last year, this very round Captain Hollander made a similar projection model. Was elegant,” a pause. “Until it wasn’t.”
The room shifted.
Shane felt it physically–the subtle awareness spreading through the audience. Judges glanced at one another. Hayden stiffened beside him.
This was deliberate. Ilya was attacking the memory.
Shane forced himself to look bored.
Ilya finally met his dark brown eyes. “So I ask,” he continued smoothly, “how can we trust a framework that collapses under pressure? Because pressure is exactly what real-world application provides.”
It was a clean shot. Strategic. Personal without being personal.
It was effective.
Shane’s pulse ticked up. He felt the heat now; earlier, he had lived in it, and now he feels it. He feels the way his fabric rubs against his body, his legs, his crotch, creating an abnormally pleasurable friction, a pleasure that wasn’t there before Rozanov’s words. The friction unraveled his mind; it made him shiver. Thankfully, his lower half was covered by a large wooden desk, because he was quite sure the pulsing of his stiffening cock against the dark fabric was quite noticeable at this point.
Why was this debate turning him on?
What changed?
He knew what Ilya was doing. He was reframing last year’s stumble, the one Ilya caused, as a structural weakness. Planting doubt before a cross-examination even began.
Calculated.
Shane waited patiently for his turn to respond. He didn't rush to write. Didn’t overreact. At least visibly. Instead, he underlined one sentence in his notes and breathed evenly.
When cross-examination opened, Ilya wasted no time.
“Captain Hollander,” he began, voice smooth and deceptively polite, “in your third contention, you assume economic stabilization within five fiscal cycles, da? Yes?”
“Yes,” Shane replied, which didn't come out as stable as he would’ve liked.
“And the assumption is dependent on policy compliance across all sector, da?”
“It is dependent on majority compliance, which I clarified in–”
“In a footnote,” Ilya cut in gently. “A footnote you did not verbally emphasize.”
There it was.
Shane felt the slip before it happened. That hesitation. The urge to overexplain.
He could defend the footnote. He could spiral into the technicalities of it all.
All while Ilya watched him carefully, waiting for exactly that.
Shane paused instead.
One heartbeat. Two.
Then he leaned forward slightly.
“I didn’t emphasize it,” Shane agreed calmly, “because it isn’t a weakness.”
A faint flicker crossed Ilya’s face.
Shane continued before the man could interrupt. “Majority compliance is statistically consistent with modern policy adoption rates. If the opposition would prefer I account for absolute non-compliance, we can discuss fringe hypotheticals, but that would weaken realism. Wouldn’t it be Mr. Rozanov?”
A few pens scratched quickly across paper.
Shane kept his gaze on Ilya, attempting to not get distracted. Again.
“If you’re suggesting last year’s hesitation invalidates current data,” Shane added, “I’d caution against conflating delivery with substance.”
There was a quiet shift in the room again.
Ilya’s jaw tightened just slightly.
Not angry. From Shane’s view, it almost looked like.
Arousal.
He was right. Ilya looked at Shane with hunger, almost as if he were saying. “Give it to me. Prove me wrong, Hollander, put me in my place.” The room felt small, seeing that look in Ilya’s eyes, he couldn’t lose himself again, but he was so damn close.
The moderator signaled the end of cross-examination.
As Ilya sat, he leaned just close enough to Shane, “Better.”
Shane’s heart and eyes fluttered in sync.
Unbeknownst to Ilya, earning a twitch out of Shane’s slowly softening cock.
He didn’t respond, but his hands were far colder than they should have been considering the condition of the room.
Because the truth was, Ilya was right again. He had found the weak spot. Not the data, or the framework. But the hesitation, the glares, and for one dangerous second of that exchange, Shane had almost given in to him again. Almost.
Almost.
Post Debate — Backstage
The victory was sweet for Shane; he knew he had it in the bag, forthe most part.
McGill was truly a powerhouse under the lead of a Hollander.
Leaving the stage was a little bittersweet. Shane knew he wouldn’t see Ilya’s face until the semi-finals for Regionals, when Ottawa would get its redemption. He already missed what happened on that stage.
Slightly tugging on his collar, he got comfortable. He deserved it after going through an hour of flirting with Rozanov; his loose collar and the fan backstage allowed him to fully cool off. Checking his phone, he saw a message request.
@ilyarozyroz: Nice work out there, Captain.
What the fuck was wrong with this kid? Shane started getting frustrated, but the message, ‘Captain,’ flowed straight to his cock. The message was kind, there weren’t any sexual innuedos and yet he still feels flustered from five measly words.
Shane decided to follow Ilya; if he was going to stalk Ilya, he might as well do it ethically.
The walk from the auditorium to his dorm was nothing crazy, five minutes give or take. But it was always peaceful, until now, having to conceal his hard cock in tight, unforgiving dress pants, all while trying to walk normally. It was quite the task, harder than anything else he did that day.
When he made it into his dorm, he went straight to his room, immediately stripping off his clothes, letting his sweaty skin feel the cooler-than-normal breeze. His dress shirt came off last, slipping into a more comfortable oversized T-shirt.
After he changed his shirt, he checked the damage. He knew he was easily turned on, but this was intense. Peeling back his plaid red boxers, a clear dark spot of pre-come was visible, a beady string attaching itself from his slit to the fabric, breaking in front of his eyes.
He huffed.
“Fuck.” He said to himself quietly, it was too early for this he thought. It was too much. His control impressed himself, though, he quickly tore his boxers off, changing into a clean pair.
He sat on his bed for a second, wondering what to do about any of this. Getting frustrated with the situation in his head.
Ilya Rozanov was a dickhead, teasing him like that during a professional event. It all felt too easy to Shane; he started to think deeper, making himself more upset. Spiraling even.
He wondered if Rozanov let him win. His rebuttal wasn’t strong, but he saw his notes; they were filled.
No way. Rozanov had integrity.
He wouldn’t throw the competition for me.
But it made all too much sense in his head.
He slapped a palm against his forehead. “What an asshole, wouldn’t even let me win fairly.”
Shane startled at the buzz vibrating through the bed.
@ilyarozyroz: Let me celebrate you, Hollander. Get a drink with me at the cafe, my friend, I pay. My treat.
So now, not only is Ilya a dickhead, but he is also a nice one at that.
Shane felt red heat spread against his face. It was a simple request, really, just a coffee. With a friend, I mean, he said it himself, “my friend.” It was a simple ask, yet his thumbs hesitated like the screen was made of fiberglass.
How bad did he want it? How bad did he want that coffee?
New Bruscher Cafe — 3 Hours Post Debate
Clearly, he wanted that coffee badly enough.
The cafe was smaller than Shane remembered. Exposed brick. Warm lighting. It was far too intimate for something that was supposed to be neutral ground.
He paused just inside the door, scanning, not for safety, but for control. Corners, exits, and table placement. Ilya was already there, of course. Back table, near the window. Not hidden. Not exposed, it was strategic.
Shane hated that he noticed these things.
Ilya looked up as the bell over the door chimed. For a split second, his expression shifted into something softer than what Shane was used to seeing across the debate table. Smoothing back into something familiar.
As he walked toward the table, he noticed the dampness of Ilya’s curls, forming a bit of a darker gold, holding in water; it was clear Ilya showered, he smelled good, like soap, and some kind of vanilla musk perfume.
“Hollander!” Ilya greeted, standing as Shane approached.
Shane nodded once. “Rozanov.”
They didn’t shake hands. They didn't need to.
Up close without podiums or judges or structured time limits between them, the space felt different. Less defined. Shane slipped into the chair across from him, setting his phone on the table face down.
“I order you black coffee,” Ilya said. “You strike me as someone who pretends to like complexity, but you are really simple.”
Shane blinked. “That’s presumptuous.”
“Am I wrong?”
Shane didn’t answer that. The coffee was set down in front of him a moment later.
There was a pause.
Not the kind filled with crowd noise or ticking clocks. Just the low hum of conversation and hissing espresso machines.
“So,” Shane began, “to what do I owe the invitation?”
Ilya leaned back slightly. Casual. Too casual. “Do I need a reason to invite my friend for coffee?” he said sarcastically. “You are strict, Hollander.”
There it was again.
My friend.
Shane let the irritation in before he could stop it, a sharp tightening behind his ribs.
“You don't usually,” Shane replied quietly, “use that word.”
Ilya tilted his head. “Friend?”
“Yes.”
“I thought it was accurate,” Ilya said. “Is not?”
Shane let out a short, methodical breath through his nose. “We debate against each other three times a semester at most.”
“And?”
“And you try to dismantle my arguments in front of an audience,” Shane said flatly, the irritation rising. Maybe this was a bad idea.
Ilya’s mouth curved faintly into that dumb crooked smile that made Shane nervous, “You do the same to me.”
“That’s not friendship,” Shane said, sharper than he intended.
Ilya watched him for a moment, unreadable.
“It is respect,” he said finally. “And consistency. And shared obsession with the same strange activity.” A beat passed. “I think that qualifies, Hollander.”
Shane’s grip tightened slightly around his coffee cup.
Respect.
The word should have settled something. It didn’t.
“Earlier today did not feel consistent,” Shane said before he could mask it.
Ilya’s eyes narrowed just slightly, “No?”
“No.” He huffed. “You pivoted.”
“Ah.” Ilya looked down at his own cup, rotating it slowly between his hands. “We are doing this already.”
“You found the weak point,” Shane continued, ignoring the attempt at deflection. “And you backed off.”
“That is your interpretation, Captain.”
Shane swallowed a breath, the word Captain filling him with heat before he could speak, the title, usually reserved for debate, found itself at their coffee table. “It’s the correct one.”
Silence stretched between them, heavier now.
Ilya didn't deny it immediately, which only thickened the air.
Finally looking up, he met Shane’s deep, glistening eyes. “You think I let you win.”
“Did you?” Shane said, staring through Ilya.
There it was, clean and direct; it was almost scary.
Ilya’s jaw shifted slightly, like he was choosing his words with more care than usual.
“I chose not to extend the argument that would have turned into something else,” he said. “Something uglier.”
“Uglier?” Shane repeated.
“Yes.” Ilya’s voice lowered. “You already corrected your opening hesitation. If I pressed volatility the way you expect, it would stop being about policy and start being about you.”
The words landed on Shane harder than anticipated.
“That’s what debate is,” Shane said. “You exploit what’s there.”
“Not everything,” Ilya replied. “As much as I would have loved to see you get all pink and blushed, I did not want to crumble your spirit.” He let out a joking chuckle.
The cafe suddenly felt too warm.
Loved.
Shane’s head started spinning. What was happening right now? What was this?
He took in a deep breath, centering himself again. “So what?” he said, his tone becoming angrier, “you decide to spare me?” The words came out sharper than intended. “I'm a grown man, Ilya, do what you need to do to win.”
“I did what I did to make me happy, Hollander,” Ilya said quietly. “You are different. You love debate. I am just good.” He continued, “There is a difference.”
Shane’s pulse kicked up.
“Not worth it,” he repeated. “Because I'm your friend.”
There it was, the accusation under the word.
Ilya held his sharp gaze, staring at Shane’s face, drinking it in.
“Yes.”
Shane looked down at his half-empty cup. “I don't need you to hold back.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t!” Shane said sharply, drawing a look from the couple next to them. Flustering himself. “Sorry.”
“I won’t, Captain,” Ilya said. With no hesitation.
Shane looked up again, searching his face for sarcasm. But there was none.
“You misunderstand.” Ilya continued. “Calling you a friend does not mean I think you are fragile. It means I think you are… important.”
The word lingered between them.
“You don’t get to redefine this,” Shane said. “You don’t get to soften this and expect me to adjust, all because I’m suddenly important to you.” Gritting the words through his teeth.
Ilya’s expression shifted barely. The muscles in his face worked slightly.
“I am not redefining anything, Hollander, I am clarifying.”
“That’s the same thing,” Shane shot back.
Whatever had been open in Ilya’s expression closed completely.
He leaned back slowly, “You believe the only way I respect you is by trying to break you.”
Shane sat silently, trying to push back the angry tears in his throat.
Ilya nodded once. Not angry. “That’s unfortunate.”
“You chose not to fight because you knew you couldn’t. Stop acting like my savior, Ilya. That's pathetic.”
Ilya froze. His gaze went neutral, like someone scrubbed his face with a sponge.
With that, he took out his wallet, pulling out a few bills, and putting them on the table.
“Congratulations on your win again, Shane.” The use of his first name was deliberate, and it hit Shane; he knew he fucked up. “See you at the next round,” Ilya said with a cold tone. Shane struck a nerve.
He walked out without another word, the bell over the cafe door chiming once more as it shut behind him.
If this is what victory felt like, Shane didn’t want it. An empty chair in front of him, glassy eyes, and a reddened face.
He wanted the edge back; he didn’t want to be handed a win, he didn’t want to be treated like something easily destroyed.
But he was.
And Ilya walking out, having Shane on the verge of tears, showed just how easily destroyed Shane was.
Ilya’s words floated around him a little longer than they should’ve, and the relief he thought he felt turned into more anxiety.
Shane Hollander was quite sure he just screwed everything up with Ilya.
His friend.