Vlad manages to breathe a sigh of relief when Sheps doesn't show up for the next class at all. Oleg doesn't text, doesn't call, and, it seems, doesn't even come to the faculty at all, because Cherevaty scans the cars parked near the entrance, but day after day, he doesn't see the familiar BMW among them.
The first week after Vlad's reinstatement goes reasonably well. He reintegrates into the work process, trying not to think about what happened, but some colleagues greet him too dryly, and it starts to get to him. But Krasnov starts to get to him even more.
Cherevaty sees him at every class next to the empty chair; his gaze lands on the lone student at the smoking spot, though he doesn't understand why he looks that way every time he passes by. And after a week and a half, the professor's feigned calm evaporates completely.
"That's it, that's it, take a break!" Levin takes a step back, but the punches don't stop. "Vlad!"
Cherevaty flinches at the stern shout and looks up at the PE teacher with almost feral eyes, trying to catch his breath.
"Stop, I said," Maxim adds, a little quieter, lowering his hands.
He looks the guy over with a frown and heads toward the bench with a heavy sigh. For the last few days, Vlad has been acting extremely strange during training, and their meetings in the gym have now become a daily habit—that was the first thing that surprised Levin.
It seemed the stressful situation was resolved, and he expected Cherevaty to get calmer every day, but for some reason, the complete opposite began to happen. Vlad walks around the faculty with confidence, smiles welcomingly at colleagues when entering the staff room, and then, after classes, he literally exhausts himself with boxing, unleashing an unreal amount of aggression, which Maxim sees clearly in his punches.
"I see you've got more energy since you came back," the PE teacher notes carefully, as Cherevaty almost collapses next to him on the bench.
"Trying," Vlad exhales quietly.
"You're 'trying' out there," Levin catches his gaze and nods at the door, "when you hold all this in all day. But in here, you're not thinking about technique or breathing... You can't even stop until I roar at you."
Cherevaty swallows and guiltily lowers his eyes. He doesn't know what to answer because Maxim is completely right. Every little thing pisses him off: student questions that unreasonably seem stupid and inappropriate; the bell for the end of class ringing three minutes earlier than Vlad expected; and the damn empty parking spot at the faculty, which for some reason no one else takes.
Cherevaty doesn't understand what he's angry at. He only feels that something is missing, and that this "something" is what he gets in a very small dose, exclusively within these walls. In those very moments when he seems to break off the chain and pummels the focus mitts with all his might, not trying to play his proper role.
"Professor Levin!" Izosimova's voice yanks Vlad out of his thoughts, and he looks up.
The woman pauses, purses her lips slightly, raking Cherevaty with an unkind gaze, and addresses the PE teacher again:
"Did you forget to return the register after class again? Or am I supposed to fill it out in your back room?"
"It's quite cozy in there," Levin smirks, but under Angelina's glare, he heads off to get the register.
Vlad is hit by another wave of irritation: Izosimova is practically burning him with a sticky gaze in Maxim's absence, and the feeling is impossibly oppressive. He barely restrains himself from exploding and exhales only when the woman, having gotten what she came for, disappears out the gym door.
"Listen, Max..." Cherevaty starts tentatively. "Basharov said that many professors believed me in that whole story... I take it Izosimova wasn't one of them?"
"Is that what's getting to you so much?"
Vlad nods way too quickly, looks somewhere to the side, and Levin realizes it's a lie. Just a convenient excuse the guy latched onto, unwilling to say the real reason, although Maxim isn't at all sure Vlad himself knows the real reason.
"Can you play pool?" the PE teacher asks unexpectedly, causing Vlad genuine surprise.
"Generally, yeah... What does that have to do with anything?"
"Heard about the Faculty Day tournament?"
Of course, Cherevaty had heard. Not just the students, but almost all the professors were buzzing about the upcoming holiday. Dancers rehearsed tirelessly in the corridors both during and after classes, comedy teams held meetings in free classrooms, and the assembly hall was occupied daily by vocalists running through their songs.
Vlad had already been told that every year this holiday invariably ends with a pool tournament between professors and students. Cherevaty never found out where this tradition came from, but he was impressed that the Economics faculty had such a unique thing that set it apart from all the others.
"Are you suggesting I participate?" Vlad still doesn't understand the abrupt change of topic.
"I'll let you in on a secret," Maxim says conspiratorially. "Even Angelina knows how to cut loose on Faculty Day, if there's a good reason."
Cherevaty frowns, trying to figure out Levin's plan, but the other man saves him the trouble of thinking too hard after an exhausting workout:
"Absolutely all the professors will worship the one who brings back the cup. We've lost three years in a row," he purses his lips in annoyance. "You win, and they'll forget everything they ever said about you."
"And why did you lose? I heard even Basharov plays... Or are the students that fearless, knocking the Dean out of the tournament?" Vlad chuckles, finding it hard to believe students wouldn't just throw the match.
"I set the pairs for the quarterfinals initially," Maxim explains matter-of-factly, "and after that, it's a random draw. So, Marat, for the sake of the tournament's fairness, is always paired against the one student who definitely won't go easy on him. Guess who I'm talking about."
Cherevaty doesn't even need to guess. The image surfaces in his head on its own, and Vlad feels the desire to participate in the tournament—which held no interest for him a few seconds ago—rise sharply.
He takes a deep breath and looks up at the PE teacher, his eyes lighting up with an almost unhealthy thrill:
"Sheps is participating too?"
"He doesn't participate," Levin smirks. "He's the menace who hasn't let us take back the cup for three years."
Cherevaty thoughtfully takes a few sips of water and rises from the bench, much to Maxim's surprise:
"Sign me up, wherever you need to."
Levin was absolutely sure that after hearing this fact, Vlad would agree to participate. He was only surprised that Cherevaty—who just ten minutes ago was aggressively unleashing an uninterrupted series of chaotic blows on him and couldn't even stop—was now simply saying goodbye and calmly ending the workout, heading for the locker room. Maxim watches him go with a long look and goes off to draw up the tournament bracket, having finally settled on the lineup.
──── ♛ ♙ ♛ ────
Later that evening, after dinner, Vlad tries to understand what made him sign up for this dubious venture.
During his university years, he and Ilya often frequented pool halls. It was always interesting entertainment and a great atmosphere for heart-to-heart talks. Larionov would carefully ask questions, and Cherevaty, absorbed in finding the right shots, wouldn't even notice how freely he answered them, opening up about the most personal topics. The cue in his hands seemed to provide support for his confessions, and the concentration on the table distracted from doubts and awkwardness.
Vlad knows he plays well: he can carefully assess the situation, calculate shots so as not to set up an easy ball for his opponent, and easily figures out the physics, handling the cue skillfully. But it seems these skills won't be enough at the upcoming tournament. At least in one specific match, which Cherevaty desperately wants to reach by any means.
His thoughts return to Sheps again, and Vlad admits to himself with horror that he missed him. Not Oleg himself, but the damn game, in which all the emotions eating him from the inside were vented. All the anger, all the irritation instantly turned into a powerful stream of adrenaline that almost knocked him off his feet. Sheps, for the first time, did as Cherevaty asked—he just disappeared, leaving him in peace—but in this peace, Vlad, it seems, began to slowly lose his mind.
He became unbearably bored, and his days turned into a work routine that almost makes him sick. Vlad clings with all his might to the fact that he has finally returned to the career so important to him, but he can't shut up the inner voice that incessantly whispers something Cherevaty doesn't want to hear.
For some reason, he wants to drown in that uncertainty again, where it's impossible to calculate a single move. There are no rules, logic doesn't work, and it contradicts everything Vlad lives by, but he is drawn back like a magnet, and Cherevaty is impossibly tired of fighting this internal pressure.
This game almost destroyed everything he had built and almost killed him, but somewhere deep down, Vlad still wants to continue. He feels like a sick addict, understanding that this is the very point where he can, and most importantly, muststop, so as not to destroy his life, which has just been reassembled. But every time, he waits for something. A message, a call, an arrogant lateness to class that will throw him back to that edge, where he'll have to balance desperately not to fall.
Cherevaty waits for something that will make his life so vivid and unpredictable again, but realizes he is lying. Because he knows perfectly well that all his feelings can be formulated in one single phrase he is afraid to say to himself.
Cherevaty is waiting for Oleg.
──── ♛ ♙ ♛ ────
The following week, the location of Vlad's training with Maxim changes. Levin chooses an inexpensive pool hall near the faculty and on the very first day realizes that Cherevaty handles a cue much better than he boxes.
They spend the first couple of days getting Vlad to calculate the force of his shots more accurately, and generally just remembering what situations can arise on the table. Maxim sets up the balls in different positions time after time, patiently waits while the guy thinks through each shot, making him talk through his reasoning aloud, and shares tricks he knows himself.
And after this thorough training, with the tournament approaching, Levin stops giving advice and just lets Cherevaty play, to apply everything they talked about in practice. Maxim hopes that Vlad can finally relax and just enjoy every ball pocketed, but he starts to get even more tense.
Less and less time remains until Faculty Day, and Cherevaty knows that the main battle won't be on the green felt at all. And when, on the morning of the holiday, approaching the faculty, Vlad spots the familiar car in the parking lot, he realizes that he is mentally completely unprepared for the meeting he has been waiting for.
"Good morning, Vladislav Vitalievich!"
Cherevaty hears Krasnov's cheerful voice behind him and turns around, freezing immediately in the middle of the hall. His gaze practically bores into those light eyes, and Vlad feels wild adrenaline instantly ignite his veins, pounding at his temples.
"Morning," Vlad forces out, swallowing, trying to make his voice sound calm, but Artem arches an eyebrow anyway, realizing the professor still isn't looking at him.
"Happy Faculty Day, Vladislav Vitalievich," Oleg says, his voice somehow sultry, and he doesn't look away either.
And Cherevaty feels sick from that voice. He hasn't heard it in almost three weeks and seems to have forgotten how this person affects him. His damn patronymic, which Krasnov also said just seconds ago, sounds completely different and instantly stirs up the lewdest of memories in his head, followed by a slideshow of explicit images before his eyes.
Vlad's gaze involuntarily slides down to the other man's lips, and Sheps immediately breaks into a smirk, realizing that absolutely nothing has changed. Oleg is willing to bet anything that he knows what Cherevaty, standing opposite him like an immovable rock, is thinking about right now, because in these seconds, they are clearly sharing the same thoughts.
A cold wall, a soft sofa, and the most ravenous kisses that turn everything inside out. Sheps barely remembers what he felt standing resignedly in his brother's office, but he still feels the phantom heat of that lean body, which burned even through a simple t-shirt. And Vlad doesn't recall the Dean's tone as he delivered the terrible sentence at all, but he flinches barely noticeably when the lewd moan of Oleg arching beneath him echoes distantly somewhere in his ears.
"You and I are opening the tournament today, did you see?" Krasnov's voice suddenly breaks into his brain, and Cherevaty looks at him in fright, like snapping out of a strange spell.
"It will be interesting to see what you're capable of," Vlad answers with a forced smile, but Sheps is sure the phrase is aimed at him.
"I think everyone will show what they're capable of today," Oleg cuts into the conversation, forcing Cherevaty to look him in the eyes again. "See you tonight, Vladislav Vitalievich."
Sheps walks away immediately, taking Artem with him, and Vlad closes his eyelids with a heavy exhale, trying to pull himself together. He wants to be angry—at Oleg, at himself, at everything around him—because inside there is nothing but a desperate desire to turn around right now, catch up to Sheps, and pin him against the nearest wall, right in front of everyone. Cherevaty slowly heads to the staff room and feels like a masochist, because the meeting with Oleg has once again made him torn apart by the most contradictory feelings and waste a huge amount of energy to keep himself in check, but this is exactly what Vlad has been missing all these weeks.
He is still a diligent professor, whom the Dean has already openly praised twice and who is trusted by most of his colleagues. And this diligent professor still gets aroused from a single glance at his student and wants, more than anything, to end up in bed with him, throwing all principles to the wind.
──── ♛ ♙ ♛ ────
The concert in the assembly hall is vibrant, and Cherevaty manages to get distracted from his thoughts about the evening. He even stops feeling out of place when he genuinely laughs along with his colleagues sitting nearby at the talented parodies the comedy teams perform of almost the entire teaching staff. Only the desire to turn around and find one specific student in the hall still buzzes annoyingly inside him, preventing him from fully enjoying the holiday concert.
After all the performances and, surprisingly, a short congratulatory speech from the Dean, the faculty empties in mere minutes. There are only a couple of hours left before the gathering at the club, and everyone heads home to change.
Levin had repeated to Vlad three times yesterday that a formal dress code at the club is not only unwelcome but almost forbidden, because even Basharov sheds his strict suit for this one evening a year. Cherevaty didn't like the idea, but he decided not to go against the Dean's will.
Vlad arrives at the appointed place among the first and, approaching the entrance, immediately notices an unfamiliar but obviously extremely expensive car. A slim man in a stylish suit walks around the hood with a model's gait, opens the passenger door, gallantly offers his hand to a woman, helping her out, and Cherevaty raises his eyebrows, recognizing her as Raidos.
Victoria looks stunning: a long black dress hugging her slender figure, dark hair falling in an elegant wave onto her open shoulders, and unusually high heels, despite which the woman confidently walks to the door on her companion's arm.
"Victoria, you look wonderful!" Vlad can't hold back the compliment.
"Thank you." Raidos stops near him, breaking into a pleasant smile. "Please, meet my husband."
"Alexander," Sheps nods in greeting and extends his hand with the same smile, but it immediately freezes on his face as soon as Cherevaty reciprocates the gesture.
"A pleasure. Vladislav."
Sasha freezes, his eyes darting to Vika, and from her slight nod, he understands he wasn't mistaken in his guess: standing before him is the very same man.
For a second, Vlad feels uncomfortable from the abruptly changed gaze of the blue eyes, but Sheps immediately lets go of his hand.
"Likewise," he replies politely, looking the guy over with interest from head to toe.
A clearly not high-brand, though stylish enough, coat, the most ordinary shoes, an inconspicuous watch peeking out from under his sleeve... Sasha sees nothing special in him, and it's confusing. A simple guy, just like thousands of others in this city. A simple guy, for whom his brother performed an impossible act.
"Darling, we should get going," Raidos gently pulls him from his thoughts, noticing the awkward pause has dragged on a bit. "I'll call you when we're finishing up."
Sheps shifts his instantly warming gaze to her, wishes them both a good evening, and, kissing Vika's hand goodbye, heads back to his car.
──── ♛ ♙ ♛ ────
Vlad passes the empty hall with a huge dance floor, where only staff are scurrying about for now, and enters a fairly spacious room with four pool tables, immediately spotting Levin and Basharov.
"Well, gentlemen," Marat addresses them as Cherevaty approaches, "ready to defend the honor of the professors? I'm not even counting on myself."
He chuckles kindly, waits for a responsive nod from both, and lays a friendly arm on the PE teacher's shoulder:
"Maxim, isn't it time we proceeded to the bar?"
Levin breaks into a satisfied laugh and, throwing a welcoming "Catch up" to Vlad, immediately leaves with the Dean, leaving Cherevaty near a small table standing against the wall, upon which a gleaming cup is displayed.
The prize for which all participants of the tournament will fight today looks simply magnificent: a gilded hand elegantly holds a thin cue, and at its very tip, a red stone in the color of the faculty emblem is visible. Vlad doesn't know how old this traditional competition is, but judging by the trophy's majestic appearance, this event has already become some kind of local cult for everyone.
"It's a traveling trophy." A familiar voice sounds from behind, and Cherevaty flinches, not daring to turn around. "The previous winner changes the name on it every year."
Vlad squints slightly and finally notices the small nameplate attached to the base. An engraving in a script font adorns the elongated plaque: "Oleg Sheps, 2024."
"Did you change the nameplate yourself the last two years?" Vlad finally turns around and swallows nervously because Oleg is standing too close.
"Marat glues it on for me personally," Sheps answers with a proud smirk. "You'll see for yourself today."
"I'll try to break the tradition," Cherevaty smirks, matching his tone.
"Good luck, Vladislav Vitalievich..."
Oleg runs his gaze over him one last time, noting to himself that the black turtleneck and slim, matching jeans look insanely tempting, and walks toward the bar with a striking gait. And Vlad is angry again, but this time because, after a look like that, he wants to go there too, but he definitely isn't going to drink in Sheps's company.
About half an hour later, the room fills up with a huge number of people. Cherevaty even notices Shevchenko and Izosimova settled comfortably at a table in the corner, next to Victoria and Konstantin, who are actively discussing something. Students crowd around the pool tables, where the balls are already set up in neat pyramids, and finally, Vlad follows Levin to one of them.
"Krasnov plays well, but he makes frequent mistakes," Maxim gives him one last piece of advice. "Just be attentive, and the semi-finals are guaranteed."
He pats the guy on the shoulder, supporting him one last time with a friendly smile, and walks away to his own table, where one of the second-years is already waiting for him.
"Vladislav Vitalievich," Artem approaches Cherevaty just before the start, "I hope if I win, it won't affect the upcoming exam?"
He chuckles slightly, but Vlad notices a slight nervousness and smiles back warmly.
"Krasnov, we're not in class. If you have the knowledge, you'll get the grade you deserve." He offers the student his hand, and Artem exhales in relief, returning the gesture.
It seems there are some upsides to this professor's principles after all.
By tradition, the tournament opens with a ceremonial moment: at the far table, in complete silence, Basharov takes the first shot, breaking his and Oleg's pyramid, and to deafening applause, the game begins on all the other tables.
Cherevaty watches Krasnov's every shot attentively, actively calculating options for his next move in his head, and only occasionally gets distracted by the neighboring table, glancing with interest at Getsati's game. Vlad tries not to look toward the opposite end of the room, where Marat, judging by the comments of the students standing around, is already losing to Sheps by a crushing score.
Artem indeed turns out to be a worthy opponent, but as Maxim said, he sometimes makes unfortunate mistakes. Cherevaty is one hundred percent sure they are unintentional because the student gets openly frustrated after each one and, toward the end of the match, takes nervous sips from his glass more and more often.
Vlad is still surprised by this atmosphere, where all boundaries between social roles seem to be erased, but he slowly relaxes, noticing that even Basharov is clinking glasses with Sheps without any embarrassment. Cherevaty hasn't had a drop of alcohol yet, but he feels that sooner or later, he will head to the bar, because after a rather interesting game with Krasnov, he makes it to the semi-finals.
Before a short break, the Dean conducts the draw. Although Vlad's participation in it is only indirect, he still nervously tugs at the collar of his turtleneck, hoping to postpone the main match.
As the reigning champion, Oleg gets to randomly choose his opponent for the semi-finals. Marat stands with his back to him, holding two balls—one maroon and one white—and only he knows which hand, held against the wall, hides the match with Cherevaty, and which holds the match with Levin, who also won his table.
"Left," Sheps says, listening to his intuition, and breaks into a satisfied smirk when Basharov reveals the maroon ball lying on his palm.
Oleg is sure that he and Vlad will meet in the finals now, because Sheps is used to beating Maxim, and Cherevaty—he has no doubt—will do everything to play the decisive match against him.
And Vlad does indeed start the new game with unprecedented excitement: snatching the cup from the self-confident Oleg, and, according to tradition, making him put Cherevaty's name on the trophy after ripping off his own—that's the strongest motivation in this tournament.
In the semi-finals, Vlad goes into maximum focus and makes only one mistake, when Sheps, walking around his table, accidentally brushes his shoulder. They both flinch at the unexpected touch, and Cherevaty doesn't look up, so as not to fall out of the game completely, but his hands still obey him with difficulty, and the force of the shot isn't at all what was needed to sink the ball into the pocket.
Despite his slip-up, Vlad still makes it to the finals and, without waiting for the end of the parallel match, where Levin is desperately fighting to the end, heads to the bar.
"Couldn't hold out?" Maxim chuckles, collapsing onto the neighboring stool next to him about ten minutes later and immediately placing an order with the bartender.
"Did you lose?" Cherevaty answers with a question, taking another sip.
"Hell knows how to beat him..." Levin sighs in annoyance and claps the guy on the shoulder. "Maybe you'll manage."
But Vlad isn't sure. He looks around, scanning the ecstatic crowd of students who are already congratulating Oleg on his future victory, and begins to regret agreeing to participate in this at all.
The responsibility starts to weigh on him, because Basharov, Getsati, and even Izosimova and Shevchenko are looking at him with some kind of hope, not to mention the other professors. It seems to Cherevaty that if he loses now, his reputation will not only not improve after the tournament but will sink to rock bottom. But Vlad has absolutely no desire to let Sheps influence his life in any way again.
"Well then..." Marat's loud voice attracts the attention of everyone present. "It's time to move on to the long-awaited final! Whether the name on the cup changes today now depends only on you."
He looks over both finalists, already standing near one of the central tables, and tries with all his might to remain impartial, although deep down, of course, he desperately hopes for Cherevaty's victory.
"Good luck," Vlad is the first to offer his hand to Oleg, thinking it's pointless to hope for a fair fight.
Before him is the same manipulator with a bright fire in his eyes, who doesn't know how to play by the rules. Or maybe he does, but usually doesn't want to.
"You too," Sheps nods, firmly shaking his hand under the gaze of the interested crowd.
"And I wish luck to both of you! Show us a beautiful game," the Dean concludes his speech triumphantly, adding with a laugh: "Let the battle of the strongest begin!"
He picks up his glass and moves closer to the table where Cherevaty is already taking the first shot, starting the final match.
The game is tense: neither can pull ahead, as they keep tying the score, and Vlad realizes that, most likely, it will all come down to chance.
They circle the table, carefully studying the situation on the felt and looking for the most advantageous shot, but are cautious with every step, so as not to touch each other again. Neither wants to give up, and both Cherevaty and Sheps are sure that even a fleeting touch would throw them both off balance.
"Where did you learn to play like this, Vladislav Vitalievich?" Oleg asks with interest, while Vlad mulls over options for his next shot.
"Messed around in my student days," Cherevaty answers in a calm tone, not taking his focused gaze off the table. "And you?"
"Tried it once in eleventh grade... Failed completely," Sheps recalls, chuckling. "Decided to learn. I don't like losing, as you know."
Vlad shoots a glance at him, latching onto the last phrase, and with a heavy exhale, hits the ball, sinking it cleanly into the pocket. Enthusiastic shouts from the professors and even some students, who, to Cherevaty's surprise, are rooting for him, are heard from behind, but he just straightens up slowly, looking at Oleg with a challenge.
"Me neither," he answers defiantly and takes a step back, allowing Sheps to walk around the table to assess the new picture on the felt.
On his next shot, Vlad makes an unfortunate mistake, and Oleg sinks two in a row, feeling a huge surge of morale, which was almost depleted by the end of the match.
Sheps glances at the shelf on the wall holding the pocketed balls, checking the score, and breaks into a smirk, turning to Cherevaty:
"Last shot."
"Not a fact," the professor parries, narrowing his eyes slightly.
He understands perfectly well that if Oleg sinks this, it's over, and the name on the cup will remain the same for another year. Vlad has no way to influence the outcome, because everything now depends only on Sheps. But an inner voice whispers obnoxiously that he could play dirty, and Cherevaty doesn't even have time to think before he gives in to this feeling.
"You know, Oleg," he says disarmingly, setting his cue aside, "I want to say, you're impressive."
Sheps raises his head, not changing the posture he already chose for the shot, and looks at the professor with interest.
"You've found an interesting hobby, you're developing." Vlad walks to the table and leans his hands on the rail, hovering over the felt directly opposite Oleg, who tries with all his might not to look at how the beautiful muscle definition of Cherevaty's body stands out clearly under the black fabric of the turtleneck in the light of the lamp hanging above. "I'm glad I have students like you. Playing pool is much more productive than just lying on a soft sofa with your hands behind your head, wouldn't you say?"
Cherevaty says this calmly, smirking barely noticeably, never taking his arrogant gaze off Sheps. No one in the room hears anything unusual in his words: the professor is sincerely praising his student, acknowledging his superiority. And only Oleg freezes instantly, gripping the cue in his hand until his knuckles turn white.
His breath hitches immediately from the rush of memories, and Sheps swallows, still staring at Vlad with shock in his eyes. He refuses to believe that after his unambiguous refusal and despite all his principles, Cherevaty is now trying to throw him off balance at the decisive moment like this, embedding their shared, most lewd meaning into his phrase.
And it works. It works infallibly, immediately stirring up almost painful arousal in Oleg. He automatically licks his suddenly dry lips and explodes with anger, because Vlad, noticing this, smirks wider and makes it clear with his eyes: this is what he was aiming for. For the green felt before his eyes to be replaced by a completely different picture; for the fingers resting on the table, holding the ill-fated cue, to tremble slightly; and for Sheps to completely forget what spot he was aiming for, trying to sink the ball he himself had set up so perfectly.
"Take your shot, Oleg," Cherevaty raises his eyebrows playfully and immediately adds: "Or does it bother you... that I'm hovering over you like this?"
Sheps jerks his arm sharply after these words and realizes just from the loud reaction of the crowd that he missed. And he also realizes that he didn't even look at the ball, still staring in astonishment at the impossibly pleased Vlad.
"How could you, Oleg?!" Artem, standing next to him, hisses in annoyance, but Sheps doesn't answer. He looks on resignedly as Cherevaty makes two precise shots in a row and, with a wide smile, hugs Levin, who rushed over to him immediately after the victory.
"Fuck... You blew it!.." Krasnov blurts out, a little louder.
But Oleg doesn't think so. He takes a few deep breaths to fully compose himself and turns to Artem with a smirk, finally understanding what just happened.
"The pool game—yes," he answers slyly. "Relax, Tyomych! It's a holiday today. What difference does it make whose victory we're drinking to? Wait for me at the bar, I'll catch up."
Krasnov shakes his head in disappointment and shuffles toward the bar, genuinely not understanding his friend's inappropriate joy. Sheps, meanwhile, is already heading toward Basharov, who is standing by the cup.
"Well, Sheps... time to finally change the plaque," the Dean is simply beaming with happiness, handing the student one of the pre-prepared nameplates—with Vlad's name.
Oleg smiles, prying up his own plaque—attached to the base with magnets—with a fingernail, and then, biting his lip, lets go, and the new winner's engraving clicks quietly into its rightful place.
"Congratulations, Vladislav Vitalievich," he addresses Cherevaty standing next to him. "You deserved it."
Vlad takes the award from his outstretched hand and raises it high to loud applause. Conflicting feelings battle inside him, but Cherevaty mentally silences his "proper" part, which is screaming that this isn't fair, and genuinely enjoys the admiring glances of his colleagues, remembering how, just a few minutes ago, Angelina sincerely thanked him for the victory.
He achieved what he wanted, and right now, he absolutely doesn't want to think about the method he used to knock Sheps off his usual pedestal. And he doesn't want to reflect on why the loser, Oleg, looks so pleased, either.
──── ♛ ♙ ♛ ────
The celebration smoothly moves to the main part of the club, and about an hour later, Vlad stops paying attention to whether it's a student or a professor clinking glasses with him, congratulating him on Faculty Day. Cherevaty generally likes this atmosphere and the company of Maxim, who spends most of the time with him, just occasionally running off to the Dean's table to have a drink and exchange a few words with Marat.
When Levin gets lost on the dance floor once again, Vlad quietly slips out of the rather stuffy room to the restroom, hoping to cool off a bit. He glances at his watch, surprised to find that it's already past midnight, and thinks that's probably enough for tonight. Even though tomorrow is a day off, Cherevaty planned to go for a walk with Ilya, and it seems he needs to prepare for this meeting mentally, because they haven't seen or spoken to each other since Vlad was reinstated.
He heads for the exit and collides with Oleg, who is just entering the restroom, right by the door. Vlad takes a step to the side to get around him, but Sheps stops him with a hand, and Cherevaty instinctively recoils, feeling the skin under his turtleneck instantly ignite where he was touched.
"I told you I don't like losing," Oleg begins with a smirk.
He actually considers it an extremely lucky coincidence that he ran into Vlad here, and thinks this is the perfect opportunity to confirm that Cherevaty really did break his own word today by restarting their game.
"Well, sorry about that," the professor shrugs nonchalantly, while he himself is already melting from the adrenaline flooding his veins.
He definitely missed moments like this and now looks at Sheps with a burning gaze, impatiently awaiting the next move, which he simultaneously fears and craves like crazy.
"It's kind of rude to leave without a rematch," Oleg purses his lips with feigned disappointment.
"Are you sure you want a rematch?" Vlad smirks slightly and raises an eyebrow, thinking that he definitely won't let Sheps win the next round either, because now he knows exactly where to strike.
"I'm sure. But I don't want a rematch on the table. Although..." Oleg answers calmly, then breaks into a treacherous smirk matching Cherevaty's. "...it could be on a table, if you'd like..."
Vlad chokes on air at the ambiguity of the phrase and how it detonates his imagination, but Sheps leaves no time for fantasies and just takes a step forward, covering Vlad's lips with his own.
Cherevaty kisses him back for literally a second, and then shoves Oleg away forcefully, clinging to the last remnants of common sense. They are in the restroom of a club where almost the entire faculty is partying, and anyone could walk in at any second, including Basharov. Vlad is terrified by these thoughts, but it seems even more terrifying that this is the onlything stopping him.
"What are you doing?" Cherevaty spits out roughly, trying to at least partially vent the emotions tearing him apart inside—whether from what Sheps is daring to do, or from the fact that this is exactly what Vlad wants. "I already told you how it is."
"Well, stop me."
Oleg shrugs and kisses him again, and Cherevaty can't. He just can't stop Sheps, or himself. He slams Oleg into the wall, kisses him deeper, and in that second, becomes convinced once and for all that he has been lying this entire time.
He clung to the adrenaline, the unpredictability, and other charms of their game, trying to convince himself it was about the thrill. But now he admits: he needs this game for only one thing. To eventually smash his lips against those damn ones like this; to feel Sheps turn into a will-less doll in his hands, letting him bruise his wrists again; and to know that they both enjoy this to the point of impossibility, arousing them to the limit in seconds.
Oleg doesn't resist the strong yank with which Vlad mindlessly pulls him into the nearest stall, nor the way the other man's lips immediately dive for his. Sheps doesn't give a damn about anything, because his body is on fire from Cherevaty's every action, and he agrees to anything, just to keep feeling this nuclear explosion inside, which tears him to shreds, turning him from an empty shell into one single raw nerve.
With trembling hands, Vlad unfastens the buttons on the damp shirt one by one and, with a sharp movement, pulls it off one shoulder, immediately leaving a distinct bite on the skin. Oleg's heavy breathing is replaced by a barely audible moan, and he freezes in fear, feeling Cherevaty pull away. The moment in Vlad's apartment flashes in the remnants of his consciousness, and Sheps is genuinely afraid that he will just cut everything short, like last time.
"Shut up," Cherevaty seethes through clenched teeth, looking him in the eye, "or I'll shut you up another way."
Vlad reaches for his lips again, but Oleg pushes him away and breaks into a smirk, his wild gaze locked on the almost black eyes. Cherevaty feels like he can almost hear the wild crack of his own cage, where he hides someone he himself is afraid of. But Sheps slowly sinks to his knees, his hands fumbling for Vlad's belt, and Vlad no longer resists his own palm, which forcefully gathers the other man's hair into a fist, preparing to set the pace.
The sound of a zipper unfastening hits both their ears, and Oleg licks his lips, scorching the thin skin with his hot breath.
"Marat, have you seen Cherevaty?" Levin's drunken voice thunders from outside the stall, and they both freeze, trying to silence their breathing. "He was at the bar, and now he's lost."
"Max," Basharov waves him off funnily, "I don't even remember who I've seen since Kostya brought a new bottle to the table..."
Sheps silently gets to his feet, quickly coming to his senses from the jolt of adrenaline, and notices that Vlad is looking at him with horror, seemingly unable to even move. Oleg's gaze falls on his shirt, and, pursing his lips, he quietly fastens his buttons, realizing there won't be a continuation.
A few more phrases are heard from the restroom, and after a couple of minutes, the Dean, judging by the sounds, leaves, leaving Maxim alone. Sheps shakes his head slightly, trying to smooth his ruffled hair with his hand, then shoots Cherevaty a reassuring look and presses a finger to his own lips, gesturing to beg him not to make a sound.
Vlad swallows nervously and nods automatically, then closes his eyes as Oleg slips out of the stall, closing the door behind him.
"Oh, Professor Levin!" Sheps exclaims cheerfully, quickly checking himself in the mirror and hoping Levin won't ask questions about his swollen lips.
After all, they are in a club. Oleg wouldn't be surprised if the PE teacher managed to get some himself tonight.
"Ah, our former champion," Levin drawls, pleased, turning off the running water. "Listen, maybe you've seen Vladislav Vitalievich?"
"I have," Sheps nods calmly, swallowing the jab about his loss. "He went home."
"Damn..." Maxim sighs in disappointment, his face falling. "And we were having such a good time..."
"Well, I, for one, haven't had a drink with you since the tournament."
Oleg smiles when he recognizes the hint was understood instantly, and follows Levin out of the restroom, tapping his fingernails almost inaudibly on the door of the end stall one last time. Vlad exhales in relief and slides to the floor, trying to process that Sheps just covered for him for the second time.
──── ♛ ♙ ♛ ────
Cherevaty, of course, doesn't return to the club, but he only fully comes to his senses once he's home. Was Vlad scared when he heard the Dean's voice in the restroom? More than ever. Did he regret finding himself in that damned stall with Oleg? Not one bit.
The image of Sheps, obediently on his knees before him, is still seared in his mind, and Cherevaty realizes that for the first time, he isn't angry at Oleg or himself, but at the fact they were interrupted, because he desperately wanted to continue. And still does.
Vlad just doesn't understand where Sheps disappeared to for almost three weeks, if nothing has changed. They are still driving each other just as crazy, despite Cherevaty's refusal and the fact Oleg pretended to accept his position. Vlad suddenly wonders: did their game ever stop at all? Or did Sheps pull off another brilliant manipulation that he fell for so easily?
His drunk brain refuses to form any logical chains, and Cherevaty gives up, pulling his phone from his pocket.
Vladik
Why weren't you at the faculty?
Vlad doesn't lock the screen right away and turns out to be right: the answer doesn't take long.
Oleg Sheps
Reread your message one more time—and you'll get it ;)
It dawns on Cherevaty immediately. He bursts out laughing, flopping onto his side on the sofa, and realizes he was right. The almost familiar anger rises inside again along with the thrill, but for some reason, Vlad doesn't feel bad about it at all.
Oleg Sheps
Good night.
Cherevaty reads the new message and thinks he'd rather see a completely different text. Although, to be completely honest, Vlad doesn't want to be holding a phone right now, but a hot, pliant body one he could do anything with. And of that, Cherevaty became completely convinced today.