Chapter Text
Shane never really considered himself to be an "amazing" cook.
He worked on a line in his local restaurant and had experience working in a few others as well. He'd gotten promotions, even tried out being a supervisor. But, really, he boiled that all down to his work ethic.
It didn't take a genius to understand how to be an efficient line cook. In your average eatery, you're given the menu and expected to study the same ingredients and how to put them together in order to have them served appropriately. What he made and how it looked was never up to Shane or anyone else specifically.
He should mention that it wasn't that he hated his job, but he didn't necessarily love it either. It was just the lack of freedom and creativity that went hand in hand with the strict rules of a company's food presentation and its repetitive tastes that bored him more than anything.
What he did love, was cooking at home. Whether it be for himself, for his family, for his friends. Shane enjoyed experimenting with flavors, exploring different meals he'd never even heard of before. To him, it was fun; fun to accomplish, fun to see the reactions of the people he loved trying anything he made. It didn't matter if they liked it or not— he could take the criticism. The best part about it was this: the expressions of their faces after that first bite.
He baked on the side too, but he didn't have a lot of confidence in himself in that area. He still (regrettably) remembers the first time he tried to make macaroons and how terribly awful they turned out. One of his friends, Hayden, took the smallest bite out of it and just straight up frowned, as if he was flat out sad to have bitten into such a monstrosity. To Shane, it was the funniest thing in the world. He practically bent in half, clutching at his stomach because he was laughing so hard that it hurt. All while Hayden had spit out the bite, telling him that he "desperately needs to stick to cooking".
His biggest supporter, if he had to say, would be Rose Landry. There were many times where she tried to brag about him to her own friends and family at annual gatherings Shane followed her along to, and with each one Shane couldn't help but feel sheepish with the way his face would get humiliatingly warm.
"I'm serious!" She'd once exclaimed to her mom, grabbing onto Shane's arm and practically shaking him. "Shane makes these crazy pasta sauces that make my mouth water at just the thought of them. And don't get me started on his home-made ravioli. He makes the pasta himself— it's a whole thing. And it's delicious, one of these days I'm making him do dinner for you and dad—"
She'd only go on, and all Shane could do was try to nudge her repeatedly in an effort to get her to stop. It's overwhelming in a bittersweet way, Rose and her undying love for Shane and his interest. So much so that it makes his words get stuck in his throat and he finds it difficult to speak. Sometimes that happened when he felt larger emotions, good or bad, even though that was something that never really made sense to him. It's another thing about him that just kindof is.
The point was, Shane is confident enough in himself to come up with a home-cooked meal and execute it well enough. But there were still times where he doubted himself. There were times where he wouldn't cook for a week, two, sometimes even three. He wanted so bad to be great at what he did, and he was always sort of like that with everything. When he got discouraged, it seemed to eat him whole.
He had to admit that he was often a sort of perfectionist, in a way. He didn't like to leave room for messiness, not in any aspect of his life. Shane tried to be simple. He liked simple, and routine and structure, trying new things but within a stable boundary.
Shane knew that always played things safe wasn't great for him. But surety most so important, staying comfortable was important. Maybe that was why Shane hadn't quit his job yet. He could come up with a plethora of excuses, but he knew it was because change was never easy for him to confront in the way most other people in his life did. This part of him— the part that liked the little bubble he'd been cooped up in for the past however long it's been now— only holds him back.
But no matter how much Shane wanted to do something about it, he was... well, he was scared.
Rose Landry, Shane's best friend, was one of those people he knew that were, decidedly, not like him.
Shane wakes up on one of his off days, allowing himself to sleep in in for once and rot into his bed. Today, the world is too bleak, too boring for him to find the motivation to move. Nothing's wrong, necessarily, he convinces himself he just needs rest. Of course, there was no better way to do so by scrolling on his phone for upwards of three hours after immediately opening his eyes in the morning.
He deems it a lazy day. He won't lie and say he felt like getting up anytime soon. It's nice not to have plans or any responsibilities for once, sue him.
It's when Shane, scrolling through Twitter after some time, feels his eyes begin to droop again that his screen lights up with an incoming call. He's not surprised to see it's from Rose.
Shane inhales, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to wake himself up. He slides the answer bar at the bottom of his screen and puts the phone to his ear, and regrets it immediately.
"Oh. My. God, Shane!" She practically screams, Shane instantly yanking the phone away from himself with a wince.
"Ow," Shane complains before cautiously returning the phone to his ear, "My ears.”
"Oh my god, sorry, sorry. I— okay, wait— did you just wake up?"
"A few hours ago. I'm still in bed though." Shane replies. "What's up?"
"You bum. It's like 1 pm." Rose jabs, and Shane pulls the phone away from his face again to see if it's true. Unfortunately, she's not totally wrong.
"12:47." Shane corrects her flatly. "It's my day off, alright?"
"Okay, whatever— just shut up and listen." Rose says, her voice is higher than normal and Shane can only read that as excitement. She starts speaking so fast that Shane can barely keep up.
"Ilya. Rozanov." Rose says. "He's going to be in Canada next month hosting some kind of fancy program. You know him, right? The chef?"
Shane sits up so fast that he gets dizzy and has to close his eyes till all the dancing colors in his vision fade. Still, he tries to speak through it.
"Wait, what? Actually?"
"Actually." Rose confirms. "I didn't look a whole lot into it, I'll send you the link. But from what I've gathered it's something you apply for. I guess he's personally training a bunch of people that get selected and want to get into fine dining."
Ilya Rozanov. It doesn't take even a millisecond for name to ring a bell. Nobody took cooking seriously and didn't know the name. Ilya Rozanov, celebrity chef from Russia, who owned five of his own restaurants spanning out across Europe. At just twenty-six years old, his restaurants held seven Michelin stars combined. And those didn't even count the ones he'd acquired outside of them.
It seemed impossible, and yet, it wasn't. Ilya Rozanov was practically a god in cooking and restaurant life across a good chunk of the world. His talent exuded a bold and expansive plethora of cuisine like no other. He simply did not compare to anyone at his level in the scene.
And there was hardly anything public about him that Shane didn't know.
Ilya flaunted his talent naturally, drawing anyone with the eyes that cared to glance his way in to adore him. It didn't help that his personality was utterly charismatic the in media; that he was practically the equivalent of being the Einstein of cooking, and not to mention he was just so, so, incredibly, fucking hot—
"Shane?" He hears, Rose snapping him out of his thoughts. "You didn't pass out on me, did you?"
Jesus, even the thought of the man made Shane's cheeks burn something fierce. Every image of him that Shane currently mustered up from memory was practically tinted in gold. Chef Ilya, all curly, dirty-blonde hair, sharp blue eyes, with his muscular arms and endless tattoos. So, so many tattoos that spanned over his hands, up his arms and into his coat sleeves. He even had a few poking out from his collar, Shane had noticed, years and years ago when he first watched him guest star as a judge on the show “Chopped”.
Shane couldn't help but wonder how far they went— the tattoos— how much of the utterly prominent chef's skin was truly covered, the skin that nobody got to publicly see. Something about it made Shane's hands go shaky, a whole new wave of heat washing over his entire body so strong that he might as well have been sticking his head in an open oven. The more he thought about it, the more Shane thought about him…
Well, let's just say the amount of times Shane had jerked off to paparazzi photos of Ilya Rozanov were between him, his right hand, and nobody else.
"Shane!"
"Sorry— yeah, yeah I'm here." Shane says, trying desperately to collect himself after the thought and putting his phone on speaker. He coughs to clear his throat, the tips of his ears on fire. Thankfully it doesn't take him more than thirty seconds to find a link to the article online. Part of him didn't believe Rose, couldn't believe her. "Hold on, I'm looking right now."
He clicks on the link, taking a deep breath in and subconsciously holding it.
"Renowned Chef Ilya Rozanov Returns to Canada: and He's Here to Stay"
Holy fuck.
Rose goes silent for a moment as Shane skims over the article. He has to fully sit up in bed, suddenly feeling more awake than he thinks he has in weeks.
"The last time Rozanov was in Canada was approximately two years ago when he guest appeared as a judge on Canada's Master Chef TV show. Now, sources say the Russian executive chef returns in July to provide a new experience for cooks and chefs alike; a professional program anyone with experience can apply to, where Rozanov teaches and coaches a unique experience for a chance at winning a hire at a new restaurant he plans to open in Québec City, approximately within the next two years."
And that, well, Shane thinks it sounds absolutely insane. Something arises in his chest that he can't put a name to. All he knows is that his head feels like it's spinning.
The more he reads over the article the more detail he gets, and each word only seems to make his heart beat faster.
There are words like competition and best of the best in the same sentence. "Anyone gets opportunity," It says, quoting Ilya himself, "This has never been done before. The cooking world has needed shake up for long time, and I am here to make it happen."
Holy shit, is all Shane can think, over and over, holy shit.
He keeps reading, and reading. And when he finishes the article, he scrolls back to the top to read it again.
These should all be signs that somewhere deep down inside himself, Shane wants everything to do with this. It had been so long since he had felt fascination— felt true, authentic excitement— that he almost didn't recognize the emotion in himself.
"So," Rose speaks up, demanding, "you're applying. Get on it."
What?
Ironically, Shane hadn't actually thought about that part yet. When he does, he's... hesitant. That's probably the best word he could use to describe the way his stomach seems to go queasy at the thought. The program sounded exhilarating, yes, but Shane sometimes felt that exhilarating things weren't always meant for him.
Huge parties, bar hopping at night, even going to big concerts. It wasn't easy to explain how, with things most people can't wait to experience, Shane just always found himself sitting on the sidelines to watch. He wasn't sure he had the right amount of confidence even thinking about applying for this thing. Besides, it went without saying that the chance of Shane actually being someone chosen was so slim that it basically rivaled the chances of him winning the lottery. The amount of people that were going to apply to this thing would be in the thousands. Rose had to know that, right?
His heart sinks a bit then, and he feels his posture go lazy. Still, for just one moment, Shane let himself dream of a different life he could have for himself: one that involved so much more than working in a dingy mall restaurant with a kitchen so small that if he was working with more than one other person, it was basically guaranteed he'd be getting elbowed and ran into for the duration of his shift.
For one moment, Shane's mind convinced him that maybe, maybe, with the world's most infinitesimal odds, he had a chance at having more skill than he did as the amateur wanna-be he convinced himself he wasn't.
And getting to meeting the Ilya Rozanov? The man that Shane had looked up to since he first even tried out cooking, when he fell deeply in love with it more than he had any girl he'd ever dated?
No way. It was off the table. It comes crashing down on Shane— the fact that this entire thing would be wasted energy chasing another thing that surely just wasn't meant for him. And that was something he needed to accept.
"I don't know, Rose. This is..." Shane trails off for a moment. "This is crazy. I'm a boring line cook, not a chef. I don't even have real training in that field, you know that."
I'll never be chosen, is what he's trying to say. Really, he doesn't have to. Rose, ever since they'd met (since the first time Shane opened up to her), has always had the ability to read Shane like an open book. Of course, this was more of a double edged sword than anything. Even his (generally unusual) monotonous speaking wasn't enough to stop her from finding cracks in his lies. If there's one thing about her— Shane and their relationship— it's that Rose loves nothing more than to dig her fingers into those cracks and force him to open up if she really has to. It’s for the best, Shane figures. Probably.
"You don't need it." Rose argues. "It says anyone can apply. You just give them your background resume or something."
"Why, so I can be disappointed when I don't make it in?" Shane asks her, resting his head back against his bed frame and analyzing his bedroom ceiling. "This isn't a culinary highschool class. This looks— this is serious work."
"You should apply anyway! Shane, you've said before how much you hate your job—"
"No, I haven't." Shane cuts her off.
"Okay, you're miserable at your job. Whatever." Shane goes to cut her off again, but Rose doesn't let him this time. "You don't have to admit it to me if you don't want to. But you've been there for years. You know what you're doing, Shane. You're talented. Like, so talented, and you don't even realize it."
Shane bites at his bottom lip, trying to stop that warm feeling from rising up into his cheeks again even though it's only them talking privately. Learning how to take a compliment is something Shane thinks he'll always struggle with.
"Maybe I'm biased. But it's true." Rose emphasizes. "You need to stop playing devil's advocate with yourself for once. You have potential. All you need is to put yourself out there."
Shane snorts, running a hand through his hair. "You're starting to sound like my mom more and more every day, you know."
"Shane." She says, (also ironically) in quite a scolding tone. That's her serious voice— her I'm not messing around, voice. "If you don't get in, you don't get in. If you think the chances are so low, then what's the harm in doing it?"
There's a beat where Shane doesn't say anything, just letting her words sink in. He supposes when she puts it that way, she's right. This is not an unusual realization. Usually, whatever it is Shane is dealing with, Rose's point of view is usually right. He supposes he should count himself lucky, not everyone has such a stable-minded best friend to rely on.
Even so, he wouldn't be himself without an audible, dramatically long sigh. He loves Rose, really, he doesn't know what he'd do without her. But damn it, if he didn't wish he could just see her point of view sometimes.
The sound is all Rose has to hear for her to get the message. Still, in true Rose fashion, she has to pick on him.
"Don't make me come to Ottowa Shane Hollander. Because I'll do it. I'm not joking." She says, and it sounds more like a threat than a promise.
"Alright, alright—"
"Just— will you just think about it? Please?"
"Okay." Shane agrees finally, and he decides he really will, if only because Rose asked him to. "I'll think about it."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"Good. Thank you." Rose breathes, as if she'd just ran a mile in the ten minutes they'd been on the phone. Shane doesn't blame her. He knows he can be a piece of work sometimes, usually in the annoying way.
"So, how's Calgary treating you?" Shane asks out of curiosity, figuring the conversation was over.
"Ugh, it’s freezing." She complains, making Shane smile. "I have to head to a shoot up north soon for some new profile shots. My agent needs them so I can look into getting some bigger roles, maybe."
Shane can't deny the proud feeling that arises in his chest when he gets to hear about her work, big or small. Genuine, he says, "That's exciting."
"Yeah. What can I say? I want to go places in the world." Shane can basically hear the smile on her own face as she talks. If he closes his eyes long enough he can imagine it, soft and lopsided and so endlessly kind. "I can't be doing commercials forever. I'm getting sick of it, seriously."
Shane chortles. "Why? I kinda like seeing you pretend to be a mom that’s overly excited about using expensive paper towels to clean up after her kids on my TV screen."
Rose groans loudly, which only makes Shane laugh more.
"Leave me alone!" She exclaims, and Shane just can't stop smiling. "I mean, I guess I do look hot in those ones at least. You should've seen the sizes of the push-up bras they were making me try on."
"Yeah, it was real hot." Shane prods, just because he can.
"Okay, shut up." She says, and Shane relents no matter how much he wants to keep going. Really, he just wants to keep talking with her forever, especially considering he hasn't gotten to see her in over a month now since she's been so busy trying to get acting roles. His heart breaks a little, truly, when she says after, "Hey— look, sorry, but I have to go."
"That's okay."
"Text me later?" Rose asks. "And send me a screenshot of the application you send in."
Shane rolls his eyes. So pushy. He hums, hoping that's good enough for her. "Sure, Rose."
"Thank you. Bye, love you Shane!"
The phone is hung up before he even gets to say it himself, but he doesn't mind it too much. He just breathes in, twisting and falling back onto his bed. He should get up, probably, fix his hair, put some clothes on, and the like. Brush his teeth, eat something.
He'll do it soon, he decides. He's too busy now mulling over everything Rose had spoke about and all the information that he now had to soak in. His head was swimming with a cocktail of emotions, and he was having trouble trying to figure out where some started and others ended.
"You need to stop playing devil's advocate with yourself for once", Rose had said, and fuck, if that didn't make something he couldn't put a name to twist up inside his chest. Whatever it was, all Shane knew was it was awful.
"You have potential. All you need is to put yourself out there."
Shane forces himself up, finally getting out of bed. He goes to fish some real clothes out of a dresser when he catches sight of himself in the full body mirror on the inside of one closet door, both of them left open. He isn't sure why, but he pauses, catching his own gaze before slowly looking over himself. His face, his hair, the baggy pajamas covering his build.
He couldn't say he understood what Rose saw in him, what his parents saw in him, what his friends saw in him. So he knew how to cook— lots of people knew how to cook. Shane wasn't that special to any real capacity.
Get it together, Shane thinks. You're supposed to be better than this.
He returns his gaze to his own eyes again, then down to his shirt, his deep brown eyebrows knitting together. It's one that his dad bought him last Christmas and stupidly sardonic in this moment. The shirt is black, and in white lettering says "Eat. Sleep. Cook. Repeat." on it, with a white whisk above the row of words and a spatula below them.
Shane huffs when his brain offers him the image: it's him, but in one of those fancy, white, pristine chef coats. Not the stupid, run down grey ones he has to wear to his current job. No, in his head, they're the type that real, outstanding chefs wear. The kind that are short sleeve— no, the kind that are long sleeve. The ones only chefs that are really admired donned in big kitchens on digital screens.
The fit of it is perfect, of course, not even slightly baggy like the hand-me-down ones he has. One of the top buttons is casually undone, and the sleeves are rolled half way up his arms. For once, in the way he's imagining himself, Shane looks… nice. Put together. Capable. Confident.
Everything he’s not, really.
Suddenly, he pictures tattoos covering his arms. Bold, black, random words or numbers or designs that somehow all fit together perfectly. Some of them have meaning, most of them don't. They remind him of— well... they're not his. They belong to someone else.
Ilya. Ilya Rozanov.
They'd look silly on Shane, definitely. Tattoos like that on him were only made for the imagination. He can't imagine how long Rozanov had to sit getting the sleeve on his entire left arm done. High pain tolerance, probably. He probably slept through it, because he's just that badass.
"Fuck." Shane says to himself, tearing his gaze away and running his hands over his face. The thought of any part of Ilya Rozanov was enough to reel him in and make him completely lose his pervious train of thought. Once his mind was set on something as captivating as a man that beautiful and talented in the same thing Shane cared for so deeply, his entire brain seemed to turn into jelly.
He remembers a particular time when he was 19, watching some show Ilya was on with his parents where the camera was simply showing close-ups of the chef's hands chopping chives, basil— whatever it was. Shane got one clear look of the veins snaking under the man's tan, tattoo’d skin and felt the blood rushing to his dick so fast he immediately got up and left the room, otherwise he knew that would've been it's own show in itself, and not a good one. One he would literally rather die before he let his own parents witness, for god’s sake.
Shane knew that if there was even a slight chance he's going through with this, and somehow he does get chosen to participate, that he absolutely can not be thinking like that. Ever again. Fuck.
Shane doesn't really realize when he starts pacing in circles, thinking, thinking, thinking. He just does it. Now he's losing himself to a plethora of thoughts of the future— his future.
Shane always tried to actively avoid this part of himself, the part that wants more out of his life. He doesn't want to be ungrateful or greedy. He just feels so antsy, recently. Even since he was young, he thinks maybe he's always been that way when he stays in one place longer than he should, and not just physically.
Within one random moment and the next, something unfamiliar— no, something new comes over Shane. He stops, turns around and hastily grabs his phone off the bed before he can think better of it.
Maybe it's time, Shane admits to himself, to stop letting himself decay in his comfort.
To: Rose
Shane:
> [Shane_Hollander_UpdatedResume.pdf]
Rose:
> !!!!!!!!! Did you send it in?????
> Tell me you sent it in!!!!!
Shane:
> I sent it in.