Work Text:
Chanse examines his appearance in the mirror, feeling uncharacteristically odd about his pre-first-date ritual.
He’s doing the same things he usually does: he shaves his face, applies SPF, touches up his eyebrows, and puts on an effortlessly put-together ensemble. His issue is not in the way he looks, really, but in the way he feels.
Chanse isn’t naive. He’s confident, hot, and talented: the full package. He’s been asked out on so many dates. Back when he was working in restaurants and bars around LA, he literally had an entire album on his phone dedicated to photos of receipts left by men (and in some cases, misguided women) with cell numbers, Snapchat handles, and even email addresses scrawled out on the bottom, their contact information usually being accompanied by desperate pleads for messages and calls.
Coworkers were no exception, either, but the potential of workplace drama from an inevitable breakup usually deterred Chanse from pursuing things past mayyyybe a date or two, if that. Usually, he has a script — I think we’re looking for different things; I don’t know if we clicked as well as we do platonically; I feel like you’d get along better with my friend, etc. Perfunctory stuff to make the blow easier.
So, what was it about Shayne that made him break this tried-and-true practice?
Chanse steps back from the mirror to brush invisible dust off his flannel. He still feels a bit groggy since he hasn’t had his customary morning coffee: it would spoil going out later if he got caffeinated now. At the very least, he had decided not to party too hard the previous Friday night, lest he be too out of it for his date.
Truthfully, he’d been planning on hooking up with someone that night, until Shayne had to spoil things by (totally selfishly) asking him out. Whatever. Even if Chanse had stayed over at someone else’s house, he would’ve felt weirdly guilty on the date, even though he doesn’t, like, belong to Shayne or anything. Shit, he never even really considered the possibility of something like this ever happening at Smosh. Anthony is hot, obviously, but in a relationship; Ian’s hot the way a dad is, but he’s his boss; Damien and Spencer were only ever vaguely attractive to him; but Shayne?
Chanse has always kinda harbored a crush on him: he’s jacked as hell, nerdy, emotionally intelligent, cute, and talented. Even though he’s seen the guy spit out food, pull embarrassing stunts, and yell about the sanctity of Mario Party, he’s still never been able to shake the attraction that lingers. Chanse isn’t exactly crying himself to sleep over never being able to fuck Shayne or whatever, but he does admire him from time to time. No shame in that.
God, he wishes he could tell Angela about this.
I mean, it’s not that Chanse is disallowed from telling Angela anything, he’s just not sure if he wants everything to be so public all at once. She’s not exactly the best at keeping secrets, and this is something he does not need people to gossip about. He has friends outside of Smosh, but he doesn’t feel as though they’d understand fully. Oh, a hot guy’s asking you out on a date, your life is soooo hard, Chanse, he can already hear it.
His phone buzzes.
I’m outside your building :)
I’ll be right out thx :)
Before Chanse leaves, he musses up his hair and adjusts his necklace to ensure the clasp is at the back. Perfect.
…
Shayne’s waiting for Chanse, leaning against the hood of his car with his ankles crossed. It’s odd seeing him there, something unfamiliar in a recognized structure. He raises an arm to wave.
“Hey.”
Chanse raises his eyebrows. “Hello. You look nice.” Shayne's in those Doc Martens he always wears, alongside a vintage-looking shirt and cuffed jeans. He looks almost embarrassed as he boyishly clutches his elbows and smiles.
“Thanks. You look good, too. You’re really serving cunt right now,” Shayne says in the whitest, most heterosexual tone he could manage. Chanse laughs, twisting a piece of his hair between his fingers.
He opens the car door for Chanse. “You’re familiar with date etiquette, I see.”
He shrugs, hovering in the doorway. “I want to make a good impression on you.” Chanse is too focused on his intrigue toward the situation to blush at the romanticism of that line. Shayne shuts the door and walks around the perimeter to sit in the driver’s seat, buckling up before he even puts the key in the ignition.
Are they just going to keep acting like this, as though this isn’t surreal? Like it’s normal? The gossip about what happened before Chanse joined Smosh said little about Shayne’s past relationships — he had a girlfriend who broke up with him over half a decade ago, and then what? Has he dated anyone since? Has he sworn off sharing details about his romantic life? What would the other cast members think about this, about them? Chanse had accepted Shayne’s proposal for a date before he’d even considered the logistics of anything; he’d placed his card in the payment terminal without determining if he even had sufficient funds. Where is this going?
“So, where are we going for coffee?” Chanse probes instead.
“I figured we could go to Alfred’s up on Brentwood, if that’s good with you,” Shayne says. “I’ve been giving matcha a try to cut back on caffeine.”
“Can’t relate. I need a bucketload of coffee to keep up with these shoot weeks,” he complains.
They shoot the shit on normal topics, nothing they wouldn’t have talked about at work, as a means to ease into the situation they’re in now, veering off somewhat only to bitch about L.A. drivers and ignorant pedestrians. On first dates, Chanse usually inquires about the other person and answers their questions, but the nature of their pre-existing relationship prevents them from following the script, so to speak.
They pull up to the coffee place shortly, a cute little place with a black exterior and a cozy interior. Chanse holds the door on the way in to repay Shayne for earlier. “Thanks, man,” he says, which is so un-romantic it swivels back around to being weirdly endearing.
Shayne surveys the menu with raised eyebrows. “The Iced Matchaga has mushrooms in it. What the hell?”
“That’s L.A. for you. I’m just gonna get the apparently world-famous vanilla latte.”
Shayne decides on the regular matcha and orders for both of them, adding in a couple of bagels. He pays, too. Bonus! Even if things go horribly wrong, Chanse saved, like, ten bucks. They grab their food from the counter and sit face-to-face at a small window table.
Chanse sips his latte. “It’s pretty good. Very sweet. I’m surprised you’re okay with drinking something green,” he teases, hearkening back to ‘Eat It or Yeet It’.
“Green plus liquid is okay. Green or liquid? No.”
They eat their bagels. Chanse tells him about what he did the night before, searches to remember anecdotes he hadn’t already told him at work. Shayne listens, cutting in with factoids about his own life and weaving in jokes and jabs. He laughs quieter than he does on set, less raucous and more mindful of the public setting. Chanse follows the social norm and keeps his voice to a similar level, but has to actively monitor his volume and is guilty of blurting out “Shayne!” when a particular joke catches him off guard.
Their knees barely graze under the table, a fact Chanse fixates on far more than he would have if it had happened last week, before Shayne’s admission of feelings. I mean, he has been in that man’s arms, for fuck’s sake, yet the brushes they make under the cover of the table feel much more intimate and personal than anything they’d done before on camera.
After their date, Shayne drives them home. Halfway through — in the slowness of the noon traffic — Shayne moves his hand to encompass Chanse’s on the center console, tentative and boyish. Something about about the simplicity of the gesture is greatly endearing. A pop song plays on the radio and they lazily murmur along to the lyrics. Neither of them really know it very well, but it fills the lull in conversation. Eventually, they pull up to Chanse’s apartment.
Shayne puts the car in park and removes his keys from the ignition. “I'll walk you up.” For a second, Chanse wonders if this is some kind of come-on, but it’s literally 12 P.M. and besides, he doesn’t think the guy’s got it in him, particularly considering they haven’t even kissed yet.
“You live in a nice area.”
“Thanks, it’s pretty affordable, especially with a roommate.” They climb the stairs in tandem, shoulders rubbing as they turn the corner. Chanse feels torn: he’s glad the date went well and all, but he can’t help but feel like there’s something strange in their dynamic, something they’re dancing around.
“So, I have to address the elephant in the room,” he says, his desire for answers outweighing his motivation to keep the good energy going. “Why did you ask me out?”
“Why does anyone ask anyone out?” Chanse rolls his eyes playfully and presses his knuckles against Shayne’s.
“Well, yeah, but it’s sort of… I don’t know. Why me?”
“I just like you,” Shayne says simply. “I hadn't thought about dating men before you, but we click really well. Figured I'd ask you out and see where it went.” Chanse nods, follows his ever-logical pattern of thought.
“You didn't freak out, or anything?”
He shrugs. “A bit, more about the logistics of taking things further, but never about being attracted to you. You're confident, you're beautiful, you've always had a certain je ne sais quoi that drew me in.” Something hesitant lines his actions. “Now I feel like I came on too strong. Did I blindside you?”
Chanse's mouth twinges into a smile. “A little bit. But like, wow. Smosh heartthrob Shayne Topp finds me beautiful? My ego feels boosted.”
“Okay, dude,” Shayne huffs through a laugh. They look at each other, faces glowing softly with comfortable embarrassment.
While it was sort of an awkward first date, it was maybe what Chanse needed. It felt oddly teenager to go out for something simple, to knock knees under the table and sing along to radio music and hold hands on the center console. I could get used to this.
“I had fun, Shayne. We should go out again sometime.”
“Definitely.”
In for a penny, in for a pound. Chanse leans forward, resting his hands on the other man’s waist and bridging the distance between them by pressing his mouth against Shayne’s.
He feels him kiss back, warm and encompassing. Shayne’s hands, strong and firm, find their way to Chanse’s shoulders. He sinks into the touch and manipulates his lips skillfully, lingering on the sensation of their colluding embrace.
Even though every part of his body protests, Chanse pulls away, drinking in the disappointed expression on Shayne’s face.
“You’re a tease,” he complains.
“It’s only the first date.” Chanse can’t resist the urge and adds, “How much of a slut do think I am, Topp?”
“I didn’t — I was not trying to imply anything like that!” Shayne predictably sputters clumsy retractions, eliciting laughs from Chanse.
“Relax. I was kidding. But we do need a second date if you want to kiss me like that again.”
Shayne immediately perks up, a stupid smile fixated on his red-tinged face. “I — yeah, that can be arranged.”
“Great.” And, just because Shayne looks so enamored, Chanse gives him one last peck as a goodbye. “I’ll see you around?” He retreats into his apartment before letting Shayne respond verbally, waving goodbye to his flustered face through the open door.
“Yeah. Hopefully for dinner at my place, or something?” He says, trying to be suave. “We could, um, cook something together.”
“Text me the details.”