Work Text:
It's almost noon when Shane's phone rings beside on him the kitchen counter.
"Hot," Ilya says by way of greeting when he answers.
Shane frowns, tucking his phone between his ear and his shoulder as he begins to plate his lunch. "What?" he asks, confused. "Did you burn yourself or something?"
There's a huff of laughter over the line, and Shane swears he can hear Ilya smirk. "Yes, Hollander," Ilya says, his voice amused. "I burned myself on how attractive you are."
"Uh…I'm even more confused, now," he admits.
"Picture of you in Hockey News. You look very fierce."
"Oh," Shane says. He grabs his phone before it can slip from its uncomfortable, precarious perch and holds it more firmly to his ear. "It's…it's okay, I guess." He hadn't really looked at it, in truth; he assumes the photographers made it look good. He remembers answering all kinds of questions for the article that accompanied it—mostly fluff about his favourite food and his favourite colour and whether or not he'd ever own a pet.
"Is better than okay," Ilya teases. "I might put it on my wall."
Shane rolls his eyes, and then stops what he's doing altogether. "Wait. You haven't been getting yourself off to pictures of me in The Hockey News, have you?"
"Hmm," Ilya says. "No, but thank you for the idea. Is a good one."
Shane groans, half laughing and half serious. "Don't," he says. "That's…weird."
"Oh?" Ilya asks. "You have never touched yourself to pictures of me?"
"No," Shane says helplessly, though—well, there is that spread of Ilya in Sports Illustrated that came out last month, the one where he's staring into the camera with such an obnoxious smirk that Shane had stared at it for a good five minutes before shoving it to the bottom of the stack of magazines in his living room.
It's just that, no matter how high-definition the photos are, none of the magazines that feature Ilya Rozanov manage to capture the way his eyes go heated when he looks at Shane, or the way a brush of his fingers can make Shane feel like he's going into overdrive.
"I'm hurt," Ilya says, though his cheerful voice, still with that smirk in it, says otherwise. "You should send me a better picture to make up for it."
"A better one?"
"Send me one of you right now," Ilya suggests.
"Those were professional photos," Shane argues. "Nothing I send you will be better."
"It will be better because it is from you," Ilya reasons. "Come on. Send me a photo, Hollander. What are you doing right now?"
Shane hesitates, but—there's no reason not, to really. He grabs his plate, pulls his phone away from his ear to snap a selfie as he walks to the table, and hits send before he can decide not to.
"There," he says. "Happy now?"
"Yes," Ilya says immediately. "Sexiest sandwich I ever see."
"Oh, fuck you," Shane says, but he's grinning as he sits down.
"Mhmm," Ilya replies. "I wish. Will have to make do with photo."
"I'm hanging up now," Shane warns, still smiling.
A moment after he sets his phone down on the table, it lights up with a new message. Against his better judgment, Shane takes a peek.
Lily
1 photo attachment
The photo is of Ilya, his eyes crinkling a little at the corners as his lips curl in a smile. He's wearing an old t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders, and Shane can't help the way his heart beat picks up a little.
If he ends up saving the photo—well, Ilya never has to know.