Work Text:
Shane should have checked the calendar.
On a normal day, he's in the app morning, afternoon, and night, always on the look out for any new interviews or photoshoots that Yuna has added or moved around. But yesterday, he'd been so focused on Ilya's arrival into Montreal that his entire life had been left to the wayside. His performance at practice left much to be desired, but, for once in his life, Shane didn't care. He had other priorities.
Which was also why he drove over to Ilya's hotel as soon as Ilya had given the O.K. Originally Ilya had insisted that he'd come to Shane—"it's your city, for fuck's sake, Hollander"— but he'd been traveling all day, Shane was making the drive, goddammit, Rozanov.
By the time he'd arrived, came three times, and drove home, it was late. He'd passed out as soon as his head hit the pillow.
And, to be fair, he did glance at the calendar this morning. The subject line, at least, which was innocuous enough: BuzzFeed Celeb Interview.
Despite being offline compared to the average person his age, Shane knew that BuzzFeed was targeted more towards younger audiences, more relaxed than a lot of his brand deals. He threw on a plain sweater and sport jacket, packed a Montreal t-shirt in case they wanted him even more casual, and headed out the door.
His cursory scouting, however, did nothing to prepare him for what comes out of the crew member's mouth as she walks him and Ilya through the studio.
"We are so excited you guys are here!" she chirps. "You athletes have such erratic schedules, it's hard to get one much less two of you in the room, so thank you for making the time to join us today. It'll be super fun, I promise—everyone has a blast reacting to thirst tweets."
Shane stops in his tracks and looks up. "Sorry, what?"
The crew member meets his gaze, blinking. "Oh, did you not know that's what we're doing today? It was on the calendar invite…"
"Hollander," Ilya says, also turning to Shane. "What is 'thirst tweet'?"
Fuck my life. Shane scrubs a hand over his face, contemplating how to explain it in the most bare-bones terms. Within seconds, his legs decide on their own accord to keep walking into the jaws of death that are the studio—anything is better than having to explain the concept of a thirst tweet to Ilya Rozanov.
Luckily, the crew member is happy to take over for him. Shane doesn't hear the specifics of what she's saying as he unlocks his phone and clicks into his calender. Yep, sure enough, copy-pasted from Yuna's emails, front and center:
BuzzFeed Celeb would absolutely LOVE the opportunity to do a Thirst Tweet recording with Shane. You can see a couple examples in the playlist on our channel here. If he's interested, we actually have a satellite office in Montreal, so please let us know his availability over the next two months and we can get something on the books.
He simultaneously can't and absolutely can believe that Yuna signed him up for this. Still, he feels the need to confirm some details.
Shane Hollander
< Did you know that Rozanov was going to be here?
Yuna Hollander
> It wasn't in the original plan, but his agent reached out—said they'd like more collaborative opportunities given how well your rookie-day co-interviews/shoots/etc did. Too bad it's right after his father passed, I hope he's feeling better.
> I know he's an asshole, but think about the money!
> I have to go, I'm taking a call from Rolex in 5
> See you tonight for dinner xo
Shane doesn't realize that he's stopped walking to read Yuna's texts until the crew member and Ilya catch up, their voices filtering back into his orbit.
"So it's just reading fan's compliments for us?"
"Put simply, yes," she says. "But let's just say that the fans get … creative."
Shane tunes out of the conversation again in favor of lamenting his cruel, cruel fate. He's going to have to read—aloud—people talking about his ass. Even worse, he's going to have to listen to Ilya read—aloud!—people talking about his own ass. And he needs the world to not figure out from his reactions and facial expressions just how much he knows about said ass. Fuck!
The crew member brings them to a set of vanities, says she has to go check up on some last-minute stuff before the recording starts. "Oh, gosh, I'm so frazzled," she says, shaking her head. "I just realized I forgot to introduce myself—I'm Lily Grove, assistant producer. If you have any questions, I'm your girl!"
Ilya looks up at her from his seat. "Lily," he repeats, lips quirking up. His eyes flick to Shane. "Is good name. One of my favorites."
Shane's fingers ball into fists as he wills his spiked heart rate back to normal levels. Ilya's smirk broadens—so quick that if Shane hadn't been looking, he'd have missed it—before his gaze drifts back to Lily.
"Aww, thank you, Mr. Rozanov," Lily croons, hand cupping her cheek. "Always such a charmer."
As she walks away, they're immediately descended on by stylists—who make Shane ditch his jacket but keep on the sweater—so he can't even tell Ilya that he's an asshole. He hopes his side-eye conveys the sentiment enough, but Ilya is already looking back, mischief twinkling in his eyes.
What an asshole.
Shane feels like he speed-runs the five stages of grief as his make-up artist yaps at him. He'd cover his face with his hands if he could, but she just did such a good job at hiding his acne, he doesn't want to ruin her work like that.
Instead, he stares, unseeing, at his reflection. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Relax, Shane. It's just an interview, Shane. You don't have to take everything so seriously, Shane.
Deep breath in, deep breath out.
Shane's sigh of relief could blow a house down. There are only six slips of paper in the bucket. That means Ilya also has only six, which amounts to twelve tweets total. Significantly less than Shane expected. Can't be more than half an hour of content, max.
Hockey games are literally double (plus breaks) the length. If he can get through hundreds of matches, he can get through this one interview.
They sit down at the table then do a quick introduction—their faces, their names, their roles. Then Lily calls out, "Who'd like to go first?" and Ilya's hand plunges into his bucket. As competitive as Shane normally is, he's okay with Ilya going first today. He'd like to put off what is bound to be the most difficult half hour of his life for as long as possible, please.
"I've never understood why people are so obsessed with the accent. Is just how I talk." Ilya looks at Shane. "Hollander, what do you think?"
Shane takes a beat too long before replying, "Of your accent?"
"Yes."
A rush of unbidden thoughts come to Shane in a maelstrom—the wicked, sharp words that have come off that Slavic tongue since day one. Certainly dirtier than anything that ever came out of Rose's mouth. (Though that also may be because Shane wasn't attracted to her, but he digresses.)
"Can't imagine you without it," Shane answers, controlled, neutral.
Ilya stares at him for a moment. "What accent do you think I'd have if I was from North America?" he eventually asks.
Shane considers this, brow furrowing. His leg bounces up and down under the table. "Hmm. Honestly, Boston is pretty fitting." Unmistakable, gruff, rude.
"What about Texas?" Ilya asks, sitting up straighter in his seat. "How do say, yeehaw?"
The crew gives a chuckle. On a normal day, Shane would have too, but his anxiety keeps him paralyzed. "How'd you learn that one?" he manages.
"A cowgirl whispered it in my ear, last time I was in Texas."
"What were you doing in Texas?" This is a genuine question. They have no reason to go to Texas.
Ilya raises a finger to his lips. "I don't kiss and tell, Hollander."
Shane stares at him, mouth slightly agape. This fucking guy.
Before Shane's indignation can grow, Lily prompts him to read his own tweet. Shane shuffles around his bucket for the slip labeled "#1" before finally grabbing it from the bottom of the bucket.
"What is court?" Ilya asks. "Basketball court?"
"No, a court of law," Shane replies. "They're suing me. For the whiplash I 'gave' them for going from … hot to cute, so rapidly. I think."
Ilya nods. "Ooh. I see. I will take you to big claims court, then."
Shane's heart stops in his chest, hoping against hope that Ilya is not about to call him hot or cute. "For what exactly?"
"For going from plain to boring over every conversation. Countless times, I have fallen asleep at the wheel."
The room laughs at that. This time, Shane manages a nervous grin, but it's fleeting.
I, unfortunately, meet these qualifications, Shane thinks. His eyes drift down to Ilya's lips as he remembers it all—from the sweet kisses they've shared to where that sinful mouth has been. Thinks about how, if they were straight, if they could be together, he could have leaned over and kissed him right now. How everyone would gasp and cheer and when Shane pulled away, he could say, "Yeah, it's pretty nice, isn't it?"
Shane's hands ball into fists under the table. God, only he could yearn like this during a BuzzFeed Celeb Thirst Tweet interview. He's pathetic.
"Religion?" Ilya asks, quizzical. "So you pray? Down on your knees?" His eyes flick to Shane. "A lot easier ways to get into that position for me, I promise."
That teasing gaze pulls Shane out of his spiral, but with the unintended side effect of also pissing him off. Here he is, lamenting the fact that they can never go public, and there Ilya is, flirting with him on camera. It's toeing the line of sabotage.
Shane's jaw clenches, face flushing with anger, and he looks down at the floor.
"You are such prude," Ilya says, elbowing Shane in the side.
Shane elbows him back, harder. "And you're such an asshole."
Ilya looks at him, the mischievous twinkle leaving his eye. He holds his gaze for a moment before turning to Lily. "Ms. Lily, we need five minute break." He's on his feet and grabbing Shane out of his seat before the producer can say a word.
Shane shrugs him off once they're walking. Ilya takes them to a bathroom down the hall, out of sight of everyone else. He shuts and locks the door before saying, "Hollander. Look at me."
Shane's eyes stay glued to the floor, quickly filling with water. A familiar hand grips his jaw, all five fingers pressed gently to his skin as Ilya guides his chin to meet his gaze. "Why are you so tense?"
Shane lets out a breath. Slow and steady, lest the tears slip out. "This is … uncomfortable."
"Why?"
Shane sighs again, not understanding how Ilya doesn't get it. "It just feels … like you're revealing a bit too much about us. On camera."
"Hollander," Ilya's voice takes on a softer tone, his hand sliding down to cup the side of Shane's neck. "Is the point of the video. They're thirst tweets. They're horny. So I react horny back."
"But what if they can tell? That there's … more?"
Ilya's face twists, the gears in his head clearly turning. "What is the phrase … plausible den … denya—"
"Deniability."
"That." His eyes find Shane again. "That is exactly what this is. I think you need to re-frame. Yes, I say nasty thing to you on camera. But, if you play into it, that is exactly what these producers want. And it's also what you want, yes? You like being an asshole to me, too. So everyone wins."
Shane considers this as Ilya's thumb starts stroking along the line of his neck. Is there a world where everyone can win? Not in the way Shane wants. But Ilya is correct in that this is a rare opportunity to be themselves, together, in public. Half an hour to just be. To create a pocket of the world that could be.
Shane just needs to get over himself to let it happen. Plausible deniability. Of course only he and Ilya know the truth.
Shane's shoulders relax with his next exhale. "Okay. Okay, you're right. I will try to … loosen up." His eyes flick up to Ilya's, gaze sincere. "Thank you."
Ilya leans forward, leaving a chaste peck on Shane's lips. Shane presses into the sharp line of his cupid's bow, his heart fluttering—a religious experience, indeed. Ilya pulls away, claps Shane on the shoulder. "Let's go."
Shane wipes his eyes on a paper towel before they leave the bathroom. They head back into the studio, Ilya taking the lead as usual. "We are back," he says, sliding back into his seat.
"Sorry for the trouble," Shane adds, knowing that Ilya certainly won't.
"No, no worries at all," Lily says, chipper as always. "Ready to keep rolling? Shane, it's your turn, number 2."
Shane looks into the camera, an awkward smile on his lips. "I'm going to ignore the implications of that and say, thank you!" He hears a muted laugh from the crew and is secretly quite pleased with himself. He is so capable of being loose and relaxed, thank you.
"You should have seen him when he walked into the studio today with his sports coat," Ilya says. "Very dapper."
"Ooh, Roz's breaking out the fancy words. Who taught you that one?"
"Your mom."
Shane smiles against his will. He lets it stick around.
"Into choking, hm?" Ilya says. "Makes two of us. See you midnight Friday."
Shane's eyebrows lift, head turning to Ilya. He hopes it looks incredulous rather than intrigued. He did not know this information. He will have to ask Ilya more about it later.
Shane looks up from the tweet, nonplussed. "You guys are so creative," he says, glancing back down. "I suppose it is … ample."
"You staring, Hollander?" Ilya chirps.
Shane gives him a look that he hopes the fans read as as if.
"Makes sense, though," Ilya says, "since you have no choice when I am leaving yours in dust and scoring goals for Boston."
Shane snorts out a laugh, playfully shouldering Ilya. "Means you've seen mine plenty, too." A rush of anxiety and adrenaline shoots through him as he says it, a blush rising to his cheeks. He can't believe he said that. He's really happy he got to say that.
"Mm, yes," Ilya agrees, "but it is not as good as mine."
And Shane can't refute that.
"Why are they barking at you?" Ilya asks. "Are they dog?"
"I don't know, honestly." Shane looks up to the crew for answers.
"Barking is, like, a thing in fan culture these days," Lily says. "You make them feel 'feral', so they revert back to their animalistic urges. At k-pop concerts especially, fans will literally bark as a kind of chant."
"Oh." That is certainly not the answer Shane was expecting. "Um, thank you?"
"No, Hollander, you gotta say it in their language. They are feral, they no longer understand English."
Shane turns to Ilya. "Like what? Bow-wow?"
Ilya gestures at the camera. "Not to me, to them."
Shane looks straight ahead, and, as earnestly as he can, says, "Bow-wow."
The whole room erupts into laughter, Ilya included. A renewed warmth fills Shane's veins, sweeping out the last of his nervous energy.
Shane reads the tweet again with his eyes, once again flabbergasted. He knew that people found him attractive—it's how, on top of his stardom, he gets all the brand deals—but that apparently was only the tip of the iceberg. 'Feral', indeed.
"You think Hollander would have all those things dirty at once?" Ilya says. "You've seen his houses, he keeps them clean. Probably does laundry everyday. Favorite hobby? Folding clothes."
Shane rolls his eyes. "Not everyday. Everyone knows Sunday is laundry day."
"Okay, crazy Twitter person, now you know to go to his house on Saturday. You're welcome."
As Shane lets out an indignant huff, Lily calls for a quick break to check some equipment stuff. Ilya leans over to Shane, lips bumping the shell of his ear as he shifts too close. "And you sure have plenty of pillows."
Shane laughs, a blush rising on his cheeks. "Hur, hur, you're hilarious," he whispers. "That room got remodeled, by the way. Less pillows now."
"Hey, if it's funny, say it to the camera!" Lily calls. Shane and Ilya break apart, their smiling lips sealed shut.
[source]
Ilya seems to be parsing the meaning of the text, so Shane says, "You do have very straight teeth. Especially for a hockey player. Did you ever have braces?"
"What are braces?" Ilya asks.
"You know, the wires in your mouth that everyone gets in middle or high school to make their teeth look better?" Shane gestures at his own teeth, drawing lines down each row. "A lot of the times in movies and TV, they have a nerdy character wearing them."
The explanation seems to click with Ilya. "Oh no, I never needed braces, I am not nerd. But that means you certainly had them, yes? As you are biggest nerd I know."
Shane huffs, crossing his arms. He won't lie, but he won't make Ilya's life that easy.
"Oh, no answer is answer enough. I want to see picture."
"Absolutely not," Shane fires back, leaning away.
"Picture, picture, picture," Ilya starts, standing up and facing the crew. Much to Shane's horror, the room starts to join in on the chant. It grows in volume, getting loud as all hell, and Shane immediately decides that folding is better than letting it continue.
"Fine, fine, jeez, you guys have lungs." The room erupts into cheer, which dies down quickly, thank God.
"What hockey fan doesn't?" Lily calls, and Shane supposes that's true.
"I'm going to my parents' tonight and will scan a photo. You can overlay it onto the video."
There's a small chorus of boos, and Shane raises his hands up next to his head. "What? I don't keep fifteen-year-old photos on my phone!"
"Then when will I get to see it?" Ilya asks, and Shane swears to God that he's pouting, just a little.
"With the final video, Roz, just like everyone else. Patience is a virtue."
"And I am not virtuous."
Everyone laughs at that, including—especially—Shane. God, does he know it.
Ilya immediately turns to Shane. "Explain."
Shane actually thinks he knows this one. "You know how Dorito chips are triangles? They're saying that's how you're shaped—big lats and shoulders, small waist." He traces the air in front of him, a long horizontal line over Ilya's shoulders, with a two quick flicks of his wrist for his sides. "Cool Ranch is a Dorito flavor; the most popular, I think." Shane wills himself to not flush any deeper as he forces out, "And I don't think you need me to explain the last part."
"But I do. What hole? There is no hole in Dorito."
The room erupts into laughter, and Shane can feel the blush creeping up his cheeks. Ilya, for once in his life, decides to spare Shane. Instead of goading him into answering, he stands, turns around, and flexes his biceps, thumbs pointing to his back. "Dorito. I like that. Is funny." The room whoops, and Shane's mouth goes dry.
Okay, maybe it was less sparing and more altering the form of torture. Shane swallows, dry, and forces his eyes up from Ilya's waist. His cheeks are Asian-flush levels of red by now, no doubt. He hopes the make-up artist layered on that foundation.
Ilya relaxes and sits back down. "If I am Dorito, what are you? Refrigerator?" He turns to face Shane, palms facing each other and gesturing up and down.
"Hey," Shane says, his tone both affronted and amused. "That's not a chip."
"I don't think they make chips shaped like refrigerator. More like cracker. хлебцы армейские."
Shane gasps before shaking his head. "Don't say that. Bad word in English."
Ilya's eyes squint and his head tilts, like a puppy processing new information. It is disgustingly adorable, and Shane has to turn away, lest he be caught on camera doing something way beyond the limits of their pocket.
"We'll have to cut that," Lily says, "but it was hilarious."
Ilya looks up from the paper, brow furrowed. "Hollander, am I translating this right? Breast as in—" He points towards his chest. Shane lets out a noise that somehow combines disgust with a cry for help.
"What is wrong with you people?" Shane laments, shielding his face from the camera with a palm.
"But you are a man. You don't have breasts." Shane's health is already in the red from the tweet, and Ilya's commentary knocks it to zero. He flops face-first on the table, head in his arms.
"I refuse to engage further with this tweet," Shane says, muffled.
"Boring as always," Ilya remarks. "Lily, could you please explain…?"
"So, yes, you're right that men don't have breasts and can't breastfeed," Lily starts. "But the tweet is basically saying that Shane's pecs are so big, they're like breasts. And this person would like to … have a taste."
Ilya bursts out into laughter, hand slapping on the table. "Oh my god. You are all perverts. Funny, funny perverts."
The table shakes as Shane chuckles against his will.
Ilya claps Shane on the shoulder. "Get up, Hollander. I will not talk about your breasts anymore, I promise."
Shane shakes him off, then elbows him for good measure. "Fuck you. You wouldn't want me talking about your breasts, either."
"Oh, you've noticed?" Ilya leans towards him, arms flexed, chest first. "You want taste?"
Shane gags and shoves him away, palms purposefully pressing into his collarbones instead of his pecs. "Not in a million years," he lies, and Ilya has the gall to wink at him.
"Okay, last tweet," Shane says, focusing on his bucket. He thinks about how, at the beginning, all he wanted was for this to be over. Now, though, his smile is tinged with melancholy as he reaches for the last slip of paper. After the talk with Ilya, and despite his ceaseless mortification, Shane genuinely has been having fun. He doesn't get to have much fun, these days. He tries not to remember that, in the rare moments he does, Ilya is often if not always involved.
Shane reads the tweet with his eyes, then reads it again. He looks up at Lily, mouth agape. "Can I really read this?"
"It's been approved!" Lily replies, smile sweet, gaze sinister.
Shane looks down again at the tweet. He takes it all back. He not only needs this interview to be done, he needs his life to be over. Whatever god is out there, please, please, please take pity on him and smite him out of existence instantly.
With great trepidation, Shane starts, "I need Ilya Rozanov to shove his—" He sees the next words and cringes. "I can't do this, oh my God. There's a line, and this tweet crossed it."
"Come on, Hollander," Ilya says. "Don't be loser. It had my name. I'm curious now."
Shane's face feels like it's on fire. "You know what they say, Rozanov: curiosity kills the cat."
Shane is wondering if Ilya even knows that one when Lily calls out, "You don't have to if it makes you uncomfortable!"
"Then I will read," Ilya says, reaching for the tweet. Shane pulls away, shaking his head.
"No, no, ugh, fine." He doesn't want to read it, but he can't let Ilya make him look like a chicken. He takes in a deep breath, lets it out. "I need Ilya Rozanov to shove that stick—hockey stick emoji—down my throat til it penetrates my esophagussy, pierces my cervix, and cums out of my W.A.P. String of … various emojis."
Now that he's read it, he lets Ilya have the paper, who brings it closer to his face to examine the emojis.
"So many words that I don't understand on this one. Esopha-gussy? W.A.P?"
Shane, unfortunately, does know these. (Thanks for nothing, Rose!) "The first one … is a combination of the words 'esophagus', so like your throat and stuff, and"—he looks up to Lily to confirm that it's okay to say the next word; she gives a thumbs up—"'pussy'. It's a new meme these days, to combine other words with 'pussy', especially if it's got a similar structure slash can be used for the same … function. The second one just stands for 'wet ass pussy.'"
Wow, Shane does not like saying the word pussy. Having to detail everything out for Ilya has made this miserable situation even worse. "Haunted, you guys are haunted," he says, looking at the camera. "Don't put these things on the Internet."
"This sounds very painful," Ilya says, having finally put the pieces of the sentence together. "I would not like to hurt you like that. Hollander, on the other hand, he's much more familiar with my stick. Fought many face offs against each other, no? He could probably take it."
"You're fucking gross, Rozanov," Shane says, voice cracking. His mortification has reached its peak—he can't believe Ilya is talking about Shane sucking his dick on camera. Then again, does Ilya even understand the innuendo he's laying out, or is he just referencing the text of the tweet? Either way, he's a fucking asshole. "If you shove your stick down my throat, I'm shoving the Cup down yours."
"You've already done that twice. But, no fear. Boston will catch up this year." Ilya gives him a smirk, a familiar fire burning behind in his eyes. Shane feels the rush of competition swell in his own veins, finds himself smirking as well. No matter what terms they're on, good or bad, their rivalry has always kept their spark alive.
"In your dreams, Rozanov."
After the filming ends, Lily leads them back to the vanities to collect their belongings. "You guys did amazing! That was a riot; everyone on crew is talking about how fun you both are."
"Ah, thank you," Shane says, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck.
"We enjoyed, too," Ilya adds with a nod.
"We'll send over a draft of the video to your agents once it's done, will probably be in two or three weeks," Lily continues. "They'll have to approve it before we can post it. Before it even goes into editing, though, are there any parts that either of you would like to have excluded? I can't promise anything, but I'll try my best."
"No," Ilya answers, straight to the point as always. He looks to Shane, raises an eyebrow. Shane meets his gaze, considering it. The entire recording felt incriminating, and at the beginning of the day, Shane would have told BuzzFeed to take back their money and throw it all in the trash.
But, off the ice, there are very few memories he has recorded with Ilya. Now that they're on the same page, he wants this video to exist. To watch in his hotel room when Ilya is away, to remind him that Ilya is worth the wait. To watch if either of them gets scared and leaves again, to remind him that they are worth it.
Sometimes the best place to hide is in plain sight.
"No, I'm good."
Jane
< I still can't believe we did that.
< Mostly that YOU did all that.
Lily
> Don't act all innocent, Jane, you enabled me.
Jane
< Being goaded =/= enabling.
Lily
> Either way, you had a good time. 🥰
> Even better time could happen tonight…
Jane
< You're insatiable.
< I have dinner with my parents at 7 p.m.
Lily
> I'll be over at 9:30.
> And, no, I have not forgotten that you owe me braces picture.
Jane
< 🖕
Lily
> 😘