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Shane is halfway through Twitter when he realizes three things at once.
First, Ilya was absolutely right about one thing: this app is dangerously addictive.
Second, someone on the internet has written a twelve‑tweet investigative thesis arguing that Shane Hollander is secretly in love with Ilya Rozanov. Not a passing comment, either. The person who wrote it has included timestamps, screenshots, arrows, and what appears to be a small but deeply committed attempt at gossip journalism. It even have numbered sections and fucking exhibits. Shane is super sure suspects there may eventually be a bibliography.
The third realization arrives slightly later, mostly because the source of the problem is currently stretched across his lap and doing his best to sabotage Shane’s ability to focus. Ilya Rozanov—who seems very sure that Shane’s attention is very very limited and he plans to take all of it before anyone else can.—is draped between Shane’s legs on the couch and growing steadily more offended by the fact that Shane is looking at his phone instead of him.
“Stooooppppppp,” Ilya says his voice is muffled somewhere around Shane’s stomach. It carries the extremely patient tone of a man who has already decided patience is about to expire. "Shane, I'm bored.
“Stop talking, I'm reading” Shane mutters, scrolling faster. “They made a thread.”
“People make threads about everything, sweetheart.”
“This one has exhibits.”
Ilya pauses for a second, then, “I don’t know what that means,” he admits after a moment, sounding slightly sulky. “But it sounds important.”
“It means evidence,” Shane says tightly.
“Evidence of what.”
Shane tilts the phone downward so Ilya can see the screen. “Evidence that I’m secretly in love with you.”
Ilya glances at the screen for approximately half a second. Then he looks back up at Shane with the calm expression of someone who has just been told the sky is blue.
“You are secretly in love with me.”
“That is not—” Shane stops. “That’s not the point.”
“Internet understand,” Ilya says, looking quietly pleased with this development before taking his face back to where it was.
Shane groans and scrubs a hand down his face before scrolling again. “Why is it so long,” he mutters. “Why are there numbered sections.”
“Because you keep reading,” Ilya says, increasingly aggrieved. “Is reading for ten minutes.”
“It’s been two.”
“Is ten. Come on, baby… Shane, solnyshko, sweetheart—please, I am dying,” Ilya says, sounding like waiting ten minutes for Shane is the worst thing that has ever happened to anyone.
“You are a baby,” Shane mutters as he keeps scrolling, even though he knows it’s a mistake. The thread only gets worse, making it impossible for him to stop.
2/
everyone’s like “they hate each other.”
okay. sure. but explain to me why shane hollander can’t stop looking at rozanov like he’s a problem he wants to solve with his mouth.
Shane goes completely still, drawing in a sharp breath as he begins, visibly and deeply offended, “That is—”.
He can’t finish the sentence because Ilya—who has clearly reached the absolute end of his patience with being ignored—buries his face deeper against Shane and slides a hand inside his shorts, giving a slow, complaining squeeze making Shane jerks as an involuntary moan escapes him and his traitorous thumb slams into the screen, a red heart appearing instantly as the world seems to stop and he freezes like someone has just pulled the emergency brake on reality.
“Oh my god,” he whispers.
“What?” Ilya asks.
Shane stares at the phone like it might detonate.
“I liked it.”
“You liked what.”
“The thread,” Shane says faintly. “The thread about me being in love with you.”
Ilya lifts his head.
This time he actually reads the screen.
Then his mouth curves slowly, satisfaction spreading across his face in a way that is frankly alarming.
“You see,” he says. “Evidence.”
“That’s not funny!”
“You press the heart.”
“I did not mean to press the heart!”
“You press heart.”
“Because you—”
Shane abruptly stops speaking and points accusingly at Ilya’s hand, which is still inside his pants. Ilya blinks up at him and says, “You were ignoring me,” as if that explains everything. When Shane looks back at the screen—❤️ Liked by shanehollander ✔️—a strange sound escapes him, sounding disturbingly like a dying kettle. “Oh my god. Oh my god.”
“Relax.”
“People can see that.”
“Yes.”
“Ilya.”
“You panic too much.”
“Ilya there are almost two thousand likes on this thread!”
“So.”
Ilya makes a vague philosophical gesture with one hand.
“So?!”
“Is very happy.”
“That’s not comforting!”
Shane fumbles with the phone and taps the heart again, the like disappearing as he slumps back into the couch with a rush of relief, convinced he has narrowly avoided a public disaster.
“Okay,” Shane breathes. “Okay. Fixed. Nobody saw that.”
Ilya tilts his head slightly. “You know,” he says gently, “people already get notification.”
Shane goes quiet, draws in a slow breath, and says through clenched teeth, “Not helping, Ilya.”
Across the room, his phone buzzes—then buzzes again, and again, and again—forcing Shane to turn his head toward the nightstand where it’s lighting up like a distress beacon.
“Oh my god,” he says faintly.
“I think they are excited,” Ilya says.
Shane presses both hands over his face. “My career is over.”
“Maybe little dramatic.”
“They’re going to analyze it.”
“Yes.”
“They’re going to write another thread.”
“Probably several.”
“They’re going to zoom in on it.”
“Yes.”
Shane groans into his hands while Ilya watches in silence for a moment before tilting his head. “These people,” he says thoughtfully. “The ones who believe things about us.....boats? boating?”
Shane drags his hands down his face. “Shippers.”
“Ah.... is already convinced.”
“Yes.”
“Then like is okay, only they think is not an accident.”
“That’s not how the internet works!”
Ilya shifts up the couch until he’s leaning comfortably against Shane’s chest and, before Shane can protest, gently reaches for the phone in Shane’s hands.
“Give,” he says.
“I need to see what people are saying.”
“No.”
“Ilya—”
“You are having a panic attack.”
“I am not—” he starts, but when Ilya raises a pointed eyebrow, Shane cuts himself off and sighs. “Maybe little bit, but I want read.”
Shane tries to grab the phone back, but Ilya leans away easily and presses a quick kiss just under Shane’s jaw, and Shane immediately melts against the couch, going soft and helpless in that unfair, gooey way he always does when Ilya kisses him.
“You are fine,” he murmurs. “Internet people are mad. Is okay, no one will believe them.”
Shane goes quite, thinking, then after a moment, nods. “They’re going to make another thread.”
“They will make ten.”
Shane groans once more, full of drama and annoyance, while Ilya absentmindedly pats his chest as he reads. Shane feels deeply offended, thinking he is being treated like a very large, overly anxious dog that needs calming. “It’s fine,” he says.
“My phone is still buzzing.”
“Yes.”
“That’s bad.”
Ilya thinks about this for a moment, then his mouth curves slightly.
“Or,” he says thoughtfully, “very funny.”
Shane drops his head back against the couch. “I hate the internet.”
Ilya grins against his shoulder. “Should stop when I tell you next time.”
Shane snorts, tipping his head toward him with a tired glare. “Fuck you, Rozanov.”