Chapter Text
Shane Hollander is in hell.
Well.
Not really.
Shane Hollander is in a kissing booth, which might as well be hell.
That is, until Ilya Rozanov shows up.
Shane’s been told many times that it is his duty as the captain of the hockey team to take part in the charity events and, look, he had absolutely no problem with the concept of a fundraiser (in fact, he was usually the first one to volunteer whenever they did charity events) it was just how this specific fundraiser was being conducted that bothered him.
Could they not have had a bakesale? A raffle? Hell, he would’ve taken a pie to the face over being stuck in this small, stuffy booth while people lined up and paid money — good money — to kiss him.
What a fucking nightmare.
Luckily, most of the people who had shown up had chosen the cheapest option, a kiss on the cheek, which he was grateful for. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do if he’d have to spend hours making out with random strangers in public. The mere thought of it made him shudder.
At least, that’s what he’d thought until Ilya Rozanov had shown up, smiling widely with a couple of bills in his hand.
As captain of the hockey team Shane was obviously fairly well known around the campus but he tended to keep to himself in social situations. When he wasn’t on the ice he was either stuck at a table he’d deemed his in a secluded corner of the library, chilling in his room or hanging out with Hayden, JJ or Rose. He rarely attended parties unless he was obligated, he’d never dated anyone openly (or at all, really) and he had always had the stereotypical hockey player mentality of make yourself as uninteresting as possible, the team should be the focus, which meant mostly people knew his name, his face and his hockey. That’s all.
Which was more than fine with Shane but it did mean a lot of people found it extra interesting to approach him for a kiss on the cheek or maybe something more. The rest of the team had already done their time in the booth and they’d all been popular. The kissing booth was truly a good idea and a big hit, Shane could admit that. But even Hayden and JJ, who Shane knew were considered hot and eligible bachelors (thank you, Rose, for that piece of gossip) at school had nothing on the line Shane had had to deal with.
Honestly, if he wasn’t so embarrassed he’d maybe be a bit proud. As it were, his embarrassment won out over any gloating he might have been feeling at the sight of the queue to the booth.
Still, Shane would take the entire line from start to finish again over having to deal with Ilya Rozanov waving bills in his face.
See. The thing about Ilya Rozanov is that he is hot. Incredibly hot.
It’s not the first time he has thought of Rozanov as attractive. Usually, Rozanov is acting like the stupid frat boy that he is though and by the sheer power of opening his mouth he usually renders his own hotness null to Shane.
Or maybe not null. Null indicates indifference. What Shane Hollander feels whenever Ilya Rozanov talks to him is more akin to annoyance or, in a few instances, even hatred. At least he assumes it is hatred because it has always felt stronger than annoyance or irritation. It has caused his skin to redden, his palms to itch with the need to slap the stupid grin off of his face, his heart to speed up out of anger.
What Shane felt for Ilya Rozanov was definitely not null.
“Rozanov,” Shane says, frowning. “What are you doing?”
He already suspects he knows what Rozanov is doing but he is hoping against hope that he is wrong. He is hoping against hope that Ilya Rozanov isn’t actually this stupid.
Rozanov grins at him, waving the money around as if he’s in a strip club and not at a charity event for providing low income families with hockey gear.
“I am here out of the goodness of my heart, Hollander. Can you not tell?”
Turns out Ilya Rozanov is in fact this stupid.
“Sure,” Shane says flatly. “Because you’re just so known for being a kindhearted individual who cares about charity.”
There’s a twinkle of something in Rozanov’s eye for a second but before Shane can identify what it might be it’s already gone, overtaken by that teasing smile.
“You wound me, Hollander. Here I was, ready to spend all of my hard-earned money—”
“Your daddy’s money—”
“ —and instead of getting kisses I am getting insulted. Maybe I should just spend the money on someone who appreciates me more. I am sure Troy would appreciate me and my money—”
“No,” Shane interrupts him quickly. He tries not to think about why he’s falling for Ilya’s very obvious bait. Why he’s replied so quickly. Why the idea of Ilya Rozanov kissing Troy might bother him.
Besides. Troy’s already done his time in this godforsaken booth.
It’s just because he needs the money, Shane tells himself. Nothing else. Because it’s for charity. It’s not at all because the thought of watching Rozanov make out with Barrett disgusts him in a way that makes bile rise up in his throat and his stomach turn. Definitely not because of that.
Ilya raises an eyebrow.
“No?” he replies.
He’s fanning the bills in his hand in front of his face absentmindedly, more interested in Shane’s reply than the money itself.
Shane swallows.
“No. I’m the last one. Troy’s already done the booth.”
“Ah,” Ilya replies, grinning as he moves the money away from his face. “Well, then. I guess I will just have to settle for you.”
Shane bites his lip. Does his best to pretend he can’t feel his cheeks heating up at those words. At the images those words put in his head, however unwanted they might be.
“Fine. Five dollars for a kiss on the cheek, seven for a peck on the mouth, ten for a one minute kiss.”
Ilya holds out a bunch of bills.
“Ten,” he says. “Just for you.”
Shane sighs.
“Really?”
Ilya nods.
“Really.”
Shane looks down at the bills being handed to him, refusing to meet Ilya’s eyes as he asks his next question.
“Why?”
Ilya seems confused by this.
“Why what?” he says, eyebrows meeting in the middle as he looks down on Shane.
“Why are you doing this?”
A small smile pulls at Ilya Rozanov’s mouth.
“Because I want to. Besides, it is for charity, no?”
Shane watches him helplessly through his lashes, heart hammering hard. He’s so fucking angry at Ilya for doing this. Fuck.
“Fine. For charity,” he spits out eventually.
He stands up to lean out of the booth at the same time Ilya Rozanov leans down to reach him and before he knows it they’re kissing.
Everything goes quiet.
Ilya’s hand slides up to hold his face, caress his cheek and Shane’s own hands fly up to his hair, tangling in the golden curls that rest upon Ilya Rozanov’s head.
It’s nice, is Shane’s initial reaction. It’s more than nice. It’s only a closed mouth kiss, barely anything at all and only a minute long at that but Shane feels it all over. Feels it down to his bones. Has to suppress the shiver that runs through him as Ilya Rozanov’s thumb brushes against his cheek, his jaw, his pulse point.
They keep kissing and distantly Shane thinks this must be more than a minute and not-so-distantly Shane thinks I still want more. But then Shane hears a whistling sound from behind Ilya and it immediately causes them to rip apart. Shane’s ass hits the seat so hard he’s afraid it’s gonna bruise in his haste to get back into the booth.
His lips tingle. He swears his heart does the same.
They stare at each other for a second too long and Shane witnesses Ilya’s blushing. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen the man blush. He doesn’t have time to reflect on it though because there’s another whistling sound from Ilya’s left.
“Whoo!” Cliff Marlow shouts. “Good stuff! But we’ve been here forever now, Roz. Can we go? You got your kiss.”
Ilya’s head whips around towards his friend.
“Fuck off, Marly.”
Cliff holds his hands up in front of him, as if ready to defend himself from Ilya’s ire. Shane can’t focus too hard on that right now though. He’s too busy overanalysing Cliff’s words.
How long had Ilya been waiting for? And why would he wait so long for a stupid prank?
“Um,” he says eventually, collecting himself. He clears his throat. “That will be ten,” he says and reaches for the money. He refuses to meet Ilya’s gaze, focusing instead on putting the money in the metal tin where they’d collected all payments.
“Hollander—”
“Thank you for contributing to the cause. Please make way for the next customer. There’s a line.”
He looks up at Ilya from his seat, hoping that he’s managed to school his face into somewhat of a professional look.
Something flashes in Ilya’s eyes again. This time Shane recognises what it is. Frustration. Determination. Ilya’s jaw ticks as he nods and gets out of line.
“Marly,” he says. “I need to borrow a hundred bucks.”
Cliff laughs as the two of them start walking away. Shane rolls his eyes. Of course Ilya Rozanov would turn this into a joke. Of course he would. Shane was stupid for thinking anything else.
He takes a deep breath and blinks. He’s not sure why but for half a second he swears his eyes feel stingy. Which is ridiculous. It must be allergies. He turns back to the line and pastes on one of his hockey captain smiles.
Only three more hours of this, he tells himself. Only three more hours.
An hour later Shane is feeling less like a person and more like a puppet. Every move he makes, every word he says feels fake and repetitive, as if he were one of those wound-up dolls with pre-recorded messages. His body moves on autopilot as he loses himself in the motions. His mind is somewhere else entirely.
He thinks of the game he’s playing in a few days. He thinks of the essay that’s due in two weeks in his history class. He thinks about what movie he and Rose might watch during their next movie night. He definitely does not think about Ilya Rozanov and his stupid, soft lips or his stupid, gentle hands or his stupid, soft curls.
He definitely doesn’t think about that.
But then, as if Shane’s manifested him by definitely not thinking about him, Ilya Rozanov is at the front of the line again.
That look of determination seems to have spread, his entire body charged with an energy Shane can’t help but admire. He slams a roll of money so ridiculously thick in front of Shane that Shane can’t help but gape at him.
“How much time until the booth closes?” he says, heated.
Shane isn’t sure he understands what’s going on.
In fact, Shane feels like he might be dreaming. Because that was the only explanation he could think of for this very, very odd turn of events.
“Uh. Two hours?”
Ilya nods at the pile in front of him.
“That’s 1500. 1200 for two hours plus tip.”
Shane balks.
“What?” he says.
1200 dollars? Just for Shane to kiss him?
That was insane, even for Ilya Rozanov.
“You heard me, Hollander. I am paying customer. I give you 1200 dollars for two hours of kissing. Nobody else in line needs to stay. It's a good deal, no?”
Shane’s traitorous heart immediately thinks yes. Yes, it’s a great deal. Take it. But Shane knows better.
“What are you doing, Rozanov? Is this some kind of prank? A joke? It’s kind of sick and twisted of you to use a charity event for one of your stupid frat things.”
“What?!” Ilya splutters, blinking down at him. He looks bewildered.
Shane can relate.
Ilya takes Shane in and Shane does his best to not squirm under his gaze. It’s hard though. His gaze is heavy. Searching. Shane’s not sure what it’s trying to find.
“Hollander. Shane. You are so stupid. I want to kiss you. No joke. No prank. Just me and you, yes? It was nice, last time. Was it not?”
Shane nods reluctantly.
Ilya slides the fat wad of cash towards him again.
“So say yes.”
Shane swallows. He looks up at Ilya Rozanov in all his glory. The sun is behind him, slowly setting. It paints him golden, a halo glowing around his curls. He’s beautiful, Shane thinks not for the first time. What would be the harm in getting money for charity and getting to kiss Ilya Rozanov some more? Plus, he wouldn’t have to deal with any more strangers.
Really, it’s the best outcome for any of this, Shane thinks.
What else is he to do but slowly take the money, stand up and tell the crowd that the booth is closed for the day and drag Ilya closer?
Fuck, he thinks as he leans in closer. Maybe this kissing booth thing isn’t such a bad idea, after all.