Work Text:
The wooden table in front of him is covered in something the Shane can only describe as a sticky, greasy substance that he immediately decides that he hates. With a grimace, he lifts his eyes and sees this woman talking with his friend. The blond one. His friend, who has blond hair, and is married, and has kids and plays hockey with him.
Oh wait. The woman is his wife.
Right.
Yes, yes, yes.
That makes sense.
Looking around the dark room, all the lights seem a bit blurry at the edges. Do lights have edges? Do edges have lights? Do ledges have rights?
Shane hopes they do.
Shane also hopes he doesn’t fall asleep at the table. Not only because it is sticky and disgusting, but because he has the faint feeling that the wife of his blond friend wouldn’t appreciate it. She was excited about this.
What was this again?
Anyway, she is smiling, so Shane smiles too. He actually feels like smiling. His mind is floating in the middle of the room, and the edges are sticky, and the lights have tables.
No, wait, that wasn’t quite right.
And then a group of men arrive and Shane is sandwiched between two of them, the heat from their skin sipping through their clothes into his arms. He looks to his right – terrible idea, now his brain is swimming in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, and his stomach is aboard a small raft in the middle of a storm in the Atlantic – and sees a dark-haired man with the bluest eyes Shane has ever seen.
No, not the bluest.
Whose were the bluest?
Would they be sticky, like the lights?
Probably.
Next to the man sits a bearded blond who smiles at him, so Shane smiles back. He has the feeling he has seen them before. They were here before. At this table. With his friend, who has four kids, and his wife, and Shane. But maybe “before” had not yet happened. I mean maybe they feel familiar because he has met them “later”.
Shane turns to his left, and thunder breaks through the clouds over the Atlantic, and his brain swims deep somewhere in the Pacific. Could he reach the Indian Ocean, maybe? He would have to swim a bit. He thinks he can do it.
But, oh.
To his left, there is the man with the bluest eyes he has ever seen. Yes. These were the eyes.
And they belong to the hottest man Shane has ever laid his own eyes on. Hot doesn’t quite cut it. Scorching, maybe. Fuck, could Shane die if this man burned him? Are hot people actually scorching hot like the surface of a car that has been left out too long in the sun?
Shit, if so, Shane is willing to get third-degree burns.
What should he say? The man is looking at him with expectation, and Shane hasn’t said anything yet. What should he say? His hair is curly and he thinks maybe as soft as sea foam. What should he say?
“Are we in the Indian Ocean?” The man opens his eyes widely, and Shane laughs. It’s a funny face.
“Ottawa isn't next to the sea, Shane.” Shane knows that.
What should he say?
He wants this man to kiss him.
What should he say?
“Do you want a drink?” He asks.
“I was just at the bar to get one myself.” He looks confused. Shane taps on his forehead, wishing the furrow between his eyebrows to go away.
“But I meant a drink from me.” He explains. “You know, because I am flirting with you.” The man laughs at that. Shane likes his laugh. It’s not mocking, but fond.
“Yeah? Is that how you would flirt with me?” Shane pouts. The stranger’s hand on his back startles him. He suddenly realises he’s half lying on top of this scorching man, and he’s not getting burnt.
Huh.
“It is how I am flirting with you,” Shane says with the smoothest smile he can give. The man laughs, but doesn’t answer. His stomach drops. Oh, no. “Wait, do you have a boyfriend?”
“Shane, I think you’re too drunk.” Shane makes a face, swatting this stranger’s hand off him. “No more drinks for you.”
“You do!” The guy looks at him, confused.
“I do what?” He asks.
“Have a boyfriend!” Shane says, trying to stand up. The raft over the Atlantic has officially toppled, and his ass is back in the chair.
“I’m married, actually,” Shane wants to drown in the closest body of water. Maybe he should get a drink for himself and drown in it. It would be fun to drown in beer. The bubbles would be fun.
“That is so unfair.” And, oh, the horror. He is crying.
Maybe he won’t need that beer. Maybe he can cry enough that he will drown himself in his own tears, the hottest man alive along with him.
“Why are you married?” He sobs. “You’re too beautiful and hot and amazing to be married.” Now the man is laughing, and Shane wants to hit him, but he cannot hit that perfect face. “Can you hit yourself?”
“What?” The man asks, trying not to choke in his laughter. “Shane, oh my god.”
“It’s not funny!” He exclaims. “The Atlantic has edges, the Pacific is sticky, and the hottest man I have ever met is married!”
“Shane, we’re going home.” He shakes his head.
“With your husband?”
“Yes, with my husband.”
The next day, Shane is lying on the bed he shares with Ilya in their home in Ottawa when his phone wakes him up. Looking at his lockscreen, he sees that it is almost noon and mentally thanks his husband for not waking him up sooner. He also sees some messages from the Centaurs’ group chat.