It's a muggy summer morning at the cottage, an unseasonable heat wave accentuated by the pre-dawn thunderstorm that has left the air humid and sticky. They've taken their coffee on the deck every morning since they've arrived, though, and Ilya clings to this ritual today, even though its objectively a little miserable. Shane, freshly showered, is already sweating, by the way he's wiping the valley between his lip and chin. Ilya's curls are frizzing, and a mosquito lands on his neck, noticed only too late following the small flick of pain as it feasts on him.
"We can go inside, if you want," Shane says gingerly.
"No," Ilya replies stubbornly. "I like it out here."
The sun is glinting off the surface of the lake. The steady hum of cicadas is a sound Ilya almost feels in his body now, despite only having been here for a week, and it mixes sweetly with the warbling of early morning songbirds. Shane's elbow is pressed against Ilya's in their deck chairs side by side as steam from their coffee curls into the air. They've spent the first hour of every day like this, sometimes in silence, sometimes chatting or laughing about stupid things. A week ago, Ilya had never seen Shane in the morning, and now he gets to look at him in the soft light of daybreak, a priviledge he realizes few other people have probably had. No, Ilya will not give up this morning ceremony merely because it is miserably hot and gross right now.
"You're melting," Shane teases.
Ilya grunts. "Maybe. You should build one of those things..." He gestures vaguely with his hand. "Is like outdoor covering? But open."
"Oh. A pergola," Shane deduces. "That would be nice."
Two days later, David arrives at the cottage early in a truck pulling a flatbed trailer full of pressure treated pine boards. When Ilya steps out onto the deck in his basketball shorts and bare feet, Shane is in the yard setting up sawhorses and balancing a very large, scary looking torture device with a wicked blade on them.
"What is that?" Ilya asks, shading his eyes.
Shane turns and squints. "A miter saw."
Ilya stares at Shane and swallows hard. He's wearing green cargo shorts that stop mid-thigh, exposing the delicious, pale expanse of his strong quads. The shorts are speckled and smeared with dried paint. Slung around his waist is a leather tool belt, the contents of which Ilya cannot even begin to guess, but which appear designed for precision: measuring tape, levels, not one but two types of screwdrivers. There's a pencil tucked behind his ear.
He is wearing a white tee shirt, or what used to be one. The sleeves have been cut off haphazardly, starting close to the frayed collar and extending down to just above his hips, so that Ilya can see wide swathes of summer bronzed skin, masculine tufts of armpit hair, his- fuck, he can even see the faint outline of his nipples. The cut accentuates Shane's beautifully sculpted shoulders and arms, one of Ilya's favorite parts of Shane.
But the part that nearly does Ilya in, that makes his knees go a little weak and trembling, are Shane's shoes. Hes wearing white crew socks that accentuate jis muscular calves. The socks are tucked into a pair of Timberland work boots, camel colored and trimmed in black, tightly laced. The toes are scuffed, and he can see traces of mud sticking to the treads.
Ilya's brain feels fuzzy. He opens his mouth, forcing his sluggish tongue to form words. "We are...building something?"
Shane flushes and smiles sheepishly. "You said a pergola would be nice, so I ordered the supplies. Between the three of us, we can finish it by tomorrow, I think."
So Ilya changes into something more appropriate for manual labor, though if he'd known he'd be doing carpentry, he'd have brought clothes that were less Slavic Fuck Boy.
Shane shows Ilya and David the plans he found online, and they get to work. David surgically removes a few deck boards where the supports will attach to the deck joists, and Shane measures out the posts, flicking the pencil from behind his ear and deftly marking the cuts.
Shane shows Ilya how to operate the saw, where to keep his hands safely, how to squeeze the handle and gently guide the blade down along the pencil markings. Shane makes him wear clear safety glasses. Sawdust flies, and the machine makes a loud screeching noise as it slides through the wood like a knife through butter. Ilya's heart hammers in his chest.
He releases the trigger and slowly raises the saw blade up. Shane runs his finger over the edge of the cut approvingly. Ilya flushes, warmth in his belly and chest and neck.
They work together like this in a rhythm, Shane measuring and marking, Ilya feeding the boards through the saw, until Shane's cut list is finished. When they remove the safety goggles, there are red lines around Shane's eyes and cheeks, and there's sawdust in both of their hair.
When its time to mount the posts, Ilya holds them up, while David secures them to the deck with lag bolts and a large tool he calls an impact driver. David narrates every step; its not showy or condescending, but patient. Ilya imagines Shane as a young boy, helping his dad in the garage and learning the names of these tools, their functions. He wonders what it would have been like to grow up with a father like David Hollander, teaching his son this quiet competency.
They attach the crossbeams to the posts, Shane and Ilya holding the boards steady while David fastens them with metal plates and bolts. Shane is carefully balanced on a ladder and wipes the sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt, exposing the toned washboard of his abdominal muscles, and Ilya's mouth feels dry.
By the time they finish attaching the rafters, the sun is low in the sky, and Ilya's arms feel rubbery from exertion. Shane is packing tools away in his shed when David claps Ilya on the shoulder fondly. "Good work today, kid. This woulda taken me and Shane two days to build by ourselves. The treated wood needs to dry out; that will take a few months, and then we can stain it, but in the meantime, you boys enjoy your new shade."
David says goodnight when Shane returns from the shed. Shane, his beautiful boy; no, his boyfriend, who learned Ilya wanted something and built it with his own hands.
Ilya wraps his arms around Shane's waist and presses his nose to his neck. He smells like sawdust and musk. Ilya starts to sway them gently. A breeze cools the sweat on Ilya’s hairline. He imagines the pergola next summer. Maybe they will string lights from the rafters or grow jasmine on the posts. Maybe on cooler nights they could bring out blankets and fuck slowly to the sound of the lake water lapping against the shore.
Shane wrinkles his nose. "We both need a shower."
"But Hollander," Ilya whines. "I work all day. Want to enjoy this new pergola." He sounds out the word, letting his tongue roll over the unfamiliar syllables. "Besides," he says, pushing Shane down to the deck by his shoulders, then flat on his back. "I think you know what these slutty clothes are doing to me."
"My work clothes?" Shane asks with a laugh. "Thats what does it for you?"
"Mmmm, Mr. Architect. Mr. Builder," Ilya purrs, and there's no longer any sun to need shade from, but Ilya is glad for the shelter as he peels Shane out of his clothes. He leaves the boots on, though.
look i love ilya putting shane in lingerie as much as the next guy but what we must remember is that canon ilya is fantasizing about shane in fucking old man pajamas, which in my opinion is a much better and funnier option. give me ilya buying shane an expensive pajama set and being like "put in on.... for me ;)" and shane just being so confused
I'm probably not qualified to talk about this but I think that once they're on the same team Shane and Ilya should see each other as like, bonded warriors. Athletes in my experience are corny like that. Let them tape each other up and fasten each other's pads and tie each other's skates like they're going into battle. Ilya opens his mouth and Shane puts his mouth guard in. Let them like hype each other up with like "Let's go?" and then "Let's fucking go!" back forth while they shove each other around. And then there's the falling action after the strain of the game (battle). Taking off helmets, feeling each other up for injuries, checking each other's teeth. Applying icy-hot and compression garments. No one else is allowed to do these things for them. No one else is touching Shane Hollander's skates, but Ilya knows exactly how many superstitious knots Shane's wants his tied in. Bonded pair, do not separate.
(yuna hollander on voicemail) hey sweetie its mom. sorry i missed you. though its 8:30 and you should be home by now. anyways give me a call back when you can. theres this guy Drake that just mentioned you in his new song. seems like a pretty big deal, canadian too. just take a listen to it when you get a chance. nothing bad. i actually think it could be quite good for your image. im trying to get in touch with his manager to see if he’ll let you be in the music video. unless youd rather send a cease and desist in which case i’ve got patty on speed dial if thats the route youd rather go. your father says hi. anyways, love you. call me back. bye.
Perhaps my most controversial yet unserious Heated Rivalry opinion is that I'm glad the sex building didn't make the adaptational jump for the show. I know people think it's funny and illustrates Shane's need for control, but.
To me, it's much juicer for that to be Shane's real home, and Shane's real bed. He had so much anxiety about letting things with Ilya advance any more physically, and showing that barrier coming down by having him let Ilya into his home as well... I think it's great. It adds layers to the six months of silence as well—there was a real vulnerability to that whole encounter that Ilya was good about in the moment, but (for very understandable reasons!) kind of trampled over in the aftermath. So even when they reconcile, things are different. Ilya gets to be close to Shane, he gets to come over to Shane's house and they have lots of great montage sex, but Shane's learned that it doesn't mean what he felt like it meant, that the closeness they share can't be vulnerable in that way. Which helps move past things in the moment, but sets up issues for further down the line.
And to underline that, we're left to assume that, in Boston, they only ever hook up at hotels, maybe some crashpad apartment near the rink that Ilya doesn't think of as his home at a stretch. For years, there's been a gap in vulnerability, in how far Shane is allowed into Ilya's life even after gaining entry into Shane's.
Shane can't know about Russia or Ilya's family life, and he can't see inside his home. Ilya comes back to him, but the barriers are all still up. They're just holding hands through the fence, both looking the other way and pretending it's not happening.
So on Tuna Melt Day, Shane is coming over to Ilya's house for the very first time with his badly learned lesson that This Isn't That Deep Don't Worry About It Be Cool Hollander. And Ilya is doing his devastating I want more but I can't ask for more so I'll pretend just for today thing (I am a staunch believer that this wasn't Ilya planning on asking Shane for a real relationship. If he had resolved to give things between them a serious shot, his reservations in Tampa through to Scott's coming out would have been coming from a very different place). To Ilya, having Shane over to see his real house and to share his real bed, even for just the night, is vulnerable and significant too, just like it was for Shane, but he's dead set on pretending to be casual about it. Shane is supposed to be let in, but he isn't supposed to know that he's been let in.
The symmetry there is so delicious. For both of them, there's a pivotal change in their relationship attached to having the other person in their home—the place they spend their real life—for the first time. And it provokes a near relationship-ending crisis both times because it's so scary and its such a big deal.
When they're separated, Ilya longingly watches footage of Shane's most private home. Missing him, fantasizing about the level of closeness that would let them be there together. Feeling like he'll never get to have it. And then Shane invites Ilya to share that truest home for the summer! And Ilya manages to accept, even though it's scary! They go there together! Gorgeous.
Shane would prefer not to be on a bus right now. They're crammed in, two boys to a seat, which doesn't sound so bad, except that these aren't his teammates- they're the top 40 MLH draft prospects for 2009. They're his competition for the foreseeable future. Shane is not great at making friends during the best of times, but hes not about to make small talk with players he could be looking at across the face off in a years time.
When his mom had informed him the draft weekend itinerary involved a group outing to the Griffith Observatory (something about "future stars among the LA stars", ugh), Shane had begged to skip it. He'd rather be in the gym, or sleeping, or watching tape; anywhere except with other people. But Yuna Hollander would not hear of it. "Shane, its a marketing campaign. There'll be social media photos and a press release- the number one pick can't not be there."
He's got the aisle seat, which means every hulking hockey player who passes inevitably jostles him. Shane is irritable; he hates to be touched, unless it's a hard check on the ice. Something bumps his knee, and he looks up, scowling.
The face that looks back is smirking, hazel eyes crinkled in amusement. Its been a year and a half, and his jawline is more pronounced. His nose has a bump in it that wasn't there before, probably from a break; Rozanov is known for talking shit and getting into fights, his mom is always saying. He's taller, too, but still lanky. Like Shane, he has a few pimples.
Shane's stomach lurches, and he assumes the bus is already moving, but they haven't left yet. Rozanov keeps walking toward the very back and takes a seat wordlessly next to some of the Swedish players.
His stomach feels funny for a while, and he attributes it to the winding path the bus takes up the steep hill to the Observatory. They mill out, and the coordinators shepard them around the complex, giving a brief tour of the grounds and explaining the history. Even Shane has to admit its a little cool, the large domed rotunda looking out over downtown LA, Hollywood, and the Pacific Ocean all at once. The sun is setting, all pink and lavender and sepia. It's partly pollution, he knows, but that doesn't make it less beautiful. They pose for photos as a group, encouraged to hold up the sign for number one.
Shane wanders into the eastern dome to see the Zeiss Telescope and puts his eye to the 12 inch lens, which the guide says more people have looked into than any other telescope in the world. He sees crisp views of the lunar craters and dark mottled blotches, which the guide explains are marias, or seas. Shane has never seen such detail of the moon before. Hes always just given it a passing glance, a constant feature of the night sky. But now hes seeing it as a landscape, a world of its own, like the lakeshore at his parents' cottage. Feeling stupid, he realizes just how vast the moon is, itself only a blip in an even wider universe. And Shane, well, he's just a speck, a granule, easily lost among the billions of other souls existing in time and space. He feels small. He feels a sense of loneliness, realizing that in a year he will be living away from his parents, away from his former teammates and routines and everything hes ever known.
He needs some air and heads outside. Its nightfall now, and the draftees are given a 20 minute warning to start heading back to the bus. Shane wanders over to a ledge and leans against it, looking out over a sea of a city, the little strip of skyscrapers visible in the distance. He's vaguely aware of an accrid smell, and when he turns, he sees a lone figure 20 feet away pressing a cigarette between his plush lips.
Without thinking, Shane wanders over to him. "The signs say no smoking." Even to his own ears, he sounds like a petulant tattle tale child.
Rozanov rolls his eyes. "Not this again," he murmurs, tapping the ash on the railing.
They're quiet for a moment, both staring out over the city. "You nervous about the draft?"
Rozanov exhales a plume of smoke. "No." The Russian boy looks at him curiously, eyes flicking back and forth. "You think it will go your way, tomorrow?"
"Yeah." He is the best, after all. Its not hubris; Shane is the most talked about player in North America. His VO2 max score at the combine was the highest of anyone this year. He's going to go first in the draft; he's certain of it. "I've worked hard, and its gonna happen. The number one spot is mine."
"Life can disappoint," Rozanov says, stubbing out his cigarette.
Shane feels a curl of annoyance. Who does this guy think he is? Sure, Rozanov is great too, probably the second best.
"Well. Anyway, good luck to you, Rozanov." Shane wants to shake his hand, but hes already done that. Twice.
Rozanov smiles, and Shane must be hungry, must be tired because he feels a little dizzy. Maybe its the altitude, the desert heat. From this close, Shane can see the texture of Rozanov's skin, the craters and ridges and marias of him, the things you can't see on television or a scouting report. The boy in front of him lifts his pack of cigarettes to Shane, as if making a toast. "To your future," he says with a wink.
One side of the argument says hollanov fucked rough and nasty in the tampa hotel, the other side says it was slow and tender but we don’t have to fight. We can have both. They can fuck twice. I’m so serious. I don’t think they talk much, the first time. Let alone first names. It’s a physical reunion made potent by the unsaid things, fast with just hands and mouths searching for the other. Then they talk, sprawled in bed. Just small talk, catching up. They’ve missed each other so fucking much, and something is different now, a wall torn down. The second time is slower, Ilya putting Shane on his hands and knees like Shane likes but going slow, taking their time. And then they do it a forbidden third time after they’ve showered, both shaking and oversensitive when Shane pulls Ilya back inside him, face to face, and Ilya says something in Shane’s ear so soft and whispery enough that Shane pretends he doesn’t hear it, to spare himself and also to spare Ilya, because it’s enough that Ilya says it at all: Fine, you’re right, Hollander, you win Shane, you fucking win, Shane…
kinda need a hangover-esque au where the raider's 2014 cup win coincides with ilya's 22nd birthday so the team parties in vegas and connors, marleau and ilya wake up in a hotel room they did not book with no memory of last night a baby in the bathroom an exotic bird eating bar peanuts out of ilya's designer jeans and 34 angry omnious texts that ilya can't figure out the context of from shane
Ilya slowly blinks into consciousness. His head is pounding. He sits up, and realizes that he'd fallen asleep on the floor, with a woman's underwear stuck to his right cheek. Ilya peels it off, makes an interested face when he also realizes its sticky, and tries to survey the damage from last night.
The first thought he has is this is not my hotel room.
Connors is already up, fully dressed and anxiously pacing back and forth. He seems to be distressed about something in the bathroom, shouting unintelligibly, English too panicked and incoherent for Ilya to make out what he's saying. Marleau is still facedown, also on the floor, completely naked.
Ilya looks down. Miraculously, he has clothes on. They are not, however, the clothes he started the night in. He's 99% sure he's wearing a woman's crop top. And women's pajama shorts. He's also fairly sure they are bedazzled on the butt.
"Guys! Wake the fuck up!" Connors shouts again.
Ilya starts feeling his way around the floor for his clothes, phone, and wallet. His search gets him to peek up from the suite's coffee table, which brings into view a gorgeous exotic bird, almost as tall as the men in the room, voraciously eating something from Ilya's jeans, which hang suspended on the hotel's chandelier.
To put it bluntly, the room is trashed. Furniture that isn't broken is overturned to its side. Strange stains that smell alcoholic in nature pervade the hotel floor. Women's thongs, bras, and other undergarments scatter themselves all across the room, with their owners nowhere in sight.
Ilya walks up to the exotic bird. The bird stops his eating, turns a yellow, predatory eye in Ilya's direction. Ilya pets the bird once, twice, and then spots his phone hanging out of his back pocket, to his relief. Ilya fishes it out of the air, and finds a charger conveniently strewn to the side. He plugs his phone in. He leaves the bird so it can keep eating at his jeans.
While he waits for his phone to power up, he walks over, nudges Marleau in the ribs. "Wake up," Ilya orders. Marly groans. Ilya nudges him again. "Captain's orders," he says, deadly serious.
Marly, on command, slowly comes to.
"Jesus fuck, what happened last night?" Marly groans. He realizes he's not wearing any clothes, looks at Ilya, then shrugs. He then checks the ceiling, at the chandelier, and the bird stretching its long magnificent neck to feast on Ilya's designer jeans. "Yo, who's bird is that?"
"We can worry about the bird later!" Connors shouts, flying back in from the bathroom. "We are three grown men with a fucking baby that isn't ours in our bathtub! We are going to get arrested if we don't identify who it is right now!"
Ilya and Marly make eye contact with each other, making a face, before joining Connors to head back into the bathroom. Ilya almost trips and falls on an empty Svedka bottle that he kicks to the side with a disgusted sneer.
Three grown men peek over the edge of a bathtub. There is indeed a baby in there.
Well," Ilya says, cheerily. "It has brown eyes, so it cannot be mine."
"Is it like a dog situation?" Marly asks, genuine. "Where they like, come with identification tags?"
"Maybe we should take it to the police," Connors says. "And we leave out the fact that it was here all night surrounded by drugs and booze."
Ilya ignores both of them as he walks back into the suite's common room. His phone blinks to life--10 percent battery. It helpfully reminds him that his flight to Moscow is in 12 hours. Ilya swipes the notification away. He dials Svetlana's number.
She doesn't pick up. He calls again.
"Bluh," Svetlana answers.
"Where are you?" Ilya asks.
Shuffling. "Our hotel room?" Svetlana grumbles. "Where the fuck are you?"
Ilya switches to FaceTime. Svetlana picks up. She looks terrible.
"Look," Ilya orders. He swings his phone around the room. He holds for a couple more seconds on the bird, so Svetlana can get a good look at it. Svetlana hums appreciatively, so Ilya takes her into the bathroom.
"Hey Svetlana," his teammates chime. Svetlana grunts in greeting.
The three of them, plus digital Svetlana, peer over the bathtub.
"Do you guys remember anything from last night?" Ilya asks the room.
"Nothing," Connors says, despondent.
"Nothing," Marly confirms.
"Nothing," Svetlana says, cheerily. "I do know who's baby that is though."
All three of them swing their heads to Ilya's phone. "What?" Connor asks, hopefully.
Svetlana smirks. "Yeah, it's Marly's."
Silence. Then--"Fuck off Svetlana," Marly responds.
"No, I'm being deadass," she says, somber. "Marly married a stripper last night, and that's her baby."
Even more silence. Ilya, Connors, and Marly look at each other, stunned.
"You two shut the fuck up!" Marly orders. "I didn't marry anybody--"
Connors' face is white. "Marly, your hand."
They all look down. There's a cheap, chapel ring on his fourth finger. Ilya starts laughing so hard he almost falls over.
"Svetlana," Marly begs, desperate. With fatherhood on the line he's locked back into life. "Do you remember anything else from last night? Do you know how we got here?"
"Literally no," Svetlana says, already burying her face back into the hotel pillow. "I only remember you getting married because it was so fucking funny. Then, we got back in the limo, I blacked out, the next thing I knew I am back in my hotel room," she waggles her eyebrows. "Seems like you guys had fun without me though."
"Come over," Ilya demands. "Help us solve the mystery of the missing baby. We can get burritos after."
Svetlana laughs, indignant, "Fuck that. You guys are halfway across The Strip from me. You come here."
"We literally cannot leave this room," Connors says, panicked. "Until we absolve ourselves of all guilt for everything that happened here last night."
Ilya sighs, starting to get irritated. "This is not a big deal, okay?" Ilya says, to the room. "I wake up to worse when I party in Moscow. Fix is very simple. We talk to hotel, tell them we do not know where we are, they insist we pay for damage we pay damage and leave and someone comes in to clean everything up. We tell call girl service about Marly's wife and tell them we have her baby, we call police about bird, and I head to airport. Easy peezy, as you say in your country."
"You aren't curious about what happened?" Marly asks. "You don't want to find out how we got here?"
"What is there to find out?" Ilya says, easily. "We have fun fucking night on my birthday and we black out. Is price of doing business."
As he says this Ilya opens his phone, reads through more of his messages.
His heart sinks into his asshole when he sees 1 new message from one Jane.
To start, everything from their text thread has been wiped from his phone. This is horrible news to Ilya, whose nighttime ritual the past six months had been reading all of Hollander's messages, jerking off to the memories of when Hollander let him fuck him, before continuing to not reply to any of his correspondences.
Also, it means he has no explanation for the single text that remains in their conversation.
Jane: goodbye, rozanov.
Ilya hasn't responded to Hollander in over six months. Yet, this singular message is enough to get him type, panicked--
Ilya: lol wtf are you talking about
He hits send. The message doesn't go through. Ilya's heart starts pounding in his ears.
He does something desperate. He calls Hollander.
The call doesn't go through.
Ilya has pissed off enough hook ups to know exactly what this is.
Hollander's blocked him.
The little fucking asshole.
"We must retrace our steps," Ilya announces, out loud to the room. "Starting with pregame bar."
"Yo, are you serious Cap?" Marly asks, hopeful. Connors looks equally relieved that Ilya has decided to take charge of the situation.
"I'm going back to sleep," Svetlana says, definitive, and hangs up.
"Men," Ilya says gravely. He clutches his phone tightly in his hands. He's already brainstorming ways he will try to get back in contact with Hollander. "We need to solve the mystery of what the fuck happened at my 22nd birthday party."
Ilya left with Harris and Troy to get fitted for his best man suit for the upcoming Drover-Barrett wedding hours ago. He'd sent a very sexy selfie from the changing room, linen suit pants hanging loose on his waist, white dress shirt draped over his shoulders and unbuttoned down the chest, stupid lopsided grin with laugh lines and crinkles around his eyes (fuuuuuck, why are Ilya's crows feet doing it for him lately? Definitely not going to unpack that one).
Shane: Fuck. Come home.
Ilya: See something you like? I think it comes in your size
Shane: As long as it comes in me
Ilya: 👀
Shane: Come. Home. Now.
Ilya: Fuck. I promised Troy and Harris I would grab a beer when we're done. I'll let you know when I'm on my way home.
But hours later and still no text from Ilya. Shane doesn't want to be clingy. He knows the Centaurs see him and Ilya as a two-headed, codependent entity (which, honestly, fits in with the whole Centaur thing, wait no, Shane, don't lose the plot here). But he's starting to worry. Every now and then, Ilya will enjoy a beer since starting his SSRI, but never more than one, and he's always been completely fine. But still, Shane's brain is picturing awful scenarios, and he's practically thrumming with anxiety.
So Shane's anxiety wins and he dials Ilya. It rings a few times, and his heart fills with relief at the static crackle and rush of air filling the speaker. "Hello, Lyubimyy," Ilya purrs.
"Fuck, Roz, where the hell are you?"
"In the car, driving home from the bar. I'll be home in about 20 minutes. Just have to make a quick stop on the way."
Shane lets go of a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Okay. But if you're not home by 8, I'll suck my own dick."
There's a muffled gasp, but it doesn't sound like Ilya. He hears a tinny voice in the background. "Can he really do that?" it asks incredulously. Troy. Motherfucker.
He hears Ilya scoffs. "No. Wait. Can you really do that?'
"I bet its the yoga," another voice says. Harris. Fuck.
Shane blinks. His voice goes dangerously quiet. "Ilya," he starts. "Am I on speakerphone?"
"What?" Ilya squawks indignantly. "You are always so worried about me driving and talking, so I use the bluetooth."
"Ohhhhh well in that case," Shane says in a fake cheerful voice. "But you might have mentioned it before I STARTED DESCRIBING SEX ACTS IN FRONT OF OUR FRIENDS!" Shane yells.
"Shane," Ilya whines.
"Don't you 'Shane' me."
Ilya sputters. "I like to be hands free!"
Harris snickers in the background. "Apparently Shane likes to be hands free, too."
"Dude," Troy says. "You think he, like, can bend in half?"
Ilya growls. "Stop picturing it, Barrett!" he yells, presumably into the backseat. "Your fiance is literally next to you."
"Oh it's cool, Harris says Shane is my hallpass. Or, you know, Hollpass."
Ilya sighs. "Shane, we will fight about this later. I need to go kill Troy." And the call disconnects.
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