"Move, bitch," Hudson says, kicking Shane's ankle, jarring him painfully out of his wide leg stretch.
Shane shoots a mulish glare up at Hudson from where he's bent over his knee on his yoga mat, holding his cool down pose. "Don't say bitch," he says, chiding, an instinctive reaction to Hudson's insouciance.
"Don't say bitch," Hudson parrots back, his voice pitched high, sliding into that tattle-tale whine that's gotten Shane's hackles up since they were six because he does not sound like that, Hudson!
Hudson says, "Where's your charger?" faintly impatient, like he's annoyed he even has to ask, like Shane should have divined his purpose just by watching him rustle through the drawers of the tall cabinet in the room that their parents' (Yuna) had converted into a gym the year Shane made Juniors.
"Where's your charger?" Shane switches his stretch to his other knee.
"Lost it." The duh in his voice is obvious, so Hudson lets it go unsaid. A remarkable show of restraint. He's grasping around the top shelf now, where Shane keeps his spare water bottles.
"You can't use mine."
"Bitch. Why not?"
"I got a new phone, the charger wouldn't fit."
"Boo. You're so useless."
"You're useless. Who loses a phone charger?"
"People who have lots of places to be. You would know this if you had a social life."
"I literally travel so much more than you-"
"I lit-er-ally travel sOo much more than you."
Shane sits up from his stretch, the tranquil calm he'd found after finishing his cool down routine thoroughly spoiled. "I do not-"
"Ah ha!" Hudson crows, triumphant, crawling out from where he's been rooting around in the bottom shelf of the cupboard, brandishing a charger cord. "Suck my dick."
Shane flops back onto his yoga mat, staring up at the ceiling. Corpse pose. "Congratulations. Now get out."
Shane's first mistake: telling Hudson what to do. He feels Hudson's footsteps approaching, shaking the floor, before he comes to stand by Shane's head, looking down. It's an unflattering angle for him. "What's up your ass today? Aside from the stick, I mean."
Shane rolls his eyes, making a real production out of the movement. "Ha ha."
Hudson's bare foot nudges Shane's shoulder. Gross. Shane swats Hudson's shin, misses. "Seriously though," Hudson says, "why is your bitchness worse than usual?" A shrewd look crosses his face. "Is your boy toy not texting you ba-"
This time when Shane reaches out to slap Hudson's shin, he doesn't miss. The resounding crack of skin-hitting-skin makes Hudson yelp. "Bitch! Fuck you!"
"Fuck you," Shane hisses. He's jolted up from corpse pose, heart thundering. He resists the urge to whip wildly around towards the door, listen out for footsteps. Mom and dad are doing a grocery run, anyway. Still, it's the principle of the thing: "Keep your voice down."
Hudson groans, collapsing on the floor next to Shane's yoga mat, theatrical. "Oh my god, you are such a paranoid little freak. It's exhausting."
"Feel free to leave, then."
"No. I'm concerned for you. There has to be repercussions for being this much of an uptight loser. Like, medically."
"Shut up."
"I'm serious, Shane. I'm thinking about your health here. Your career is going to suffer. And then mom will have to sell you to the pound."
Shane sits up straighter. "Fuck, that reminds me."
"What?"
"I have that contract meeting with those athleisure brand people tomorrow. Fuck."
Hudson sucks his teeth, looks away. He's squinting across the room, head tilting slightly. There's a loose thread on his shorts that he suddenly seems very interested in plucking.
Shane says, "Don't. Please."
"Don't what."
"Pick a fight with her. I'm fine."
The thread on Hudson's shorts snaps. "She said no brand deal shit while you're out for the season. She literally said that two days ago."
"She didn't arrange it this way, the meeting just got pushed back. It's fine, Hudson, seriously. Don't fucking start this shit."
He's fucking exhausted, mom! Hudson had screamed at her once. He needs a fucking break. Is that allowed? Can you pencil that into his fucking schedule? Fuck!
Hudson rolls his neck until something cracks, pushes up off the floor. "Whatever," he sniffs, wrapping the charger cord twice around his wrist. "I'm heading out. Have fun moping about your boyfriend." He stretches out that last word, sing-song, because he's the worst.
"Asshole," Shane calls after Hudson's back as he stomps out the door. Hudson cheerfully flips him the bird over his shoulder, doesn't look back to see Shane return the gesture. Dick.
Shane doesn't know why he told Hudson about Rozanov, immediately calling his cell that first time after the CCM shoot, after the showers, after... after.
He doesn't know why, except for how he does know, kinda. Maybe.
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