I do think that Ilya’s favourite movie is Cars but he will lie if someone asks and he’ll say something like fight club or rocky or whatever. but it’s Cars.
After their beautiful summer at the cottage, Shane's gonna come back to pre season training with his clothes smelling a little like cigarettes and Hayden's gonna ask him about it.
He'll have to lie and say he hooked up with a smoker girl. A girl one. Definitely not a boy smoker. A girl.
Hi my name is Elias Marcus Webb-Thorn and I have black hair with purple streaks, in the way that a paper colored on with a purple crayon had purple streaks, and red tips, red like anger and blood which is how I feel when I see preps. I put my middle finger up at them, my disdain expressed by the architecture of my middle finger extending from my clenched fist, clenched in the way my teeth are clenched when I see preps.
They’re going through Yuna and David’s movie collection when Ilya comes across a VHS with ‘Shane - Bell Center 1994’ written on the sleeve and insists they watch it.
Shane isn’t super into the idea. “My parents don’t have a VHS player.”
“Is literally right beside your knee, Hollander.”
“Well, it’s boring! Why do you want to see a dumb recording of me as a kid anyway?”
“Because it’s adorable?” Ilya says incredulously. “And you are adorable?”
“Oh, I forgot we had that!” Yuna exclaims, coming to sit on the couch with her glass of wine. “God, I miss those days. Shane was the cutest timbit.”
Timbit, Ilya mouths to himself, his fingers curling around the tape. This is Shane as a timbit? In all his tiny little hockey gear at the Bell Center? Ilya needs to see it. “Shane.”
Shane looks at him and sighs.
They put the tape in.
Ilya almost dies as the grainy screen resolves itself into an MC and a tiny Shane, dressed in his hockey gear. His helmet is crooked on his head, his stick tap tap tapping against it as he stares at the interviewer, determined. His cheeks are big and round and pink from the cold of the ice, and though Ilya cannot make out his freckles, he knows from pictures that they’re there. The MC crouches down and a packed Bell Center is visible behind them.
“And here we have number 24, Shane Hollander!” The MC says in heavily accented English. “Let’s give him a round of applause. Shane, how are you feeling tonight, are you excited to be here?”
“Um. Yes.”
“And how old are you, Shane?”
Little Shane closes his eyes for a moment, taking a big, deep breath before reciting: “My name is Shane Hollander and I’m a hockey player. I am three years old and I go to Glebe Co-operative Nursery School in Ottawa and my mommy and daddy are Yuna and David. And I’m three.”
The MC laughs a little. “That’s a great introduction, Shane, thank you. Do you have anyone here with you tonight, cheering you on in the audience?”
Shane’s eyes open, but he doesn’t break out into a toothy grin. No, instead, Shane—serious, no-nonsense Shane—nods and leans in to the microphone like he’s giving a post-game interview. “Yes, my mommy and my daddy.”
“And are they big Metros fans?”
“Yes.”
“What about you?”
“Yes, too. They’re gonna go all the way this year. They have all the pieces for a winning team.”
“That’s what we love to hear, Shane, we agree and we love the confidence. Can we expect to see you on the ice someday? Do you want to be a hockey player when you grow up?”
“Yes, I’m a hockey player.”
“Do you want to play for Montreal?”
“Yes.”
“Can we get some encouragement for the team from you, Shane? Maybe a Go Metros Go?”
This, Shane takes extremely seriously. Ilya watches him nod with all the solemnity of a general going to war, and then releases his own tiny, passionate battle cry: “Go Metros Go!”
“Shane Hollander, everyone, let’s give him another round of applause!”
Ilya watches Shane stick out his little hand and the MC laugh a little as he shakes it, before tiny Shane toddles back to his parents on his skates. The mic picks up, Mommy can I skate again nowww? before the tape stops.
Ilya is going to fucking die. He already feels as if his heart is too big for his body, his fingers pressing into his knees to keep from grabbing Shane and doing—something to him. Kissing him or hugging him or fucking. Eating him. Consuming him. Crawling inside of him.
Shane is curled up beside the couch with his hands covering his face in embarrassment and Ilya is sitting less than a meter from him, dying of retroactive cuteness.
“You were so pissed when we told you that your turn to skate was done,” Yuna murmurs fondly. “Full meltdown.”
“Yeah, I remember,” Shane mutters, shaking his head in his hands. “JP made fun of me.”
Yuna scoffs. “JP was copying his parents, because they were pissed that you were better than him. And that we were out of towners but got the interview.” She raises a brow. “And now look: you’re a professional hockey player and JP is probably working at some office back in Trois Rivières and hates his life.”
“Mom, seriously?”
“What?” Yuna asks, getting up and heading towards the kitchen. “His parents were assholes. They made an asshole. I won’t apologize for that.”
Ilya takes the opportunity to crawl closer, slinging an arm around Shane’s back. He presses one kiss, then two, then three to Shane’s cheek. “Shane,” he breathes.
“Mm?”
“You were cutest fucking tiny hockey player in the entire world.”
Ilya feels Shane’s blush against his mouth. He kisses it again. “Fuck off,” Shane mutters, cuddling into him. He turns to press a soft, barely there kind of kiss to the corner of Ilya’s lips, burying his pink, hot face into his neck. “I was too serious. They called me a robot and did that stupid dance at me.”
“Well, they’re idiots. Hockey is serious, so you are serious, and they were probably ugly.”
“Ilya,” Shane laughs. Ilya feels his huffed breath in the juncture of his own neck and grins, thumb moving up to caress the small hairs at his nape.
They’re still too far away.
Ilya shifts, immediately attacking Shane’s face with kisses the minute he becomes visible. Shane laughs, shrieks, says stop even as he pulls Ilya closer, until they’ve toppled over onto the carpet.
Shane pulls back to look him in the eye, chewing his lip. “I think my parents still have some camcorder home videos of me.”
The AI discourse on threads is literally making me feel insane, like what are we even doing here and what is the point of creating for fandom or even being in fandom if all these people want is soulless slop. What is the point. Why bother writing, why bother caring.
Shane posts a selfie where he’s in his glasses and all the responses are just versions of this. He thinks he is being bullied. Ilya understands perfectly what is being conveyed.
The state of the Heated Rivalry fandom on Threads:
Is RPF ethical? Am I allowed to interact with role playing accounts? Is liking a post by Hudson Williams too parasocial? Is this fanfiction morally pure? Is this merch licensed? Is MasterCard a queer ally? Is Heated Rivalry my friend?
~they had a tiny budget to start this, ~the money all went towards the music rights that WRONG it all went to CGI'ing out the cameras & crew from the reflections in hudson's big ol teary sparkly puppydog loving yearning brown eyes
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