no evidence to back this up but shane strikes me as the type of guy who holds a comical amount of stuff in one hand. very give me that ilya. big hands. he is The Holder.
there's a famous mid-action candid of them walking and shane’s unintentionally mean-mugging while in one hand holding his phone, ilya's phone, some sort of paper that's been folded up a million times - there's chapstick clutched between his pointer and middle fingers, a water bottle hanging by the ring from his pinky, hoodie in the crook of his elbow, hockey bag slung over his shoulder. meanwhile his other side is completely free. (eagled eyed viewers will understand that this is the hand he opens doors for ilya with)
i know we probably all know this but to be clear ilya is walking through the door shane is holding open for him carrying absolutely nothing and talking dramatically with his hands in an aggressively slavic manner while shane also carries his bags, his hopes, his dreams, and his entire life
crucial. additionally, shane is very well trained but if someone makes the mistake of trying to take one of Ilya’s Items from his hand he is snapping and biting and biting and-
condo stairway scene gets me every single time bc of the way ilya lingers. the way he takes way too long to tie his shoes & adjust his jeans, the way he stands for a moment even though his cab is definitely there & the way he teases shane as he slowly lowers himself to give the sweetest, most unhurried kiss goodbye.
After school care pulled me aside about my child dropping an f-bomb “without remorse” and I put on my concerned face and nodded a bunch.
Apparently he was building something with a younger kid “who really looks up to him and is just starting to make friends” and said “Hey, you’re really fucking good at this.” which is, in my estimation, really a parenting victory.
Whoever invented the flight attendant call button is a genius.
All Ilya has to do is press the little button above his seat and in a matter of seconds a beautiful man will come stand in front of Ilya and ask what he can do for him. A beautiful man with beautiful freckles and shining brown eyes and biceps that had flexed tantalizingly when he'd helped an older woman with her overhead luggage during boarding. And not Ilya, no. He'll ask what he can do for Mr. Rozanov.
It's honestly almost too much. (Almost.)
The first couple of calls had seemed innocent enough, and the flight attendant ("SHANE," his name tag helpfully provides) had been the picture of customer service as he arrived at Ilya's seat with a pasted-on pleasant smile and confidently strode up and down the aisle to bring him a hot towel, a snack, an extra blanket, and always "if there's anything else I can do, sir, please let me know." Ilya had never appreciated the phrase "hate to see them go, love to watch them leave" more.
By the fifth call in the space of an hour, Shane seems to be getting suspicious. His smile has taken on a wry edge as he approaches Ilya's seat, but Ilya maintains perfect innocence as he asks Shane if he can close his window shade.
Shane stops just short of rolling his eyes. "Mr. Rozanov, I have a feeling you're more than capable of closing a window shade on your own."
Ilya shrugs, eyes wide in put-upon bewilderment. "It's stuck! I cannot budge it."
Shane sighs as he braces one hand on Ilya's armrest leans across him to pull the shade down (easily, of course). Ilya tries not to be too obvious as he breathes Shane in, reveling in having him so close, but Shane must sense it anyway because he freezes as he starts to pull away, looking back at Ilya warily as if he's not quite sure what his game is.
"Ah, my hero," Ilya praises softly. "I knew you could do it."
Ilya watches Shane swallow hard before he straightens up. "Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Rozanov?" he asks, a slight waver in his voice.
"Not right now, thank you, Shane. But I'll let you know next time I need you." Ilya points to the button above his head and winks, smiling at the way it makes Shane flush before he hurries away.
Ilya decides not to press the button for over an hour after that, just to see, and the way it makes Shane slowly grow more and more antsy is simply delicious. Ilya can tell he's itching for Ilya's next call, nervously shifting his eyes over to Ilya as he assists other passengers.
After about forty-five minutes, Ilya is playing a game on his phone when he senses Shane next to him and looks up, where he's nervously biting his lip. "Mr. Rozanov, I just wanted to let you know that we'll be starting beverage service shortly. I'll be busy with the cart for a while, so if there's anything you might need..."
He's so beautifully nervous. He's being so wonderfully good. Ilya rewards him with an honest smile, one that seems to put Shane at ease. "Thank you, Shane. I will be fine."
Shane breathes out, returning Ilya's smile. "Ok, cool. I'll, uh, check on you later, ok?"
"Ok. Thank you."
When Shane comes with the beverage cart, he asks for Shane's number. He's never seen anyone flush more prettily as he writes it down on an airline cocktail napkin and signs it "xx Shane."
i think i was happiest in my fanfic career when i was writing lance as disneyland peter pan annoying keith, and keith as a fright fest demon fucking with lance. peak times.
She's nice and objectively very beautiful, but that's where it ends. His last failed date was at least into baseball - something they could pass the time with after realizing they weren't gonna be A Thing. But tonight...Christ.
They also won’t be A Thing, only it’s obvious in less of a 'haha oh well - anyway did you catch that save in the fifth inning' way and more of a '...........' way, on account of the fact that Shane's blasted through all his prepared talking points, and now has nothing to do but notice all the other elements of the evening that continue to taunt him.
The soup is a weird consistency. The little candle at their table snuffed out fifteen minutes ago, sitting dead beside the clump of lettuce he somehow managed to drop between the bowl and his plate. There's a tiny bit of brussels sprout caught between his lower back molars that's driving him fucking crazy, refusing to be dislodged by each subtle poke of his tongue.
And he thinks, maybe, that he wouldn't care so much about this trainwreck of an evening if he didn’t feel like it’s being broadcast to the rest of the restaurant. Not that people are watching, really. Just one. Just the mean looking security guy who's posted up on the back wall, keeping an eye on the room with an easy, almost bored gaze that somehow keeps landing at Shane's table.
Or...well...less Shane's table, and more just Shane himself.
The restaurant is drenched in dim mood lighting, so he can't be positive it's a look of pity this guy's giving him. But realistically, he's not sure what else it could be. Shane's blowing it, after all. Hard. This whole thing has turned into some sort of lowkey humiliation ritual, each pass of the guy's attention over him causing heat to crawl up the back of his neck.
Whatever. They're about halfway done with their entrees. And he's willing to bet she won't be taking the dessert menu when it comes around, which is fine by him. They’re in the home stretch.
Shane wipes his mouth with the weirdly scratchy cloth napkin. Pokes his tongue at his lower molars as he goes for his glass of wine. Can't help but flick his attention over to the back wall, warmth settling in his belly as he takes in, not for the first time, how that black uniform shirt snugly stretches over a tight chest, sleeves clinging around big biceps. Security guy works out. Obviously. He's a fucking security guy. And he's looking right at Shane again, just close enough to catch how his eyes dip down the front of Shane's dress shirt and then back up.
It's got something fluttering in Shane's chest as he pulls his gaze away, bringing his wine glass right back up before he can set it down again. Right. Okay.
"Are you nearby?"
They’re the first words out of his date's mouth in what feels like twenty minutes, and to be quite fucking honest it throws Shane, his brow pinching in light confusion.
"Sorry?" Such a hot thing to say. He couldn't be nailing this more, could he?
"Your place..." she says again, and there's this insistence in it that finally gets the cobwebbed wheels turning, "is it close?"
Shane blinks.
Schools a quick lift of his eyebrows before they can fly up.
Oh.
She thinks-...
"Uh..." Right, right right. "Yeah, about...half hour maybe?"
So, no.
That doesn't seem to deter her. She simply nods, then goes back to eavesdropping on the date that's going much better at the table behind her.
They’re laughing it up back there. Clinking their glasses. There’s lots to laugh about here too, but it’d be in a pathetic way that he just can’t get himself to concede to yet. So, Shane tops off his date’s glass. Eats his salmon. Shakes off the little flutter of interest that skips from his chest down into his lap as he once again catches eyes with security guy, who seems to be finding this all very entertaining. Doesn’t seem mean at all, actually. The more Shane looks. The more he looks back.
More wine. They’re finishing the bottle. His date thanks him and is, to her credit, being very cool about how the metaphorical candle has clearly snuffed out between them before their meal is even done. Now they just need to get on the same page about metaphorical dessert.
Shane takes a gigantic swig, letting it sit in his mouth for a second before gulping it down - warm, warm, warm in his belly.
She thinks he’s gonna take her home and fuck her.
Maybe he should. To make it up to her.
Except Shane hasn’t been hitting any homeruns on those lately either, has he?
Fuck.
The bottom of his wine glass clatters loudly against the edge of his plate as he sets it down too rough, movements suddenly unsteady. It pulls attention from all around, because of course it does. Everyone look at the idiot who can't hold his alcohol.
What a nightmare. Security guy must be fucking loving this one.
But when he glances over, the wall is empty. No silent, teasing eyes. No intriguing presence. No muscles, thick and sturdy and big enough that Shane could really put up a-
“Be back.”
In a single blink, his date has pulled herself up from the booth and made her way towards the bathroom, already digging into her purse without looking back.
Right. Actually, a break to reset sounds better than any dessert they could offer him here. So, with a little nod to inform their server that he’ll be back too, he gathers himself and steps away from the table.
It's not until the cool October breeze washes over Shane's face that he realizes how warm he was getting.
Probably from the wine.
And the embarrassment.
And the impending doom settling in his guts, another realization not too far behind.
Whatever, he decides, using the privacy to slip a finger into his mouth and finally free his molars of the offensive feeling - thank god. Stupid brussels sprouts. They weren't even cooked right.
It's dark around the back of the restaurant. Nice and quiet too, tucked away from the busy road out front. Shane takes in the moment with a grounding tip of his head toward the moon with his eyes closed. Deep breath. Hold it. Don't think about why all his dates with women have been absolute dogshit. Aaaaand release.
Only when he breathes out, it's not alone.
He breathes out, and it's paired, horrifyingly, with a gentle huff of laughter from further down the building. The smell of fresh cigarette smoke.
Holy shit, he’s not alone.
Shane attempts to settle the startle in his heart, but it's no use when he turns to see the figure leaning up against the brick wall, those familiar eyes now watching him in the cool moonlight.
"Jesus Christ..." It slips out. Just on the end of Shane's breath. And suddenly he could really use another cool breeze for his face.
Because the security guy is as imposing as he was inside, simply trading moody burgundy for darkened brick. But his face is softer up close. Sweeter, somehow. And very, very handsome.
Shane tears his gaze away the second those lips curl into a teasing grin, shaking his head. All that red wine is really doing a number on him.
“When is big day?”
Oh god, his voice is deep.
Shane’s gotta get it together. And yet, it’s impossible to keep from being drawn right back into that grin, even as he seeks clarification. “Big day?”
“Mm, your wedding,” he says, nodding casually back inside without looking away. “Love at first sight, yes?”
It's...
Okay, so he really is an asshole. And what’s that accent? Russian?
Shane hangs his head, but can't hold back the breathy chuckle that falls from him. No use in denying it, he guesses. Especially when he kinda wants to hear this guy talk to him some more. "Really funny stuff, man..."
"Mm."
"Won’t haveta worry about a wedding gift, at least."
"Oh, no? You were doing so well."
Something weirdly giddy flips through Shane's chest as he straightens to throw the security guy a look. Because now that it's just the two of them, he's out here openly fucking with him. And Shane knows that. So why is it making his body light up from head to toe?
It's the wine probably. Sweet red historically gets him acting stupid. Or maybe it's the way the guy holds Shane so comfortably in his attention, as he draws his cigarette up to his lips to take a lazy drag.
Shane swallows. Wets his bottom lip. Pulls his heavy gaze up from the glowing tip to meet those intriguing, sparkling eyes as smoke fills the air between them.
Wow.
"I uh-... I'm usually...better..." he hears himself say. The short noise of curiosity floating on the smoke’s coattails prompts him to clarify. "I like-...you know...have game."
It's not a lie. And yet Shane has somehow never felt more stupid than he does in this moment, the need to clarify to this man that he's not actually a loser suddenly very very important to him.
Which is why his body doesn't know what the fuck to do when it's getting hit by that smile again. That tease. The sweetly shitty headnod he gets as the guy gives him a little "Mm...okay."
Oh god Shane wants... Much more than he wanted when he was sitting across from his literal date. "Alright, fuck you..."
It shouldn't be this easy. He shouldn't be smiling so big with a stranger. Playing so much.
He should go inside. Capitalize on this feeling and use it to turn his date around.
Or he could stay right here, feet planted to the asphalt, acknowledging the wanting tug of his own body.
If he moves right now, it’s not gonna be in the direction of the door.
“What is your name.”
Shane swallows, nostrils flailing with a big breath in. “Shane…?” He watches, with another one of those flutters under his rib cage, as his answer seems to satisfy. And before he can stop himself he hears it - from his own mouth - each word clung with the worst Russian accent possible. “What ees your name?”
Oh god what the fuck. He’s never touching red wine again.
Not even the genuine grin curling across those tempting lips can make up for the embarrassment - the laughter. “Wow. This is your best try?”
“No,” Shane insists over a scowl. And to be honest he doesn’t even know what he’s answering. His best accent? No. His best attempt at flirting? Also no.
Wait a minute. Is he flirting?
“I’m-… I should go back. …inside.” Never mind how something’s kicking and screaming in him at the thought. Never mind how he stays exactly where he stands.
A concept not lost on security guy. Who never did actually give him his name, by the way. “Okay, Shane.”
It’s noticeably kinder than he could be. He’s still teasing, obviously, but he says nothing about his date. No predictions on how the rest of his night will go. He just brings his cigarette up to his lips, pulling in a hit that hollows his cheeks in the dark as he keeps their eye contact.
It’s the first time Shane’s ever craved nicotine.
He needs to go inside bad.
With a huff, he pulls his phone out of his pocket. Half past eight. He has no idea how long he’s been out here. Only that it’s too long when he’s got someone waiting at the table for him. So they can pay. So they can leave. So they can-…
Shane shifts uncomfortably, jaw squaring. And he’s not exactly sure how he lets it slip out, but it does all the same, the question far too genuine for the situation. “How do I tell her I’m not gonna fuck her?”
It’s the setup of a lifetime. The perfect pitch for a grand slam. And yet the man in front of him doesn’t swing.
No. Instead, he keeps Shane in his sights, eyes roaming up and down the blush hopefully hidden by the shadows back here. And then he answers. “Simple. You tell her you are fucking someone else tonight.”
Shane can feel the exact moment his stuttery little heart sinks from his chest to his dick - to his voice, quiet but undeniably curious. “Someone else…?”
Because the atmosphere rushes forward with the guy, adrenaline spiking in his core as his phone is slipped out of his hand.
Shane watches him thumb something in with breaths that won’t fill his lungs. Swallows down whatever’s trying to fight its way out of his mouth right now, before it can shatter the tension and ruin the moment.
And when his phone is being handed back to him, Shane’s heart is fucking pounding, eyes hungrily taking in what’s been left on his screen.
A phone number. And a name.
Ilya.
He shoots his attention back up, but it’s too late. Security guy is making his way to the back door, snuffing out his cigarette on the brick.
Chatter and light and clinking glasses seep into the dark, easy vibe they’ve made themselves back here as he opens the door. A break in the trance. A pop of the bubble.
Shane pulls in a breath again, lungs burning.
And then Ilya tosses him a wink, voice low, “See you soon.”
The door shuts behind him.
Everything grows dark and still again.
And…
Shane blinks, tossing glances to the right and left of him in borderline shock because what the fuck. What just happened to him? That was all real?
There’s a very good chance the brussels sprouts actually killed him and they’re trying to resuscitate his lifeless body in the booth right now, his date long gone. But…
Another gust of October breeze…
Excitement, potent and real in a way he hasn’t felt for a long time now…
A smile works its way across Shane’s lips as he double-checks the number on his screen, and then he pockets his phone, inspired to make his way back inside to-
All movement stops for a moment as he looks down at himself. Or, more specifically, the front of his pants.
Oh.
…wow.
Okay, a few more minutes and then he’ll go back inside.
oh I love Ilya as a dietitian/meal prep person I think he’d be infuriatingly common sense about nutrition and that would drive Shane up the wall because he’s so strict with himself
exactlyyyyy. so in my mind's eye, there's all these reasons shane's simultaneously going through it and more excited than he's ever been with this new staff in his house, right? (it's not because ilya's hot please stop shane has a girlfriend just forget about the fact that it's not really working out and he's slowly realizing he'd much rather spend his nights downstairs talking to ilya than upstairs in bed with his gf stfu! 👊🏻)
anyway, one of the reasons he's so perpetually uneasy and yet drawn into ilya's orbit is he keeps lowkey challenging the diet plan shane's thoroughly gone over with him. like...not in an unsafe way. or a pushy way. he'll just suggest things. using his knowledge as a professional to show shane some different snacks to tide him over between meals that maybe don't 100% fit his self-imposed hockey diet, but are still healthy and much more fun.
of course shane is resistant, but ilya knows what he's doing. and the strawberry chunk bars are technically already made tonight. and this man is an expert, after all. so maybe shane doesn't have to feel guilty about giving it a little try. for ilya. who is leaning over the counter to offer the bar. and before shane knows it he is literally eating this decadent little treat from this very attractive man's hand and he needs to go back upstairs immediately. after, of course, admitting to ilya that yes okay it actually tasted really good and he'll work on the rest of the bars throughout the week, thank you.
he wonders if they'll taste as good without those eyes on the other side of the counter eating him up, though.
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