Work Text:
Hayden doesn't have a problem with Shane being gay. He even somewhat made peace that his best friend Shane's heart foolishly chose a guy like Rozanov — made peace very begrudgingly, but he shouldn't be blamed for his hesitance when Ilya made provoking Hayden his new favourite sport. And he really, really, honestly, truly doesn’t mind both of them coming over to his house and flirting in front of his eyes — even though it’s still so fucking weird and surreal — but sometimes Shane and Ilya scare the shit out of him.
Like now. Hayden isn’t sure whether he’s witnessing the most tense foreplay to what will become the hottest gay sex in entire Canada or a prelude to what journalists will call the Montreal’s Most Mysterious Mass Murder (because Hayden definitely would be included, probably killed first, even, and then Shane or Ilya would kill each other because one won’t be able to live without the other).
“Why did you post this?!” Shane is staring at his phone screen, his knee drumming a nervous rhythm against Hayden’s kitchen counter. Rozanov, unsurprisingly, is not bothered in the slightest. He just hums and looks over the ingredients for the tuna melt sandwiches he promised to make for their hangout today. Shane told Hayden they taste incredible and that he must try them, but it probably isn't so hard to impress a guy eating only leaves and protein shakes every day, so Hayden will remain skeptical as long as he can.
“The sun was hitting our windows just right this morning,” Ilya finally declares.
The glare Shane gives him could send a rookie into the boards telepathically. “You know the sun isn’t what I’m asking about here. You posted the photo of my freckles! On your Instagram!”
“” Rozanov grins. “Very beautiful freckles, right? The sunshine loves them almost as much as I do.”
Shane isn't impressed with his answer. “Everyone knows these are my freckles, Ilya. Cropped photo or not.”
“You give your fans too much credit, most of the time your freckles are hidden under your hockey helmet — which is terrible, by the way, I will start petition to change our uniform so I can see them all the time when we play.”
"There are entire magazine photo shoots and commercials where the make-up artists specifically highlighted my freckles!" argues Shane, still flipping between photos on the Instagram post.
", you were posing in your underwear," patiently starts explaining Rozanov as he puts buttered toasts on a pan and starts cutting pickles. "Or wearing wet T-shirt, highlighting your adorable perky nipples. Everyone was looking at them and your abs. I was the only one looking both at your nipples and your freckles!"
"Can we not discuss Shane's -uh - adorable perky nipples?" Hayden chips in, cringing from an image suddenly planted in his head by his rival about his best friend. "Just a thought?"
Shane and Ilya actually pause, letting him finish a sentence, but then immediately continue their bickering — flirting? fight? — without any care for Hayden's mental well-being. Alright, he'll just shut up. He's getting exhausted and he can't even run away from them since it's his house they're currently occupying.
“So what! Maybe these are not your freckles at all," Rozanov pouts, whines — what?! — and shrugs with a knife in his hand. Hayden suddenly wants to take it from him. "I am allowed to have beautiful half-Asian freckled girlfriend!”
“No the fuck you’re not,” Shane's voice suddenly becomes metallic. Fuuuck.
Rozanov freezes too. “Not me, Shane. Fictional playboy Rozanov. He’s still alive in the public eye.”
“Bury the fuck out of him. I don’t like it.”
“That’s why I’m soft launching you instead. Like we agreed I would.”
Hayden fears for his life at this point. If this is Hollander and Rozanov soft launching, what's going to happen after everyone gets to know about their relationship and they'll be free to interact publicly? Maybe Hayden should become a superman who saves the humanity from the biggest nuclear bomb ever… by hacking Rozanov's social media and preventively deleting all of his accounts. Sounds good, no?
Shane sighs, slightly diffusing the situation on his own. God bless his self-control. "But it’s too obvious that I’m in your very-whipped-romantic-summer photo dump," he continues more calmly. "It's not a subtle hint, it's like drawing a target with your name on my back."
“This photo is hidden in the middle of fourteen other photos with random objects, and just so you know, it was physically painful to not include any other part of you in my romantic summer photo dump,” Rozanov grumbles, his lips tense now.
“The rest of them are too obvious as well!” Shane argues, raising the phone up and showing the screen to Rozanov who doesn't turn his back — he probably knows all these photos by heart anyway, having picked each and every single one.
“It’s just an open can of tuna!” Rozanov raises his voice, helplessly throwing up his arms. “Not a big deal!"
"It's not just tuna, it's also a lake next to my cottage, our dog's paws, your hockey stick in my private ice rink, my hoodie in your Boston apartment, the map showing distance between Montreal and Ottawa —"
“" Rozanov growls under his nose something in Russian that to Hayden’s ears sounds like the most wicked Baba Yaga’s curse.
Shane is speechless for a second. "" He says slowly, also in Russian, with an awkward accent and a slight warning in his tone. Hayden stares at his best friend like he just grew a second head.
"" Rozanov is rolling his eyes, losing patience and defaulting to Russian language. He shakes the toasted bread onto the plates a bit too aggressively. He better not be squeezing mayo in tuna with the same strength, Hayden thinks. Rozanov does exactly this.
Shane huffs. His voice gets lower, and words start coming out of his mouth in a more erratic way. ""
This is starting to get serious. Rozanov turns and puts his fists on his hips. "" Oh fuck, Hayden thinks he heard the infamous Russian cursing. ""
These weird slightly whiny notes re-appear in Rozanov's tone again, and Hayden watches how his best friend straightens up, a grin creeping up on his face. Oh, Shane somehow knows he has an upper hand over Rozanov at this moment, that's for sure.
Hayden stifles a sudden laugh when he sees Rozanov's eyeballs almost pop out of their sockets.
"" Rozanov throws his hands in the air in frustration — thankfully, leaving all sharp objects on the counter. ""
He turns back and slaps the toast halves over three almost-finished sandwiches. He puts one plate on the table opposite of Shane, hands him the second plate, and Hayden silently takes the forgotten third plate from the counter on his own.
Shane's face is back to his serious, semi-scolding expression, but he ends up taking Rozanov's olive branch in the form of a sandwich without blowing up into another heated argument. He carefully puts the plate down in front of himself, and says with a flat tone and the most serious face: ""
The two of them immediately break and wheeze with laughter, cackling like the true Montreal's Most Mysterious Mass Murderers.
(Hayden laughs along with them from relief, that he seemed to survive whatever the hell of a conversation that was. He makes a mental node to turn on Google Translate next time he invites Hollander and Rozanov over. He's too old for a psychological warfare like this.)