Chapter Text
The hotel room was non-descript, much like every other hotel room Shane spent what felt like most of his life in. Bed, bedside tables, desk that he never used, tv that at least this time he would understand the programmes on, and that strange singular chair that every hotel room seemed to have. He lay on the bed, listening to the sounds from the corridor and outside the window that filtered through to him. People laughing, chatting, hurrying through the rain with colleagues and loved ones. People having lives that didn’t centre around touring schedules and flights every few days, around difficult pop stars that caused him nothing but stress. Well, nothing but stress and an annoying hard-on that he was pretending didn’t exist.
Shane had worked with Ilya for years now. Every time Ilya toured he asked for Shane, demanded Shane, paid Shane’s contract out on any other tours he was contracted for. Shane knew he was good at his job, knew that for some reason Ilya Rozanov trusted him. He just wished it was more, wished they had met in circumstances where Shane wasn’t the man paid to keep Ilya from doing something stupid like run into the crowd at a gig, or at least keep him from having his clothes ripped off if Shane wasn’t able to stop him running. He wished they could have met in a bar, that he could have bought Ilya a drink and flirted with him, taken him home and taken him apart. Instead, Shane followed him around, kept an eye on him at all times, and had a strong professional relationship with him. He also had a strong unprofessional crush on him.
Rain lashed the windows outside his room, London was terrible in winter. Grey and damp and miserable. He hadn’t explored the city, not this time. His car would be leaving to get to the O2 in an hour, and even if he had wanted to explore earlier the fucking rain made the thought of going outside impossible.
Shane sighed, looking around the room. Leftover food delivery sat by the door, ready to take into the hallway when he left. His suitcase was neatly unpacked into drawers, even though they were only in this city for four days. Everything was where it should be, orderly, neat. None of it settled him today though. This tour had only been going on for a week, and after a year of only seeing Ilya once for a festival appearance, Shane was unsettled being back in Ilya’s presence. He’d tried so hard to get his stupid crush out of his system. He had hooked up with men he met in random gay bars on the other tours he had worked last year, he’d even re-downloaded grindr at one point but had swiftly deleted it again. The last thing he needed was for someone in a venue to check the app, find out there was a man 3 metres away from him, and put two and two together that it was a personal security guard. Security was meant to be anonymous, not seen, definitely not become the story.
Shane felt like his skin didn’t fit properly, like when he had packed for this tour he had put it on backwards or something. Just the mere thought of being in Ilya’s orbit soon, the certain knowledge he would be holding Ilya’s hips as he leaned into the crowd, as they adored him, as every point where their bodies touched burned like starlight, it all had Shane itching to move. Ilya was already at the venue for soundcheck, he could easily change his car and get there earlier, walk off the energy doing loops of the venue. Or he could go to the gym in his hotel. Or he could succumb to his base instincts like he knew he would and cum in the shower as he thought of Ilya.
Thirty seconds later Shane was naked, water pounding on his shoulders, cock in his hand and Ilya on his mind. Fuck this was so unprofessional. None of his other celebrity clients did this to him, none of them made him act like a horny teenager. He did his job, had a few drinks with the crew, moved onto the next tour. Ilya made him lose his mind, and had been making him lose his mind for six years. He made Shane want to quit his job and go and live in the cottage on a lake that he spent his limited time not in hotel rooms holed up in. Maybe teach self defence or yoga like some of his past colleagues. Never see the fucking beautiful unobtainable russian man he was head over heels in love with ever again.
He couldn’t do that though, couldn’t give up seeing Ilya, any more than he could stop himself stroking his cock to the thought of Ilya’s curls, his perfect face, his heart shaped mouth, his muscular body. It took an embarrassingly short amount of time for Shane to cum, splattering all over the walls of his shower. Shane felt little better after, his mind still whirring.
He knew it would get better. This tour was due to last for another three months, with another five weeks in Europe and then a short break before they toured the States. The first week or so was always the worst, before he became immune to Ilya’s presence and his own feelings. Well, not immune, but maybe inoculated.
An hour later Shane was backstage with his colleague Hayden, being briefed on the setlist that had a few changes from the past few nights. This was Ilya’s hometown show of sorts, having moved to London from Russia as a sixteen year old to attend the Brit school. His friends and family were here, the original fans would be at the barrier. Shane needed to be on his game more than ever. Hayden would take one side of the stage, Shane the other, they would both follow Ilya when he inevitably tried to jump into the crowd, but Shane would be, as always, the one to hold Ilya. Ilya’s tour manager stressed for maybe the five hundredth time that when Ilya was on stage he was vulnerable, and he only trusted Shane to touch him. Hayden scoffed from beside Shane, as he always did. This was only his second tour with Ilya, but Shane knew he wasn’t a fan and found Ilya’s insistence on Shane an affront to his skills.
Two hours later the support acts were done and Shane was standing in the run between the stage and the barrier. His breath was caught in his throat for a moment as Ilya first appeared on stage, as the crowd roared and surged behind him. Ilya looked like a divine gift, God's gift to women, men, non-binary people, and Shane particularly. It took him a moment to snap back to reality, a fan’s arm waving beside him reminding him where he was and what his job was. For a moment he marvelled at how truly fucked he was, before he locked in on his charge.
The music washed over Shane, he had heard it all so many times. It wasn’t that Ilya wasn’t talented, he was incredible, it was that Shane had a job to do and if the lingering guilt at fucking into his hand at the thought of his employer wasn’t going to stop him doing that job, nor was Ilya’s angelic voice.
The first time Ilya ran offstage and down to the crowd it was business as usual. Shane knew he looked like his life flashed before his eyes as he chased Ilya around the pit, he had seen the memes, but that was just his face when he was concentrating. Hayden mirrored him like a well oiled machine, moving fans back if they were too excited, not letting Ilya jump over the barrier, the usual nonsense. Ilya climbed onto the barrier and leaned out into the crowd, Shane held his hips and felt the usual sparks where their bodies met, but he kept a straight face and kept Ilya safe.
At the end of the song Ilya jumped back onto the stage with a backwards glance at Shane, his signature wide open grin and a wink that had all the fans behind him swooning. Shane would have swooned himself if he wasn’t a consummate professional who knew how to lock his knees and shut down his face. It was what happened next that tested every ounce of control he had.
Ilya stood on stage, backlit by the lights, and turned to talk to the audience. His voice was breathless and strained for a second, from running around, and Shane had to tamp down visions of how he would sound after sex. He was so lost in fantasy he almost missed what Ilya was saying.
“London! Is anyone here from South London?” The crowd screamed in response and Ilya pulled out his earpiece to hear better and chuckled. “Me too, sort of, or adopted by South London at least. And for my hometown opening night I wanted to cover one of my favourite South Londoners, my good friend Florence, of the machine.”
The crowd roared and so did Shane’s heart. Transported back to a night at Glastonbury when he had sat with Ilya around a firepit in a backstage bar after too many drinks. It had been one of the few times they were off the clock together, just two boys talking about music they loved. Shane had shared that Florence was his all time favourite musician, how excited he had been to meet her earlier that day. Ilya’s eyes had been warm and full of firelight.
“This song is about someone you’d give up anything for, even if they don’t see it, even if they choose somebody else. When Florence first played me this it was like a punch to the gut as there's been someone like that for me for a long time now, even if they don’t see it.” Ilya paused, it felt like the whole stadium went silent to Shane, as Ilya sought him in the pit and locked eyes for just a second. “This is buckle.”
I wanna call you on the telephone
I made a thousand people love me
Now I’m all alone
And my resolve is sinking like a stone
What would I even say?
The rest of the song was white noise to Shane, punctuated by Ilya catching his eye over and over. Or that’s what it felt like. Shane shook himself, tried to focus. He was worse than the teenage fans who swore up and down that Ilya had sung a song directly to them. This was just a coincidence caused by Shane’s stupid traitorous heart that had been wishing for Ilya to love him for years. He turned so his body was at an angle to the stage, checking the crowd, tamping down everything he felt. He had one more song until Ilya was due to run into the crowd again, one more song to gather himself.
The second time Ilya ran to the crowd was hell. Fuck business as usual, Shane was half hard and wholly in love and he didn’t know what to do with himself. Ilya leaned out over the crowd, Shane held on, Ilya leaned back into Shane and Shane held on, held Ilya to himself, and for just a second he allowed himself to dream.