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On the list of things Shane loves, it goes Ilya, hockey, his mom. Yuna Hollander has been the most supportive, constant, and all around generally helpful person in his life since the day he was born. Even in situations wherein it would be understandable to be less than thrilled (see; decade-long affair with supposed rival).
Shane’s mom has always gone above and beyond.
It’s at times like this, Shane finds himself repeating that like a mantra over and over in his head.
“It will not be so bad, Solnyshko.” Ilya murmurs from the driver's side of the car. Shane sighs.
“You wouldn’t be saying that if it was you she was making do this stupid shoot.” He grumbles. Ilya rolls his eyes.
“No, because I would already be in there, blessing the crew with my presence. Now go, Hollander.” Ilya reaches over and unbuckles Shane’s seatbelt, practically shoving him out of the car.
Shane grabs his bag from the back and trudges slowly towards what he assumes will be a long and awkward day. He hates these sorts of things. Hair and make-up crews poking at him, stylists putting him in clothes that make his skin crawl.
But a contract is a contract and his mother would be appalled if he wasn’t on his best behvaiour for his sponsors.
So he slaps on his best, PR approved smile, and checks in with a panicked looking intern with a headset who shows him to set.
In the months since getting married and joining the Centaurs, Yuna has been desperately trying to steer Shane and Ilya towards couple-based projects, despite both of them being very clear that they don’t want their relationship to define their careers.
Sitting alone now, he briefly wishes they’d agreed. At least Ilya would have been here to keep him from feeling so out of place. Ilya has always had the ability to fit in wherever he ends up. He can charm anyone and everyone. Shane wishes he had even a microscopic amount of social intuition.
Suddenly, there is a body flopping into the chair next to him. Shane slowly turns his head to see a dark haired, vaguely familiar man lounging in the same uncomfortable chair Shane has been twitching in.
Shane knows the man is a professional model - besides having the look that he’s become familiar with over the years - Shane recognizes him. Alexander something-rather. Shane thinks he may have met him once before, a charity gala years ago. He nods.
The model - Alexander - smirks.
Shane just goes back to staring at his hands, waiting for any direction from the crew.
“You speak french, yes?” He hears Alexander ask. Shane smiles shyly, turning back to him.
“Yes, uh not so much now that I’m in Ottawa, but yes.” He responds, in french.
“They told me I could speak French with you, my English is not very good.” Alexander explains, crossing his legs. He seems so natural, Shane envies him. He’s never been able to get used to it, the photoshoots, the commercials. It all still feels so alien to him.
They continue to make small talk like that for a while, back and forth until Shane is gathered up in the hustle and bustle of make-up, hair, and wardrobe. He is changed into different clothes no less than four times, apologizing each time it’s not what the director is envisioning.
Eventually, he makes his way back to set, and back to the world's most uncomfortable chair. Alexander is there, making it look like it’s some sort of throne. He’s one of those types to make everything look effortless.
They chat some more, Alexander about Paris, about clothes. Shane notes an accent but can’t quite place it - it’s been so long since he’s spoken to anyone from France that he doesn’t know if maybe it’s nothing and he's forgotten. He couldn’t bear the thought of asking and being completely wrong.
It doesn’t help that Alexander has been not so subtly flirting the entire time. Shane doesn’t think he means anything by it. He seems like one of those people who flirts like second nature, sort of like how Ilya used to be.
He still is, with Shane. Just not everyone else, anymore.
It’s sweet. Shane finds himself smiling thinking about his husband, and how he still flirts with Shane like he did when he was twenty years old.
“See, if you would smile like that, instead of looking like you want to die every time the camera is on you, we would be done a lot sooner.” Alexander laughs, sliding up next to Shane while they re-set.
Shane lets out a scoff and shakes his head. Alexander bites his lip.
“Really, you have a very nice smile.” He whispers, before leaving Shane’s side again, and wandering back to his place.
Shane stands stunned, then shakes it off. Alexander giggles across the room.
Eventually, they get a break to change the set and eat. Shane checks his phone. Three texts from Ilya, plus a photo of Anya in the park.
>> Do you want something to eat?
>> Shane, моя любовь, do you want food?
>> I bring you bird food for lunch.
Shane feels warmth spread across his face. He can picture Ilya, bored after taking Anya for her walk, flipping his phone in his hand, trying to find an excuse to see Shane earlier than planned.
They’ve become somewhat codependent since getting married.
Shane loves it. Alexander asks if he wants to join him at craft for lunch, and Shane has the utter delight of telling him his husband is bringing him lunch. If that throws Alexander at all, he doesn’t show it. Making Shane even more nervous.
Shane waits on the far more comfortable sofa in the hallway, then hears the outside door open. Ilya walks in, a smile on his face nearly blinding Shane.
Shane watches as Ilya pushes his sunglasses into his hair as he clocks Shane on the sofa. HIs smile growing impossibly wide. The afternoon sun from outside backlighting him, casting a beautiful halo of light around him.
Shane almost forgets to breathe. Ilya is so, so beautiful.
That’s his husband.
Then, Ilya almost drops Shane’s lunch tripping over his own feet, and Shane cackles out loud.
Ilya is cursing him out in Russian, going on about goals scored this season, and ‘at least I did not end up on my ass last game’ and Shane grins, pulling Ilya down onto the sofa next to him with a kiss.
Ilya hands him his lunch with an eyeroll and asks how the day is going. Shane rattles on in between bites about the outfit ordeal, and how it’s nice to speak a bit of french, and Ilya hums along as he listens.
Ilya slides further into Shane’s side as he eats and Shane enjoys the small moment of calm in the day's chaos.
In the quiet, the door at the other end of the hall creaking open is deafening.
Shane snaps his head up, seeing Alexander start down the hall.
“Ah, there you are. I think we are going to start again. You are going to give that poor intern a heart attack. She did not know where - “ Alexander trails off, looking at Ilya next to Shane.
Shane, trying to be polite, sets his container down and gestures to Ilya, who looks like he’s seen a ghost. Shane smacks his arm.
“Sorry, lost track of time.” He starts in english. “Alexander, this is my husband - Ilya.” He stands, hoping Ilya will snap out of whatever trance he’s in and introduce himself, or something.
Alexander’s eyes darken, and his smirk turns dangerous. And this is just the last thing he needs. As if Ilya’s ego needs anymore inflating. He’s about to say as much when Alexander speaks up.
“Well, isn’t this just a lovely surprise.” He purrs. Which is not what Shane was expecting to hear. It isn’t until Shane is about to open his mouth again, that he realizes that Alexander isn’t speaking to him, his remark very clearly directed towards Ilya, and in Russian.
Suddenly, Shane is spinning around to face his husband, who is standing behind Shane with a look that can only be described as long-suffering.
No one says anything for what feels like an eternity, and Shane spends it flicking his attention between the two of them, until a bell dings! in his head.
Oh no.
He’ll swear later he gives himself whiplash spinning around.
“You’re Sasha?!” He practically yells.
Sasha’s face splits open into the most worrying grin Shane’s ever seen, just a mere second before the poor intern from earlier bursts into the hallway hurrying them both back into the set.
Shane looks back at Ilya, who appears to still be stunned at the entire scene. He begs Ilya with his eyes to save him from what is about to become an even more unbearable afternoon, but to no avail.
The intern leaves them back at the torture devices disguised as chairs, and Shane is staring straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact with the man next to him.
“So…” Sasha quips. “Does he still talk about me?”
Shane, once again, nearly snaps his own neck. Sasha is flitting his eyelashes at him, pouting, feigning innocence. Shane grips the arm of the chair so hard he thinks he may break it in two.
“I’m going to see if they want me to change again.” Shane bites out, instead of the shut the fuck up that he desperately wants to shout.
He pushes himself up and forces himself across the room. Willingly handing himself over to the stylist to avoid committing a felony at a photoshoot.
He once again has to remind himself of how much he loves his mother.