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After a bad game, Shane needs something. Ilya can’t give it to him if he doesn’t use his words. AKA Ilya threatens to whore Shane out to the Raiders.
The place feels off. Like it’s at an angle. Shane whips his head around. All his stuff looks normal, in its right place, the Montreal backdrop glittering among the reflections of the lamps dotted around the place. He can’t seem to focus on anything. Maybe Rozanov isn’t even here. Maybe he has a second to pull himself togeth–
Shane’s eyes lock onto Rozanov’s like a bolt slotting into place.
He’s reclined into the corner of the couch, arm slung over the side, knee falling open onto the seat. Tumbler in hand, something brown he must’ve found in a forgotten cupboard. Looking amused.
“Well done,” Shane says, and his voice only wobbles a fraction. It should come easy to him. It’s Shane’s brand. But tonight, with him, he’s having to force the words out.
Rozanov’s eyes crinkle. “Thanks,” he says. Shane doesn’t expect any congratulations, but the absence of the return hangs between them, possibly even louder.
Yeah. Tonight was a real low for him.
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“So, what,” Rozanov starts, and rolls over onto his side, arm bracketing his cheek, “national treasure Shane Hollander watches gangbang porn now?”