Chapter Text
Shane couldn’t believe how wasteful Rozanov was.
It wasn’t the most major issue their relationship faced, what with their entire careers hinging on no one finding out that there even was a relationship in the first place. But seeing Rozanov feel a small tear in his shirt, glance at it for a moment, then quickly throwing it near the trash bin in his bedroom almost made Shane gasp aloud in shock.
A shirt that nice?! Made of an amazing cotton blend that Shane was genuinely tempted to steal a couple times when he visited?! Straight to the GARBAGE?!
Despite being very proud of his abilities to keep a strong media-trained poker face, it seemed that Rozanov was able to see straight through him.
“Hollander, did someone shit in your disgusting smoothie this morning?
Shane could feel the spark of rage ignite for a split second, before quickly putting it out.
“What makes you think that?”
“You glare so hard at my garbage like you will burn a hole through it,” Rozanov states, tilting his head slightly to where his shirt still hangs over the lip of the can.
“It’s just…such a waste,” Shane mutters.
“Well Hollander, my contract is very good so I am completely able to sacrifice a couple shirts,” Rozanov smirks, “maybe contract for second-best player is just not as—”
Shane shoots his foot out, striking Rozanov directly in the shin.
“Being well-off is NOT an excuse for being wasteful Rozanov,” Shane huffs, pointedly looking up from his place perched on Rozanov’s bed.
“Well, I am sorry to say that I am not a fan of wearing a ripped-up shirt to most events.”
Shane had to hold back the urge to roll his eyes. He settled with the tiniest twitch of his eyebrows.
“Mending is an option you know? It’s a great way to improve creativity, dexterity, and sustainability.” Shane lists each of these benefits while counting off his fingers, pointedly trying to avoid the broad stretch of chest that Rozanov was trying to distract him with.
“Sadly, I have very little free time at my disposal, I am not as boring as you.”
Shane let out a heavy sigh, fighting the strong and all-consuming urge to roll his eyes. Rozanov, in all his kind consideration and sarcasm that Shane often misunderstands, has become a master at saying things that toe the line between a minor annoyance and something that makes Shane want to snap Rozanov’s spine over his knee like a particularly stubborn glow stick.
Suddenly, Shane is struck with inspiration.
“What if I mend your shirts?”
Rozanov raises his eyebrows at him, looking simultaneously very interested and very confused.
“Trying to infuse your boring into my clothes now? You don’t need to do that. I’m sure doing your boring yoga near a lake takes up too much of your free time for you to be able to,” Rozanov smirks, casually shoving his hands into the pockets of his grey sweatpants as he leans even more into Shane’s space.
“Firstly, the producers just wanted me to do that for the shot. Secondly, I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t able. It would give me more sewing projects, and you would save some of your shirts from the tragic fate of a landfill. A win-win situation,” Shane retorts, feeling a sudden need to justify his offer. If he was not so heated about getting Rozanov to agree, he would’ve thought a little harder about HOW exactly Rozanov knew about him doing yoga.
Is this normal hookup behavior, offering to mend said hookup partner’s shirts? Shane, woefully unfamiliar with the exact rules and guidelines of having casual sex with his arch-rival of multiple years, wouldn’t know. Was this crossing an invisible line he hadn’t learned about? Is this a normal thing to offer to anyone!? What was he even thinking, saying that? The fragile thread that holds the two of them together—risky sexual escapades with no emotions attached—was so nebulous and hard for Shane to understand. What if this offer was the final straw that brought the guillotine down? What if—
As if he could sense the spiral that Shane’s mind was going down, Rozanov quickly spoke.
“Fair point.”
With a glance up, Shane responds with a vague questioning grunt.
“I am saying that I agree with your proposal, Hollander. I will grant you the exclusive privilege to help mend my clothes,” Rozanov continues, unable to resist tacking a little of his trademark chauvinistic-asshole charm on at the end. Sadly, Shane was into that.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Shane, despite his best efforts, is having a great time.
Doing this for Rozanov provided a sense of intimacy and comfort that he didn’t expect. Well, after having Rozanov’s dick in him he supposes they’re already pretty intimate. But this was different.
Mending clothes with his careful planned stitches gave him a calming task to complete with his precious limited free time during the season. Even better, it gave him an excuse to simply exist in the same space as Rozanov. Of course, visiting his hotel rooms almost always ended in a night of steamy passion, but now there has been brief moments right after where they just sit together. Shane, carefully focused on repairing small tears and buttons in Rozanov’s shirts while the other man simply lays in bed beside him.
It made Shane happy, this small step toward something more in this fragile, unlabeled connection.
But then, something unexpected began to rise within him.
While sitting in his quiet cottage, surrounded with nothing but calming forest, he decided to doomscroll. As various gossip articles and random videos flew by on his feed, he suddenly stopped.
“Rozanov seen exiting club with unknown woman”
Funnily enough, it wasn’t the title that had caught Shane’s eye. Even though it always made something ugly rise in his chest, he had adapted himself to deal with it. What HAD really grabbed his attention is the paparazzi picture they used as the cover.
Rozanov, with his broad shoulders and bulging biceps, was wearing a plain black button down. A SPECIFIC plain black button down that Shane visibly remembers mending just a short while ago.
It almost made Shane feel…smug? It was a similar feeling to scoring the winning point in the final seconds of a game, like he had accomplished something that most of the population would find impressive.
He couldn’t help the slight uptick in the corner of his mouth.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Shane just bought new thread.
He usually buys a simple matte black thread, strong and simple with a wide variety of utilities. This time, alongside that simple thread, he buys a spool of shiny black embroidery thread. Significantly more expensive than his usual thread choices, but when one is THE Shane Hollander a few extra dollars for some nice thread is nothing he needs to worry about.
When he finally arrived home, he immediately grabbed his travel sewing kit. With careful hands, he spools a small amount of the embroidery thread into the kit as he formulates a new plan.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Rozanov, when he finally saw him next, didn’t hesitate before handing him another piece of clothing. A simple pair of dark slacks, with a visible tear right along the seam at the upper right thigh. It almost looked like the pants had burst while under the pressure of Rozanov’s thigh.
Shane tried not to think too hard about it.
Taking the piece of clothing with the kind of caution usually reserved for disarming a bomb, Shane moved deeper into the hotel room. He settled onto the edge of the mattress, laying out some bundles of thread and a pin cushion across the generic comforter. Rozanov settled close by against the headboard, lighting a cigarette with a cold glass of vodka collecting condensation on the nightstand.
With a quiet prayer that Rozanov didn’t pay too close an eye to what he was going, Shane took out the spool of shiny threat and carefully layered three strands through the extra-large eye of his specialty embroidery needle. He outlined the flat simplistic shape of an H in his mind, and his hands began moving.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
When the next headline of Rozanov exiting another random club with another random woman hits the gossip circles, Shane can’t help but feel a little smug seeing the cover picture. The pants that he wore were a simple dark shade, but only Shane knew that tucked carefully in the waistband was an embroidered “H”.
Which stood for nothing in particular, of course.