Chapter Text
Shane is endlessly grateful for his best friends. Truly, he is. Without Rose, Hayden, and JJ, he’s certain his life would’ve been a miserable shade of grey compared to the spectrum of color and joy and acceptance that blossomed around him when they entered into his life.
However, at this very moment, he is finding it exceedingly difficult to remember all the reasons he loves them.
The gaudy limousine he’d been unceremoniously stuffed into at the behest of a frazzled producer is pulling up in front of a ritzy villa, backlit by the bluish-purple remnants of what had been a truly fantastic California sunset. But it isn’t the villa or the producers or the chaos of the show’s production team that has Shane on edge.
No, the true reason for his frayed nerves is standing at the end of the paved walkway to the villa’s front door, dressed to the nines in a tailored suit that makes him look like pure sin, and Shane is one frantic breath away from launching himself out of one of the limousine’s many windows and fleeing for the distant hills. The only thing that’s keeping him rooted to his seat is his (dearly beloved but bitterly resented) friends and their blackmail that had gotten him here to begin with.
“If you don’t go on the damn show, I’m telling the beer league to scratch you off the roster for the rest of your life,” Hayden had threatened.
JJ had immediately backed him up, the traitor. “You should listen to him, capitaine. Otherwise, I might also mention the reason behind the missing kazoo that Mitty has been trying to find for months now.”
Shane had gasped, the betrayal lancing through his heart like an arrow striking true. “You wouldn’t.”
“Don’t test us,” Rose had warned, narrowing her eyes at him. “You’ve had the hots for this guy for ages, Shane. Go on the show and get your fucking man!”
And, okay, maybe Shane is being a little dramatic. Their threats aren’t exactly perilous to his livelihood or his general wellbeing, and Hayden is about as intimidating as a soggy feral kitten, but if he admits that out loud, he’ll have to confront the reality that his motivations for being here, on camera and broadcasted to an unfathomably large audience, are entirely selfish and potentially foolish. Not to mention entirely out of character.
Because yes, okay, Shane has had a raging, all-consuming, life-ruining crush on Ilya Rozanov since he was seventeen years old.
He languished in the futility of his infatuation for a decade, throughout his career-ending injury that had knocked him out of consideration for the draft; throughout years of university; and throughout the entirety of his long slog to becoming a board-certified Doctor of Physical Therapy. All the way up until Rozanov was unfortunately outed by a hook-up who thought he’d repay how Rozanov lowered his standards to grant him even an iota of attention by posting a scandalously revealing photo of the Bears captain sprawled half-naked across mussed sheets, clearly post-coitus and asleep. Rozanov had borne the immediate backlash from the NHL commissioner and bigoted fans with the kind of grace many thought him too stupid to possess.
Shane was not one of them. In fact, he’s known all along that the center is wickedly clever. He has to be to make the kind of plays he does on the ice.
So when Rozanov was traded to the Centaurs, then turned a team (Shane’s hometown team) with a history of mediocrity into a team of Stanley Cup winners, Shane’s crush became even more ruinous and futile. At least until its futility was called into question by Rozanov agreeing to be the newest Bachelor in the show’s first ever mixed-gender season.
Rose, Hayden, and JJ most certainly pushed and shoved him into applying for the show, but if he’d truly been against it, he wouldn’t have entertained the notion for a single moment. This is hands down the boldest choice he’s ever made in his life, but as his own parents wisely told him when he broke the news to them that he’d been chosen to join the cast, love is never without its own risks.
“Let yourself be imperfect. Let yourself be a little ridiculous,” his dad had murmured as they shared a parting hug, exchanging a loving glance with his mother.
And so here Shane sits, sweating anxiously in a suit Rose painstakingly picked out for him, insisting it makes his ass look biteable. The limousine rolls to a gentle stop, and he swallows down the fear that began creeping up his throat. His eyes close and he settles his nerves by allowing himself, perhaps to his own detriment, to hope for impossible things.
The limo door swings open and he steps out, brushing a shaky hand down the front of his suit jacket in a manner that he hopes comes off as confident. His eyes very briefly flit to the cameras situated advantageously around the courtyard, his shoulders tensing slightly at the reality of being watched by so many faceless strangers. But then, like a flower seeking the warmth of the sun, his eyes are drawn back to Ilya Rozanov in the flesh, who is-
Who is staring slack-jawed at him?
Shane stares back, equally stricken, but then one corner of his mouth quirks into a smile. He wondered if Rozanov would recognize the boy he once competed against, shaken hands with twice outside a rink in Saskatchewan and then a final time after Canada’s defeat, now a grown man comfortable in his own sexuality and identity. The awestruck look in the other man’s eyes is the reassurance Shane needs to draw himself to his full height and walk forward with a sudden surge of bravado, his smile blooming into a full-blown grin as he gets even closer and sees just how much he’s affected the man.
Rozanov is even more strikingly handsome up close and in person, all broad shoulders, heavy muscle, and cheekbones carved by the gods. His eyes are bright and unwavering as they fixate on Shane, his mouth still parted in open awe.
Shane gets an idea then, and suddenly all the time he’s spent stressing out over what to say to Rozanov feels silly. He stretches out a hand.
“Ilya Rozanov? Shane Hollander. I wanted to introduce myself.”
Rozanov finally reacts beyond staring at him in stunned silence, his head tilting back as he laughs freely and with unrestrained glee. Shane’s grin must look borderline manic with how massive it is, his own laughter mingling with Rozanov’s in this shared moment.
Rozanov’s eyes train across his face, drinking him in as he steps forward and takes Shane’s hand in his, shaking it firmly. “Shane Hollander,” he murmurs with wonder, his smile beatific.
Shane’s tone turns cheeky. “You’re an awesome player to watch.”
“Yes,” Rozanov agrees with another boisterous laugh, happily playing along.
For a moment that’ll be made so public, Shane marvels in the intimacy they’ve managed to carve out for themselves, mirroring the young boys they’d been a decade ago, on the precipice of realizing their own potential. Rozanov’s hand lingers in his as they share space, and air, and memories, neither of them wanting to sever this tenuous connection that they’ve already been robbed of once.
“I have always wondered if we’d ever meet again,” Rozanov finally says, his accent ever so slightly thicker than normal.
Shane’s smile softens, his grin relaxing into something more private. “Me, too. It’s really good to see you, Rozanov,” he says, squeezing his fingers briefly around the other man’s, where they’re still joined.
Someone from behind a camera clears their throat pointedly, as if to hurry them along, and Shane feels a brief flare of irritation at the interruption. Rozanov reluctantly pulls away.
“Ilya, please,” he insists, his eyes still darting across Shane’s face, as if to commit it to memory—as if Shane will disappear again once he’s out of his sightline. “We are no longer rivals, Hollander. And you have come here to fight for my hand in marriage, yes?” he says with a smirk.
Shane chuckles, and very boldly says, “Yes. So I think you can call me Shane.”
“Shane,” Ilya echoes, his mouth molding around the shape of the name in a caress. Shane can feel the flush creeping across his cheeks as his eyes drop to Ilya’s mouth, watching him say it.
“I should go inside now,” Shane says faintly, forcibly dragging his eyes back up to Ilya’s. Gratifyingly, Ilya’s eyes have obviously also been trained on his mouth.
“Don’t miss me too much,” Ilya quips, winking at him.
“That’s asking a lot,” Shane calls back with a laugh as he starts down the walkway towards the villa’s front doors. He glances back over his shoulder when he’s halfway there, and catches Ilya staring blatantly at his ass.
Biteable, indeed.
When he walks through the front doors, he’s immediately hit by a wall of sound in the form of raucous cheers and shouted greetings.
Shane plasters a smile across his face and walks over to the group of ridiculously attractive people congregated around a sitting area with plush sofas and more champagne than he’s ever seen in his life. There’s about twenty people already there, and he’s quickly met with a barrage of names and faces that he doesn’t have time to properly place before he’s thrown into the next introduction. He desperately hopes that his mask of politeness isn’t slipping even as the feeling of being overwhelmed makes his skin feel tight and uncomfortable.
“Alright, alright, let the new guy breathe,” says a warm, slightly husky voice from behind him.
Shane half turns in his seat and meets the eyes of a tall, striking man, who smiles knowingly at him before fending off more attempts at small talk in Shane’s honor. Once the rabble has been unroused, he settles onto the sofa at Shane’s side.
“I’m Andre,” he says lightly, as if he hasn’t already won a permanent place in Shane’s good graces. He’s dressed in a well-fitted black suit jacket and tailored pants, with no shirt underneath. The expanse of smooth, dark skin on display is complemented by the gold jewelry adorning his neck, ears, wrists, and fingers, and the gold eyeliner winging out across his lids. If Ilya Rozanov didn’t exist, Shane would say that the man before him is the most beautiful person he’s ever met.
Andre quirks a brow at him, and Shane realizes he’s been staring wordlessly for longer than society would deem polite.
“Sorry, I’m Shane. Shane Hollander. I didn’t mean to go caveman on you just now.”
Andre smiles, revealing a slight gap between his front teeth. Shane is charmed immediately.
“I think we’re going to be great friends, Shane,” Andre says.
Over the next half hour, Andre reminds Shane of the others’ names and gives him tidbits of information on their careers, quirks, and any personality deficits he’s already observed. He speaks of his own career as a photographer and visual artist, bemoans the horrendous queer dating scene in New York City, and talks at length about his three sisters and what they’d think of the show. They greet the other newcomers as they arrive, and Shane finds himself relaxing into the safe bubble Andre has created for them.
The final contestant to arrive is a gorgeous brunette named Jackie. When she mentions being from Montreal, Shane visibly perks up and babbles excited Québécois at her, delighted when her expression turns incandescent at learning she has a fellow French-speaking Canadian in the villa.
“I can’t believe this,” Andre groans dramatically. “My best friend has already been stolen from under me.”
Shane flushes pink, pleased to have made a good impression on two people he already knows will remain friends even after filming has wrapped. Jackie joins them on their sofa, gratefully accepting the champagne flute Shane passes to her, but they have no time to really chat before the front doors swing open once more and Chris Harrison steps inside.
Shane flinches as the noise in the room rockets to a crescendo, slightly mollified when both Andre and Jackie rest comforting hands on his shoulders. He spaces out throughout Chris’ welcome speech, and then immediately regrets not paying attention when the doors open to reveal Ilya once more, his eyes roaming across the people gathered in the room, and then steadfastly remaining on Shane once he spots him.
Shane feels himself straighten in response, meeting Ilya’s gaze as his mouth quirks into another small smile, just for the two of them. Ilya’s lips twitch in response, and then Chris is beckoning him forward for the traditional opening remarks.
“Thank you all for being here,” Ilya says warmly. “It is a huge boost to my ego that so many gorgeous people have come here just to woo me, and maybe in time, I can woo you back.” There’s a smatter of laughter throughout the room, and Ilya winks in response before his features settle into something more serious. When he next speaks, it’s with a gravitas that commands the undivided attention of every single person in the room. Shane imagines it’ll be much the same for the people watching at home.
“I think it is important to acknowledge that this is the first time this show has invited both men and women as contestants.” Ilya pauses briefly, as if weighing his words before speaking them into existence. “It is not a secret that I was outed to the world without my consent, so I am grateful to be given the chance to make my own choices now. I am very excited to get to know all of you, and for all of you to know me for who I am, not who the world makes me out to be.”
Applause rings out as Ilya’s speech comes to its end, and Shane is surprised to find that his eyes have gone teary. Ilya’s eyes catch on his again and seem to soften as he takes in the emotion his words have stirred.
Shane rises from the sofa to approach Ilya, maybe say something in support of him, or to criticize the naysayers who had been so loud and so wrong in the wake of his outing, but it seems everyone has had the same idea. Ilya is swarmed by a small crowd of admirers, and Shane falters mid-step as his window of opportunity is slammed firmly shut.
“You’ll get him next time, tiger,” Andre soothes, gathering him and Jackie and ushering them to a corner of the room laden with canapés.
Jackie shares that she’s a chef and restaurant owner in between critical bites of bruschetta and tuna tataki. Shane and Andre are both in stitches at her dry commentary when Ilya is suddenly there, his presence so immediate and magnetic that Shane finds himself drawn forward, helpless to fight the pull.
“Hello, again,” Ilya greets with a smirk.
“Long time no see,” Jackie flirts, her lips curved in a coy smile.
Shane feels a rush of annoyance, and then instantly berates himself for it. He likes Jackie immensely, and he reminds himself that the entire point of this show is for all of them to flirt and go on dates with the incredibly attractive man before them. Jealousy has no place here.
“I’m here to steal you away,” Ilya says, and there’s a moment of silence before Shane realizes Ilya is looking directly at him, his expression both expectant and amused.
“Me?” he questions aloud, pointing at himself for good measure.
Ilya laughs, but it’s not mocking in the way Shane has grown to expect when he’s made a social faux pas. It’s charmed, like Ilya is delighted by Shane’s missteps. Like he could adore them.
“Yes, you,” Ilya affirms, holding out a hand to him.
Shane shares a brief look with Jackie and Andre, who both grin and wave him on encouragingly. He turns back to Ilya and slides his hand into his, his breath catching as Ilya’s fingers immediately slot into the gaps between Shane’s, coaxing him to follow as he makes for the doors to the garden.
Outside, the cool, evening air is a balm on Shane’s flushed cheeks. He tilts his face skyward and lets his eyes flutter shut for a moment as they come to a pause. When they reopen, Ilya is looking at him with an expression that makes his chest feel like it's been cracked open from the inside.
“How are you feeling?” Ilya asks.
“Better now,” Shane says honestly.
Ilya’s answering smile is boyish and sincere. “I’m glad. I see you have made friends already.”
Shane nods happily. “Jackie and Andre. They’re great. I think you would like them.”
Ilya laughs softly. “I don’t think you are supposed to… what is the word? Ah, endorse your competition.”
Shane shrugs, and the motion tugs at his hands in a way that reminds him that Ilya is still holding one. He tries not to get his hopes up too much, but the warmth in his chest only intensifies.
“I don’t want to see them as competition. It’s not like I have a claim on you or anything,” Shane reasons. He meets Ilya’s eyes once more. “How are you?”
Ilya’s thumb strokes lightly over the back of Shane’s hand, and he fights away a shiver. “I am still wondering if all of this is a dream,” Ilya admits.
Shane nods in understanding. “Yeah, I can imagine.”
“No,” Ilya says with a shake of his head. “I am not talking about the show. I am talking about you.” Shane stills, but his demeanor must be encouraging, because Ilya continues. “I was not lying earlier when I said I have wondered about you. I have always wanted to know what happened to you. If you still play. If you still skate as beautifully as you did back then. And now you are here, like my imagination made you real.”
Shane exhales roughly, squeezing Ilya’s fingers in his. “I’m here, and I’m real,” he says. “I thought about you, too. Every time you were on the ice, every time I laced up my skates, and even more after you moved to Ottawa.”
“Your hometown, yes?”
Shane nods. “And my childhood team.”
Ilya grins, his eyes shining. “Do you have a poster of me on your wall? Come on, Hollander. This is a safe space. You can admit it.”
Shane laughs and nudges his arm gently with the hand not held in his. “You wish, Rozanov.”
Ilya finally releases his hand, but doesn’t move away. Instead, he reaches into his suit jacket and withdraws a red rose, his smile gentling as he offers it to Shane.
“I want you to have the first impression rose,” he says. “It may have been made in 2008, but it was so strong that you have stayed with me for all this time. You are the only person I would give this rose to.”
Shane’s hands shake as he reaches out to take the flower, his face undoubtedly flushed. One thumb brushes over a silken petal with reverence, and when he lifts his eyes, Ilya is looking at him with an expression he’s never seen before.
“Thank you,” Shane says, his voice catching on the last word.
Ilya lifts a hand and brushes a thumb whisper-soft across his cheek, just below the sweep of his lower lashes. His eyes trace the path of his finger with something like devotion, and Shane feels dangerously close to crumbling at his feet.
“Can I kiss you?” Ilya asks.
Instead of answering with words, Shane steps into the cradle of his reaching arms, tilts his head, and does what he has dreamed of doing since he first had the thought as a seventeen-year old that the taste of nicotine might not be so bad if it was shared in a kiss this sweet.
The kiss itself is a soft, infinitesimal thing, remarkable in its restraint and in its ability to convey the weight of the time they’ve spent apart, but still seeking the other like a shadow erased by the sun.
Shane feels all at once unmade and known.
He thinks to himself, even as the kiss ends; even as Ilya leads him back inside with a murmured, reluctant ‘have a good night;’ even as ten other contestants bid them all teary goodbyes after a rose ceremony he’d gone through in a daze; and even as he’s shown to the room he’ll be sharing with the other men; he thinks that perhaps this is what love is meant to be.
He tucks the rose under his duvet as he sinks into sleep, and wonders if the impossible things he has hoped for aren’t impossible after all.