thank you so much to the friends that have looked this over! i owe you my life lmao

re: additional warnings: the rating is for descriptions of ilya and shane starting to have sex (they don't get very far). there is a moment of feminization (ilya describes shane's chest as tits) that shane doesn't like. i didn't want the fic to have the feminization tag, so there's your warning.

title is a description of microaggressions taken from the wikipedia page on the topic.

Contrary to popular assumption, Shane’s never been a morning person. He gets up early during the season, yes, but that’s just part of the discipline he has to run his life with in order to play his best. During the off-season, when he can let himself go a little bit, he’s much happier having a slow start to his mornings. Taking the time to bask in Ilya’s presence next to him, watching him slowly blink awake.

Shane is pretty sure he could stay in Ilya’s arms forever. 

Unfortunately, the companies that pay him to be in their commercials have no desire to accommodate Shane’s schedule like that. The email Gillette sends instructs him to be on-site by six in the morning on the day of the shoot to start getting ready; so when five rolls around, Shane reluctantly pulls away from Ilya’s warmth to get dressed. The sun is just starting to peek over the horizon when he pulls out of the driveway.

Despite how early it is, the studio is already awash with activity when Shane arrives. There are technicians running back and forth, setting up cameras and lights on designated taped-out spots. Nobody pays him any mind or tells him where to go. Despite the fact that he’s done dozens of these over the years, Shane still hasn’t figured out how best to announce his presence. It feels wrong to just go to someone and say, Hi, I’m actually the famous athlete you’re going to be working with all day. Please tell me where to stand.

He hovers next to one of the walls, keeping to the edge of the chaos, hoping that someone will take pity on him and tell him what to do. He’s relieved when he’s waved down by an older white woman wearing a lanyard, who seems to be in charge of everything happening. 

“Hello! Welcome! I hope we weren’t too hard to find,” the woman laughs, and Shane does as well, hoping he doesn’t sound too awkward. 

“No, I didn’t have any trouble finding you,” he says, falling in step beside her as she starts to make her way further into the room, a little bit away from the busiest part of the set.

“Good, good. I’m Elaine, by the way; I’m the assistant manager on set today, so just find me if you get lost, and I’ll help you out, okay?”

“Sounds great.” Shane shoots her a smile, grateful for the offer of help. 

“Now, follow me, let’s get your paperwork done, and then I’ll have you shadowing Jenny for the morning, okay? She’s in charge of lights for this project.”

Shane stops and frowns. “What paperwork? You should already have everything you need, I thought.”

“Your employment paperwork,” Elaine says. “The instructions were in the email we sent you—we’ll need proof of identity, of course, and your bank information so that we can set up direct deposit for you. And there’s some liability forms—”

“My manager should have already done all that,” Shane says. He means Yuna, of course, but he’s learned that people take him more seriously if he says my manager and not my mother. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” Elaine says. She looks Shane up and down, a small furrow between her brows. “I’m sorry, are you not Yangchen? The new intern?”

“No,” Shane says slowly, “I’m Shane. Hollander. I’m supposed to be the model today?”

It’s almost comical, the way Elaine’s whole demeanor changes. The way her whole body pulls away in surprise and embarrassment. “Oh my god, I am so sorry, Mr. Hollander. It’s just, our new intern is supposed to start today, I just assumed you were him. You don’t look—that is to say, you aren’t quite what I expected. I’m so sorry, that’s completely my fault.”

“I mean, you’re not even Chinese, are you? I don’t think you are. I’m so sorry, truly.”

“I…” Shane bites back the first several thoughts that come into his brain, none of which are things that he can actually say. Finally, he manages to get out, “Can you tell me where I’m supposed to go to get ready?”

“Of course, of course.” Elaine turns back the way they’d come. She’s stopped talking now, thankfully, but the silence between them stretches uncomfortably.

It’s rare nowadays for him to be mistaken for someone else like that. It still happens occasionally, but mostly when he’s in the States, especially some of the southern states, where hockey is barely on the public’s radar. He can’t remember the last time it happened when he was in Ottawa.

It’s not that Shane minds not being recognized. He prefers it when people don’t know who he is, when he’s just another face in the crowd. He hates standing out.

Still, he can’t help but wonder what the intern Elaine mistook him for actually looks like. If they truly look similar.

They probably don’t.

Elaine sends him to costuming and makeup, where he’s greeted enthusiastically and directed to sit in one of the tall folding chairs that have been set up. Then he’s being introduced to his makeup artists: two young white women, armed with brushes and powders, ready to get his face and body camera-ready. 

This, Shane is used to. He can’t count the number of times he’s sat in a similar chair as someone else touches him, turns his head this way and that to make sure he looks exactly the way he’s supposed to. He’s gotten very good at not flinching when they touch him in a way he doesn’t expect.

The two of them are obviously friends. They keep up a steady stream of chatter as they work, gossiping about friends and coworkers, all people that Shane hasn’t heard of and doesn’t bother keeping track of. Thankfully, neither of them seem particularly interested in engaging with him, so Shane is all too happy to tune them out. 

At least, until they start talking about him.

“I’m surprised they asked Hollander to do this,” one of them is saying. “I mean, we’ve all seen the playoff beard rankings. There are lots of other hockey players that can grow more impressive facial hair.”

“Sure, but I’m certainly not complaining,” the other says. “I mean, I get to tell my brother that I got to work on Shane Hollander’s makeup. Guess who’s got bragging rights forever?”

“True!”

“Besides, it could be worse. Ewing’s playoff beard is a travesty. It looks like he tried to glue a rat onto his chin. Badly.”

A laugh. “Sure, but Ewing is nineteen. He’s got some time before we write him off as a lost cause.”

Shane can’t remember when he gave up on growing good facial hair. He still had some hope of it happening when he was nineteen, he’s pretty sure, but at some point between then and now, he realized it was never going to happen. 

It’s not that he doesn’t grow anything. It just looks stupid, compared to other players in the league, who look like they’re cavemen by the end of the playoffs. 

“I still think it’s weird, though,” the first girl says. “I mean, we’re trying to sell razors, aren’t we?”

“Well, I guess they can have him show off his lack of facial hair? You know, like those ads for women’s razors where they shave over completely smooth skin.”

“Oh my god, I hate those. Absolutely ridiculous. They should show some actual hair removal, you know? Hairy girls exist!”

“Seriously.”

It’s obvious that the two have forgotten that he’s sitting there, listening to everything they’re saying. Part of him wants to say something, to remind them that they’re working with the person they’re gossiping about, but the other, larger part shies away from the idea. He doesn’t want these girls to apologize to him the way Elaine did earlier, uncomfortable and only half-sincere.

It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care. He’s here to do a job, not to think about the way people talk about him.

“Alright,” one of them says, spinning Shane around to face the mirror. “You’re all done.”

“Thank you,” Shane says, standing. He doesn’t look at himself. He doesn’t want to know what he looks like. “Uh, I’m going to go make sure they don’t need me, or something. Thanks again.”

He leaves as quickly as he can. 

The shoot doesn’t go well. The director keeps telling him to relax, make it look natural, but Shane can’t seem to get out of his head. Each reminder just makes Shane more aware of how his body exists in physical space, all the ways he holds himself wrong. When she shows him the images they’ve managed to take on their camera display, he can see how stiff and awkward he is.

In the end, she gives up before the day’s over. “You can go home now,” she tells him. “I think we’ve gotten all we’re going to.”

“Great,” Shane says, and then, hoping it’s coming out sounding sincere, “thank you.”

Her words remind him of one of his first photoshoots, the one he did with Ilya all those years ago. The directors gave up then as well, but Shane didn’t care, too distracted by the amusement of seeing the hard, stiff facade of Ilya Rozanov breaking for the first time.

It might be the only time he’s actually enjoyed himself during a photoshoot.

It helped that he was in his hockey gear for that shoot. Shane prefers it when he’s in his gear—people can’t see his face as well with his helmet on. It doesn’t matter that he’s lacking facial hair or that he doesn’t look like any of the other players, when the name on the back of his jersey keeps people focused on how many goals he scores. 

It’s not until he takes everything off that people get weird.

Shane would like it if he could just do hockey-related deals. If he could be wearing his helmet and pads every time he had to be on camera.

His mom calls him on his drive home. “Hey, sweetheart,” she says. “How did it go?”

Shane blows out a long breath. It's standard practice for his mom to call him after these kinds of things, when she's not able to be there herself. It's not the first time Shane's wished it wasn't. He doesn’t really want to talk to her. “It was fine, I guess.”

“Good! I’m glad.” Yuna doesn’t notice Shane’s lack of enthusiasm. “You know, I’m really eager to see how this turns out. Gillette is definitely a company I’d like to keep working with, if possible—I mean, they’ve got a huge amount of market reach, they’ve got products for everyone. And they certainly pay well.”

“Right,” Shane says. 

“Are you doing okay?” Yuna asks. “You seem quiet.” 

“I'm just tired,” Shane says. “You know how I get after these things.” 

“Alright,” Yuna says. “Well, Bill told me that he’d reach out with the edited piece in a couple weeks, so we can look it over then, alright? And I’ll keep you in the loop for anything else we schedule.”

“Great,” Shane says. “Thanks, Mom. Love you.”

Ilya is waiting for him at home. His face lights up when Shane walks in, and he pulls him in. “You look good,” he says, placing a kiss on the corner of Shane’s mouth. “How did it go?”

Shane groans and presses the face into the crook of Ilya’s chest. “Bad.”

Ilya wraps his arms around him and pulls him into a tight hug. It helps release some of the pressure in his chest. “I’m sorry. I am sure you will look hot when it comes out, though.”

Shane shrugs. “I guess so.”

Ilya’s hands move down his back to cup his ass as he presses Shane into another kiss. “No guess. I know so. You know why?”

“Why?”

“Because,” Ilya’s mouth moves so that he’s whispering directly into Shane’s ear, low voice rumbling in his throat, “you are always hot.”

Shane groans and tugs at the hem of Ilya’s shirt. “Take this off.”

Ilya obliges, and Shane doesn’t bother hiding the way he stares at the way the muscles of Ilya’s shoulders shift under the fabric. Ilya fumbles at the buttons of Shane’s shirt next, cursing as the fabric refuses to cooperate. The two of them stumble backward until Shane hits the wall, solid and stable against him.

Finally, he manages to get Shane’s shirt open, and then he’s kissing Shane again, down the length of his neck and then mapping his collarbones, the curve of his pecs. Shane’s hard and aching by the time Ilya finally reaches down and undoes his fly. 

“Fuck, Ilya—”

Ilya’s hand is rough and dry against his cock, neither of them having bothered to get any lube, but Shane doesn’t care. He bucks his hips into the circle of Ilya’s fist, seeking his pleasure. 

His other hand reaches up to squeeze at Shane’s chest, and then to pinch at his nipple. Shane makes a sharp, punched-out sound as pleasure jolts through him, a sharply different sensation to the easy, heady pleasure of Ilya touching his cock.

“Ah—”

“You like that, don’t you?” Ilya murmurs, rolling his fingers across Shane’s nipple again. “You like when I play with your tits.”

Shane's whole body tenses. His mind forms a sudden, viscerally uncomfortable image of himself with breasts. “Don't—”

Ilya stops. He pulls away a little bit, just enough for him to be able to take in Shane’s face properly. His hand is still on his dick; Shane’s not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. “Shane? What’s wrong?”

Shane shakes his head, trying to find the words. “I’m not a girl.” 

Ilya’s brow furrows. Shane can see him running through the past few moments in his mind, trying to understand what Shane is saying. “I did not call you a girl,” he says slowly. “I would not do that. Not unless you wanted it.”

“You talked about my tits.” Just using the words makes Shane feel disgusting. My tits. His tits. He doesn’t fucking have tits.

“Yes,” Ilya says. He sits up and pulls his hand out of Shane’s pants. Evidently, neither of them are really in the mood anymore. “I see many people on the internet do this, with hot men and women. It is not something just for women.”

Shane shakes his head; he’s never seen whatever quirk of language Ilya is describing. Then again, he and Ilya are on very different corners of the internet. 

“Well, I’ve only seen it used for women,” Shane says. “Which, I mean. Apparently everyone thinks I’m girly today, so. I suppose there’s just something in the air.”

Ilya frowns. “Who is saying you are girly? This happened at your photoshoot?”

Shane hesitates. “I mean. Kind of. Not really.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Shane says. “It’s just kind of a thing. People love to act like I'm super feminine. Soft and delicate.”

Ilya’s frown deepens. “This is very stupid,” he says. “Shane Hollander is not delicate.” He smirks. “Could not keep up with me, if you were delicate.”

“Fuck you.” Shane shoves at Ilya’s shoulder. “I do a lot more than just keep up with you.”

“Oh? Who won the scoring race, this season?”

“Shut up.”

Ilya laughs, then leans in to press a kiss to Shane’s forehead. “Did you tell Yuna? So that you will not work with them again?”

Shane shakes his head. “I already told her it went fine.”

“What? Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“Why did you tell her it went good, if it didn’t?”

Shane tries to imagine telling his mother about what happened this morning. What would she have done, if she was there? Would she have said anything? 

Probably not.

“Because it’s not—there’s no point, okay? It doesn’t matter. They got what they needed for the campaign. And it’s good money.”

“But it is making you upset.”

“So? It’s not like this is isolated to this specific brand or crew or anything. It’s just going to happen again. That’s just how it goes, when I look the way that I do.”

Ilya’s frowning again. “I don’t understand,” he says. “This happens a lot?”

The words are like a slap in the face. “All the fucking time.”

Shane should have realized. Of course Ilya, who can grow a playoff beard like nobody’s business, who has blue eyes and dirty blond hair and who didn’t grow up with Yuna Hollander constantly reminding him of how much people would look up to him, would not know what Shane is talking about. There’s no reason for him to have ever learned the intricacies of existing with a face like Shane’s.

“I don’t…why?”

Shane sighs. “It’s…do you remember, when you said I got my looks from my mom?”

“Of course.”

“Well, looking like my mom means that people can tell that I’m half-Asian. If I looked more like my dad, it would be different, but…people have these assumptions about what Asian people are like. It’s not something I can avoid that easily.”

Ilya is silent for a long moment. “I made one of these assumptions, yes? When I used that word?”

Shane hesitates. He’s seen people react well when they’re told about their biases, but he’s seen many more people get defensive and upset. He doesn’t want to deal with that from Ilya.

But he also wants Ilya to know about this. To understand, at least a little. So he forces himself to say, “I mean, kind of. I don’t think it’s intentional or anything. But…yeah.”

Ilya’s expression doesn’t change as he takes in Shane’s words. “You will tell me, when I do this? So that I am not also hurting you?” And then, when Shane hesitates again: “Shane. Please.”

“I’ll try.”

“Okay.” Ilya pulls Shane into his arms and presses a gentle kiss to his forehead. “That is all I need from you, yes? I will make sure to learn the rest.”

Shane’s eyes sting. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Hey, Shane?” Ilya touches his chin, makes Shane look at him.

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

thank you for reading! i would love to hear your thoughts in the comments; i often don't reply to comments nowadays but i will make an effort to respond to folks here, particularly if you want more insight or have opinions on how i've depicted shane's relationship to his asian identity

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