1 – 2 of 2 Works in Shane Hollander Sends the "We Didn't Even Kiss" Text
- Shane Hollander Sends the "We Didn't Even Kiss" Text ×
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JANE: We didn't even kiss "Fuck." Shane presses his forehead against the elevator wall, his eyes fluttering closed against the tears threatening to fall. His vision darkens at the edges and he can't quite catch his breath, his chest aching. He sent it. His finger fucking slipped and he sent it. The text sent.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 8,798
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #76981836
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An alternate ending to episode two in which Shane actually sends the "we didn't even kiss" text. Or, Shane Hollander is down so bad for Ilya Rozanov and is big mad about it. Bye, Hollander. That was it, after everything. After good vodka, after the best view in the city, after quite literally opening himself up to him. And really, by now, he should be used to it. That this is how they operate, that it’s how they must operate. He should be used to the quick roll over in bed and the slam of the invisible door between them. No use crying over spilled milk. But the hole in Shane’s chest isn’t something to be sopped up with a paper towel. It’s alright, kid, they told him in the ballroom, you’ll get the cup next year. You should still eat, they told him in the dining room. Get big, strong, come back swinging next year. The gasp after downing three shots in a row next to Scott fucking Hunter misinterpreted as fervent excitement for the night when it was really just to remind him he’s still alive. Yes, he’d have liked to have won the cup. Of course he’d have liked to win MVP. But there’s something to be said about the way the gold had complimented Ilya’s hair when he held it up and the way his accent had thickened in excitement in the interview. None of that matters now in the dim lighting of the hotel hallway. He walks with a purpose towards the elevators, but not because he wants to. He’d have stood in front of Ilya’s door, jacket draped over his arm, bow tie hanging around his neck, looking for all the world like a scorned lover. But this reality doesn’t allow for that. This reality is going back to his room, too cold because he left the air conditioning running the whole time, and ordering greasy room service food to try to stop the hangover before it happens. This reality is his nose crinkling as he waits for the elevator because he can smell cigarette smoke on his clothes, in his hair, and feel the budding bruises on his hips in the shape of Ilya’s fingers. This reality is cold and cruel, Shane’s body nothing but a canvas for Ilya to paint on and discard for the evening. The elevator is too warm and smells of citrus cleaner, and the doors take too long to shut, and the whole time, Shane stares at the hallway in front of those doors and wonders if he’s making a mistake, if he’s been making mistakes. There’s a clear line in the sand; oh, yes, Ilya’s been very good at remaining on his side of it. But Shane has never much liked the beach, though he used to cheer when he was young and a wave would erase the pictures he drew in the sand with his father. The doors slide shut with a ding, and he presses his floor number. Then another, and another. Four floors are lit up before he stops what he’s doing. His hand trembles slightly as he pulls out his phone. Party invites, goodnights from his parents, an Amazon order notification. He swipes them all away and opens his conversation with Ilya. Lily. The name mocks him in cold, blue light that intensifies the headache beginning to make his eyes throb. The doors slide open behind him, making him jump, but no one joins. He has three more ghost stops before his actual floor. < Jane [draft]: We didn’t even kiss His thumb hovers over the send button. The elevator wobbles beneath his feet. He wonders what it would feel like to crash to the bottom floor in a matter of seconds, untethered. The doors open and close again. The chime is distractingly pleasant, momentarily snapping him out of his melodrama. He edits the message. First deletes ‘even,’ thinks it makes him sound desperate. But he is, isn’t he? That’s where the sick feeling low in his gut is coming from? Because his body knows that after something like that, you’re meant to fall asleep in the still warm bed, sit in a bath, have a drawn out glass of wine. Something, anything other than shoving shaking legs back into suit pants and buttoning up a shirt with fingers sore from being clenched around the sheets. < Jane: We didn’t even kiss “Fuck,” he mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut. He shoves his phone back into his pocket as the elevator doors finally open to reveal the identical hallway of his floor. He’s only two steps onto the carpet when his phone buzzes. It’s embarrassing how quickly it’s back in his hand. > Lily: Why type for so long for small message? Shane stops, standing stupidly in the elevator’s alcove. The implications of the message alone make his head spin. Someone’s TV in their room is much too loud nearby. The ice machine down the hall hums. < Jane: Are you serious?
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 1,820
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #76566841