Chapter Text
Shane’s rule, once sturdy and stead-fast in its nature, falters not even a week after discovering the rising rockstar; Ilya Rozanov.
He’d been insistent that with all things related to work, he would not bring them into his personal life. He would keep interesting topics at the office, and come back for them the next day. He was supposed to focus on himself outside of work.
That principle shrinks on itself and melts into a pile of dust. Nonexistent and useless against the demand of someone so capturing.
So he finds himself coming off of work, still caught by the whims of Rozanov. He scours the internet for flakes of this man— anything, if it could mean that he’s graced with such stunning sound and energy.
Rozanov is entrancing, he discovers in his journey. The man is relentless and unapologetic in nature. He exists as a force so unforgiving that all you have left in hand is a shred of your own dignity. His energy intensifies in his music, as if it were a translator for a language so explicit and expressive.
And Shane has never seen anything like this before.
Of course, as a journalist, he has seen people who rise to fame and spend the rest of their lives tucked under the bright wing of the spotlight. Yet never like this.
Perhaps it’s because Ilya Rozanov never shared that blanket of light with other personalities. Instead, he forged his own through a blaze that burned in his heart only. He manifested it into something intangible, something only unique to him. Maybe that is what made him stand out to Shane; the fact that his light was much different.
Everything about Ilya Rozanov was entrancing.
His music, which would melt Shane into nothing but the stardust he started with. Such sounds that were created with not only precision in mind, but an affection towards all that is explicit and sensual. It was intoxicating to listen to, often leaving Shane dazed and stunned by what music could truly do.
Shane was never really interested in music either way. He didn’t listen to much, and often found himself in podcasts or audio books before choosing music. This was his only exception. His rule breaker once more.
It seemed that recently, Ilya Rozanov was the source of Shane’s fractured habits.
His appearance didn’t help either. Rozanov left Shane confused and at a loss for words. Not because he didn’t know if he was gay or not. He knew— to some extent. He wasn’t fully accepting of who he truly was, but he knew that in the end, he would settle for a man if he had a choice.
Rozanov was a clear reminder of that.
He unmistakably used the gym often, given his many photos shared online depicting his after work-out looks. His hair was bunched up into soft curls that almost seemed cherubic, twinkling underneath lighting as a soft, pale blond. His eyes, as striking as they were, shared the limelight with his prominent moles, which added a childish touch to his rather defined face.
Yet amongst all were his piercings. They added a harmonious brutality to his already confusingly stunning face. Ilya Rozanov had three lobe piercings on each side, all dressed with small, golden hoops. In some pictures, a ring even adorned his helix, often swapping sides.
There had even been rumors circulating that the man also had pierced nipples, which instantly released an incorrigible heat throughout Shane’s body. There was something about the plausible knowledge of an attractive man keeping a secret such as nipple piercings.
However, Ilya Rozanov’s lip piercing stood out the most to Shane. It sat snugly in the middle against his plush bottom lip, leaving a sweet indent into the flesh. Golden like the rest of his jewelry, it was impossible to resist once the lights caught on it. It was like a memoir to the sounds that come out of the man’s mouth once on stage, a reminder of what is kept behind those lips.
It was simply too irresistible. It was so alike of this man.
It would be wrong to reduce such talent down to appearance. So as Shane continued to study Ilya Rozanov and his budding career, he focused more on his throttling sound rather than its physical manifestation. And maybe, just maybe, did he keep a little bit of that locked away in the wrinkles of his brain, like a sweet reminder of how music could present itself through people.
❧
With a bit of his next paycheck, some savings, and a few strings pulled by the press company, Shane is able to attend a concert with press privileges.
Meaning he might get barricade if the other concert goers don’t take over instantly after the doors open, and he will have to rush and explain his way down to the backstage; all in hopes that he will be able to catch Ilya Rozanov for a few questions in his article.
Shane knows that won’t be enough. He studies the truth behind people. What manifests them and in these cases, the reality behind their music.
A few questions simply won’t be enough. Yet he can’t ask for more, because the press company had made it an ultimatum with the press tickets. They won’t sponsor something like this— especially not for Shane, who is only a staff writer under the company. Even if his writing is impressive, he is still inexpensive to a company who could find better journalists than him.
It’s fine. He’ll continue with this project until he can’t anymore. If he ends up with less than enough information, then he’ll just call it quits and force himself to quickly scramble up something before the deadline. He’s done it before, and as much as he hates doing it, he’ll do it again if it means he gets to keep his job.
Even if a part of him pleads to not abandon something— someone, like Ilya Rozanov.
Shane pulls every fiber of himself, tying them together with the promise that he won’t.
❧
With each time, a constant opinion rattles his brain; concerts are scary and honestly not worth it.
They’re loud, bustling with people, and an overall nightmare to those who don’t do well around crowds. All you hear before the artist goes on stage is chatter. Chatter at such an immense level it makes you reprimand yourself for not bring a set of earplugs, muffling headphones, something.
And it doesn’t matter how small the venue is, or how spread out the seats are. People will continue to brush up against one another, sacrificing the concept of space for extra room. They will continue to shove past to get to their seats, mindlessly floating by without a single regard for respect.
It seems as if everyone is scrambled and unorganized before the act of the night comes on stage. It is when those people, once clueless in their journey, find the closest seat or the nearest handle, and set themselves straight to face the artist. Only then, it happens.
Shane watches it all happen. How the lights begin to dim and instruments begin to softly play their opening. How the crowd of the venue settles into a silence, so expecting and of awe that they wait, this time finally with a patience once forgotten. It is in this part where they savor the fruits of the moment, letting the flavor of time bleed onto them and douse them with a clear event worth reminiscing.
He is one of those people.
When the show of Ilya Rozanov’s artistry begins, Shane is stunned into where he stands.
If Rozanov had been an enigma online, professing his sound through the speakers of Shane’s devices, then he was an undeniable explosion on the stage. He burned and blew like a supernova, yet pulled his crowd in like a black hole. Shane found that in this moment, Rozanov was the finest creation to set foot on Earth. He was irrefutable in all of his aspects, leaving him in the minds of everyone.
And his music, lord his music. It was one thing to hear it in concert videos or on streaming services, but it was another to witness it in person. It was as if he’d become much more clearer and precise, yet all while being reckless. It was indescribable how his sound had become much more pronounced, Shane didn’t know it was possible.
He knew his way around the guitars, strumming along the strings with an unforgiving touch. The pick held tightly between his fingers, and his other hand fleeting across the fretboard frantically. He played these guitars with a defined aggression, one that only screamed what he felt in himself.
When Ilya Rozanov didn’t have the guitar in hand, he had his microphone. Grasping onto either its stand or the object itself, he crooned into the microphone with a sharp tone. His voice, deep and strong, ran right through Shane like relentless energy. It stirred within him, restless and aching to gather more of that intriguing voice.
He was sensual upon the stage, a pure figure of untamed fire and the forbidden. Shane was weak in letting his eyes marvel over the lights or sparklers, because they’d been glued to the musician the moment he appeared. He was a part of Rozanov’s hivemind, fruitless in thought and willing to do whatever he said.
❧
When the show ends, Shane is left stunned.
The crowd begins to make their way out, restless in their need to see Ilya Rozanov leave the venue.
Yet Shane stands, eyes wide at the now empty stage.
There’s confetti on the stage that gets swept up by the soft draft in the venue. There’s some at his feet, crunching beneath his soles. The lights are bright and illuminating the room, and the crowd chatter begins to shrink away.
He stands entranced, processing what he’d just witnessed. He’s a journalist, he’s seen things. Yet this might be on his top ten list of the most stunning experiences. The concert was compelling. Ilya Rozanov was nothing short of an addictive person.
It takes a moment for Shane to uproot himself from where he stands, and when he does, it isn’t because he has to leave.
It’s because he still needs to do what he came here for; his job, trying to get some answers out of the musician.
The thought rocks him steady, and soon Shane is washed with a wave of dread. He’d spent the last 10 minutes in the revelation of Ilya’s show, and now he might’ve missed the man entirely. He could be swamped with other journalists, leaving Shane with no way to get in and ask for his piece.
So he scrambles and runs off into the direction of the backstage area. His shoes slap against the smooth concrete of the stadium, and his press tag swings on his torso like a pendulum. He has his recorder somewhere in his pocket, the device jumping around with how he runs with such determination.
He can’t lose him. If he does, he has nothing to write. He doesn’t have enough money to see another show. He won’t, not ever, if he doesn’t get this article in.
He runs, frantic and searching, when dreadfully a security personnel stops him right in his warpath.
“Hey!” The man shouts, palm stretched outward and pressing into Shane’s chest. He stops with a pant, glancing at whoever’s stopped him.
The man is relatively bulky and dressed in all black, squints at him like Shane were to be the ant at the boot, “Where do you think you’re off to?”
Shane huffs and swallows down the rock in his throat. Panting, he lifts up the press tag at his neck, and displays it for the security guard. The man tugs at his lanyard, pulling Shane closer to him by just an inch. As he reads the tag, he glances up at Shane and then backs down.
“Pretty sure he’s gone already,” the man sighs, a flat frown set into his face, “Press went back there five minutes ago.” He drops the lanyard, letting it slap down onto where it rests right at the top of Shane’s stomach.
There’s no way Rozanov would’ve left that quick. He would have to get out of his costume and make sure everything’s back to him— the guitar and microphone. Shane glances back over to the stage. He can only see a glimpse of it from where he is, but he can make out the microphone and the tuning knobs of Ilya’s guitar.
“Let me get back there, please,” Shane pleads, wincing when he shifts and the pain in his feet flares.
“You’re not gonna find anything back there, dude,” the guard sighs, “Can’t let ya.”
Shane grinds his teeth and flits towards the ceiling before facing the man once more, “He’s back there, I know he is— let me through, please!”
The man, all of brute strength and control, blocks Shane who tries to dash past him and storm into those doors, “You don’t know shit, bud, he’s gone already.”
A woman, security personnel just like this man, stands off to the side on the edge of the stage. She has a thick, black cable in her hands, and as she wraps it around itself by her shoulder and elbow, she glances down at her coworker.
“Rick, help me with the cords for a minute here,” She calls from the stage.
The security guard— Rick, glances back up at her and then Shane before letting out a drawn huff.
“Stay here.” He presses his pointer finger into Shane’s chest, burning demanding eyes at him as he goes to assist his coworker.
The man hops up on the stage, his back facing Shane who leans against a barricade. Shane watches him as he follows the woman behind a large speaker, presumably sorting out the cables plugged into it. He watches as the bulky man turns into a shadow, and soon becomes invisible entirely.
He tuts and plays around with the idea of fleeing.
The security guard is occupied now. His focus isn’t on Shane anymore. It was such a foolish mistake to leave someone so insistent to get backstage alone. Shane sees it to be even more of a mistake to stand around waiting for some person to remind him even further of Rozanov’s whereabouts.
Shane storms down to the doors, pushing them open to be met with a long hallway. Employees run up and down with equipment in tow. No one notices him; a young man gaping like a crazed person.
He doesn’t know where to start. There’s so many doors that could lead to rooms where the star might be. If he were to search around, he would look suspicious. Besides, he is not dressed in the uniform these personnel wear. He stands out like a sore thumb in a relatively casual outfit, hopefully fit for the whole vibe of Ilya’s show.
So he wanders around, hoping to catch the attention of some busy bee for just a moment. Perhaps they could tell him where Rozanov’s presence really is.
As he begins to cover the stretch of the hallway, a woman almost bumps into him.
“Shit— sorry!” The woman is scowling at him. In her hands are a couple of small boxes, wrapped in tape with their edges worn and rounds. “Wait, don’t go—“
She sighs at him, raising an eyebrow, “What is it? You must be that new hire everyone was talking about.” This woman is different from the one who distracted that guy— Rick was his name.
“What? No,” Shane scrambles, lifting his badge to show the security lady, “I’m press, see?”
That seems to tick the woman off even more, because her eyes flit up towards the piping of the ceiling and the groan let out from her chest is only filled with an eternal fatigue. “Press time is over.” She cradles the boxes closer to herself, and sways with impatience.
“No, can’t be,” Shane barks back, keeping the woman from fleeing to wherever she needs to be.
She squints at him and huffs, “Listen— you wanna go back there? Last door all the way down on your right.” The woman snaps before charging off, bumping into Shane once again as she blazes down the hallway.
Shane mumbles a ‘thank you’, but the woman is already out of sight. He shrugs off the intense encounter, and storms his way down the long corridor.
Continuing to make his way down, he notices how the employees begin to thin out. There are some people who come out of doors, yet they aren’t as crowded and rushed as upfront. The lights, fluorescent and bright, nag at the migraine beginning to form in his head. The walls of this area don’t help either. They’re a pale grey, almost white. Yet they are of cinder blocks, shiny and reflecting the lights above.
Soon, he comes close to the door.
Unlike the other doors, this one is black. Posted on the surface is a piece of paper, taped recklessly around the corners.
This paper reads ‘artist’, and that alone releases a wary huff from Shane.
That employee didn’t take him to where the press gathers, she took him to the room where Ilya Rozanov gets prepared for the stage. Should he even be here?
He shoves a hand down his pocket and grasps onto the recorder sitting in there,
Fuck it.
Raising a hand, he knocks on the door brashly. Fist pounding, the door rattles against the hinges slightly. And as he does so, his ribcage shrinks in on itself, drawing his lungs tight and exasperating his heart.
There’s a brief moment of tense silence. Shane stands there, pressing his finger into a hangnail. The recorder becomes slick in his hold, wet from the sweat coating his hands.
Maybe he is late. Rozanov is sure taking a long time. He’s left already. Shane is late and he’s going to be doomed. He won’t have anything to give to his boss, won’t have anything to make an article out of. He’s so incredibly fuc—
The door swings open, and a drawn out groan slips from the space between the threshold.
Shane must be at death’s door with the way a sensation of dread swells in his body.
Before Shane stands Ilya Rozanov, hunched into a worn sweatsuit. His hair drips water from his curls, evident of a shower. His skin is flushed with a tender glow, contrasting the smudged eyeliner around his eyes. Amongst all of his state, his piercings catch onto the fluorescent lighting, twinkling with a golden touch.
“Hi, I’m Sh—“
“Who let you back here?” The artist snips, filled with such aversion that it stops Shane short in his introduction.
He grips onto the recorder in his pocket, “What?”
“Everyone’s gone. You missed press party,” Rozanov begins, his words catching onto a Russian accent that intrigues Shane. He knew this man had somewhat of an accent, yet in person it seems to be much stronger than that of YouTube interviews and common conversations leaked online.
He shifts himself into place. Okay. If he can escape from some brute of a man, convince a woman who seemed to condemn his existence, then he can convince Ilya Rozanov to share his word. All is well.
“Good thing I don’t like parties?” Shane squeaks, tripping over his own mouth in a chance to redeem himself to this man.
Rozanov snorts, his eyes settling into something much placid than before. His mouth tinges into a crooked smile, faint yet there.
“You and me are not alike, then,” He shares, and Shane presses down on the recording button on his device, a subtle click that he hopes Ilya did not hear.
He chuckles, stiff and pent up, “Yeah,”
A still silence falls between the two of them. Anxiety licks at Shane’s skin, and he knows he has an awkward flush settling over his face. He’s never been good at this part; the talking and the questions and just people in general. It’s a secret he’s never been in on.
He’s the writer. He caves himself away and lets himself loose on paper, computers, whatever it may be. He is like a newborn foal to speaking. He doesn’t do this.
So he glances everywhere that isn’t Ilya before him. His arm that braces itself against the doorknob, setting the rest of his tired body relaxed. He catches onto the small stains at the bottom of Ilya’s pants, they seem to be from bleach. The lip piercing, bold and striking against skin, peers at Shane and pleads for his attention. He gives in.
There’s the subtle hint of Ilya swallowing before he widens the door, stepping off to the side, “You can come in?”
Shane enters, watching Rozanov from the corner of his eye as he steps into the break room.
The door shuts with a soft thud, and Shane studies his surroundings. There’s multiple coat racks, with clothing hung from them neatly; they must be Ilya’s costumes for the stage. Along the wall of the small room is a single vanity, bulbs lit alight and a glass counter covered in products. In the far corner of the room is a couch, leather with a blanket thrown over it.
Ilya flits around behind him. Something clatters onto the floor, and Shane whips around to find Ilya picking up a packet of cigarettes.
No wonder it smells like smoke in here.
He watches as the man flicks the packet open and pulls out a singular cigarette, “You smoke?” He croaks, keeping Shane’s attention as he nurses the cigarette between his lips.
“I uh— No, I don’t,” Shane swallows. The lip piercing digs further into Ilya’s bottom lip as he presses the cigarette onto it. Continuing to watch him, Shane catches the hand that reaches down into Ilya’s own pocket to reveal a bright red lighter.
Ilya sparks the lighter, flame catching onto the cigarette, all whilst keeping Shane on him.
Shane has to look away when Ilya’s cheeks hollow around the cigarette, the tinge of smoke tickling his nose and a familiar roil settling into his stomach. He’s insistent to figure out what tight-liner Ilya happens to use, trying to make out the writing on the pencil from where he stands far from the vanity.
He can hear the whistle of Ilya’s exhale, letting out the excess smoke. He pinches at the fabric of his pocket.
Ilya strolls beside him, crossing the distance to take a seat on the couch. The leather squeaks as he slumps into the cushioning, bringing his legs close into a cross.
“Take a seat, yes?” He then says, voice gravelly from the cigarette laying limp between his fingers.
Shane nods gingerly and creeps towards the couch, all whilst his bones rattle with a fire one can only assume comes from the burn of eyes.
He takes a seat stiffly, sinking into the cushions of the couch but never actually settling into them like Ilya has. He has to retrieve his hand from his pocket, forcibly laying both of them on his lap like he’s a prim and proper person.
“You are very awkward for a journalist,” Rozanov chides.
Shane snaps his head to face him, encountering the view of a man well relaxed into his cigarette and couch, “What?” He pants.
Ilya flicks the cigarette, letting the ash fall somewhere on the concrete floor, “I said you are awkward,” he tilts his head, a sparkle glimmering somewhere deep in his eyes.
He then sits up, “Is okay though, I will ask myself questions if I have to,” he sets the cigarette in the corner of his lips, muffled by the intrusion as he speaks.
Shane toys with his fingers, wringing the sweat out of them, “No! I can ask—“
“Ah, Ilya, how do you make such good music?” The man chirps, looking up to the ceiling with a mirth set into his face, “What is your album about this time?” Goading, he shifts as he mocks the questions.
Shane remembers he’s still recording, and frantically reaches into his pocket to reveal the device, “I’m uh, recording this. By the way.”
Ilya pauses and squints at the device being presented to him, “Hm,” he grunts, his demeanor falling into something Shane struggles trying to read.
“This is the first time someone has told me,” The man muses, “Recording me, yes— that is your job, no?”
Shane holds onto Rozanov’s eyes, all whilst wariness releases itself through his body relentlessly. As he fiddles with the device in his hands, Ilya’s eyes twinkle in the light with a blue youth. Yet amongst those edges, lies hardened and tense fatigue.
“Yeah, it is,” Shane huffs, faint and demure in the space between them.
This time, Shane doesn’t flee when Ilya sinks his cheeks around the cigarette. He watches as the man draws out the smoke, taking in a breath as he releases the cigarette to his fingers.
Ilya sighs through his nose, the smoke coming out from his nostrils as he peers at Shane through his eyelashes, “What is your name?”
Shane swallows the rock in his throat, letting it blaze in the bile of his stomach, “Shane Hollander. For The Montreal Press.” He rushes, ears melting into warmth he can only presume floats onto his cheeks.
Ilya draws in closer, throwing an arm over the back of the leather couch. Shane can smell the smoke coming off from him, as if he’d reached the aftermath of his supernova-like performance, now wallowing in the embers lurking around.
“Did not ask who you work for,” The leather groans as Ilya grips onto the beginning of the back cushion, “Just for your name.”
Shane latches onto the bracelets on the arm Ilya keeps across the couch. He does everything in his power not to look the man in the eyes. To see that lurching blaze deep within their steel nature, and set himself alight like a lunatic.
“Shane Hollander,” He gasps, watching as the veins of Ilya’s arm protrude when he grips further into the cushion.
The man hums a low rumble in his chest. The final crackle of the cigarette burning dances swiftly in the air between them, and when the cigarette is done Ilya plucks it from his lips and drops it onto the floor. He sighs, letting the smoke lurk into the atmosphere around them, the last to witness the force of his lungs.
“I am Ilya Rozanov, but you know that, yes?”
Shane nods, weak as he makes eye contact with Ilya, “Yes.”
Ilya’s tongue flits out to play with the piercing nestled on his bottom lip, and Shane grips onto his own fingers until they flare with pain.
“Ask me your questions, Shane.” Not Mr. Hollander. Not Mr. Shane Hollander. Just Shane.
Shane peers at the man as he places the device between them, making it known that the recording is still in session. He inhales tightly, scrambling to get his bearings straight as he navigates the incorrigible energy radiating from Ilya, who seems to watch him with a keen interest.
“So, um— Sorry,” Shane coughs, “I uh— I would like to start with your new single, Core.”
Ilya hums, hand gesturing to usher him further,
“Congratulations on keeping number one— um, how do you feel about that?”
The man glances up at the ceiling as if to broadcast his process of thinking, sighing as he does so. His eyes then flit down to the device, and a grin picks at his lips.
“Is how it should always be, yes? I am always number one,” Ilya chuckles, raising a hand to fiddle at the golden crucifix settled at the base of his neck.
Gingerly Shane nods, “Yes— certainly,”
“Is there a particular message behind this uh, this new single?” Shane shifts, beginning to settle into the couch.
There’s something pleased in Ilya’s expression as he watches Shane gradually melt into the leather, “I guess so,” he croons, eyes flat out boring into Shane’s profile.
Shane crosses his arms across his chest, long sleeve shirt tensing around the muscles. They boil with Ilya’s eyes set unabashedly on them, and Shane shifts awkwardly in the unruly flame.
“Would you like to share?”
Ilya smiles. A full on grin that shows the pearls of his teeth, one that works seamlessly with the golden ring sitting flush on his bottom lip.
“Yes, I will share.”
Shane continues to ask the artist more questions. He stumbles over his words, trying to shrink himself from the demanding presence of Ilya Rozanov, who sits beside him with a force leaking from every pore. It’s an undeniable feat, and Shane reckons the security guard and employee were much easier than this despite their brashness.
When he runs out of questions, he falls short, heart stumping and badgering into his ribcage with a desire to crawl free. Beside him, Ilya has now rested his head on a fist, staring at Shane with a hint plastered across his face.
“I um— I believe I’m done?” Shane announces, wincing at Ilya who only presents a sort of adored smile, one with a certain softness wrapped around it.
“You are,” He shifts, and stands up from the couch.
Ilya stretches, taking his arms above his head and pulling his body taut with a drawn out yawn. Shane burns as he catches the sliver of skin from the gap between Ilya’s shirt and pants, swiftly flitting his eyes away to focus on the numerous costumes hung up on the clothing hooks.
“You can turn that off now,” Ilya points towards the device, and Shane rushes to press at the side of the recorder to finish the recording.
He gulps, squeezing his eyes closed before facing Ilya once more, “Ah, sorry.”
A hand— Ilya’s— reaches towards Shane, palm open to the world, “Is getting late, no?”
Shane glances from the hand, adorned with a few rings, to Ilya who cocks an eyebrow at him.
“Yes, yes it is,” Shane grasps the hand and lets Ilya pull him up. The act, while demure, sets his bones into a constant of molten steel.
Ilya begins to slowly crowd Shane to the door, “It was nice to speak to you, Mr. Hollander,” he giggles, childlike and soft.
When Shane stands at the threshold of Ilya’s dressing room, he faces the man with an unbridled blaze he can’t seem to place, “You as well, Rozanov,” He replies, waiting for Ilya to shut the door on him. Yet he doesn’t.
He studies Shane for one moment, miniscule yet unabashed as he lets his eyes roam the beginnings of his body. Shane’s skin rumbles with a fire that only fuels his flush further. He’s stiff and awkward under the microscope of Ilya’s scrutiny, wavering like a prey.
“No need to call me Rozanov,” The man begins, croaking around an exhale, “I am Ilya to you.”
The door shuts, and Shane stands before the door, stark and tense in the now empty hallway.
When he does finally leave, he falls on one thought;
Ilya Rozanov is an extremely hard person to read, despite his blunt nature.
And when he finally comes home, feet worn, head sore, he’s hit with the revelation that broods only worry in him;
He left the recorder.