Dedicated To Gay Fictional Assholes

Their first kid: Daddy look! Papa made us Scotty nuggets.

No—it’s because one thing Ilya knows is two things for certain. One: Shane is the best. THE best. Ilya talks a big game and he can back it up because he’s a generational talent in his own right, sure, but he is not Shane Hollander. He teases his husband and calls him “second best player in the league” because it gets Shane in a mood that always leads to fun (and that’s business that stays between Ilya, several ruined sets of sheets, and the thin walls of multiple hotel rooms). When you get down to it, he’s the famous and amazing Ilya Rozanov, yes, but that’s…that’s Shane Hollander. Shane “break the internet, top two and I ain’t number two” Hollander. Shane Thee Hollander.

Two: despite being Shane Thee Hollander, first of his name, baddest of bitches, and the Beyoncé of their field (and a cutie patootie on top of all that), Shane is not loud about his accomplishments—and Ilya thinks he should be. Shane lets the accomplishments speak for themselves. He achieves, breaks records, wins and wins and fucking wins some more, and just keeps going. He’s a force of nature. Ilya thinks his husband should have an opportunity to be loud, braggadocious, and downright obnoxious if and when he wants because, again, he’s Shane fucking Hollander.

So when Shane starts off a conversation with “I’m going to say something kind of mean,” Ilya rolls out the proverbial red carpet. Talk your shit, baby. I’m all ears.

“He’s really confident for someone with such low shooting accuracy.” Exactly. The nerve of him to even breathe your air, much less chirp at you.

“…but if I showed up in that outfit, Twitter would never let me hear the end of it!” You’re so right. He looked awful.

“Fuck him! And not in the good way!” Yup! Say it again! Matter of fact, let me get you a microphone.

“I love Hayden—as a friend, Ilya, Jesus—but maybe a vasectomy is a good idea.” I’d put ten babies in you if I could, but you’re still absolutely right about this. Jackie’s had enough.

“I respect Scott, but he’s not exactly in his prime, you know?” Scott is a dinosaur. It’s a miracle that he dodged the asteroid and made it this long without turning into dust. We should call and tell him ourselves.

“Our wedding was better.” Of course it was. I got to marry you. Any event with you at the center is the best. All the others are bullshit.

“I’m not taking that shit from some fucker with a receding hairline and no points for an entire season. Pick a struggle, asshole.” We should book him a flight to Turkey for one of those procedures. Can’t fix the other thing, though.