Chapter Text
May 2019
Montreal
The night was buzzing. The streets of Montreal were packed with young crowds drifting in and out of clubs and bars serving loud music and booze of questionable origin. Eric opened his studio at eight p.m. sharp; reckless kids were his bread and butter on the weekends. Working as a tattoo artist, he’d seen his fair share of people doing wild things and making snap decisions. People who’d drink too much and stumble into the studio in the middle of the night after a club, asking for a tattoo they’d surely regret by morning. Being located in downtown Montreal, sandwiched between two nightclubs, made his shop a prime target for those impulsive moves. Because of that, he had a rock-solid liability waiver—drafted by a top-tier lawyer, no loose ends, no chance of a lawsuit.
Life had been good to him. He had a solid reputation among his clients, gave sound advice, and his fine, delicate linework made him a local favorite. After the disaster of failing to find a decent job with a nursing degree from a bottom-tier college, he’d thought his life was over. It was a friend who told him his sketches were too beautiful to stay on paper and nudged him toward tattooing.
Bless her heart.
And God bless whatever allowed him to witness an actual angel on Earth when a tall Asian man, built like a tank with an angelic face, walked into the studio at two in the morning.
"Good evening." He was sober. That shocked Eric more than his looks; nobody showed up sober at this hour.
"Hi, good evening. What can I do for you today?" Lord, he sounded forced. Of course he did—this man was completely throwing him off his game.
"I’d like to get two tattoos. They’re small, so I think it’ll be quick—not that I know the first thing about tattooing," he said, clearly nervous and being so cute that Eric had to resist the urge to hug him. "But there’s a catch."
"What is it?"
"I need you to sign an NDA."
Eric’s eyes narrowed, scanning the man even more closely. Of course a guy looking like that wouldn't be just anyone. Who was he? Curiosity simmered in his blood, prickling his skin. Well... to find out, he’d have to sign the damn thing.
"Alright, pretty boy. I’ll sign your NDA, you sign my contract, you pay me, and you’ll walk out of here with your first tattoo."
The man gave a shy smile that made Eric’s legs wobble.
"Let me see your ID so I can put your info in the contract."
Eric opened his laptop on the counter, ready to start the paperwork, but the client didn't budge.
"I need you to sign this first," he said, pulling a few pages from an envelope Eric hadn’t even noticed in his hands.
"I can't even know your name first?" The artist was floored. Who was this guy, for God's sake? The Prime Minister's son?
"Sorry, I know you don't recognize me, but it’s really important." He looked away, his cheeks flushing and highlighting a face full of freckles.
Left with little choice, Eric took the papers and signed without even reading. His lawyer friend would probably kill him for it, but curiosity was already eating at his bones. He needed to know everything about this man, and he needed to know now.
When he handed the document back, he finally received the ID. It read: Shane Hollander, born in Ottawa. The name felt like a missed connection. Where did he know a Shane Hollander from? He was famous, clearly; the name rang a bell, and "normal" people don't go around making tattoo artists sign NDAs.
He printed two copies of his own contract and handed them over along with the medical history form. Eric pointed to a corner with a small table meant for clients, unable to resist watching him. He noticed how his new client seemed to read every single word of the contract—the kind of document most people sign without even checking if their own name is spelled right.
"So, did you bring your own ideas, or are you looking for something original?" he asked, already guessing the answer.
Instead of answering, the young man handed him two slips of paper that made zero sense to Eric. One just had a sequence of numbers, mostly separated into groups of four by hyphens. The other had something written in another language. Maybe Japanese? No, he’d watched enough anime to know it wasn't, and he knew for sure it wasn't Korean.
"Please, just tell me you’re one hundred percent sure about what’s written here," he blurted out. Shane laughed.
"I am, don't worry. This one I need you to tattoo exactly as it is. The other one, you can do in your own handwriting—I don't want it perfectly straight anyway. It’s just important that they stay in that exact order."
Still curious but not wanting to push his luck, Eric got to work. After Shane explained the placement, Eric created a stencil of the number sequence, and the other man’s face lit up.
The Russian script—Eric couldn't help but ask the language—was placed at the base of Shane’s spine. It was inside a small rectangle, which wasn't in the original plan, but Eric suggested it be done in an ultra-fine line, and Shane agreed.
The numerical sequence followed the natural curve of Shane’s iliac crest, and Eric needed every ounce of self-control not to be a creep and stare at an abdomen that looked like it had been carved by a Renaissance artist. He concluded Shane must be an athlete; not even models had a physique like that.
He was biting his tongue to keep from asking what the numbers meant. They couldn't be important dates because they included things like 1410 and 2481. Man, he wanted to ask Shane Hollander to write a book on the meaning behind his ink.
"Keep the tattoos well-moisturized. I’ll give you a sample cream, but you should pick up a full tube at the pharmacy tomorrow. And I don't need to tell you not to scratch them, even if it feels impossible, right?"
"You got it. I'll take good care of them." He didn't even need to say it; if Shane cared for his tattoos the way he cared for the rest of his body, they’d last a lifetime without needing a touch-up.
"If you can stop by in fifteen days so I can check the healing, that would be great."
"Um, I won't be in Montreal in two weeks... I have a game in the States. But the season is wrapping up; can I come by next month? Or I could send you a photo? As long as you promise to delete it immediately. Seriously, I can't risk this leaking to the press under any circumstances."
"Shane, I figured that much when you made me sign an NDA at two in the morning. Before tonight, I’d only seen that kind of thing in movies. My number is on the contract, send the photo, and I promise it’s gone as soon as I see it."
"Right." He rubbed the back of his neck, looking away again.
"One day, when you don't have to hide anymore, I hope you tell me what kind of madness I helped Shane Hollander commit." This earned an honest laugh from the other man.
"You don't follow hockey, do you? It’s funny, I’m not used to talking to people who have no clue who I am."
"Nah. A bunch of guys chasing a puck isn't really my thing, no matter how hot they are. Should I ask for an autograph?"
"No, please. I like pretending I'm normal," he replied, laughing. "Thanks, Eric. If my..." he hesitated before continuing, "if my boyfriend likes it, he’ll probably send you a very over-the-top gift. If it’s too absurd, just text me and I’ll handle him."
Eric resisted the urge to translate the tattoo he’d just finished. To avoid temptation, he tore the sketches into dozens of tiny pieces; he had to respect the client's privacy. What he couldn’t resist was googling who the hell Shane Hollander was. He nearly fell out of his chair when he realized he’d just tattooed the Prince of Hockey. His first celebrity client, and he couldn't tell a soul because he’d signed an NDA.
June 2019
Montreal
Eric found it odd when he turned the corner and saw a man in a suit leaning against his storefront. He was carrying a briefcase and had a badge hanging from his neck, though the details were tucked under his blazer. A movie played in his head—his health permits were up to date, no recent complaints... what could it be?
"Eric Porter?" the man asked as Eric approached to unlock the studio.
"I have a delivery for you. Need you to sign here, please." The man held out a paper. Eric stepped inside, reading it, nothing major, just a proof of delivery for goods, the kind of thing he signed weekly for suppliers. But this man wasn't a supplier.
He signed the paper and handed it back, receiving a very thick manila envelope in return with a card stapled to it. On the card, it simply said: Спасибо (Thank you)
No signature, nothing, but he recognized the Cyrillic alphabet from last month’s tattoo. The gift from Shane Hollander’s boyfriend had finally arrived.
Eric almost passed out when he opened the envelope to find stacks of US dollars. Serious money. Ten thousand dollars exactly, he discovered after counting. He was being paid ten thousand USD for a tattoo he’d charged one hundred and fifty Canadian dollars for.
Shane Hollander was right when he said the gift would be over-the-top. Totally absurd.
He grabbed his phone and texted his client immediately.
To: Shane Hollander
“He sent me ten thousand dollars. I can’t accept this, it’s way too much.”
“Haha, I showed him yesterday, he went crazy for it. Keep it, you earned it. They look perfect and I’ve never seen this man so happy.”
“Shane.”
“Eric, I’m a very rich man. If you complain, I’ll send another ten thousand.”
It was clear that last message didn't come from his client. Eric sat down, still unable to believe his luck. That money would change everything; he could stop working the graveyard shift, move the studio to normal hours, and finally have a life. He wiped a stray tear from his face.
To: Shane Hollander
“Thank you.”
March 2021
Montreal
Eric was having lunch at a downtown restaurant with friends when the news broke. He wasn't paying attention to the TV, of course; Anna was telling a juicy story about her new boyfriend’s family. It was her boyfriend who pointed at the screen.
"Oh my god, I don't believe it."
The sports channel was on, and the screen was split between the anchors and a grainy video of two men kissing. The headline read: "Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov caught kissing in fanmail."
Shane Hollander... Eric couldn't help but feel sad for the guy. He’d been so kind; he didn't deserve to be outed like that on national TV. He had a right to a life outside the spotlight.
"Who’s Ilya Rozanov?" he asked his friend's boyfriend, Liam.
"He’s the best player in the league," Liam said, shell-shocked. "Actually, he’s tied for the top spot with Hollander... God... I can't believe this."
"Rozanov? Is he Russian?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
"Yeah."
Eric felt even worse for his client. How long had they been hiding that relationship? Shane Hollander wouldn't get a tattoo for something recent; from the little Eric knew of him, he was sure of that.
He didn't think Hollander would ever contact him again, but two weeks later, the same suited man from years ago walked into the studio just before closing time, this time carrying a box.
"Eric Porter, please sign here."
Eric signed without reading this time, too curious. The man had barely left before he was tearing the box open. The first thing he saw was a frame, about 12x16 inches, with a photo of Shane Hollander’s back. He was wearing low-waisted dark pants, and the tattoo Eric had done was right there, lines intact at the base of his spine. The photo had two autographs: his client’s and his boyfriend’s, Ilya Rozanov. He couldn't help but laugh. It was clear this hadn't been Shane’s idea. He’d love to meet Rozanov, the guy seemed to have a great sense of humor.
“Dear Eric, I saw on your Instagram that you have frames of your work on other clients. I think it’s unfair you don’t have one of my fiancé, so I decided to provide it. Спасибо I.R.”
He took a photo and sent it to the contact he’d never deleted.
To: Shane Hollander
“Tell him I’ll find a good spot for you guys.”
“He says he’s going to book an appointment with you next off-season.”
“Can I finally ask what it says now?”
“You never googled the translation?”
Shane clearly found that shocking; he was obviously surrounded by people who didn't give a damn about his privacy.
To: Shane Hollander
“I wanted to respect your privacy. If you wanted people to know, you would’ve done it in English or French.”
“That’s kind of you. Thank you.”
“Well?”
“Property of Ilya Rozanov.”