Chapter Text
"You aren't supposed to vape in here," Shane says, fighting against the internal cringe cutting across his body as @mishkanov81 slowly spins his chair ninety degrees to face Shane, mouth already poised over his pen for another hit.
Shane hears the whistling pull of the machine as @mishkanov81 draws in another breath, sculpted cheeks hollowing. The concave dip is heightened by the player lounge's dim ambient light offset by red LEDs that track the edge of the room, a red mirrored by the six Alienware desktops and keyboards arranged in the small, converted break room. The designer might have been going for cool and edgy, but the way the colors catch @mishkanov81's smoke on exhale feels illicit enough Shane needs to steel himself to not feel hopelessly out of place.
"You tell?"
"No, of course not. But..." Shit, this was not how Shane wanted this introduction to go. There were only a couple days left of this media bootcamp based out of a Saskatchewan marketing agency he found as part of his pitch to his parents about going pro. It has been helpful, but he has not had a chance to meet everyone across the cohorts because they have been more siloed than Shane anticipated, with more management types than content creators. But today, as Shane finished his last one-on-one training for the day, he had peeked through the blinds of the lounge and saw @mishkanov81 pulling off his headphones, swiveling in his chair in boredom. Shane hoped to catch him at the end of a session or (as is the case, judging by his screen) waiting for a Counter-Strike lobby of a high enough ELO; Shane hoped to... he wasn't sure. Make an impression on the only other trainee than Shane who already had an sizable subscriber base? An impression which he is making—as a narc.
"Is banan and..." @mishkanov81 fiddles the pen, perhaps trying to place a word just out of reach. "Frukt," he settles on, accent heavy enough on the ending that Shane isn't sure what he means until he anunciates with a hard T upon repetition: "Fruit. He is like perfume."
"Cool. For sure." Shane nods, forcing a smile because that is what he has been told is friendly. Disarming, when he is not sure where to go next. "I'm Shane Hollander," he says to dig himself out of talking about @mishkanov81's vaping habit. "@SHollander, too." He steps closer, hand extended.
@mishkanov81 checks his screen again (no luck) before he lays his pen beside his mouse and says, "I know your name. Is in packet." Still, he leans forward—"Rozanov"—with hand reaching, then hand grasping Shane's, shaking it—Rozanov's palms are soft with slight callouses at the fingertips and strong grip that finishes quickly because, finally, the screen changes, signaling a match found.
The game pulls Rozanov's attention for a moment as quickly reviews the profiles of the other players on his and his opponent's teams. Shane watches him work, watches the quick jerks of his mouse, the way he lingers overlong on one name with a terrible ping before moving on. All together it's for less than a minute, however, because Rozanov is kicked out of the match, likely on account of the guy with bad connection. He mutters something low in Russian, clearly a curse but doesn't join a new lobby. Instead, he turns back to Shane, eyebrows furrowed as if in question.
Should Shane have left? Or... maybe sat down? He is about to open his mouth and trust in whatever comes out when he feels a pit of anxiety overtake him. Fuck. Whatever. He had time to make the very connections he promised his parents would help build his audience. He didn't need Rozanov's approval.
"Well, we aren't going to interact much, I guess. Different cohorts, which you already know." Shane's training cohort is focused on building engagement, and Rozanov's is on breaking into international (read: North American) markets. "Just wanted to say I like your trick shot compilations. On YouTube. Inspired me with my own channel. So thanks."
Shane reaches out for another handshake. Rozanov reaches for it again, and it's over quicker than Shane expects. Alright, then.
"My mom is picking me up, so I'll leave you to matchmaking." Shane begins to back up, when Rozanov's voice cuts through the din of Shane's awkwardness.
"Halo, you play, yes?"
Shane brightens at being recognized, instantly turning back to Rozanov. "Three, yeah. I also run Titanfall and Splatoon, but they don't have a big competitive scene yet so—"
"Fsh, you waste talent."
"What?
"Children's games with fake guns." Rozanov holds holds his hands up as if clutching a sniper, aiming at Shane's belly, then jostles as of taking a shot. "Come to real game."
"Real game. Like let me guess, CS and CoD? The ones you play?" Shane asks.
Rozanov responds only with an impish smirk as he grabs his vape pen again, coolly sucking another hit and blowing a slow steam in Shane's direction.
Shane laughs, hovering between indignant and charmed at the snub. Rozanov just plays it off to well, Shane doesn't feel bullied so much as challenged as he once did in peewee hockey and as he does now, between matches at Halo LAN tournaments.
"Sure. Okay. Good luck with your—" Shane waves at the screen, and walks off, hands slipping into pockets in an effort to contain the way he feels electric at such simple ribbing.
"See you at coffee breaks," Rozanov calls after Shane as he crosses the threshold between the calculated dim den of the lounge and the fluorescent overhead lights of a normal hallway. Shane doesn't look back, but the warmth of the red glow of LEDs, vape smoke, and Rozanov's teasing carries Shane out the door.