Chapter Text
Connor wiped his forehead, the L.A heat getting to him. In theory it hadn’t sounded like too long a walk. He was used to Texas weather, anyways. But this was a different sort of heat than what Odessa possessed. L.A was far more populated and stifling, but it was where the work was. So it was where he’d gone. If he’d been able to stick to the made up schedule in his head, he would have been finished with thirty projects by now.
Instead, he’d needed to beg for just two. He’d needed to find a roommate after blowing through his savings; a man named Hudson he’d quickly grown close with, who was in just as precarious a financial situation. He’d just gotten off his third twelve hour waiting shift, and it was only Wednesday.
Connor didn’t like to go to auditions smelling like work, but he had little choice. This one had been a last minute decision, because he’d googled the hockey player and spent ten minutes blinking, heart skipping at how perfect a casting it would be.
It was still out there. He knew this when he finally made it to the studio they were taking auditions at, and saw a hundred potential fake Ilya’s. Connor knew little about hockey, but like with any role he’d done his research.
This Ilya Rozanov was apparently a big deal( though any athlete needed to be, to get a biopic.), given the secret relationship with his rival and ten years playing on the same team afterwards.
The potential fake Ilya in front of him turned around, and his smile immediately dropped. Connor tried to think of that as a good sign. It was hard, after over a hundred rejections; over a year of living on work leftovers plus the $15 a week grocery budget. Would be more, but Hudson spent most of his portion on skincare and hair gel.
It was dark, and twenty more had gotten in line behind him by the time his turn came around. The man in front of him came out crying, mumbling about how he’d blown it. Connor wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse about his prospects, but he didn’t have long to contemplate. A second later a production intern who looked just as exhausted as him was motioning him in.
This building of the studio, made just for auditions; contained two rooms. An office and the larger area, where a long table was set up with various members of the project’s production crew. In the beginning this had been more intimidating. Now looking at them was simply a part of the routine, no different than needing to take a breath before long lines.
That didn’t stop him from staring at the man at this table’s center; half of a pair that’d inspired the damned show. He was nearly forty, retired; but the exposed skin of his arms and lower legs spoke to a lifetime of hockey.
Unlike the other people in the room- who appeared ready for this part to be over, he was relaxed. Leaning back in his chair, his eyes ran over every inch of the new prospect. Connor swallowed- not that he minded, but was he supposed to be doing that?
In person, he didn’t have a chance to think about Hudson’s own resemblance because his was so striking. He and Ilya likely wouldn’t be told apart, except by those they were close with. It would take side by side photos and circles, and even then Connor knew some would say Ilya played himself. Until they looked at pictures of them together in person.
If anyone ever got to.
Connor’s nose was a little larger at the bottom, jutting out more from the side. His eyebrows were thicker, but that could be dealt with. And his curls were a little curlier, but through his research Connor thought that’d work in his favor. Apparently Ilya’s had loosened slightly with age-
“Hello? Are you in there?” The man sitting beside Ilya snapped his fingers, and the hockey player glared to his right. Not because he was annoyed, but because it’d been particularly loud next to his ear. Connor’s face burned. Like the man before him, he was already blowing this. “Hel-”
“Yes I’m… I’m sorry. Just tired.” Connor said. Ilya leaned forwards, observing him even closer. The way he stood and breathed, the blush in his cheeks and bloodied cuticles over his general features then. “What did you say?”
“Name’s Jacob Tierney.” He repeated. “I am the director and Co-executive producer for this limited series, and to make this as painless as possible for everyone involved I’d like to see your-”
before he could finish that sentence, Connor was reaching into his side bag for the stack of papers he kept there; that he’d hoped to not need so many copies of. Jacob took it, and Connor moved back to his spot a few feet away. True to his word, Jacob did not spend an absurd amount of time analyzing the small resume.
He simply looked up and shrugged matter of factly. “One short film and a play?”
“I got paid for the play.” He said, sheepishly. “Short film was a project my roommate did as a joke. He doesn’t act.”
“Oh?” Jacob asked. “How long? Is it something we can wat-”
“No.” Connor shook his head. A potential employer for a non-comedy project did not need to witness him pretend to be a robot and swing his dick around like a helicopter.
“Does not matter.” Ilya waved them both off. “You are a little skinny, but nothing a few months can’t fix. And the nose and nipple piercings will have to go, but judging by how tight that shirt is they are already healed, no? It will not make them close up. Two simple questions before your audition. Can you skate, and do you happen to know any Russian?”
This time, Connor was shaking his head yes. That one summer he’d spent at an actor’s boarding school, after saving a full year finally seemed to be paying off. They had way too much free time there for what it cost, and he’d spent it learning with a few of the other boys. “Skating, yes. Russian… a little. I could translate enough of any conversation to understand, but I’m.. still working on speaking.”
Fuck. Fuck fuck Fuck fuck fuck. Like every director before him, Tierney was going to see he was a fraud. That he didn’t belong in this room, much less this city-
“We’ve got a tutor for the cast and a certain married couple that’d be happy to help.” Jacob waved him off again. “A few months can fix that too. Ilya?”
Ilya stood, and walked around the table with his own stacks of papers. It was hard to ignore how good he smelled once close.
“Short scene, that doesn’t reveal too much of the show. A private moment between my husband and I, that lasted about five minutes but was… well, you can read.” Ilya said. “We will skip the kissing. Leave it for your costar, yes? You will be me, and I will be my husband.”
Connor mumbled an ‘mhmn’ and tried not to inhale the citrus. Like he knew what he was doing, Ilya inched forwards. Connor told himself it was a part of the scene, as he glanced over his lines. He definitely didn’t notice the staring, face close enough to his that he could smell Ilya Rozanov’s good oral hygiene.
When he indicated he was ready, he backed Ilya fucking Rozanov against a wall; hand snaking around his back and another on his face; holding him in place.
Ilya grinned. Yes, this already felt very familiar.
“This your first time with a man?” He asked, looking Connor in the eyes. Briefly, Connor wondered what noises the Russian might make on his knees.
“Mmn, no. Not my first time.” He imitated a Russian accent as well as he could, having less than five encounters with such. Apparently it was tolerable, as Ilya didn’t comment on it or stop the audition all together.
“Really? Who?” Ilya pretended to be a mixture of shocked, aroused and amused. He was no actor, but he’d certainly secure a project or two if he chose that path.
“My coach’s son back in Russia.” Connor smiled, a hand freed to trace up and down Ilya’s torso. “I like trouble.”
It had to be his imagination. That or the human body’s natural reaction to a familiar situation, but he swore the body underneath his fingertips shivered. He did not let the thoughts show in his expression, though. He could not afford to waste an opportunity by seeing things that weren’t there.
Being the one not pressed against the wall was an unnatural position for him, but so was the play where he’d needed to pretend to jerk off in front of five hundred people. That director had praised his role as a medieval prostitute, claimed he’d call him again if he had anything else and then promptly walked off a ten story building while high, believing the pavement below was a swimming pool.
“Weren’t you afraid of getting caught?” Fake Shane Hollander, or Ilya; drifted between making eye contact and looking at the floor. His blush was perfect too; an absurdly close shade to an eighteen year old Shane hollander’s. If he wasn’t too old and white, he had no doubt Jacob would ask him to play his own husband.
“Was just fun.” Connor shrugged, channeling the nonchalance from the time Hudson had caught him using dollar tree hair gel. He did struggle not to laugh, thinking of the hour long argument that ensued. “Besides, we had same secret. It was…”
Connor used one hand to gesture, pretending he only knew about half of his first language. Ilya, still in character; leaned his head back against the wall and swallowed. His fake nerves mirrors Connor’s real ones.
“Curious?” He suggested.
“Curious.” Connor repeated. “And you, Shane Hollander- make me curious.”
There was a kissing scene here, in the script. Followed by other things. Instead Ilya’s demeanor changed in a split second, his back straightened and the two inches he had on Connor became a little clearer. He clapped, seemingly delighted with the performance.
Connor took a deep breath.
“That was perfect, fake me. I’d like to see how you do with-”
Jacob and Ilya gave him several more small scenes, like that. Moments that wouldn’t mean a ton if he did leak it, that told a version of Ilya and Shane’s story the public hadn’t seen yet. It was intimate in a way. Connor needed to remind himself more than once, that it wasn’t real.
His time ran over by twenty minutes, by the time they claimed to have everything they needed. He tried to take it as a good sign, too- that they watched him go instead of muttering amongst themselves.
He did not make eye contact with the competition as he left. He did not notice that they watched him go too, thinking only of his soft sheets Hudson insisted on washing because, and he quote; “You don’t do it right, and the machines are big enough for two queen sized comforters.”
He put his headphones in for the twenty or so minute walk home, let the Hamilton soundtrack distract him from the fact that he was rapidly leaving a safer area; in favor of the only place he’d been able to afford. He passed not one but two homeless encampments, wished he had anything to give and had just rounded a corner by an alley when he felt the hand on his shoulder.
Connor screamed.
He was sure any who’d heard though it was a woman’s, that something horrible was happening from how long it lasted as he spun around.
“Easy, fuck. " The elder Russian held his hands out in surrender, out of breath. “You are a very easy person to follow, and a very difficult man to grab the attention of.”
Connor’s hand was over his own chest, as he came down from that momentary shock. Though he was immediately sent into a different sort, at the idea of such a man trailing him. He swallowed now that he wasn’t in audition mode, and was grateful the darkness helped hide the very real tint rising over his cheeks.
“I’m…sorry. Mr.Rozanov-”
“Ilya.” He interrupted, pointing. “You may call me Ilya. But I wanted to tell you this. The casting team will pretend to meet with and consider the other auditioners. That will take weeks, and we still need to find a fake my-husband. One you have enough chemistry with.”
Connor blinked, lips slightly parted. He knew he must look ridiculous, but he couldn’t help it. Did he mean-
“We will have tutor work with you on your Russian, and some to help with the scenes on ice. And you may text me whenever. I’ll only be in L.A two more days before I have to fly home; but we should get dinner before then, fake me.” Ilya patted him on the shoulder. “You have phone?”
Connor’s mouth opened and closed like a fish’s.
“Oh my god Storrie, you are so boring. You have phone. You give.” Ilya held a hand out, and Connor eventually complied. It would not stop him from standing there, staring at the screen of his refurbished thirteen long after Ilya had gone. Or Ilya from shouting over his shoulder. “Dinner! Tomorrow.”