Chapter Text
During the off-season, Ilya finds himself stuck in Boston rather than at home in Moscow.
It's an odd feeling, one he never really got acquainted with. It had always been a routine; get through the season with the Raiders and then go back home to Russia, where he would spend the off-season trying to keep his sanity intact while practicing and conditioning for the upcoming season. That’s how it always went, and that’s how it should go.
Except it’s nothing like that, because Ilya is in Boston, in his apartment that doesn’t know much of his presence during the off-season. In his own apartment, he’s like a sore thumb standing stark and pale in the space. Taut and awkward in accustoming himself with a space he never really resided in during the summer. He should be back in his father’s mansion in Moscow, not here; never here.
But he is, and there's not much he can do about it.
After his father’s death, it had been clear that it would be best if Ilya kept his distance.
Alexei had been adamant to stress that Ilya’s presence wasn’t welcomed. His stoic persona had been kept during the entirety of the funeral ceremony and their dinner; having no notion to approach his brother with a kind demeanor. Of course, when he did, it was only with a snarling insult that set everything straight for Ilya. He was only around for the money he made, nothing else. There’s no reason for him to be around if he’s running around North America for his hockey career.
There is no room for someone like him in his family anymore, yet somehow he was still seen to be the mandatory cash cow. Safe to say, Ilya made sure that came to an end before he left. Alexei can figure it out himself— Surely, he is smart enough to support himself.
Which is how Ilya finds himself in Boston. His team mates are under the impression that he’s still in Russia, and Ilya isn’t sure if he wants to tell them he’s back around. There would be too many intruding questions about a life he doesn’t want to dig back up. They know he always goes to Russia for the off-season, and a sudden difference would only raise suspicion.
Obviously Ilya’s avoidance comes to a pause when he encounters Marleau on the street. It all goes so fast. One minute he’s strolling down to get himself something from the store, and the next he bumps into his friend, and now all of those tough questions are unearthed for everyone to see, leaving Ilya short as he manages to skimp around them.
From this encounter alone, the rest of the team figures out their captain is in town. Leave it to Marleau to run his mouth and let everyone else know about the oddity that is Ilya staying around in Boston for the off-season. However, it’s too late because soon everyone is asking when the next team conditioning will be (optional, by the way) and Ilya finds himself stuck in a sticky position.
He can’t deny the Raiders a practice session without him. They’ve dealt enough without his presence, and now they’re all eager to have him back around as their captain during the break.
Ilya just wants to mope around, maybe wander the streets and find a girl to pick up along the way. Probably get drunk in some dingy club and catch himself stumbling back down along the path of his apartment. Maybe throw up in a stranger’s car and roll himself down the snow slopes. That’s what he wanted— along with conditioning, of course.
In all honesty, as much as he loves his hockey career, he hates practicing during the off-season. He knows that as a professional player he needs to keep his skill intact, but when times get rough he finds himself in a rut, only searching for destructive habits instead of the ones that could aid in his growth.
But either way, the Raiders now have their captain around. Sure, some may wander out from practice, claiming appointments or important errands— whatever. It’s not mandatory, yet he encounters himself at almost every team conditioning that’s on the calendar for the break.
With him being around, the team mates have a much tougher excuse to back up their need to party. When he isn’t in the rink skating his ass off alongside the Raiders, he’s in a club with a few of them getting plastered for the night. Perhaps it’s a nice balance, productivity with a bit of recklessness.
Besides, that is what he’s known for; what the media deems him to be, latching their idea of who Ilya Rozanov is onto a man who never really got the chance to settle down and take a damn breather. They only see the man who runs rampant in the early hours of time, crawling his way through Boston and its scandalous population.
Maybe they see him as the man who bursts through the hockey league like a ravenous grizzly bear, but that’s every so often— not as often as the entrancing night-owl behavior.
So that’s how he occupies himself. He conditions with the team, parties till his legs call it quits, and repeats that routine until his body finally hollers mercy and begs Ilya to take a moment to rest. A day even, just some time for him to lay down and catch that breather that kept a large gap from him for almost the entirety of his life. It’s like trying to contain something that won’t dare to ever give it up.
He knows what that is like. He is just like that breather; restless and bound to nothing except his own will and mistakes. And how pitiful it becomes when the moment comes and he finds himself caught by something he can’t escape— How could you possibly confine something that thrashes with a reluctance to yield?
Today is one of those days where his itinerary builds with uncertainty. He wakes with the responsibility of conditioning early in the morning, leaving the rest of his day ambiguous. He could see if Marleau is up to going out tonight, maybe getting plastered as a proper start to the rest of the week. He could stay home and drink himself away, maybe invite Svetlana over if she’s around and see if she wants to do something instead.
Who knows?
No more focusing on the future. He can only see his present now, which is the session lurking closer and closer. If he doesn’t get himself together he’ll be late, losing the motivation to attend and then laugh at himself as he figures an excuse as to why their captain can’t show up. Optional his ass.
Either way, he gets himself ready. Packs his duffle bag and takes a shower, slumps against the wall because he only has three hours on his belt and he’s dizzy with fatigue. However, he wouldn’t trade it for anything else; he’s doing something right if he’s exhausted. If he were to be bored and stagnant, he would be vibrating with energy, latching onto any opportunity to burn it out.
His breakfast is a cigarette and a bit of the toothpaste he accidentally swallowed. By the time he leaves the apartment, his hair is damp and frizzing into loose curls as it air dries.
See, he was going to make himself a coffee alongside his unusual breakfast. However, homemade coffee has been shoved out of the way, thanks to a cafe only a minute away from the apartment. It’s a fairly new establishment and a sort of hole in the wall local rising. It had caught his eye sometime ago, when he was driving back from catching up with Marleau.
It can only be confirmed that for a while, his bank account will only see a few coffee shop statements alongside all of his other questionable spending habits. Either way, it’s not like it will even be tickled by it. After cutting off Alexei, Ilya has found himself with a heinous amount of money, one that he could only flatten with sports car purchases and maybe watches too.
Besides the point— There’s this cafe. Demure and tucked away into the streets of Boston. With a softly lit sign, Sip ‘n’ Swirl presses through to garner attention.
There’s never an influx of customers in the shop, with there only being around three customers hanging around at the peak of the establishment’s day. There’s only ever one— maybe even two— workers in, tending to the counter and taking their time with the orders. It never takes long, and the coffee gets pumped out swiftly.
Ilya enjoys the little coffee shop very much. It’s a stark difference to being served at a place like Starbucks or Dunkin, where he would enter the building and be met with a dense amount of customers and workers flitting around.
When he exits his apartment, duffle bag in tow, he enters his car and deems the coffee shop to be his first stop of the day. It should be a nice pick-me-up for his session later.
The traffic isn’t as heavy as it should be on a morning like this, and Ilya finds himself at the chaste cafe in only a few minutes. Maybe he had been daydreaming as he drove, still washed over with fatigue and that hunger for sleep. A cigarette can only do so much, and it definitely doesn’t wake him up.
He parks parallel to the building, killing the engine and listening to the rumble die down. With the key tugged away from the ignition, he grabs at his wallet sitting in the small compartment beneath the radio console of his car, and opens the door to mark his incredibly short journey to the cafe.
The lights of the cafe’s sign are turned off because the sun has risen now, and there’s a chalk board standing right before the entrance of the shop. Written in fashionably unique lettering is the cafe’s special for the week. It’s something sweet, sickeningly so that Ilya wouldn’t dare to stomach it.
He likes sweet things. He likes cookies, cakes, and desserts drenched in glazes. The ache of his teeth is welcomed, because Ilya will always treat his sugar tooth every time. However when it comes to coffee, he wants to taste only the coffee, no add-ons or sweeteners.
So he abandons the caramel swirl special and whips out his phone as he pushes the door open. A chime rings through, dedicating the arrival of a man like himself. As he scrolls through his messages searching to see if the Raiders had replied to his message, he’s met with the warm smell of pastries and coffee. It’s a smell that could put him back to sleep, one that could float him around like those cartoons catching the scent of a pie.
Returning his phone to the warmth of his pocket, he reaches the counter of the cafe. There seems to be no one behind the counter at the moment, so he taps on the little service bell and lets it sing through the building as he waits to be tended.
It’ll be a quick order. Without failure does he always get a regular black coffee, large of course because he’s going to need it. No sugar or cream.
There’s a crash somewhere in what seems to be the storage room, and as Ilya waits for the barista he tugs his phone back out to check on another message that just pinged through. Someone in the team group chat is saying they won’t be able to make it, and Ilya makes sure to say that they owe double the next time they come around.
He doesn’t hear the footsteps of the barista tending the counter, instead drawn to his instagram feed instead. His thumb scrolls and scrolls against the screen as he waits even though the employee is now standing before him, waiting for his attention.
Then, a cough blurts out and Ilya is pulled away from his phone. He scrambles and tucks it back into his pocket to then finally acknowledge the barista.
“What can I get started for you?” The barista says, bracing a hand on the counter and letting his head drop on his shoulder.
Ilya has no clue what he wants.
Like an imbecile, he gapes around thin air as he studies the absolutely stunning worker in front of him.
He forgets about his order that he always went for, instead fixated by the rolled up sleeves of this man’s button-up, displaying the thick forearms and strong hands that brace his weight against the counter. His attention is then caught at the collar, where the first two buttons are abandoned to share the silky expanse of this man’s neck and start of his chest.
And oh god, his face.
Reminded by the fact that he’s very much in public and definitely ogling a man he has no clue about, he shifts himself alive and pushes through his order.
“Just a uh— Just a black. Nothing in it,” He winces at the tremble in his voice and the soft grin this man has plastered across his face.
His lips, plush like clouds and smooth with the gloss of his saliva, wrap around words that could be deemed as suggestive in Ilya’s mind.
“Anything else?”
He doesn’t say anything. Just shakes his head and dazedly pulls out his wallet to present his card. He watches as this entrancing man taps on the computer of the register, face screwing as he creates the total of Ilya’s simple purchase.
Then, “What size?”
Ilya is about to bust his head open on the counter. Right here. Right where he stands before this beautiful human being. He’s going to bleed out and die from being presented with the most stunning specimen to ever grace this blessed green earth. The league will miss him and mourn his death dearly, all while preaching the dangers of being shocked into death by fine baristas.
Fiddling with his card, he rubs his thumb pad along the corner of it, “Large,” He squeaks.
The barista smiles as he taps on the computer of the register once again. Ilya doesn’t know if that grin is one to make fun of him, or just those empty customer service smiles they all have smacked on their face.
Either way, Ilya is infatuated by the sight. He wants to see those rosy lips permanently tucked into that small stretch held by the corners. The way this man’s cheeks bunch up and rest at his cheekbones is transfixing. It’s as if his face is lit up by the brightest star burning in the universe.
Perhaps he is that star, because Ilya would never think twice about orbiting around him. He doesn’t even know him, he’s only seen his face in this tiny moment of getting his morning coffee. Yet above all he finds that he wants to see this man’s face on the regular, a familiar sight that would do well in lighting up his days.
He must be new, because Ilya had never seen him before. Usually it was the young girl with purple and green streaked into her blonde hair, or it was the other guy who had a pair of glasses that always made Ilya cringe.. He really needed to change those glasses, they didn’t fit his face; Ilya would know.
But never had he seen this man. Were they hiding him away in the corner of that storage room, keeping his beauty to themselves? How sacrilegious it is, to see a man like this confined by the small walls of this coy cafe and not on the pages of magazines.
The order goes through like a blur. Ilya latches onto the index finger that points at the card reader, and by the time it’s beeped, the man is flitting around the counter and getting his coffee prepared.
Ilya needs to sit down. He watches this man, who handles the coffee maker with an intangible sense of grace. It’s not rocket science, it’s just some black coffee. Yet in this moment, Ilya finds that this man makes something so simple look like an action only reserved for those with a lick of delicate demeanor.
He wears a black apron, sitting snugly over his clothes with the strings wrapped loosely around his waist. It accentuates everything; the taper of his waist and the rounds of a hind that Ilya has no business acknowledging. Here he is, standing in this cafe, struggling to keep himself sane over someone he’s only shared a few words with. It’s feeble and stupid, and so unlike him.
Glancing at the pastries, he wonders if he should grab one just to keep that barista around a little longer. Just to serve him the privilege of being able to observe a man as handsome as this one breathe in their shared space.
When he pours the coffee in a to-go cup and clasps the lid, Ilya has already figured out what he wants paired with his simple beverage.
The man sets his cup before Ilya, all before looking at the suspected display case and then flitting back to him.
“We have a special going on,” He starts, and Ilya loses himself to the chime of his voice, “Any of the selected desserts are free when paired with a large coffee.”
How convenient. Ilya doesn’t have to pay for a donut he could definitely afford, all while watching this ravishing man for a moment longer.
So he nods, cup tight in his hold as he rounds the counter to take a look at the display case.
There’s an overwhelming amount of pastries in the case, all glimmering beneath the warmth of the amber light and heater. There’s slices of cake doused in frosting that he knows could melt your jaw off. Cookies lay half stacked over each other, their dough smooth and delectable behind the glass.
There’s the donuts— a delicacy that Ilya could never deny. He could eat them forever, if his body allowed it. A strawberry one for breakfast, chocolate for lunch, and maybe a sprinkled one for dinner. All followed by a cream-filled one for dessert, of course.
Dessert for breakfast sounds lovely. He latches onto the round pastries of the boston creams, mouth beginning to salivate over the tender glaze of chocolate on its surface.
Gracing a fingertip over the glass, he taps at the case before looking up at the man. He stumbles a bit, faltering at the gentle glimmer in his eyes as he peers at Ilya. He tears away, glancing down at his finger which rests on the glass of the display case.
Ilya pulls his hand away when he watches this man’s face fall into the most adoring frown. His eyebrows screw in and his once cheery lips crash into a pout. Even when he’s scowling, does this man look exceptional in all of his barista-uniformed glory.
“The ones with a star are on special,” He quips, “And uh, don't touch the glass please.”
He reaches over and points at the sign at the top of the case. In bold lettering it says the exact same thing as this man, and Ilya fumbles as he wonders how he even missed it. He was so occupied by this barista that he never took the time to read his environment, instead opting to touch the glass like a Neanderthal.
To his convenience, the Boston cream donuts have the star. The one upfront has a star poked into it by a toothpick, and beside it is a strawberry coated donut with the same star.
He grips onto his cup and points at the donut, (not touching the glass, by the way.) “Can I get that one, please?” He says, layering the manners on thick.
The barista hums with a shifty nod, and reaches down to fit a glove over his hand and pull out a paperbag. He slides the doors open and then reaches in, grabbing the largest donut out of the row and tugging it out from the case. It glistens in the light, the chocolate smooth and inviting as he slips it through the paper bag.
The door clips shut as he closes it. Then he’s reaching over the case and passing the bag to Ilya, gloves leaving sticky marks on the bag as he sends it across.
Ilya might just collapse right then and there. There shouldn’t be something so difficult about grabbing a free donut. Besides, it’s his favorite; a custard filled donut with chocolate glaze. He should be eager to grab the bag and head out on his way to practice.
Instead he acts anything but proper. He grabs more onto this man’s hand than anything else, almost dropping the bag because lord, it’s like he just got electrocuted.
The man’s hand is warm beneath the gloves as Ilya grazes over, fumbling for the top of the paperbag. He’s acting like a fool, with his mind twisted and churned cruelly by this man’s vibrance.
When he gets himself together, he slinks out of the cafe with a short goodbye. The bell chimes as he swings the door open, and the barista sends him off with a delightful chirp; “Thank’s for coming by!”
He’s loose minded and distracted when he gets to practice, mouth sickeningly sweet from the aftermath of the donut and brain a complete wreckage as he skates around with his team. Many times does the stick clatter onto the ice, showcasing the absolute tragedy of the Raiders’ captain, who’s been subjected to the most fearful disease; obsession of a man he doesn’t even know the name of.
It’s undeniable that he gets chirps along the way, his team mates coming around to prod and poke at the abandonment of his reality.
All the while, he runs himself ragged over the captivating mystery barista guy.
❧
The next time that Ilya comes around, he’s set in place with a goal.
For the entire day, his mind had been possessed by the barista at Sip ‘n’ Swirl, and it was beginning to drive him mad. He couldn’t even do mundane things without the picture of that man’s face in his mind, as if it had been branded into the insides of his eyelids so that with each time he closed his eyes; he would be met with the beauty of that barista.
The next day that he goes to the cafe, he isn’t there. It shuts him down a bit, and he wonders if the man had been so weirded out by his transfixation that he dropped the job entirely. Ilya really hopes that’s not the case.
So he comes the following day, chalking it all up to the fact that this man must’ve been off on the schedule. Leave it to him to let his mind run wild, trying to climb up to the worst possible option.
When he arrives, it’s a bit after lunch time. In all honesty, he’d spent the entire morning trying to shave off a hangover that had deemed too stubborn to move. So then he succumbed to just sleeping it off, which didn’t really work because his head felt like a warzone and his stomach was insistent on sending every bit of his bodily contents back up.
So yeah, rough morning for him. He wouldn’t trade it for anything, though. It’s a questionable sign that he partied and lived life for a little while.
The door chimes as he trudges through. He’s snuggled into a thick hoodie and a pair of sweatpants, and in this case they both share a matching shade of grey. Who knows if it’s actually a set? Ilya doesn’t look at the tags when he buys clothes, he just tries them on and hopes that it complements his features.
Like always, the cafe smells of pastries and well… Coffee. It’s stronger this time, like someone had been in here before him and ordered something. The smell tickles his brain alive, tugging it out of that sludge of waste and dizziness. Though despite the positive feedback, his stomach grumbles in disagreement.
He knows he looks somewhat pitiful because the colorful hair girl is in the lobby wiping down a table. She looks him up and down, kind of sneers a little bit before grabbing at the spray bottle set on the table. She almost flees out of the lobby and into the back of the cafe— into that same storage room that the gorgeous man had emerged out of.
And from where he stands at the counter, he watches. The girl lingers at the doorframe, spray bottle and rag hanging limply from her hand as she peers in, stops short for a moment, then yells, “Shane! Get this guy’s order!”
Someone grunts from back there, and there’s a bit of clatter coming from the storage room before the girl moves off to the side. This Shane stalks out from the room, hands behind his back as he ties the apron around his waist, and in that moment Ilya has a name to place the splendid face under.
He glares at the girl before shoving her with an elbow, lips shifting around a playful grimace. She says something that causes him to pause, look back at her and huff a giggle before arriving at the register.
Then, this barista— Shane, is standing before him. He braces himself on the counter just like the other time, except this time he wears a t-shirt. The whole length of his arms are bare for Ilya to gape at, and he has to swallow down the hot sensation running through him. He cannot look like a mess and act like one too, not again.
“Nice to see you again! What can I get you?” He taps at the screen of his register before glancing up at Ilya who’s convinced he’s short-circuited but somehow still running.
He needs to know this man. He wants to talk to him and figure out what makes him so intriguing. Is it the eyes? They’re bright and adorned with soft, dark lashes that catch onto the light. Or is it his lips? With a pinched Cupid’s bow, the flesh of his bottom lip is pink and flushed, capturing most of the attention.
“Just a black coffee,” He grunts, because he kind of stumbles over a simple yet unique feature on this handsome specimen’s face.
A soft dusting— nothing too extreme or concerning— of freckles spread across the bridge of his nose and the expanse of his cheekbones. They rest just beneath his eyes and almost blend into the fairness of his skin. Yet with the way that Ilya is ogling this man, they are the starkest trait of his face. The most adoring, too.
Beat that, eyes.
“Nothing in it?” Shane says, peering up at Ilya who’s now lost himself in the smattering of freckles on his face.
“Uh huh. Nothing,” He mumbles. Fuck it, he’s going to act like a fool in this demure little coffee shop. He might even sponsor it or donate towards it, just to help out with the business; all for the beauty of this man before him.
But then other people might see him, and they might try to pick him up. Scratch those ideas, he’ll just keep this place to himself.
He wants to stay longer, wants more time to lose himself in the grace Shane exudes. Perhaps he’ll die to reincarnate as a fly on the wall, preferably tomorrow, just so he can follow this man around and watch him live life in all of his glorious beauty.
As he inserts the card into the reader, he glances at the display case, “Are there specials today?” He presses, watching Shane who waits for the purchase to go through.
Shane scans the case from where he stands before facing Ilya again, “Yes! We have more on special than the last time you came.”
Ilya’s chest lurches because okay, this guy definitely remembers him from the other day. He doesn’t know how he managed to make an impression on his mind, because in all honesty he was acting weird. Maybe that was it, this Shane either thought he was unnerving or somewhat charismatic. One of the two.
Ilya hums and tucks his card away when the reader beeps, “I’ll get one of those donuts. With the uh,” definitely not now, he definitely cannot forget the word for the filling in those donuts. He scrambles and racks his brain around for the word as Shane peers at him expectantly, eyebrows shifting into a state of confusion.
“With the…?” Shane parrots, watching as Ilya mixes up Russian and English in his head.
He succumbs to his failure. Damn you, something-filled donuts.
“Sorry. English is not my first,” He squeaks, wincing at the inability to remember something so simple.
Except Shane smiles. An honest to god cheesy grin that shows almost all of his teeth. It’s silly and goofy as his eyes glitter from the light, and his cheeks flush with a sweet rosiness. The smile tugs and pulls at Ilya’s insides, causing him to break out a grin of his own; all accompanied by a small chuckle.
He moves over to the case, and Ilya follows him, “You mean the custard filled ones, right?” Shane then says before stammering as he picks up a glove, “Sorry! I didn’t mean to assume!”
Ilya doesn’t care. He’s right. He meant the donuts with the custard in them. He hums and giggles a little more, sounding like a crazed, love-sick teen as he watches Shane’s cheeks flush into a deeper pink. It brings out the galaxy of freckles across his face, lighting them up like a supernova.
Then he faces him straight on, lips twisted as he peers at him, “You did mean those, right? Gosh, that’s so rude of me—“
“Yes. I did, yes.”
Shane nods, and gazes at Ilya. It would really be convenient if he just picked up the damn donut and went off to make Ilya’s coffee, because he doesn’t think he can handle anymore of this eye contact.
It’s intrusive, and laced with a hum of energy that wrecks into the flesh of him. Hangover dusted, he could instead launch himself into the sky like a rocket ship. That is the state of him right now; a wired, nervous sickly mess as he shares a soft glance with this stranger he happens to know the name of.
But then Shane coughs, ripping himself away and fixating himself on the pastry case instead. The air is thick with something Ilya can’t really place as Shane grabs the largest of the Boston cream donuts and slips it into a bag with the same grace he had the first time serving him.
He reaches over and hands Ilya the bag, to which he is met with the same plasticky yet warm sensation of his gloved hand. He doesn’t mean to graze Shane, it just happens somehow— In a way he might have a clue, but he chooses not to acknowledge it.
Shane then occupies himself with Ilya’s coffee whilst he gravitates towards the front of the counter.
Watching as he flits around and gets the order completed, Ilya’s eyes latch onto the strength beneath Shane’s clothes. He’s built and stocky with muscle, and from where Ilya stands he must be an inch or two shorter than him.
He has this expression on. Eyebrows are flattened and those sparkling eyes are sharp as he pours the simple coffee into a to-go cup, all while tugging at his bottom lip with his teeth. Who knew somebody could make drink pouring look so serious? Especially with the way the once cheery charm scuffles over to let the concentration peak through.
Ilya doesn’t have enough time to study just a moment more, because soon his coffee is set before him with Shane watching him.
“Will that be all?” He says, tenderly grinning at Ilya who latches onto his cup in a daze, all with the donut cradled in the other hand.
He nods, gaping as he runs breathless at the sight of Shane. He’s not going to make it. This man is undeniably stunning with his black scruff of hair and freckles that dance on his skin like the stars above. When he drinks his coffee, he’ll only fuel the heart attack creeping up on him.
Here lies Ilya Rozanov, who lost himself to a plain black coffee and the beauty of another man— And maybe the whole uncomfortable dilemma of never feeling like this for anyone in his life.
He’s been through numerous flings and never felt this sort of way. He’s braced himself for the touch of many, and lost himself in the sensation of others, yet this is the one moment that stuns him short; where he stands before Shane, a stranger he aches to know more from, all with an impression he can’t seem to make out.
“Yes. I, um— Thank you.” He gulps and turns his back on Shane, coffee and donut gripped tight as he flees the building.
The door chimes, marking the absence of Ilya, and Shane doesn’t send him off with a goodbye this time.
❧
The next time that Ilya comes around is for no reason at all.
It’s one of those days where he has nothing to do. There are no practices or errands to catch up with, and his body is exhausted from all of the mucking around that in the end; he finds himself lazing on the couch and watching stupid animal videos online. In a way it’s entertaining, but it only digs the thought of being lazy much deeper.
Leave it to being lazy to rub Ilya wrong. He can’t stand it. Perhaps it’s part of the many insults burned into his memory, though either way he’s just restless and eager to do something.
At some point in his very eventful day Ilya is enlightened by the thought of getting a delightful coffee and maybe a much more pleasant donut on the side. Sure, he could make coffee at home, but he really wants those donuts and he has another excuse too even though the truth is blinding and honest, destroying every inch of Ilya’s supposed ignorance.
It would be easier to be honest with himself. He doesn’t want a coffee— maybe just the donut, but who goes to a cafe just for the donuts? He doesn’t want anything at all.
He’s just thrumming with boredom and missing a particular face.
It all rattles around his brain as he watches a dog run down a hill and flop into a lake on some video. He could rise from where he’s been plastered to the couch for the last three hours, get himself somewhat presentable, and curse every fiber of him when he enters the cafe to find everything but what he was there for.
Because he’s feeling brazen today. He wants to ask for a number, maybe get something done— someone. He’s restless and aching for something eventful, and the possibility of his newly favored face not being at the cafe would only make him more shifty and then upset.
And then what?
He aches to see Shane. He begs to see those adorable glistening eyes and the entrancing freckles that run him just a bit over insanity. He wants to watch him make his extremely simple coffee and reach into the display case to grab the biggest of the Boston creams— because yes, he did notice that.
He wants to stumble him a little, watching as his face grows rosy with a flush in that endearing way. Maybe even meet the warmth of his own cheeks as he chuckles along with him, just like that day before.
Maybe above it all, he longs to ask for his number and see what the reaction could be.
Would he screw his face into a state of discontent and leer at Ilya, questioning the audacity of him and eventually running him out of the store? Would he peep one of those coy giggles and bat his eyes at him, cheeks washed with color whilst he toys with Ilya’s heart? Maybe he would politely decline him, all with that stupidly polite smile on his face.
Somehow, he finds that to be even worse than the gloomy grimace.
So as he lays there on the couch, he plays with the thought for a while; mindlessly watching his video as he thinks about the very intriguing barista at the cafe. With each minute, he grows even more restless.
That bright idea of asking for Shane’s number racks around despite the possible negative scenarios surrounding it. He’s desperate to get to know this man, and he’ll try as hard as he can to make it happen.
The push is enough for him to finally rise from his corner of the couch. He’s so motivated by the idea that he takes a lengthy shower and dresses himself up like he’s preparing for a photoshoot— all for a man he doesn’t know, who might even turn him down.
However, it doesn’t phase him as he grabs his keys, phone, and wallet. There may be no interest shown on Shane’s side, but it doesn’t hurt to try. Besides, Ilya never fails at getting someone’s number. Why would Shane be any different?
He has many counters for that argument. Shane is very different. All down to the way he makes Ilya feel; a sensation so unlike the usual attraction he encounters.
Driving down to the cafe is short, and there’s a parking spot right in front of the building. If Shane is at the counter, he might even be able to see Ilya’s flashy Porsche— because yes, he did in fact bring his sports car (one of many) out to try and impress Shane even further.
You can’t miss an orange Porsche.
He’s humming with energy when he swings the door open to reveal the cafe and its near entrancing smell. Someone in the lobby is seated, nose stuck in a computer with a coffee and cake-slice beside them. However, his focus is not on the random person but Shane instead.
Shane stands behind the counter, back turned to Ilya as he wipes down the marble surface. It must be a gritty spot, because he’s using plenty of elbow grease. His back muscles ripple beneath the shirt he wears, tugging and stretching with each rubbing motion he makes with the rag. If his apron were tied any tighter, it would appear that his back is trying to break out.
Focusing on his back can’t be something Ilya gets stuck in. He has other goals— needs, even. He wants a coffee with those delicious donuts, and hopefully Shane’s number.
Tapping on the service bell, a sweet chime sings through the cafe and Ilya watches as Shane flinches before twirling around to face him.
Breathe in, breathe out. Coffee. Donuts. Coffee. Donuts. All with a number on the side, of course.
Shane grins at him before setting down the rag, “Welcome back!” He quips, strolling over to the counter.
Ilya is gripping onto the edge of it, drumming his fingers as Shane gets closer to him. There’s a soft flush on his cheeks and his freckles appear more prominent. His fringe is wild with the way it rests on his forehead, just barely bracing his eyebrows. The light catches onto his eyes with a steadied warmth, one that could rock Ilya dizzy. His lips are that soft and flush-bitten as they stretch into a gentle smile.
Amongst it all, Ilya is a fool.
Shane has riddled him into nothing but an empty-minded man, all by his immense grace and beauty.
“Yes, Hi.” Ilya croaks out, glancing up at the menu like he’s going to try anything else but his usual order.
It’s so stiff and sticky as he reads the menu. He doesn’t want anything different than his black coffee, he’s just trying to set his eyes anywhere but on Shane. If he were to look at him one more time, he might just settle into a puddle on the floor. What a mess that would be; a puddle of melted Ilya and his repressed, raging emotions.
But then Shane speaks up, a simple “Take your time” that has Ilya slamming the brakes and throwing his sensibility out of the window.
He faces him, met with the same stunning face that Ilya would go to war for. Shane’s smiling at him, a sweet stretch that actually meets his eyes. They glitter and twinkle beneath the softhearted joy, all in a manner that makes Ilya weak in his knees.
“Just the— the usual. Black, large,” He gulps, and watches Shane nod and tap his order into the register.
“Will that be it?” Shane chirps, glancing at Ilya who’s staring very intensely at the dessert case.
He hums and shakes off a soft nod before facing Shane, who’s still looking at him with that thing in his eyes. He’s clueless, he’s never seen that before. A sort of expression that bleeds across Shane’s face like a sweet coating of sugar. He’s dazed when he pulls out his card and inserts it, letting the reader beep almost three times before he realizes he has to put it away.
Shane has already flitted to the inner contents of the counter, working up Ilya’s coffee with a trained concentration. The way he floats about is intriguing, so much so that Ilya could sit in this cafe and watch him work all day long.
He handles everything with a grace that isn’t gifted to many. Even as he disappears into the storage room to cradle a box back in, does he move with a delicate way. In some areas, it’s fierce and confident, and all of it is entirely attractive to Ilya.
Leave it to a handsome barista to stop Ilya right in his tracks and wax poetry about making coffees.
Eventually, his coffee is made. It took a bit longer this time because of the sudden storage disappearance, but either way a white to-go cup is in front of him at the end.
And he just stands there, cradling his coffee cup in one hand, and fiddling with the other as he looks back at Shane who gives him a tender smile. It should be awkward— it probably looks like it is from that customer’s view; the one who’s got their nose tucked into their laptop.
Yet it isn’t, because Shane tilts his head and kind of studies Ilya. His skin burns alight as his eyes run down him, then to whisper as he leans in, “Don’t tell anyone, but would you like a donut on the house?”
Ilya scrambles, “No! It is fine— I mean, thank you, but no.”
“You sure? There’s some extras.”
Shane looks at him in a way that Ilya can only yield to. He ends up agreeing, and following Shane as he closes in on the dessert case, already bending down to grab a donut for Ilya.
It’s the same one as before. The custard filled ones with the chocolate on top. The largest out of the row and with the most glaze.
Shane takes his time fitting the donut into the bag. It crinkles and cracks beneath the intrusion, and when he passes it over to Ilya his gloved hand grazes again. Like all the other times, it’s equally as electrifying.
Ilya wonders if touching him anywhere else would give the same sensation.
Coughing as he grabs the bag, he kind of falls short from where he stands across Shane, the dessert case in between the two of them. There’s the plastic of the glove crackling as he slips it off his hand to then disappear from Ilya’s view, obviously throwing the glove away.
With the coffee and donut in his hand, his brain finally remembers it’s a multifunctional organ.
Yes, he has the coffee and the donut. But nothing is entirely complete yet. He needs just one more thing, and then he’ll be on his way to scoff down the food and then go out somewhere.
Rounding the counter, he sets down the coffee and donut in the clearance to then pluck out a napkin from the holder and then a pen from the cup beside the card reader. Shane must be watching him, because his body warms with the graze of his eyes. Never has Ilya disliked being studied so intensely.
He writes softly on the napkin, praying that it doesn’t rip and then causes him to grab another napkin. The rounds of Shane’s knuckles appear in his peripheral, bracing onto the counter where he must be leaning onto in that sickeningly pretty way.
Soon the numbers come out scrawny and blue on the napkin, and he pushes it over to Shane, all while watching his face flick through a multitude of emotions.
He doesn’t say anything as he glances at Ilya, cheeks beginning to flush that same red as his lips. He doesn’t even peep a word as he pinches the napkin, and then tucks it into the pocket of his pants. So demure and coy in a way that Ilya reprimands himself for even pushing the possibility.
It’s not a rejection, but it’s not an approval either. It’s something in between— maybe it’s one of those standard “Oh well I guess I’ll make it look like I kept your number, but I won’t actually call it” sort of moves. Ilya knows, he’s been there and done that countless times.
So it makes sense for Shane to do it, and the realization is humbling. God knows how many times he’s done this, especially with the way that he looks. How could anyone deny the opportunity of someone as appealing as him? Ilya is in that same boat as everyone else, and he’s just another nuisance for Shane.
Before he can let anguish eat him alive, he picks up his coffee and donut and turns for the door. He doesn't hear a goodbye from Shane; only the chime of the bell above the door and the soft raps of that customer's fingers against their keyboard.
❧
Ilya finds himself at a club by the end of the night.
He’s only a few drinks in, feeling sated and well from the liquid courage. He didn’t have much of it earlier, but now he’s somewhat confident in his own abilities.
Svetlana is in town again. She had called him immediately after hitting Boston soil to say that she wanted to go out with him, claiming that she needed to get the Russian “gloom” off her back for a moment. Ilya has no idea why she was in Russia, perhaps for her family or friends. It’s none of his business, and it’s a topic that they never really dabble in anyways.
She’s a perfect friend to hang around. She talks puck and gets Ilya through his stumps. They get along just fine, even when they let things run a muck, and they find each other right back in that intense proximity. It’s never in a romantic way, however.
Just an outlet for their respective problems.
Like many nights, he finds himself with a girl on his lap. She’s thin and dressed in a slinky little thing. Her hair is soft and smooth in his fingers as he pets it, pressing hot mouthed kisses into the side of her neck.
He might take her home and have a little fun. She’s pleasant to be around as she giggles and writhes on his lap, her glass gripped tight in one hand, and the other thrown haphazardly across Ilya’s shoulders and into his messy curls. Her nails scrape his nape, tugging and scratching at his scalp as she talks mindlessly.
Ilya can’t remember what she was talking about. It had to do with something about her brother liking hockey, and that’s how she was able to recognize him as a hockey player too. He doesn’t mind either; many people recognize him, it’s what happens when you become one of the best, if not the best.
So he lets her ramble on about that, losing himself in the sweet floral scent of his perfume. It reminds him of something— someone. He doesn’t know who though. Maybe it's the sweetness that’s tugging at his brain, trying to get him to remember that mystery person.
Is it Svetlana? She’s somewhere on the dance floor, bundling up with the other people and what not. Maybe she found herself someone too. She’ll text him tomorrow saying that they shouldn’t have drank so much, all before inviting him out another moment later. It might be her that triggers the familiarity of this scent, because all she wears is sweet florals.
It can’t be her. This woman’s perfume is different. As he nibbles on her skin, the perfume becomes much clearer. Sure, it is sweet with that soft note of florals, but it’s also sweet like a dessert. It sticks along his tongue, coating it with an intangible sugar.
And when he does eventually take her home, he can’t pinpoint the smell.
Even when he lays her down and gives into her, he can’t put a finger on it. Sweet, sickeningly so but yet in that soft and tender way. The florals are gentle and never overpowering, just a gentle backdrop for the syrupy scent that bursts through. It’s like eating a cookie while smelling a flower, so unusual and definitely weird in how it racks his brain around.
Because he knows why the florals are familiar. It’s definitely Svetlana, and he’s also smelled many flowers in his life, so he’s pretty sure he knows why the florals seem important.
Yet even as he gets this lady (what was her name again?) to her third orgasm of the night, he can’t pinpoint the cookie-like smell in her perfume. When he does figure it out, he almost loses himself into releasing too early.
The smell reminds him of the cafe, and that stupidly hot man behind the counter. It reminds him of the dessert case and the warmth beneath a finicky glove. Even as he thrusts, the pictures of a man working diligently in front of a coffee machine flash in his mind. With the squeals and whines of this woman’s pleasure he wraps himself in the image of someone else entirely.
That cookie smell reminds him of Shane, oddly enough. Sweet like his own disposition and gentle like all of his grace.
When he reaches his own climax of the night, the one of many, the woman is quick to stumble from the bed and take herself to his bathroom. The shower kicks on, and Ilya is left to sit with his thoughts.
He can’t believe he thought about some man he doesn’t even know while fucking someone else. It feels sacrilegious in a way, like it should’ve been him instead of her— but we don’t talk about that, because that’s where things start to become questionable in all of his morals. Should he really be thinking about the cafe’s barista in that way?
It’s intruding, even as he walks the lady out with a kiss. Even when he shuts the door and takes his own shower, does he find it invasive to not his own dignity, but Shane’s.
He mopes around. Gets his clothes back on and changes the bed all in a slump. He even digs into his fridge and cracks open another beer for the night, because just the thought of Shane and his twinkling eyes is enough to get him in a mood.
It doesn’t even help that Shane didn’t say anything when he wrote down his number on that stupid, thin napkin. He didn’t say a word, just stood there from behind the counter and watched Ilya set his failure in stone. Even when Ilya left the shop with his tail tucked between his legs, did he not even say a goodbye.
What a sad way to end the night. All in the hopelessness of Ilya’s thoughts for a man who doesn’t care an inch about him.
At some point in the night, Svetlana calls him. She drawls through the phone in sloppy Russian, noticeably drunk and commanding Ilya to pick her up from wherever she ended up. She had no problem with him leaving the club, but now it’s otherwise because as he gets a jacket and slips his shoes on, she reprimands him through the tinny speaker.
He shouldn’t really be driving. He’s had enough to drink, though now his thoughts have sobered up; all from that shocking familiarity of that woman’s scent and the correlation to Shane.
But it’s only him and Svetlana for right now. He can’t have a friend come and get her because one: they don’t know her, and two: she’ll get even more pissed. So he drives either way. He takes the car he dislikes the most because if he ends up wrecking it, at least it isn’t his red Audi.
Svetlana is in front of some convenience store when he picks her up. She’s chatting loudly with a bunch of people who she must’ve tagged along, and they all kind of simmer down when he pulls in and steps out of the car, tugging her into him and stiffing a short apology and goodbye to the people she’s acquainted herself with.
She lazes around in his passenger seat, shifts and wiggles as she yaps animatedly to Ilya; who’s just trying to keep this car on the road and not in the ditch, where the rest of his thoughts are.
The speakers blare in his ears as she reaches over and turns the radio right up, causing the doors of the car to throttle with the sound of the music she’s put on for the night. He doesn’t make an effort to turn it down because his head is much louder than it, and it would only make Svetlana unreasonably upset.
So he drives back to his place. Gets the car parked and hoists Svetlana out from the passenger seat. She leans against him, mumbling god knows what before stopping and retching right in the bushes. He’s appointed with the duty of holding her purse and her hair out from her face, all before she staggers up and claims she’s “perfect.”
When Ilya gets back inside with her in tow, she latches onto him close and roams his body with a sluggish hand. He doesn’t want any of it. Just wants her to go to sleep and leave him to his own wallowing.
However, she’s eager and maybe one more could do him some good. So he gives her what she wants, lets himself run loose in her pleasure. He tries to will the picture of Shane out of his mind, but his face is practically branded into his eyelids at this point. There’s no use, surrendering to Svetlana with the face of another man in his head
Just like when he was with that woman.
Eventually, Svetlana is ready to go to bed. She stumbles out of his room and finds comfort in his couch instead. Maybe she didn’t want to lay with him because it’s basically bleeding from Ilya at this point— that solemn energy that only comes from uncertain things.
He digs up a blanket and pillow for her. Makes her drink some water and get a toast in before wiping off most of her makeup with a wet wipe. She cringes and flails in his ministrations, waffling on about how wet wipes aren’t good for the skin because they ruin the barrier or whatever. He plucks the shiny little clip out from her hair and fiddles with the earrings in her lobes, all while hissing at her to stay still.
She giggles and wavers in his hold, keeping the blanket close to her body as she picks on Ilya for “playing nurse.” It’s funny in a way, because usually she’s the one taking care of him. However, on a night like this where his mind has collectively decided to run mad, all he wants is something to distract him; even if it’s dainty earrings and a manicured hand that slaps his own away.
When she finally passes out, he trudges around the penthouse. Gets his own cup of water and then a can of coke after that to take to his bedroom. When he gets into bed, he forgets his phone and has to stomp back up into the kitchen to find it. The phone ends up being tucked with Svetlana, and he has to shove her a bit to get his phone.
She doesn’t stir, only sleeps like a dead log in a forest. Her mouth is gaped around a docile snore and her hair now shows the unruliness of her night. He thinks about taking a picture to use as some ammo when she decides to text him a picture of him not at his best, but he goes against it because he really just wants to sleep.
He’s been run ragged for the day, and wants to close it to an end.
Finally, he gets into bed. Plugs his phone in and swipes around. People have called and texted him, along with a few texts from Svetlana. They’re a bunch of drunken mishaps, and he pays them no mind. There’s a text from a scam saying his package arrived but he has to go on a sketchy site to see it, and he swipes that one into the trash bin.
His head is pounding, and there’s too many texts to keep up with. He’ll take a look tomorrow, maybe let Svetlana fish them out for him. She likes doing that; taking his phone and snooping through his stuff. Ilya doesn’t care because they’re both the same, so what he has on his phone is something she most likely has on hers.
He closes the night with a sip of his soda, shoving his sweatpants off and sleeping in only his boxers. It takes a minute to get under, because his phone vibrates on the bedside table.
Eventually he rises with a huff and sets it on silent. A snore then croaks from the lounge room.
❧
When he wakes, his head is like a battlefield; vibrating with throbbing pain and screaming out in agony. He listens out for Svetlana, and settles when he hears some clattering from the kitchen. She’s probably going through it as much as him.
To start his morning routine, he checks his phone. There’s many notifications that were silenced during the night, and it takes him a moment to scour through all of them. A few are from his social media platforms, and then some are from his messages and calls.
It bewilders him, because who is calling him at four in the morning? He peers a bit further with bleary eyes, and it’s just Marleau who left a very sloppy voicemail.
Guess he had fun too.
There’s a few texts from the team, with a few members saying they can’t make it to the practice this afternoon. Like the good captain he is, he brushes them off and makes sure to let them know they owe double the practice the next time they come around.
There’s texts from his coach, which he’d rather read when he’s somewhat alive. There’s some from a few of his flings asking if he wants to come back for another round, and he doesn’t remember their names because he has them all labeled under the same emoji. Then there’s a few from Marleau too, all sent at around the same time as when he left the voicemail.
They’re just as equally mumbled as his voicemail.
Amongst the sea of texts, there’s an unknown number that stands out. He gets a few unknown numbers in his messages, but the preview for this one is much more interesting than the rest.
Unknown I.D.
Hey, it’s Shane from Sip ‘n’ Swirl. You gave me your number? 😊