Work Text:
Okay, so Ilya could admit it:
Boston wouldn’t be the first city he would have chosen to call home in America. Shane Hollander was right when he said Boston was ‘nice’. The city was indeed…nice. Family friendly, with lots of little kids running around. Lots of museums. A nice waterfront to explore. Lots of boring commercial buildings that probably provided a good salary. It was easy to find a nice apartment near the very nice Boston arena. But that was it. Boston felt like, how would he put it in English? A boring mini New York. It was packed with history that Americans thought was old and fascinating and there was lots of sea food. Probably Shane was right, people liked to visit and live there as locals. Ilya just didn’t know how he would fill his days here as a newbie hockey player, especially during the stretch of time between moving and the start of training.
So he took to exploring neighborhood, trying to find a new spot to haunt. Everywhere was just too boring or too annoying or too full of, what did Americans call them? Soccer moms. Everything felt cold and unfamiliar, even though he lived in a touristy area and it was summer. Ilya couldn’t call what he felt homesick- he wasn’t sure he would ever be homesick for Russia- but he did miss having his familiar routine. Ilya missed his favourite coffee shops and bars and gym knowing which parts of town to avoid. He missed hearing Russian. Hearing so much English all the time was nauseating. He missed his favourite foods and easily finding good vodka.
Missing things wasn’t productive. Missing things wouldn’t help him adjust to his new home. He had to adapt if he was going to thrive here, and if Ilya wanted the golden United States of America passport and ticket out of Russia forever, he had to adapt to and thrive in Boston.
“What is good around here?” Ilya asked the gas station cashier who sold him cigarettes.
The cashier stared at him like he was speaking an alien language. He said that in English, right?
Blinking, the old guy finally shrugged and said: “The diner is good. Down the street.”
Diner. Ilya wasn’t familiar with the word in English, but it sounded sort of like dinner so he assumed it was some kind of restaurant. He thanked the cashier with a bright smile and curiously made his way to the diner on the corner. The small shop did in fact serve food. Throwing open the door, Ilya was greeted with the strong smell of fatty burgers. British rock music was playing, fitting with the posters on the wall of past tours that had come through Boston. The restaurant was small, with just a row of red-leather booth seats along the wall. No one greeted him. No one else was eating. Yet, this was the place that was supposed to be ‘good’.
Perhaps, Americans were so wrapped up in their daily lives that they didn’t truly understand what the word ‘good’ meant in the greater cultural meaning of the word. Still, he was hungry, so Ilya took a seat facing the window. Good for people watching.
“What can I get ya?” The waitress (who smelled like the cigarettes Ilya just bought) asked.
No introduction. No judgement. No caring that Ilya was a brand new face in a local neighborhood establishment. Ilya was typically social, but he kind of liked that.
“What is good here?” Ilya asked. The waitress gave him a look that said she wouldn’t feed her mother’s least favourite neighbor this food. Or maybe she didn't understand his accent. He tried: “What do people like here?”
“I dunno. Tuna melt’s a big hit at lunch.”
Ilya had no idea what that was, and it didn’t seem like this place had enough customers at lunch for anything to be a ‘big hit’. But today was all about trying new things and adjusting to his new life. He would eat what the people ate.
“Tuna melt, fries, and coke, please,” Ilya requested with a smile.
She didn’t smile back. It was fine. Her job definitely did not pay a good salary, let alone enough to give forced smiles.
IIya tried to look busy scrolling on his phone while he waited, though he couldn’t help but to steal glances out the window at the passerby. A couple of construction workers came in for lunch; the waitress was much more friendly with them. Regulars. A mother was fighting with her child about going inside a cheap hair cut place across the street. Drivers were honking at each other over nothing. College students ran by in their college shorts and t-shirts.
These were the people who were going to be rooting for him this season. The people he was meant to represent and live amongst.
He didn’t feel like he fit in at all.
What if he never fit in to Boston?
A few anxious minutes later, Ilya was served his food. A tuna melt, it turned out, was some kind of toasted sandwich with canned tuna mixed up with…he couldn’t exactly tell what, but it smelled like some onions were in there. There was definitely some melted yellow cheese. What was with Americans and their love for yellow cheese?
Well. He supposed there was only one way to find out. Ilya took a big bite and-
“Oh my god!”
All three other people in the diner looked up at him as he took in the pure comfort that was his tuna melt sandwich. He had no idea tuna could even taste this good! The taste was indescribable, it was…something that probably shouldn’t taste good at all. But it did. The sandwich was fresh too, served with hot fries and one of the best cokes he had in his life.
“This is the best thing I’ve ever had in my life!” llya declared through a mouthful.
The waitress gave him a pitying look while the construction worker smirked: “Wait until he tries the burger.”
Ilya wouldn’t ever try the burger. Instead, Ilya stopped by every day that week for the same tuna melt. He eventually got Millie the waitress to warm up to him, and by day three he was brave enough to wave at the construction workers who stopped in for lunch. Other customers slowly became familiar too, and Ilya could understand why Americans loved their diners. Diners were like…a home. Like a café or bar, but for lunch. Somewhere you could always depend to serve you the same meal exactly the same, by the same familiar place and comforting food. Somewhere you could feel like you belonged.
Soon, llya would find his favourite coffee shop and bar and liquor store. He recognized the streets leading from the arena to his apartment without having to pull out his phone for maps. When the season started up, Ilya found himself subconsciously checking the crowd for familiar faces. Though he didn’t often find any, somehow there was still a sense of community in the fans. This was his city, and they had no problem learning to love him.
Maybe there was a place for him in Boston after all.