Chapter Text
“This is the best espresso martini I’ve ever had.”
Ilya likes Svetlana’s new girlfriend. He likes her a lot, actually, and not just because she’s cupping the espresso martini he had made in both hands, staring blankly at the far wall of his kitchen like god just appeared among his dirty dishes.
If only he could remember her fucking name.
“Thank you,” Ilya says, turning to wash the shaker in his sink before starting in on Svetlana’s drink.
Normally, Ilya would be pissed to be left alone with Svetlana’s newest partner, but The Girlfriend has been surprisingly and refreshingly easy to talk to in the half-hour since Ilya met her, even outside of the praise she lavished over his espresso martini. It’s a departure from Svetlana’s usual partners, most of whom Ilya can’t stand for more than a handful of minutes at a time.
Admittedly, that usually has something to do with the fact that Svetlana is painfully, brutally blunt in almost all things, and she tends to introduce Ilya as the guy I used to fuck. While most people took exception to that, Svetlana has never cared, and Ilya even less so. Everything between them is ancient history, and Ilya knows enough about Svetlana to understand that the people who get too hung up on her past don’t tend to stick around for long.
Interestingly, Svetlana had forgone her normal introduction today, instead addressing him as just Ilya. He has no idea why the fuck that might be, but he did see something in Svetlana’s eyes that he hasn’t seen in a long, long while, and he’s starting to wonder if the girl in front of him might be a slightly longer-term solution than most of Svetlana’s other partners.
Well, whatever. Either The Girlfriend knows and she’s cool with it, or she’ll find out later and she won’t be.
“How’d you learn to make a drink this good?” The Girlfriend asks when Ilya turns back to her. “At Anya’s?”
Maybe The Girlfriend already knows everything, and that’s why she’s buttering him up. Maybe she’s working so hard to flatter him so he’ll lower his defenses and then, in a few hours, when Ilya is drunk as shit, she’ll smother him with his own pillow because he’s seen her girlfriend naked.
Or maybe – just maybe – all it takes to win over a high school drama teacher is a little bit of alcohol, a little bit of caffeine, a flair for the dramatic, and half a shot of amaretto.
Ilya doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with his brain. He can remember this girl’s job, but not her name, and he’s only 50% convinced that she’s not going to kill him.
Anyway.
“Something like that,” Ilya says, even though it’s actually nothing like that at all. The coffee shop where he works – the same one Svetlana manages, and where Svetlana and The Girlfriend had their quote-unquote meet cute – is not the type of place to serve martinis. It’s not even the type of place that stays open past 6 PM.
Ilya’s sure that The Girlfriend is at least provisionally aware of this, so he refuses to say more. You know, just in case she really is a super secret murder spy who’s digging to get more information out of him before killing him.
Not that he’s sure why anyone would want any more information on Anya’s. It’s a fine enough job, all things considered, but it strays far from anything that could be labeled as exciting. There’s a distinct and definite lack of spy-worthy material – no state secrets (that Ilya knows of, at least), minimal opportunities for corporate espionage, even fewer opportunities for scandal. Really, the most scandalous thing to happen to the cafe in the years since it opened was Ilya and Svetlana’s torrid affair, which The Girlfriend may or may not know about.
Mostly, the cafe is just a bunch of college students stressing about exams/midterms/finals in one way or another, and drowning their sorrows in overpriced coffee as their meal plan allows.
“I have a friend who loves espresso martinis,” The Girlfriend says, bending at a weird angle as she lines up her phone. She snaps a picture, then spends a few long seconds frowning at it. The fluorescent lighting in the kitchen is likely at odds with The Girlfriend’s artistic vision, but eventually she huffs in disappointment, accepts her fate, and types something quickly before putting her phone down.
“Which friend?” Svetlana asks, reentering the kitchen from the living room. She makes a show of draping herself over her girlfriend’s back, hugging her tight.
“Jackie,” The Girlfriend says. “You know, the one who usually comes in with me for coffee? The one who always gets an iced cappuccino?”
Svetlana muses for a moment. “Yes, I think I remember her,” she says, her tone flat.
Ilya has to force down a smile. Svetlana judges everyone by their coffee order, and an iced cappuccino clearly doesn’t impress her.
“She’s at Shane’s place,” The Girlfriend adds. “Trying to hype him up for a date.”
“Hype him up?” Svetlana pulls a face.
The Girlfriend spends a moment gesturing vaguely with her hands, then sighs. “Well, yeah. He doesn’t go out on dates often. Or, at all, I guess.”
“Shane?” Svetlana asks, and The Girlfriend nods. “You met him on a date, yes?”
Svetlana’s tone has taken a sharp turn. Ilya raises his eyebrows – between Mrs. Cappuccino and Mr. Date, this could be interesting.
“I mean, yeah, but it was a complete disaster,” The Girlfriend says empathically, reaching for Svetlana’s hand. “Hence why we are best friends, and why he needs to be hyped up for this date.”
Svetlana does not soften an inch. If anything, her glare sharpens, and she hums a low note that could be agreement or the placeholder for a string of curse words.
“Invite them over,” Ilya finds himself saying, suddenly intrigued to meet this group of people who have so easily made their way to Svetlana’s bad side.
It’s also just a little bit funny to him, really, because Svetlana is throwing her equivalent of a jealous tantrum while standing in the kitchen of her ex-fuck-buddy while cuddling her current girlfriend – who, by the way, may or may not know the origin story of the owner of said kitchen. Ilya loves Svetlana in a very real way, but if she has the audacity to be visibly upset over one disaster-class date, he’s absolutely going to give her shit for it.
“Really?” The Girlfriend says, seemingly unaware of the way Svetlana’s diamond-cutting glare has turned to him. “Oh, that’d be so fun! I’ve been trying to introduce everyone to Sveta, but I don’t want to make it too planned, you know?”
Ilya has no fucking clue what she means. “Yes. Exactly,” he says out loud.
“And you’ll love them, too, Ilya. They are my best friends in the entire world.”
“Okay.”
In all honesty, Ilya couldn’t give less of a fuck about the girlfriend’s best friends in the entire world. That’s damn near three degrees of separation, and as much as he likes this current iteration of Svetlana’s partner, he’s more than well aware of how quickly Svetlana falls in and out of love. He’s actually lived in Svetlana’s orbit long enough to be one of the people she fell in and out of love with. He’s learned over time – or maybe has always known – that he could never get too attached to anything surrounding Svetlana, except maybe their friendship. Given the glare she is throwing at him, he thinks even that is rather precarious.
After a moment, The Girlfriend wraps her arm around Svetlana’s waist, and Svetlana collapses against her. “Fine,” she finally relents. “It will be … fun.”
The Girlfriend practically squeals, pulling her phone out and sending a flurry of texts.
For a few more uncomfortable minutes, Ilya is stuck as a third wheel in his own kitchen. He finishes making Svetlana’s espresso martini, making sure it’s slightly weaker than she likes because he’s petty above all else, then slides it towards her and weathers her withering look that tells him she sees right through all his game.
It goes on like that. The girlfriend swoons, Svetlana pretends to be immune to all affection but eventually always gives herself away. Ilya wants to throw up a little bit, and Svetlana glares at him like she knows. Ilya smiles brightly in response and tries to stir the pot at every given chance.
Rinse and repeat.
Even though Ilya loves antagonizing Svetlana, the promise of additional guests gets more and more enticing by the second. By the time the doorbell finally rings, Ilya can’t get himself out of the kitchen fast enough. Before Svetlana and her girlfriend can even untangle themselves from each other, he’s tripping over boots and purses as he runs towards the door.
So, maybe, when he eventually throws open the door, he might do so with slightly too much gusto.
“Hi–”
Ilya stops short.
Fuck him. On the other side of the door stands an absolutely gorgeous guy wearing a completely shocked expression.
Of course, The Girlfriend had failed to mention that her best friend in the entire world suffers from the cutest case of freckles that Ilya’s ever seen.
“Hi,” Freckles says, his tone a little clipped. “Sorry, uh, my friend Rose told me to meet her here – I don’t know if she got the right place.”
Ilya’s brain has temporarily stopped all activity. He stands in the doorway, probably resembling a fish out of water, as the man in front of him only appears to get more and more uncomfortable.
Then, several things click into place at once.
Rose. The girlfriend’s name is Rose. Of course. Svetlana did say that, like, twelve times earlier, now that Ilya thinks about it.
And – maybe more importantly – the girlfriend, Rose, said one of her friends she was inviting over was on their way to a date.
Ilya hopes to god it isn’t Freckles.
“Yes,” Ilya says. “Right place.”
There’s a slight furrow in Freckles’ brow. It’s a look that Ilya’s become familiar with since starting in customer service, something he’s able to read even at its most subtle. He watches the man in front of him process his accent in real time, then settle into the knowledge.
“Ah, okay. Uh, are you…” He pauses for a moment, “Sveltana’s friend?”
Ilya snorts a little. As if the accent and the chain of events that led both of them here have not made that obvious.
He likes this man.
“Yes, obviously,” he says.
There’s another beat of awkward silence. Freckles clears his throat. “Ah, well, can I come in, then?”
Ilya wants to shoot himself in the fucking foot. In his freckles-induced delirium, he has somehow forgotten how to exist like a normal fucking human being.
“If you want,” Ilya says, shrugging as he opens the door wider.
The awkward silence rings out again. Ilya doesn’t know whether that’s a good sign or if this should be counted as a complete disaster.
Well, a cute boy is currently entering his apartment, so maybe he’s avoided complete disaster for now.
Freckles smiles at him, a little tight around the corners, as he shrugs off his jacket. The last two remaining brain cells in the empty attic of Ilya’s mind go haywire, bouncing off the walls until they collide with each other and accidentally produce a singular coherent thought.
“Are there two of you?” Ilya asks.
Freckles gives him another weird look. “Huh?”
“Rose said, you know, two friends,” Ilya holds up two fingers. “But there is only one of you.”
“Oh, oh, yeah,” Freckles says, pointing backwards over his shoulder. “Jackie is coming. She left her bag in the car.”
Jackie.
Okay, so, yes, Rose had definitely said Jackie earlier, along with another name and something about a date.
Fuck. Ilya should have paid more attention.
“Ah, I see.” Ilya pokes his head out the door to see a pretty girl in a ponytail heading up his front steps. “You must be Jackie,” he says.
“Yes!” The girl says, bouncing on her toes. “Svetlana invited us over.”
“So I’ve heard,” Ilya says, stepping out of the way so Jackie can enter his apartment.
Jackie gives him a look, clearly unsure of what to make of that answer. Ilya doesn’t take any personal offense – few people in this world know what to make of him.
Freckles holds his hand out. “I’m, uh, Shane, by the way.”
Ilya stares at his hand for a long second before reaching out and shaking it.
“Okay.”
Shane – Shane, somehow the name fits him – stares at him for a long moment. “And you are…?
Oh. Well, that’s fair enough, he supposes.
“Ilya.”
There are a few more beats of silence. Ilya is properly killing this first introduction thing.
“Right. Cool. Well, do you have somewhere I can hang my jacket?” Shane spins in a full circle as he asks.
Fuck. He’s really cute. Ilya really, really hopes he’s not the one headed out on a date. There’s a split second where Ilya seriously considers putting his head through the nearest wall – what name had Rose said?
“Leave it here,” Ilya says, patting the back of his couch. "No problem.”
Shane looks like that might be a problem for him, for reasons Ilya might never know. In an instant, Ilya sees his apartment through Shane’s eyes – he hadn’t so much as moved from the couch when Svetlana said she was coming over, so there’s a random hockey game blaring from the television and a half-eaten bag of chips precariously perched on the armrest. The boots and purses he had tripped over on his way to the door certainly add to the aesthetic. He wishes he had taken any amount of time to clean up, even just a little.
Nothing like a hot guy in your living room to remind yourself that you live in a veritable junkyard.
Any protest Shane might have had about Ilya’s cleanliness dies before he can voice them, because Rose rounds the corner from the kitchen and slams into Shane in a flurry of red hair.
“Shane!” she exclaims as she hugs him. His jacket is forgotten in a pile on the back of the couch, as god and Ilya had intended.
“Hey, Rose,” Shane says, patting her back lightly. He gives Jackie a look, who just snorts in laughter, like this is some typical Rose behavior that they endure as her friends. It’s a hard thing to reconcile with the type of behavior of the girl Rose is currently sleeping with.
“I missed you,” Rose says, pulling back and turning to Jackie.
“We saw you at school,” Jackie says, though she accepts the hug.
“But that was hours ago.”
For the first time, Ilya can truly understand why Rose was called to be a High School Drama teacher.
It’s a lot to handle. Like, too much, maybe.
Ilya claps his hands. “Alcohol, anyone?”
Ilya passes by Svetlana, who’s watching the entire exchange as she leans on the doorway of the kitchen. By some miracle, Ilya’s able to avoid the next awkward set of introductions and just gives a half-hearted wave when Svetlana says his name (and, again, leaves out the guy I used to fuck part – interesting revelation).
The universe doesn’t let him catch a break for long because the four of them all take seats at the kitchen counter that doubles as Ilya’s dining room and bar, making themselves at home on the available barstools.
The stools are an amalgamation of pieces from various Facebook Marketplace listings. Originally, Ilya found some humor in the way the pieces clashed so horrifically with each other. As he watches Shane analyze the setup – clearly trying to work out a rhyme or a reason for any of it – it is, perhaps, less funny in that exact moment.
Rose, Jackie, and poor, not-at-all-innocent Svetlana immediately fall into a conversation that appears to revolve around the spring production that Rose is working on with her students. Ilya is not interested in that at all, even a little bit, and Shane seems even less so.
That leaves them to make conversation, something they have been so good at so far.
Ilya gathers his ingredients again, then looks up to find Shane already watching him. Shane looks away, then immediately back at him.
“Do you teach?” Ilya says, nodding his head at Rose and Jackie. “Like them?”
“Oh, uh, no,” Shane says, fidgeting in his seat. “I’m the hockey coach at the high school.”
Ilya hums. “I played hockey when I was younger.”
“Me too.”
“I was probably better,” Ilya says.
Shane looks at him like he’s insane, clearly offended. Ilya doesn’t know what to do, except raise his eyebrows and smile.
After a moment, Shane smiles like he’s starting to catch on to something. “Doubtful,” he mutters.
Something blooms in Ilya’s chest.
“Are you, uh, a bartender?” Shane asks, after a few more beats of silence. He gestures at the many materials spread across the counter.
“No.” Ilya starts shaking the espresso martini, and Shane raises his eyebrows in a challenge. Ilya rolls his eyes. “I work at Anya’s.”
“Oh, wait – that’s the cafe Svetlana manages, right?” Shane says as he reaches over for his phone.
“Yes.”
Ilya pours the martini into a wine glass with as much finesse as he can manage – which, admittedly, isn’t that much, all things considered, especially since he doesn’t even own martini glasses. It’s all for nothing, too, because Shane’s clearly distracted by whatever he’s typing out on his phone.
“Oh, that’s cool. I haven’t been in,” Shane says. “I’m not a coffee drinker.”
Ilya pauses as he pushes the wine-glass-martini across the counter. “Well.”
Shane looks up from his phone, and his eyes go very, very wide. “Oh, I mean – uh.”
Ilya remembers Rose’s words from earlier. My friend would die for a good espresso martini right now.
Shane does not seem like the type of person to say he would die for something, unless he were being very literal.
“That is for Jackie,” Svetlana says, reaching over and grabbing the wine glass and delivering it to someone who can appreciate caffeine.
“Thank you,” Jackie says, taking the martini and sipping it. Her face lights up a little bit, and her eyes focus on Ilya. “Thank you.”
Ilya just nods.
“Right?” Rose said. “I think it’s better than Smith’s Downtown.”
“Rose, honey, every espresso martini is better than Smith’s Downtown.”
And then, suddenly, Rose and Jackie are knee-deep in a heated debate about the best espresso martini in town, and Ilya turns back to Shane.
“Uh, sorry, I didn’t mean to be, like, rude or anything,” Shane says as a blush spreads on his face, just dusting the tops of his cheeks. Ilya is immediately obsessed with it. “It messes with my sleep schedule,” he mutters, almost as if he doesn’t want to say it at all.
Ilya wants to offer to mess with his sleep schedule even further, but just barely holds himself back.
“No problem,” Ilya says, shrugging. “I can make something else?”
“Uh, no, that’s okay –”
“You have to drink something,” Rose says, dragging herself away from the conversation about the definite ranking of espresso martinis within the county limits to interject. “You are wound way too tight for a date.”
A metaphorical bucket of ice is poured over Ilya’s head.
Of course, of course, Shane is the one going on a date.
“Oh, yeah,” Shane says, almost sounding as if he had forgotten himself. The blush across his cheeks deepens from pink to red. Ilya likes it slightly less, now.
For a few beats, no one says anything.
“I'll mix up some liquid courage, yes?” Ilya says after a moment, wondering if the awkward tension in the air is something he’s imagining. “What do you like?”
“Ugh, Shane is so boring,” Jackie says, leaning across the counter. “He doesn’t like anything.”
Boring. Ilya likes that word, actually.
The blush on Shane’s cheeks deepens. “That’s not true.”
“Shane, baby,” Rose says, grabbing his hand. “You need something stronger than ginger ale.”
Ilya’s ears perk up. Ginger ale – he can work with that. “I have ginger beer,” he says, turning back to his fridge
“I’ve, uh, never tried it,” Shane says, as Ilya pulls out a bottle.
He twists the cap off with his palm, then hands it across the counter to Shane. For a second, their hands brush, and Ilya wonders how insane it would be for him to order everyone but Shane out of his house.
The thing is, Ilya really shouldn’t care if Shane likes ginger beer. He definitely shouldn’t watch him take the first sip like he’s watching the clock tick down on a Raiders’ power play.
Shane coughs a little after trying it, seemingly taken aback by the overpowering amount of ginger, but after a second sip, he nods. “Thanks,” he says, holding the bottle up.
“No problem,” Ilya says, nodding once.
Shane ducks his head, but not before Ilya catches his smile.
*
Ilya is specifically, painfully aware that Shane is on his way to another date.
No, really, he is. He just has to remind himself every third or fourth time he catches himself staring at Shane’s freckles.
So, yes, he’s well aware – but fuck him if he’s going to be the one to remind everyone else. An hour later, Shane’s on his second ginger beer, Rose is three martinis deep, and Svetlana and Jackie are going shot-for-shot. What began as two clearly separate conversations has morphed into a single discussion that now involves all of them in equal measure. Ilya doesn’t even find that he cares all that much because Shane is clearly comfortable around these people, and although he’s still awkward, he’s also endearing and surprisingly funny.
And he’s very obviously and very publicly on his way to meet someone else, Ilya reminds himself.
It’s an effort not to be obvious about everything, especially as he keeps catching Shane’s eye, like Shane is already watching him. In a vacuum, he’d know what that meant, but he has no idea what to make of it altogether.
When Svetlana throws her hands up and declares that it’s time for drunk movie night, Ilya finds Shane already looking at him again. For a second, he thinks this might be the death blow, and Shane might finally be on his way out.
Instead, Shane asks him, “what is drunk movie night?”
Ilya is stunned by the question. “Just as it says on tin. Get drunk, watch movie.” Ilya shrugs. “No third step.”
“Oh.” Shane looks down at his ginger beer.
Ilya’s not sure whether the rest of the party has clued into the fact that he provided Shane with one of the only non-alcoholic beverages in his fridge, but they haven’t given him any shit about it in the last hour, so Ilya’s betting no.
Besides, Ilya’s sipping straight vodka and trying to keep his head on right. Between the two of them, they probably make the world’s booziest Moscow Mule – a drink Ilya’s never really understood, despite the irony.
Shane looks up at Ilya, and Ilya shrugs as he takes another sip of vodka. When he’s sure no one else is looking, he winks, and Shane ducks his head to hide a bashful smile again.
Fuck. Yeah.
“Okay,” Shane says finally. “I’m game. What movie?”
“Wait, Shane,” Rose spins in her chair, nearly falling over. Svetlana just nearly keeps her upright – Rose is taking the rules of Drunk Movie Night incredibly seriously. “What about your date?”
Fuck. No.
Ilya knew this was coming, but it sucks all the same. He braces, ready to endure some dramatic exit, like Shane leaping and running for the door as he realizes that he’s actively standing someone up. Instead, Shane looks over at him, then blinks and looks away.
Ilya’s heart stops for a second, then goes double time.
“I think I’m staying,” Shane says, shrugging.
Ilya might have just won the fucking lottery.
“Nooo, Shane! This is –”
“Your cousin’s orthodontist, I know,” Shane finishes, rolling his eyes.
“He’s a really nice guy!” Rose whines. “I set you up – it’s going to look so bad for me if you no-show.”
“I, uh, already texted him and cancelled, like, an hour ago,” Shane says.
For a second, the kitchen is silent, and Ilya feels Svetlana’s eyes on him. He keeps his reaction to himself.
Rose complains loudly about it – apparently, this is not the first date that Rose set Shane up on that ended in a less-than-happy ending – but Ilya is entirely uninterested in any of that. Instead, he watches with single-minded focus as Shane slips off his barstool and heads for the living room.
Ilya has no fucking clue what he did to convince Shane to blow off a date with Rose’s cousin’s orthodontist. Like, really.
When they all shuffle into the cramped living room to watch Rose struggle to find a movie, it’s little surprise that Shane and Ilya end up next to each other on the couch.
*
Ilya thinks time machines have actually already been invented.
He likes a good conspiracy as much as the next guy, but he has, like, verifiable fucking evidence that the technology already exists. Scientifically speaking, it’s probably literally impossible for Ilya, at his big age, to have spent an entire movie going crazy over the fact that he was sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Shane.
So: time travel.
Clearly, he’s somehow been booted right back to middle school, when this kind of thing could have easily driven him up the wall and not been so…
Well, it would have still been pathetic, even then, but at least less so.
They had started a respectable distance away on the couch, some number of inches that constituted plausible deniability. Throughout the night, that plausible deniability shrank smaller and smaller, until even their knees were brushing each other. If the fuckass movie that Rose picked had lasted a minimum of 15 more minutes, Ilya probably would have ended up with Shane’s head on his shoulder.
Maybe it’s for the best. Given his current trajectory, he might have, like, creamed his pants or something, and then he’d probably have to flee back to his homeland to save his dignity.
Like he said, time travel is real, it does exist, and it’s fucking with Ilya Rozanov specifically.
Science is crazy.
“Wow,” Rose says, as the movie credits roll and Ilya tries to kill the director with his mind for not including an extended cut. “That was a journey.”
Sure was, Ilya thinks.
He actually can’t recall a singular scene from the entire movie. If he were held at gunpoint and asked to describe the main character, he’d have to be manually removed from the census.
Anyway.
Rose attempts to stand up, talking about some of the acting choices in slurred speech. Ilya hadn’t realized she was such a light weight – in retrospect, the third or fourth martini might have been a mistake. She falls backwards onto the couch, then giggles lightly.
Jackie gives Ilya – or maybe Shane, it’s hard to tell when there isn’t too much of a distinction in their personal space – a wide-eyed look.
“We should –”
“– go,” Shane finishes. Either Ilya has an auditory processing problem, or Shane sounds as put-off as Ilya feels.
Maybe a fifth (fourth? Ilya probably should have kept count) martini will help Rose. He opens his mouth to offer, and then potentially request a long series of movies, like maybe Lord of the Rings or Star Wars or the BBC Pride and Prejudice mini-series, but Svetlana seems to predict his line of thinking and shoots him a look.
While Ilya is withering a kill-shot from Svetlana’s eyes, Shane turns to him. Somehow, Ilya is resigned to the fact that he’s not prepared for whatever is about to come out of that man’s mouth.
“Last time she got like this, she projectile vomited in my car,” Shane mutters. “I had to get it detailed twice.”
Well, his instincts were right. Ilya certainly wasn’t prepared for all that.
“Okay,” Ilya says. He may or may not imagine the slight disappointment on Shane’s face. Maybe his eyesight is going the same way as his hearing.
Rose stands again, and all eyes turn to her. There’s almost no doubt that she would normally revel at being the center of attention, but right now she’s just wobbling on her feet and going a little green around the gills.
Ilay takes stock of his couch. While it is comfortable enough, it’s nothing special to look at. Unfortunately, its aesthetic appeal would not be improved if Rose decides to puke her guts up all over it, and Ilya really doesn’t want to be in the market for any new furniture.
Fuck.
Through a combined effort of clever teamwork and straight-up bribery, they all manage to corral Rose to the front door, even though she’s suddenly uninterested in leaving. Ilya would be impressed with her tenacity if he weren’t otherwise frustrated.
“You know how to use your elbows,” Ilya mutters, taking another one to the stomach. He thinks it’s almost entirely an accident.
Rose looks over her shoulder at him. “Thanks!” she says, even though Ilya isn’t sure how she misinterpreted that into a compliment. “I grew up with brothers.”
As if to prove her point, she jabs her elbow back into Ilya’s stomach. Ilya doubles over and wonders what the fuck type of point she might be making.
Svetlana, who has matched Rose drink-for-drink but manages to stay upright, gives him a cross look. Ilya wants to thank the actual god in literal heaven that Svetlana was born with the ability to handle liquor better than Rose and has been honing her craft ever since. As she’s the only person Rose seems inclined to listen to, Ilya can’t imagine what this would have looked like if Svetlana had been too far gone to be helpful.
It’s hard to be thankful when his circumstances are so bleak, though. He trudges to the door with the same temperament as a man being sent to war.
“Thanks for having us,” Shane says, clearly the only sober one but also, somehow, the least capable. He struggles to get Rose’s jacket on, then gives up entirely after a moment and leaves the task to Svetlana and Jackie.
“No problem,” Ilya says absentmindedly. “You come to my house, drink my alcohol, steal my Netflix account –”
“You are on my account,” Svetlana reminds him, barely ducking out of the way of her girlfriend’s elbow.
“– then you sneak off in the night like thieves.”
Shane looks like he’s taking Ilya’s melancholia just a little too seriously. Ilya forces a half smile to reassure him, then watches him relax in real time. It might be a small wonder of the world.
“We could post her up in your bathroom,” Jackie offers. “If you want.”
“I do not want,” Ilya says. “But it will take all three of you? She is this much trouble?”
Rose goes to yank the keys to Svetlana’s car out of her hands, who then has to hold them up above her head. For a limited amount of time, that’s enough of a deterrent, but then Rose remembers she is taller than Svetlana, and she makes another grab for the keys. Svetlana dodges her attempts by tossing the keys at Shane, nearly hitting him in his pretty freckles.
Thankfully, Shane has quick reflexes. He catches the keys at the last second, then gives Svetlana a look.
Ilya wonders if the kids he coaches ever aim their pucks at him on purpose. Ilya is weirdly endeared to him, but he probably would have told him to fuck off and die if he were a high schooler being tortured through a conditioning practice.
“Da,” Svetlana says. Ilya does not argue further.
“Sorry about all this,” Shane says, quietly enough that it feels like it’s meant only for Ilya to hear. “Obviously, none of them can drive, so, you know…”
He trails off, then points to himself.
“The only downside of ginger ale – you are designated driver,” Ilya says.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Shane says, smiling. “Maybe I should have put back a few espresso martinis, too. Saved myself the trouble.”
“He makes a really good martini,” Rose says, blowing hair out of her face as Svetlana zips her jacket up. “10 out of 10. Would recommend.”
“Will not be so good on the way back up,” Ilya says, eyeing her. He likes Rose better when she’s not the primary reason his night is ending both early and alone.
Not that he’s sure he would have been able to convince Shane to spend the night, given more time or further transportation options, but –
Well. Who is Ilya kidding? He really, genuinely thinks he probably could have pulled it off, given better conditions.
Svetlana opens the door, and somehow she and Jackie manage to maneuver Rose towards the car. That in and of itself is enough of a miracle that someone needs to alert the Catholic Church, but Ilya remains unimpressed, even when Shane turns to look at him.
“It was, uh, nice to meet you,” Shane says.
The blush on Shane’s cheeks is back, a pale color that grows the longer Ilya stays quiet.
Not knowing the next time he’ll see Shane is kind of terrible, Ilya decides. When will he have another opportunity to make Shane blush? The world may never know, and that’s the dictionary definition of a travesty.
“Yes,” Ilya says. “I will see you around.”
“Yeah, around.” Shane smiles, and Ilya's heart attempts to stop beating. “Bye, Ilya.”
“Goodbye, Shane.”
Shane ducks outside, jogging to catch up with the clusterfuck that is the rest of his friends.
Ilya doesn’t watch them go. Seriously – he closes, then locks, the front door.
When the taillights of Shane’s car disappear down the road, he pulls away from his front window, his back hitting the door.
He stares up at the ceiling, then mutters fuck under his breath.