Chapter Text
When the tortoiseshell cat struts to Ilya's table, he expects for it to curl around his feet, but it instead bores its wide eyes into Ilya's own, polished aventurine challenging jagged peridot. It's a little unsettling, how the cat seems to find the path to his soul and unearths his darkest of secrets in the matter of seconds, once hidden by the thick veil of black ink and the facade of mystery.
Its head turns to the man behind the cafe counter, briefly, before its gaze settles on Ilya once more. Ilya grimaces. He's been caught by a cat. This may possibly be the lowest point of his life.
Ilya feels his nose twitch once, twice, before he's sneezing. Across the table, Svetlana arches one of her eyebrows, a small, self-satisfied smile spreading across her face. This self-proclaimed lowest point stoops to an even lower level, and Ilya feels a foreign sensation bubble in his stomach, a sensation akin to corrosive acid eating away at metal. It takes a second before he recognizes this as embarrassment.
"Is pretty boy worth it?" Svetlana ribs in their native language.
Her eyes flicker to same man the cat glanced at, and Ilya permits himself this opportunity to indulge, obediently following the same trail as Svetlana and that stupid tortoiseshell. As the customers distract themselves with friendly felines and steaming cups of coffee, the barista wipes down the countertop as he converses with Rose—the founder of Cat-astrophe, as Ilya discovered when he was scouring the cafe's website.
The man laughs quietly at something she says, onyx eyes twinkling under the fluorescent lighting and a half-smile lingering after the melodic sound passes, a comet among the stars stamped across his cheeks. He's positively radiating, and worse of all, he doesn't even seem aware of how devastatingly gorgeous he is. He adjusts his glasses, nudging them with his knuckle, and Ilya's eyes trail the length of his muscles from underneath his too-tight black long sleeve, from the plains of his forearm to the broadness of his shoulders. Ilya's fingertips itch to trace each divot and line, but he opts to dig his hand into the meat of his thigh because the pressure acts as a mental slap across the face, reminding him of how insane he's behaving.
Ilya wills himself to tear his gaze away from the beautiful man, and it's the biggest mistake he's ever made, he realizes, for Svetlana's grin broadens. It's the face she makes when she's right, which, to Ilya's chagrin, is more often than not. Including now.
Ilya stifles a cough before responding, "I don't know what you mean."
Svetlana hums, unconvinced. "Right. So why do you look like you're about to maul him?"
"You are lying to yourself," Ilya claims. He sneezes again, louder than before. "Hallucinating things."
"Wrong and wrong," Svetlana snorts. "You're the idiot who comes to a cafe full of cats to—to what exactly? Remind me again."
Rolling his eyes, Ilya answers, "I believe in finding true love in unusual places. I am not always driven by my dick."
"You want to fuck him," Svetlana deadpans. "I thought you stopped being a whore. Leave the poor man alone."
"If I knew you were going to be an asshole, I would've never given the gift card to you," Ilya sighs.
Ilya had gotten the Cat-astrophe gift card during the office's annual holiday party—at least, he thinks it's annual, but he had been hired earlier that year, so he wouldn't know. When he first heard about the party, he expected a tolerable dinner and tuxedos and alcohol, but those thoughts were quickly flushed down the drain when his coworkers began to discuss ugly sweaters and who they wanted for Secret Santa.
He was assigned Jesse from marketing, and while Ilya can count on one hand the amount of times he's talked to her, he received a tip that she has an extensive mug collection from a trusted source (Mateo, who has survived in customer service for fifteen years and bonds with Ilya over the grudges they hold). Ilya bought her a mug with an octopus printed on it and a tentacle for a handle, and upon unwrapping the gift, Jesse's laughter seemed genuine enough to appease Ilya.
When Goldie revealed herself as Ilya's Secret Santa, he was pleasantly surprised. She works in the IT department with Ilya, is tooth-achingly sweet to everyone she meets, and has a penchant for office gossip and beaded glasses chains.
Ilya likes Goldie, to put it simply, so much that he didn't have the heart to tell her that her gift was terrible—not that it was actually terrible and something she bought on a whim to simply fulfill the requirements of the gift exchange. No, she was a regular customer at the cafe, and since she knew that Ilya loved animals, she thought that he would have a similar affinity for the furry creatures inhabiting the cafe. And when she looked up at him with the most angelic of smiles, eagerly anticipating his reaction, Ilya simply couldn't reveal that he was allergic to cats. All he could do was plaster a smile on his face and thank her for her thoughtfulness.
That night, he returned to the apartment he shared with Svetlana, more sober than he initially had hoped, and presented the gift card to his best friend. She affectionately called him an idiot when he recounted the events to her, but she plucked the card from his hands, promising that she would make the most out of the one-hour session the money covered without his grating presence next to her.
In all honesty, they both had forgotten about the cat cafe until last week, when Goldie asked Ilya if he had used the gift card yet. Shortly after she left his cubicle, Ilya pulled up the cafe's website on his computer. He didn't have to scroll far until he saw a group photo of the Cat-astrophe team, when he laid his unworthy eyes on a face so handsome that Ilya thought his mind was playing tricks on him.
He looked a little awkward among his coworkers with his hands shoved in his pockets and an uncertain half-smile toying at his lips. Still, he stood taller than everyone else, tanned skin glistening in the sunlight. Everyone wore the same pink T-shirt with the Cat-astrophe logo printed on it, but his shirt must have been a size too small, as the fabric was taut over clearly defined muscle.
Ilya questioned how such a beauty could only exist in the context of flesh and bone, for this man deserved to be preserved in intricate marble sculptures that captured his likeness. If one of those busts went missing and suddenly reappeared in Ilya's living room, that was no one's business except his own. And maybe Svetlana's.
On a completely unrelated note, Ilya immediately texted Svetlana to tell her to find her Cat-astrophe gift card, for they were going to spend their Saturday afternoon drinking mediocre coffee and petting angry balls of fur.
"Don't complain." Ilya narrows his eyes. He coughs, and at a soreness in his throat, his fingers instinctively trace the column of his neck. He drops his hand and tries to ignore the uncomfortable sensation. "I see you keep looking at Rose. I am going to vomit."
"Rose," Svetlana murmurs, testing the name on her tongue. She smiles like the word is already familiar to her. "So that's her name."
"I did not come here for this." He sneezes.
"That's what I came here for." Svetlana takes another sip from her latte. "And the free drinks. And the entertainment."
"Entertainment?" Ilya repeats. "That's all I am to you?"
"How will your ego ever recover?" Svetlana pouts mockingly. Ilya slumps further in his seat like a petulant child, and she rolls her eyes, nodding over to the barista. "Do you even know his name?"
He sniffles, admitting, "It wasn't on the website."
"You're so lame," she snorts. "Just ask."
A different cat springs onto the windowsill right next to their table with a midnight black coat and topaz saucers for eyes. It curls into itself and lays down on the windowsill and looks up at Ilya innocently, completely unlike its evil friend from earlier. Something within Ilya itches to pet the feline, and he does so, gently and carefully, like he's never pet an animal before. The cat purrs, clearly pleased with the attention Ilya gives it. He notices that it has a scar along its back, a jagged patch where fur refuses to grow.
The cat's eyes shift to the side, so Ilya follows its line of sight to land on the pretty barista, surprised to find that he's looking right back at Ilya. This seems the startle the other man, and he quickly averts his gaze to anywhere that isn't Ilya.
Huh.
[ ᓚᘏᗢ ]
When Ilya returns a month later, he's alone. In fact, in the six times he’s visited Cat-astrophe over the past thirty days, he was by himself. Every single time, he asked Svetlana if she wanted to accompany him, and every single time, she just shot him an unimpressed stare.
He sits on the floor today, on one of the circular cushions in the corner. He thought that it'd be inconsiderate if he sat at a table; he doesn't have food nor drink because he's been too much of a coward to walk up to the counter and order something. Ilya has never been this way, usually doesn’t have a problem with taking something—someone—he wants, but whenever he steps into this building, he feels his throat closing and his tongue swelling up, which might be literal to a certain degree. It doesn't help that lately, when Ilya closes his eyes, all he sees is freckles and gentle smiles and crinkled eyes shielded by glasses.
Cats have walked up to him for the past half hour, and he gave them all a decent amount of attention before shooing them away, all while stifling coughs and sneezes. But when a black cat hesitantly approaches him, peering up at him with its glossy topaz eyes, Ilya grins. This one has become his not-so-secret favorite, ever since the first time he visited. He just wished he knew its name, so he can stop calling it “the cat.” It feels a little derogatory.
He offers his hand out for the cat, extending his arm slowly to not spook it, and it nudges his hand with the side of its face. It briefly sniffs Ilya's palm before deciding that it has lost interest in his hand, settling right next to his thigh and tucking its tail underneath its chin. He studies the creature, allowing it to have its moment of peace, but it pops the delicate bubble on its own, pawing at Ilya's thigh and meowing. Ilya strokes its head, and this seems to soothe the cat, as it bows its head and soaks in Ilya's undivided attention.
"Hi," a voice greets. Ilya whips his head around to find the pretty man standing before him. Holy shit.
It’s the closest Ilya has been to him. Even on the first day, Svetlana ordered for the two of them, and Ilya kind of regretted it since, as maybe he would’ve been able to make a lasting impression in the single sentence it takes for him to order a coffee. But now, he’s standing before Ilya, a polite smile and crinkled eyes adorning his face, not a single blemish in sight. He dawns a white shirt and faded jeans, and Ilya swears he’s never seen a more elaborate outfit.
At Ilya's reaction, the other man's eyes go wide. He immediately looks apologetic, and Ilya feels like he just kicked a stray puppy.
"Sorry, uh.” He nudges his glasses with his knuckle and shuffles his feet. “I didn't mean to scare you."
"No, no, you did not scare me," Ilya says. He flashes a crooked smile and hopes it comes across as friendly. "It's okay."
"Can I…?" He gestures to the empty space next to Ilya. Ilya nods in response, the gears in his head grinding against each other to even fucking move his head up and—get this—down.
"Not working anymore?" Ilya tilts his head. The question makes him a feel little like a stalker, but realistically, if he were to come here multiple time over the course of the past month, it'd be weirder if he didn't recognize the barista. Right?
"I'm done for today," he explains, sitting down cross-legged on the floor. "Jackie took over, so you're in good hands. If you wanted to buy anything."
He jerks his head over to the cafe counter, presumably nodding at whoever replaced him, but Ilya cannot be bothered to look when a loose strand of hair falls out of place and brushes against the man's forehead. He still looks perfect, like his hair was always supposed to separate like this.
"Ah, so that's why you can now harass the customers," Ilya remarks. He winces, worried that the other man will take it the wrong way, but he instead chuckles, a quiet sound. It's enough to make Ilya's heart skip a beat.
"Something like that, yeah," the barista agrees. "I'll try not to make a habit out of it. It's just that I keep seeing you come by, and I thought I should probably start getting to know our regulars."
Ilya has spent so much time here that he's deemed a regular, and it's a sad, sad realization. If he were to crack open his wallet, nothing but a lonesome fly would come out of the leather. But the dent in his bank account is worth it.
"So, that's Jackie. I know Rose," Ilya ventures. "I still do not know your name."
"Oh." He seems surprised by Ilya's investigation, a rose dusting his earlobes. "Shane." He pauses, expectant. "You are…?"
Ah. "Ilya."
"Ilya," Shane repeats slowly, carefully articulating the consonants and vowels to get the name right. Ilya has never witnessed someone pay so much care and attention to a string of four letters.
"Yes." Ilya nods. He feels, well, really lame right now.
"Cool," Shane says. "I guess you also know Venus now."
Oh, yes. The cat. Ilya looks down to see that he's still petting the cat. He guesses he never stopped.
"So your name is Venus," Ilya murmurs, his voice soft. His eyes flit back to Shane, clearing his throat. His nose twitches, and he tries his damnedest to suppress the sneeze. "I was wondering. I didn’t know Venus’ name."
"This is new for her. She's usually very skittish around people," Shane says.
"I am not just people," Ilya argues. "I've become her close friend over this month."
Shane laughs. "Still. There are customers who have been trying ever since we got her, and she still hasn't warmed up to them. It's been—I wanna say six months since we got her? They've been respectful, of course, but I can tell that it hurts them."
"Maybe I am an animal-whisperer."
Shane cracks a smile. "I'd believe it."
"Where did she get her name from?" Ilya asks. Partly because he's genuinely curious, partly because he doesn't want Shane to interpret a lull in the conversation as a swift exit.
"Her eyes, if I had to guess," Shane shrugs. "Or maybe she was in a litter of eight? I really don't know. Rose might, though. She's the one in contact with our rescue center, and they name all of the cats we get."
"A rescue?" Ilya focuses on the jagged line along her back. "That explains the scar."
Shane hums in confirmation. "All of our cats are rescues up for adoption."
"I don't know how you don't just adopt every cat," Ilya comments. "I would want to if I worked here everyday. Would get too attached."
"I think Rose struggles with that more than me," Shane laughs. "I couldn't even if I wanted to. My landlord doesn't allow pets. My lease is up soon, though, so I'm trying to find a place that's pet-friendly." His eyebrows pinch, briefly. "Sorry, I'm oversharing."
"No, not oversharing, it's okay," Ilya smiles. "Your landlord is stupid and boring. Who cares if you sneak cat in? You're still paying rent every month. Maybe you should give more money as a bribe."
"Unfortunately, I don't make enough money for a decent bribe," Shane sighs. "I spend all day with these little guys, anyways. It might be overload if I had to deal with another—"
Ilya cuts Shane off with an obnoxious sneeze. He winces. Then sneezes again.
"Bless you," Shane says. "You need tissues?"
"No, no, I'm okay," Ilya reassures him. There's a loud voice within him that objects to this claim, and he simply cannot understand why—the sand paper texture in his throat is completely normal, is it not? "It's just allergies."
"Allergies?" Shane's eyebrows skyrocket.
"Seasonal allergies," Ilya lies. A really bad lie. Because Ilya is an really bad liar. "Because it's spring. And everything. So allergies."
"Yeah, I get you." Shane nods earnestly, like he truly does understand Ilya's imaginary allergies, blind to the way Ilya's gut sinks with guilt.
"Anyways." Ilya waves his free hand through the air. "You were saying? 'Overload'?"
"Oh. It's just that if I had to be around animals both at work and at home, it'd probably be too much for me," Shane shrugs.
"So you've never wanted to adopt one?" Ilya raises an eyebrow.
"Not really, no," Shane admits.
"Never, never?"
Shane shakes his head with a small huff of laughter.
Ilya slumps forwards, letting out an exasperated groan. Venus meows disapprovingly at this movement, and he mutters various iterations of sorry in both English and Russian, stroking between her ears and across the length of her back. When she's satiated, Ilya centers his attention on Shane again, finding that there's a grin plastered on his face. Ilya can only smile back; after all, he has no other choice when faced with the sight of pearl and childlike joy.
"If you had to choose—" Ilya sneezes again.
"Bless you. You sure you don't want tissues?" Shane asks.
Ilya shakes his head in the negative. "If you had to choose between cats, which one?"
"If I had to choose?" Shane clicks his tongue. He leans backwards, settling on his arms. "I don't play favorites."
"Stupid answer," Ilya grumbles. "It's not like you're choosing between your children—you have to like one more than the other. You're not their mom. It would be concerning if you were. Half-cat, half-man."
"Would the bottom half need to be cat?" Shane mutters, as if he's asking the question to himself, rather than Ilya. He scrunches his nose at the thought, shaking his head. "Never mind, that's gross."
Ilya snorts. "Just choose."
"I couldn't."
"Choose," Ilya draws it out, similar to an immature schoolboy egging someone on.
Shane hesitates, his teeth tugging on his bottom lip as he considers whether it's worth it to answer. Ilya cannot help but to track the movement with his eyes, but he flickers upwards quickly, fast enough to not have been caught. He thinks he's in the clear, anyways, because Shane's eyes are glued to the ceiling.
"I guess I'd have to say Venus," Shane answers.
At the mention of her name, Venus' gaze immediately locks onto Shane, and she squirms to get out of Ilya's grasp. He pulls his hand away, albeit hesitantly. Venus is still for a moment, but when she finally processes her newfound freedom, she struts on over to Shane, who welcomes her with open arms and a blinding grin.
"Oh, hi, Venus," Shane coos. She nudges his calf with her head, and he carefully picks her up and sets her right in his lap. Venus wiggles around, making herself comfortable in the small space. Shane scratches a specific spot on her head, and she purrs approvingly, leaning into his touch. His eyes flit to Ilya, sheepish. "Sorry."
Ilya feigns a pout, and he hopes it's enough to mask how he's melting on the inside. It's a domestic sight that doesn't seem significant at first, but there's a sugar-spun softness lingering in the air, one that can only be achieved by a monotonous everyday between two people who are perfectly comfortable with co-existing side by side. It's a vision that suddenly seems so natural to find in every corner of Ilya's apartment, whether they're sprawled on his sectional sofa or tucked in the wrinkled blankets on his bed.
He blinks. The more Ilya lets himself imagine, the more obtainable it all seems, if only he reached out and took what he wanted. Greedy—gearing towards insane, honestly. This conversation has just barely passed the ten minute mark. If that.
"Is that secretly why you're here? To take—" Ilya clears his throat, but it only makes the scratchiness within worse. "To take her away from me?"
"Oh no, my masterful plan has been revealed," Shane says drily. He lets out a long breath, dropping his head to the side, and his mouth twitches like he's trying to suppress a grin. "You've caught me."
A small smile creeps up on Ilya's face. "I see why Venus is your favorite now," he says, fonder than he intended.
Shane rolls his eyes, but he doesn't try to deny Ilya's claim. He laughs, but it's twinged with self-deprecation. "She—this is gonna sound dumb."
"Not dumb," Ilya firmly disagrees.
Shane's eyes soften like he believes Ilya. "She's like me—or I'm like her, I guess. We're the same in a lot of ways, down to our scars."
"You have a scar on your back?" Ilya's eyebrows shoot upwards. He sneezes.
"Bless you. Uh, on my shoulder, really." Shane lifts his shoulder, and Ilya assumes that it's the one with the scar. "I've had it since I was, like, eight or something. I got it at hockey camp. It was really stupid."
"You play hockey?" Ilya has never asked this many questions in a row until right now. He's used to being the one on the receiving end of an endless stream of stupid questions, but changes are in order, he supposes, when he wants to steal the attention of a pretty boy.
"Used to, yeah," Shane says. His features are softer now, and there's this shimmer in his eye, like he's resurfaced a fond memory. "Are you a fan?"
"I do not know much about it," Ilya admits. He sniffles, and he's sure that his nose is red by now. "All I know is that the puck goes into goal, and they break all of their bones and teeth, and for some reason, they still return to the ice."
"Ignoring all of the complexities that make hockey hockey, that's pretty much it. I was lucky enough to not have any major injuries, but I have had my fair share of them."
"Like your shoulder," Ilya points out.
"Like my shoulder," Shane agrees easily. "Violence is just part of the sport."
"I was rowdy kid. Wish I picked up on it when I was younger." Ilya hums. "Maybe it is not too late. It would be good outlet for anger."
"Please don't hurt other customers. I will have to kick you out." Shane huffs out a laugh.
So you want me to stay, Ilya nearly says.
But because he has some semblance of a filter, even if it is torn and weathered, what instead comes out is, "I said nothing about customers. Maybe you are—er, projecting onto me."
"We have the nicest customers," Shane counters. "Why would I want to, like, chuck them against the wall?"
"No one would blame you," Ilya shrugs. "You technically could. Would just get sued, but that's no big deal."
"Why are you encouraging this?" Shane shakes his head, but there's a small smile toying at his lips. "Rose wouldn't approve. I'm pretty sure she'd kill me if I drove customers away and, like, you know, shut down her life's work."
"Boo." Ilya exasperatedly sighs, an exhale of faux annoyance.
"Sorry, you'll have to convince someone else to assault their paying customers." Shane pulls a face, like this is tough news to break to Ilya. "I think I'll have to settle for polite conversation and refunds."
"This is polite conversation, yes?" Ilya asks.
"Uh-huh," Shane draws out the sound, confusion twinging his inflection.
"Can I have the refund part now?" Ilya frowns when Shane chokes out a laugh. "What? You stole my cat. I am dissatisfied with my experience, and I demand a refund."
"Venus is not your cat," Shane snorts. "If you adopt her, this would be another story, but until then, she's staying here. Sorry. Take it up with management."
Shane vaguely nods his head in Rose's direction, who's engaged in an animated conversation with one of the patrons. She emphasizes her words with wide eyes and wider gestures, her hands wildly cutting through the air, as if the movements are a form of punctuation. A stark difference in energy to Shane, and unsurprisingly, Ilya gravitates towards the subtler huffs of laughter and pinched eyebrows.
When Ilya lingers on Rose for a beat too long, Shane awkwardly coughs. Ilya's head snaps back to Shane.
"See," Shane says, "she's better at both the conversations and the refunds."
"You are great conversation," Ilya says. Shane has to nerve to laugh, and Ilya frowns. "I have had fun and learned so much. No notes."
"Oh, well, thanks." Shane jerks his head. "Rose will be glad to hear that I'm socializing."
"What? You hate people?" Ilya's lips quirk upwards.
Shane rolls his eyes, disagreeing, "I don't hate people."
"You hate people," Ilya concludes. He clicks his tongue. "You remember how you approached me?"
Rose dusts Shane's cheeks. His freckles are stark against the color. His attention is suddenly absorbed by the cat in his lap, and Venus purrs in some sort of cryptic response to the messages Shane silently transmits to her.
She's like me—or I'm like her, I guess.
This is new for her. She's usually very skittish around people.
The light dust blooms into a beautiful flush, and Ilya has never felt such a strong tug at his heart until this moment. It takes an uncontrollable grin to spread across his face for Ilya to realize that he wants to kiss every single one of Shane's freckles until the other man is flushed with rose and adoration, giggling as he wriggles in Ilya's grasp.
Shane dares to take a peek at Ilya's reaction, his eyelashes fluttering, and Ilya needs to know how to tattoo this sight onto the back of his eyelids.