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“Rozanov? Out back. Smoke break, I think.”
Then she was off, clipboard clutched tight in her hands as the radio at her waist squawked gibberish. Shane wasn’t entirely certain why he wanted to find Russia’s Ilya Rozanov and introduce himself so badly, but the draw was there, the doors the event coordinator had pointed to were right there, and so Shane went.
Cold air bit at his face as he peered outside; he could definitely see someone standing in the alleyway beyond. If he’d had any doubts it was Ilya Rozanov, they were banished a moment later; obviously taking advantage of the open air of the alleyway, Rozanov rolled his shoulders back and stretched-
White feathered wings sprang from Rozanov’s back, making Shane’s breath catch at just how pretty they are. He knew the stats for almost every active player in his age group, and the fact that Rozanov was an Angel-kin, despite being the player with the most penalty times and a penchant for chirping and fighting, broke stereotype molds across the board.
Conversely, Shane hardly ever started fights, and though he enjoyed chirping, he much preferred keeping his focus on the game. Devil-kin like himself were usually lauded for their aggression on the ice, but that was just another stereotype. Another mold to break.
Letting the door close behind him as he stepped out into the chill air, Shane keeps his own wings tucked away; though he can’t ‘tuck’ his tail in the same manner, he snakes it around his waist for warmth, notching the barbed tip into the waistband of his pants.
The cold makes his flesh goosebump, the bruise on his ribs from hitting into the boards too hard at practice the day before aching in protest.
Ahead of him, Rozanov turned and narrowed his eyes at Shane’s approach. His hands held a lighter that refused to spark, and the feathers on his wings bristled momentarily, half mantling as Shane drew closer. It wasn’t outright aggressive, per se, but it made Shane tread lightly.
“Ilya Rozanov?” he asked, as if he hadn’t memorized every statistic and record that Rozanov had ever broken and could recognize him on sight. He’s disappointed that Rozanov’s golden curls are tucked away inside of a toque, but it is pretty chilly out.
A half nod was the only acknowledgement he got from the other player, but at least Rozanov’s feathers lay flat again. He flicked the, frankly impressive, span of his wings once before they folded in close to his back.
The lighter still refused to catch, though not for lack of trying on Rozanov’s part.
“Do you-” the sight of the cigarette between Rozanov’s lips finally registers and Shane frowns. “I don’t think you’re supposed to smoke here.”
Pointing at the sign that was posted literally above Rozanov’s head, Shane’s ire at the Angel-kin’s lack of respect for the rules grows when Rozanov doesn’t even look up.
The flint strikes on the lighter again, to no avail.
“Devil-kin who likes rules. Wow.” Rozanov’s voice is deep, much deeper than Shane was expecting, and it sends a shiver down his spine that knocks his tail loose from his waist. It lashes behind him, broadcasting his irritation for anyone to see, and Shane’s cheeks flush with embarrassment.
Between Dad being an Angel-kin and Mom being a Null, part of the majority of the population that didn’t have traits like either of the Angel or Devil-kin, Shane hadn’t grown up around anyone with a tail. He knew it was a dead give away for whatever he was feeling at the moment, but he’d never learned to control it.
“And an Angel-kin that likes to break them. Wow.” Shane chirps back.
Feeling brave, despite the fact that Rozanov has his wings on full display while Shane’s are folded neatly away, ‘tucked’ in such a manner that he could pass as a Null if he could keep his tail out of the way, Shane holds out his hand for a shake.
“Shane Hollander.” he says politely.
Rozanov stares at him for a moment before palming his lighter to his left hand and taking Shane’s with his right in a firm shake.
“Ilya Rozanov.”
“I know.”
Some kind of daring takes him over then, and he’ll blame it on his Devil-kin nature later, but Shane squeezes Rozanov’s hand once before pulling away; channeling just the briefest mote of his Infernal Spark into the Angel-kin.
Rozanov’s eyes narrow at the feeling, but he doesn’t say anything.
Shane steps back, fighting the urge to smile and watching Rozanov intently.
When Rozanov strikes the flint on the lighter again, this time there’s no hesitation; the flame not only catches, but the lingering effect of Shane’s Spark sends the flame dancing. Rozanov jerks back from the lighter as the flame mellows to a reasonable height, before quickly touching it to the tip of his cigarette to ignite it.
“Spasibo.” Rozanov nods, “Thank you.”
He wants to make a comment about how smoking’s not good for you, but honestly, with the way that Angel-kin can heal using their Divine Grace, Rozanov’s lungs are probably fine. He’s almost tempted to give Rozanov a more permanent solution, by imbuing the lighter with his Infernal Spark so it would catch every time; but maybe it would give him more chances to talk to Rozanov, down the line, if he didn’t.
A thing that Shane, apparently, wants.
“You’re an awesome player to watch.” he says into the silence when it’s stretched on too long. His tail has settled down, swaying now from side to side as Shane admires the longer feathers on Rozanov’s wings, the primaries.
Rozanov just nods; not much for conversation then.
“Well. I should get back inside. Good luck today.” Shane offers, holding out his hand for another shake.
There’s a brief moment, just the span of a single blink, where Rozanov’s eyes latch on to Shane’s hand and Shane swears he sees a flicker of the Angel-kin’s halo. But then Rozanov is shaking his hand, and with a smirk, he gives Shane a parting squeeze-
The unexpected flare of Rozanov’s Divine Grace arcs through his body, and Shane gasps in surprise; when he exhales, it’s without pain for the first time since practice yesterday. He doesn’t need to lift his shirt to confirm it; Rozanov’s healed the bruise on his ribs.
“You will not be so nice when we beat you.” Rozanov chirps, and Shane’s focus locks back on to the smirking Angel-kin before him.
“Yeah, that’s not happening.” Shane grins, turning and making his way back towards the door.
The echo of Rozanov’s amused snort follows him inside.