Chapter Text
Moscow, Russia
August 2002
The airport was louder than Ilya expected.
Announcements echoed overhead. Suitcases rolled across the tile floor. Somewhere nearby, a baby was crying. His mother sat beside him, flipping through a folder filled with papers she had checked at least six times already.
Passports.
Tickets.
Documents.
More documents.
Adults always seemed to need documents.
Ilya kicked his feet against the metal chair and looked around the terminal.
Families were everywhere.
People saying goodbye.
People saying hello.
People hugging.
His father wasn’t there.
He knew better than to ask why.
The answer would only make his mother sad.
Instead, he leaned against her shoulder.
“Kogda my uyezzhayem?” (When do we leave?)
She checked her watch.
“Nemnogo vremeni.” (A little while)
“Vy skazali eto chas nazad.” (You said that an hour ago)
She smiled.
“YA znayu.” (I know)
“Skol’ko vremeni — eto «nebol’shoye vremya»?” (How much longer is a little while?)
“Yeshche nemnogo.” (A little while longer.)
Ilya groaned dramatically. His mother laughed and nudged him with her shoulder.
“ty vyzhivesh’.” (You’ll survive.)
“mozhet byt’” (Maybe)
That earned another laugh. For a moment things felt normal. Then he noticed her looking out the large airport window.
Not really looking.
Thinking.
She’d been doing that a lot lately.
“Ty nervnichayesh’?” (Are you nervous?)
His mother blinked.
“A little.” Ilya huffed at the switch in language, which got a laugh out of his mother.
“We are going to Canada, you will need to learn their language.” Him and his mother had been practicing English for months now. Ever since they had made the plan to go to Canada.
Ilya hated it. At eleven years old he was still trying to learn his own language, which he was practically fluent in already, but with the jump from Russian to English now, it had become harder to balance the two at such a young age.
“You didn’t answer question.” The words came out a bit sloppy, but his mother was proud of him for trying.
So she smiles. “A little nervous, yes.”
“Because of Canada?”
“Partly.”
Ilya frowned.
Everyone kept talking about Canada like it was some magical place. A place where everything would suddenly be different.
He wasn’t sure he believed them. It was still a country. Countries couldn’t be that different.
“Do you think we will like it there, mama?”
His mother looked down at him.
“I think it will take time.”
It wasn’t the answer he wanted.
“But, someday yes?”
She reached over and fixed the collar of his jacket.
“Eventually.”
He considered that.
“Will papa come visit?”
Her hand paused only for a second.
“Maybe.”
Maybe.
Adults loved that word.
Maybe usually meant no.
Ilya stared at the floor.
“Oh. Okay.”
His mother sighed.
“Your papa loves you, Ilyusha.”
He nodded. He knew that. Even when things got loud at home. Even when doors slammed. Even when his parents stopped talking to each other for days. He knew that part was true.
“Why is he not here then?” The question escaped before he could stop it.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The sounds of the airport filled the silence.
Finally his mother took his hand.
“Because sometimes grown-ups make decisions that are difficult.” That sounded suspiciously like a non-answer.
“You fight?”
A small smile appeared on her face.
“You are very nosy.”
Ilya frowned.
“I do not know what that means.”
His mother smiled once again, not that she ever stopped. It was hard to be sad around Ilya. He was her sunshine. Forever and always.
“It does not matter.” She pauses. “What matters is that we are going to be okay.”
“Promise?” He holds his pinky out towards her, waiting for her to do the same before they each kissed the ends of their hands, silencing the promise.
“Obeshchat’ (Promise.)
Soon after, an announcement echoed through the terminal. Their flight was boarding. His mother stood and picked up her bag. For a moment neither of them moved. The gate stood open in front of them. A doorway to somewhere neither of them had ever been.
His mother held out her hand. “Ready?” She asks as he clasps her hand in his.
He glances back one last time.
His father was still nowhere to be seen.
He didn’t know if he was sad or happy about that.
Something twisted in his chest at the thought.
But he turns back around to face his mother, deciding to focus on the person who was actually there for him instead.
“Gotovyy.” (Ready.)
Together, they walked toward the gate.
Toward Ottawa.
Toward hockey.
Toward a future neither of them could see yet.
Ottawa, Canada
September 2007 - Present day
The morning rush had barely started, and Ilya was already tired.
The espresso machine hissed beside him as he wiped down the counter for the third time in ten minutes. Outside, Ottawa sky was the usual shade of gray, rain tapping softly against the cafe windows.
Bean & Brew sat on a corner a few blocks from school, squeezed between a bookstore and a pharmacy, and of course sat right across from the rink. It wasn’t much to look at from the outside, but the inside was warm. Exposed brick walls. Worn tables that sat along the bricked wall across from the counter. The smell of coffee permanently soaked into every surface.
Ilya had been working there for almost a year.
Long enough to know every regular by name.
Long enough to make most drinks without thinking.
Long enough to hate the sound of the bell over the front door.
A group of students wandered in wearing school uniforms, laughing loudly as they joined the line.
Ilya glanced at the clock.
7:12am.
School started in less than an hour, just enough time for another rush. He grabbed a cup and scribbled a name across the side.
“Large vanilla latte.”
The customer thanked him before hurrying back into the rain.
Across the cafe, his manager, Jasper, was sorting inventory. Ilya focused on the espresso machine. It was easier than thinking. Easier than remembering that two years ago his mornings had looked very different. Back then his future had felt certain. Now he was sixteen years old, almost seventeen years old, repeating grade ten because of a stupid accident.
Life had a funny way of changing directions when you weren’t paying attention. When you thought you had your whole life worked out. Life shows up and proves that you really have no idea what will happen. That the end is inevitable, whether it’s in a week, or twenty years from now.
The bell above the door jingled.
Ilya automatically looked up.
Then froze.
In some fucked up cliche way, it felt like time stood still, waiting for the pin to drop.
Waiting for someone to take the first breath.
Because, standing in the entrance was Shane Hollander.
Former hockey prodigy.
Current pain in Ilya’s ass.
And somehow, judging by the nervous look plastered on his face, his first day on the job.
“Uh, hi.” Shane stumbled out awkwardly. They had seen each other in the school hallways before but had never spoken.
“What you want?” Ilya asks, praying that he was wrong about his suspicion. That the universe was playing some sort of trick on him.
But all hope goes down the drain when the manager walks up to them.
“Ah, good. You guys have met.” Jasper greets. His black curly hair falls across his forehead, definitely showing off his youth. Slight freckles balance across the ridge of his cheeks as he smiles.
“Ilya, this is Shane. The guy I interviewed the other day.” Ilya vaguely remembers Jasper telling him about the interview. He was slightly pissed that his hours would be cut, but other than that he didn’t think much of it.
“Shane, this is Ilya. He’ll be training you.” Jasper states happily, completely unaware of the darkening gaze Ilya gives Shane’s shrinking form.
Jasper hands Shane his new black apron, and Ilya watches as he ties it around his waist slowly, almost looking like he wanted to throw the apron in Ilya’s face as a distraction and run out. Ilya almost wanted him to.
Scratch that.
He did want him to.
What he didn’t want was to be standing in close proximity with Shane for hours a day, teaching him how to make coffee.
But it didn’t seem like he had much of a choice once Jasper gave them a confident smile and walked away.
“Great.” Ilya mutters under his breath, which causes Shane to narrow his brows slightly, shooting him a confused look.
“I’m sorry, do you have a problem with me?”
Ilya snorts, but it’s anything but humorous, and turns around to get back behind the counter, not waiting to see if Shane was following him.
“What gave that away?” Ilya spits back sarcastically, the accent rolling off his tongue. But he doesn’t give Shane a chance to respond before he starts giving him directions, and calling out ingredients that Shane hadn’t even heard of before.
They last about ten minutes before the yelling starts.
“Oh my god, how can you be so bad at this? What idiot doesn’t know how to make coffee?” Ilya groans, not paying attention to the eyeing customers.
“I’m not an idiot, I know how to make coffee.” Shane practically whines. He then thins his lips as he realizes how childish he sounds, and he definitely doesn’t look over to see the incredulous look plastered on Ilya’s face.
“Did you seriously just whine?” Ilya asks in disbelief, a laugh awaiting on his tongue.
“No, obviously not. You must be hearing things.” Shane denies, but the other’s look doesn’t go away so he just sighs.
“Whatever, just teach me how to make this stupid coffee.”
“My teaching isn’t the problem. I am doing my part, it would be great it you could do yours.”
Another five minutes goes by before Ilya speaks up again.
“How the hell did you even get this job?” It’s now been fifteen minutes since they started, and the coffee still wasn’t made, and Ilya was starting to question his managers hiring skills.
Shane shifts awkwardly. “I might have, possibly…. fibbed a little on my resume.”
“Fibbed?” Ilya questions.
“Lied.” Ilya’s brows shoot up at the confession.
“Well now it makes sense. At least now I have an excuse to get you fired.” Ilya throws the cloth that was thrown over his shoulder onto the counter and starts walking towards the manager. He doesn’t get far when a hand reaches out to grab his arm, spinning him back around.
He comes face to face with Shane, a scared expression smothered on his face.
“Please don’t tell him. I need this job.” Ilya scoffs at his pleading words.
“No, I need this job. You can just continue living off of daddy’s money and live happily ever after in golden mansion.” Shane cuts off Ilya’s attempted escape once again, standing firm in place.
“No I can’t. I don’t take his money anymore. He-he cut me off after I quit hockey.”
Ilya ignores the slight stutter in his voice.
“Well then maybe you shouldn’t have quit hockey.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
Shane freezes.
Ilya watches him.
He watches his eyes widen slightly, his mouth part at the confession.
He had heard the story. The infamous Shane Hollander quit hockey because he was bored. Because he decided it wasn’t for him.
That was the story. That’s what he told everyone. Leaving them to believe nothing else.
“Why?”
A pause.
Shane holds his breath, the pleading look glued to his face ten fold now. As if to say ‘please don’t make me tell you.’
“Look, I don’t ask you personal questions. Just know that I really can’t lose this job.” He pauses, eyes never leaving Ilya.
And then “please.”
Finally Ilya sighs, giving in.
“Fine. I won’t tell. But as you’re here you do what I say without questions. And you do them when I ask. And you know it would be helpful if you actually knew how to do the things I ask you.”
Shane nods his head eagerly. “Deal. I will really try.” A few seconds goes by before Ilya nods his head slightly, walking back towards the counter, Shane following close behind.