Chapter Text
If there was one thing Ilya had learned in life, it was how to stay lost in people.
Boys leaned into him, laughed when he whispered something slick in their ears, and he pressed too close to strangers who didn’t mind chasing warmth wherever he could find it. Every laugh felt like a win, every touch another distraction. On the floor, he danced harder, faster. Heat ran down his spine, sweat sliding along his neck. Hour by hour, his head grew light as the rhythm pounded in his chest, legs aching, breath thinning.
It was only when his body began to give out, when the blur turned to soreness, that he finally pulled himself back from the dance floor.
Maybe it was the drugs. Maybe it was pushing himself too far. He didn’t care which anymore.
It all led to the same feeling anyway.
His throat felt dry, tongue thick. Ilya slid onto a stool at the corner of the bar and raised a hand for a drink. The plan was really simple now: don’t think. Just drink.
He told himself he wouldn’t check his phone. Not tonight. Not after the way he’d sworn in the bathroom mirror earlier that he was done with this shit.
Done with Alex.
So, don’t look at the phone. Focus on the sweet scent of his drink, sharp in his lungs, with the promise of something stronger tucked away in someone’s pocket. Even flirt with the guy a few seats down, if the mood felt right.
Then came the sound he dreaded.
A single ding.
Sharp. Cruel in its simplicity. His hand shook before he could stop it, fingers fumbling with his screen. His chest tightened as the words appeared:
🔔 Instagram • now
alexofficialxx shared a new post.
Tap to view
…Of course, like the idiot he was, he pressed it.
A picture of Alex filled the screen. He was smiling at something just out of frame, sunlight tangled in his hair, warmth tucked into his dimples. Carefree. Untouched.
The kind of face that made it look like nothing had ever broken him. Like he'd never lost anything—
Ilya shut the screen off.
Shoved the phone back into his pocket. His stomach lurched, something hollow twisting inside him, as if someone had scraped out whatever had once been there.
don't think about it. don't think about it. don't—
"Bartender—hey—one cherry vodka!"
The moment the glass hit the counter, Ilya didn’t wait. He drank it all in one gulp. It burned, scorching his throat, sharp and bitter, cutting through everything else. For a second, it worked. Then it didn’t.
But now that he had seen the picture, he couldn’t get it out of his head.
Alex.
Oh, Alex.
Why did it have to be so complicated? It made him want to cry—no. He swallowed it down, told himself not here, not right now. His hands moved to his hair, gripping hard.
Was it always going to be like this?
No matter how deep the glass, no matter whose lips met his on the dance floor, he always ended up back here.
Back to Alex.
Like a ghost lodged somewhere inside him, impossible to drink away. Impossible to wash out. He hated that a single notification could still undo him. Hated how weak it made him feel. Caught up in his own misery, everyone else seemed to have it figured out.
Alex especially.
And here he was, months later, still replaying his own voice cracking as he begged that day.
Don’t leave me.
I’ll be better.
Please… stay.
God, he hated himself for it.
He pressed his forehead into his hand and signaled for another drink. Maybe one more would do the trick. Or something stronger. Xanax, if he could score some from someone in the club. Maybe ecstasy, too.
His chest pulled tight. His pulse skipped. His stomach turned.
He needed something.
Anything that could tear Alex out of his head for one night.
Anything.
“Hey.”
Ilya looked up and noticed a girl sitting beside his stool.
She was pretty. Short hair tucked behind one ear, black eyeliner winged sharp. Her dress caught the light as she leaned against the bar like she’d been watching him for a while.
Something about her felt familiar, just out of reach, like he’d seen her before but couldn’t place where.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he said, glancing back to his drink. “Not interested.”
A small laugh escaped her. “Good thing I’m not hitting on you, then.”
He hummed, swirling what was left in his glass. “Great. Glad we cleared that up.”
Her eyes flicked to the line of empty glasses in front of him. Her nails tapped an absent rhythm across the bartop.
"Rough night?"
"You could say that."
"You look like you're celebrating," she said, chin tilting toward the glasses. "Or like you're trying really hard not to fall apart."
His grip tightened around the glass. The clink as it met the counter was sharper than he'd meant it to be.
"Look," he said, eyes fixed on his drink, "I'm not really in the mood for small talk."
“Yeah?” A smile tugged at her lips. “Then let me join you.” She motioned to the bartender. “Hey, two more glasses of whatever he’s having. And a side of fries.”
Ilya watched for a moment but didn’t object. He was a little hungry, anyway.
“I know this isn’t exactly the best time,” she said, “but when else am I going to run into you and get another chance?”
Holding out a hand, the bracelets on her wrist jingled softly. “Leena Kilevaya. Or just Leena.”
He eyed her outstretched hand like it was a trap before reluctantly taking it. His grip was loose, almost dismissive.
“Ily—”
“Ilya Petrovskiy,” she finished for him.
His brows lifted, genuine curiosity slipping through his usual indifference.
“Oh. You already know my name.” A faint smirk crossed his face. “I’m guessing that saves me the introduction.” He leaned back against the stool. “So, what is it? An autograph? A picture? Then you’ll finally leave me alone?”
“Actually, I already have it.”
She pulled a green notebook from her bag and set it on the bar. When she flipped it open, it wasn’t a notebook at all but a sketchbook. Detailed pencil strokes filled the page, forming a familiar face. His face. His signature sat neatly in the corner.
“You probably don’t remember me,” Leena said, watching his reaction. “But you signed this a few years ago, when I was still in my third year of college.”
Ilya’s hand hovered over the page. He blinked as the memory slowly came back.
He’d signed hundreds of things over the years.
Posters, shirts, napkins, even someone’s arm once. But this one stayed with him. The portrait had been incredible, almost lifelike. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen himself smile like that, certainly not in any of his modeling shoots. She’d wanted him to keep it, but he’d refused, telling her it belonged to the artist, not him.
“I remember,” he said at last, his voice quieter than before. His fingers brushed the edge of the paper. Then he let out a short laugh. “Ha, time really flies, huh. You already graduated?”
“Yeah. One night I’m drinking coffee at 3 a.m. trying to finish finals, blink, and I’m already walking up that stage with a degree in animation,” she said. “Still feels kind of unreal, honestly.”
The drinks arrived around then, and Ilya handed one to her before picking up his own.
“So, Le… Linda,” he said, eyes briefly flicking over her. “You just here to say hi, or want another autograph?”
“Leena, not Linda,” she corrected, smiling despite herself. Then she tilted her head. “Ilya… do you remember that series you starred in a few years ago?”
“Series?” He frowned. That wasn’t really his thing. Then it clicked. “Ah. You’re talking about that one. Love Is Mythical or some bullshit. Forgot the title. Fuck that. Got fired a few episodes in, and it got discontinued anyway.”
“Naturally it did. Just some cash-grab show with pretty faces thrown on screen,” Leena said, almost amused. “I don’t think I ever told you why I became a fan of yours. I had it on one day as background noise. I was about to turn it off… then I saw your performance.”
Ilya went still.
It could only be that scene she meant. The one where he’d slipped out of the glossy mold they’d tried to force him into, and something too raw had broken through. The directors hadn’t liked it, but they hadn’t cut it out either. There was no budget, no time for a reshoot. In the end, the whole show had been a wreck, corporate, empty, and soulless.
“Your acting belongs somewhere else,” Leena said evenly, leaning an elbow on the bar. “I made an animated pilot back in my final year of college. A producer picked it up, and we’re now adapting it into a live-action short film as a proof of concept. If it does well, it’ll expand into a full series.”
She held his gaze. “What I’m saying is, I’d like you to play Oleg, one of the main characters.”
It sounded like a passion project. And passion projects never sat well with Ilya. Business had a habit of chewing things like that up and moving on.
Ilya let the words sink in for a second, his fingers drumming lightly against the counter. Then he picked up his glass and swirled what was left of his drink, unimpressed.
“If you’re looking for a lead, then you’re wasting your time talking to me.”
“Really?” Leena asked, not wavering. “Because I think you’d be perfect for this.”
Ilya let out a quiet laugh. He tapped the rim of his glass with a fingernail before setting it down. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, sharp, hollow, and guarded.
“What makes you think that?” he asked. “Leena, you know me. I’m a model. Never went to acting school. I did theater back in high school, sure, but that’s about it. I couldn’t make it as an actor, and I’m barely making it as it is.”
There was no bravado in his admission, only a quiet warning.
“And besides…” He leaned back on the stool, stretching an arm across the bar. “You really want to hire someone like me? Do yourself a favor and find someone else for your passion project.”
It was harsh. It stopped him from saying more that might have cut deeper. But in everything he knew, it was the truth. An artist’s aspirations and dreams deserved a real actor to bring them to life.
Leena did not say anything. Ilya had assumed she would have understood by now.
But she did not leave.
She simply let the silence settle between them. After a moment, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and slid a small card across the bar.
“For what it’s worth,” she said, “you have potential only you can make real. Whether you use it or not… that’s on you.”
Ilya stared at the card without reaching for it. His jaw worked, a muscle twitching, but he didn’t pick it up.
“I’m not forcing you,” Leena said, getting to her feet. “But I hope you don’t spend the rest of your life convincing yourself you can’t.”
She glanced back once. “Auditions close at the end of next month.”
Ilya sat there, drink in hand, the contact card resting on the table beside him.
Fuck.
He laughed.
Was the girl obsessed with him or something?
First she’d drawn a portrait of him. Now she wanted to hire him for some passion project. It almost sounded insane.
Yeah. Right.
The industry had taught him better. It was all money, all image, all demand. What people wanted to see, not what you wanted. He had known the rules since he was a kid, seen how quickly everything changed the moment you were no longer eighteen.
He wanted to toss the card across the bar, forget the whole conversation, erase the thought of possibilities from his head.
But he couldn’t.
He didn’t know why.
Instead, he picked up his glass and downed another shot, letting the burn settle deep, trying to chase away the part of him that still wanted to care.
Sighing, he eyed the empty glasses around him.
“How the hell am I not wasted yet?”