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Like many things did, it all started with Ilya Rozanov sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. Namely, in Scott Hunter’s business.
Scott liked to Think that he was acclimatising to Ilya Rozanov. Not getting used to him, because getting used to him would mean accepting him - accepting that, no matter what Scott did, Rozanov would never leave him alone again - and Scott was not willing to do that. No, acclimatising, in the same way that he did with cold showers to treat his muscles after practice - with great reluctance only held back from outright refusal by the fact he knew he’d be able to go home and jack up the heat of his own shower. And after long enough under the freezing water, you started to feel like you were warmer than you actually were.
That never happened with Rozanov, but Scott was getting better at ignoring him. The grating sound of Rozanov opening his mouth was almost white noise, now that Scott associated with it being the perfect time for disassociation.
Now, they were in the Kingfisher again together - Rozanov, in his first season with the fucking Ottawa Centaurs, had told Scott that he would buy him a conciliatory losers drink at that fun little homosexual bar of his. The Centaurs had, of course, lost. Painfully so. But here was Rozanov anyway, looking supremely unbothered, as though he had not just come from one of the most humiliating games of his entire storied career. Scott didn’t know why Rozanov had still wanted to come, only that his team were nowhere to be seen (no doubt drowning their sorrows away from the team that had humiliated them) but that Rozanov was, having swaggered in and immediately dropped into a seat opposite Scott. Not long after, Kyle had come by to deposit a glass of vodka (the good, Russian stuff that Rozanov had recommended he buy last time, Kyle assured him), and Rozanov was now sipping it whilst peering over the rim of his glass, across at Scott Hunter.
“Is good vodka,” Rozanov said, at last, looking vaguely sly in the sort of way that suggested he was perpetually thinking of ways to make Scott the butt of all his jokes.
“Shut the fuck up,” Scott said.
Rozanov’s mouth dropped open. He clapped a theatrically hand to his chest, clutching it, and shuddered back against his chair, as if he was swooning. “Ouch. Granddad Hunter is in very bad mood tonight. Is past his bedtime, no?”
“You just like the sound of your own voice, huh?”
“Yes,” said Rozanov. “Is good voice.”
“It’s fucking unbearable, is what it is.”
“Wow. If this is good mood after winning, I do not want to know what you are like when you lose.”
“It’s better when I know that there's a border between us.”
“Careful. People might think you do not like me.”
Scott rolled his eyes, picking at the soggy label of his beer. The paper was peeling away awkwardly, leaving the adhesive clinging to the glass. Scott dumped the paper itself in the middle of the table. He focused on the rhythmic motions of picking away the paper piece by piece as opposed to Rozanov across the table from him.
“I see why Kip likes you,” Rozanov grumbled, and then waggled his eyebrows when Scott looked up. “Young, fun guy like him. You talk about - what? All the exciting nights you have spent sitting on your own in a bar, surrounded by people centuries younger than you? What it was like doing crosswords with the dinosaurs?”
And Scott -
Ilya Rozanov had said a lot of things about Scott before. Always mean and bitchy, chirping like he’d been born to do it. It would be about Scott’s hockey, or how slow he was, or his personality, or his age. Lately, it had been about Kip, who Rozanov seemed fascinated with. Scott had heard it all. He’d heard worse from other people - people, who seemingly unlike Rozanov, were comfortable hurling around slurs on the ice and bringing up what Scott got up to in his private life, as though they were entitled to have an opinion. So, really, nothing Rozanov had ever said had ever bothered Scott beyond the fact that Rozanov was pretty much just generally unlikeable, a dickhead.
He didn’t know why this time, it hit harder.
Maybe, he reasoned, it was because this one felt true. Maybe it was because this one echoed some of Scott’s own thoughts - thoughts that were especially loud sat in a bar the Scott owned, that he got to run with the man he loved and the friends he was making, where he could be himself, loudly and unapologetically. Maybe it was because Rozanov was right. Scott had never had anything like this before - Kip and the Kingfisher - and he sometimes felt as thought Kip, with his queer friends and his childhood sweethearts and the one night stands where he had felt comfortable enough to share breakfast with the morning after, had lived a whole other life. And Scott had not lived at all. Scott had never let himself live.
His thoughts must have shown through - just enough for Rozanov to see whatever expression winged its way over Scott’s face. Rozanov’s eyes tightened, lips pursed. He frowned. His brows furrowed. If Scott was being generous, he would say that Rozanov looked almost concerned. Since Scott was never generous when it came to Rozanov, he thought that Rozanov looked as though he was trying to discover where to lash out at next.
He dropped his head into his hands, tangling his fingers in his hair. What was it Kip had told him to do when he felt like this? Breathe? Breathing was fucking overrated. Scott was finding that it was much easier to hyperventilate instead.
“What is this?” Rozanov demanded. “Is heart attack? Is - is stroke? Hunter, are you dying?”
“I think I wanted a tattoo,” Scott blurted.
He looked up at Ilya between the gaps of his fingers. Rozanov stared back at him in bafflement.
“...okay,” he said, eventually. “Let me get my coat.”
Scott and Ilya chose the tattoo parlour off Google Maps as they walked down the street and away from the Kingfisher. Scott had stopped to let Kyle know that he was heading for some fresh air, glad for once that Kip had not wanted to accompany him to the victory party that night so that Scott would not have to explain why he was going off with Rozanov and what he was planning to do. Letting Kyle know that he was leaving had been excruciating enough, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot whilst Rozanov loomed over his shoulder like the Ghost of Christmas’ Future Mistakes.
“This was has good reviews,” Rozanov decided, when he had found one that was to his liking. “Is independent.”
He’d tilted his phone towards Scott, as if asking for Scott’s input. Which would have been nice, had Scott known anything about tattoo parlours and been able to read Russian, which was the default language of Rozanov’s phone. Scott had nodded anyway, for lack of a better alternative, and had followed Rozanov as he had led him forth.
The walk had given him the time to think - about what he was doing, whether or not he wanted this, why he was voluntarily spending one on one time with Rozanov, why Rozanov was willingly spending one on one time with him. His thoughts, spiralling, didn’t decide much for him. They were too tangled for that. All that Scott knew was that, yes, he wanted a tattoo, and, no, he wasn’t going to waste anymore time not doing the things he wanted to. He wasn’t getting any younger, after all.
The tattoo parlour itself was a small, intimate place. Scott liked it immediately. It was still open, even this late at night, but the hour meant that Scott and Rozanov were the only two people in. There three stations, a door that must have led through to a back room or office, and the walls were covered with illustrated tattoo designs and photographs of the finalised looks. Rozanov, taking all of this in within an instant, had swanned over to a desk in the corner, propped his elbow on it, and said, with a charming grin, “two walk-ins please.”
The tattoo artists had introduced themselves as Nicky and Jamie, and had been friendly enough. Nicky, with their vibrant bleached hair and intricate whorling tattoos covering their arms, had gravitated towards Rozanov with a book of their work, letting Rozanov leaf through it. Scott knew, of course, that Rozanov had tattoos, but he had not imagined the other man to be as appreciative of the effort and craft that went into it as he was.
Scott had watched him for a moment, feeling as though he was looking at a complete stranger, before turning to Jamie and asking, “I maybe want something a little smaller. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, man,” said Jamie. “Your body. I’m just executing your vision.”
Scott hadn’t really needed anytime to think after that.
“A blueberry,” he said, and touched the inside of his elbow. “Just here. It#s - it’s an inside joke with my boyfriend.”
“You been seeing each other long?” Jamie asked as he led Soctt over to one of the chairs, letting Scott settle himself in comfortably.
“Yeah. And he’s the one - I know it.”
“Man, may love like that find me.”
Whilst Jamie had prepped the needles and fiddled a little with a quick design, which Scott liked and was now watching it be stenciled onto his arm, Scott turned his attention back to Rozanov, still rummaging through the book of designs. For a moment, seeing how close Rozanov was to the end of them, Scott thought that Rozanov wouldn’t choose one at all. But then his hands paused and stilled, and his face seemed to change.
“You are Canadian?” he asked, glancing up at Nicky.
Nicky peered over his shoulder to see which of the designs had caught Rozanov’s attention, and half-smiled at whichever one e had landed on.
“The loon?” they said. “You know ‘em?”
“I am living up in Ottawa now. My partner, Jane, has cottage up there too, near the lake. Many, many loons.”
Scott had not known that Rozanov had a partner. He’d half-thought -
Well, it didn’t matter what he’d thought, he supposed, only that he was wrong.
“Ottawa’s beautiful,” Nicky said with a wistful sigh. “I’m from up there as well. Go Cens!”
Rozanov laughed. “Go Cens!” he cheered, and then looked back at the design. “I think I will have this one please.”
Nicky smiled. “No problem. That one is one of my favourites.”
Scott’s tattoo took no time at all, being only small. Jamie took his time with it, and the passage of the needle over his skin felt like nothing more than a very light cat scratch. They were done in half an hour, after which Jamie wrapped it with care.
“You think your boy is going to like it?” he asked.
“I like it,” said Scott, running his fingers over the bandage.
Jamie smiled. “That’s what matters.”
Rozanov’s tattoo, on the other hand, was taking a lot longer. It was an intricate thing, and Scott pulled the design closer to him as he took a seat nearby. He’d never seen a loon before, hadn’t heard of them before, but it looked mostly like a duck - a freaky sort of duck, with red eyes and black tufted feathers. And yet Rozanov was watching the progress of his tattoo with a vaguely affectionate gleam in his eyes.
“Jane, huh?” Scott asked.
Rozanov rolled his eyes. “Is it any of your business?”
Shrugging, Scott replied, “is she why you moved to Ottawa?”
It would make more sense than Rozanov’s move to Ottawa had made thus far.
“I would move anywhere for my Jane,” said Rozanov. “But is still not your business.”
“She doesn’t fancy the Kingfisher?” Scott pressed, not quite certain why it meant so much to him.
“Is very shy,” said Rozanov, “and you talk too much. No more talking please.”
For the rest of Rozanov’s tattoo, they sat in not quite companionable silence. Nicky and Jamie chattered amongst themselves, but Rozanov seemed happy to watch to the deftly made lines of his tattoo flourish out from under Nicky’s needle whilst Scott scrolled mindlessly on his phone. Eventually, though, it was done. Rozanov had shrugged his coat over the finished product before Scott could see and waggled his eyebrows when he caught Scott’s curious gaze lingering on his shoulder.
“Buy me dinner before you undress me,” Rozanov said.
“Fuck off,” Scott replied.
They paid, thanking Nicky and Jamie, promising that they would send pictures of the tattoos once they had healed, and moved out into the streets, blinking at the sudden influx of darkness as they stepped from the blinding lights of the parlour and into the nighttime streets.
“What now?” Scott asked.
Rozanov shrugged. “This is the point where I think I am supposed to ask what is eating you inside. We are tipsy, we go to park, we sit on bench together, you bare all secrets of your soul, and we come away understanding each other better. Is the normal thing.”
“Bleurgh,” said Scott. “Skip.”
Rozanov looked far too relieved at that. “Thank you. I do not fucking care what your issue is. This has already been too much you.”
“First time we agree on anything. I’m going to Uber home,” Scott decided, “and I don’t want to see you again until the next time I have to.”
“Aww, you will not miss me, Hunter?”
“Absolutely not,” Scott said, and eyed Rozanov where he stood, grinning boyishly with his hands in his coat pocket besides Scott. “You gonna be able to get back to your hotel okay?”
“Da. I am not so old I forget the name of my hotel. Lucky you, though, having it written on little if found, please return to Kip bracelet.”
Scott scowled. Shoved at his shoulder and wondered why he ever bothered trying in the first place. Ilya Rozanov, he was beginning to find, never became any more tolerable, no matter how much he tried to force himself to try and like the guy.
Scott called the Uber. He didn’t spare Rozanov a backwards glance - only waved, once, over his shoulder, and tried to tune out the sound of Rozanov’s laughter following him into the back of the taxi.
“Scott, baby, is that you?” Kip called, when Scott at last trudged back into their shared apartment.
“It’s me!” he called back, and shucked off his shoes and coat before padding towards their bedroom.
And there was Kip, at last. He was lying in their bed, twisted in the covers, face turned over on the pillow to watch as Scott slipped into the room and pulled the door closed behind him. In the darkness of the room, Scott pulled off his clothes, folding them and putting them away, before lowering himself, naked, into bed, drawing the covers over himself. He pressed himself up against Kip, looping his arms around the other man’s waist, and breathed in the familiar smell of him, feeling the weight and shape of him like something knit into the very core of himself.
“You okay?” Kip asked, and this close, even in the darkness of their room, Scott could see that he was still half asleep. “Kyle said you went off with Rozanov.”
“Got a tattoo,” Scott murmured against the curve of Kip’s shoulder.
Kip’s hands, where they had been playing with the waistband of his underwear, stilled. “A tattoo? Do I get to see?”
“Not yet,” said Scott - though he didn’t understand why he had the urge to hide it from Kip. It was for Kip. But… it was also for Scott. It was what Scott wanted, and what he was letting himself have, and - for now - it was his. He didn’t think it would hurt to keep it his just a little longer.
“Okay,” agreed Kip, turning to pres a chaste kiss to Scott’s lips. “But… this isn’t some sort of midlife crisis, is it? You’d tell me if it was?”
“It probably is,” said Scott. “But it’s for the best, if that helps.”
“For the best.” Even Scott could hear how sceptical Kip sounded.
“How do you feel about a holiday?” Scott asked.
Kip shook with laughter against him, and Scott supposed that if he got to have a lifetime of this, then what he missed was maybe worth - now that he could have it all, if he let himself be brave enough to reach for it.