Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Kip Grady & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Kip Grady/Scott Hunter, Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova

Characters:

Kip Grady, Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Shane Hollander, Svetlana Vetrova

Additional Tags:

Friendship, Coming Out, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Texting, Bisexual Ilya Rozanov, Crack Treated Seriously, no beta we die like men, Post-Episode: s01e06 The Cottage (Heated Rivalry)

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-04 Completed: 2026-02-16 Words: 11,149 Chapters: 5/5

Save Yourself, I’ll Hold Them Back

Summary

Ilya decides to become Kip's friend, and everything that comes with it.

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

I've only watched the show so far but i just thought this friendship would be cute or it would help Ilya feel less lonely at least.

English is not my first language so please tell me if there is grammar that needs to be corrected.

The MLH charity gala is a lot.

Too bright. Too loud in a way that is polite but relentless. Every laugh just a little too sharp, every voice pitched for an audience that might be imaginary. Kip has been smiling for so long his cheeks hurt, like he has been holding a pose and forgot how to drop it.

Ever since Scott kissed him on the ice, people keep finding him. Like heat-seeking missiles in expensive suits, veering off their original paths just to intercept.

“Brave,” they say.

“Inspiring.”

Which is… what, exactly? Kiss his boyfriend back?

The thing is, Kip is proud. So proud it almost hurts. Proud of Scott for standing there, in front of cameras and a league that has never made room easily, and choosing honesty anyway. Proud that Scott didn’t flinch. Proud that he didn’t ask Kip to stay hidden, or softer, or quieter. Proud that what they did mattered, that it cracked something open, that it made space for other people to breathe.

He knows that. He really does.

But knowing something is important doesn’t stop it from being exhausting.

The praise feels rehearsed, like lines learned phonetically. The other half of the room does not say anything at all, just watches. Looks that linger too long. Conversations that die when he walks past, then restart a beat later. Smiles that don’t quite reach the eyes. The quiet kind of ugly. The kind that makes his shoulders stay tight, makes him keep checking where the exits are without consciously meaning to.

Scott is still stuck in it, of course. Surrounded by teammates and league people, smiling, nodding, shaking hands, being Captain Hunter. The brave one. The public one. The man who knows how to stand in the spotlight and make it look easy.

Kip watches him for a second too long. Watches the way Scott’s posture never quite slouches, the way he keeps his hand steady even when someone says something a little too loaded. This is Scott’s arena. He knows the rules here.

Kip catches his eye and gets a soft smile in return. Real. Unperformed. Just for him.

That helps. Not enough, but some.

When he finally manages to peel off, he takes the first empty chair he sees near the wall and drops into it like he has run a marathon. His shoulders are tight. His pulse is still doing something weird, fluttery and too fast. He presses his feet flat against the floor like that might ground him.

He stares at the table setting, the linen, the cutlery, the little place card he is definitely not meant for him, like it might shield him from the rest of the room. Like sitting still and quiet might make him less visible, less examined.

It does not.

Someone sits down next to him, easy as anything. Close enough that Kip’s knee jerks before he can stop it.

Oh.
That guy.

Boston’s captain. Scott’s favourite personal enemy. The “smug bastard” Scott complains about with the intensity of someone reliving trauma.

Ilya Rozanov.

Up close, he is bigger than Kip expects, all shoulders and long limbs packed into a suit that looks like it was tailored onto him under protest. Light curls fall into his eyes, cutting across the sharp lines of his face in a way that feels accidental but absolutely isn’t. He’s slouched back in the chair, vodka in hand, expression set in a permanent scowl like he is deeply disappointed in the concept of dinner parties as a whole.

Kip can see, because he is taken not dead, that Rozanov is unfairly attractive.

Then Ilya glances over and says, mild as anything, “Staring is rude, you know.”

Kip snorts. Actually snorts. “You’re Rozanov.”

Ilya’s mouth curves, slow and pleased. “I am,” he says. “Then you must be Hunter’s.”

“Boyfriend,” Kip says immediately, flat and clean, like ripping off a plaster. He waits for it. The pause. The look.

Nothing happens.

“Oh,” Ilya adds, like he’s just remembered something obvious. “Right. Yes. He hates me.”

“Yeah,” Kip says, already loosening without meaning to. “A lot.”

“Good,” Ilya says sincerely. “I would be offended otherwise.”

Kip laughs. It slips out before he can stop it.

“He calls you a little shit.”

Ilya considers this. “Only little?”

“On a good day.”

“I will take it.”

“He also says you live to remind him he’s old.”

“I do not live for it,” Ilya says. “But I enjoy it very much.”

Kip tips his head, studying him. “Do you actually think he’s washed?”

Ilya turns fully toward him now, eyebrows lifting like Kip has just asked the dumbest question imaginable. Then he laughs, loud and sharp, the sound cracking straight through the gala hum.

“No. God, no,” he says. “He is annoying because he is still good. If he were bad, I would not bother.”

“So you’re mean to him because you respect him.”

“I would not say respect,” Ilya replies. “Your man peaked before I debuted.”

“Oh my god,” Kip says, laughing outright now. “You know he takes that personally.”

“Yes,” Ilya says, pleased. “That is why it is funny.”

“That’s evil.”

“Thank you.”

They sit there for a second, shoulder to shoulder, watching the room swirl past. Then Ilya clears his throat, abrupt.

“We should introduce ourselves,” he says. “Properly.”

Kip blinks. “We just—”

“I know,” Ilya says. “Still.”

He straightens, just enough to offer his hand. “Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov.”

Kip takes it. Firm grip. Warm. “Kip,” he says. Explicit. Grounded. “Kip Grady.”

Ilya nods like that matters. Like he’s filing it away.

Someone drifts past and squeezes Kip’s arm, eyes glassy. “You’re so brave,” she whispers.

Kip thanks her on reflex. She’s gone before he finishes the sentence.

He exhales. “I kissed my boyfriend.”

Ilya hums, unimpressed.

“I didn’t do anything heroic,” Kip adds, surprising himself by not stopping. “Scott did. I just… showed up.”

“They say brave,” Ilya says, staring into his glass, “because it makes them comfortable.”

Kip looks at him.

“If you are brave,” Ilya continues, blunt and steady, “they get to feel like good people for not calling you a slur.”

Kip lets out a thin laugh. “The silence is worse.”

“Yes,” Ilya says immediately. “It is.”

No pause. No softening.

“If someone gives you trouble,” he adds, casual as breathing, “I handle it.”

Kip blinks. The offer lands heavy. Solid.

“Still,” Ilya says, quieter now, “what you did mattered.”

“Scott—”

“For us,” Ilya says, firm. “Not for league.”

Kip stills.

Us.

“Well,” Kip says carefully, “I’m glad.”

“Me too.”

Ilya’s gaze drifts across the room then, slow and deliberate, until it catches. He stops.

Across the space, Shane Hollander is talking to a tight cluster of executives, smiling like he’s negotiating a ceasefire.

Ilya watches him openly. Not soft. Not guarded. Just… focused.

Kip follows the line of sight, then looks back at Ilya and smiles.

Ilya catches it. His mouth twitches. He looks back to his drink like nothing happened.

“You’re not what I expected, Rozanov,” Kip says.

“Call me Ilya,” he says immediately. Then, after a beat, “I rarely am.”

“I thought you’d be cruel.”

“I am,” Ilya says. “Just not stupid.”

“You’re kind of a bitch.”

Ilya grins. “You understand.”

“And the scary thing?”

“It discourages questions.”

Kip nods. Yeah. That tracks.

“I like you,” Ilya says. “You are not… fake.”

Across the room, Scott finally breaks free and heads their way.

Ilya straightens instantly, the relaxed sprawl snapping back into something sharper. Colder.

“I should go insult your boyfriend,” he says.

Kip sighs. “I would rather you didn’t.”

Ilya ignores that. Instead, he pulls out his phone and holds it out. “Number.”

“I’m taken,” Kip says automatically.

Ilya rolls his eyes so hard it’s almost athletic. “Yes. I know. You love your old man.”

“I’m just saying.”

“I am not house breaker,” Ilya says. “I do not destroy families.”

“Homewrecker.”

“Exactly. That.” He squints. “I am bad person. Not this bad.”

Kip laughs as he types his number in.

Scott arrives just in time to see Ilya step away.

“Rozanov,” Scott says, wary.

“Hunter,” Ilya replies cheerfully. “Still alive. Miracles happen.”

Scott scowls.

Kip beams.

Later, his phone buzzes.

Kip laughs, warm and easy.

In a room full of masks, Ilya Rozanov feels real.

Shane’s flat is quiet in the way only a place owned by a control freak can be.
Clean lines. Clear surfaces. Nothing out of place. Even the city outside feels muted, like Montreal is holding its breath out of courtesy.

The bed is not tidy.

Shane is naked, sheets twisted around his legs, skin still warm and oversensitive in that floaty, post-sex way he pretends he doesn’t crave. His back is flat against the mattress, chest rising and falling slow, deliberate. He is trying very hard not to think too much.

Ilya is naked too. All limbs and heat and weight, sprawled half across Shane like he belongs there, which, fuck, he does. light curls crushed into the pillow, mouth slack with the kind of loose satisfaction that only ever happens here. Not in hotels. Not in locker rooms. Not in stolen hours that end too fast.

Here.

They’ve been together officially since the summer. Said it out loud. Chosen it. Still feels unreal sometimes, like the world hasn’t caught up yet.

Shane lets himself enjoy it.

Then Ilya’s phone buzzes.

Shane feels it before he hears it, the shift in Ilya’s body, the subtle reach. He opens one eye just in time to see Ilya squint at the screen, thumb moving, mouth curving into a smile that is not sharp or smug.

It’s fond.

Shane’s stomach drops.

For a flicker of a second, stupid and unhelpful, his brain offers: Someone easier. Someone who laughs faster, asks less, doesn’t need secrecy. The thought barely finishes forming before Shane is already annoyed at himself for having it.

They’ve been sleeping together since they were eighteen. They’ve survived worse than this. Still, old instincts don’t vanish just because you put a label on things.

Ilya taps out a reply, then drops the phone onto the bedside table and exhales, heavy and pleased, settling his bare thigh more firmly against Shane’s, like anchoring himself there.

Shane swallows. “Who’s that?”

It comes out too careful. He hates that.

Ilya cracks one eye open. “You sound… how you say… suspicious.”

“I’m not suspicious.”

“You are suspicious,” Ilya says fondly. “Like cop. Very tense.”

“Just tell me.”

Ilya blinks at him, processing, then shrugs. “Is Hunter’s boyfriend.”

Shane blinks back. “Cristopher?”

“Yes. Kip”

The panic doesn’t disappear. It shifts. Eases, just a little.

“Oh,” Shane says.

Ilya studies his face. “This is… good oh?”

Shane nods. “Yeah. He’s out. He already knows what this costs.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re not—” Shane gestures vaguely between them, naked bodies and tangled sheets and everything else. “Doing something stupid.”

Ilya snorts. “I am stupid always. Just not this stupid.”

Shane exhales, tension draining out of his shoulders. The earlier thought dissolves, embarrassed, with nowhere left to stand.

“Good.”

Ilya grins, then winces slightly as he stretches. “Also, you exhausted me.”

Shane huffs a laugh. “What.”

“I fucked you very… how is word… thoroughly.” Ilya waves a hand. “Now I am tired.”

Shane snorts. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But happy,” Ilya adds, softer.

His phone buzzes again.

Ilya lights up. “He is mean, but funny”

Shane frowns. “Scott’s boyfriend?” He pauses. “Everyone says he’s really nice, eh?”

“He called me bitch,” Ilya says proudly.

Shane stares. “You liked that.”

“He is my friend now.”

Shane laughs, the last of the anxiety cracking open and dissolving. “Of course you did.”

Ilya shifts closer, bare skin warm against Shane’s side, fingers sliding easily into Shane’s like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like they haven’t spent years pretending they didn’t do this.

“He is funny,” Ilya says. “And he does not pretend with me.”

“That’s good,” Shane says quietly. “I like that for you.”

Ilya hums, content, and ignores the phone when it buzzes again.

Shane closes his eyes, still naked, still here, still chosen.

Chapter End Notes

If you liked this fic please leave a comment or come scream at me on tumblr piracypiranha

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

The gala ends eventually, because everything does if you give it enough time, and Ilya slips out with his jacket half off and his tie already gone, leaving Shane downstairs in conversation with men who talk about respectability and legacy and mean control, while Ilya does what he’s always done best and leaves first.

The hotel room is quiet, neutral and undemanding, and he drops onto the bed, staring at the ceiling until his breathing finally slows enough to match the silence.

His phone has already buzzed by the time he notices it, the notification waiting there, patient and a little too eager.

The message is still funny when he opens it, confirmed by the emojis and the easy warmth of Kip’s reply, and Ilya allows himself a brief flicker of satisfaction before deciding, firmly, not to look at it too closely.

People have never been the hard part; he’s good at being easy, at smiling and joking and sitting just close enough that everyone walks away thinking they know him, which keeps things light and fast and uncomplicated.

Friendship is slower and heavier, the kind of thing that invites questions, and Kip Grady doesn’t ask any, which somehow feels worse.

Kip hadn’t looked at him like a story or a prize or something to collect; he’d just sat there in that too-bright room looking tired in a way Ilya recognized immediately, the exhaustion of being seen too much and still not quite correctly.

Ilya rolls onto his side, phone loose in his hand, because becoming friends with Scott Hunter’s boyfriend is complicated, and Shane is still a secret, a good and necessary one, folded into hotel rooms and locked doors and an understanding that works because it has to.

And Kip had walked onto the ice and blown straight through that kind of caution like it was nothing.

Ilya has friends, technically. There’s Svetlana, who doesn’t count because she’s always been there, before mama’s death, before Boston, before English, before his life went loud and fast, and whatever trust exists between them feels less like a choice than an instinct.

This would be a choice.

He tells himself it’s nothing, just a joke, a late-night exchange after an unbearable event, something that happened because Kip was funny, and that he doesn’t care.

Still, he doesn’t block the number or mute the conversation, leaving the screen unlocked and waiting, because if Kip texts again he’ll answer, obviously, out of politeness or boredom or idle curiosity, or because maybe it will be easy.

Chapter End Notes

I decided to write this chapter like a text conversation for two reasons.
1. i think it works with to people becoming friends when they dont live in the same place and one of them is constantly on the road.
2. i really wanted to use this work skin

If you liked this fic please leave a comment or come scream at me on tumblr piracypiranha

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

Ilya stands in his kitchen in nothing but sweatpants, hair still damp from the shower, staring into the open fridge like it might eventually explain itself.

Gym was good. Legs feel solid. Heavy in the good way. He smells like soap and clean cotton instead of sweat and rink air, which already feels like a small victory. The problem is food. There is always too much of it, or not the right thing, or something that requires thinking. He doesn’t want to think.

He shuts the fridge with his hip, grabs a towel to rough-dry his hair, and reaches for his phone.

It buzzes in his hand.

Ilya looks at the quiet apartment, the unresolved food situation, the fact that he hadn’t actually wanted to be alone today. Decision made.

Ilya sets the phone down and feels that light, contained energy settle in. Nothing sharp. Nothing anxious. Just something to look forward to. He pulls on a hoodie, shakes his hair dry, and nudges a pair of sneakers out of the middle of the floor with his foot. That feels like enough effort.

Ten minutes later, the buzzer sounds.

He hits it immediately.

“Come up,” he says, voice easy.

He doesn’t wait by the door. He pours himself a glass of water, takes a sip, then hears footsteps in the stairwell, quick and purposeful, and a knock that sounds like Kip.

When he opens the door, Kip is flushed from the cold, holding a drink carrier and a paper bag like he’s successfully completed a side quest. Hat low, scarf crooked, cheeks pink from the wind.

“Hi,” Kip says.

“Hello,” Ilya says, stepping aside.

Kip comes in and lets the door swing shut behind him. He toes off his boots by the mat, peels off his hat and jacket, sets them down without looking for permission. No pause. No question. Like he’s been here before, even though he hasn’t.

Something in Ilya loosens.

“Wow,” Kip says, glancing around. “This is… really nice. And clean.”

“I just showered,” Ilya says. “Gym.”

“Yeah, your hair is wet,” Kip says with a laugh. “Also, you smell nice. Respectfully.”

Ilya huffs a laugh. “Thank you for respect.”

Kip sets the coffee on the counter. “I guessed on your order. If it’s wrong, I’ll apologize once and then stand by my choices.”

Ilya checks the lid. “Black.”

“Yes,” Kip says, pleased. “I knew it.”

They eat standing at the counter, coffee between them.

“I’ve heard the word brand sixteen times,” Kip says, peeling the wrapper off his sandwich. “And it’s only ten-thirty.”

Ilya hums. “Good pace.”

“One guy said it three times in one sentence,” Kip continues. “I don’t even think it meant anything.”

“It never does,” Ilya says. “That is point.”

Kip laughs. “You think?”

“Yes. Marketing is just saying nothing confidently until someone nods.”

“That… explains a lot,” Kip says. “Scott is being very polite about it. Which is impressive, because they keep asking him how he feels about representing the future of hockey.”

“And?”

“And he says things like, ‘I’m grateful for the opportunity,’ while I stare at the carpet and count how many times someone clears their throat.”

Ilya smiles into his coffee. “You are support animal.”

“I am an emotional support boyfriend,” Kip agrees. “Mostly I bring snacks and don’t roll my eyes out loud.”

“Very professional.”

“I know. I should be paid.”

Ilya snorts.

“So,” Kip says, gesturing with his cup, “what would you say if someone asked you about your brand?”

Ilya considers this. “I would leave.”

“I play hockey,” he adds. “Everything else is decoration.”

“That might actually be your brand,” Kip says. “Unintentionally.”

Ilya shrugs. “I’m a genius.”

When the food is gone, Kip carries the wrappers to the trash and then drifts toward the couch without thinking. He sits, tucking one leg under himself, socked foot brushing lightly against Ilya’s calf.

“Oh, sorry,” Kip says automatically.

“It’s fine,” Ilya says, just as automatic.

Kip glances at him, relaxed. “You ever have to do that stuff?”

“Yes. It’s part of the job,” Ilya says. “I am very bad at it.”

“I can imagine.”

“I say wrong thing,” Ilya continues. “Or the right thing, but too honestly.”

They sit there, quiet but comfortable, the city humming faintly outside. Kip’s foot stays where it is. Ilya doesn’t shift.

“Are you busy later?” Kip asks, like he’s just noticed.

Ilya shrugs. “Not really.”

“Not really,” Kip repeats.

“Yes.”

Kip smiles, small and genuine. “Good. Because I have several hours to kill.”

Ilya leans back, stretching his legs out like a caged lion, making a show of it, raising an eyebrow at him. December light spills in through the windows, pale and cold, but the room itself is warm.

Kip laughs. “Perfect,” he says. “Did I tell you about my research seminar teacher?”

Kip launches into it immediately, settling deeper into the couch like he’s bracing himself.

“He assigned us a forty-page reading,” Kip says, waving a hand. “Which is fine. That’s normal. Except it’s forty pages of a man explaining why archives are sexy.”

Ilya reaches for the remote. “They are not.”

“According to him, they absolutely are,” Kip says. “He used the phrase ‘intellectual foreplay’.”

Ilya presses the power button. The TV flickers to life, some afternoon sports recap already mid-sentence, a familiar cadence filling the room without demanding attention.

“That is crime,” Ilya says.

“Right? I’m sitting there like, sir,have you ever touched another human? Because I know foreplay. This is not it.”

Ilya laughs, low and easy, and flips the channel once before settling on a game replay.

They sit like that for a while, the TV murmuring to itself in the background. Some midseason recap. Familiar voices saying familiar things. 

Kip keeps talking. It’s easy, unstructured, his seminar bleeding into a client who tried to tip him in crypto, then into Scott’s uncanny talent for locating the one man in any room who wants to argue about nothing. Not politics. Not hockey. Just nothing. Like it’s a calling.

Ilya listens. He hums when appropriate. Snorts once. Makes a low sound in his throat when Kip imitates Scott’s polite customer-service voice. He doesn’t feel the need to steer the conversation anywhere, which is unusual enough that he notices it.

This is…nice, his brain offers, suspiciously.

He lets the thought pass without answering it.

After a lull, Kip glances at the TV, then back at him. “So,” he says. “What are your big Thursday plans?”

Ilya shrugs, rolling one shoulder. “This.”

“This?” Kip echoes, gesturing vaguely around the apartment. “No club? No breaking hearts on a dance floor?”

“I am relaxing today.”

Kip lifts an eyebrow. Just one. “You?”

The instinct to argue rises immediately. Ilya swallows it. “I went out last week,” he says instead. “After the win. It was fun. Many drinks. Someone cried.”

“Someone always cries,” Kip says, like a man who has Seen Things.

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “That is why it loses charm.”

Kip grins. “Wow. You’re mellowing.”

“I am not,” Ilya says at once.

Kip’s mouth twitches. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Ilya repeats, suspicious.

“Or,” Kip adds lightly, “maybe you’re just bored.”

“Of what?”

Kip tilts his head, considering him. “The usual.”

Ilya exhales through his nose. The usual. Clubs that smell like sweat and perfume. Strangers who want the idea of him more than the reality. Loud music. Louder expectations. He doesn’t hate it. He’s just…tired of pretending it’s the point.

“They were never days,” he says. “More like evenings.”

“Semantics,” Kip says. Then, like it’s nothing at all: “Maybe you’re in a hot-idiot-men phase.”

The words land softly. Too softly. Like a snowflake that still manages to sting.

On the TV, the crowd roars. A goal horn blares. Ilya doesn’t move. His smile holds for half a second too long, then he turns his head, gaze fixing on the far wall as if it’s suddenly developed an opinion worth studying.

He’s already told him, he thinks. Casually. Texted it, once. He's talked about men, both in passing and pointedly. Saying it out loud is different.

The silence stretches. Not sharp. Not demanding. Just there.

Ilya becomes acutely aware of everything else instead: the warmth of Kip’s socked foot against his calf, the steady hum of the heater, the faint citrus smell of the soap he used after the gym. He drags a hand over his thigh, grounding himself, then scrubs his palm over his face.

“I like smart women,” he says finally.

The sentence sounds defensive even to him. Not a lie. Just…incomplete.

“Yeah,” Kip says.

The quiet settles again.

Ilya exhales slowly. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath.

“I know I mentioned it before,” he says, still not looking over. “Over text.”

Kip shifts, just enough to signal he’s listening.

“I am bisexual.”

The words feel heavier spoken. Not dramatic. Just real. Like setting something down and deciding not to pick it back up.

Kip nods once. “Okay.”

That’s it. No ceremony. No surprise.

Ilya risks a glance back. Kip hasn’t moved away. Hasn’t leaned in. His expression is open, neutral in a way that feels intentional.

“That’s all?” Ilya asks, unsure why he needs confirmation.

“That’s all,” Kip says. “Thanks for saying it.”

Something loosens in Ilya’s chest, slow and unexpected. His shoulders drop a fraction.

“You do not…?” He trails off. “No congratulations on my bravery?"

Kip snorts. “What, you want a cake?”

“Yes,” Ilya says instantly. “Preferably shaped like a flag.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Kip says dryly.

Ilya laughs despite himself. It’s quiet, but real. He leans back into the couch, tipping his head against the cushion, staring at the ceiling like it might also be a safe conversational partner.

For a moment, it feels finished.

Then the next thing presses up, insistent.

“Me and Hollander,” he says, voice lower now. He takes a breath. “We are together.”

Kip’s smile comes easy, like he’s been handed confirmation, not a surprise. “Yeah,” he says. “I figured.”

Ilya turns his head sharply. “I did not say that.”

“You didn’t say it,” Kip agrees. “But you didn’t not say it.”

“That is not how language works.”

Kip shrugs and smiles.

Ilya groans and drags a hand over his face. His ears feel warm. “I was not trying to announce anything. I just wanted you to know I am friends with him."

“And now I now you are more,” Kip says simply.

Ilya peeks at him through his fingers. “It is new. Not really new. But now it is…more. And private.”

Kip nods once. “Makes sense.”

They sit quietly, the TV still murmuring, the heater humming. Kip watches him without staring, like he’s paying attention without taking notes.

After a moment, Kip says, like he’s just remembered something mildly interesting, “He seems like a nice secret bubble.”

The word lands and settles. Familiar. Ilya feels it click into place instead of lighting anything up.

“Yes,” he says. “Away from everything. From…noise.”

“Mmm,” Kip hums. “A hot, noise-canceling bubble with a six-pack.”

Ilya snorts. “That is not what I said.”

“It is what I heard,” Kip says pleasantly.

The last of the tension drains out of Ilya’s shoulders. He lets his head fall back against the couch.

Kip stretches his leg, resettles, foot still warm against Ilya’s calf. Then, deliberately casual: “Also, your boyfriend is very hot.”

Ilya turns his head. “Yes.”

No pause. No hedge. Just confirmation.

Kip laughs. “Wow. Immediate agreement.”

“Why would I argue?” Ilya says. “It’s the freckles.”

“Fair,” Kip says. “But like... dangerously hot. The kind where you assume he’s dumb, and then he opens his mouth and ruins your whole day.”

Ilya’s mouth quirks. “Yes. That.”

“I hate that,” Kip says. “Pick a struggle.”

“He is very annoying,” Ilya adds. “And very kind. Which is worse.”

“Rude of him,” Kip says. “Does he know he’s hot?”

“He pretends not to.”

Kip groans. “Oh no. The humble one.”

“boy next door,” Ilya says. “Very upsetting.”

“I would absolutely hate him,” Kip says.

“You would,” Ilya agrees.

“Unfortunately,” Kip continues, “I already like him. I don’t know him, but you do, so.”

Ilya exhales a quiet laugh. It feels easy now. Finished.

“And Scott,” he adds, glancing sideways. “Also hot. For an old man.”

Kip makes a wounded sound. “Stop saying that, I love him.”

“You chose well.”

“I really did,” Kip says, then smirks. “That and my devastating charm are my best traits.”

“Debatable.”

“Rude,” Kip says. “I brought food.”

“That is true.”

The TV flips to a replay montage. Kip squints at the screen. “That guy definitely cries in clubs.”

“Absolutely,” Ilya says. “That face cannot handle rejection.”

“Ten minutes,” Kip says. “Max.”

Ilya flips the channel without asking. Kip doesn’t object, just leans in, shoulder bumping his arm like it’s nothing worth remarking on.

“So,” Kip says, already grinning, “do you want more gossip about my seminar professor, or should we talk shit about your teammates?”

Ilya smiles. “Both.”

“Perfect,” Kip says. “I’ve prepared.”

Chapter End Notes

Having them hang out one on one was harder to write than I expected, hopefully it came out right.

If you liked this fic please leave a comment or come scream at me on tumblr piracypiranha

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Winter always sharpens everything. The air outside the rink bites harder, lungs burning on the walk to the car, muscles stiffening faster between shifts. The season compresses time. Days blur, games stack, bodies bruise in familiar places. Two days until Boston. Two days until Rozanov’s conceited grin, his shoulder in Scott’s chest, the crowd feeding on it like a shared joke.

Scott drives home with the radio off, thinking about matchups. About tape. About not letting himself get baited into something stupid.

Rozanov is very, very good at baiting.

Insanely talented, too. Scott will give him that, always has. One of the best skaters in the league. Hands like they’re wired directly to his brain. Vision that turns a broken play into a highlight. The kind of player you have to account for even when he’s not on the ice, because you know he thinks he’s better than everyone else. And the worst part is that he might be right.

The city looks clean tonight. Snow pushed into obedient piles, sidewalks gleaming under streetlights. January behaving itself, for once.

Their building is warm before the door even closes behind him.

The quiet hits first, not absence exactly, but containment. The soft, engineered hush of a place built to keep winter at arm’s length. Scott shrugs out of his gloves in the elevator and flexes his fingers. His shoulders still hum from practice.

He unlocks the apartment and steps inside.

Music greets him immediately. Not loud, but present. Bright. Too cheerful for a January night this late. Something poppy and earnest, the kind of song Kip plays when he’s in a good mood.

Scott closes the door gently. Sets his gym bag down without letting it drop.

Kip’s voice carries from the living room. Animated. Teasing.

Scott smiles despite himself. Whatever day Kip’s had, this sounds like a good ending to it.

Then there’s another voice.

Male. Low. Flat in that deliberate way that isn’t bored so much as unimpressed.

“No.”

Scott pauses with his coat halfway off.

“You cannot just say no like you’re a god,” Kip says.

“This is shit music,” the other guy replies. “All of pop. It is emotional manipulation.”

The accent slides into place easily. Russian. Scott’s heard enough of it in locker rooms, on buses, barking across the ice. The league’s full of Russians, enough that it barely registers as unusual anymore.

Still.

Scott works his coat the rest of the way off, slower now. He listens.

“It’s Carly Rae Jepsen,” Kip says.

“I do not know her.”

“That’s because you hate joy.”

“I do not hate joy,” the guy says. “I hate dishonesty.”

Scott kicks off one shoe. Then the other. Hangs his coat on the hook by the door.

Does Kip have Russian friends?

It wouldn’t be impossible. The league overlaps socially in weird ways. Charity events, sponsor dinners, the orbit of people who float around teams without ever quite belonging to one. Kip collects people the way Scott collects bruises, easily, without trying.

“Oh my god,” Kip says. “Pop is allowed to be sincere.”

“This is not sincere,” the guy replies. “It's all happy sounds and soft sadness, feelings you recognize so you will feel something when they want you to.”

Scott exhales through his nose. He can see the scene already. Kip gesturing wildly and fully committed to being right. The other guy planted somewhere stubborn, refusing to budge.

“Who is ‘they’?” Kip asks. “You listen to music that sounds like it was recorded in a concrete parking garage at three in the morning.”

“Yes,” the guy replies calmly. “In a warehouse. With bad lighting. Where people are naked.”

That earns a snort from Scott before he can stop it.

That cadence. The certainty. The way the guy doesn’t need to raise his voice to dominate the conversation.

The accent is thick, but it’s precise. Familiar in a way that makes something in Scott’s chest tighten.

“A DJ can make a song on their own,” the guy continues. “Your pop stars need eighteen writers. Like candy made by committee.”

“Bubblegum pop is a great genre,” Kip says. “It knows what it is. And you will respect it.”

“I will not,” the guy says. “If I want honesty, I listen to techno.”

Scott stills.

Russian accent.

Boston in two days.

The thought lands fully formed before he wants it to.

That sounds like Rozanov.

No. He tells himself immediately. Rozanov doesn’t sound like this. Rozanov is cocky and sharp and rude on purpose. He chirps for sport. He picks fights because he enjoys them. He smiles when gloves drop like it’s a gift. The rumors say he’s a menace off the ice too. A lady killer. A disaster. Someone who leaves damage behind him without ever looking back.

This voice sounds comfortable.

Scott rounds the corner anyway.

Kip is exactly where he expects him to be, folded sideways into the couch, sweater pushed up his forearms, lo mein carton balanced dangerously on his stomach. His phone is docked to the speaker, screen glowing faintly.

And on the floor, back against the couch, hoodie zipped to his chin, curly hair falling into his eyes—

Rozanov.

Not in team gear. Not in a suit. Not looming. Just there. In Kip and Scott’s living room.

For a half second, all he can see is the disconnect. The way this version of Ilya Rozanov looks like one of Kip’s friends. Like someone who belongs in this space. Like someone who has no business being the same guy Scott plans around and braces for.

It reminds him, abruptly, of the night everything went public.

Rozanov had found him afterward. Not loud. Not smug. Just a hand on Scott’s shoulder, firm and brief.

“You did good,” he’d said. “You should be proud.”

“Oh,” Scott says now, before he can stop himself.

Kip doesn’t look up. “Hey,” he says automatically. “What about Ariana? You cannot call her dishonest. She literally turned emotional collapse into a pop era.”

“I do not believe her,” Rozanov says. “She sounds too polished. Too good at being sad.”

Scott stares.

The charity dinner flashes back unbidden. Months ago now. Too much wine. Too many speeches. Kip slouched in the corner, bored out of his skull, lighting up when Rozanov had sat down like the evening had finally gotten interesting.

Since then, offhand mentions. A text here. A trip to Boston there. Kip saying my friend Ilya with a casualness that hadn’t seemed worth interrogating at the time.

Scott clears his throat. “Why is Boston in my apartment?”

Kip finally looks up, grinning. “Practice done?”

“Double,” Scott says, eyes still on Rozanov. “What’s happening?”

“Important cultural exchange,” Kip says. “He’s wrong about pop music.”

“I am right,” Rozanov says, unbothered. “This song was made to sell phones.”

Kip finally shifts, sliding the lo mein carton to the coffee table before standing. He stretches once, lazy and loose, then crosses the space to Scott like it’s muscle memory.

“Hey,” Kip says again, softer this time, and kisses him. Quick but grounding. A hand at Scott’s waist, warm through the layers.

Kip hums, already turning back toward the couch. “There’s extra. Noodles or dumplings?”

“Whatever’s closest,” Scott says.

From the floor, Rozanov tilts his head back to look at him, eyes bright with interest that is only partly innocent. “He looks exhausted,” he says. “Are two practices too much for your old bones, Hunter?”

Scott snorts. “I’m not that old.”

“You are ten thousand in hockey years,” Ilya says mildly. “This is very serious.”

Kip shoots him a look while shoving noodles into a bowl. “Behave.”

“I am behaving,” Ilya says. “I am concerned for his health.”

“Uh-huh.”

Scott drops onto the armchair, rolling his shoulders. “Funny. You didn’t seem concerned last time you tried to put me through the boards.”

“That was competitive concern,” Ilya says. “Different.”

“And for the record,” Scott adds, eyes narrowing slightly, “Boston’s beatable.”

Ilya’s mouth curves, slow and smug. “Even with double practice, New York will still lose.”

Kip turns, chopsticks pointed like a warning. “Ilya.”

“What?” he says, unrepentant. “I am being honest. You said sincerity matters.”

Kip groans. “I swear to god, I will kick you out, bitch.”

Scott watches the exchange, the ease of it, the way Kip doesn’t hesitate to scold him and Ilya doesn’t bother pretending to mind. He takes the bowl Kip hands him, their fingers brushing.

Scott is halfway through his noodles when he realizes the argument has drifted again. Not escalated. Drifted. Like this is what they do when they’re bored and comfortable and feeling mean in a recreational way.

“I’m just saying,” Ilya says, staring at the ceiling like the answer is written there, “Americans complain about winter like it is worst thing in the world.”

Kip doesn’t even look at him. “Because it is.”

“No,” Ilya says. “It is weather. It does not care about your feelings.”

“You all act like twelve degrees is traumatic,” Ilya continues. “In Russia, this is fall.”

Kip finally looks at him. “You cannot keep using Russia to win arguments.”

“It is relevant.”

“It’s not,” Kip says. “You moved here. You lost the moral high ground the second you bought a North Face.”

“I bought it ironically.”

Scott almost laughs into his food.

“You would not be cold,” Ilya goes on, “if Americans did not insist on wearing gym clothes everywhere. Outside is not gym.”

Kip’s eyes flick down to Scott, then back to Ilya. “First of all, his hoodie costs more than my tuition.”

“Bad investment.”

“Second,” Kip says, sitting up, “you are not allowed to shame athleisure when you lounge around Boston in a tracksuit like a Slavic fuckboy.”

Scott freezes.

There it is. That tone. Bright. Delighted. Mean in a way that wants to be caught.

Ilya smiles, slow and pleased. “I have a cultural pass.”

“You do not.”

“I do,” Ilya says. “One. It comes with accent and communism.”

“That is not transferable, and you never lived in communist Russia.”

“I am not transferring it.”

Scott puts his fork down. This is not hockey chirping. This is something else entirely.

“You look like,” Kip continues, warming up, “you sell questionable cologne out of your trunk.”

“I do. Efficient business model.”

“No the fuck you don’t,” Kip laughs.

Ilya finally turns his head, eyes sharp and amused. “You look like you would freeze to death because your coat does not match your scarf.”

Scott snorts.

Kip gasps. “That’s homophobic.”

“I cannot be homophobic.”

“Yes you can,” Kip says. “It’s friendly fire.”

Something clicks for Scott then. Not all at once, not like a reveal, but with the quiet certainty of a puzzle piece sliding into place. The ease of it. The way Ilya doesn’t deflect or harden or turn it into a joke at someone else’s expense. The way Kip says it without checking the room first.

Friendly fire only works if you’re on the same side.

Scott rubs a hand over his mouth, watching this like he’s stumbled into a different ecosystem. No edge. No threat. Just precisely cut jokes they expect to be returned in kind.

Scott finally speaks, unable to stop himself. “Do you two always talk like this?”

They both look at him.

In unison, “Yes.”

Ilya adds, “We are bonding.”

Scott lets the laughter fade into the background hum of the apartment. The music keeps playing. The heat clicks on and off.

Kip is leaning back into the couch now, loose and pleased with himself, one foot nudging Ilya’s shoulder when he talks like it’s an absent-minded punctuation mark. He’s smiling in that way he does when the day hasn’t asked him to brace for anything. Scott doesn’t see that look often enough.

And Rozanov. No—Ilya.

Ilya looks wrong in the best possible way.

He’s still stretched out on the floor, still cocky and unrepentant, but the edge is different. Not coiled. Not watchful. His shoulders are loose. His mouth keeps tilting into these small, satisfied smiles he doesn’t bother hiding. This is not the man who prowls the neutral zone like he owns it, who grins when fists come up.

This is someone comfortable enough to be ridiculous. Comfortable enough to be seen.

Scott eats, watches, listens, and understands something he hadn’t let himself articulate before. Whatever armor Ilya wears in public, whatever version of himself the league demands, he doesn’t have to wear it here. Kip gives him a space where he can be honest without being loud.

It fits him in a way Scott hadn’t expected. Like seeing a player out of uniform and realizing their posture changes when they’re not armored up.

Whatever this is between Kip and Ilya, it isn’t dangerous. It isn’t competitive. It isn’t even particularly serious. It’s just easy. A shared language. A place to land.

Scott leans back in the chair, exhaustion settling into something quieter.

Rozanov is still an ass. Scott is sure of that. But this is good for them.

Chapter End Notes

Look me in the eyes and tell me Ilya Rozanov doesn’t think Sestrica fell from heaven to bless the world. Be serious. Look at him.
I made Kip a pop fan exclusively to give them something to fight about, because techno fans are famously insufferable (I say this lovingly, as an equally insufferable metalhead).

Edit : should I make the text messages blue? I made them green because it reminds of how WhatsApp looks but apparently some people think its ugly. What do you guys think?

If you liked this fic please leave a comment or come scream at me on tumblr piracypiranha

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

The locker room has thinned out in that uneven way it always does after practice, half the guys already gone and half still lingering as if leaving too quickly would make tomorrow arrive faster. The air is thick with the dull heat of bodies and steam drifting from the showers, layered over disinfectant and rubber and that metallic tang that never quite washes out of the rink, no matter how new the building is or how often the floors are scrubbed.

Ilya sits on the narrow wooden bench, elbows braced on his thighs, tape still circling his wrists like something unfinished. His gear hangs half-open around him. Shoulder pads slouched, jersey peeled down and bunched at his waist. He hasn’t decided whether he’s staying another ten minutes or leaving immediately.

His phone buzzes against the metal shelf above him.

He lowers the phone slightly, thumb resting against the side of it, and stares at nothing in particular.

Toronto.

The word sits there longer than it should.

Across the room, someone swears and then laughs loudly. A stick clatters against the tile. Water runs somewhere behind the frosted glass of the showers, steady and unbothered.

His phone buzzes again before the thought fully settles.

<

Toronto. Same weekend.

The coincidence sharpens into something more structured, less accidental.

He glances up at the printed schedule taped crookedly to the wall, eyes tracking the upcoming games without really reading them. The Raiders leave midweek to play against Calgary; it’s only four days from now. The road trip is already decided. The work is already lined up.

The weekend, technically, is his.

He doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he sits there with the phone resting loosely in his hand, watching the idea assemble itself piece by piece. He could ignore it. Let the weekend pass normally. Let the compartments of his life remain separate and orderly.

But the thought is already there now, bright and architectural.

Before he texts either one again, he opens another chat.

The pause stretches long enough that he imagines Shane leaning back somewhere in Montreal, phone tilted in one hand, reading the words twice not because he’s confused but because he’s careful.

The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.

He loves how Shane can do that. No performance. No analysis. Just an open door in Montreal and the quiet promise of food and home.

Ilya locks that thread and sits there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at his reflection warped in the dark edge of his screen. He can feel the decision settling into place.

He switches back.

He lets himself breathe once, slow and measured, before switching threads again.

Ilya sets the phone face down on the bench beside him and finally stands, the movement slow and unhurried, as if nothing significant has happened at all.

Around him, the locker room continues in its usual rhythm. Laughter snapping sharp against tile, zippers rasping closed, someone arguing about dinner plans like it matters deeply. The world has not shifted to acknowledge his choice.

But inside him, the lines have moved.

The bar is low-lit and narrow, all dark wood and brushed brass, trying hard to feel historic. A game plays silently on the TVs above the liquor shelves, captions lagging behind frozen sportscasters.

Ilya steps inside and pauses just long enough for his eyes to adjust.

Kip is already there. He’s at a small round table near the back, jacket slung over the empty chair like he’s saving it. One hand holds his phone. The other is already wrapped around a sweating bottle of pale beer. He’s halfway through it.

When he spots Ilya, he lifts the bottle in greeting instead of waving.

“You’re early.”

“I panicked about being late in another country” Kip jokes.

Ilya walks over, gives him a brief once-over like he’s checking for visible damage, then raises two fingers to the server and orders top shelf vodka without looking at the menu.

He pulls the chair out across from Kip and sits, smoothing his hands once over the table as if aligning it with himself.

“You made it through customs?”

“Barely. They asked why I was visiting and I said ‘hockey.’ Like that’s a complete sentence.”

“It is complete sentence.”

“It’s not.”

“For Canada? Very complete.”

Kip snorts and takes another drink. He drums his fingers once against the bottle, then stills them like he’s caught himself.

“Scott’s at mandatory team dinner,” he says. “Bonding or whatever. I was invited. Then gently… uninvited.”

“Efficient.”

“They did add me to the WAG chat, though.”

Ilya smirks lightly. “The what?”

“The wives and girlfriends group chat.” Kip already looks tired about it. He flips his phone face-down like it’s misbehaving. “It’s bizarre.”

“Ah,” Ilya says. “You are promoted.”

“To what?”

“To woman.”

“Shut up, Ilya.”

“You complain about being included.”

“I’m not complaining.” Kip gestures with the bottle and nearly sloshes beer over the rim. He steadies it with both hands. “I just don’t know the rules.”

“For what.”

“For twelve women named Madison or Brittany planning Pilates dates and sending weird emoji combinations.”

“You send heart emoji back.”

“That feels weirder.”

“They invited you.”

“I’ve never met them.”

“Even better. You are pre-approved.”

Kip leans back and presses the cold bottle to his forehead for a second. “Scott says it’s good. Means the are normal about me.”

“He is correct.”

“That’s unsettling.”

“That I agree with Hunter?”

“Yes.”

Ilya’s mouth twitches.

“They asked if I’m coming to spa day next Saturday,” Kip says.

“And.”

“And I don’t know the tone.”

“Tone,” Ilya repeats flatly. “For text.”

“Yes.”

“You are drafting legal document?”

“It matters.”

“To who?”

“To me.” Kip rubs the back of his neck, fingers lingering there. “I’m the only boyfriend.”

“Scott is boyfriend.”

“Scott’s on the team. I’m… adjacent.”

“You are not adjacent.” Ilya folds his hands on the table. “They added you because you matter to him.”

Kip goes quiet at that. He takes a longer pull of his beer this time.

“Just answer like person,” Ilya says. “Say yes if you want. Say no if you don’t. Stop negotiating with emoji.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“It is easy.”

“For you.”

“Yes,” Ilya says calmly. “I am extremely charming.”

“Jesus.”

The server finally returns with the vodka. Clear, expensive, set down with care.

Ilya wraps his fingers around the glass but doesn’t drink immediately. He watches the liquid settle first, then takes a measured swallow. No flinch.

Kip mirrors him without meaning to, lifting his beer and taking a slower sip.

The door opens, letting in a rush of cold air. Ilya looks up immediately. He’s already standing when Kip follows his gaze.

Svetlana steps inside like she belongs to whatever room she enters. Long dark coat. Sharp heels. Gold at her throat and ears catching the low light.

When she sees Ilya, her face softens.

“Ilyushka.”

He’s already on his feet. He sets his glass down and leans in as she kisses one cheek, then the other, hands firm at his shoulders before pulling him into a tight, practiced hug.

“You look thin,” she murmurs.

“I am athletic, Svetka,” he replies.

She huffs a laugh.

Her fingers linger briefly at the back of his neck before she turns.

“You must be Kip. Svetlana,” she says, composed now, assessing.

“Kip,” he says, standing so fast his knee knocks the table. “Nice to meet you.”

Her handshake is cool and steady.

“I’ve heard about you.”

“Hopefully nothing too bad.”

“We will determine that.”

She sits beside Ilya like it’s muscle memory. Their shoulders nearly touch.

Her gaze drops to Kip’s beer.

A pause.

“Do you drink?” she asks lightly

“Sure.”

She signals the server without breaking eye contact. “Three vodkas,” she says, nodding at Ilya’s empty glass.

Kip takes one last swallow of his beer before the glasses arrive.

“So,” Svetlana says, glancing at him again, “you came all the way from New York for hockey.”

“I came for a man who plays hockey,” Kip corrects.

“Worse,” Ilya says into his glass.

Kip kicks his shin under the table. “You told me to come.”

“I wanted you two to meet,” Ilya replies.

Svetlana smiles faintly. “Ilyusha loves being in charge.”

“That’s not true,” Ilya says.

“You declared we were meeting at eight. You did not ask.”

“I knew you would come.”

She lifts a shoulder. “That is not asking. I'm here because I wanted to come.”

The server drops three vodkas on the table.

Svetlana takes hers immediately. Ilya follows. Kip picks his up and very deliberately does not shoot it like a freshman at NYU. He takes a slow sip instead.

It burns, but it’s definitely nicer than the cheap Absolut he’s used to.

Svetlana notices and smiles slightly.

“You don’t have to impress us,” she says lightly.

“I’m not,” Kip says. “I’m just trying to have some dignity.”

“You bartend,” Ilya says. “You do not have dignity.”

“Part-time,” Kip shoots back. “And I have selective dignity.”

“At?” she asks.

“The Kingfisher.”

Her eyebrow lifts. “Scott Hunter’s gay bar.”

“The gay bar,” Kip confirms.

“He makes very good cocktails,” Ilya says. “I’ve seen pictures. They look very artistic.”

“I have to use my useless art degree on something,” Kip says with a laugh.

Svetlana watches them, amused. “So you did art school.”

“I’m doing my master’s. Art history.”

“Of course,” she says, not unkindly.

“Svetka don’t—” Ilya warns.

“I am not starting,” she says. “It fits.”

She tilts her head. “And you live in Manhattan?”

“Scott’s got the place before we met”

“Obviously,” she echoes. “He has to spend that MLH money on something.”

“Please,” Ilya says. “You live in L.A.”

“Yes.”

“That is worse,” Ilya argues.

“It is warmer,” she replies calmly.

Ilya nods. “Boston is superior. There is more to do.”

“Boston is gray,” she says. “Reminds me of home.”

“It is not that bad,” he mutters.

Kip laughs, finishing his vodka in another careful sip.

They share a look—quick, sharp, pleased.

And there it is. Not how they move. How they land the same joke from opposite angles. How they deliver opinions like verdicts. How neither of them backs off once a position is claimed.

Jesus. Kip realizes. There’s two of them.

The first round disappeared at some point, Svetlana glanced at the empty glasses, looked at the waiter and made a circular motion with her fingers

She turns back to him, softer now. “And you like it? New York.”

“I love it,” he says, shrugging. “It’s ugly and expensive and everyone thinks they’re important.”

“You fit,” she says.

Ilya laughs.

“I did not say that as a compliment,” she tells him.

“I take it as one.”

Kip smiles despite himself. “I feel like I’m being evaluated.”

“You are,” she says pleasantly.

“Svetka,” Ilya warns.

“What?” she says. “He is your friend. I want to know.”

“I’m harmless,” Kip says.

“I doubt that,” she replies.

“He is not harmless,” Ilya says. “He is horrible man with taste in arthritic old men.”

“I am delightful,” Kip protests. “And Scott is not that old.”

“You are judgmental,” Ilya says.

“You started it.”

“I finished it.”

Svetlana laughs quietly, studying Kip in a way that isn’t unkind. She turns to Ilya and says something in Russian while eyeing Kip.

Ilya nods, pleased, and murmurs something quick in reply.

Kip looks between them. “Rude.”

“He says you are dramatic,” Svetlana translates smoothly.

“I did not say that,” Ilya says.

Kip laughs and points at her. “You two are so alike.”

She smiles, finally less guarded. “Yes,” she says. “Unfortunately.”.

The second round arrives and this time Kip doesn’t overthink it. He picks up the glass when they do.

They drink.

Warmer now. Looser. The edge comes off his shoulders.

Kip rolls the stem of the glass between his fingers. “Shane looked good last week, i watched the game at the bar ”

Ilya makes a quiet sound through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite approval. He takes a measured sip.

“He is too thin.”

“He’s in insane shape,” Kip shoots back.

“Yes. Because he eats like bird.”

Svetlana tilts her head. “Like a bird?”

“Macrobiotic,” Ilya says, already annoyed. “Everything weighed. Everything balanced. Very clean. Very strict. No fun.”

“It works for him,” Kip says. “He looks good.”

“It is joyless,” Ilya insists. “I want cook proper dinner. Butter. Cream. Sauce. Something that tastes like life.”

Svetlana studies him over the rim of her glass. “He won’t eat it?”

“He will,” Ilya says. “But he will log it. Then next day he subtracts something. It is spreadsheet romance.”

Kip laughs. “You’re mad your boyfriend has self-control.”

“I am mad,” Ilya says evenly, “that I cannot feed my boyfriend properly.”

Svetlana stills, then her mouth twitches.

“You,” she says slowly, “want to cook romantic dinners.”

“Yes.”

“And he calculates the butter.”

“He calculates the butter,” Ilya repeats darkly.

Kip snorts into his vodka.

Svetlana’s posture shifts, something easing, something deciding.

“Oh. Wait.” Her eyes sharpen. “Kip, I have to show you something.”

Ilya’s head turns. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Svetochka...”

She’s already pulling her phone out. “You started this.”

He finishes his third vodka like he’s bracing for impact.

She turns the screen toward Kip.

Flash-heavy. Grainy. Obviously old.

Teenage Ilya: shaved head, oversized military boots, Adidas sweats hanging low, white muscle tee clinging to all elbows and attitude. His arm slung around a teenage girl in a denim jacket, braids tight, eyeliner thick and unapologetic.

It's unmistakably Svetlana. Younger. Sharper. 

Kip leans closer. “That’s you.”

“Unfortunately.”

“You both look like you were about to rob a convenience store.”

“We were sneaking to a party,” she says.

“Invited,” Ilya corrects.

“By an older hockey player,” she adds. “Which meant alcohol.”

The server reappears. Svetlana doesn’t break eye contact with Kip.

“Another round.”

“You were what, sixteen?” Kip asks.

“Fifteen,” Ilya says.

“There was a storm,” Svetlana continues. “Real Moscow blizzard. Snow everywhere, wind like knives.”

She tilts her head slightly, remembering. “We had just enough money.”

“For alcohol,” Ilya adds.

Kip blinks. “At fifteen?”

“We were not stupid,” Ilya says. “You give money to someone older. They buy.”

“Efficient system,” Svetlana says.

Kip huffs a laugh. “That feels illegal.

“It was,” Ilya says, like that explains everything.

Svetlana smiles faintly. “the plan was to get wasted. We were not wasting 30 rubles on the metro.”

“That was like two beers,” Ilya says.

“We walked three metro stops,” she continues, tapping the boots in the photo. “In those.”

“They were practical.” Ilya argues.

“They were two sizes too big.”

“You were wearing platform sneakers.”

“They were fashionable. I suffered for you.”

The third round lands. Three clean glasses again.

They lift them.

“And you went anyway,” Kip says.

“Of course,” Svetlana replies. “He would havedone something stupid alone.”

“I would not.”

“You absolutely would have.”

“Name one time.”

“Lyosha’s car.”

Ilya looks offended. “It was unlocked.”

“You drove it.”

“I moved it.”

“You moved it two blocks.”

Kip laughs, finishing his third vodka easier than the first.

Ilya checks his watch. “That is enough pre-gaming.”

Kip blinks. “Pre-gaming?”

Svetlana is already sliding her coat back on. “I’m ordering the Uber.”

Ilya lifts a hand toward the server. “The bill. I take.”

Kip looks at the empty glasses. Then at them.

“Wait. Pre-gaming for what?”

They look at him.

Then they both smile, the same sharp, anticipatory curve.

Svetlana tucks her phone into her bag. “Now,” she says, “we go clubbing.”

“Now?” Kip echoes.

“Yes,” Ilya says smoothly, standing.

Kip watches them rise, already moving with the same unspoken agreement, and understands, a second too late, that whatever tonight becomes, he is completely outmatched.

Chapter End Notes

1. I love Kip but that man's regular gay bar is a sports pub, he doesn’t go clubbing.

2. I've seen Russian fans compain about how weird it is that the Russian characters in HR don't call each other nicknames, so I made an effort to use some.

Edit: I'm making this fic as complete because i ran out of ideas, but if the inspiration hits i might add another chapter in the future.

If you liked this fic please leave a comment or come scream at me on tumblr piracypiranha