ILYA R. ilya registers garrett before thoroughly looking at him, the way one senses pressure in the air before a storm finishes deciding where to break. the corridor outside the rink is all fluorescent glare and cold breaths, and yet the familiar tension coils warm beneath his ribs. two years, and the sight of garrett still draws that old, sharpened focus, like a blade eased from its sheath. ilya slows to a halt, skates slung over a shoulder, gaze finally lifting to meet him. captain, his mind supplies, not without a flicker of grudging respect that tastes faintly metallic on his tongue. “guess this was bound to happen,” he mutters, voice calm, clipped, carrying that practiced flatness he uses when he refuses to give anyone more than required. “running into you now. two days before game.” his mouth barely moves into a half-expression that extinguishes as swiftly as it forms. “schedule has sense of humor.”
he studies garrett as he speaks, cataloging the all too familiar signs: a posture carved by responsibility, confidence burnished by expectation, the same unyielding drive that has mirrored ilya’s own across too many seasons. it needles him, how alike they are in that way, how the rivalry feels less like opposition and more like a distorted reflection. funny. “i hope you are ready,” ilya continues, tone even, almost dismissive, “last time on ice together, it did not go your way, graham.” his fingers tighten on the strap of his bag, then loosen, a decision settling. “i am heading to a bar across the street,” he announces, eyes cutting briefly toward the exit before returning to the fellow captain. “one drink. clear my head.” a pause, deliberate and unreadable and yet there's expectancy in the twitch of his brow. “come. will do you good.” @neverafters
