did you know that there's a tunnel under ocean boulevard
[prologue]
author's note: i haven't written in a long time. let me know if this is worth continuing. explicit content ahead. comments, reblogs, and feedback would be greatly appreciated.
word count: 3.9k
u.s. figure skating championships, 2026
“you’re sure you don’t want to come?” amber asked. “or i can stay with you, if you want.”
you shook your head. “thanks, but i’m sure. i’d rather have a quiet night rewatching some movie i’ve seen a thousand times.” you smiled and stretched across your hotel bed. “go have fun. you deserve it.”
she smiled. “alright, if you’re sure. but call me if you get bored or lonely, okay?”
“i promise,” you said, waving. as she opened the door to your shared room, you grinned. “hey, amber?”
she turned. “yeah?”
“we’re olympians.” she laughed as you shook your head. “sorry, i had to say it again. it still doesn’t feel real.”
she smiled softly. “it doesn’t feel real to me, either. not yet, anyway.”
you hesitated for a second then slid off the bed and ran over to hug her for what felt like the thousandth time that evening. “sorry,” you said sheepishly as you pulled away.
“no,” she said sternly. “you don’t get to apologize for being happy.” she grasped your shoulders. “you just turned in a fantastic short program and great free skate. you’re the national silver medalist, and you’re going to have so much fun when you compete at the fucking olympics in a month.”
you grinned. “says my fellow olympian and the national champion of skating and pep talks.” she laughed and hugged you again. “oh, and hugs. and fun, unless i keep you here for the rest of the night.”
she squeezed you one last time. “if you’re asleep when i get back, i’ll try not to wake you.”
“i don’t know how i’m expected to get any sleep over the next month,” you said dryly, “but i suppose i should try.”
she laughed. “you do that. sleep is important.”
you waved as she headed out then flopped back down on your bed with a goofy grin. as of a few hours ago, you’re officially part of team usa. just because you’d dreamed of it as a little girl didn’t mean you’d thought it would ever actually happen. you pulled out your phone and scrolled through social media, still unable to believe the photos and headlines.
blade angels headed to milan. is the 24-year wait over? is gold in the cards for team usa?
suddenly, a knock sounded at your door. you frowned and stood up. “amber, did you forget your–” your eyes widened as you opened the door. “oh! hi, ilia.”
ilia smiled crookedly. “hi.” you stared at him for a moment before he cleared his throat. “uh, sorry for, you know, showing up unannounced, but amber said you were staying in?”
you fidgeted with the room service tag on the back of the door. “yeah, i am. i’m not exactly a fun time where karaoke is concerned. or any kind of going out, really.”
he laughed. “oh, come on. you’re fun.”
“unless your idea of a good time is rewatching a movie and going to bed early, which i doubt it is, i don’t think i’ll medal in fun,” you said dryly. “congratulations, by the way. you know, on winning. i think i said it earlier, but there were so many people around that it didn't really count.”
he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “thanks. you skated really well, by the way.” you could’ve sworn his cheeks turned slightly pink, but he cleared his throat before you could give the matter much thought. “also, i happen to consider rewatching movies and getting some well-earned beauty rest a very good time. why else would i make an appearance after every competition?”
“because you pity me and my lack of a social life?” you rolled your eyes teasingly. “alright, come on.”
he grinned as he followed you into your room, shutting the door carefully. “what’re we watching?”
you shrugged and sat on your bed, gesturing to your laptop. “pick whatever you want.” he whooped in delight and flopped down next to you, eagerly scrolling through the choices. you watched him, smiling softly.
you’d met ilia about seven years ago, but you’d really started talking to him right after the last olympic cycle. you’d spent a few months harboring a massive crush on him before he’d introduced you to his then-girlfriend. you’d handled it like the mature teenager you were and spent the night eating an entire pint of ice cream, binging a comfort show, and crying yourself to sleep. the next morning, you’d decided you were okay with just being his friend. now, you were over him, really. you loved being friends with ilia. he was an incredible skater, sure, but he was also a total dork. he refused to drink coffee or tea, hated waking up early, spammed you pictures of his cats, and always made you smile. he never forgot to wish you luck before you skated, and he cheered you up when programs didn’t go how you’d wanted. and now, he was spending his celebratory evening hanging out with you instead of going to karaoke with everyone else. again. friends did things like that all the time, didn’t they?
“how to train your dragon,” he said with relish, dragging you out of your thoughts. “it’s a cinematic masterpiece.”
you laughed. “okay.”
his eyes widened. “okay? what do you mean, okay?”
you poked him in the side, smirking playfully when he squirmed. “i mean, whatever you say. your animated dragon movie is a classic, but cinematic masterpiece might be taking it too far.”
he gasped dramatically. “you wound me.”
you laughed. “aren’t they making some olympics ad for you with toothless now?” you’d heard him talking about the possibility a few days ago.
his cheeks turned red. “uh, yeah, actually.”
you laughed and leaned against him, ignoring the way the contact made your heart skip a beat. “so, you’ll be petting a giant green mechanical arm that’ll become a cgi dragon.”
“shut up,” he groaned. “i love toothless.”
you raised your eyebrows and pointed to the toothless shirt he was currently sporting. you were somewhat surprised that he had decided to pair it with snoopy pajama pants and minecraft socks instead of more how to train your dragon merch. “believe me, i am well aware. besides, most of your tossies are toothless.”
he turned to you, fighting a smile. “i actually brought one of them with me. he’s huge, so he’s great to sleep on during flights.”
you snickered. “of course you did.”
he shrugged. “he’s cozier than your boyfriend ever was.” the mention of your now-ex-boyfriend made you scowl. ilia winced. “sorry. i shouldn’t have said that.”
“don’t be,” you said flatly. “it’s his own fault he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.”
his eyes widened as he sat bolt upright. “wait, what? i thought you said you broke up with him because long-distance wasn’t working!”
you groaned. “well, it wasn’t. in addition to refusing to let me sleep on him on the very rare occasion that we were on an airplane together, he always forgot to watch me skate, never called, said i spent more time with the rink than him, and refused to come to competitions. oh, except the one he spent hitting on isabeau, who is way out of his league.”
he didn’t say anything for a moment, so you glanced at him. to your surprise, he looked…sad? “you didn’t deserve to be treated like that,” he said quietly.
something warm and unfamiliar settled in your chest. you didn’t know what to say, so you smiled awkwardly. “well, he was also terrible in bed, so i actually pity the girl he cheated on me with.”
ilia laughed. “that’s not a surprise. you looked irritated the morning after the one competition he showed up to.”
you glared at the ceiling. “he didn’t believe in foreplay and couldn’t find anything. he never made me come.” your eyes widened as you realized what you’d said. you buried your face in a pillow as heat rushed to your cheeks. “oh my god. you didn’t hear that.”
you could hear him struggling to fight another laugh. “sounds like you dodged a bullet.”
you nodded as you slowly peeled the pillow off your face. “yep.”
he fidgeted next to you. “so, what, you’re going to the olympics hoping to pick up a very sexy local? i bet the bachelors of milan make great lasagna.”
you groaned. “no. i don’t even know what i’m looking for. i don’t want another asshole boyfriend, but i also don’t want to just hook up with some italian guy. that sounds like a pr crisis waiting to happen.” you frowned. “maybe i should find another athlete. it’d be a good way to relax or blow off steam, and i can probably trust him to keep his mouth shut. what happens in the village stays in the village, right?”
“yeah, whatever,” he said thinly. “can we watch the movie now?”
your face felt hot. “oh, yeah. sorry for rambling about my miserable sex life and my nonexistent love life.” you pressed play on your laptop and laid down near him, mentally congratulating yourself for making it awkward.
a few minutes into the movie, he slid his arm around you. you curled up against him, relieved that some of the tension was dissipating. you loved hanging out with him, and you didn’t want to screw up your friendship over a few stupid comments.
he tucked your head under his chin, and your heart skipped a beat. “your hair smells nice,” he said. “did you get a different shampoo?”
you smiled nervously and fidgeted with the hem of your oversized shirt, suddenly very aware that you were wearing your pajamas: an old band shirt and loose shorts that barely touched your midthigh. “yeah, tsa-approved green apple.”
he laughed quietly. you tried to turn your attention back to the movie, but you couldn’t focus. for some reason, talking about your unimpressive romantic history had made you antsy. it shouldn’t have mattered. you were way past mooning over him.
you convinced yourself to think about your recent skates instead, which brought a crease to your brow. your short program had been very good, even by your high standards. there were details to nitpick, of course, like your lutz edge, but you were generally pleased. your free skate, however, had been less than ideal. you had still managed to place second overall, but it was not nearly as clean as you would have liked.
ilia cleared his throat. “you know, if you think any louder, i might be able to hear you.”
you groaned. “sorry. even after a competition, i guess i still manage to overthink everything.” you fidgeted slightly. “i’m still thinking about the combo i barely landed. i still can’t figure out how that was an acceptable double axel. i definitely underroatated it.”
he smiled softly. “it’s okay. my last combo left something to be desired. but i meant what i said earlier. you skated well.”
you felt heat rush to your cheeks. “thanks.” you risked a glance at him, and he grinned when you looked away quickly.
he gently poked your side. “be honest. if i weren’t here, would you be trying to rewatch footage and nitpick?”
“no,” you said honestly. he raised his eyebrows, and you sighed. “amber made me promise not to before nationals even started. apparently, post-skate analysis makes me tense.”
he laughed. “of course she did.” he fidgeted suddenly. “you’re tense right now.”
you sighed again and stared at the laptop screen. “well, i only have a month to nitpick my lutz edge and try to fix the axel combo, and i’m sitting here watching how to train your dragon and hoping your jumping prowess rubs off on me instead of doing something productive.” you smiled thinly. “i’m also missing that hypothetical hockey player fuck buddy, so i guess i’m a little tense.”
ilia wrinkled his nose. “a hockey player? really?”
you frowned at him. “do you have something against hockey players? not that it matters, since you’re not the one getting dicked down in our hypothetical situation here.”
he shook his head too quickly. “no, it’s…it’s nothing. forget it.”
you rolled your eyes and sat up. “ilia, if you’re about to tell me all of the hockey players have chlamydia or something, that’s very relevant information.”
he hesitated for the briefest moment, his eyes still fixed on the laptop, before he paused the movie and met your eyes. you were startled by the intensity in his gaze. “let me get this straight. you’re looking for a fuck buddy during the olympics, preferably an athlete, who isn’t going to run his mouth? and this is all in the name of stress relief, blowing off steam, et cetera?”
you groaned and flopped down on the bed, smashing a pillow over your face. “god, don’t say it like that!” you expected him to make a joke, but he stayed quiet. you peeked out from behind the pillow cautiously.
he gently tugged the pillow away from your face. “i’ll do it.”
you sat bolt upright as butterflies stupidly exploded in your stomach. “what?” of all the things he could’ve possibly said, that was the last one you were expecting to hear. he wanted to be your fuck buddy? there were a million reasons why that was a terrible idea, chief among them the way his words had made heat pool between your thighs.
his cheeks turned red. “nope, never mind. forget i said anything.” he clicked play on the movie and started to turn away from you.
you slammed the laptop shut. “no, you don’t get to say that and just take it back.” a twinge of fear poked your heart. “wait, were you making fun of me?”
“no!” he looked offended by your suggestion.
you raised your eyebrows. “well, by all means, explain yourself.”
he groaned and picked at a loose thread on the bedspread. “i don’t know. it seemed like the obvious solution and a totally harmless proposition. you wouldn’t have to worry about me running my mouth or anything. we already know each other, so you’d get to skip the awkwardness of meeting someone and explaining what you want. we could just stay friends, but i’ll…help you out when you need it. if you need it. if you want.”
you swallowed hard and ignored the shiver threatening to race up your spine. “so, we’d be friends with benefits?”
he looked at you sheepishly. “i mean, yeah. i guess.”
you bit your lip. “obviously, we’d have to lay out some ground rules.”
his eyebrows shot up. he clearly hadn’t expected you to consider his offer, never mind take him up on it. “uh, yeah. right. ground rules.”
“rule one,” you said, “is this stays between us. no telling max or torgs or misha.”
“no telling amber or alysa or isabeau,” he countered. “agreed.”
“rule two: no kissing.”
he frowned. “you want to hook up, but you don’t want me to kiss you?”
for some stupid reason, heat rushed to your cheeks. “not on the lips!” you glared at the bedspread. “that’s romance territory. this isn’t romance.”
he sighed. “fine, no kissing on the lips, and no romance. but i can kiss you anywhere that isn’t your mouth?”
if your face was hot earlier, it was now contributing to glacial melting. “uh, yeah,” you said, trying desperately to force your voice to stay level. “sure. i mean, if you want.”
he smirked. “okay, what’s rule three?”
“no seeing other people?” you suggested. you winced. were you being too strict? “or, if you want to, at least tell me first so i don’t look like a total idiot?”
he nodded firmly. “no seeing other people. we’re exclusive.”
“and no staying the night,” you added. “it’s too mushy.”
he groaned. “we’ve fallen asleep watching movies together more times than i can count. what’s the difference?”
“there’s a huge difference,” you protested. “staying the night is, like, the gateway to cuddles and catching feelings!” you snickered. “besides, we’re always sharing rooms with other people. do you want amber to see your ass?”
he cringed. “uh, not particularly.” he sighed. “i don’t see why it can’t just be platonic like always, but if you really want me to not spend the night anymore, that’s fine.”
something about hearing him say that made you sad. you didn’t know why, because of course all of your time spent together was platonic. you were friends, and that wasn’t supposed to change. “no, you’re right. platonic sleepovers and cuddles, but no catching feelings.” you pursed your lips. “that won’t be hard.” because you’re over him.
he laughed. “ouch, okay.”
you force a laugh. “so, just keep it…fun and casual? i don’t know.” you bit your lip. “i don’t really do fun and casual.”
“hey,” he said, “i meant what i said earlier. you’re fun. i really do like hanging out with you. okay?”
you smiled softly and ignored the warm feeling filling your chest. “okay.”
ilia grinned. “great. anything else?”
you shook your head sheepishly. “i’m sure i’ll come up with something later?”
he smirked. “i’m sure you will.” he offered you his hand to shake; your mouth went dry when his skin touched yours. “okay, we have a deal.”
“yeah,” you said, very aware of how shaky your voice sounded.
“you know,” he said gently, “we don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.”
you bit your lip. “no, i want to. i just…don’t really do things like this often. if ever.”
he smiled. “well, let’s fix that.” he slid his warm hand up your inner thigh and toyed with the hem of your shorts. “let me know if you want me to stop, okay?” you nodded, unsure if you could properly form words. all the technical talking had sucked some of the tension out of the room, but you were fighting the urge to clench your thighs together now.
you laid back against the pillows as he gently slid your shorts off. you fidgeted with the hem of your shirt as he crawled between your legs and started to nip and kiss your inner thighs. “uh, no marks where the costumes won’t cover,” you said suddenly. “i don’t want to explain a bunch of hickies.”
he smirked. “too bad. i’d enjoy watching you try.”
you glared at him. “you talk a lot for someone who’s supposed to be using his mouth for something else.”
he rolled his eyes. “god, bossy much?”
“well, if you would just–oh–oh–”
he cut you off by gently pressing his thumb to your clit through your underwear, which was embarrassingly damp. “hm? what was that?”
“oh, fuck off,” you whined.
he grinned at you cheekily and caught the waistband of your underwear in his teeth so he could pull them off you. you tried to roll your eyes, but you were so turned on it wasn’t very convincing. he snickered. “does sassing me get you off? that’s hot.”
whatever reply you were about to send his way vacated your brain when he hitched your thighs over his shoulders and ran his tongue over your clit. a whimper escaped your lips as you ran your fingers through his hair. “oh, fuck.”
he hummed in approval, sending waves of pleasure vibrating through your core. he slid his tongue through your folds, his nose nudging your clit as he moaned. “you taste so good.”
you didn’t have a word for what he was doing with his mouth. any coherent thoughts you may have had vanished, replaced with the desperate urge for more. as if he knew exactly what you wanted, ilia started tracing a pattern on your clit; you tugged on his hair and fought the urge to clamp your thighs around his head. heat began to build in your core as you realized that he was grinding against the mattress.
when he suddenly wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked hard, you couldn’t stop yourself from moaning. heat rushed to your face as you fumbled around with both hands for a pillow to clamp over your mouth. he pulled back for a moment, his eyes still fixed on your soaked pussy. “no need for that. everyone else went out.”
the sounds his mouth was making were obscene, and you hoped nobody came back early, because they would definitely be able to hear what was going on. he didn’t even wait for you to acknowledge what he’d said before he dove back in. you whimpered as he worked his tongue inside of you, curling it sinfully.
“fuck,” you whined. “ilia, i’m–ah! i’m gonna come.” he moaned loudly and worked faster. your legs shook as he held them over his shoulders, and you threw your head back when he sucked your clit into his mouth. you cried out as you finally fell apart, gushing all over his tongue. “fuck, fuck, fuck!”
you’re quite sure you saw stars on the hotel ceiling. nobody had ever made you feel like that before. you’d give him a five for goe.
he slowly ran his tongue through your folds a few more times, smirking when you trembled from the oversensitivity. eventually, he glanced up at you innocently. he looked obscene and beautiful with his hair all messy and your slick coating his nose, lips, and chin. the pupils of his eyes were blown so wide that you could barely see the cold blue of his irises. “was that good?”
you laughed softly, your thighs still shaking. “please don’t make me answer that.”
he grinned. “i’ll take that as a yes.” he swiped his fingers along his chin and licked them off. “you know, you look considerably less tense.”
you were too blissed out to deny it and instead looked up at him. “do you want me to, you know, help you out?”
his cheeks pinked. “uh, not necessary.”
“okay, that’s hot.” lingering sparks of arousal settled in your core as you sat up and stretched.
he shrugged and stood up. “what can i say? i like eating pussy.” he offered you his hand, and you took it without hesitating, though you were unsure where you were going. to your surprise, he led you to the bathroom. you leaned against him as he gently cleaned you up with a warm cloth, briefly closing your eyes. was all of this going to be a regular part of your competition schedule now? you’d like that.
once he’d straightened himself out, he led you back to the bed and helped you get dressed. you curled up at his side, feeling perfectly at ease.
suddenly, you realized that you were getting dangerously close to cuddles that didn't feel quite as platonic as usual. you sat up and forced a smile. “should we finish how to train your dragon?”
ilia nodded quickly. “uh, yeah.” he sat up and pressed play on the movie. you hesitated for a moment then leaned against him. he immediately put his arm around you, just like he’d done when you’d started the movie. “is this okay?”
something warm fizzled in your chest as you tucked your head under his chin. “yeah.”
this wouldn’t mess anything up. you could still be friends, even while hooking up and trying to win olympic gold. right?
did you know that there's a tunnel under ocean boulevard
[prologue]
author's note: i haven't written in a long time. let me know if this is worth continuing. explicit content ahead. comments, reblogs, and feedback would be greatly appreciated.
word count: 3.9k
u.s. figure skating championships, 2026
“you’re sure you don’t want to come?” amber asked. “or i can stay with you, if you want.”
you shook your head. “thanks, but i’m sure. i’d rather have a quiet night rewatching some movie i’ve seen a thousand times.” you smiled and stretched across your hotel bed. “go have fun. you deserve it.”
she smiled. “alright, if you’re sure. but call me if you get bored or lonely, okay?”
“i promise,” you said, waving. as she opened the door to your shared room, you grinned. “hey, amber?”
she turned. “yeah?”
“we’re olympians.” she laughed as you shook your head. “sorry, i had to say it again. it still doesn’t feel real.”
she smiled softly. “it doesn’t feel real to me, either. not yet, anyway.”
you hesitated for a second then slid off the bed and ran over to hug her for what felt like the thousandth time that evening. “sorry,” you said sheepishly as you pulled away.
“no,” she said sternly. “you don’t get to apologize for being happy.” she grasped your shoulders. “you just turned in a fantastic short program and great free skate. you’re the national silver medalist, and you’re going to have so much fun when you compete at the fucking olympics in a month.”
you grinned. “says my fellow olympian and the national champion of skating and pep talks.” she laughed and hugged you again. “oh, and hugs. and fun, unless i keep you here for the rest of the night.”
she squeezed you one last time. “if you’re asleep when i get back, i’ll try not to wake you.”
“i don’t know how i’m expected to get any sleep over the next month,” you said dryly, “but i suppose i should try.”
she laughed. “you do that. sleep is important.”
you waved as she headed out then flopped back down on your bed with a goofy grin. as of a few hours ago, you’re officially part of team usa. just because you’d dreamed of it as a little girl didn’t mean you’d thought it would ever actually happen. you pulled out your phone and scrolled through social media, still unable to believe the photos and headlines.
blade angels headed to milan. is the 24-year wait over? is gold in the cards for team usa?
suddenly, a knock sounded at your door. you frowned and stood up. “amber, did you forget your–” your eyes widened as you opened the door. “oh! hi, ilia.”
ilia smiled crookedly. “hi.” you stared at him for a moment before he cleared his throat. “uh, sorry for, you know, showing up unannounced, but amber said you were staying in?”
you fidgeted with the room service tag on the back of the door. “yeah, i am. i’m not exactly a fun time where karaoke is concerned. or any kind of going out, really.”
he laughed. “oh, come on. you’re fun.”
“unless your idea of a good time is rewatching a movie and going to bed early, which i doubt it is, i don’t think i’ll medal in fun,” you said dryly. “congratulations, by the way. you know, on winning. i think i said it earlier, but there were so many people around that it didn't really count.”
he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “thanks. you skated really well, by the way.” you could’ve sworn his cheeks turned slightly pink, but he cleared his throat before you could give the matter much thought. “also, i happen to consider rewatching movies and getting some well-earned beauty rest a very good time. why else would i make an appearance after every competition?”
“because you pity me and my lack of a social life?” you rolled your eyes teasingly. “alright, come on.”
he grinned as he followed you into your room, shutting the door carefully. “what’re we watching?”
you shrugged and sat on your bed, gesturing to your laptop. “pick whatever you want.” he whooped in delight and flopped down next to you, eagerly scrolling through the choices. you watched him, smiling softly.
you’d met ilia about seven years ago, but you’d really started talking to him right after the last olympic cycle. you’d spent a few months harboring a massive crush on him before he’d introduced you to his then-girlfriend. you’d handled it like the mature teenager you were and spent the night eating an entire pint of ice cream, binging a comfort show, and crying yourself to sleep. the next morning, you’d decided you were okay with just being his friend. now, you were over him, really. you loved being friends with ilia. he was an incredible skater, sure, but he was also a total dork. he refused to drink coffee or tea, hated waking up early, spammed you pictures of his cats, and always made you smile. he never forgot to wish you luck before you skated, and he cheered you up when programs didn’t go how you’d wanted. and now, he was spending his celebratory evening hanging out with you instead of going to karaoke with everyone else. again. friends did things like that all the time, didn’t they?
“how to train your dragon,” he said with relish, dragging you out of your thoughts. “it’s a cinematic masterpiece.”
you laughed. “okay.”
his eyes widened. “okay? what do you mean, okay?”
you poked him in the side, smirking playfully when he squirmed. “i mean, whatever you say. your animated dragon movie is a classic, but cinematic masterpiece might be taking it too far.”
he gasped dramatically. “you wound me.”
you laughed. “aren’t they making some olympics ad for you with toothless now?” you’d heard him talking about the possibility a few days ago.
his cheeks turned red. “uh, yeah, actually.”
you laughed and leaned against him, ignoring the way the contact made your heart skip a beat. “so, you’ll be petting a giant green mechanical arm that’ll become a cgi dragon.”
“shut up,” he groaned. “i love toothless.”
you raised your eyebrows and pointed to the toothless shirt he was currently sporting. you were somewhat surprised that he had decided to pair it with snoopy pajama pants and minecraft socks instead of more how to train your dragon merch. “believe me, i am well aware. besides, most of your tossies are toothless.”
he turned to you, fighting a smile. “i actually brought one of them with me. he’s huge, so he’s great to sleep on during flights.”
you snickered. “of course you did.”
he shrugged. “he’s cozier than your boyfriend ever was.” the mention of your now-ex-boyfriend made you scowl. ilia winced. “sorry. i shouldn’t have said that.”
“don’t be,” you said flatly. “it’s his own fault he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.”
his eyes widened as he sat bolt upright. “wait, what? i thought you said you broke up with him because long-distance wasn’t working!”
you groaned. “well, it wasn’t. in addition to refusing to let me sleep on him on the very rare occasion that we were on an airplane together, he always forgot to watch me skate, never called, said i spent more time with the rink than him, and refused to come to competitions. oh, except the one he spent hitting on isabeau, who is way out of his league.”
he didn’t say anything for a moment, so you glanced at him. to your surprise, he looked…sad? “you didn’t deserve to be treated like that,” he said quietly.
something warm and unfamiliar settled in your chest. you didn’t know what to say, so you smiled awkwardly. “well, he was also terrible in bed, so i actually pity the girl he cheated on me with.”
ilia laughed. “that’s not a surprise. you looked irritated the morning after the one competition he showed up to.”
you glared at the ceiling. “he didn’t believe in foreplay and couldn’t find anything. he never made me come.” your eyes widened as you realized what you’d said. you buried your face in a pillow as heat rushed to your cheeks. “oh my god. you didn’t hear that.”
you could hear him struggling to fight another laugh. “sounds like you dodged a bullet.”
you nodded as you slowly peeled the pillow off your face. “yep.”
he fidgeted next to you. “so, what, you’re going to the olympics hoping to pick up a very sexy local? i bet the bachelors of milan make great lasagna.”
you groaned. “no. i don’t even know what i’m looking for. i don’t want another asshole boyfriend, but i also don’t want to just hook up with some italian guy. that sounds like a pr crisis waiting to happen.” you frowned. “maybe i should find another athlete. it’d be a good way to relax or blow off steam, and i can probably trust him to keep his mouth shut. what happens in the village stays in the village, right?”
“yeah, whatever,” he said thinly. “can we watch the movie now?”
your face felt hot. “oh, yeah. sorry for rambling about my miserable sex life and my nonexistent love life.” you pressed play on your laptop and laid down near him, mentally congratulating yourself for making it awkward.
a few minutes into the movie, he slid his arm around you. you curled up against him, relieved that some of the tension was dissipating. you loved hanging out with him, and you didn’t want to screw up your friendship over a few stupid comments.
he tucked your head under his chin, and your heart skipped a beat. “your hair smells nice,” he said. “did you get a different shampoo?”
you smiled nervously and fidgeted with the hem of your oversized shirt, suddenly very aware that you were wearing your pajamas: an old band shirt and loose shorts that barely touched your midthigh. “yeah, tsa-approved green apple.”
he laughed quietly. you tried to turn your attention back to the movie, but you couldn’t focus. for some reason, talking about your unimpressive romantic history had made you antsy. it shouldn’t have mattered. you were way past mooning over him.
you convinced yourself to think about your recent skates instead, which brought a crease to your brow. your short program had been very good, even by your high standards. there were details to nitpick, of course, like your lutz edge, but you were generally pleased. your free skate, however, had been less than ideal. you had still managed to place second overall, but it was not nearly as clean as you would have liked.
ilia cleared his throat. “you know, if you think any louder, i might be able to hear you.”
you groaned. “sorry. even after a competition, i guess i still manage to overthink everything.” you fidgeted slightly. “i’m still thinking about the combo i barely landed. i still can’t figure out how that was an acceptable double axel. i definitely underroatated it.”
he smiled softly. “it’s okay. my last combo left something to be desired. but i meant what i said earlier. you skated well.”
you felt heat rush to your cheeks. “thanks.” you risked a glance at him, and he grinned when you looked away quickly.
he gently poked your side. “be honest. if i weren’t here, would you be trying to rewatch footage and nitpick?”
“no,” you said honestly. he raised his eyebrows, and you sighed. “amber made me promise not to before nationals even started. apparently, post-skate analysis makes me tense.”
he laughed. “of course she did.” he fidgeted suddenly. “you’re tense right now.”
you sighed again and stared at the laptop screen. “well, i only have a month to nitpick my lutz edge and try to fix the axel combo, and i’m sitting here watching how to train your dragon and hoping your jumping prowess rubs off on me instead of doing something productive.” you smiled thinly. “i’m also missing that hypothetical hockey player fuck buddy, so i guess i’m a little tense.”
ilia wrinkled his nose. “a hockey player? really?”
you frowned at him. “do you have something against hockey players? not that it matters, since you’re not the one getting dicked down in our hypothetical situation here.”
he shook his head too quickly. “no, it’s…it’s nothing. forget it.”
you rolled your eyes and sat up. “ilia, if you’re about to tell me all of the hockey players have chlamydia or something, that’s very relevant information.”
he hesitated for the briefest moment, his eyes still fixed on the laptop, before he paused the movie and met your eyes. you were startled by the intensity in his gaze. “let me get this straight. you’re looking for a fuck buddy during the olympics, preferably an athlete, who isn’t going to run his mouth? and this is all in the name of stress relief, blowing off steam, et cetera?”
you groaned and flopped down on the bed, smashing a pillow over your face. “god, don’t say it like that!” you expected him to make a joke, but he stayed quiet. you peeked out from behind the pillow cautiously.
he gently tugged the pillow away from your face. “i’ll do it.”
you sat bolt upright as butterflies stupidly exploded in your stomach. “what?” of all the things he could’ve possibly said, that was the last one you were expecting to hear. he wanted to be your fuck buddy? there were a million reasons why that was a terrible idea, chief among them the way his words had made heat pool between your thighs.
his cheeks turned red. “nope, never mind. forget i said anything.” he clicked play on the movie and started to turn away from you.
you slammed the laptop shut. “no, you don’t get to say that and just take it back.” a twinge of fear poked your heart. “wait, were you making fun of me?”
“no!” he looked offended by your suggestion.
you raised your eyebrows. “well, by all means, explain yourself.”
he groaned and picked at a loose thread on the bedspread. “i don’t know. it seemed like the obvious solution and a totally harmless proposition. you wouldn’t have to worry about me running my mouth or anything. we already know each other, so you’d get to skip the awkwardness of meeting someone and explaining what you want. we could just stay friends, but i’ll…help you out when you need it. if you need it. if you want.”
you swallowed hard and ignored the shiver threatening to race up your spine. “so, we’d be friends with benefits?”
he looked at you sheepishly. “i mean, yeah. i guess.”
you bit your lip. “obviously, we’d have to lay out some ground rules.”
his eyebrows shot up. he clearly hadn’t expected you to consider his offer, never mind take him up on it. “uh, yeah. right. ground rules.”
“rule one,” you said, “is this stays between us. no telling max or torgs or misha.”
“no telling amber or alysa or isabeau,” he countered. “agreed.”
“rule two: no kissing.”
he frowned. “you want to hook up, but you don’t want me to kiss you?”
for some stupid reason, heat rushed to your cheeks. “not on the lips!” you glared at the bedspread. “that’s romance territory. this isn’t romance.”
he sighed. “fine, no kissing on the lips, and no romance. but i can kiss you anywhere that isn’t your mouth?”
if your face was hot earlier, it was now contributing to glacial melting. “uh, yeah,” you said, trying desperately to force your voice to stay level. “sure. i mean, if you want.”
he smirked. “okay, what’s rule three?”
“no seeing other people?” you suggested. you winced. were you being too strict? “or, if you want to, at least tell me first so i don’t look like a total idiot?”
he nodded firmly. “no seeing other people. we’re exclusive.”
“and no staying the night,” you added. “it’s too mushy.”
he groaned. “we’ve fallen asleep watching movies together more times than i can count. what’s the difference?”
“there’s a huge difference,” you protested. “staying the night is, like, the gateway to cuddles and catching feelings!” you snickered. “besides, we’re always sharing rooms with other people. do you want amber to see your ass?”
he cringed. “uh, not particularly.” he sighed. “i don’t see why it can’t just be platonic like always, but if you really want me to not spend the night anymore, that’s fine.”
something about hearing him say that made you sad. you didn’t know why, because of course all of your time spent together was platonic. you were friends, and that wasn’t supposed to change. “no, you’re right. platonic sleepovers and cuddles, but no catching feelings.” you pursed your lips. “that won’t be hard.” because you’re over him.
he laughed. “ouch, okay.”
you force a laugh. “so, just keep it…fun and casual? i don’t know.” you bit your lip. “i don’t really do fun and casual.”
“hey,” he said, “i meant what i said earlier. you’re fun. i really do like hanging out with you. okay?”
you smiled softly and ignored the warm feeling filling your chest. “okay.”
ilia grinned. “great. anything else?”
you shook your head sheepishly. “i’m sure i’ll come up with something later?”
he smirked. “i’m sure you will.” he offered you his hand to shake; your mouth went dry when his skin touched yours. “okay, we have a deal.”
“yeah,” you said, very aware of how shaky your voice sounded.
“you know,” he said gently, “we don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.”
you bit your lip. “no, i want to. i just…don’t really do things like this often. if ever.”
he smiled. “well, let’s fix that.” he slid his warm hand up your inner thigh and toyed with the hem of your shorts. “let me know if you want me to stop, okay?” you nodded, unsure if you could properly form words. all the technical talking had sucked some of the tension out of the room, but you were fighting the urge to clench your thighs together now.
you laid back against the pillows as he gently slid your shorts off. you fidgeted with the hem of your shirt as he crawled between your legs and started to nip and kiss your inner thighs. “uh, no marks where the costumes won’t cover,” you said suddenly. “i don’t want to explain a bunch of hickies.”
he smirked. “too bad. i’d enjoy watching you try.”
you glared at him. “you talk a lot for someone who’s supposed to be using his mouth for something else.”
he rolled his eyes. “god, bossy much?”
“well, if you would just–oh–oh–”
he cut you off by gently pressing his thumb to your clit through your underwear, which was embarrassingly damp. “hm? what was that?”
“oh, fuck off,” you whined.
he grinned at you cheekily and caught the waistband of your underwear in his teeth so he could pull them off you. you tried to roll your eyes, but you were so turned on it wasn’t very convincing. he snickered. “does sassing me get you off? that’s hot.”
whatever reply you were about to send his way vacated your brain when he hitched your thighs over his shoulders and ran his tongue over your clit. a whimper escaped your lips as you ran your fingers through his hair. “oh, fuck.”
he hummed in approval, sending waves of pleasure vibrating through your core. he slid his tongue through your folds, his nose nudging your clit as he moaned. “you taste so good.”
you didn’t have a word for what he was doing with his mouth. any coherent thoughts you may have had vanished, replaced with the desperate urge for more. as if he knew exactly what you wanted, ilia started tracing a pattern on your clit; you tugged on his hair and fought the urge to clamp your thighs around his head. heat began to build in your core as you realized that he was grinding against the mattress.
when he suddenly wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked hard, you couldn’t stop yourself from moaning. heat rushed to your face as you fumbled around with both hands for a pillow to clamp over your mouth. he pulled back for a moment, his eyes still fixed on your soaked pussy. “no need for that. everyone else went out.”
the sounds his mouth was making were obscene, and you hoped nobody came back early, because they would definitely be able to hear what was going on. he didn’t even wait for you to acknowledge what he’d said before he dove back in. you whimpered as he worked his tongue inside of you, curling it sinfully.
“fuck,” you whined. “ilia, i’m–ah! i’m gonna come.” he moaned loudly and worked faster. your legs shook as he held them over his shoulders, and you threw your head back when he sucked your clit into his mouth. you cried out as you finally fell apart, gushing all over his tongue. “fuck, fuck, fuck!”
you’re quite sure you saw stars on the hotel ceiling. nobody had ever made you feel like that before. you’d give him a five for goe.
he slowly ran his tongue through your folds a few more times, smirking when you trembled from the oversensitivity. eventually, he glanced up at you innocently. he looked obscene and beautiful with his hair all messy and your slick coating his nose, lips, and chin. the pupils of his eyes were blown so wide that you could barely see the cold blue of his irises. “was that good?”
you laughed softly, your thighs still shaking. “please don’t make me answer that.”
he grinned. “i’ll take that as a yes.” he swiped his fingers along his chin and licked them off. “you know, you look considerably less tense.”
you were too blissed out to deny it and instead looked up at him. “do you want me to, you know, help you out?”
his cheeks pinked. “uh, not necessary.”
“okay, that’s hot.” lingering sparks of arousal settled in your core as you sat up and stretched.
he shrugged and stood up. “what can i say? i like eating pussy.” he offered you his hand, and you took it without hesitating, though you were unsure where you were going. to your surprise, he led you to the bathroom. you leaned against him as he gently cleaned you up with a warm cloth, briefly closing your eyes. was all of this going to be a regular part of your competition schedule now? you’d like that.
once he’d straightened himself out, he led you back to the bed and helped you get dressed. you curled up at his side, feeling perfectly at ease.
suddenly, you realized that you were getting dangerously close to cuddles that didn't feel quite as platonic as usual. you sat up and forced a smile. “should we finish how to train your dragon?”
ilia nodded quickly. “uh, yeah.” he sat up and pressed play on the movie. you hesitated for a moment then leaned against him. he immediately put his arm around you, just like he’d done when you’d started the movie. “is this okay?”
something warm fizzled in your chest as you tucked your head under his chin. “yeah.”
this wouldn’t mess anything up. you could still be friends, even while hooking up and trying to win olympic gold. right?
summary: For as long as she can remember, it always started with him—the boy next door and her brother’s best friend. Over the years, an innocent childhood crush became a habit, a secret she got used to keeping to herself as she stayed stuck in the role of the nerdy little sister. Now that summer has arrived, things are finally beginning to melt under the heat—and it might just turn cruel.
word count: 9,1k
author’s note: enjoy.. ;) ! english is not my first language, so I hope you keep that in mind! any feedback, questions, writing tips, and criticism will be greatly appreciated! this chapter contains sexual content, MDNI
The sun is spilling through the room when the familiar noises wake you up.
It’s Dusty gnawing at the door of her cage, high squeaks piercing the quiet room. Ilia is laying on his stomach next to you, his cheek squished against the pillow, his arm stretched out like he's searching for you. You don't realize it for a couple of seconds, shifting next to him and closing your eyes in hopes that Dusty will grow silent soon enough, but then it hits you. Your eyes widen. It's way past dawn and Ilia is still in your room, twisted in your sheets, peacefully sleeping next to you.
"Ilia," you whisper, leaning down to gently shake him, but it doesn't work. You glance at Dusty, who has grown even noisier after seeing you wake up, eager to get your attention. Looking at the door like Jace is about to burst in at any second, you swallow, shaking Ilia with a little more force. "Dammit, wake up!"
His eyes flutter open, his eyebrows knitting in confusion and his mouth slightly agape as he squints up at you. There are faint creases on his cheek, his lips are slightly fuller, and his blonde hair is all messy. The sight is so beautiful that it makes your chest tighten.
"What's wrong?" he mumbles in a groggy voice, laying his head back on the pillow so softly that you can't even find it in yourself to scold him. His eyes snap shut tight again. "It's so early."
"You promised to go back to your room."
"But your bed is so comfy," he sighs, rolling over onto his back and rubbing his eyes. He looks up at you, realizing from your tone that it's serious. "Actually, I've always wanted to sleep in it. It's so soft and cozy. And the sheets smell so nice."
"It's not the sheets. It's the Victoria's Secret body mist."
"So it's you," he grins, sitting up as he extends his arms to trap you in a hug. You push him off with a smile, trying to maintain a strict expression.
"Go back to your room."
"It's a Sunday morning and Jace usually sleeps until, what, 1 p.m. or 2 p.m.?"
"It's not a risk I'm willing to take."
"Fine," he exhales, pursing his lips as he gets up. He glances at Dusty, who has grown quieter, her curious eyes fixed on the two of you. Her tiny hands are clutching the bars, her expression so innocent and sad that it softens you. You crouch down to finally take her out. "Aww, Dusty… Wait, don't let her out yet!"
His voice rises, but it's way too late. She's already out, your fingers dug into her soft fur as you gently scratch her. You turn toward him, a playful smile dancing on your lips as you pad over.
"Don't you wanna pet her?"
"Wasn't I supposed to leave?" he tries to joke.
You roll your eyes at his defensiveness. It's been years and he still isn't used to Dusty's company, which is a bit annoying. "Overcome your fear and hold her."
"I do not fear her," he insists, but the tone of his voice and the reluctant way he caresses her fur say the exact opposite. You nudge her into his hands and he almost drops her, his hands shaking. Surprisingly, Dusty doesn't try to wriggle free from his touch. "She feels so… warm."
"Isn't she cute?"
"Very much," he grins, cradling her in his arms like she's one of his cats. "Just like the owner."
Then, he proceeds to smack a loud kiss onto your cheek, the heat rushing to your face at the innocent affection. You make him let Dusty go, gently pushing him out of your room while promising him that you'll meet him down in the kitchen for breakfast.
As you start making your bed, you spot a crumpled tissue laying on the nightstand. A stupid smile plasters itself across your face as you recall the night before, a familiar, electric feeling settling deep in your stomach.
"Did you get back with your ex?"
"Ew, no."
"Then what has gotten you giggling like that?"
You squint at Allie, who is spinning in her chair, an almost stupid smile plastered on her face as she types out a response on her phone, her nails clinking against the screen. She’s never been much of a texter—especially not someone whose face lights up with every single notification—until recently. It makes you wonder if it has something to do with a boy, because in your experience, it always does.
"No one."
Her face suddenly turns serious, locking her phone as she straightens her spine. You don't press her, because you don't like it either when you're texting Ilia and others bring up your stupidly excited face. So far, only Ziggy and Cam know the truth, and you would've told Allie too if she didn't have a habit of speaking before thinking.
"Mhm, sure." You give her a teasing smile, your eyes snapping back to your phone as you feel her staring at you. A few seconds pass before she exhales, shaking her head. You stare up at her in confusion.
"Girl, fuck you," she rolls her eyes at you, taking you aback with her sudden outburst. "Acting like you've not been sneaking around with your brother's best friend."
"What the hell, Allie?!" You look around with a horrified expression, getting up from the floor and spinning her chair around so she's forced to face you. "Are you insane?"
"Me and the people on X, right?" She gives you an annoyed expression, referring to the discussion that's been going on Twitter for the last few days.
You hadn't intended it, but when you streamed on Twitch with Ilia, you ended up wearing that blue t-shirt that belonged to him. Never in a million years would you have expected the fans to dig up old pictures of him, realizing that the t-shirt you were wearing was the exact same as his. It was enough to spark a discussion, along with compilations of snippets from the stream where fans claimed it was a soft-launch. You'd be lying if you said the implications didn't flatter you.
"Oh wow, you don't even try to hide it anymore," she rolls her eyes once again, slapping your hand away when you try to tug on her braid. "Although I gotta say, I'm disappointed you didn't tell me sooner. You don't trust me?"
"Of course I do!"
"Then why didn't you tell me?!"
"Because you have a habit of speaking before thinking!" You slap a hand over her mouth, forcing her to shut up before the whole cafe hears about your secret affair. "Might as well take a mic and announce it publicly!"
She licks your palm. Your expression turns disgusted as you pull your hand away, quickly washing it under the tap water. Allie looks incredibly content with the outcome, her expression smug now that she has finally made you admit your secret out loud.
"Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're gloating," you huff, wiping your wet hands on your apron. "It's your turn to spill."
"I'm not in love like you," she waves it off, trying to pass it off as something casual. But even if she insists otherwise, you know the look on her face and the change in her behavior. She's falling for someone.
It's 10 p.m. when Jace picks you up. It's raining nonstop as he drags your bike into the trunk, asking about Allie's absence. She had to leave fifteen minutes earlier to catch a ride from a friend, leaving Jace slightly disappointed that he didn't get a chance to flirt with one of your friends again.
It's evening when you get back home after going to the movies with Allie. You're not surprised to find Jace and his friends hanging out in the living room, Ilia having texted you prior that he would be coming over along with them. The table is cluttered with empty beer cans and snack packages, making you internally roll your eyes at their inability to clean up after themselves before they start playing.
Josh is the first one to notice you. He waves, a bright smile plastered on his face as he calls out your name. Out of all Jace's friends, he's your favorite.
Well, obviously after Ilia.
"Hey, everyone."
You smile at them, your eyes landing on Ilia just a fraction of a second longer than the others as his lips curl into a subtle smirk. Jace is too engrossed in the game to turn around and acknowledge you, playing Call of Duty on a television screen split into four squares. Ilia is the only one left out, harboring a dislike for the game just as you do.
"Ew," you can't help yourself, your face twisting into a disgusted expression. "Why do you all keep playing it? The latest versions suck."
"Says a girl who plays Valorant," Max chuckles, rolling his eyes. "You don't like it because it's harder."
You snort, a genuine laugh spilling out of your mouth, mirrored by the others—excluding Max himself.
"Bro, everyone who has played both games knows that COD is so much easier."
"Yeah! Like, in Valorant, you move a millimeter while shooting and your bullets end up in a different zip code," Josh chimes in, agreeing with his twin, Jack.
Jack glances at you from time to time with a weird expression you can't quite decipher. You refuse to look back at him, his comment from a month ago still leaving a bitter taste in your mouth.
Jace yells at the screen, entirely on your side. "Yeah, my sister would clear you out in COD and she has barely even played it, you stupid shit."
"I'd like to see her try," Max challenges.
"Yeah, no thanks," you snort at him.
You turn to head up the stairs, planning to feed Dusty before Cam and Ziggy call. Tonight, the chances are high that you can finally rank up, and excitement bubbles up in your chest at the mere possibility. You reach the top of the stairs, stopping briefly to reply to Allie, when you hear Jace's voice break through the noise of the game, the sharp edge of annoyance instantly clear.
"Did you just stare at my sister's ass?"
You freeze. Your eyes widen in pure panic as you immediately imagine Ilia's horrified expression. Your palms go slick and sweaty against your phone as you lock the screen, but it's not Ilia's voice that replies.
"What?" Jack snorts, a defensive chuckle escaping his throat. "No, I didn't."
"Yes, you did. Your eyes followed her all the way up the stairs. Don't bullshit me."
"You're delusional, bro."
"I recognize that dirty look on your face," Jace's voice rises, his tone dead serious now. "Don't you dare try anything with her."
"Does that threat only apply to me?" Jack shoots back.
"What?" Jace’s voice sounds genuinely confused.
You grip the wooden staircase railing, unlike your brother acutely aware of exactly what Jack could be hinting at.
"You're the one ogling my sister," Jace snaps.
"Am I?"
"Bro, shut the fuck up and just own it," Josh intervenes, and you can practically picture him forcefully nudging his twin in the shoulder to shut him down.
"It applies to everyone in this room," Jace’s voice drops, cold and severe, sending a chill straight down your spine. You don't even want to imagine the look on Ilia's face right now. "She's off-limits. End of discussion."
No one dares to say another word. You stand frozen at the top of the landing for a full minute, physically unable to walk away, almost as if you're waiting for them to bring you up again. But the living room quickly and awkwardly changes the topic back to the game.
A moment later, Ilia loudly excuses himself to get a glass of water. Peeking through the banister, you catch the tense line of his jaw as he walks past the living room toward the kitchen. He doesn't look up, completely missing you standing there.
And later that night, long after the guys have gone home and you're laying in bed texting him in the dark, neither of you mentions a single word about it.
When Ilia sets off on his family cruise vacation, he leaves his cats with you. Since Jace is allergic to them—in the literal sense, not just because he’s a dog person—you have no choice but to temporarily evict Dusty to another part of the house. Instead, you help Ilia drag his cat tree into your room, setting up pillows and blankets to make them feel at home.
"Miu Miu usually likes to wake me up pretty early, so keep her out of the room if she starts doing that," Ilia explains, cradling Mila, the newest member of his quadcat family, in his arms. She is basically attached to him. Jace joked that it only took Ilia getting three cats for him to finally end up with one that didn’t hate him. "Mysti won't bother you. This little one might try to cuddle up to you, though."
"I feel like she's gonna be very sad when you leave."
"Yeah, please don't remind me," he exhales, pressing soft kisses onto Mila's head as she purrs warmly against his chest.
You smile at the sight, your heart threatening to burst with adoration. "You know, someone else is going to miss you, too."
"Yeah, I know," he smiles, his eyes subtly darting toward Mysti, who is already perched high up on the cat tree, staring out the window. "Secretly, she loves to cuddle me."
You look at him with a disappointed, raised eyebrow. Confusion washes over his face for a few seconds before the realization hits him, a wide grin breaking across his lips.
"I'm gonna miss you, too."
He leans in, placing soft kisses on your cheeks just like he did with Mila. The door is shut tight, and both of you know Jace has absolutely no interest in watching Ilia's cats settle into your room. You don't shy away from his touch, instead slipping your fingertips into his hair when his lips finally slide over yours.
"Make sure to send me pictures from the cruise."
"Of course," he looks at you like it's not even up for discussion. "I'll bore you with them."
"And make sure to put on sunscreen."
"Yes, ma'am."
Then, he has to leave, and you are left in the quiet company of his cats. You leave your bedroom door cracked open so they can wander out if they get bored, but Mysti and Miu Miu stay put on the tree, both of them fast asleep. Mila settles directly onto your stomach, her tiny body warm against yours. A comfortable drowsiness washes over you, and eventually, you close your eyes, too.
Ilia celebrates the 4th of July on the cruise, while you celebrate with your family at your dad's friend's house, leaving the gathering early with the excuse that you don't want to leave the animals alone at home for too long. Dusty has made herself comfortable in Jace's room, but she offers you even less affection than she rarely does anyway, your brother constantly joking that she's mad at you.
A week passes in a blur, and before you know it, he is back. He surprises you, picking you up after a late-night shift at the cafe. His nose is a little sunburnt, but overall he has kept his promise; the golden tan compliments his skin, almost shimmering under the dim streetlights.
"You look so good."
"So do you."
"My hair is a mess and I stink of coffee and cinnamon."
"I do find the smell comforting," he mumbles into your neck, pulling you flush against him one more time. "I brought you a present."
"From the cruise?"
You raise an eyebrow, following him to the car. He holds the door open for you, signaling for you to climb in as he carries your bike to store it in the trunk. You settle into the passenger seat that has gradually become yours, fixing your hair in the mirror in an attempt to look better for him—despite him already seeing you, and despite knowing that he doesn't care about a messy hair.
By the time he gets into the driver's seat, you have already texted your father that you're grabbing burgers with Allie, indicating that you will be home later than you usually are. Ilia stretches his hand toward the backseat and pulls out a thick book, the Sudoku grid illustration on the cover making you chuckle.
"You mentioned that you completed the one your father brought you."
"I did," you smile at him, leaning over to smack a loud kiss on his cheek to show your gratitude. "Thank you."
"Although Liza was a little suspicious that I was getting you a gift," he raises an eyebrow, exhaling at his sister's behavior like she’s giving him a hard time. "She said, and I quote, that I was being 'unusually generous.'"
"But you've brought me gifts before."
"Yeah, but I might've gotten you another gift, too," he grins, his smile on full display as your stomach basically flips upside down. "I guess two gifts is a bit suspicious."
"Aren't you gonna show me?"
"Won't you thank me first?"
"I already thanked you," you raise an eyebrow, anticipating exactly where this is going. "Wasn't it sufficient?"
"No, the second gift requires more than a kiss on the cheek."
You huff, rolling your eyes, but you still lean in. You capture his lips with yours as you close your eyes, hearing him sigh in pure bliss. His fingertips slip into your hair, and before you know it, you find yourself leaning over the center console. His hands grip your hips as you settle into his lap, his fingertips tracing your bare legs.
"I told my dad I was staying out with Allie," you breathe out, sweeping your eyes over his face as a small smirk turns up his lips. "We don't have to go back yet."
"Good. I wasn't planning to."
He kisses you again, harder this time, his fingers slipping beneath your shirt as his tongue slides into your mouth. It's all too much and still not enough. You want nothing more than to let him peel your clothes away when he cups your breast through your thin bra, but you're in the car. Even though the street is dead quiet, thinking of doing anything more here is insane.
"Ilia," you pull back, your chest heaving up and down. His mouth is glistening as he furrows his eyebrows, sensing the slight panic in your voice. You lick your lips, swallowing hard so you can even out your breath.
"What is it?"
"What's my second present?"
He stares at you for a fraction of a second, and then his face breaks out into a wide smile. He rolls his eyes, not even slightly mad about the interruption. You climb off his lap and slide back into your own seat, turning your whole body toward him so you can just stare at him as he talks about whatever comes to mind, simply because you've missed him so much.
"A couple of days ago my manager called me," he starts explaining, licking his lips as he drags out the words, giving you the impression that he's trying to gauge your reaction to whatever he’s about to say. "You know, after the Olympics, I've been getting quite a lot of offers."
"You just had to quickly brag about it, huh?"
"Absolutely," he grins. "And this one might be the best one I have ever received."
"Is it a Dior partnership?" Your eyes practically sparkle with excitement, shifting in your seat so you can lean in closer to him. "Is it a Calvin Klein ad?"
He bursts out laughing, shaking his head like you've said something impossible. "I don't think anyone wants to see me in a Calvin Klein ad."
"I do."
"Well, we can arrange something. You don't need Calvin Klein for that."
"Okay, now spill," you tug at his arm, completely impatient for the news. "What is it?!"
"I got invited to a movie premiere."
"Oh! Which one?"
"Spider-Man."
He says it like he’s testing the waters. It takes you a couple of seconds to process, and then your eyes widen, your mouth left slightly agape as he chuckles at your reaction.
"Oh my god."
"Yeah."
"Oh my god, you're gonna see Tom and Zendaya," you laugh, unable to control your excitement. "That's insane."
"We're gonna see Tom and Zendaya," he corrects gently, the playful smile on his lips turning incredibly soft.
You freeze, your breath catching in your throat as you stare at him.
"They said I can bring a plus-one," he says, his blue eyes holding yours with absolute certainty. "And of course I'm taking you with me."
For a moment, your heart beats so hard and fast it feels like it's bruising your ribs. A cold rush of panic and dizzying excitement sweeps through your veins, leaving your palms sweaty.
Sensing the silent shock taking over your body, Ilia reaches out and slides his fingers through yours, squeezing your hand tightly between his warm palms to ground you.
"Yeah," he whispers, his grin widening. "We're going to London."
"Shut up," you shake your head, tears instantly prickling the backs of your eyes. You squeeze your eyelids shut, refusing to let the words sink in because it feels like a dream you're about to wake up from. "No way. Ilia, don't joke."
"Yes way."
And then, even though you try not to, tears of pure excitement escape your eyes. He laughs softly, pulling you against his chest while you sob into his shirt, scolding him for making fun of you during a moment like this.
No one is surprised to learn that Ilia chose you to take to the premiere.
Jace is actually more excited about it than you are—having absolutely no clue what this three-day getaway in London could turn into behind his back.
In a week, you leave for London. Betty covers your shifts at the cafe without making a fuss, even though Allie is away on vacation, too. Jace is the one to drive you both to the airport, and he's the very first one to text you asking for updates every few hours.
You end up sharing a hotel room with Ilia, but even that doesn't come as a surprise to your brother. Jace instantly assumes that Ilia is the one sleeping on the couch. You silently agree with him, sharing a brief, knowing glance with Ilia as you both press your lips together to keep from laughing.
"It's so comfy," Ilia sighs, jumping onto the king-sized bed and burying his head in the pillows. He closes his eyes with a content groan. "Come here."
"Comfier than mine?"
"Come and find out."
The mattress dips beneath your weight as you climb onto it, settling next to him with a soft smile stretching across your face. He immediately slides his arm around you, pulling you flush against his chest as he drapes his leg over yours, anchoring you to him.
"What if we nap for a while?" he mumbles into your neck. "Then we can grab some breakfast and explore the city. Around evening, the stylists will come by so we can choose our looks, do the fittings, and get them tailored if needed."
"After ten hours of travel, of course I want to sleep."
"Good."
He nuzzles his head deeper into your shoulder, his arm locked securely around your waist as his fingers lace with yours. His breath falls softly against your skin. You close your eyes and finally let sleep take over—this time with no rush, no alarms, and not a single trace of worry in your bones.
People in London don't pay attention to you. In the busy crowd, you're able to hold his hand in public, kiss him on the streets, and just be together like you're meant to.
You end up choosing the black dress, the rhinestones adorning the structured corset sparkling under the lights. It matches his suit perfectly, and your breath hitches in your throat when you see him fully dressed for the first time.
Although it's not his first time walking a red carpet, he's not entirely used to the madness either. His palms are sweaty when he takes your hand and leads you toward the crowd. You're incredibly anxious, feeling so many eyes on you, feeling out of place in a glamorous lifestyle that everyone else seems to blend into so easily. But he squeezes your hand tightly and reassures you, his smile so comforting that it immediately eases your panic.
"And what if I kiss you right now?" he murmurs, his voice teasing, his eyes edged with a soft admiration as he gazes at you.
"Jace will gouge his eyes out when he sees the pictures."
"You're so beautiful, it's criminal not to do anything," he sighs, keeping his hand resting on your lower back. It's respectful and casual, but enough to show everyone that you've come together and you're with him. "I'm gonna backflip into misery."
You laugh, and then the photographers start shouting his name. You don't know which camera to look at, and for a whole thirty seconds you hold your breath and try to smile despite the panic fluttering inside, but his arm is secure around your waist and it's more than enough to ground you.
A sigh of relief leaves your lips when you finally walk into the lobby. It's free of flashing cameras and excited shouts, and people are already talking, sipping champagne as they chat away. Ilia is introduced to some people, and you stand beside him, awkwardly looking at them while they talk, occasionally answering whatever they happen to ask you too, though you don't have much to contribute to the conversation.
The spider-web-garnished cocktails catch your eye, and you instantly hurry over to try them, Ilia waiting to take a sip from your glass because he's convinced he won't like it.
"It's… decent," you try not to wince, offering him a sheepish smile as you hand it over. "It's sweet."
"Your face says otherwise."
"I fear they don't serve apple juice here, Ilyusha."
"Stop making fun of me," he nudges you with a teasing smile, leaning in close. He whispers something to you, and your eyes widen as you look in the direction he points—Tom and Zendaya are walking in.
"I'm gonna faint."
"Don't."
"I'm not leaving this theater until I get a photo with them."
"You will."
He reassures you, chuckling at your enthusiasm that almost resembles panic. You don't get a chance to talk to them right away, and by the time you get close enough, you have to head inside to watch the movie, your seat assigned right next to Ilia's. Throughout the whole movie your eyes are fixed on the screen, and he keeps looking over to make sure you're doing okay, happy just watching you have a great time.
Before you leave for the night, you excuse yourself to the restroom. You can't help but laugh at your reflection staring back at you from the mirror because you look almost ridiculous with the wide smile on your face. But because you aren't used to wearing high heels, your feet are slowly starting to give out. You wince as you slip one shoe off to fix a band-aid that already has a blood stain on it. You dig into your purse only to find it completely empty of what you need—your phone, a mini lipstick, and mascara are taking up all the space.
You groan, almost burying your face in your hands before remembering you can't ruin your makeup. "Oh, great!"
"Need some help?"
You freeze at the familiar voice. You look up with wide eyes to find Zendaya staring at you with a warm smile. The words die in your throat, your palms going sweaty as you nervously chuckle and mumble something almost too incoherent. She doesn't mind your awkwardness at all, offering you some band-aids and chatting away with you while she fixes her makeup in the mirror. Your heart is almost bursting out of your chest. She compliments your dress, and her warm, down-to-earth energy makes you feel instantly welcome.
When you finally step back out, Ilia is waiting.
"What took you so long?" he asks, his eyebrows furrowed in slight concern as he leads you out of the lobby so you can head back to the hotel to change for the afterparty.
You grin, clutching his arm tightly. "I just talked to Zendaya," you gush, your voice full of pure admiration. "And she told me my dress looks beautiful!"
"It's not the dress, it's you."
"That's not the point!"
He laughs, letting you tell him all about the restroom encounter for the entire ride back.
Once you're back in the quiet sanctuary of the hotel room, the transition is quick and intimate. He stands behind you, his warm hands helping you zip up the short, sleek dress you've chosen for the afterparty, and in return, you help him restyle his hair, running your fingers through the strands that have become messy from the London wind.
The afterparty is louder, warmer, and much more relaxed. The room is bathed in low lighting with a heavy bass vibrating through the floor. Without the cameras and the formality of the red carpet, everyone is just themselves, having fun.
You and Ilia slide into the crowd easily, and the highlight of the night comes when you run into Zendaya again near the lounge area—only this time, Tom is right there with her. She recognizes you and to your surprise both of them recognize Ilia, your boyfriend blushing when they highlight his talent. The four of you stand together for a few minutes, chatting casually about the movie and how much you're enjoying London, before you finally get the group photo you've been hoping for all night.
Once they wave goodbye and head back into the crowd, you stare at the picture on your phone in sheer disbelief, while Ilia just laughs, pulling you flush against his side with a quiet "told you so" smile.
It's midnight when you return to the hotel, both of you still giggling as you stumble into the dark room. Your feet are aching from wearing heels for the entire evening, forcing you to lean heavily against Ilia's arm as he leads you inside. Before he even flips the bedside lamp on, casting a soft, warm glow across the room, you have already kicked off your shoes. You pad across the carpet and sprawl across the bed, letting out a long sigh of relief.
"It was the best night of my life," you mumble, staring up at the ceiling, still entirely starstruck as the memories rush through your mind. "It literally feels like a dream."
You prop yourself up on your elbows, looking over at Ilia. He is already unbuttoning his crisp white shirt, watching you with a soft, quiet smile that feels infinitely more intimate than anything on the red carpet. Sliding off the mattress, you reach behind your back to pull down your zipper, but your fingers are trembling too much to get a grip.
Suddenly, the brush of his warm fingertips against your exposed spine makes you freeze.
"Let me help you," he murmurs.
His voice is low in the stillness of the room as he steps up behind you. Your breath hitches in your throat as you stand perfectly still, silently letting him.
The metal teeth of the zipper glide down with a soft hiss. You let the fabric of the dress slowly slip from your torso. As the cool air of the hotel room hits your bare skin, a shiver runs down your spine—your chest tightening not just from the temperature, but from the sheer anticipation of what is about to happen. You swallow hard, your palms growing slick at your sides as you slowly turn around to face him.
His gaze sweeps over your body, slow and reverent, before finally settling on your eyes. The warmth of his hands as he reaches up to cup your cheeks is almost overwhelming.
"So beautiful," he whispers.
He leans in, softly pressing his mouth to yours. The kiss is so incredibly gentle that your eyes flutter shut, your lips parting slightly as he begins to pepper slow, warm kisses down your jawline and the sensitive column of your neck. His hands slide down to grip your hips, pulling you close enough to feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat.
You let him guide you back toward the edge of the bed. Your hands find the fabric of his shirt, helping him ease it off his shoulders until it pool on the carpet beside your dress. He gently coaxes you down onto the mattress, hovering over you as you map the line of his bare chest, your fingers gripping his biceps when his hand slides slowly, deliberately between your thighs. A soft, breathless moan escapes your throat.
"Ilia," you whisper his name. It feels like a plea, a quiet prayer, as a sweet, familiar heat begins to bloom in your stomach, igniting your skin everywhere he touches. "I've never done this before."
He pauses, his fingers stilling against you. His chest heaves up and down, matching the shallow, uneven rhythm of your own breath. He looks down at you, searching your face, gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead. There is an intensity in his blue eyes, a sudden, protective softness that makes the breath catch in your throat.
"Do you want to?" he asks softly, giving you space, making sure you feel entirely safe.
You look up at him, feeling more exposed and entirely perceived than you ever have before. But looking at the tenderness in his face, the fear melts away, leaving only a certainty.
"Yes," you whisper, reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down to you. "With you."
A wide smile stretches across his face just before he leans in to kiss you again—much fiercer this time. He sweeps his tongue over yours, catching the breathless whimper that escapes your throat as his hands slide down your hips, hooking into the sides of your underwear and smoothing them down your legs. Your back arches against the mattress, your body reacting instantly to the direct, steady circle of his thumb. This time, you don't even try to hold back. You don’t smother the sounds or slap a hand over your mouth to hide them. Instead, you let him hear everything, shamelessly whispering his name against his lips as you wrap your bare legs tightly around his waist.
When the overwhelming peak finally washes over you, bringing tears of pure release to your eyes, he leans down to kiss them dry. He pulls back just enough to strip off his pants, and through your smudged mascara, you look up at him. Seeing his bare silhouette in the soft lamp light makes your chest tighten with a sudden ache. Biting your lower lip in quiet anticipation, you part your legs, welcoming him closer.
He settles between your thighs, tearing the small, square foil package open with his teeth. You watch him with quiet, curious eyes as he rolls on the condom. You swallow hard, trying to force your muscles to relax against the pillows, but your eyes drift to the ceiling as a sudden rush of nervous heat sets your veins on fire.
"Hey."
Sensing the sudden shift in your posture, Ilia gently traces his fingers along your jawline, coaxing your gaze back to his. His expression is calm and patient—a quiet anchor in the middle of all your thoughts.
"We don't have to do this if you're not ready," he promises softly. "It's okay."
"No, I am," you insist, shaking your head to clear the lingering doubt.
To prove it to him—and to yourself—you cup his face in your hands, pulling him down to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. Under the softness of his touch, any trace of anxiety washes away. You let him take a piece of you, giving yourself over to him completely. He is gentle with you, so careful and sweet, and it's everything you had ever wanted—everything you had spent years secretly dreaming of.
"So, does MJ get her memories back?"
"Do you want me to spoil the movie for you?" You raise an eyebrow, a teasing smile tugging at your lips as you look at Liza.
She is ecstatic to hear all about the premiere, making you recount every single detail over again even though you’ve already talked to her on the phone about it. Tatyana observes the scene with an amused expression, chopping chocolate for the cake Ilia has been requesting ever since before you two even got back. He is sitting at the table with you and Liza, but unlike you, he’s having a late breakfast after sleeping in, while you help his little sister bedazzle her figurines.
"I guess not," Liza says after a while, thoroughly contemplating the spoiler with a focused look on her face. "Was it better than No Way Home?"
"I mean... I was too excited when I watched it, so I don't think I can fairly criticize it without a rewatch."
"Fair enough."
"Aren't you guys gonna ask me for my opinion?" Ilia asks between bites, his voice muffled. All you can stare at is the smear of jam stuck to the corner of his lips. The sudden desire to reach over and wipe it clean off him—in a way that is not at all appropriate for the family kitchen—is almost ridiculous. "I was there too, you know."
"Do you even have enough vocabulary to analyze a movie?" Liza asks.
"Liza," Tatyana warns, shooting her a look to behave, even though she is desperately trying not to laugh. "What did we talk about?"
"Sure, Mom. I won't make fun of your loser son."
"This 'loser' attended a major movie premiere and you didn't," Ilia points out.
"Wait till I grow up," she bites back, an annoyed expression plastered on her face as she glares at her brother.
"I don't know what I did to deserve such a bratty attitude."
"It's a universal experience," you jump in, less to defend Liza and more to tease him. "Jace goes through the same thing every day. It's kind of like our job."
"I don't remember you being this mean when you were twelve."
"Well, I wasn't mean to you."
"Wonder why," Tatyana notes, amusement dripping from her voice.
You groan at her comment, burying your face in your hands in sheer embarrassment because you know exactly where this is going.
"I remember once you asked me what Ilia's favorite color was," Tanya continues, highly pleased with herself. "And then you made your dad buy you a dress in that exact color for the first day back to school. I think it was your second or third year?"
"Tanya, please stop."
Ilia is the only one laughing, a smirk tugging at his lips as his eyes lock onto yours. Liza rolls her eyes as if the story has personally offended her, huffing when she accidentally picks up the wrong color rhinestone.
You help Tanya decorate the cake while Ilia watches in silence, cradling Mila in his arms. Later, Jace comes over because it's a sweet occasion his appetite can't possibly miss. Once Tanya and Liza leave for practice, you’re stuck with the boys, finishing up the bedazzled F1 car figure Liza left for you to complete, trusting you with the fine details she doesn't quite trust herself with yet.
"Dude, did you see Jake Gyllenhaal?" Jace asks.
"Nope, he wasn't there."
"Aw, man. That's a shame," Jace sighs in disappointment, drumming his fingertips against the wooden table. "How was London, anyway? I didn't have time to properly chat with you two."
"Yeah, everything was great," you reply, keeping your eyes fixed on the tiny Ferrari logo. "Except the English breakfast, of course."
"I dunno, I liked it," Ilia shrugs.
"Well, you only ate the bacon, eggs, and tomatoes, Ilia."
"Did he keep you awake?"
Your head snaps up, glaring at Jace with a confused expression as a sudden jolt of panic surges through you. You don't dare look at Ilia, but you see his fork freeze halfway to his mouth. Jace notices your raised eyebrows and quickly offers a cover-up.
"Sometimes he snores so loudly."
"Literally, you're the one who snores," Ilia huffs, recovering quickly. "It's definitely not me."
"No, he doesn't snore," you agree, keeping your voice carefully casual. "I fear that's you, Jace."
"Well, then I don't see any other reason why you wouldn't enjoy the trip."
"Yep. I enjoyed everything... a lot."
To get a reaction out of him, you put a deliberate, slow emphasis on the last words, a subtle smirk playing on your lips. Only you and he know the heavy implication behind them. But his timing is horrible. Just as the words leave your mouth, he takes a sip of his juice and immediately chokes. His eyes widen, a fit of coughing overtaking him as Jace cluelessly pats him on the back, completely oblivious to what actually provoked the reaction.
Jace is about to say something, but his phone buzzes, and he’s immediately on his feet to take the call in the other room.
The moment the kitchen door swings shut, you let out a laugh. You reach across the table to fix his hair, offering him a playful, apologetic stroke of your fingers.
"You're cruel," he mutters.
"I'm sorry," you giggle, leaning in to press a quick, sweet kiss to his cheek. "You should've seen your face. Thank god Jace wasn't looking at you."
"You know, I was thinking about it..." he starts, his expression turning serious, careful, as if he's trying to gauge your reaction. "I think it's time to tell him."
You don't reply immediately, a sudden wave of anxiety washing over you at the thought of what's to come once Jace finds out. He notices the instant shift in your mood, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand between his. His palms are warm, grounding.
"We can't keep hiding forever," he mumbles, looking at you with absolute certainty. "It's not fair to us. He's going to go a bit mental whenever he finds out, so we might as well save ourselves the time."
"He's going to hate you."
"I know."
"For a few weeks," a soft smile touches your lips, though it carries a trace of sadness. "But eventually, he'll understand... he has to."
"I'll tell him the second I get back from New York," he promises, lacing his fingers securely through yours. "He can rage at me all he wants. I don't want to hide you anymore."
"I don't want to either."
He leans in, stealing a quick, lingering kiss just before Jace walks back into the kitchen, resuming his conversation, completely oblivious to the shift that had occurred in his absence.
A few days later, Ilia sets off for the Sun Valley show, planned to travel directly to New York afterward for his magazine afterparty and the Time 100 Sports Gala. You patiently wait for him to return, your chest bubbling with a restless mixture of excitement and terror for the moment the truth finally comes to light.
"Pass."
"Bitch, how?" Allie rolls her eyes at you, personally offended that the attraction to the celebrity guy she's currently thirsting over isn't mutual. You simply shrug. "He is, like, so hot."
"Not to me."
"Why? Because he doesn't look like a twink who dyes his hair?"
"Oh, you cunt!" You tug at her wavy hair, slapping her hand away when she tries to do the exact same to yours.
Playing 'smash or pass' with Allie is a fun way to kill time—as long as you agree with her. The second you don't, she makes sure to drag Ilia into it, teasingly referring to him as either a low-testosterone man or a twink. You always roll your eyes, knowing she’s only jesting, but you still defend your ground. "Says the girl who is exclusively into alpha males."
"I am not!"
"Sure."
You give her a mocking smile. She opens her mouth to argue, but the soft chime of the front door bell interrupts her. Giving you one last annoyed look, Allie disappears into the kitchen, leaving you alone to take the order.
With a customer-ready smile already plastered onto your face, you turn toward the counter. But it falters for a fraction of a second when your eyes lock with hers.
"Hey!" Macy says your name, leaning over the counter to pull you into a brief side-hug.
You return it, giving her a tight smile. She is a sweetheart and has never actually done anything to earn your dislike—even though, sometimes, you desperately wish she would. Instead, you're just left with an unpleasant, heavy sinking in your stomach every time she walks into the cafe. Thankfully, it doesn't happen often, even though she lives just a few blocks away and this is technically her local spot.
It’s a bizarre, uncomfortable feeling to face the girl Ilia used to date for almost two years, especially now that you're secretly involved with him. You've hung out with her multiple times in the past because your friend groups forced it, and even though you two were never close and you don't owe her anything, it still feels like you’ve broken some unwritten girl code. It's a bitter, constant reminder that she once had the man you spent years quietly yearning for.
"Long time no see! How are you?" she asks warmly.
"I'm great, Macy." You smile, trying to sweep the ugly feeling aside. She really is beautiful, with her flawless porcelain skin and big, doe-like brown eyes. "Your new haircut looks great on you."
"Haha, thanks! I got bored and chopped it off myself a couple of days ago." She waves it off like it's nothing, even though her hair looks absolutely perfect and effortless—result you've never quite achieved even with the help of professionals. "Guess who missed the pistachio rolls?"
"Well, you arrived at the perfect time. They're fresh out of the oven."
You grab the bakery tongs, carefully choosing the fluffiest, most golden roll from the display. She watches with a smile as you place it into a cardboard box. "Would you like a flat white with that?"
"God, I wish," she sighs, burying her face in her hands. "But I'm trying to cut down on the caffeine. I've gone a bit off the rails lately."
"Haha, totally understandable."
"How's university going?" she asks after she pays, lingering at the counter. You find yourself wishing she would just take her box and go, but she keeps the conversation flowing. "You finished your first year, right?"
"Yep. Surprisingly, it went a lot smoother than I was prepared for."
"Of course it did, you're super smart," she says with a teasing nudge to your shoulder. "And how's Jace? I haven't seen him around in a while."
"He's a lot buffer than he used to be, but otherwise, he's exactly the same," you chuckle, rolling your eyes. "Annoying, I mean."
"I saw your photos at the Spider-Man premiere," Macy’s voice suddenly quietens, her tone shifting as if she is carefully navigating onto sensitive ice. "You must have been absolutely thrilled."
"Yeah," you smile, the memory of that magical night briefly warming you. "I really was."
"Good. You deserved it."
Macy hesitates for a second. You think she's finally about to leave, but she stays put, her fingers nervously fidgeting with the silver rings on her hand.
"How's, um… how's Ilia?"
"He's alright," you shrug, keeping your voice light and casual, desperately hiding the ugly twist of jealousy gnawing at your insides. "He's just preparing for the upcoming season."
"Of course he is," she chuckles softly, her eyes drifting to the floor.
There is a heavy pause. You get the distinct, terrifying feeling that she wants to say something she isn't quite sure she should. A cold trace of worry begins to spread through your veins.
"I actually saw him once since he came back from the tour," she says quietly.
The words land like lead, leaving a bitter, metallic taste in your mouth. Your heart starts thumping violently against your ribs, your jaw tightening as you force yourself to keep breathing.
A smile touches Macy's lips, filled with something that looks painfully like regret.
"We, um… we tried to fix things. But it didn't work." She shrugs, giving you a tight, melancholy look.
You want to reach across the counter and slap a hand over her mouth—anything to make her stop talking. But you just stand there, completely frozen, pouring every ounce of your energy into keeping your face entirely blank.
"He came over at night. I think we both just needed to see if the spark was still there. We spent the whole night talking… well, not just talking." she chuckles and something twists deep inside your chest, a breath knocking out of your lungs as you grip the chair behind the counter, your hands digging into the leather. "But by the morning, it was clear we’ve just grown too far apart. I'm glad we had that one last night, though. It was a nice way to finally close the chapter."
She lets out a soft sigh, finally looking up at you with those big, innocent brown eyes, completely unaware of the heavy, suffocating feeling pressing down on your chest. Macy doesn't seem to notice the way the air has left your lungs.
"Anyways, it was nice seeing you!" The easy enthusiasm slips right back into Macy's voice, and she grins. "I should get going before this roll gets cold!"
"Yeah," you barely manage to breathe out, fighting with everything you have to keep your voice from breaking. "Enjoy it, Macy."
"Bye!"
You wave her off, and the very second the door clicks shut behind her, the fragile mask shatters. You break down, your chest heaving violently as the realization crashes over you. Pressing a trembling palm to your chest, you gasp for air, tears instantly blurring your vision before streaming hot down your face.
"Oh my god, what happened?"
Allie’s face is a mask of pure horror when she bursts out of the kitchen. She immediately crouches down beside you, frantically trying to coax out what's wrong. You can't bring yourself to say a single word. Instead, you just weep into her arms, and she lets you, wrapping her arms tight around you and holding your head against her chest.
But the ticking clock reminds you that you’re still at work. Forcing yourself up on shaky legs, you head straight to the employee bathroom to freshen up. You slide the lock into place and lean against the sink, staring at your tear-stained, pale reflection in the mirror.
Hundreds of thoughts race through your mind, but one loops relentlessly. Her words. The nostalgia in her voice. The sad, knowing smile. The implication was as clear as day: He slept with her. After he got back from the tour. When he was supposed to be yours.
Your mind frantically scrambles backward, trying to piece the timeline together. The first night he came back, he had stayed over, waking you up in the middle of the night over those stupid blankets. The next day, he went out with Jace and the guys. They had played that humiliating game, and then they all stayed over.
And then it hits you.
Four pairs of sneakers on the floor the next morning. The lingering assumption that either he or Josh had left in the middle of the night. Did he leave that night to go to Macy's? The exact night he had brushed you off like a joke? Did he spend those hours wrapped around her while you wept yourself to sleep in your bedroom?
It would explain everything. The next afternoon, he had visited you at the cafe, casually claiming he was "just in the neighborhood." And Macy lives just blocks away. It drives you insane because everything makes sense—even when you desperately, frantically want it to be a lie.
With trembling, sweaty fingers, you pull out your phone. Through blurry vision, you open the home security app. Your dad had installed cameras covering the driveway and front porch years ago, always paranoid about safety. You’d only used the app a handful of times in high school, mostly to see if Jace was sneaking out.
Now, you scroll back through the archives, skipping past weeks of footage until you find the exact date. Your heart thumps violently against your ribs, a loud roar in your ears.
And then, you see it vividly. It isn't Josh, but Ilia.
The time stamp on the screen reads just after 3:00 AM. You watch his familiar silhouette quietly step out of the house, his movements cautious as he cuts across the grass toward the driveway to get into his car. To drive to her.
The truth settles into your bones like ice. He spent the night with her, and he only came running back to you after he realized he couldn't have her anymore. You were never his choice. You were just the safe, convenient second option he settled for because the girl he actually wanted wouldn't take him back.
You violently wipe your face dry, the devastating hurt suddenly giving way to a hot, burning anger that flares deep in your chest.
You spend the final hour of your shift in agonizing silence, refusing to say a word to Allie because you know if you speak, you will completely crumble. On the cycle ride back home, you can think of nothing but the two of them, twisting in the sheets together while you were crying in the dark.
When you finally push the front door open, the house is entirely silent. As expected, no one is home. There is no one there to witness your breakdown, and no one to pick up your pieces, promising you that everything will be fine.
summary: You were young, and the whole world was at your feet. At eighteen, you managed to start a rock band, escape your hometown, and begin chasing your dreams. You toured, gained fame, and did what you loved most — making music.
But life has a way of rewriting the script. Just as quickly as you rose to the top, you fell from it. You were kicked out of the very band you founded and, broke and defeated, returned home with your tail between your legs.
What you couldn’t stand the most, however, was the fact that your high school enemy had suddenly gained everything you had lost. And he reminded you of it almost every day, lingering around you like a ghost. Over time, though, once you grew used to his unexpected presence in your life, you began to wonder what you had really hated him for in the first place — and whether you still hated him at all.
content: enemies to lovers, angst, slow burn, hurt/comfort, strong language, shy ilia, mean and messy reader, reader has anger issues, anxiety, miscommunication, rock band, bassist!reader, reader has a 70s rockstar aesthetic, mentions of cigarettes, sex, alcohol and drugs, almost famous/daisy jones and the six vibes, happy ending, dysfunctional family, injury and blood
word count: 10,7k
author's note: 3 more chapters to go... even though this was originally supposed to be only 2 parts 😭 but I got attached to the reader and I still have a few ideas left lol. The worst is behind us now. I remembered that in the age of the internet the reader would probably get cancelled 💀 so I wanted to touch on that a little... buuut Ian and Penny will pay for their crimes. Also, one of my friends recently found a tiny stray kitten in a ditch and ended up adopting it, and that kinda inspired this little plot point haha. English isn't my first language, so sometimes I get a bit carried away with metaphors and comparisons. Anyway, enjoy <3
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When you finally clawed your way out of sleep — a sleep that felt less like rest and more like an extension of the night you'd spent in the bar — you were struck at once by a vast, terrifying post-drunk realization: you didn't understand the world (your second realization was that you were spectacularly hungover).
It wasn't merely that the world made no sense to you — you didn't know how to exist inside it. It frightened you, governed by rules you had spent your entire life bending until they almost broke. Back when you were touring with your band, you had lived as though reality itself revolved around you, a universe handcrafted to your own reckless design. Stability meant nothing. Taxes meant nothing. Savings accounts, college, having a permanent place to live, settling down with someone — none of it had ever mattered. Music was the only thing that counted, along with passing a shared joint around the cramped tour bus that had become your home. As long as there was a bass in your hands, tomorrow simply didn't exist.
But ever since reality had caught up with you — a world stripped of every comforting illusion, overwhelming in its honesty and almost frightening in its sheer indifference, filled with the problems of ordinary people instead of a rockstar drifting from one concert to the next, one party to another — you had felt hopelessly lost.
You didn't know how to adapt. You were one colossal, walking disaster. The fact that you'd somehow ended up in Ilia Malinin's bed, spending half the night soaking a stuffed animal his fans had given him with your tears, was proof enough of just how far you'd fallen.
You rolled onto your other side and rubbed the sleep from your eyes, trying to chase away the last stubborn traces of your dream. You hadn't even managed to gather your thoughts or piece together everything that had happened the night before when a high-pitched scream ripped through the room.
"Oh my days... NOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Startled by the sudden outburst, you jerked upright so quickly that you regretted it instantly. The room spun violently, and a wave of nausea crashed over you. What surprised you even more than the scream itself was the sight of Ilia sitting at his computer, looking utterly devastated. As far as you remembered, he was supposed to have been at the rink first thing that morning.
Unless you'd been so drunk you'd imagined half the conversations you'd had with him — the softness in his voice, the quiet kindness he'd shown you. No one else would have taken care of you. No one else would have brought you home.
The realization hit harder than the hangover. Apart from William, who had enough problems of his own, Patrick, and aunt Andrea — who, if anything, seemed to tolerate you less with every passing day — you had no one. Only Ilia, your high-school enemy. Everyone else hated you.
"What the hell are you doing, you absolute jackass?" you yawned. "Have you completely lost your mind?"
Even with the black headphones covering his ears, Ilia seemed to hear you. He slid them down around his neck and slowly turned in his chair, offering you an apologetic look.
"Uh..." He scratched the back of his neck. "Playing a video game?" He sounded genuinely sheepish, visibly embarrassed for waking you.
You frowned.
"At seven in the morning?" you muttered. "I thought you had practice."
Ilia froze for a moment, clearly unsure how to answer.
"Uh... yeah. I did." He paused awkwardly before adding, "It's... two in the afternoon."
At first, you were convinced he was joking.
Your gaze drifted from him to the digital clock resting on his nightstand, beside an open notebook where, judging by its well-worn pages, Ilia probably scribbled down profound thoughts and painfully awful poetry. For a long moment, an uncomfortable silence settled between you. He simply watched you, studying your perfectly blank expression, searching for some clue to the storm gathering behind your eyes.
Only then did it sink in. You practically launched yourself out of bed like a startled cat. Speaking of cats, Mysti was lazily observing you from the cat tree. You ignored her existence entirely, far too consumed by the horrifying realization that you'd slept through half the day and that aunt Andrea, after coming home from work, discovering you'd vanished along with the spectacular mess you'd left behind, had probably already packed your belongings and dumped them out on the porch.
Panicking, you snatched up your jeans, which Ilia had thoughtfully moved from the middle of the floor onto the pile of plushies. The moment you bent down, you barely managed to suppress a violent wave of nausea.
"Why didn't you wake me up?!" you squeaked, frantically trying to force your foot through the right pant leg. You nearly toppled over in the process. Ilia awkwardly averted his eyes. "Shit, shit, SHIT! I'm so screwed, bro." You finally managed to yank your jeans up. "I was supposed to have a job interview at the bakery at twelve!" You fumbled with the button at your waist, your fingers refusing to cooperate. "Fuck!"
"What? No, I'm talking about my little sister." Ilia suddenly turned back toward his computer. "Yeah, I know, she swears like craaazy. I seriously need to tell my mom." He rolled his eyes dramatically. "No, I didn't bring a girl home! I'm telling you, it's Liza." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh my God, dude, don't be weird." A sigh escaped him. "Hang on, I'll be back in a sec."
You turned toward him, utterly bewildered. You assumed he was talking to someone on Discord. You sincerely hoped it wasn't one of his old high school friends — the same ones who had never bothered hiding how much they despised you. Then again, judging from what little you'd seen on social media, that whole friend group had fallen apart shortly after graduation. You imagined it couldn't have been easy for Ilia to keep old friendships alive once he'd become a full-time athlete. Besides, most of them had stayed close with his ex-girlfriend, and from everything you'd heard, their breakup had been anything but amicable.
"Who are you talking to?" you asked, sinking back onto the bed.
Your skull felt as though it might split open at any second. Your tolerance for alcohol had become embarrassingly low. Even back when you were in the band, you had always been the one who drank the least. Ian and Penny practically lived from one party to the next, while you and Dean usually lingered somewhere on the edges, watching the chaos instead of becoming part of it.
I wonder how they're doing now, you caught yourself thinking. You'd blocked Ian and Penny on every social media platform imaginable, while Dean almost never posted anything. Were they working on a third album? Did they ever regret getting rid of you?
"My best friend, Jacob," Ilia explained cheerfully. "Sorry, I kinda forgot to mute my mic. But my webcam isn't turned on, so he didn’t see you."
"Okay..." You sighed, absentmindedly fidgeting with the sleeve of his oversized hoodie, which, much to your surprise, had been incredibly comfortable to sleep in. "So?" You looked back at him. "Why didn't you wake me up?" A crooked smile tugged at your lips despite your misery. "I could've just snuck out through the window this morning." You shrugged dramatically. "You know... like a ninja."
Ilia let out a quiet laugh beneath his breath.
“Well, you were kinda drunk and really upset, and I figured you could use the sleep, Miss Ninja.”
His words wrapped around your heart like an invisible hand, squeezing just enough to steal your breath. He sounded as though he had been genuinely worried about you. Letting you crash at his place was one thing, but actually caring whether you were alright — that belonged to an entirely different universe. You parted your lips, ready to thank him, only to catch yourself at the last possible second. You refused to abandon the role you had so carefully built — the angry, rebellious rockstar forever at war with the world — especially in front of Ilia, the one person you kept insisting you were supposed to hate.
“Great,” you muttered instead, rubbing your eyes. Your lashes felt stiff and heavy, and only then did the dreadful realization strike you; you'd never taken your mascara off. You had committed the greatest skincare sin imaginable: you'd fallen asleep wearing makeup.
“My parents aren't home,” Ilia said. “They're still at the rink. Sarah asked them to stay longer before Worlds since Alysa pulled out and she's taking her spot.” You hadn't the faintest idea who Sarah was. “So you can just leave through the front door. Coast is clear.”
For some reason, even though you'd already missed your job interview and still had to retrieve your purse from The Hideout, you weren't in any hurry to leave. Ilia's room, despite looking as though it belonged to an overgrown teenage nerd, possessed an odd, comforting warmth that settled quietly beneath your skin.
Or perhaps it wasn't the room at all. Perhaps it was simply Ilia.
Your feelings had become such an impossible knot that nothing felt certain anymore, nothing cleanly divided into black and white. You weren't even sure why you supposedly hated Malinin anymore.
Or rather, why you kept clinging so stubbornly to that lie.
“And you're sure they don't know I slept here?” you asked, preferring reassurance over the horrifying possibility of running straight into Roman or Tatiana sitting in the living room watching television.
Ilia's confidence visibly faltered. You fixed him with a stern look.
“Well... I mean...” he trailed off awkwardly, pushing the gold-rimmed glasses that had slipped down the bridge of his nose back into place. “If Liza didn't rat me out... then probably not.”
“Okay. Good.” You released a visible sigh of relief. “Your mom would probably kill me.” You studied him for a beat before narrowing your eyes. “By the way... why are you screaming like a five-year-old girl? Those shrieks could've woken Sleeping Beauty.”
He scratched the back of his neck.
“Jacob and I are playing Geometry Dash, and I can't beat this level.”
“Which one?”
You climbed reluctantly out of bed and slowly shuffled toward his gaming setup. Mysti followed every step with her luminous green eyes. The instant her tail twitched and she leapt gracefully from the cat tree, you froze in place and waited until she disappeared through the half-open door before daring to move again.
Meanwhile, Ilia looked at you with open confusion, as if he couldn't imagine why you'd possibly care which level had defeated him.
“Uh... the sixth one,” he answered after a long pause, spinning back toward his monitor.
You stopped beside his desk and leaned over the screen, squinting thoughtfully. Your elbow swung a little too wide and nearly knocked an almost-full can of Coke Zero straight onto his keyboard. Ilia didn't even register the near catastrophe; he was far too busy watching your every movement with growing panic, as though you were about to pull a hammer from behind your back and smash his computer into pieces.
Or, even worse — turn out to be a better gamer than him. Which, frankly, seemed far more likely.
“Can't Let Go?” you scoffed. “Come on. A five-year-old could beat that level blindfolded. Seriously? I thought you were trying to clear a Demon level or something.” You frowned, snapping your fingers as you searched your memory. “Y'know... the one with all the moving objects and all that crazy shit. What's it called again? Theory...”
Ilia stared at you with eyes so wide they looked ready to fall out of his head, as though he were sitting in the kiss-and-cry waiting for his scores and had just discovered he'd broken another world record. Or learned Pokémon were real.
“Theory of Everything 2?” he finished, his voice shooting into an unmistakably high, disbelieving register.
“Oh, yeah, that one.” You snapped your fingers again with effortless nonchalance. “That one was actually pretty tough, from what I remember. I didn't beat it until my third attempt.”
Ilia blinked. Once. Twice. Three times.
“On your third try?!” he blurted, nearly knocking over his can in the process and almost tipping himself straight out of his chair. “YOOO! Yo, you're lying!”
“Why the fuck would I?” you shot back, genuinely offended that he'd dare accuse you of making something like that up. “About a stupid game?”
“It is not stupid!” he protested, puffing out his lips in a childish pout.
You rolled your eyes, though you couldn't suppress the smile tugging stubbornly at the corners of your mouth. It dawned on you then that every ounce of anger you'd carried toward him — the resentment that had burned inside you until only yesterday, the bitterness you'd nursed for years — had vanished together with the last traces of alcohol still lingering in your bloodstream.
For one fleeting moment, you felt sixteen again, sitting beside him at the skate park as if the years in between had never happened.
“Whatever. Move, asshole.”
You shoved at both him and the chair, trying to claim his spot at the desk so you could show him how the game was actually supposed to be played. Stretching out your hand, you reached for the controller, but he jerked it protectively out of your grasp at the last second.
You glared at him.
“Noo, wait! I wanna beat it myself!”
“Then quit whining, you baby. Let me play,” you insisted.
“No!”
“Ilia-”
“I know I can beat it!”
For several long seconds you weighed your options: let it go or keep arguing. Backing down had never been in either of your natures. At last, you sucked in a dramatic breath through your teeth. There was no turning back.
Before you could reconsider, propelled by the sheer force of your stubbornness — wild and impulsive as a squall rolling in over open water — you simply lowered yourself onto Ilia's lap and scooted the chair closer to the desk, bringing both of you with it.
“Shut the fuck up,” you warned him, though he'd already lost the ability to say anything at all.
The words died somewhere in his throat, taking what remained of his confidence with them. He went utterly still, not even protesting when you slipped the console from his hands. He simply obeyed, staring at you as though you'd descended from heaven wrapped in celestial robes.
You hesitated before starting the level. Only now did it fully register that your wounded pride had landed you squarely in Ilia's lap, practically crushing him beneath your weight. The arrogance drained from you in an instant. You regretted your decision almost immediately. Beneath you, you could feel the warmth of his toned thigh, left bare beneath his shorts, and that single, impossible awareness refused to leave your mind, making it nearly impossible to focus on the razor-thin cube jumps and delicate ship maneuvers that demanded absolute precision.
Somehow, despite your racing heart, your uneven breathing, and the sweat gathering on trembling fingers that kept slipping against the controller, you cleared every obstacle flawlessly and finished the level in record time.
“It's really not that hard,” you laughed nervously, finally daring to glance at Ilia for the first time since you'd so spectacularly invaded every inch of his personal space. “See?”
He looked as though he'd just walked out of a sauna. A warm blush flooded every inch of his face, his cheeks burned a furious crimson, his soft pink lips hung slightly parted, and his widened blue eyes overflowed with utter disbelief. You couldn't tell whether he was more stunned by your outrageous behavior or by how effortlessly you'd beaten the level he'd been struggling with.
A notification flashed in the corner of the monitor. Your gaze drifted toward the Discord icon. Jacob was relentlessly trying to get Ilia's attention in the chat. Taking advantage of the fact that Malinin still appeared completely frozen, you expanded the Discord window and decided to answer Sánchez yourself.
“How did you...” Ilia finally managed.
He shifted slightly beneath you in the chair, though there wasn't the faintest trace of discomfort in the movement.
“O.” Another pause. “O.” He looked like a fish stranded on dry land, desperately gasping for air. “O. Bro, I'm speechless.” He dragged a hand down his face, nearly knocking his glasses clean off his nose. “You're actually insane.” He stared at the timer in open disbelief. “Eighty-three seconds?! That's a fricking record!”
“And that was my first run in, like, a milion years,” you replied, your voice positively dripping with pride. You hadn't even realized you'd broken the record — especially while being so hopelessly distracted.
"Yooo..." Ilia finally snapped out of his daze and looked back at the monitor, only to realize you were typing to Jacob. "Wait, whaaat are you doing?"
Pure instinct took over. He caught your wrist, gently lifting your hand away from the keyboard before drawing it between the two of you, his fingers wrapping around your wrist and holding it close against his chest.
You froze. The gesture stole every coherent thought from your mind. Unfortunately for him, you'd already hit Enter.
"Your friend's asking why you turned your mic off," you said with maddening composure. "I told him you're jerking off under the desk."
Ilia knew you well enough by now to believe you were fully capable of something that unhinged, and panic flashed across his face as he whipped around to inspect the chat. He braced himself for vulgarity, public humiliation, social death… only to sag with visible relief. Instead, you'd written that he'd muted himself because his mom had started vacuuming the hallway, and the noise was drowning him out.
"You are an evil woman," he muttered, shooting you a look that sparkled with reluctant amusement.
Then he realized he was still holding your hand. His fingers released your wrist so quickly it was almost clumsy, anxiety flickering across his features as though he'd suddenly wondered whether he'd crossed a line.
Ironically, out of the two of you, you were still the one sitting in his lap long after the game had ended. You wanted to get up — you genuinely did. But your legs refused to cooperate, as weightless and unreliable as spun cotton.
"Finally," you giggled under your breath, your voice stripped of every ounce of its usual bravado. "A compliment."
"So..." Ilia ventured, affecting casualness while, behind those blue eyes, already constructing an elaborate plan that somehow involved dragging you into gaming sessions and eventually onto a Twitch stream. "Did you play anything else? Fortnite? WoT? Minecraft?"
"Whoa, slow down there, cowboy." You cut him off before his enthusiasm could gather momentum. "I'm not THAT much of a loser. I only played browser games and The Sims back in middle school."
"Right..." He cast you a quick sidelong glance — the same unconscious little side-eye he'd apparently developed whenever he grew flustered, something you were now certain he didn't even realize he did. "You're way too cool to be a gamer."
"Exactly." You grinned.
Silence settled between the two of you, delicate and uncertain, neither of you quite knowing how to be the first to disturb it. The amusement gradually faded from Ilia's face, replaced by something infinitely softer — a tenderness left unspoken, lingering quietly beneath the surface. He watched you with quiet concentration, studying your face as though it were a Renaissance masterpiece hanging in a silent gallery or the painted likeness of a saint illuminated by candlelight inside an old cathedral. Then, without warning or ceremony, he lifted his hand and gently cupped your cheek, his movements slow with careful intent, never breaking eye contact as his thumb swept lightly beneath your eye.
You stopped breathing.
The warmth of his touch against your skin unraveled something inside you. That tiny spark of affection summoned emotions across your face that Ilia had never witnessed before — a face usually carved from marble or twisted into defiance now softened by unfamiliar vulnerability. Among them flickered something almost primal: fear itself, the terror of surrendering control... and of losing something too precious to name.
A strange sensation washed over you, bewildering in its sweetness, carrying with it the bittersweet taste of nostalgia. You couldn't remember the last time anyone had treated you with such tenderness — or the last time you had allowed yourself to become this vulnerable. Your lips parted, yet for a moment language abandoned you altogether. A deep, aching gentleness settled inside your chest, and for several heartbeats you did nothing except look into Ilia's pale blue eyes while the fracture opening inside you widened with frightening ease.
You could no longer tell where the resentment you'd stubbornly tried to reserve for Malinin ended and where something dangerously close to affection began. You couldn't find the dividing line. Perhaps, you realized, boundaries were nothing more than inventions of the human mind.
You sprang to your feet so abruptly that the fragile intimacy shattered in an instant. Inside your head, the moment had stretched into an eternity. In reality, it had lasted only seconds.
Ilia instinctively rolled his chair backward, startled by your reaction, a tiny vertical crease appearing between his brows.
"What the fuck, Ilia?!" you blurted, slipping back into your familiar armor of anger with practiced ease.
"Sorry," he answered immediately. "You had an eyelash." He held up his fingertip like evidence before a jury, a single dark lash resting against the pad of his finger. "See?"
"Oh." Heat rushed to your face. You were almost certain your ears had turned bright red. "Um... thanks?"
"No problem."
You leaned your full weight against his desk, lowering your gaze to the carpet scattered with Mysti's black fur. You felt almost drunk again; your head swam, except now the alcohol had been replaced by a storm of emotions colliding inside your chest. You needed air. You needed distance.
You needed a moment to gather the scattered pieces of yourself.
"Fuck, I probably look like a raccoon that crawled out of a dumpster," you muttered, grasping at the first excuse that came to mind. "Can I use the bathroom real quick?"
"Yeah, yeah. Go ahead." For reasons even he couldn't quite explain, Ilia suddenly found himself unable to meet your eyes. Instead, he fixed his attention on the two beaded bracelets wrapped around his wrist. "I'll... try that level again," he mumbled. "Maybe beat your time."
You let out a quiet scoff.
"Ha. Good luck with that."
Ilia's nose scrunched into a broad grin, the way it always did after a flawless skate when he stood at center ice, basking in the thunderous applause washing down from the stands, before he slipped his headphones back over his ears.
Moving slowly toward the door, still replaying the last few seconds over and over inside your mind, you let your gaze wander around Ilia's room, trying to memorize every little detail that daylight now revealed so much more clearly than the darkness had the night before. Star Wars figurines stood guard across the shelves beside stacks of geography books; framed photographs captured a tiny Ilia smiling on the ice; there was even a cartoon portrait commemorating the competition where he'd landed his first quad Axel, while skateboards lined the walls in neat display — somehow escaping your notice the previous night entirely.
You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing when your eyes landed on his name, spelled out in oversized decorative letters mounted proudly above the closet door.
The contrast was nothing short of bewildering. You couldn't wrap your head around the fact that an Olympic medalist, a two-time — perhaps soon-to-be three-time — World Champion, a record-breaker, someone so influential and revered within the skating world, slept in a bedroom that looked as though it belonged to an overgrown toddler, squealed with delight over video games like an excitable little kid, and meticulously filled sticker albums with soccer players.
Ilia Malinin possessed an astonishing number of different selves. And you couldn't help wondering what other versions of him still remained hidden beneath the surface.
Guided by little more than instinct, you wandered quietly through his house on the balls of your feet. With every step, your unease grew, fueled by the nagging fear that his parents might actually be home after all, and that you would have absolutely no believable explanation for your presence. Finding the bathroom proved surprisingly easy. You never ventured upstairs, convinced that Liza's bedroom — and Tatiana's and Roman's — were up there, while the downstairs hallway held only two doors, the first opening into the laundry room.
You paused in the doorway. A dark suitcase lay sprawled open across the floor, Ilia's skates tossed carelessly inside alongside a heap of wrinkled clothes that, judging by their condition, hadn't been washed since he'd returned from Milan.
You shook your head in quiet disapproval. Not that you had any moral high ground. The bowl from your cereal was probably still sitting in Andrea's sink, the trash remained stubbornly unemptied, and you had no doubt you'd earn yourself another lecture for both.
You opened the second door and stepped into the bathroom, flicking on the light. The room was neat enough, save for a scattering of water droplets glistening across the tile floor and a small hand towel carelessly abandoned over the edge of the sink.
Suddenly, your jeans vibrated. Only then did you remember your phone was still tucked into your pocket. You pulled it out and glanced at the Instagram notification.
The moment you saw who had messaged you, shock crashed over you so violently that the phone slipped from your hand, landed squarely on your foot, and tore a loud curse from your throat.
Lucky for you, it hadn't hit the tiles instead. Tatiana probably would've murdered you if you'd smashed up her bathroom.
"BRO, YOU OKAY?!" Ilia squeaked from somewhere beyond the walls, evidently hearing you through his headset. His voice dripped with concern.
"Yup!" you shouted back, still grimacing as pain pulsed through your toes.
Muttering under your breath at your own spectacular clumsiness, you bent to retrieve your phone.
Speak of the devil. Only moments ago, you'd been dwelling on your former bandmates, and now one of them had decided — for reasons entirely beyond your understanding — to reach out.
imnotdean2004: hey 👋
You opened Instagram and tapped on the message that had arrived only seconds earlier. One hand lingered on the bathroom doorknob while you debated whether answering at all was a terrible idea.
Curiosity won; it always did. You locked the bathroom door, let your back slide slowly down against the wood until you were sitting on the cool tile floor, then finally began typing your reply.
your_username: no, i'm not writing 8 songs for your new album. Bye
The reply came almost instantly, as though Dean had never even left your shared chat. You let out a derisive snort, your lips tightening into a hard line as surprise settled over your features at what you'd just read.
imnotdean2004: c'mon, don't be like that 😭 i just wanted to see how you're doing
your_username: like shit
imnotdean2004: saw on Ilia Malinin's story that yesterday you played at The Hideout
Switching from your private conversation with Dean back to your home feed, you immediately saw that Ilia had, in fact, posted something — a rarity ever since returning from Milan. You tapped the circular icon of his story at the top of the screen, and a short video unfurled before your eyes: a fifteen-second clip he'd filmed during yours and Patrick's performance. He hadn't tagged you, yet your face was unmistakably visible, your voice carrying clearly through the recording.
Your fingers trembled as you typed:
your_username: okay? and?
imnotdean2004: you were really good. who's that drummer you were playing with? he's actually insane. dude's got potential
your_username: don't worry about him. and since when do u even follow ilia on ig? 🤨
imnotdean2004: i mean... he's an Olympian lol. the guy's famous. if he follows me back maybe i'll get some extra clout or smth
imnotdean2004: the real question is – since when are you hanging out with him? Girl, you literally hated him in high school.
your_username: none of your business. Fuck off before I block you.
imnotdean2004: alright, alright. i miss u
imnotdean2004: the band's just not the same without you.
your_username: then leave the band. simple as that 🤷
imnotdean2004: or u could apologize to Ian and Penny and come back.
your_username: after they lied about me, called me a slut, and destroyed my career? yeah. not happening.
your_username: you're better than them, Dean. leave.
He left you on seen.
The conversation with Dean was one thing, but what unsettled you far more was the story Ilia had posted — or rather, the consequences it would inevitably bring. On social media, you were public enemy number one; after the so-called ‘sex scandal’ with Ian, you'd lost thousands of followers, and in the first chaotic days after the controversy erupted, you'd even been forced to temporarily delete your accounts. Although a handful of people had remained on your side throughout the artificially manufactured, utterly fabricated conflict, you knew you were despised by Ian's and Penny's fans alike, so with a knot tightening in your stomach you hurriedly combed through Ilia's profile, anxious to see what people had made of a story that featured you so prominently.
It looked bad — far worse than you'd expected. It painted the picture of two close friends, of an Olympic champion showing up to support your gig, and it certainly didn't help that only a few days earlier you'd followed all of his accounts again.
It took barely any scrolling before the comments beneath his newest Instagram post began flashing across your screen like venom-tipped arrows.
BRO IS THAT Y/N ON YOUR STORY 💀 why are you slumming it with her 😭 go focus on Worlds instead
Address me.
OUT OF EVERY GIRL YOU CHOSE Y/N?! I swear I can't defend you anymore bro.
bet she's fucking him lol that's all she can do apparently
Problematic queen and king.
never liked you anyway, u r glazed af
seems that homewreckers stick together 🫠
The longer you scrolled, the tighter your stomach twisted into painful knots, your heart climbing relentlessly into your throat. Your own social media hadn't escaped the fallout either. You wisely stayed away from Twitter — people there were especially merciless. The newest comments beneath your latest TikTok were already more than enough.
First Ian, now Ilia? Bfr 😂
Girl, leave Ilia alone, he's way too good for u.
You like the attention SO much that now you're showing up with Olympians 😭 pathetic
So you're into figure skaters now?
Thankfully, before you could dig yourself into even uglier insults, your phone battery died, its screen fading into black.
As cruel and vulgar as the abuse aimed at you was, it barely stirred anything inside you anymore; you'd grown accustomed to carrying hatred the way sailors carried salt on their skin. But seeing that same venom spill onto Ilia's name hollowed something out inside your chest.
You weren't angry with him for posting the video — quite the opposite. If anything, the gesture had quietly flattered you. Long ago, Ilia had stopped sharing fragments of his private life with the internet, posting almost nothing besides figure skating and his cats.
You simply couldn't bear the thought of ruining the reputation he'd worked so hard to build.
In a world that had finally begun speaking out against misogyny in the media, somehow you had been left behind, forgotten in the dust. No one had wanted to hear your side. Perhaps if only Ian had spread those lies, someone might have stood up for you — but all it had taken was the false testimony of another woman, and your name had been condemned beyond redemption.
It didn't help that you'd always been known as the band's most arrogant — and meanest — member. That much, at least, was your own doing. You still believed you were an exceptional musician, and on that point, you had absolutely no intention of becoming humble.
With trembling hands, you slipped your dead phone back into the rear pocket of your jeans and drew several slow, deliberate breaths, trying to quiet the frantic pounding beneath your ribs. You hauled yourself off the floor and, through a haze clouding your vision, reluctantly faced the bathroom mirror; just as you'd expected, your makeup was utterly ruined. Dark, dried streaks of mascara — the unmistakable relics of last night's tears — shadowed the delicate skin beneath your waterline. You looked like misery given human form, a portrait painted in exhaustion and heartbreak, and yet only moments ago Ilia had looked at you as though you were the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.
Or maybe that had only existed inside your own head.
You were hungover, sleep-deprived despite having slept for hours, and your own traitorous feelings had begun weaving knots inside your mind that you no longer knew how to untangle. You were more lost than you'd ever been.
You had no idea what to do in the face of the tidal wave of hatred that had crashed over both of you. You refused to drag Ilia down with you, and so, your emotions splintering in every direction, you arrived at a decision that felt as sudden as it was inevitable. The sooner you prevented his reputation from being destroyed, the better. It was enough that you alone carried the crushing burden of being universally despised.
You had never hated anyone more fiercely than you hated Ian and Penny in that very moment.
Even though you were no longer part of the band, they still found new ways to haunt you, to grind you beneath their heels. First they'd destroyed your career, then your honor and your pride, and now they'd reached for the one thing that had barely begun to blossom — a fragile friendship with Ilia.
Refusing to look at your reflection any longer than absolutely necessary, you twisted the faucet open with a sharp, impatient jerk and bent over the sink. Icy streams lashed your burning cheeks. You cupped water in your hands and swallowed a mouthful, then another, and another. It did nothing to soothe the wild stampede beneath your ribs, and the thought of ending whatever this was between you and Ilia before you ruined his life too lingered stubbornly in the back of your mind.
You were a walking disaster at this point.
In the end, common sense prevailed. Before you could rethink your decision or surrender to the selfish part of yourself begging you to stay, you hurried back toward Ilia's room.
You found him exactly as you'd left him: hunched over his computer, still playing Geometry Dash, laughing at something Jacob had just said. He was so completely absorbed in the new level that he didn't even notice you step back inside.
"Hahaha, yooo, sick."
You knew your temper. You knew exactly how this was going to end. Even so, you drew one slow, steadying breath, already certain of what you were about to do.
"Hey, dickhead." You tapped him on the shoulder and, without warning, pulled his headphones off. "Explain this." You pointed toward the phone lying beside his keyboard, its keys glowing faint, red light.
Still seated, Ilia slowly turned with his chair until he was facing you, yet his eyes wandered somewhere over your shoulder, as though they were afraid to meet the storm gathering in yours. He looked utterly bewildered.
Something tightened painfully in your stomach, and for a fleeting heartbeat your anger softened. The remorse that flickered across your face died almost as quickly as it had appeared. A second later, you fixed him with a look sharp enough to draw blood. He never even noticed it.
"What the hell, Y/N?!" he blurted, his voice tangled between genuine confusion and wounded indignation at your sudden explosion. "Explain what? I seriously don't know what you're talking about."
Jacob's triumphant yell burst through the discarded headset.
"I knew it wasn't Liza!"
Ilia shot to his feet so abruptly that the chair rolled backward across the floor, then hastily closed Discord, abandoning his friend without so much as a single word of explanation.
“Why did you record me and Patrick and put it on your Instagram story?” you demanded, pouring every ounce of fury you could muster into your voice. “Did you even ask for my permission? Y'know, consent to share someone's image and all that shit, does that ring a bell?”
Ilia's gaze darted away.
“Well... you guys played really well, so I thought…”
“Thought what?” you cut him off before he could finish, desperate to end this as quickly as possible because you knew that if the argument dragged on any longer, you'd be the one who broke first. “That you'd swoop in like some fairy godmother and save me? The great Ilia Malinin is gonna rescue the doomed rock star's reputation? Why the hell would you think I want people associating me with you?” The words spilled from your mouth like broken glass. “Delete it. Now.”
You didn't mean a single word you'd just said. Not one.
But you gave nothing away.
Your ears rang with the deafening thunder of your heartbeat, your entire body prickled with static as though lightning had settled beneath your skin. Across from you, Ilia flushed crimson — part shame, part anger. His hands trembled almost imperceptibly, his breathing turned shallow, and panic blossomed inside his chest like frost spreading across glass. He looked as though he wanted nothing more than to run.
“Well... no,” he answered at last, his mouth settling into an unhappy line.
“Delete it, Malinin,” you growled. “I fucking mean it.”
The fire burning in your eyes bored into him with such ferocity that, almost involuntarily, Ilia took a step backward. You parted your lips as if another blow was waiting to be delivered, but the words caught somewhere between your heart and your throat.
“What is your problem? Are you scared Penny and your friends are gonna see you hanging out with me?”
Rage surged through you. The thought that he still believed you cared about those people made your blood boil. You couldn't have cared less about some backstabbing, talentless idiot who, in her entire life, had never managed to produce a single thoughtful idea, whose weed-fried brain was nothing more than a murky abyss whose depths, paradoxically, contained absolutely nothing but sludge.
“Maybe,” you lied, betraying both yourself and everything you truly felt, punctuating the word with a careless shrug. “Just delete it, goddammit!”
Your reaction only deepened the irritation flickering across his face, and your hostility awakened something equally stubborn inside him — the instinct to finally stand his ground. He stepped toward you, circling until he'd blocked the doorway, cutting off your escape from his room.
“Oh my God, stop yelling at me, alright?!” This time, it was he who met you with a cold, lingering stare. “You're actually unbelievable.” A bitter scoff escaped him. “No wonder nobody likes you. Keep acting like a bitch, and you're gonna end up completely alone.” He broke off, dragging his fingers through the short, messy strands of his hair. “I shouldn't have come when you asked me.” His voice cracked with frustration. “I'm so stupid.”
“Finally,” you replied with poisonous satisfaction, “you admitted it. Now get out of my way. I'm in a hurry.” Your jaw tightened. “I need to get my purse and bass guitar back. And for fuck’s sake, delete the damn video.”
You tried to shoulder past him. The collision was light, but it was enough. His patience snapped like a violin string stretched too tightly. His hand shot out, firm around your upper arm, and with one decisive pull he stopped you in place. The unexpected force behind the gesture made you instinctively flinch, your shoulders curling inward.
Ilia looked ready to erupt. His pale brows drew together in anger, a faint vein surfacing near his hairline, throbbing with barely restrained fury. You wrenched yourself free from his grip.
“I'm so fucking tired of fighting with you.” Exhaustion crept into his voice, dull and heavy, as though every argument you'd ever had had settled inside him. “Why do you keep treating me like shit? I know you don't like me because of... well, everything that happened in high school, but that was, what, four years ago? I told you I was sorry.”
You had no answer, so you reached for the oldest one you knew.
“I don't care how many years ago it was.” Your eyes hardened. “You were still a dick.”
“Like you were some kind of saint,” he shot back, his words edged with equal bitterness. “We were fucking teenagers, Y/N. I said stupid shit, you said stupid shit — it doesn't matter anymore.” He shook his head, disbelief clouding his expression. “I thought we'd finally, like, cleared all that up.”
You laughed. It was dry, artificial. The sound resembled a flock of black birds tearing through an empty sky. Humility had never belonged to your nature, and admitting your own faults was a language you still refused to learn.
“Of course it fucking matters!” you snapped. “Besides, I was bored, wasted, and desperate, that's why I texted you. It wasn't some huge deal, Malinin. Did you seriously think I was nice to you because I actually liked you?” You laughed again, harsher this time. “I was drunk as hell. That's it.” The tension between you stretched until it felt ready to tear the room apart, and somewhere along the way you'd both forgotten what the fight had even been about. “Jesus fucking Christ,” you muttered, your voice dripping with contempt. “You seriously live in some fantasy land.” You looked at him as though he were someone infinitely distant. “I almost feel sorry for you.”
The look that crossed Ilia's face made you regret your words the instant they left your mouth, but there was no reaching after them now, no gathering them back before they'd done their damage. His forehead furrowed, his expressive eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly, and his lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line, the corners sinking downward beneath a weight they could no longer bear. You had seen that exact expression only once before — on the ice in Milan, after the final notes of his four-minute free skate had faded into silence.
“So... you just use people whenever you feel like it?” he asked quietly, no longer able to look you in the eye. He sounded defeated. “And I really thought you'd changed.”
Those few words alone were enough to push you to the brink of emotional collapse. More than anything, you wanted to sink onto the floor and cry.
If someone had told you only a few days earlier that you'd end up feeling guilty after arguing with Ilia Malinin, you would've laughed in their face. Now it felt as though every cruel word you hurled at him had ripped another piece of your heart clean out of your chest.
This time, you were the villain. Or perhaps you had been all along.
“Yeah, well...” Your voice, paradoxically, softened, melancholy bleeding through every syllable. “I'm just as awful as I was in high school.” You swallowed. “And you're still just as dumb.” You had to leave. Immediately. “Adiós, quad flop.”
“And people say I'm the egotistical, rude asshole,” he muttered bitterly beneath his breath, a humorless scoff escaping him. “Honestly? Maybe they're right. I am rude when I'm in a bad mood...” He shook his head. “But clearly they've never heard you talk.”
“Clearly.”
Without another unnecessary word, you walked out of his room, your head bowed like someone returning from a battle they'd never stood a chance of winning, refusing to look back.
You were still wearing the oversized hoodie he'd lent you to sleep in. Its familiar scent wrapped around you like a ghost. Your eyes filled with tears. Never in your life had your heart hurt this much — not when the band had thrown you out, not when Ilia and his friends had laughed at you online, not even when Patrick had spilled juice all over your nearly antique copy of Rolling Stone with John Lennon on the cover.
This time, you were your own executioner. You had inflicted this wound yourself.
For once in your life, you'd tried not to be selfish, tried to do something for someone else's sake, and somehow you'd still managed to sound like the world's greatest egotist, someone who, instead of protecting Ilia, had only succeeded in hurting him.
Apparently, that was all you knew how to do. Leave ruin in your wake. Start fights. Break people. Disappoint them. Maybe your mother, Penny, and all those former fans hadn't been wrong about you after all.
As you stepped out of the Skorniakov-Malinin house, it felt as though you had willingly descended into the Ninth Circle of Dante's Inferno. It was no coincidence that at the very heart of Hell stretched the frozen lake of Cocytus — the eternal symbol of betrayal in its purest, most unforgivable form — for its glacial stillness echoed with unsettling perfection both the merciless betrayal you'd committed against Ilia and the bleak March sky hanging over the world, as cold, silent, and merciless as the guilt slowly entombing your heart.
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
At first, you were relieved that Ilia had left for the Czech Republic so quickly. Ever since the night you spent in his room, your pathetic drunken spiral into existential despair, and the spectacular argument you'd picked over one stupid Instagram story, you had been far too embarrassed to face him. You suspected he wasn't exactly eager to run into you either. If he'd merely disliked you before, now he had every right to hate you with his whole heart.
Besides, you had other disasters demanding your attention.
After missing your job interview at the bakery, getting into a fight with your aunt over taking out the trash, and enduring a painfully uncomfortable phone call from Sophie's mother — who had discovered your rather infamous musical career along with the scandal attached to your name, decided you were a disgraceful role model for her daughter, and promptly fired you — you wanted nothing more than to crawl into a snake's den and never emerge again.
You worried constantly about your future, which seemed to grow darker with every passing day, and you stood only a single step away from declaring open war on your mother; you were convinced she had orchestrated your dismissal as Sophie's nanny. Deep down, you knew your instincts were right. The moment your dear mother learned you'd returned to Virginia, she'd undoubtedly rushed to mention to your employer exactly what an irresponsible, crazy junkie her daughter supposedly was.
And although, during those first few days after Ilia's departure, those catastrophes occupied nearly every waking thought, it took only a single photograph of him posing beside a group of fans outside the Stages Hotel — one that flashed across your Instagram feed — to awaken the guilt you'd been trying so desperately to smother.
He looked heartbreakingly sad.
The comments beneath the photo blamed exhaustion, the crushing pressure of competing for the first time since the Olympic disaster, and the weight of everyone's expectations, yet you couldn't shake the terrible feeling that you'd had a hand in that sorrow yourself.
You had been unbelievably cruel to him. And you'd done it for one reason only: beneath the carefully constructed image of a fearless, untouchable woman lurked a coward who couldn't bring herself to tell the truth.
You didn't even bother pretending otherwise anymore. You couldn't convince yourself you'd been justified, nor could you lie that none of it had affected you. It had, far more than you wanted to admit.
In a feeble attempt to ease the guilt clawing at your conscience, you decided to watch his performance at the World Championships, despite the fact that it demanded a level of divided attention bordering on impossible.
As fate would have it, precisely when the final three groups of skaters stepped onto the ice at Prague's O2 Arena, you were busy looking after Sean.
Fortunately, you were clever enough to solve that problem with minimal effort. Instead of making Sean pancakes for breakfast and forcing him through another math worksheet, you simply took him to Patrick's and his dad's music shop, stopping for hot dogs on the way — because who exactly decided that was murder for your liver? Probably some smug doctor who'd never known happiness.
Sean required remarkably little convincing. All you had to do was promise that, in exchange for keeping quiet around his parents, you'd let him have pizza for dinner (again, who decided pizza was unhealthy?) and extend his computer time by another two hours that evening.
You couldn't be entirely sure Sean wouldn't rat you out anyway, but you were putting your faith in junk food's unmatched powers of persuasion. At the moment, the kid was your only source of income, and you were gambling quite a lot by neglecting his education and dragging him all over town instead, but for Ilia — you were willing to take that risk.
God. You sounded like some hopelessly lovestruck teenager.
Except you weren't in love. You didn't even like him. You just wanted to feel a little less like an awful human being after snapping at him and calling him every name under the sun immediately after he'd gone out of his way to help you.
“This thing is so freaking long and boring,” you complained, staring blankly at the tiny screen of your phone, where the live broadcast from Prague flickered before your tired eyes. “I'm literally gonna fall asleep. At least hockey players beat the crap out of each other. They knock rivals's teeth out. These guys just... glide around the ice, jump every once in a while, fall over, and everyone still claps. I seriously don't get it.”
You sincerely hoped nobody besides Patrick and Sean had heard that. If those words ever reached figure skating Twitter, you'd end up even more cancelled than you already were for allegedly destroying Ian's and Penny's relationship.
“Then why are you even watching it?” Patrick asked.
“I'm waiting for Ilia,” you replied, irritation creeping into your voice as yet another ice resurfacing break interrupted the competition before the final twelve skaters.
You'd never actually watched an entire skating competition before and had no idea they lasted this absurdly long — more than five hours. You regretted waking up at the crack of dawn and turning on the livestream from the very first group, but you figured it was a fitting form of penance.
Besides, there was a first time for everything.
“So figure skating in general is boring, but Ilia's skating isn't?” Patrick pressed, watching you curiously from behind a shelf of classical records while absentmindedly dusting it with a feather duster.
“Yup, something like that.” You shrugged. “Bro, don’t expect too much from me. I'm just a simple viewer who doesn't know shit about figure skating.” You pointed lazily at the screen. “I see a backflip — I’m interested.”
“Right.” Patrick rolled his eyes dramatically. “Interested in the backflip. Sure.” He snorted. “So that's the only reason you're watching Ilia? Because he does backflips?”
He paused just long enough for the grin spreading across his face to become deeply concerning. “Definitely not because you've secretly got a crush on him... and because his ass looks insanely good in those costumes.”
“Whose ass looks insanely good in a costume?” Sean piped up, finally looking away from the Rubik's Cube he'd been obsessively solving.
Heat rushed straight to your face. You shot Patrick a glare cold enough to freeze hell over.
“Oh, fuck off, Pat. Worry about your own ass.” Then you pointed accusingly at Sean. “And you, you little gremlin — quit eavesdropping.” You groaned dramatically and buried your face in your hands. “Will both of you just leave me alone?”
Sean found your outrage and frustration absolutely hilarious. The Rubik's Cube had apparently lost its appeal, because for the entirety of the fifth group's skate he did nothing but heckle you, tossing snide little comments your way whenever the opportunity presented itself. You shooed him off with an absent-minded wave of your hand and told him to occupy himself with something remotely productive if he wanted any chance of playing computer games that evening. Sean dramatically lowered his head in defeat before disappearing between the towering shelves of vinyl records, leaving a trail of destruction in the wake of his sticky little hands.
You paid him no mind. Your attention remained utterly consumed by the broadcast as the men of the final group stepped onto the ice one after another, each introduced beneath the arena lights by the announcer's measured voice. The screen flashed from one skater to the next — Nika Egadze, Kevin Aymoz, Adam Siao Him Fa — and then, finally, Ilia appeared.
You shifted in your seat, and your heart immediately began hammering against your ribs. He looked focused, composed, and quietly confident, carrying himself with the effortless assurance of someone who had long since learned how to silence the deafening roar of expectation.
"So..." Patrick's voice drifted lazily through the shop. "I was thinking maybe next week we could play some Genesis at The Hideout. What d'you think?"
"Mhm," you murmured without truly hearing a single word he'd said.
The only thing that existed for you was Ilia as he glided through his warm-up laps. When he peeled off his athletic zip-up jacket, revealing the shimmering upper half of his costume beneath the arena lights, a smile escaped you before you could stop it.
Maybe the whole Viking outfit wasn't nearly as hideous as you'd insisted it was. Now that your blind, stubborn resentment had loosened its grip, you found yourself noticing more and more things about Ilia that you actually liked.
"Or Phil Collins," Patrick continued, clearly entertaining himself by teasing you while you weren't listening. "Another Day in Paradise. Or In the Air Tonight. I'll send you the bass tabs later tonight. You won't even have anything to play until halfway through the song. Plenty of time to shotgun a beer and smoke a cigarette."
"Yuppp. Sounds good," you answered absent-mindedly, biting down on your lower lip as nervousness wound itself tighter and tighter inside your chest.
The six-minute warm-up came to an end. Your nerves were already more frayed than they had ever been before walking onto any stage.
"And you're really gonna sit there and tell us you haven't fallen for him?" Patrick drawled. "You're such a liar."
That accusation, at last, pierced through the haze surrounding your thoughts.
"What?" you blinked, genuinely bewildered. You hadn't the faintest idea what had been happening around you. Your heart — and every wandering fragment of your attention — had been in Prague all along.
"This." Patrick tilted his head, fixing you with an infuriatingly knowing look. "You like Malinin, don't you?"
Entirely uninterested in Nika Egadze's skate — though you were fairly certain he was doing well — you slowly shook your head, all the while trying to murder Patrick with your eyes alone. Unfortunately, he had long since grown immune to your temperament, and intimidating him had become increasingly difficult over the years.
Besides, you couldn't actually kill him. You still needed him as your unpaid servant, your emergency wallet, and your future drummer, should you ever change your mind and decide to start another band.
If even Dean, with standards impossibly high and opinions sharper than broken glass, had recognized genuine talent in him, then perhaps the two of you really did have a future as musicians.
Provided you changed your image. And your surname.
"Did you smack that stupid, balding excuse for a head on something this morning or what?" you shot back. "Of course not. I despise him."
Not a trace of conviction accompanied the words. If anything, your answer only confirmed Patrick's suspicions. You could no longer hide your growing fondness for Ilia. Besides, you'd already betrayed yourself with the way you'd looked at him back at The Hideout. Patrick might not have been the brightest person on Earth, but he was observant, and he had an irritating talent for reading everything left unsaid.
"Right," he snorted. "And I'm Elvis Presley."
You rolled your eyes so dramatically they nearly disappeared into the back of your skull.
"As if. You wish."
Your playful sparring was shattered by a tremendous crash. The deafening clatter of vinyl records hitting the floor made you nearly drop your phone face-first onto the ground. You and Patrick whipped your heads around in perfect synchrony.
Sean was crouched between the shelves, clumsily gathering records off the floor before attempting to shove them haphazardly back onto the rack. Your gaze landed on the iconic black sleeve of, Back in Black by AC/DC clenched in his tiny hands, and your heart seized in horror.
"You dipshit, what have you done?!" Patrick barked, launching himself across the shop with all the grace of a goalkeeper making a desperate save before snatching the records away from Sean with righteous indignation.
"Hey!" you protested immediately. "Don't insult my source of income! Only I get to do that!"
Sean puffed out his chest proudly before sticking his tongue out at your drummer.
"Yeah, motherfucker. Watch who you're talking to."
A laugh burst from your lips the moment the profanity left the boy's mouth. Patrick, meanwhile, was considerably less amused. He glanced back at you over his shoulder with the expression of a man who had just identified the mastermind behind a mass homicide.
You merely offered an innocent shrug, your attention drifting back toward your phone screen, where Nika sat in the Kiss&Cry between two plush hedgehogs, waiting for his scores beneath the harsh brilliance of the arena lights.
"And you see what you've done?" Patrick returned the records to their proper places before throwing his hands into the air in theatrical despair. "You've taught a child to curse."
"And I'm proud of it," you shot back without a shred of remorse. "Besides, he would've learned sooner or later anyway. I bet every kid in his neighborhood swears like a sailor. Now both of you, shut up and get over here, Ilia's about to skate."
You beckoned them over with a lazy wave of your hand.
Patrick joined you reluctantly, while Sean had already discovered a brand-new source of entertainment: rummaging through a dusty box filled with old music magazines.
You shifted sideways to make room for Patrick beside you, and together, in rare silence, you watched Kevin's program set to Lady Gaga — which fascinated you far more than you would have expected — followed by Adam's performance.
The instant Ilia stepped onto the ice, your anxiety climbed to its highest peak, as though it were you about to perform before the thousands gathered inside Prague's arena. Without even realizing it, you grabbed Patrick's hand and squeezed hard enough to nearly snap his fingers.
"Damn," Patrick muttered, genuinely impressed. "That dude's got one hell of a fanbase."
You pressed your lips together, fighting with everything you had to suppress the smile threatening to bloom across your face. The next three minutes vanished almost before they had begun. You barely registered each of Ilia's jumps. One heartbeat blurred into the next until he struck his final pose, and the arena erupted into thunderous applause.
The moment he skated toward center ice and bowed, a shower of plush toys rained down around him — Toothless plushies, naturally, making up the overwhelming majority.
"Holy shit..." Your eyes almost sparkled as you watched him leave the ice and wrap his father in a tight embrace. "He did it."
"Well, obviously he did," Patrick replied with a grin. "He's the quad god, after all. And you, my dear..." He nudged your shoulder knowingly. "You've got the most obvious crush on him I've ever seen."
You shoved him with all your strength, nearly knocking him onto the floor.
"Shut the fuck up." You folded your arms, pretending to refocus on the broadcast. "And you'd better start practicing Keep Yourself Alive before our next gig. Roger Taylor's drumming on that track is an absolute masterclass."
Two more skaters remained after Ilia. You, however, wanted nothing more than to congratulate him immediately. Patrick talked you out of it, insisting you'd only come across as desperate. In the end, you waited another hour before finally messaging Ilia.
By then, you'd taken Sean out for ice cream at your old workplace. Carrie had already grown thoroughly sick of the sight of you and made it abundantly clear — for what felt like the hundredth time — that she had absolutely no intention of hiring you back.
Oddly enough, it didn't bother you in the slightest. You were still so overwhelmingly happy about Malinin's victory that even another rejection couldn't put a dent in your mood. You looked positively euphoric, as if someone had slipped pure sunlight straight into your bloodstream.
your_username: saw your short program
your_username: i don't know anything about scoring or any of that stuff, but you skated really well.
your_username: obvi... considering you broke your record or whatever.
your_username: anyway, good luck on Saturday. i hope you win.
None of your messages were even marked as seen, even though you'd noticed he was active. Maybe his DMs were overflowing with spam and yours had simply vanished beneath it. Or maybe he just didn't want anything to do with you anymore.
The thought settled inside you like bitter sediment at the bottom of a glass. You couldn't blame him. Instead of talking to him — of communicating like a normal adult — you had treated him horribly.
You hated how utterly fucked up you were.
The disappointment of being ghosted, however, faded faster than you'd expected.
A few hours after the short program, you found yourself sitting hunched on your bed, absentmindedly twisting the edge of your blanket between your fingers as you replayed every event of the day over and over in your mind, searching for some hidden logic that refused to reveal itself, and despite your best efforts, you couldn't quite understand why, for the past several minutes, you'd been staring into a pair of amber, feline eyes, wide and faintly frightened.
You honestly couldn't tell which one of you was more terrified.
It had been pure impulse, and you had always lived by your impulses. After Sean's parents returned and you happily entrusted him to people considerably more responsible than yourself, you met up with your aunt, and the two of you went grocery shopping together. As you were walking back toward Andrea's car, you noticed her.
A tiny ginger kitten.
She was curled into herself in the middle of an empty parking space, her ragged, rain-soaked coat clinging to her fragile body, staring up at the two of you with such heartbreaking sorrow that it stole the breath straight from your lungs. She looked homeless.
You couldn't even remember the exact moment you'd decided to pick her up. Though she weighed almost nothing, it felt as though you were lifting solid iron, your arms suddenly burdened by the astonishing weight of your own reckless decision.
And just like that, you'd adopted an abandoned cat.
Your gaze wandered across your room, submerged in soft darkness, searching for somewhere your newest companion might feel safe. You hadn't the faintest clue what kittens actually needed. You hoped the veterinarian — who, judging by Andrea's immediate warning in the car that she wasn't contributing a single cent to this venture, would undoubtedly cost you a small fortune — would explain everything tomorrow.
You could've asked Ilia. He had two cats, after all. But there was no way you were humiliating yourself even further by messaging someone who hadn't opened a single text you'd sent him that morning.
"So..." you whispered into the stillness of the night, awkwardly reaching out to stroke the kitten. She shrank away from your hand, still too wary to trust you. You narrowed your eyes. "You're not gonna scratch me... right?"
A tiny, uncertain meow answered you. You sighed. Easy enough.
Ilia had earned himself a little medal for the highest score in the short program. You, meanwhile, had somehow ended up with a cat to take care of. March, it seemed, had developed a rather peculiar talent for surprises.
summary: For as long as she can remember, it always started with him—the boy next door and her brother’s best friend. Over the years, an innocent childhood crush became a habit, a secret she got used to keeping to herself as she stayed stuck in the role of the nerdy little sister. Now that summer has arrived, things are finally beginning to melt under the heat—and it might just turn cruel.
word count: 7,5k
author’s note: it took me like 2 weeks, but it's finally here! english is not my first language, so I hope you keep that in mind! any feedback, questions, writing tips, and criticism will be greatly appreciated! this chapter contains sexual content, MDNI
You stare at the screen again, Cam's voice slowly fading into the background. She's on FaceTime with you, showing you two dresses she has as options for a last-minute wedding invitation. Originally, she had planned to decline, but your and Ziggy's points were convincing enough that she decided to put her gaming console aside for one night, opting instead to spend time with her relatives.
"Is it, like, too slutty for a wedding?"
"No, it's perfect."
"But the cut is low."
"Well, it's not like you have the boobs to fill it out."
"Bitch," she chuckles, throwing you a half-annoyed, half-offended look. She squints at the screen because she still hasn't picked up her new prescription glasses, being the procrastinator she is. "Are you still dwelling on Ilia's text?"
"What am I supposed to reply?!"
"Tell him you'll talk to him once your exams are over."
"My exams are over in, like, two weeks," you sigh, leaning back in your gaming chair as you shut your eyes tight for a few seconds. You feel entirely overwhelmed by the single text message you haven't opened since this morning. It's almost 5 p.m. now.
The truth is, you're not really ignoring him. Sure, maybe you ran away after he confessed to you and kissed you, but it's not like you've seen him since then or have been deliberately avoiding him. And it's only been two days. You're just not actively seeking to resolve whatever happened because the whole situation scares you even more than the reality excites you. The embarrassment still lingers every time you relive those few seconds when you tugged the door handle and ran away as he called out your name.
"Why are you so uptight about this whole thing? It's Ilia."
"Yes, exactly!" you huff, rolling your eyes. Explaining something to your best friend is hard, especially when you don't even understand it yourself. "He kissed me and I ran away like an idiot!"
"And now you're acting like a bigger idiot because you keep ignoring him."
"I mean, I'm not exactly ignoring him."
"Oh, shut up," she exhales, throwing you a dirty look before she puts the black dress away in the closet, presumably brushing aside your opinion that it looks appropriate for a wedding. "Tell him you needed time to think and you'll talk to him soon."
"When is soon?"
"Honestly, I'm running out of patience with you."
"Alright, alright," you admit in a defeated voice, straightening your spine as if it somehow gives you the confidence you desperately need. "I'll figure something out."
"Yes, like you always do."
"But this is, like, an exceptional case."
"Are you going to keep ranting about that Russian boy, or will you help me finish my wedding look?"
You nod, leaning forward so you can see the jewelry options she's showing you. You try to bite back the comment that all of them are ugly—but you do, because it fits Cam's style perfectly and you are a good friend.
The call with her ends approximately twenty minutes later. You find yourself spinning in your gaming chair, thumbs hovering over the keyboard as you type out several responses before aggressively hitting the delete button, never satisfied with the outcome. Eventually, you stop and ask yourself if it's really that serious. The next second, you've sent a message before fully thinking it through. Your heartbeat quickens just enough when you see that he has read it almost immediately.
You: I'm sorry. I know we need to talk.
Ilia: Are you home?
You: I'm kind of in the middle of something.
You panic when he doesn't respond. Your eyes widen as you realize he hasn't even opened your last message, meaning he's probably already on his way over. Cursing under your breath, you leap up from the chair. You frantically look around the room to find something to put on instead of your washed-out t-shirt, which has holes in the collar thanks to your habit of chewing on it whenever you're bored. A dark blue t-shirt that you snagged from Jace's room at some point is in much better condition, complementing a pair of gray shorts that were also his before puberty fully had its impact on him.
The doorbell rings just as you're sprinting down the stairs. He knows your dad is still at work, and he also knows that Jace hits the gym around this time every Tuesday. There's not really a reason for him to hide or hold back, meaning you're forced to have this conversation even if you're not fully prepared for it. Maybe it's better this way, before you start overthinking and potentially ruining something that hasn't even started yet.
"Hi."
You give him a somewhat shy smile, stepping aside to silently welcome him in. He eyes you for a second, opening his mouth slightly as if he's about to say something, but ultimately decides against it. He's wearing one of the many Toothless t-shirts he owns, his shorts hugging him perfectly. You subtly eye him as he steps inside, wondering when exactly his glutes managed to grow like that.
"What are you up to?"
"Um… just the usual stuff," you shrug, heat rushing to your face despite trying so hard to sound casual. It's almost like you've completely forgotten how to talk to him.
He gives you an expectant look, the kind that encourages you to start talking, but the silence hangs heavy in the room. Your palms seem to grow sweaty, so you hide them at your sides as if they are the sole thing giving away your uneasiness and not the panicked expression plastered on your face.
"Can we just talk?" he asks abruptly, as if he's finally had enough of the awkwardness. He sighs, looking at you with slightly raised eyebrows—an expression you know well from when he's feeling sorry or worried about something. You shift uncomfortably, pressing your lips together as he continues. "It's me. Things don't have to be awkward."
"I know."
"Then why are you avoiding me?"
"I'm not," you exhale, resisting the urge to bury your face in your hands. Looking him straight in the eye is deeply embarrassing, especially when he shakes his head, his gaze hardening. "I'm just…"
"You're just what?" he presses, vaguely gesturing with his hands. "Look, I understand if you needed time to think, and I wanted to give you space, but you haven't talked to me in almost three days. You ran away after I kissed you. I just… I don't know what to think."
"I know it was a stupid thing to do."
"Are you still mad at me?"
The question takes you aback. You pause when his voice comes out quieter. The answer doesn't come easily because you haven't actually thought about it. All you could think about these past few days was the fact that Ilia kissed you, and that he actually liked you back—just as you had always wished he would.
"No," you reply after a while, concluding that you don't feel an ounce of the rage you felt a few days ago. "I ran away because I was confused and… scared. I'm just stupid."
"You're not." He shakes his head and steps forward, gently pushing your blue-light glasses back up after they had slid down your nose. You only wear them because of your dad's insistence; he always uses the excuse of being a doctor who "knows better" when he forces you and your brother to do things you don't really want to do.
"Usually I'm not, no, but running away that night was one of the most embarrassing things I've ever done."
"It doesn't top the talent show you did back in middle school."
"Oh, shut up," you groan at the memory, avoiding his gaze as he lets out a laugh. He tugs at your arm, pulling you toward him. It's as if the heavy tension completely breaks with the solo memory, a stark reminder that this is Ilia—the guy you grew up with, the boy you never need to shy away from. He stares down at you with a soft expression, fixing the pieces of hair that messily frame your face. "You weren't so great at that talent show either."
"I got first place."
"Just because you sucked less than the other kids doesn't mean you didn't suck."
The corner of his lip lifts, a smile stretching across his face as his voice loses its teasing edge. "As much as I enjoy this conversation, can we go back to where we started?"
"You like embarrassing me, don't you?"
"No, I just want to establish the fact that I like you," he repeats, more confident this time. His eyes search yours while you stare at him quietly, your chest tightening at the words that make you dizzy. They still feel unfamiliar, but you could easily get used to them. "And I'm sorry for being a coward and not sticking up for us when it mattered. I was a jerk that night."
"It hurt. A lot."
"I know."
"I've spent the last few years having a massive crush on you," you admit openly, your heart hammering against your ribs. Something twists in your stomach as you hold back, choosing not to tell him that your feelings are actually much greater than a silly crush. It's too soon, you tell yourself, clinging to the excuse. "And hearing you say that… it just destroyed me. You brushed me off like I was just Jace's annoying little sister you're forced to tolerate… And then you just confessed out of the blue when I was so mad at you, and I just…" You can't even finish the sentence, unable to find the words for what you felt in that moment. "It was a lot to take in."
"I'm sorry. I hate myself for how I handled that," he says, his voice apologetic. He reaches down, gently taking your hands in his, forcing you to look up at him. "The second Jack brought you up, I panicked. He kind of already knew, and I was afraid he would see right through me. And if Jack found out, Jace would find out."
The image of your brother flashes across your mind. He loves Ilia; there's no doubt that in any world, he would consider his best friend worthy of you, but you also know him well enough to know he won't be happy about this. Both you and Ilia know that if Jace finds out, things are going to get ugly.
"I took the easy way out because I was terrified," Ilia confesses, his blue eyes sincere, pleading with you to understand. "I was terrified of how messy things would get if they found out how I actually felt about you."
"Jace won't approve."
"I know."
You exhale, your shoulders dropping, heavy with a secret that already feels like a burden. He lets go of your hands only to cup the side of your face, his fingers sliding into your hair. "Look at me."
You look up, meeting the intense blue of his eyes.
"I've felt this way about you for a while, and I always tried to tell myself it was wrong," he says softly, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "Yeah, maybe I'm not supposed to have feelings for my best friend's sister because of some unwritten moral code, but it's not wrong. It doesn't feel wrong anymore. The whole time I was on tour, I missed home terribly, and then I realized it was you I was homesick for."
The honesty in his voice completely undoes you, stripping away the last string of your hesitation. Suddenly, you find yourself leaning in, sneaking your arms around his back and burying your face in his chest, inhaling his familiar scent. His response is immediate. He pulls you tighter against him, rubbing your back affectionately and pressing a light kiss into your hair.
You don't know how much time passes before he gently lifts your head up, caressing your jaw with his palm. His blue eyes sweep over your face, his thumb eventually coming to rest on your bottom lip.
"Can I kiss you?"
"It's not like you asked the first time, either."
He grins, leaning in and pressing his lips against yours. Closing your eyes, you sigh into the touch. His mouth is warm against yours, his hands roaming over your back as they clutch your t-shirt. Your hand flies into his hair, the short strands soft between your fingertips as you gently tug at them. You only pull back when you're left breathless, your chest heaving up and down just like his. A smile breaks across his face.
"By the way," his voice turns teasing, his fingertip tracing a slow line up your arm. "You're wearing my t-shirt."
"What?" Your brows furrow, genuine confusion making your lips pout.
"Yeah. Jace ended up borrowing it a while ago, but he never gave it back."
"Well, I'm not giving it back either."
"Good," he smiles, his eyes almost shining. "I don't want you to."
You grin at him, intertwining your fingers with his—at first shyly, then gripping him tightly, leading him up to your room to show him the new Lego set you've built before Jace comes back.
Neither of you talk about it, neither of you openly discuss it, but you quickly slip into a routine.
His texts come in every morning and night, the day never ending without late-night conversations with him, your friends teasing you that you have temporarily replaced them. He gives you rides to the university—half the time you secretly slide into the passenger seat, and the other half of the time you casually mention to Jace that you two happen to have the same schedule. Your brother doesn't think anything of it, you're sure, casually waving you off before his stare fixes back on the computer screen.
On the rare occasions that you're free from studying and working and the house is empty for you to use as you please, he comes over. You watch movies, play games, cook pasta for him, and teach him how to play Sudoku. He brings you your favorite snacks and you cuddle on the couch, always glancing at the clock to make sure you don't get caught. Sometimes it's hard, pretending nothing exists between you two except a platonic relationship, and perhaps there's no reason to wait anymore, because Jace will rage at both of you anyways—but still, neither of you speak about it. Perhaps you like the thrill of sneaking around behind everyone's back. Perhaps, despite how much you don't want to admit it out loud, the idea of things getting real scares you both.
"Come on, just one more lap."
"I can't!"
"Stop whining."
Jace exhales, nudging you to continue running while your chest heaves up and down, your whole body sweaty as you try to fight off your legs from giving up. You watch him run ahead of you, wiping the sweat from your forehead before you straighten your spine, jogging after him in a way less energetic way.
Jace thinks of himself as a caring brother, which is why he has decided to take care of your physical health, forcing you to run with him almost every day and feeding you the protein smoothies he enthusiastically makes every morning. You're doing laps around the neighborhood, having just passed your house, when you see Jace stopping. You squint your eyes to confirm that the blonde talking to him is Ilia.
"Hey."
"Hi," you wave at him, still breathless. His face is completely relaxed, unlike yours, a smile plastered across it. You're wearing nothing special—just shorts and a sports bra—but his gaze still shifts, subtly eyeing you before he fixes his stare back on Jace. He's wearing Snoopy pants and a plain white t-shirt, making it evident that he just rolled out of bed, holding some letters in his hand. Tatyana must have sent him out to collect the mail.
"You should run with us," Jace tells him, nudging him on the shoulder. Then he gestures toward you, pointing a finger. "I have to keep this one in shape, and I need help because she's awful company."
"Oh, shut up."
"You've been whining for the whole run!" he insists, throwing you an annoyed look while Ilia witnesses the sibling interaction with an amused expression. "No, ever since this morning, before we even started running."
"Because instead of helping me gradually build stamina, you just force me to run for over an hour and I'm exhausted!" you argue, looking over at Ilia so he can prove your point. "You're an athlete. Tell him that he's an awful instructor."
"I fear she's right, Jace."
"What's up with you always agreeing with her lately?" Jace rolls his eyes, throwing him a dirty look. The smile washes off your face, but he doesn't notice it. He doesn't notice either when Ilia nervously shifts, his smile turning awkward. "You're supposed to be my best friend."
"It's not like you own him."
"I own him more than you do."
Jace winks at you, convinced that he's made a point, while you bite down on your tongue before you regret the next words escaping your throat. Ilia must notice that Jace's words leave a bitter taste in your mouth, because he swiftly changes the topic, talking about their next hangout as you look at your watch, contemplating that you should just go home.
"I'm streaming this afternoon."
"What are you going to play?"
"Probably Fortnite again."
"Bro, people are tired of watching you play that shit," Jace groans, his dislike of Fortnite shining through. It's a topic he and Ilia still haven't agreed upon after all these years. "Even Geometry Dash is more entertaining."
"I was going to play FIFA with Jacob, but he ditched me for practice," Ilia sighs, and even though your eyes are fixed on your phone screen, you can feel him subtly glancing at you. "I asked your sister to accompany me, but she turned me down… playing Valorant would be fun."
Feeling both of them burning their stares through your skull, you lift your head up, shrugging as you purse your lips. "I don't really want to engage with your crazy fangirls."
"People usually behave, and I have mods."
"Yeah sis, show him some generosity," Jace backs him up, to your surprise, your eyes squinting at his behavior, which seems suspicious. "Teach him how to play Valorant properly."
"I can absolutely play Valorant!"
"I said properly," Jace grins, slapping his back in what is supposed to be an affectionate way. Then he backs up a few steps, looking at you with determination as he motions for you to follow him. "Now come on, one last lap."
You throw Ilia a helpless look, a subtle smirk tugging at his lips as he mouths words you absolutely cannot decipher. Then you leave him there, jogging after Jace as you glance behind your shoulder every few seconds, only to find him staring right back at you.
You: NO
Ilia: Come ooon
Ilia: It's gonna be Fun
Ilia: I want to stream with you
Ilia: Please :(
You stare at the screen, then back to the clock, contemplating whether you're ready to give in and accept his invitation or not. Occasionally streaming with Ziggy and Cam is fun because the chat is chill, and mostly the conversation is just about Valorant or other games you play together. But even from just watching bits of Ilia's stream a handful of times, you know his is drastically different. You know you'll probably get dragged online for no reason, because some fans can just be that crazy.
Maybe you just don't have the heart to turn him down, or maybe a secret, deep part of you wants to remind others of your existence and your place in his life. It sounds stupid, but when another text comes through—this time a picture of him making a pouty face—you find yourself smiling. You agree without giving it any further thought.
Jace helps you set up the camera, removing a few plushies from your bed because he insists they leave a "loser impression" of you. He takes Dusty too, with the excuse that she might be frightened by the loud noises you and Ilia will probably make, but really he just wants to cuddle her.
"You're all set up!" he exclaims with unusual enthusiasm, patting you on the back as he leans in to wipe the lens once again. "Destroy his ass."
"Why are you so excited about this?"
"Because you're a good gamer and I want people to appreciate you."
"Are you soft-launching that you want me to become a full-time Twitch streamer?" You squint your eyes at him, an almost disgusted expression plastered on your face.
"Nah, you donut, you're way too intelligent to be a Twitch streamer," he ruffles your hair, earning a sharp slap on the arm in exchange. He backs off toward the door, clutching Dusty in his hands while she looks at you with a helpless expression. He's about to walk out when he stops, whipping his head around as he squints at the t-shirt you're wearing. "You stealer, that's mine."
"Start learning how to do your laundry, maybe then you won't lose your clothes," you grin at him, completely omitting the fact that it isn't his shirt at all, but Ilia's. "Okay, go now, Ilia is calling."
"Alright."
He disappears, the door softly clicking shut behind him. It takes you and Ilia approximately five minutes to figure everything out, him ceaselessly reminding you that it's nothing to worry about even though you aren't showing an ounce of uneasiness. You're not so bad at pretending.
"Okay, I'll start the stream in a minute."
"Alright."
"You should start streaming, and then I'll send you an invite you can accept."
"I know how this stuff works," you laugh out loud, rolling your eyes at him while he stares back at you with a wide smile. "You should clean the mess behind you before they start making fun of you for having a messy room again."
"Literally, what am I supposed to do with these?" he gestures helplessly behind himself. "It's a mountain of plushies!"
"And a half-ass made bed, along with empty chocolate wrappers on the nightstand."
"Okay, stop judging me!" he huffs, giving you a pouty look. "Do you want to do a shared chat?"
"Sure, it's not like people will be watching my stream anyway."
"No, I'm sure they will." He says it with a determination that amuses you, but you don't argue.
You try to recall the last time you did this—not streaming on Twitch in general, but doing it with him. It was back in 2023, when he was supposed to play with Jace. Since your brother caught a cold, you were summoned to sub in for him. It lasted maybe an hour before Ilia got bored. Jace joked that he ended the stream early because you beat him at every single game.
The moment you go live, you have three viewers: your best friends Ziggy and Cam, and another online friend you sometimes play with. They immediately flood the chat, the inside jokes never ceasing until you tell them to keep their mouths shut. Ilia sends you the invite soon after, and then his face pops up on your screen. His chat starts flooding in, and your throat goes dry for a second before you manage to smile, your voice coming out softer than usual.
"Hi."
The all-caps messages quickly catch your eye. Most of them are asking who you are, some of them already know, and a few are showing you love that takes you aback. Ilia quickly introduces you, a bitter taste lingering in your mouth when he refers to you as his friend—but it's fine. You both know it's not true. You shouldn't care about what outsiders believe.
"Why are you reloading? You had twenty-two bullets!"
"I forgot about it, okay?!" Ilia's voice comes through your headset, sounding slightly panicked.
You sigh, keeping your eyes locked on the screen. "Don't you dare peek."
But it's already too late. The second Ilia swings the corner, a shot rings out. You watch him drop right in front of you. You hear him groan, irritation seeping into your own voice. "I told you not to peek!"
"I thought I could get him," Ilia says, immediately trying to defend himself. "I had the angle."
"No, you had confidence. That's different," you note, a layer of smugness coating your voice. You peek at his webcam for a second to find him smiling. "You're so bad at this."
"Everyone starts somewhere!"
"Guys, even Liza plays better than him," you snort, leaning back against your seat as you watch your own agent die, surrendering the round to the opposite team so you can start another one with Ilia. So far, you've only won three times.
"Let's take a break for a while and answer some questions," Ilia announces, leaning close to his screen so he can read the comments. He squints until his face falls, a disappointed expression shooting in your direction. "Never mind. I shouldn't have."
You laugh, reading the comments that keep roasting him in contrast to praising you. He spends the next two minutes scanning the questions, trying to involve you, but mostly you keep to yourself. It's his stream, after all. And it's not like most of these people care about you.
"Someone's asking about our favorite superheroes," Ilia laughs like it's obvious, his gaze wandering behind you, looking at the Spiderman poster displayed on your wall. "I think yours is Batman, right?"
"Yes, either him or Quicksilver," you grin, going along with him, purposely sliding around in your chair so you can give them a better view of the poster. "I like lots of superheroes, with a few exceptions. Spider-Man is, like, so overrated."
"Yeah, totally."
"I feel like it's one of those superheroes targeted specifically for a children's audience."
"Yes," he says, a subtle smile tugging at his lips before he bursts out laughing. "I think we can play FNAF next, yeah."
"Oh my god, I love FNAF," your voice immediately gets excited. Leaning toward the screen, your eyes practically sparkle under the dim lights as you scan the comments. "Resident Evil too… Dead Space is definitely underrated, I agree… The last horror game I played, mhm, I think it was Soma."
"I have not played any of them."
"Sure you haven't," you snort at Ilia's comment, your eyes crinkling. "You get jump-scared all the time."
"I am gonna let that slide."
"Jace is working on a deadline, guys," you answer one of the comments, and the chat immediately floods with his name like they just remembered his existence. Then you squint at another message. "Oh my god, we do not look alike!"
"Who is she?" Ilia reads out loud. He spins around in his chair, a subtle smirk tugging at his lips when his eyes snap back to yours through the screen. "Jace's annoying little sister."
You laugh, not even slightly offended by it, because you know this time he doesn't mean it. You find yourself enjoying the secrecy you two share right in front of a chat of a few thousand people. Ilia proceeds to answer some questions regarding his training and skating, and then you two are just about to boot up Five Nights at Freddy's when a blur of motion cuts across your vision. Dusty comes sprinting across your keyboard, pausing for a second to look at the bright screen.
"Oh, hi Dusty," Ilia coos from the screen, his voice turning high-pitched just like when he talks to his cats. "That's her chinchilla, guys."
You scoop her up before she flees, gently pressing a kiss to her fur before you let her go. She immediately sprints down from your shoulder, jumps onto the bed, and settles somewhere behind the pillows.
"Ilia is scared of Dusty, guys."
"Stop spreading misinformation!" his voice rises in disbelief, shaking his head like he's deeply disappointed in you. "I'm not, guys. I love animals."
"Yo, what's up, bro?"
Suddenly, a loud noise breaks the flow as Jace comes into the frame, slapping his hands down on your shoulders. He makes you jolt, and you throw him an annoyed look through the lens.
"Hi, Jace."
"Hey, everyone," he waves at the camera, hovering over your chair as he looks at the chat, his smile wide and impossible. "Did my sister beat your ass?"
"I fear she did."
"Well, it's my turn then," he grins, motioning for you to get up. You look over your shoulder, giving him an offended look, but he completely ignores you. "I finished the deadline. Let me play with him, sis."
"We were about to play FNAF."
"Ilia sucks at that game."
"Bro, can't I just enjoy games?!" Ilia complains, shaking his head. "I don't have to be good at it."
"That's an excuse bad gamers use."
"My god, you're so annoying." You stand up from the chair, removing the headset and handing it to him because you know he won't leave you alone anyway.
A twinge of irritation sets in as he settles into your chair, seamlessly resuming the stream with Ilia as if you were just a temporary placeholder for him until he arrived. You know Jace doesn't have ill intentions, and he definitely doesn't realize the weight of what he's doing, but a sharp prickle of anger burns through you nonetheless. You close the door behind you and head down the stairs with an excuse of getting something to eat. He yells after you to make your signature pasta and leave some for him.
You ignore him. But when you get into the kitchen and start prepping the sauce while the water boils in the pot, you find yourself rationing enough for more than just yourself.
Your phone buzzes on the counter.
Ilia: Are you mad?
You almost roll your eyes at the question, but a smile still tugs at your lips because he noticed, and he cares.
You: just a bit annoyed
Ilia: I'm sorry
You: it's fine, it's not your fault
Ilia: He just invited me over For a Movie night
You: should I make pasta for 3?
Ilia: Yes please
You grin at the messages, locking your phone away and setting it on the table. He hasn't slept over since that night, and the thought of him staying in the room right next to yours while Jace sleeps dead to the world leaves you both excited and nervous.
Ilia arrives shortly after they end the stream. The pasta is ready, and the three of you eat at the table, no longer waiting for your dad because he decided to get drinks with his friends and called to say he might crash at a friend's place tonight in Washington—which means he definitely isn't coming home.
"What's up with him always staying somewhere else lately?" Jace asks, giving you a weirded-out expression as he shrugs his shoulders. "He has conferences, like, every two weeks."
You stop eating, briefly sharing a glance with Ilia to see that he confirms your thoughts. You straighten your spine, wiping your mouth with a napkin as you pause, unsure of how to strike up a conversation about it.
"Jace…"
"What?"
"You really think he's traveling for medical conferences?" You raise an eyebrow, trying so hard not to make him feel stupid, but failing anyway.
"What do you mean?" He furrows his eyebrows, looking at you first before his eyes lock back onto Ilia, who stays silent, letting the two of you settle it. "Where else would he be going?"
"Jace, he's seeing someone."
"What?" He snorts, rolling his eyes like you've said something impossible. Maybe it isn't supposed to, but it makes a spark of anger ignite within you. "Come on."
"Why is that so funny to you?"
"Because it's dad we're talking about."
"So?!"
"Why would he be sneaking around behind our backs?" he asks, looking at you in confusion. While you don't have a definitive answer to that question, you still can't believe he hasn't realized it until now. "He's an adult."
"I don't know, but do you seriously think he attends all these medical conferences and goes out to grab a drink with Dale every week with an excuse not to come home at night?" You roll your eyes, huffing at how stupid it sounds. "It's clear that he's seeing someone. I don't know why he feels the need to hide it from us, and I'm not going to bring it up until he does, but I thought you knew about it and we just didn't discuss it."
"Yeah, I haven't really thought about my dad sneaking behind my back like a teenager," his voice turns frustrated, something bitter laced in his tone.
He resumes eating, your eyes snapping back to your plate as you feel Ilia squeezing your hand under the table. Abruptly, Jace drops his fork, the clinking noise loud against his empty bowl. "I don't understand why he would hide it! It's not like we're children and we'd get mad or something!"
"I don't know, Jace."
"So, Dad is having a secret relationship behind our backs," he snorts, repeating the words like he's trying to let the information sink in. He leans across the chair, squinting his eyes as he looks at you for a second. Panic almost settles into your body because you can't quite decipher his expression. "Are you, by any chance, too?"
You roll your eyes, shrugging off his question as a joke. Thankfully, he doesn't dwell on it, and most likely, he doesn't notice the quick glances you and Ilia share with each other either.
Since you usually don't tag along with them when Ilia comes over and the movie Jace chose is boring to you, you go upstairs to your room, finishing the book you started a few days ago before you play with Cam and Ziggy for a while. You barely get a chance to talk to Ilia, and it only happens when you go downstairs for a snack while Jace is in the restroom.
"Streaming was fun," he murmurs, leaning against the counter while you cut up some fruit. You give him a piece of peach, which he takes without hesitation. "We should do it again."
"Maybe."
"Don't tell me you didn't enjoy it."
"I did, before Jace crashed it."
He sighs, giving you a pouty look as he leans in, quickly pressing his lips to yours, letting you taste the sweetness on his lips. You smile through the kiss, fixing his hair that's been growing out steadily over the past few weeks. A part of you wants to beg Tatyana to cut it again.
"Are you going to sleep?"
"It's not even 11 p.m. yet."
"Would you, um… would you like a cuddle buddy afterward?" he asks almost shyly, your heart on the verge of bursting at how adorable he is. His blue eyes sweep over your face, his cheeks flushed with heat.
"Are you asking for permission to sneak into my room?"
"Respectfully."
"Then you have it."
You reciprocate his grin, leaning in one more time to kiss him again before you hear Jace's heavy footsteps on the stairs.
They stay up way past midnight, both of them entirely engaged in their game, not even noticing you when you go down to get a glass of water and slip right past them.
It's way past 3 a.m. when you lock your phone and put it aside, Ziggy finally recalling that he has to wake up early tomorrow for his fencing practice. It keeps raining, the drops hitting against the window making a pleasant sound to fall asleep to, but you keep tossing in your sheets, unable to find a comfortable position.
Your eyes are shut tight when you slowly feel drowsiness wash over you, and just as you're about to drift off, you're snapped back to wakefulness. The floor creaks, the footsteps light as he quietly closes the door behind him. You keep your eyes shut, pretending to be asleep when you feel the mattress dip down. He carefully climbs under the blanket, the weight of his legs subtly pressing against yours. You feel him shift closer, slowly circling an arm around your waist as he leans down and presses a light kiss to your cheekbone. You can't contain the smile that breaks across your face when he tucks his chin over your shoulder, his breath fanning over your neck.
"I know you're awake," he murmurs, his voice sending shivers down your spine.
Switching sides to face him under the moonlight that spills into the room, you make out his nose and blue eyes, his grip tightening around your waist. Throwing your leg over his waist to chase his warmth, you snuggle deep into his chest, a content hum escaping your throat as his familiar scent floods your nostrils.
"I couldn't sleep," he whispers, his lips brushing against your forehead. "I thought you were long asleep but I'm pretty sure I heard you giggling, like, fifteen minutes ago."
"Yeah, Ziggy said something stupid," you smile, a chuckle escaping your throat at the memory. Sliding your hand under his t-shirt because his warmth is comfortable against your skin, you trace lines on his back, wishing you could somehow close the distance that doesn't exist between you two anymore—wishing you could completely let him swallow you in. "You can't fall asleep here."
"Just let me stay for a little bit," he mumbles. "I'll sneak out early."
"Mhm."
The silence, the soft sound of the rain, and the warmth of his body against you feels just right, leaving you ready to let sleep consume you. But then, you notice his body suddenly stiffen. His breathing hitches. He stops moving completely, freezing like a statue against you. Before you can even ask what’s wrong, you feel the hardness pressing against your thin shorts, your eyes slowly opening as the realization sinks in.
"Oh, fuck," he murmurs, gently pushing you away, untangling his legs from yours and rolling onto his back. He groans, covering his face with his arm, refusing to look you in the eye. "Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—I mean, fuck, I'm sorry."
"Hey, it's fine."
"No, it's not," he insists, clearly unable to let the initial embarrassment go. "We were having this sweet moment and I got a boner like a schoolboy."
"I mean, I'm honored."
He huffs, a breathless chuckle escaping your own throat at his stubbornness. You glance toward the closed door, your pulse picking up just enough for you to feel the heat radiating from your body. Licking your lips, you glance back at him, sprawled on his back, still refusing to look at you. You stretch out your hand, gently touching his arm. "Do you, um… do you want me to help?"
Ilia drops his arm from his face, his blue eyes widening. He looks at you like he can't quite process what you just said. "What?"
"I mean…" You shift a little closer, your voice dropping to an absolute whisper, shy as you feel your face burn with heat. "Jace is right down the hall. We can't do it. But I can… you know."
He sits up, biting down on his lip as he stares at you. "You're sure?"
"Yeah."
"You don't have to, really—"
"Ilia," you stop him, pressing your palm against his mouth until his body relaxes. "I want to."
You remove your hand, leaving his mouth slightly agape as he stares up at you. Before you can overthink it, you nudge him back into a comfortable position, throwing your leg over his thigh to straddle him. Your fingers are almost trembling when you reach the waistband of his shorts, slipping your hand underneath to wrap your palm around him. The moment your hand makes contact with his burning skin, a low breath hitches in his throat. His mouth falls open, his teeth digging into his bottom lip.
"Ilia…" You lean in, your face so close to his that you can feel his hot breath on your skin. Your own body is slowly setting on fire, something twisting deep in your stomach as you feel your shorts getting damper. Brushing your lips against his ear, you whisper, "You have to be quiet."
"I am trying," his voice is weak, so soft that it makes your chest tighten. "It’s just… you’re really warm."
You take his hand, placing it on top of yours where it's wrapped around him, silently asking him to guide you. With pure instinct and the direction of his trembling hand against yours, you begin to move, the rhythm clumsy at first before you adjust to the unfamiliar feeling. The moment you find a steady pace, his eyes flutter shut.
"Like that?" you whisper, your face burning as you watch him completely unravel under your touch.
"Yeah," he chokes out, his other hand digging into your hip. "Exactly like that. Just… don't stop."
His head rolls back against the bedframe, his chest heaving up and down in shallow, ragged breaths. His hand falls away to his side, letting you fully take control. The sight of him is enough to make your mouth water, your own breath uneven as you pick up the rhythm.
He lets out a soft whimper, the stillness of the room pierced by the sudden rise in his voice. You lean in to kiss him, sucking his bottom lip into your mouth to keep him quiet. You continue moving your hand up and down, feeling his hips subtly shift against your palm. As you swirl your tongue over his, he abruptly pulls back, his mouth glistening in the dark.
"Wait," he mutters suddenly, his eyes snapping open. His gaze looks almost drunken in the moonlight. He grips your wrist, slowing you down for a fraction of a second. "Hold on, I don't want to—"
"It's okay," you whisper fiercely against his cheek, leaning your weight into him to keep him right there, refusing to let him pull away.
He lets out a defeated, ragged sigh, his fingers locking tightly between yours as you guide him through the final moments. His entire body goes rigid, a tremor running straight through his muscles as he buries his face deeply into the crook of your neck, smothering a heavy groan right against your skin.
For a minute, he stays just like that, the ragged sound of his breathing slowly quietening down. Gradually, the tension in his body drains away, leaving him completely relaxed against you. He pulls his hand back, his face still half-buried in your shoulder as he lets out a long, exhausted breath.
"Wow," he murmurs, finally looking up at you. His hair is a total mess and his cheeks are flushed a deep red. A quiet, shy smile touches his lips. "That was… woah."
You let out a quiet, breathless laugh, reaching over to grab a tissue from your nightstand to clean your hand. As you're about to climb off him and slide back into the warmth of the bed, he stops you, keeping his grip on your waist tight so you don't move.
"You think I'm just gonna let you sleep after that?"
He leans in, his voice soft and his mouth warm against your skin as he places a gentle kiss on your neck. One of his hands slides up underneath your top, your eyes fluttering shut when he slowly trails his fingers to your breasts. A shiver runs down your spine, your breath hitching in your throat when he cups them with his palms. His fingertips brush across your hardened buds as you throw your head back, biting down on your lip so a moan doesn't escape your throat—because if it does, you know it'll be impossible to contain yourself.
You offer no resistance as he pulls the shirt over your head, his stare almost hungry. He gently nudges you down onto the mattress, hovering over you while he continues trailing kisses down your chest. The moment his mouth closes around your nipple, your back arches instantly. You bury your fingers into the bedsheets, gripping the fabric until your knuckles turn white to stifle the muffled gasp tearing from your throat. His hands slide down to your hips, removing your shorts in one smooth motion that leaves you entirely exposed to the cool air of the room.
When he dips his head between your legs, you open them for him in a welcoming way. The first touch of his tongue makes you slap a palm firmly over your mouth, your mind turning dizzy with the unfamiliar feeling that runs down your whole body, completely consuming it.
summary: You were young, and the whole world was at your feet. At eighteen, you managed to start a rock band, escape your hometown, and begin chasing your dreams. You toured, gained fame, and did what you loved most — making music.
But life has a way of rewriting the script. Just as quickly as you rose to the top, you fell from it. You were kicked out of the very band you founded and, broke and defeated, returned home with your tail between your legs.
What you couldn’t stand the most, however, was the fact that your high school enemy had suddenly gained everything you had lost. And he reminded you of it almost every day, lingering around you like a ghost. Over time, though, once you grew used to his unexpected presence in your life, you began to wonder what you had really hated him for in the first place — and whether you still hated him at all.
content: enemies to lovers, angst, slow burn, hurt/comfort, strong language, shy ilia, mean and messy reader, reader has anger issues, anxiety, miscommunication, rock band, bassist!reader, reader has a 70s rockstar aesthetic, mentions of cigarettes, sex, alcohol and drugs, almost famous/daisy jones and the six vibes, happy ending, dysfunctional family, injury and blood
word count: 11,7k
author's note: I'm alive 😭 I haven't abandoned this fic, I've just been fighting the worst writer's block imaginable. I genuinely thought I'd have way more time to write over the summer... turns out I was very wrong. I'd rather spend my free time outside enjoying the sun or watching the World Cup instead. English isn't my first language, and I'm honestly way too tired to proofread the whole chapter one more time, so... yolo. This chapter was originally over 20k words long, but I ended up moving all the drama to the next part... so get ready for yet another Ilia x reader argument. One of the last ones before the big love confession hahah. Hope you enjoy!! 🫶💕
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You hadn't believed Ilia would actually show up. You had been convinced he would ignore your embarrassingly persistent request, roll his eyes at your message, and go to bed like any sane person would at that hour.
And yet... he came.
You noticed him halfway through the song. Whenever you performed, you disappeared into a world entirely your own, never paying much attention to the audience because doing so distracted you far too easily; you preferred to lose yourself in the music itself rather than the spectacle surrounding it, in screaming fans with phones raised above their heads, in applause that came and went as quickly as summer storms, and besides, you were far too focused on keeping time with Patrick's drums while simultaneously singing and navigating the bassline to spend your energy scanning a bar that was nearly empty.
Ilia sat at the first table nearest the entrance, a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead with the hood of his sweatshirt drawn over it as well, as though he genuinely feared someone might recognize the famous Olympian who had landed a backflip only to bottle his own free skate.
The moment your eyes met his bright blue ones, something inside you faltered. An unfamiliar knot tightened in your stomach, while heat bloomed across your face with startling intensity. Fortunately, the stage lights had been merciless from the very beginning, leaving your cheeks flushed long before you'd noticed him watching.
You had never performed in front of him before. You weren't even sure whether he had ever listened to a single song your band had released — perhaps the most popular one from your debut album, the one that had unexpectedly gone viral on TikTok for a while.
When you had begged your high school's principal to let you, Ian, Penny, and Dan perform at prom, Ilia had been earning his first appearance on Stars on Ice, making it physically impossible for him to attend; according to the rumors floating around school, that had been the primary reason his relationship with his then-girlfriend had fallen apart, although what the official version of the story had been, you hadn't the faintest idea.
As Message in a Bottle came to an end, the applause was almost nonexistent. Only William, the owner of The Hideout, and Ilia clapped. A quiet laugh escaped you before you let out a long breath directly into the microphone. Your fingers had grown damp with nerves.
Turning over your shoulder, you caught Patrick's eye and offered him a smile filled with genuine admiration. He looked as though he might collapse from excitement. For a debut performance, he had done pretty damn well.
Actually — really damn well.
William climbed the three narrow steps leading onto the tiny stage and thanked the two of you for performing before handing both you and Patrick a freshly poured pint of beer, free of charge. Parched, pleasantly warm from the performance, and quietly intimidated by the conversation with Malinin that awaited you, you lifted the glass to your lips and drained it in one uninterrupted swallow.
Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you looked up. Once again, your eyes met Ilia's. He was watching you with one eyebrow raised.
You weren't ready to leave the stage yet, even though almost nobody had been listening. You loved the adrenaline that accompanied performing. More than that — you simply loved playing bass. That was when you felt free. Happy. The first time you had managed to play the riffs from People Are Strange by The Doors and Come Together by The Beatles flawlessly at thirteen years old, you had felt as though you had discovered an entirely new planet. As though you had accomplished something magnificent. As though, for the first time in your life, you mattered.
Before the thought had fully formed inside your head, pleasantly lightheaded from the beer warming your veins, you thrust the empty glass back into William's hands and asked,
"Yo, grandpa, mind if I do one more?"
You sounded sincerely excited despite the terrible sound system, the almost nonexistent audience, and the rat darting along the length of the bar. You sincerely hoped Ilia hadn't noticed it. Honestly, you were impressed he'd stepped foot inside this dump in the first place.
William waved a dismissive hand.
"Knock yourself out. Just don't expect a second beer."
You grinned.
"Deal. Thanks."
Patrick looked thoroughly bewildered. He climbed out from behind the drum kit and, chased off by the severity of your expression, hurried down the three narrow steps before coming to a stop beside the bar, where he leaned both forearms against the countertop, still tacky with spilled beer. You wiped your damp palms against your jeans before settling your fingers around the griff of your bass, and even until the very last moment you had no idea what you were going to play.
There were simply too many possibilities.
You had always possessed an almost unsettling memory for music; after reading a bass tab only once, you could already picture where your fingers belonged and hear, somewhere inside your mind, the notes waiting to be born.
"Alright..." you said into the microphone once you had finally made up your mind. Ilia's attention shifted immediately. He looked up from his phone and fixed curious gaze on you. "I've got one more for you guys." A crooked smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. "An encore literally nobody asked for."
The joke landed with a deafening silence. Not a single laugh. You cleared your throat awkwardly before pressing on.
"We're sticking with Sting tonight. Hopefully you've all got him on your completely crazy Spotify playlists."
Ilia, half embarrassed and half amused, narrowed his eyes, pouted his pink lips, and shook his head. Proud of your own joke and already tipsy, you winked at him. It completely froze him in place.
"Just sing already!" one of the drunk bikers yelled from the back of the room.
You rolled your eyes so hard they almost hurt before raising your middle finger in his direction.
"Jesus, alright already!" you shot back, your voice ringing sharply through the tiny venue. "Relax, dude. What, your underwear cutting off your circulation or something? Is the chair digging into your ass?”
"Y/N." William's warning came low and pointed as he glanced at you from beneath knitted brows while pouring Patrick the second beer he'd just ordered.
"Right." You offered him an exaggeratedly innocent smile. "Sorry, chief."
Fueled primarily by beer and something far more dangerous than alcohol, you began playing Shape of My Heart — the song from Léon: The Professional. One of your favorite films. The one that had reduced you to tears more times than you cared to admit.
Just as Sting had done decades before, you poured every hidden emotion you possessed into the music, allowing every unspoken grief, every quiet longing, every fractured piece of yourself to bleed through your fingertips and disappear into the strings.
The bassline was notoriously difficult to execute cleanly, and that was precisely why you loved it. It demanded precision, patience, discipline. It left no room for hesitation. The beer humming pleasantly through your veins did nothing to dull your concentration or compromise your technique. If anything, Ilia's presence accomplished the opposite. His quiet, watchful, almost judging gaze forced you to lock in completely.
Every note mattered. Every vibration beneath your fingertips. Every subtle shift in pressure against the strings. You treated each one as though it carried something sacred.
Your singing wasn't nearly as flawless — you knew that. You simply didn't care. Besides, in your humble opinion, you still sounded better than Penny. And — modesty aside — even better than Ian, whose voice became almost angelic inside a recording studio but who, on stage, had an unfortunate tendency to get carried away, overperform every phrase, and bury perfectly good melodies beneath layers of unnecessary vocal mannerisms.
Throughout the entire performance, you barely moved. You stood almost perfectly still, like some forgotten goddess of music turned to stone, an image entirely at odds with the reckless whirlwind you usually became during concerts with your band, where you threw yourself across the stage with wild, chaotic energy as if your body had become another instrument.
Tonight was different. You had no desire to fool around, not during this song. Not with your mother's vicious words still echoing through every corner of your mind after the way she had shattered your composure only hours earlier. Not when every lyric seemed to carve open wounds you had spent years pretending had already healed.
And certainly not when, somewhere deep inside yourself, you wanted Ilia to see what no one else ever seemed willing to notice — that beneath the anger, the sarcasm, the leather jackets, the middle fingers, the shouting insults, and the carefully cultivated image of the difficult rock girl everyone thought they knew, there had always existed a quieter kind of artist.
When you finished, you bowed on legs that trembled ever so slightly beneath you. Intoxicated by the rush of adrenaline still coursing through your veins, you hardly felt the alcohol at all — at least not until you descended the narrow steps from the stage and the grimy floor, sticky with spilled beer accumulated over countless nights, lurched alarmingly beneath your feet, forcing the room to tilt in slow, nauseating circles.
You knew perfectly well that drinking before and after performing was reckless. You simply hadn't known what else to do with the wound your mother had torn open inside you.
Perhaps, you thought suddenly, anger flaring toward yourself instead of her, you weren't all that different from her after all if you instinctively reached for the same poison whenever your emotions became unbearable.
Why? Why did you always do this to yourself?
The pounding of your own heartbeat echoed loudly inside your ears. Patrick sprang from his barstool just in time to catch you before your knees gave out completely, steadying you with careful hands before helping you over to the bar, where he generously offered to carry all of the equipment back to the car himself.
Not that you had intended to help him anyway. You had just gotten a fresh manicure, after all, and there was absolutely no way you were about to haul his drum kit back and forth across the parking lot.
Having apparently decided to throw yourself even deeper into the abyss, you ordered another beer and cheerfully instructed William to put it on Patrick's tab. William regarded you with unmistakable disapproval but wisely kept his opinion to himself, simply retrieving a fruit beer from the refrigerator — a lighter one, lower in alcohol than the regular stuff — and flicking the bottle cap off with practiced ease.
"So..." he said, turning toward someone beside you, "what can I get you, kid?"
You turned your head to see who he was talking to. Ilia. For one blissfully brief moment, you had forgotten he was even there. He had taken the empty stool beside yours and, with visible awkwardness, quietly asked for a glass of water. William looked at him as though he'd just requested sacramental wine at a biker bar but, remarkably, resisted making a sarcastic comment.
Ilia accepted the glass before pulling off both his hood and baseball cap. Your eyes widened. For the first second, you genuinely thought you had drunk enough to start hallucinating. Without asking permission, you reached toward him and brushed your fingertips through the short, damaged strands of his newly cropped hair.
Ilia shifted uncomfortably beneath your touch, though he made no attempt to push your hand away.
"What the hell did you do to your hair?!" you squeaked, nearly sliding off your barstool altogether. "You look like a hedgehog! A silver-and-purple hedgehog."
"Yeah... nice to see you too." He shrugged. "My mom cut it. Said it'd gotten way too long. Besides, you told me it was fried too." He absentmindedly rubbed the back of his neck. "And I saw some TikTok saying hair holds memories, so... whatever. Worlds are coming up. I need to lock in."
You stared at him in open disbelief. You had never imagined Malinin would actually take your teasing comment seriously. After several long seconds of shameless observation, once the initial shock had worn off, you reluctantly arrived at the conclusion that he still looked... good.
No. Better than good. Divine. Almost ethereal. It was so unbelievably unfair that it physically hurt.
Jesus, you were definitely wasted.
"And somehow getting a new haircut is supposed to help you with it?" you snorted at last, suddenly realizing you had been staring at him for far longer than was socially acceptable. "God, you're literally acting like some heartbroken girl after a situationship. Hair holds memories. Yeah, sure." You lifted your bottle and took another sip of raspberry beer. "That's just something people tell themselves. Although..." You paused thoughtfully. "I kinda get it. This fucking biker from Austin Penny introduced me to ghosted me after we spent the whole summer together right after graduation, and I dyed my hair red."
You visibly winced at the memory of that heartless prick. He had been your first real crush… well, your first one, if you conveniently ignored Ilia. At first, he'd pretended to be interested. He'd treated your entire relationship like some fun little adventure, hitchhiking across the country with you and your band, sleeping in the worst roadside motels imaginable, smoking whatever weed Ian managed to get his hands on.
Eventually, though, he got bored. For a moment, he had made you feel seen, valued. And then he disappeared without so much as a goodbye.
Typical.
"I'm not being dramatic, Jesus," Ilia protested, sounding genuinely offended. "It's just hair."
"Sure." You smirked over the rim of your bottle. "But I guarantee your fans are mourning your golden locks as we speak. You looked like an actual prince at the Olympics."
You fell silent, waiting for his reaction. Ilia scrunched his nose, squeezed his eyes shut, and let out a dry, helpless laugh that carried equal measures of embarrassment and genuine bashfulness. With every sip of beer, you found him increasingly adorable.
"Stop."
"What?" you huffed quietly. "You seriously don't know how to take a compliment?" You tilted your head, studying him with unmistakable amusement. "Oh, come on. You repost thirst traps and edits of yourself on TikTok all the time, and now you're getting shy on me?"
As though to prove your point, a warm flush spread across Ilia's cheeks, and it certainly had nothing to do with the suffocating heat trapped inside the bar. You had the distinct impression that even your eyelashes were sweating, especially under the stage lights, where the temperature climbed several degrees higher than in the rest of the room, although William was far too stingy to invest in something as extravagant as air conditioning.
"Real life is different from the internet... or the rink," Ilia replied, his voice quieter now. "Besides..." He looked at you with unexpected seriousness. "I seriously don't get you, Y/N. First you pick a fight with me, tell me you hate me, then you ask me to come watch you perform, and now you're saying stuff like this." He let out a small, bewildered laugh. "You're honestly so damn confusing."
The sly, provocative smile slowly slipped from your face. Sooner or later, you knew, you would have to admit you had been wrong. You hated doing that. Another dreadful habit inherited from your mother. She could argue with your father for entire days and sleepless nights rather than concede that he had been right about something, and he, stubborn as granite, never backed down either.
When you were a child, you had fallen asleep almost every night with headphones pressed tightly over your ears, desperate to drown out their endless shouting. You could listen to Aerosmith on repeat for hours.
"Yeah..." you admitted at last, shame creeping into your voice as you lowered your gaze to the beer bottle between your hands, now almost empty. "I don't really get myself either." A quiet sigh escaped you. "I got carried away." You swallowed hard. "S-sorry." The apology tasted unfamiliar. "I wanted to piss you off until you finally admitted you treated me like shit back in high school, but instead I realized I'd hurt you too without even meaning to." You absentmindedly traced your thumb around the rim of the bottle. "I could've said something when my friends made fun of you... but I didn't." Your voice grew smaller. "Because I was a coward."
You hesitated before forcing yourself to continue.
"And... I was insanely jealous of you." Slowly, cautiously, you looked back at him. His expression had softened. "You had everything I'd ever wanted. You were living your dream, your parents actually supported you, and people..." You laughed bitterly beneath your breath. "People really liked you." A strange silence settled between you. "I mean, except my group. I still don't like you, though," you added quickly, afraid he might start pitying you. "Just so we're clear. Maybe you had your reasons, but you were still an asshole to me."
Behind the counter, William continued polishing glasses that were already spotless while pretending very unconvincingly not to eavesdrop.
"Yeah..." Ilia said with an almost amused shrug. "You weren't exactly Miss Sunshine either." His lips twitched. "I couldn't stand looking at you."
He said it so casually that it almost sounded as though he meant something entirely different. The words settled heavily somewhere deep inside your chest. The thought that he hadn't even been able to bear the sight of you hurt far more than it should have.
You didn't understand why — you hadn't felt anything for him in years. That stupid little crush had died back in 10th grade. It had been buried forever at the skate park where the two of you had once spent an afternoon together. The same afternoon during which, according to Ilia's completely fabricated version of events, you had stolen his phone and snooped through his playlists.
Even though the two of you had, apparently, reached some sort of unofficial truce (at least that was how it seemed to you) you had absolutely no intention of letting that ridiculous accusation slide.
"Okay, let's not do this," you interrupted before another argument could take root, draining the last of your beer. "We'll just end up fighting again, and I'm already tipsy, and I'd honestly like to stay in a good mood." Beside you, Ilia had barely touched his glass of water. "Just tell me what you thought about the performance." You dramatically poked him in the shoulder. He didn't even flinch.
"It was really good." He nodded once. "Like... I really, really liked it."
Your eyebrows rose. You looked almost offended by how brief his answer had been.
"That's it?" you complained. "You're not gonna tell me I was brilliant or something?"
Ilia visibly panicked. He shot you a quick side-eye, something that had driven you absolutely insane back in high school but that, oddly enough, barely registered anymore. You had eventually concluded it was simply a nervous habit. Whenever he felt uncomfortable, whenever he didn't know what to say — his eyes darted away.
Back in sophomore year, you had been convinced he looked at you like that because he secretly hated you.
"Well..." he began carefully. "Maybe not brilliant, but..." He trailed off, desperately searching for a safer adjective.
"You dickhead," you laughed, the insult sounding far more affectionate than cruel. You weren't offended by his opinion in the slightest. Quite the opposite. There was something strangely endearing about watching him struggle so earnestly to avoid hurting your feelings. Alcohol had always made you gentler, softer around the edges. "I know," you admitted with a shrug. "It would've sounded better if I'd had a guitarist for Message in a Bottle, but at least I managed to recruit a drummer at the last minute, and in that song the drums do half the heavy lifting anyway."
"Hm." Ilia tilted his head thoughtfully before meeting your eyes again. "Honestly?" A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I liked it exactly the way it was."
The gentleness of his voice and the unmistakable sincerity woven through his words sent a pleasant warmth flowing through your entire body, and it had nothing whatsoever to do with the beer beginning to cloud your head or the suffocating heat trapped inside the bar. You felt strangely flustered, a state so unfamiliar that it almost unsettled you, because moments like these happened to you so rarely that you could scarcely remember the last one. During tours, you usually avoided men like the plague — they were arrogant, they smelled, and despite possessing only the vaguest understanding of music, they constantly felt compelled to prove they knew more than you ever could.
"Thankss..." you replied bluntly, thoroughly lost in the strange tenderness of the moment. "But, to be fair, your opinion doesn't exactly mean that much to me." The words left your mouth before your brain could stop them. A heartbeat later, horror dawned across your face. "I mean..." You grimaced. "You, ym, just seem like someone who's really easy to impress."
Every additional word only dug the hole deeper. You also noticed, with growing despair, that your speech had begun to slur ever so slightly. Alcohol always did that to you. It also had the unfortunate tendency to make you sentimental, painfully self-pitying, and liable to burst into tears over absolutely nothing.
You desperately hoped you hadn't reached that stage yet.
"Maybe." Ilia sounded completely unfazed. "You should've invited my mom instead. She's, like, never satisfied with my skating." A faint smile ghosted across his lips. "She's kinda the bad cop."
"And your dad's the good cop?"
"Something like that." He shrugged. "He's easier to talk to, you know, on the rink. Sometimes he even forgets he's also my coach."
"I've got a feeling your mom hates me," you blurted out, idly fidgeting with your exhausted fingers, still aching from playing. "I insulted you right in front of her at graduation."
You remembered. Of course you remembered. You had no doubt Ilia remembered that afternoon just as vividly. It wasn't one of the memories you carried with pride. Although remorse rarely accompanied the more... morally questionable decisions you made, that particular moment had returned to haunt you far more often than you cared to admit.
"Yeah..." Ilia scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck. "She might... not think very highly of you."
"She's probably right." The words escaped in little more than a murmur. "I don't think very highly of myself either."
You immediately regretted drinking so much. The alcohol had begun dissolving every wall you'd spent years constructing, and thoughts that normally remained buried in the furthest corners of your mind were now slipping carelessly into the open.
So you fell silent.
Ilia, visibly thrown off by the sudden quiet, seemed equally uncertain how to fill it. He looked too tired to launch himself into another serious conversation, so he pulled out his phone and began mechanically scrolling through social media, though every few seconds he stole another glance in your direction.
Meanwhile, pleasantly drunk, you remained stubbornly focused on the worn wooden countertop before you, your vision softened around the edges, silently praying for something — anything — to rescue the two of you from the unbearable awkwardness.
Your salvation arrived… or so you thought.
Patrick.
Out of breath from hauling all the musical equipment back to the car, he squeezed himself onto the empty space between you and Ilia before casually reaching for the glass of water Ilia had ordered. Without asking.
Ilia blinked, utterly bewildered, but he said nothing.
"Quad God, right?" Patrick asked after taking a long drink. "Hey, man. I'm Patrick." He enthusiastically extended a sweat-dampened hand. Ilia accepted it with obvious reluctance and an uneasy, painfully forced smile. "We go to George Mason together. I know you took the semester off, but... maybe you recognize me?"
"Um..." Ilia looked at him apologetically. "Not really."
"Aww." Patrick sighed with genuine disappointment. "That's a shame." Then, brightening almost immediately, he added, "I'm a huge fan."
"Uh..." Ilia looked desperately toward you, his expression all but pleading for rescue. "Thanks? Nice to meet you."
You stared at your drummer with undisguised pity. After careful consideration, you concluded that the uncomfortable, brittle silence you and Ilia had been enduring moments earlier was infinitely preferable to whatever catastrophic social performance Patrick had just decided to stage.
"Dude, leave us the fuck alone!" Your command rang across the room with startling authority. Alcohol always had that effect on you. You always believed you were speaking quietly when, in reality, you were effortlessly overpowering every other conversation in the building. "Go annoy somebody else!"
"Wow." Patrick snorted. "Playing with you was such a pleasure too, Y/N." His sarcasm dripped like honey. "And you're welcome for carrying your bass and amp back to the car. You can come get it from the music shop tomorrow, because I'm not lugging that thing all the way to your house."
"I never said it was fun playing with you," you slurred, a lazy smile wandering across your lips as you wiped the sweat from your forehead. Why had it suddenly become so unbearably hot in here the moment Ilia walked in? "You were..." you paused dramatically, pretending to think, "...average."
Patrick placed a hand over his heart.
"Thanks. Coming from you, that's basically a standing ovation." He grinned. "I'm absolutely bragging about that."
"Okay." You pointed at him with exaggerated seriousness. "I take it back." You leaned your shoulder lightly against Ilia's. "Your drum part was even worse than his Olympic skate."
You expected Ilia to laugh, or at least roll his eyes. Instead, he remained perfectly still. His gaze drifted toward the illuminated shelves of liquor bottles mounted across the room. He looked embarrassed, quietly hurt. Regret struck you almost instantly. You should have bitten your tongue.
Silence settled over the three of you once more. You had absolutely no idea how to recover from what you'd just said. Then again, by now, you were far too drunk to come up with a solution.
"Well..." Patrick cleared his throat dramatically. "That was awkward. I should probably go check whether I'm somehow in the bathroom." As he passed behind you, he patted your shoulder before leaning close enough for only you to hear. "That was a really low blow."
You jerked away from him and stared with wide, horrified eyes.
"I knoooow!" you wailed far louder than necessary, making absolutely no effort to lower your voice despite Ilia sitting right beside you. "I'm such a biiiitch." Then, as though remembering something wonderfully important, you pointed a finger after Patrick. "Oh, and by the way..." A hopelessly guilty grin spread across your face. "I put my beer on your tab."
"What? Why the hell did you do that?"
"Because I wanted to."
Patrick let out a helpless sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers as he drew several slow, measured breaths in a valiant attempt to compose himself. You watched the spectacle with unconcealed amusement.
"I swear to God, Y/N," he muttered with theatrical despair, "you're seriously something else."
"And you still haven't given my Metallica cassette back," you shot back.
Truth be told, you no longer cared about the tape itself. You simply enjoyed watching it get under his skin. Driving people to the edge of their patience had always been your favorite pastime, and, quite possibly, your greatest supernatural talent. Sometimes all it took was a single look from you — a raised eyebrow, an innocent smile, a particularly insufferable smirk — to knock someone completely off balance.
"And you promised you'd grab a beer with me."
"I did." You smiled sweetly. "I even bought myself one." You tilted your head. "With your money, technically, so... you kinda already bought me that drink." You shooed him away with an impatient flick of your hand, as though dismissing an especially persistent fly. "Now quit bothering us, will ya?"
Ilia observed your bickering with Patrick in growing irritation. Although he pretended to be absorbed in idly scrolling through Twitter, every so often he stole another glance at you from beneath lowered lashes, and when your eyes finally met, you could have sworn you saw something flicker across the deepened blue of his gaze.
Jealousy. Or something dangerously close to it.
The moment Patrick finally wandered off and left the two of you alone, you seized the opportunity without hesitation, dragging your chair across the sticky wooden floor until it rested beside Ilia's, so close that your shoulders brushed together and scarcely an inch of space remained between you.
By then, you were drunk enough to briefly entertain the glorious idea of ordering another beer — or perhaps a shot of tequila — but the last stubborn fragment of common sense still clinging to your mind intervened just in time. You had a job interview tomorrow. You needed to resemble someone an employer might actually trust with responsibilities. No one wanted to hire the woman who staggered through life permanently hungover.
Besides, you didn't want to become your mother. You had to do better. For yourself, and for whatever remained of your conscience.
"I'm sooo sorry, Ilia." Your lower lip jutted out into an exaggerated pout. "About the... you know... Olympic comment." You looked down at your hands. "Sometimes I take jokes way too far." A tiny, remorseful smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. "That was mean."
"Yeah." His voice came quietly. "It kinda was." A stiff, almost reluctant laugh escaped him. "Honestly, it was some crazy work."
You fell silent. For a long moment, your mind drifted somewhere beyond the walls of the bar, beyond the music still echoing faintly inside your ears, beyond the lingering sting of shame, until, almost without realizing what you were doing, you began tracing lazy circles and wandering lines across his forearm with the tip of your index finger.
The fabric of his hoodie surprised you. It was unbelievably soft beneath your fingertips despite looking slightly worn, its fibers weathered by countless washes and long nights spent at ice rinks. Ilia didn't move. Not even an inch. He simply watched you with quiet, unwavering attention.
"Why did you come?"
The question slipped out before you had time to reconsider it, pulling you at last from the pleasant haze of your alcohol-softened daze.
He blinked. "Huh? 'Cause... you asked me to?"
"Yeah, I know..." Your voice became barely louder than a whisper. "But..." Your eyes lingered somewhere on the grain of the bar rather than on him. "You didn't have to."
This time, it was Ilia who disappeared into silence. Something thoughtful settled across his face as his gaze drifted somewhere far beyond the bottles lining the shelves, as though he himself wasn't entirely certain how to answer.
"Got bored," he said at last.
You narrowed your eyes suspiciously, then hiccupped. Reaching for the glass, you finished the water Patrick had so graciously left behind — or rather, the water he'd left for Ilia, considering it was his in the first place. Ilia didn't so much as react.
"But you've got practice first thing tomorrow morning," you pointed out, wiping the lingering moisture from your lips with the back of your hand.
"Well..." He trailed off, searching in vain for an explanation that wouldn't betray the truth. He wasn't about to admit that, despite the spectacular argument you'd had in the school parking lot, he simply couldn't bring himself to hate you. "I do," he conceded after a pause, rubbing the back of his neck, "but I probably wouldn't have fallen asleep anyway. I always end up doomscrolling TikTok until, like, three in the morning. Literally."
"The edits of yourself?" you teased, giggling like a child.
He groaned.
"Haha. Yeah." A sheepish grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Don't tell me you never watched the edits your fans made of you."
"What? No." You scoffed dramatically. "Are you insane? That's fucking weird as hell."
You conveniently neglected to mention that while you rarely watched edits of yourself... you had watched edits of him. More than a few. You had even saved several of them for reasons you still couldn't explain.
"Anyway..." You rested your chin in your palm with an exaggerated sigh. "I'm kinda bored." You subtly pointed toward a bald man seated alone at one of the tables in the middle of the room, his dress shirt hanging open beneath a wrinkled blazer. "And my dad's friend keeps staring at me like I personally ruined his life or something."
The man was spectacularly drunk, hunched over a glass of rum, and every so often he glanced your way with naked disgust. You remembered him from childhood. Every summer, he and his ex-wife had shown up at your parents' house for backyard barbecues while he and your father discussed business over grilled burgers and cheap beer.
Ilia followed the direction of your finger. The look he fixed upon the man was somehow even colder than the one he'd reserved for the relentless journalists and camera crews waiting outside the rink before his Olympic free skate.
Without another word, you slipped — or rather, gracelessly tumbled — off your barstool. William watched the performance with weary embarrassment. You responded by sticking your tongue out at him.
"So..." You grabbed Ilia lightly by the sleeve, tugging insistently. "You wanna go?" He barely had time to react before you were pulling harder. "Iliaaaa..." Your voice stretched into a drunken whine. "C'mon."
You practically draped yourself over him. Acting purely on instinct, he wrapped an arm around your waist to keep you from collapsing onto the floor. Without hesitation, you buried your entire face against the soft fabric of his hoodie. It smelled faintly of detergent and some perfume.
"So soft..." you mumbled, pressing your cheek against his chest. "...and warm."
"What about your friend?" Ilia asked, choosing to ignore every intoxicated observation you'd just made.
Yet when he said the word friend, an unmistakable edge crept into his voice — jealousy. It lingered there despite his obvious efforts to hide it. To your own embarrassment, you found it strangely flattering.
You pulled away just enough to frown.
Patrick. Right, you'd completely forgotten about him. Oddly enough, you weren't particularly eager to spend another minute in his company. Lately, you'd been seeing him practically every single day.
"What about him?" you said with a careless shrug. "He's probably jerking off in the bathroom or something." You waved a dismissive hand. "Besides, he's a grown man. I'm pretty sure he can find the exit on his own."
Ilia didn't budge.
"It still feels, I dunno, kinda shitty to leave him here when you came together."
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Malinin." You rolled your eyes so dramatically it almost made you dizzy. "Since when did you become such a saint?"
"What do you mean?" He pulled off the perfect impression of an unfairly accused puppy, wearing innocence and mock offense so convincingly that, under different circumstances, you might have believed him. "I'm always a saint."
"Oh, please." You snorted. "Your Instagram username says otherwise. QuadDevil? Seriously?" You smirked. "How do you somehow manage to be cringe literally all the time?"
A flush immediately climbed Ilia's cheeks. He looked exactly like a little kid caught red-handed after pulling a prank on an unsuspecting adult.
"Hey!" he protested weakly. "That's my private account, you stalker."
"Private doesn't mean invisible." You shrugged innocently. "It literally popped up in my suggested yesterday." A mischievous grin spread across your face. "I'm honestly scared to know what you post on there." You shuddered theatrically.
The truth, however, was considerably less dramatic. Curiosity gnawed at you with relentless persistence. Every now and then, Ilia shared fleeting glimpses of the life he lived beyond competitions, beyond the cameras, beyond medals and expectations.
You couldn't help wondering what his ordinary days looked like. Whether there was someone waiting for him after practice. Some figure skater, maybe.
The two of you lingered inside until Patrick finally emerged from the bathroom, and after saying your goodbyes — during which he enthusiastically attempted to hug Ilia, who accepted the embrace with the enthusiasm of a hostage, while simultaneously mourning the fact that you were already leaving — he reluctantly admitted the bar would be closing soon anyway and declared that he'd make it home on his own.
Not wanting to be a complete bitch, you muttered a brief thank-you for the performance, much to Patrick's obvious delight.
"Pride comes before a fall, Pat," you tossed over your shoulder as a parting shot.
The smile faded ever so slightly from Ilia's face. He'd heard those exact words countless times from strangers hiding behind anonymous profiles after the Olympics.
"Can we hit the McDrive?" you asked the moment you stepped outside, your voice slipping into an almost childishly hopeful tone. "I'd literally kill for some nuggets."
"No." His answer came immediately. "It's late."
"Pfft." You wrinkled your nose. "You're no fun."
Your legs had become increasingly unreliable, forcing you to latch onto his arm once again with the unwavering determination of a baby koala.
"Oh, wait!" You gasped strikingly. "I didn't say goodbye to William!"
The realization arrived several seconds too late. Still, you had absolutely no intention of walking back inside. The bar had become unbearably stuffy, thick with heat, alcohol, and stale cigarette smoke.
Outside, the early March air greeted you with a crisp chill that bit pleasantly at your flushed cheeks, and you greedily filled your lungs with it, foolishly convincing yourself that enough cold air might somehow sober you up... or at the very least stop you from clinging so shamelessly to Ilia.
Not that you actually wanted to let go.
Together, you made your way toward his car, parked beneath the glowing Walmart sign a few minutes' walk from The Hideout. Neither of you spoke during the walk. Yet, for the first time that evening, the silence settling gently between you wasn't uncomfortable. It felt... peaceful.
You made two more determined attempts to convince Ilia to take you somewhere for greasy, artery-clogging junk food, but he remained infuriatingly unmoved. He did, however, grant you custody of the aux cord.
The gesture caught you so completely off guard that, for the first few minutes, you couldn't settle on a single song, your finger darting restlessly from one track to another before the opening piano notes of Tiny Dancer by Elton John finally spilled through the speakers. It was the song that had made you fall hopelessly in love with music itself.
Whenever you, Penny, Ian, and Dean reached yet another spectacular impasse and your rehearsals dissolved into shouting matches and wounded pride, you always put that song on, and somehow — almost miraculously — the four of you found your way back to one another. Rock had been the reason you'd come together in the first place.
Softly, almost beneath your breath, you sang along, your gaze drifting beyond the passenger-side window into the velvet darkness sliding past outside, your thoughts wandering somewhere only you could reach.
Every now and then, Ilia stole another glance at you. Each time, an involuntary smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He found himself strangely captivated by how effortlessly you disappeared into your own little universe whenever music filled the silence, by the way you suddenly looked impossibly young, wonderfully free, and genuinely happy, as though every burden you carried every waking hour simply dissolved into the melody, leaving behind only the girl you might have become if life had been kinder to you. The anger vanished from your face, so did the exhaustion you wore like armor.
By the time he pulled up outside Andrea's house, the memory of your very first encounter after all those years resurfaced for both of you with startling clarity — the evening you'd stubbornly sat on the rain-soaked sidewalk outside the ice cream shop, drenched to the bone as you hurled every insult you could think of in his direction.
It had happened only a handful of days ago. Yet somehow, it felt like another lifetime.
Neither of you moved. The warmth inside Ilia's ugly Honda had settled around you like a blanket, and despite everything that had happened between you, despite every argument, every misunderstanding, every sharp word neither of you could take back, there was something unexpectedly comforting about simply sitting beside him in the quiet.
Still, you couldn't postpone going home forever. No one would be waiting for you inside anyway. Andrea was working another late shift, which at least spared you the humiliation of having to explain why you were returning home less than sober.
You unbuckled your seatbelt. Reached into your purse — and froze. Your purse. Gone.
Your entire body went rigid.
"HOLY FUCKING SHIT!" The panic exploding from your lungs made Ilia nearly leap out of his own seat.
He instinctively lurched forward, his eyes darting frantically across the windshield in search of whatever imminent disaster had just unfolded, while the seatbelt dug painfully into his chest.
"OH MY GOD, WHAT?!" he squeaked.
"I left my purse at The Hideout!" Your voice cracked with horror as the realization hit you in full force. "I gave it to William to keep behind the bar." You buried your face in your hands. "Shit. My phone's in my jeans, but..." You looked back up at him, visibly stricken. "My house keys were in that bag." Hope flickered uncertainly in your eyes. "You think they're still open?"
"I dunno, probably not. Bro, don't scare me like that!" Ilia exhaled in a long, trembling rush, the breath escaping him with an audible hiss, his entire body still taut with the remnants of alarm, his face pale with genuine fright. "Jesus, I thought you'd spotted some killer clown outside the window or something. Art the Clown type of shit."
You cringed.
"Sssorry," you mumbled, shrinking into yourself for half a second, "but honestly, this is almost as bad as a psycho clown."
"Can't your aunt just let you in?"
"She's a nurse, and she's working the night shift at the hospital tonight," you explained before letting out another defeated, "Fuck," and, unable to contain the frustration clawing beneath your skin, clenched your fists and smacked them against your knees.
"Don't you guys keep a spare key somewhere? Under the doormat or inside a flowerpot?"
Slowly, deliberately, you turned your head to stare at him as though he'd just confessed to believing the moon was made of cheese.
"Dude, nobody does that unless they're complete idiots or characters in stupid movies." You sighed, resignation settling over your shoulders like wet cloth as your hand drifted toward the door handle. "Whatever." Your voice softened into a murmur meant more for yourself than for him. "I'm a big girl."
Then, with theatrical dignity utterly at odds with your increasingly intoxicated state, you announced, "I'll just sleep on the porch."
This time it was Ilia who looked at you as though you had completely lost your mind. And perhaps you had. The alcohol, though gradually leaving your bloodstream, had dulled every sensible instinct you possessed, and somewhere beneath the haze you already knew tomorrow would greet you with a splitting headache and an even worse moral hangover.
"Are you actually insane? It's the middle of March."
"So what?" you protested, lifting a careless shoulder. "I'm warm. I can handle myself, lutz boy."
"Nope. Absolutely not." He shook his head with quiet finality. "And don't call me lutz boy."
"Oh? Then what do you want me to call you?" you shot back with drunken malice dancing in your eyes. "A loser? Or maybe Ilyusha? Ilyushenka?"
Ilia rolled his eyes with the weary indulgence one reserved for particularly impossible people, choosing not to acknowledge the Russian diminutives rolling so effortlessly off your tongue. No one besides his parents and Rafael ever called him that anymore, and yet, strangely enough, hearing it from you didn't sound nearly as foreign as it should have.
Without another word — and without giving you the slightest opportunity to object — he shifted the car into gear before you could climb out.
"Hey- stop!" Almost instinctively, your hand landed against his thigh, warm even through the fabric of his sweatpants, but realization struck a heartbeat later and you snatched it away as though burned. "Where are you going?"
"To my place." His answer was maddeningly calm. "You're sleeping in my room."
A dark, incredulous laugh burst out of you.
"Oh, hell no." You shook your head so violently it nearly made you dizzy. "Turn around. I'd literally rather die."
A few minutes later, despite every protest you had managed to slur out along the way, Ilia was quietly guiding you through the living room of his house, navigating you almost entirely by memory and the faint wash of moonlight spilling through the windows, neither daring to switch on a single lamp for fear of waking his parents and inviting questions neither of you was remotely prepared to answer.
You stumbled twice over the scattered toys belonging to his ragdolls, your balance already unreliable from the beer, and silently prayed the two cats had retreated somewhere deep within the house, because by now you had exposed far too many vulnerable pieces of yourself to Ilia in the span of a single evening, and the last thing you wanted was for him to discover yet another humiliating truth — that despite your sharp tongue, reckless bravado, and carefully cultivated reputation for fearing absolutely nothing, you were terrified of cats.
Tatiana and Roman's house was immaculate, spacious, and tastefully furnished, every room wrapped in a palette of soft whites and muted greys that lent the place a quiet, understated elegance. On one of the hallway shelves, your eyes caught a row of framed family photographs, and one in particular held your gaze — a tiny Ilia standing on an ice rink, no older than three, already balanced on impossibly small skates. The sight tugged unexpectedly at your heart. He had looked unbearably adorable.
You, on the other hand, had been a decidedly unfortunate-looking child.
A staircase led down to Ilia's bedroom. It was generously sized, though pleasantly cluttered, carrying the unmistakable feeling of a room that time had politely forgotten. Skateboards still decorated the walls, a corner crowded with stuffed animals remained untouched, and meticulously assembled model cars rested on shelves exactly as they must have during his high-school years. Your attention was inevitably drawn to the enormous banner bearing his likeness — the one he'd received after winning the World Championships in Montreal — and then to the towering cat tree standing beside the window, its blinds tightly shut against the night.
Perched on top of it was his younger sister.
The moment you stepped inside and Ilia switched on the warm yellow LED lights fixed to the ceiling, the little girl slowly turned toward the two of you, entirely unfazed by the fact that she'd just been caught occupying her brother's room in the middle of the night. A black cat rested comfortably in her arms as she absentmindedly stroked the velvet-soft fur with gentle fingers. You hadn't paid her much attention when she'd come into the ice cream shop, nor later in the school parking lot, but now, standing only a few feet away, you could clearly see how strikingly she resembled Tatiana.
"Liza, what the hell are you doing in here?" Ilia asked, his voice rising in alarm. "You are gonna drop the tree."
"I'm not gonna drop the tree, I'm not that heavy," she fired back without missing a beat, looking at him as though he were the dumbest person alive. "I'm just playing with Mysti."
Ilia dragged a hand down his face and let out a long, defeated groan. He stepped in front of you almost instinctively, shielding you with his back as though there were still a chance you'd magically disappear before he had to explain your presence — or why he'd come home in the middle of the night.
"Uh... just don't fall, okay?" he said more gently this time. Irritated as he clearly was by his sister's unexpected visit, concern still outweighed annoyance.
"Hey." You smiled at Liza, effortlessly ruining Ilia's increasingly hopeless attempts to hide you. "Cute PJs." You pointed toward the oversized Keroppi T-shirt she was wearing.
"Thanks." She beamed at you. You smiled back.
Ilia wandered over to pet Mysti, but the moment his hand reached toward the cat, Liza's expression soured dramatically, her childish face twisting into pure, unfiltered disgust as she shifted away before his fingers could so much as graze the black fur.
"Why aren't you asleep?" he asked.
"I woke up and went to the bathroom." She shrugged, carefully adjusting Mysti in her arms. The cat lazily lifted her head without sparing her owner so much as a glance. "Why'd you just get home? And why'd you bring the ice cream girl here? You told me you didn't like her because she's mean and weird."
Ilia's eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. His horrified gaze bounced frantically between you and Liza while a vivid crimson spread across his cheeks.
"Liza!"
"Yeah, honestly? Not exactly shocking." You laughed quietly beneath your breath. "I know he hates me. He's probably planning to murder me in my sleep."
"I think he was lying when he said that," Liza continued, much to Ilia's growing despair. "He got so excited when we ran into you. Last time he looked that happy was when he landed his first backflip two years ago and made dad and me record him." She shifted her attention from you back to her brother with perfect sibling cruelty. "And just so we're clear..." she declared matter-of-factly, "you looked like a complete idiot in that video."
Ilia looked utterly helpless. You couldn't stop the small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.
"I wasn’t exc- okay, you know what? That's enough," he decided in a low, defeated voice before pointing toward the bedroom door, the inside of which was plastered with faded Naruto drawings. "Out. Now."
Liza answered with an irritated hiss and, still clutching Mysti in her arms, hopped off the cat tree with all the grace of a tiny hurricane, nearly toppling the entire structure in the process. Ilia instinctively threw out both arms, prepared to catch either his sister or the cat tree — or both.
"Hey! I told you to be careful!"
"Oh, shut up," she shot back, squeezing between the two of you without the slightest apology and deliberately bumping her shoulder against his as she passed. You silently prayed she couldn't smell the alcohol lingering on you. The thought alone filled you with shame.
"I'm taking Mysti with me," she announced with ceremonial importance. "She doesn't even like you anyway. You can stay with Miu Miu."
And just like that, she disappeared into the hallway, only barely resisting the temptation to slam the door behind her.
The moment she mentioned Miu Miu, you visibly stiffened. Your eyes darted frantically around the room until you finally spotted the cat beneath Ilia's gaming desk, sprawled lazily beside the swivel chair, her impossibly fluffy tail flicking back and forth with slow, indifferent swishes.
You silently begged every higher power that existed for one simple miracle — that she wouldn't decide to approach you, much less attack you the way your uncle's cat once had.
Choosing self-preservation over dignity, you strategically retreated to the opposite side of the room before settling, somewhat self-consciously, onto the edge of Ilia's bed. It was broad and luxuriously soft beneath you, nothing like your own narrow mattress that barely accommodated your body and punished you every morning with an aching neck and a back stiff enough to make getting out of bed feel like a full-contact sport.
Meanwhile, Ilia crossed the room to a pair of sliding wooden doors and pulled them open, revealing a spacious recessed closet hidden within the wall. He pulled off his baseball cap, ran a hand through his flattened, freshly cropped hair, and tossed the cap onto the highest shelf before beginning to rummage through untidy stacks of clothes in search of something to sleep in.
"Brooo..." you eventually said, unable to bear the silence stretching between you any longer, "your room is so messy."
Ilia glanced back over his shoulder, raised one hand dramatically into the air, and pulled the most spectacularly offended expression you had ever seen.
"How is it messy?" he protested. "I literally cleaned it yesterday."
"Really? 'Cause I can't tell," you scoffed, shifting into a more comfortable position on his bed. "Although, to be fair, mine's even worse — except mine doubles as an actual walk-in closet." Your gaze wandered back toward the enormous banner hanging proudly on the wall. "By the way..." A crooked grin spread across your face. "Why do you have a giant picture of yourself hanging up in here?" You tilted your head innocently. "How old are you, five?"
Ilia chose to ignore your remark altogether and fished a wrinkled yellow T-shirt out of one of the precarious piles of clothes, its faded Toothless print barely clinging to the fabric after countless washes. You recognized it instantly. He had been wearing that exact shirt during the Instagram livestream where he'd laughed at you alongside his friends.
Before the memory could awaken the familiar sting of humiliation and send anger coursing through your veins once again, you ruthlessly shoved it back into the darkest corner of your mind.
"You want something to sleep in?" Ilia asked, still digging through the chaotic mountain of clothes with absent-minded determination.
Among the heap, you caught sight of the black trousers splattered with white blotches — the same ones he'd worn during the Olympic exhibition gala. The first time you'd seen them, you'd genuinely assumed they were dusted with snow.
"Yeah. Just give me literally anything..." you replied before wrinkling your nose. "...as long as it isn't those ugly Balmain jeans." You simply couldn't resist taking one more shot at his gala outfit.
Ilia shot you a look that managed to be simultaneously exhausted and mildly offended. You answered with a smug little grin. Without another word, he grabbed the first navy hoodie within reach and tossed it in your direction.
A heartbeat later, exactly what you'd been dreading finally happened. The moment Ilia's attention drifted away from the wardrobe, he noticed his cat, who had apparently decided she'd spent enough time beneath the gaming desk and was now padding delicately across the middle of the room on impossibly soft little paws.
You immediately tucked your legs beneath your chin, every muscle in your body going rigid with instinctive fear. The tiny creature glanced at you only briefly.
Ilia's face, however, lit up with unmistakable delight. He crouched down, scooped Miu Miu effortlessly into his arms, and the resemblance between them struck you all over again. She looked absurdly like him. Their eyes shimmered with almost the same crystalline shade of blue, and the white-brown fur covering her tiny body was uncannily close to the color his hair had been before he'd butchered it.
He scratched behind her ear before pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head.
"Hiiii, Miu Miu," he cooed, his voice climbing into an almost painfully high register. "What's uuup? Did you miss me?"
He lifted her higher, and Miu Miu immediately burrowed into the crook of his neck as though she'd been waiting for that exact moment all night. Then he looked at you again, his voice dropping back into its usual register.
"You wanna pet her?"
"No." The answer escaped you far too quickly and panicked.
Miu Miu responded with a loud, rumbling purr that sounded almost suspiciously like mockery.
"Why?"
"'Cause I don't." You swallowed. "I'm scared of cats."
"Mhm."
Ilia clearly didn't believe a single word. Before you could protest — or flee — he casually sat down beside you with Miu Miu still comfortably curled in his arms. The instant the cat stretched one tiny paw toward you, you practically threw yourself across the bed, scrambling to the opposite side as though escaping a venomous snake rather than a seven-pound ragdoll.
The naked terror written across your face erased every trace of skepticism from Ilia's expression. In that single moment, he realized you hadn't been joking at all.
"Oh." The smile on Ilia's face softened, shrinking into something quieter. "You're actually serious."
Miu Miu shifted restlessly in his arms, wriggling in an increasingly determined attempt to free herself. Her enormous sapphire eyes remained fixed on you with such unnerving intensity that you became convinced she was only seconds away from launching herself across the room and clawing your eyes out.
You were certain she sensed you as a threat.
"Of course I'm fucking serious!" you squeaked, your voice coming out considerably louder than you'd intended. "Take her away, Ilia. Please."
"Okay, okay, just don't yell," he said, lowering his own voice instinctively. "You'll wake my parents." He looked at you with gentle disbelief. "She's not gonna do anything to you."
"I don't believe you." You lifted your chin with stubborn defiance, meeting his gaze head-on. "She's staring at me like she's plotting my murder." You pointed accusingly at the cat before adding, almost absentmindedly, "It's honestly even worse than your slavic stare."
"My... what?" Ilia asked, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline as he continued absentmindedly stroking Miu Miu's back.
"You know." You gestured vaguely toward his face. "Your slavic stare. The look you get whenever you're mad. Or, like, ridiculously focused. You seriously look like you're trying to kill people with your eyes."
He chose not to interrogate you any further about your so-called slavic stare, though the remark lingered in his thoughts longer than he cared to admit, because it surprised him that you'd paid enough attention to notice how subtly his expression shifted with every emotion that crossed his mind.
Then again, he'd been doing exactly the same thing to you. He noticed the way your eyes narrowed whenever you were thinking hard about something, the faint tremor that slipped into your voice whenever an argument struck too close to home, and the crooked little half-smile that always appeared a heartbeat before you delivered something drenched in sarcasm.
Miu Miu, meanwhile, refused to stop watching you with open curiosity, squirming more insistently in Ilia's arms until keeping hold of her became something of a losing battle.
"C'mon," he urged. "Just pet her."
You looked horrified.
"I promise she won't eat you." A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "She likes Sheba way more."
"No." Your refusal came immediately.
Eventually, you gave in.
Miu Miu slipped free from Ilia's embrace before he could stop her and padded gracefully toward you, her soft paws making almost no sound against the comforter before she reached you. She stretched out her little nose first, cautiously sniffing your knee, then brushed her impossibly fluffy tail against your leg.
Your entire body remained tense. Carefully — your fingers trembling ever so slightly — you reached out and let your hand glide over the silky softness of her fur. She tolerated the affection for all of ten seconds. Then, apparently deciding you were no longer remotely interesting, she wandered away with regal indifference, sprang elegantly from the bed, and disappeared through the bedroom door Liza had left ajar.
"See?" Ilia said, unable to suppress the small note of triumph in his voice. "That wasn't so bad."
Reluctantly — very reluctantly — you admitted to yourself that he was right.
It was late, and sleep had begun to claim both you and Ilia with quiet, irresistible hands. As silently as he could, Ilia slipped away to the bathroom to change, while you took advantage of his brief absence, peeling off the uncomfortable jeans and tossing them onto the carpet before trading your flared-sleeve blouse for the oversized hoodie he had lent you, the hem falling to the middle of your thighs, its fabric still carrying the faint scent of his cologne, which, much to your surprise, didn't bother you in the slightest.
There was no way you were sleeping on the floor, not when it was scattered with Mysti's and Miu Miu's fur, so you slid beneath the comforter and claimed the left side of the bed, hoping Ilia wouldn't mind sharing it. You knew he would never invade your space — he seemed far too decent for that — and you, in turn, were far too exhausted to care. During tour, you'd slept in stranger places beside stranger people, and as long as they didn't snore in your ear or cling to you like their favorite stuffed animal, it never fazed you. Whenever someone crossed your boundaries, you simply knocked them out.
Even if you were half asleep.
Curled beneath the blankets, your eyes fixed on the white-painted ceiling, you found yourself swallowed by bleak, alcohol-soaked thoughts. You should have been happy after your performance at The Hideout, yet all you could taste was disappointment. Only a few months ago, you'd been playing small arenas, signing autographs, posing for pictures with fans.
Now you were nobody — the only person who had truly listened to your performance had been Ilia Malinin, the very man you had genuinely hated until recently. And now you were sleeping in his parents' house, entirely at the mercy of his kindness.
It was his soft voice that finally pulled you out of your thoughts. You hadn't even noticed when he'd returned to the room. He stood there watching you with undisguised concern.
"Yo, why are you looking like that?"
You lifted your head, propped yourself up on one elbow, and pushed yourself into a half-sitting position. Tears burned behind your eyes, but you refused to let them fall.
"Like what?" you asked quietly, your voice scarcely louder than a whisper.
"Like you're about to die of heartbreak or something."
"And you're the one saying that?" you shot back before thinking twice. "At the Olympics you looked like you were about to backflip straight into misery..." You grimaced the instant the words left your mouth. "Shit. Sorry. Low blow again," you added quickly, suddenly afraid Ilia might throw you out of his bed. "Okay, no more Olympic jokes. I'm sobering up... and I'm turning back into a bitch."
Ilia muttered something beneath his breath and switched off the LED lights. The only illumination left came from thin ribbons of moonlight slipping through the narrow gaps in the drawn blinds. Without a word, he climbed onto the bed and settled on the opposite side, leaving as much empty space between the two of you as physically possible.
You sank back against the pillows. His question still echoed inside your mind, refusing to fade. An overwhelming urge rose within you to answer it — to finally confess everything that had been gnawing away at you. For all the toughness you pretended to possess, each passing day made it harder to carry the weight of your life, and there wasn't a single person you trusted enough to unload it onto. Maybe saying it aloud would make it hurt less. You didn't want anyone's pity, or even their help — but understanding... would have been nice. Since you were already lying in Ilia Malinin's bed, you might as well tell him something about yourself. Something you had spent years trying to hide even from yourself.
"Sometimes I just feel like nothing I do means anything anymore," you admitted quietly, almost startling yourself with the confession.
Ilia immediately turned onto his side to face you, squinting slightly now that he'd taken out his contact lenses.
"You invented your own element in skating, broke records, and you can still break even more," you continued, your voice growing quieter with every word, "but in my world... everything worth accomplishing has already been done. There'll never be another bassist like Phil Lynott or John Entwistle. No band will ever become as iconic as Pink Floyd, AC/DC, or Nirvana. Nobody will carve themselves into history the way Queen did at Live Aid. Even if I somehow managed to create something revolutionary — which I probably can't — I still have to start from absolute zero." You laughed bitterly. "Not that anyone even wants to listen to me anymore... except maybe you, and a bunch of drunk old guys drinking themselves unconscious in bars out in the middle of nowhere. I've been canceled everywhere that matters. Ian and Penny made sure of that."
It felt as though an enormous weight had fallen from your chest, one you hadn't even realized you were carrying. Sadness still flooded your veins, yet beneath it there was an unexpected lightness, and this time it had nothing to do with the alcohol. Ilia, clearly surprised by how completely you'd opened yourself to him, let your words linger in the silence instead of rushing to fill it. Several moments drifted past before he finally spoke.
"Why don't you just tell people what really happened?"
"What would that even change now?" you let out a dry laugh that fractured into something perilously close to a sob. Tears slid silently down your cheeks, and you prayed the darkness hid them from Ilia. "Everybody's already made up their mind about me..." You swallowed hard. "That I'm some homewrecking slut. It'd be my word against the three of theirs. Nobody would believe me." You forced another hollow smile. "But it's okay. I got over it." You paused. "Well... okay, not exactly. If I ran into them right now I'd probably smash a fucking shovel across their faces, but I still believe karma's a bitch, and sooner or later it'll come for them. Apparently..." You looked away into the darkness. "...it already came for me first. Guess that's what I get for being a bad person."
The mattress dipped beneath his weight. Ilia shifted closer, leaning over your tightly curled figure, and, in a quiet gesture that carried more comfort than words ever could, rested his hand gently on your shoulder.
"You're not a bad person, Y/N," he said softly.
That nearly shattered what little composure you had left. You were already certain you'd soaked his pillow with tears.
"You don't know that," you sniffled, pulling the comforter higher beneath your chin as though it could somehow hide your shame.
"No," he admitted, "but I do know nobody's a saint either. Everyone's done something stupid. Everyone's done things they regret. We're only human." His voice turned quieter still, thoughtful in a way you'd never heard before. "Lately I've been thinking maybe... maybe I had to fail at the Olympics to finally understand that." He smiled faintly to himself. "That I'm only human... not some jumping machine."
His words caught you completely off guard. They were measured, gentle, unexpectedly wise. Maybe the Olympics really had changed him. He seemed calmer now. Older somehow. Wiser.
"I mean..." You let out a watery laugh through your tears, making one feeble attempt to lighten the mood before you completely fell apart. "To be fair... you did keep calling yourself a god."
"Yeah..." He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "At first it was just a joke, but once I started winning every competition... somewhere along the way, I kinda actually started believing it."
"I guess we both needed a reality check," you sighed, long and weary. "When my band blew up, I got arrogant too. I honestly thought I was better than everyone else." A small smile tugged at your lips. "Looks like we've got more in common than either of us wanted to admit, lutz boy." You tilted your head with the faintest trace of mischief returning to your eyes. "Except our music taste, obviously." You flashed him a teasing grin.
"Well, I do like some rock songs. Honestly, I like pretty much every kind of music."
"Except Taylor Swift, huh?" You nudged him with your elbow.
"Yeah." He let out a quiet chuckle. "I lied. There is some music I don't like." A small, knowing smile tugged at his lips. "You know an awful lot about me for someone who supposedly hates me."
You deftly steered the conversation away before it could go any further. You might have been tipsy, but you had no intention of confessing to the steadily growing obsession you'd developed with Ilia — that you'd watched nearly every interview he'd ever given, that you'd combed through practically every inch of his social media, quietly piecing together fragments of a life that had never really belonged to you.
"Good night, lutz boy..." you murmured before correcting yourself. "Sorry... Ilyushenka."
You turned your back to him before he could answer.
"Night, Y/N."
You nestled your cheek into the pillow and closed your eyes. Sleep, however, stubbornly refused to come. You had never been able to fall asleep without some kind of stuffed animal tucked against you. Back at Andrea's house, you always had your old teddy bear.
"Ilia?" you asked hesitantly, breaking the silence. You could still hear the uneven rhythm of his breathing, so you guessed he hadn't drifted off yet.
"Hm?"
"Can I borrow one of your plushies?"
He answered with a sound that was half sleepy hum and half yawn, then slid toward the edge of the bed and stretched an arm toward the pile of stuffed Toothless dragons scattered nearby. His fingers found the tail of the black plushie, and he handed it over without a single question.
He never asked why you needed it. For that alone, you were immeasurably grateful.
"Thanks."
You tucked Toothless beneath your chin, cradling the plush dragon close. Only a few moments later, Ilia slipped effortlessly into sleep, his breathing evening out, his body remaining perfectly still throughout the night, and despite the comforting softness of the dragon pressed against your chest, you found yourself wishing, with an ache you couldn't quite explain, that he had reached for you instead. His touch would have comforted you far more than any Toothless ever could.
Would love a bangin piece about ilia’s athlete stamina. Like he is just on go and will hold you up against a wall for hours and it’s just like good? :)
Stamina
Ilia Malinin x fem!reader
Ilia had just come off the ice from a grueling private session—quads clean, landings sharp, that signature explosive power still humming through every muscle like live current. The rink was empty except for the two of you now, the cool air thick with the scent of fresh ice and his sweat. You watched from the boards, cheeks flushed under your beanie, your own practice leggings clinging to your thighs. You’d been teasing him all afternoon with little glances and that bratty lilt in your voice: “Quad God… you think you can keep up with me later?”
He didn’t answer with words. The second the doors clicked shut behind the last staff member, Ilia crossed the distance in three strides, scooped you up like you weighed nothing, and pinned your back against the padded wall of the hallway leading to the locker rooms. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, ankles locking at the small of his back.
“Ilia—fuck—” you gasped, but he swallowed it with a deep, hungry kiss, tongue stroking yours like he was still chasing that perfect rhythm on the ice.
“You wanted stamina talk, hm?” His voice was low, rough, breath hot against your ear as he ground his hips forward. He was already rock-hard, the thick outline of his cock pressing insistently through his compression pants against your core. “Figure skaters don’t gas out. We train for four-minute programs that feel like war. Quads. Explosive power. And right now? I’m just getting started.”
He shoved your leggings and panties down in one rough tug, not even bothering to strip fully. His own pants got yanked low enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip from the adrenaline. One hand gripped your ass, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, while the other braced against the wall beside your head. Then he thrust up into you in a single, relentless stroke, burying himself to the hilt.
You cried out, nails raking down his shoulders through his damp shirt. The stretch was perfect—almost too much, the way he filled you completely, pressing right against that spot that made your vision spark. “Uggh, you’re so deep like this…”
Ilia didn’t give you time to adjust. He started moving—deep, powerful rolls of his hips that lifted you higher up the wall with every thrust. No shallow bullshit. Full, punishing strokes that made your breasts bounce under your bra and your breath hitch into broken moans. His quads and glutes—those insane athlete muscles built from years of explosive jumps—did all the work, holding your entire weight like it was nothing. Sweat slicked his forehead, hair sticking to it, but his rhythm never faltered.
Minutes passed. Five. Ten. He fucked you like a machine, steady and brutal, the wet slap of skin echoing down the empty hallway. Every time you clenched around him, thighs trembling, he’d just growl and adjust his grip—spreading you wider, angling deeper. “That’s it, baby. Take it. I could do this for hours. Hold you right here until you’re dripping down my thighs and begging.”
Your head fell back against the wall with a thud, eyes glassy. You were already close, the angle hitting everything perfectly, his pelvis grinding against your clit on every upstroke. “Ilia—harder—”
He gave it to you. One arm hooked under your knee, spreading you obscenely as he pounded up into you. His free hand slipped between you, thumb circling your swollen clit with merciless precision while his cock drove in and out, glistening with your arousal. You came hard the first time—shaking, clenching around him like a vice, a sharp curse word spilling from your lips—but he didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow.
“First one,” he panted against your neck, biting down just hard enough to mark you. “Give me another.”
He shifted you higher, changing the angle so he dragged against your front wall with every thrust. The stamina was unreal—his breathing controlled like he was mid-program, heart rate steady, those powerful legs never shaking. Sweat poured down his back, muscles burning in the best way, but Ilia thrived in the burn. He’d trained through worse. This? This was a reward.
You came again, louder this time, soaking his cock and the front of his pants. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging hard as you sobbed his name. Still, he kept going—long, dragging strokes now, savoring the way you fluttered and pulsed around him. He kissed you through it, messy and tender at the same time, murmuring praise between thrusts. “So fucking perfect for me. My strong girl. Look at you, taking everything I give…”
Twenty minutes in and he finally let himself chase it. He pinned you completely, chest to chest, hips snapping up in short, devastating thrusts that hit so deep you swore you felt him in your stomach. “Gonna fill you up, honey Right here against the wall like you deserve.”
With a loud groan, Ilia came hard—cock pulsing thick ropes deep inside you, hips grinding through every wave until he was spent. But even then, he didn’t pull out. He stayed buried, holding you suspended, kissing you slow and deep while your hearts hammered together.
“See?” he murmured, lips brushing yours, a cocky little smirk breaking through the haze. “Athlete stamina. We’re not done yet. Locker room next. Then the car. Then home, where I’m bending you over the kitchen counter until sunrise.”
You laughed breathlessly, thighs still quivering around him. “Quad God never quits, huh?”
He kissed you again, already half-hard inside you again, ready for round two. Because for Ilia Malinin, the program was never truly over until he’d given everything—and then some.
Russians back, Kaori and Loena retired, Yuma gap year, Ilia possibly taking time off, Isabeau attempting quads, fb/c continuing. can we just abolish the sport of figure skating while we’re ahead
