Work Text:
AUGUST 2014
“YOU FUCKING WHAT, ALEXIS?”
“Chill, David. I left Moscow this morning.”
“SO WHERE ARE YOU?”
“Johannesburg.”
“Johannes…” David pulled the phone away from his face so he could take a long deep breath to calm himself. “Who are you with?”
“Umm… I think it's like Jenna and Courtney and Tara.”
“No Stavros?”
“No Stavros.”
“Good.” Because fuck that guy. “But what am I supposed to do now? I just got to Moscow and I won't be able to leave until tomorrow.”
“Oh my god, David. Like, find a club. Find a hookup. Maybe that will calm you down. You get all screechy when you haven't been laid in a while.”
“I DO NOT GET SCREECHY WHEN I HAVEN'T BEEN LAID!” David screeched loudly in the Russian airport terminal drawing some looks from passers-by.
“Uh-huh". He could hear the grin on her smug face.
“Fine! If you're safe I guess I'll just find a suite then. And Alexis, call me if you need anything.”
“Whatever, David. Bye. Have fun.”
Alexis hung up before he could retort. David took another deep, calming breath that still came out as a heavy, frustrated sigh. He’d been through Moscow before, but never alone and without a purpose for being there. Like the time he escorted Alexis here when she was 15 and modeling for fashion designer, Alexandre Plokhov.
He called the concierge service that helped him book travel arrangements to arrange a suite for that night and a plane back to New York for tomorrow. While he waited for them to confirm a suite, he collected his luggage and found a coffee shop where he was able to order a beverage with a high enough caffeine and sugar content to hopefully calm his nerves.
🍸🥃
After a brief 5 hour nap in his luxury suite in a hotel in the heart of downtown Moscow, David wondered if it was too pathetic to just go back to sleep until his flight tomorrow. Instead, Alexis' words stuck in his head. Find a club. You get all screechy when you haven't been laid in a while. Deep down, he knew she was right. There had only been one person who had been in his bed since Sebastian and it would probably be good for him to put more bodies between him and his ex.
Adorning his favourite leather jacket, a pair of leather pants, and tight white t-shirt, David caught a ride service to take him to a club with music loud enough to blow out his eardrums, and men easy enough to blow out his back. He generously tipped the doorman and stepped into the club playing some kind of Russian industrial music. Not usually his scene, but the lights were low, there was alcohol, and he was surrounded by hot people.
He went to the bar and ordered a vodka (because when in Rome, or when in Russia in this case) and began to scope the room. His eyes were immediately drawn to a gorgeous couple standing together at one of the high top tables. The man was built like a Greek statue in a pair of tight black jeans and black tank top. The woman was gorgeous and slender with voluminously styled hair looking like she just came off the runway. David wondered what the chances were of him getting between both of them that night. Probably slim.
He took his drink and made a round of the room. There were a lot of potentials here tonight but it was the woman from the high top who approached him first.
“привет," she said with a sultry lilt, leaning into his ear.
“Hi, sorry I don't speak Russian.”
“Ahh. American?”
“Canadian.” Even though he had spent the better part of his life living in New York, David knew that keeping his Canadian passport and saying that he was Canadian had resulted in much sweeter treatment abroad.
“Nice. I spend a lot of time in US. But I spend Summer here," the woman spoke while tracing her finger tip down the length of his arm. "I like your jacket very much."
David lit up at the compliment and shimmied his shoulders. “Oh my gosh, thank you! It's from the Rick Owens 2014 Sping/Summer collection.”
The woman gave him an appreciative look up and down and smiled. “I'm Svetlana. I would like to introduce you to my friend”. She guided him by his arm over to the table he had seen them at before. The man held his cell phone in one hand and his chin in the other with a disinterested look on his face. His slight lean meant David could take in his back side, and there was a lot of backside to take in.
“Ilyaaaa,” Svetlana crooned. “I would like you to meet…” she paused and gestured to David.
“Oh, umm… David. David Rose.”
“David Rose, this is Ilya Rozanov. And Ilya, David is from Canada.”
The man finally looked up at that, making eye contact with David and setting his phone down on the table top. “Hello” he spoke with a deep Russian accent.
Ilya took in the man before him. He had no ass but long, lean legs. Nice. He wasn't too tall. Maybe 5’11” or 6’ish, which was perfect for Ilya. The Canadian had swooped back black hair, strong eyebrows, and what looked like dark chocolate eyes, reminding him of someone and was very comforted by the thought.
“I like your jacket,” Ilya spoke loudly over the music.
“Thank you. I like your… absence of a jacket,” David smirked, taking in the man's broad shoulders, firm pecs, trim waist, and very, very well defined biceps. Ilya quirked an interested eyebrow at that.
Okay. Game on.
🍸🥃
An hour and a bit later, David stretched out languidly on the bed still naked, with only the sheet pulled over his mid-section. His hair was mussed and a deep red flush slowly receded from his cheeks, chest, neck, and upper arms. Ilya walked back into the bedroom in a pair of sweatpants, which barely contained anything, carrying two tumblers with clear liquid and ice, handing one to David. It smelled like vodka. Very strong vodka.
The sex was satisfying, but only okay. David found Ilya too bossy, and Ilya found David too whiney. It was awkward to get a rhythm going between them, and at one point before coming, Ilya had cried “oh, Hollander” a couple of times. David made a mental note to look up what 'Hollander' meant in Russian and hoped it was complementary at least.
Ilya relaxed on the other side of the bed, leaning up against the headboard. “You mind?” he asked, holding an unlit cigarette.
“No, go ahead,” David said while taking in the room around him. On the dresser he noticed a framed portrait of Ilya and the woman from the club, Svetlana. “Your friend from the club earlier… is that like your girlfriend... or your wife?”
“No,” Ilya said firmly, blowing out a stream of smoke. “We go way back. I mean, we fuck, but is not serious.”
“Ahh. So I see you also swim in both ponds," David chuckled in absence of anything else to say.
“What is that? Both ponds?”
“It's like when there's fish... and there's two… like… ponds. You know what, nevermind. Bad metaphor.”
“Oke,” Ilya snickered.
A moment of awkward silence washed over them. Ilya flicked his ashes into the tray on the nightstand while David took a pull of the vodka, wincing at the strength.
“So where do you live in Canada?” Ilya prompted.
“Well I don't currently live in Canada. I own an art gallery in New York, which is where I live. But I was born in Toronto.”
“Ahh, New York. I like it there but New York hates me.”
David chuckled awkwardly not knowing what Ilya meant by that. “Yeah, New York is a tough city to live in sometimes.”
Ilya looked at David with a big grin. “You don't pay attention to hockey, do you?”
“No, I don't. But I do know that there is a player on the New York team that looks like my ex and that's enough of a reason for me to avoid the sport.”
“I see,” Ilya paused to wonder what player that was. Probably fucking Scott Hunter. “Do you get out to Montreal at all?”
“Not really. Except for the occasional art show. Why?”
“There is a man I love there very much.”
“Does he love you?”
“Yes. Maybe. I don't know.”
David took a moment to make sure he chose his next words carefully. “If you have someone you like there, and they like you, why are you here and not there?”
“It's complicated” Ilya spoke softly while taking a long, sorrowful drag of his cigarette.
“All I know is that if I loved someone and that someone was stupid enough to love me back, I would move heaven and Earth to be with them.”
Ilya sighed with a long exhale. “Like I said… it's complicated.”
David knew that Russia was not a friendly country to same-sex couples. It is why he and Ilya were very careful about leaving the club together. “Would your family not approve?”
“No, not at all,” Ilya laughed incredulously. “Not that I would give a shit about it.”
“I sense that you're not close with your family?”
“No. My father is asshole. My brother is asshole. And I haven't seen my mother in… many years.”
“I get that. My family is also complicated. My mom and dad were never around growing up. They were either working or traveling around the world. It was just my sister and I and a team of household staff. And now I still haven't seen my parents in months and my sister is the one traveling around the world.”
Both men stared quietly ahead for a moment until David awkwardly laughed and said “my therapist would say that we fill our lives with anonymous sex, drugs, and alcohol to replace the absence of love from our families.”
Ilya stared at David with wide shocked eyes and a what the fuck hand gesture before extinguishing the cigarette with a sense of heavy irritation.
“I should probably go,” David said.
“Yes. Probably,” Ilya replied.
Extracting himself from the bed, David dressed with his back to Ilya feeling like he needed the modesty in this moment. In the light of the bedside lamps, Ilya was able to take in the spray of freckles across David's shoulders. He couldn't help but feel a softness return to heart, but not for the strange man currently leaving his bed.
Ever the gentleman, Ilya escorted him to the front door where David left his high tops. “Thank you for the vodka… and the umm… other stuff," he stuttered gesturing vaguely in the direction of the bedroom.
“You are welcome. It was nice to meet you, David.”
“You too, and... for whatever it's worth... I hope you can make it work with Montreal guy.”
Ilya, for the first time that night, let go of his hard Eastern European barrier and let a soft, fond smile take over his face. “Thank you.”
🍸🥃
NOVEMBER 2021
“It was so nice of Alexis to get us these tickets as an Anniversary present", Patrick said while settling himself comfortably into the hard arena seat.
"Considering it was a gift for you AND a gift for her," David replied, struggling to find a way to sit in his. "You get to see a hockey game in Ottawa and she gets the pleasure of knowing you'll make me sit through a hockey game in Ottawa.”
Patrick chuckled fondly. “Well, thank you for enduring this game with me, David. I don't know what the team would have done without your unwavering support tonight.”
“You're cute. Hand me that,” David said, gesturing to the program in Patrick's hands. “I should at least learn who's performing in the sport I'm about to endure.”
David scanned the names of the players on the Ottawa Centaurs (what a stupid name for a team) until a specific name caught his eye. A memory of the taste of vodka and the smell of cigarette smoke hit him. “Patrick? Can you look up a photo of this player here? Performer 81... Ilya Rozanov.”
Patrick pulled out his phone and typed the name into Google. The search brought up a roster photo of the player. It had been a while and his memory of the night is fuzzy, but David did remember that chiseled face with a cute cheek mole, striking eyes, and head full of curls. David smiled wistfully at the photo.
“Did you know him or something?” Patrick inquired seeing the look on David's face.
“Yes, I uhh… met… him many, many years ago.”
“Right, and when you say ‘met’ him it means the two of you…”
“So how long is this thing anyway?” David interjected so Patrick wouldn't finish his sentence.
“It's a little over 2 hours with game time and intermissions.”
Letting out a long groan that was 65% exaggeration and 35% actual anguish. “Fuck! Fine. I'm getting cheese fries though.”
🍸🥃🍺🥛
After the game, David convinced Patrick that he needed a strong drink for having sat though the game with only minimal complaining. They went to the busy hotel bar and restaurant where they were staying in Ottawa that night. Once they ordered their drinks of a Cosmo for David and a local draft lager for Patrick, they managed to find a table and begun the usually ritual of stupidly grinning at each other and smiling. They've been married a year and a couple months now and are still deeply in love, finding so much happiness in the company of the other. David hoped that never goes away.
“Oh hey, look over there!” Patrick exclaimed, gesturing across the bar. “Is that Zane Boodrum from the Centaurs?”
David looked but then questioned “How would I know that?”
“Look, there's Hayes and Dykstra too! I think the whole team is here.”
David stared at the men across the bar. If the whole team was here, there was only one face he would recognize. And there he was, once again standing at a high top table, but this time laughing and talking animatedly to a dark-haired man.
“Come with me,” David whispered, grabbing Patrick by the arm and walking with their drinks over to where the team and a particular team member was.
David softly approached the blonde haired Russian who looked happy and soft in a well tailored suit. “Hi, I'm sure you remember me, but I'm David Rose. We've met before.”
Ilya's eyes scanned the man before him. Recognition not setting in until he reached his David's eyebrows. Those were hard to forget. “Yes, David Rose. I do remember you.”
“I just wanted to say great game tonight and introduce you to my husband, Patri...”
“Oh my gosh, it is so amazing to meet you Ilya Rozanov,” Patrick beamed, thrusting his hand out to shake Ilya's.
Ilya chuckled light-heartedly at Patrick's enthusiasm. “It is nice to meet you. You may know my husband, Sha…”
“Shane Hollander!! I'm such a huge fan,” Patrick exclaimed, going in for another enthusiastic handshake with the other man.
A sudden memory jostled David. Hollander.
Shane smiled at Patrick and with practiced grace replied “thank you. Your support means a lot.”
“You were easily my favourite player in Montreal. My buddies and I would drive out there for games all the time.”
Another memory. Montreal.
As Patrick and Shane excitedly babbled back and forth about game statistics, David sidled up to Ilya. “Is he the man you loved from Montreal?”
Ilya bashfully looked down at his ring covered hand clutched around his tumbler of clear liquid. “Yes. Yes, he is. Is he the someone stupid enough to love you?”
“Yes.” David held out the glass of his Cosmo in a toast to Ilya. “Congratulations to you.”
Returning the toast, Ilya replied “Congratulations to you.”