Chapter Text
The soft red carpet is muffling Kris’ steps as he crosses the lobby.
It’s five a.m., there’s a bone-deep fatigue dwelling inside his chest and he’s on his way to get everything ready for the day.
Step one, open the hotel doors.
Step two, turn on the old computer behind the counter of the reception and check the reservations. Answer mails. Answer mails. Answer mails. Answer mails.
Step three, get the kitchen ready and greet the cook, Jure, who’s working three jobs because he seemingly never sleeps. And because the hotel can’t afford to pay him more than sixteen hours a week.
Step four, get the master key and fetch the cleaning cart.
A few months ago their housekeeper quit (on account of the abysmal pay, if they’re being completely honest) and Kris’ dad just…never bothered to hire a new one. Slowly but surely, it had become Kris’ job.
As always.
There had been a time in his life when Kris was looking forward to taking over the family business.
His dad had bought a beautiful mansion, renovated it and turned it into a gorgeous hotel. Plush carpets everywhere, a big, state-of-the-art kitchen, rooms full of lovely little details that made their guests feel special.
That had been thirty-five years ago. Since then, the red carpets had turned orange, at least half of the kitchen appliances had been deemed fire hazards and the rooms all either had water damage, mold, or both.
His brother had had the right idea when he told his dad to fuck off and moved across the country to go to college.
Kris stayed. His dad was the most capable man he knew. Surely he could turn the hotel around again.
Turns out…he couldn’t. His current strategy was to steadily let go of the staff and replace them with, well, Kris.
And what choice did he have? He was in too deep to say No.
Kris knew he’d dug this grave himself. That didn’t make it any better, though.
He’d have to sit it out until he was the sole owner. Sell the fucking hotel, move to a big city somewhere to forget about the countless hours spent behind the hotel bar, staring into space.
But that could take, what – another twenty years? Thirty?
Kris usually avoids thinking about that.
It wouldn’t be half bad if there were things of interest happening, at least.
But no, the most scandalous things Kris encounters are bras left behind underneath the beds, or, on one rare occasion, a blister of viagra pills.
There are days Kris wishes for a feral rockband to come into the hotel and completely obliterate one of the rooms – if only so that he could change up his routine a little.
No such luck.
The only guests are about eighty years old, moving very slowly, talking very loudly, and while they’re not destroying the rooms, there’s always that old-people-smell.
The hotel has started printing the menu in bigger letters a few years ago.
Kris doesn’t even remember when he’s last seen someone his own age who wasn’t Jure.
The closest he gets to experiencing a so-called “good mood” is when he takes the little stage in the dining hall together with his dad during their show nights. They put on stupid glittery suits and start strumming away on their guitars, singing old hits to entertain the guests. His dad is the true showman, but Kris is still happy to be there, even though the spotlight’s never on him.
Their guests are not the most enthusiastic audience (too many hip replacements to dance, probably), but Kris enjoys those evenings nevertheless.
Sometimes he dreams of a bigger stage, bigger than the little podium inside the Barve Oceana, but his foot is stuck in a bear trap and he’d have to gnaw it off to get out.
So he loses himself in the routine, keeps the discussions with his dad about the future of the hotel to a minimum and squeezes in a short chat with Jure whenever his schedule allows for it.
There’s just enough human contact to keep him afloat.
If someone were to ask him how he’s doing (which isn’t happening anyway), he could honestly and wholeheartedly say: It’s going.
Nothing more, nothing less.
It’s going.
***
Kris keeps a bottle of vodka hidden away beneath the front desk for weeks like this. They have a total of seven guests currently residing in the hotel: Three couples in their seventies plus one lonely, eighty-four year-old widower who keeps hitting on Kris, presumably because he reminds him of his late wife. Or because he’s discovering things about himself. Who is Kris to judge.
Currently, none of them are to be seen, probably sweating their worries away in the spa area, and so Kris is left trying to kill his time behind the reception.
He’d be better off counting the dust particles on the floor. He’s scrolled his Instagram page to hell and back already – he keeps this up for much longer, his brain is going to atrophy.
So he gets out the bottle of vodka, unscrews it and is in the middle of taking a generous swig when the front doors open and a stranger walks in.
Kris almost chokes on his drink.
The other guy is…well, he’s young, for a start. He’s got brown hair, interrupted only by a tasteful grey streak right above his right eyebrow, a small moustache and a strong jawline.
He catches Kris’ eyes, who’s still standing there, bottle of vodka in hand, and he starts grinning widely.
Kris immediately blushes and clumsily attempts to put the bottle away. By the time he’s managed that, the stranger has reached his desk.
Staring Kris right in the face, he starts hammering down on the little bell placed in front of him, there to alert the absent staff. The absent staff in question stands in front of him, waiting until the last tone rings out.
“Hi,” Kris says, a little awkwardly.
“Hi! Sorry, I always wanted to do that. You got any of that vodka left?”
There’s mirth and mischief in his voice, and his eyes are full of life.
“Uh. That’s not really- well, that’s, uh. Private vodka.”
“Private vodka?” The other guy raises his eyebrows. “You do that often?”
“Not really. Only when I’m bored.”
Kris doesn’t even know why he’s telling him all that. He usually prides himself in his professionalism. Maybe his brain has atrophied without him even realizing it.
The other man chuckles and continues in the worst British accent Kris has ever heard.
“Well, you might have a problem on your hands there, my friend. But fear not, for I am to put you out of your boredom-induced misery.” He switches back to normal. “You got any free rooms?”
Kris stares at him dumbly for a few seconds, momentarily taken aback by the sheer verbal theatrics the man’s putting on.
Then he nods hastily.
“Uh, yeah. Sure. Double? Single? Oh, and how long are you planning on staying?”
The guy looks around, takes in the shabby and outdated decor, before studying Kris intently, who squirms a little under his gaze.
“Make it a double,” he finally decides. “And I’m staying…indefinitely. That a problem?”
Kris shakes his head. It’s not like they’re expecting the King of England to stop by all of a sudden.
“No, all good. I’ll just need your name, please.”
The other guy nods. “Bojan Cvjetićanin,” he says. With a wink, he adds: “Need me to spell it out for you?”
***
Kris leads him to his room. He doesn’t do that, usually.
Bojan uses the short elevator ride to the third floor to let his eyes wander all over Kris. He’s leaning back against the mirrored wall, hands behind his back.
“What’s your name?” he finally asks. Kris is fidgeting with the keys in his hands.
“Kris. Kris Guštin.”
“And they let you drink vodka on the clock because…?” Bojan offers him a smile – a soft one, no teeth. Even though the comment is meant to poke at Kris, there’s no actual malice behind it.
“Because my dad owns the place,” Kris says, and it comes out a little harsher than intended. He sincerely hopes Bojan doesn’t pick up on the bitterness in his voice.
Bojan just raises his eyebrows and pulls an overly exaggerated impressed face.
“Wow, okay. Looking forward to being the big boss?”
Kris just throws him A Look.
“What do you think?” he replies dryly. Bojan chuckles.
“I’m guessing no, then. Why?”
The elevator comes to a halt and they exit. Kris gestures for Bojan to follow him.
“It’s a shit fucking job,” he says and unlocks the door to room 312. “Voilà. Minibar is stocked, if you want fresh towels, throw the old ones on the floor, I’ll get you new ones. And if you need help with the safe, just call. Front desk is 001.”
“So you’re just one phone call away. How romantic.” Kris swallows at the effortless flirt.
He’s out of his depth here, so he deflects and lets Bojan enter the room. It’s one of the bigger suites – it’s got a balcony that offers an admittedly gorgeous view over the fields behind the Barve Oceana. The decor is very maritime-y; lots of seashells and unnecessary blue sculptures. Bojan doesn’t bat an eye. Instead, he instantly crosses the room to press his nose against the window front.
“Fuck, what a view.”
“It’s alright,” Kris says. He’s leaning against the doorframe, not daring to cross the threshold. He’s seen that fucking view a thousand times.
“You’re just used to it.”
“I guess.” When Bojan turns around expectantly, motioning for Kris to come over, he hesitates before stepping into the room. There’s some sort of unspoken rule to never enter a guest’s apartment while they’re inside. Makes them feel unsafe.
Bojan doesn’t give two shits about feeling unsafe, apparently.
Kris nears the window. He tries to look at the panorama as if he’s seeing it for the first time, but no such luck. So he watches Bojan instead, whose eyes follow a murder of crows picking at the dirt. There’s a soft smile playing around his lips and Kris swallows.
Bojan is an objectively attractive man. But more than that, he seems to be in possession of some inherent carefreeness Kris couldn’t hope to attain in a million years. There’s always something on his mind, a to-do list to take care of, to worry about.
That zero-fucks-given attitude does something funny to Kris’ stomach.
“Yeah,” Bojan interrupts his train of thought. “I think I’ll like it here.”