Chapter Text
The cigarette felt familiar between Ilya’s fingers, even though over the last few years he had significantly reduced how many cigarettes he smoked per day. Not because he was a health nut, because God knew he wasn’t: he smoked, he drank - too much - he had promiscuous sex - often with even more promiscuous people - and, in general, he lived his life with a recklessness that was bound to land him in the hospital or in jail, or both. So, no, the reason he had practically halved his daily cigarette intake had nothing to do with him being concerned about his lungs; it had, instead, everything to do with his gut. An unpleasant feeling that weighed on it like a stone and that, after a while, had become too exhausting to keep ignoring. The boulder hadn’t disappeared, because Ilya wasn’t ready to quit smoking altogether - and he didn’t know if he ever would be - but by cutting down on smokes, its weight had also been decreased until it had shrunk to a pebble that was only slightly uncomfortable, a reminder that it still existed.
His gut’s loquacity was not limited to smoking, though: over the course of his life, Ilya had made other choices without really knowing why, aside from his gut telling him to do so. An example? Begging his mother to sign him up for a peewee hockey team, when he was still a little boy who lived in Russia and fell asleep lulled by his mama’s sweet voice murmuring old lullabies. Ilya had stopped playing when he was twelve and his mother could no longer sing him lullabies because she could no longer sing anything at all. Because to score and turn around to seek the prideful cheers of his mom only to find an empty seat, that he knew would remain empty forever, made him want to grab one of his skates and drive the blade into his chest until it ripped through his heart. Still, even though playing hockey made him want to vomit, he continued to follow the sport he loved and hated at the same time, keeping up with the games and various teams. He couldn’t help it; his gut demanded it. Another example of decisions imposed by that bossy bastard who liked to rule his life? Moving to fucking Ottawa. And that was one of the choices that had annoyed him the most because, seriously? Ottawa? If he really had to move to another country, couldn’t his gut have chosen, say, Boston? Or some Italian city? But no, he had to end up in Ottawa. Ilya, a Canadian? Outrageous. He was still pretty pissed off at his gut for that one. Yet he had done it, of course he had done it, the mere thought of not doing it had made him feel so sick that he had blacked out for a few moments, and when he had recovered, he had found himself hugging his toilet bowl with teary eyes from the violence of his retching. And so there he was, in Canada, with a life that now belonged to him, some friends and a store where people went to find out something - anything - about their soulmates. Because Ilya, besides being Ilya, was also the best fucking soulmate seer you could find, so, as soon as he had left Russia, he had turned it into a job and he was also excellent at it. Proof of that was the fact that his calendar was always packed and to schedule an appointment with him clients had to call Svetlana, his best friend and secretary, at least three months in advance. In short, Ilya had created a life for himself, filled with choices that were his and his alone and choices he had no say in. And no, he wasn’t dumb: he knew exactly where his gut was leading him, he knew why, but that didn’t mean he had to acknowledge it or even assist it. If that stupid part of him was so hellbent on finding his soulmate then so be it, but Ilya had no intention of helping it or, God forbid, seeking out his soulmate himself. If it was meant to be, and it usually was, his other half was going to find him anyway, even without his assistance.
A slight burning sensation stung his fingers, causing him to look down: he had been so lost in his thoughts that he had forgotten about the lit cigarette and the wind had consumed it down to the filter. A wasted cigarette, his soulmate would have been delighted. Ilya stubbed out what was left of it and threw the butt in the trash before rubbing his hands over his face, sighing wearily. He had woken up that morning to a strange sensation, like a constant jolt of electricity running through his body from his core to his limbs, a current that buzzed incessantly, and he felt drained of all his energy. Thankfully, before leaving, Svetlana had reminded him that he only had one last appointment, so it wouldn’t be long before Ilya could finally go home. Just one last reading and then he would be back in his apartment, maybe he could smoke a joint to try to get rid of that stupid electric tingling that had kept him on edge all day. The bell he had installed above the store’s main entrance chimed, alerting him that his last client of the day had arrived. Ilya checked the time on his phone: five minutes early, and while normally he would have been annoyed at having to cut his break short by five minutes, today he was grateful, because it meant that the reading would take five minutes less and he would be home five minutes earlier. He opened the back door, which was off-limits to customers, and walked back into the place that was so familiar to him he could have walked through it with his eyes closed and his feet tied together. The client, a man shorter than Ilya but whose build was clearly solid even from a distance, had his back to him; the way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other told him clearly that the guy was obviously nervous. His nervousness was rubbing off on him, too, because suddenly the electric feeling that had accompanied him all day had morphed into a knot of nerves sitting right in the center of his gut. Ilya tried to shake it off, with poor results. The customer’s hair was the color of ink and his ass, even clothed, made him want to drop to his knees and worship it. But it wasn’t his majestic ass that took his breath away for a second, rather the fact that the guy, probably sensing he was no longer alone, had turned around and Ilya knew perfectly well to whom the ass he had been fantasizing about until a second ago belonged. Shane Hollander was twenty-five, had a bank account with too many zeros, a multi-million dollar contract as star center for the Ottawa Centaurs - of which he was also captain - hometown hero, three times Stanley Cup winner and was utterly miserable. Not that it was obvious, and someone less perceptive than him probably wouldn’t have noticed at all, but to Ilya the deep sadness in those onyx eyes was crystal clear.
“Shane Hollander,” Ilya drawled. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit to my little store?”
Hollander looked decidedly less imposing off the ice, his whole demeanor was completely different, as if when he took off his skate, he also shed the self-confidence that made him unbeatable in hockey and had earned him the title of generational talent. The player’s face turned surprised when he heard his name, taken aback that he had been recognized by the seer, as if it were possible for Ilya not to know who he was. His pretty face was plastered all over Ottawa and anyone who was aware that a sport called hockey existed was aware of Shane Hollander.
“Um, hi. My team... I have an appointment, I think.”
His voice was masculine and delicate, like everything else about him, and the anxiety that dripped from his every word was clearly reflected in every feature of his face. He had such an expressive face that he wondered how it was possible that the person in front of him was the same person who was so unreadable on the ice that he skated circles around his opponents.
“You think?” Ilya asked sardonically. The fact that Hollander was visibly nervous didn’t mean he couldn’t have a little fun; not in a malicious way or by saying something that would really make him uncomfortable, but simply by teasing him a little. Teasing people to get some kind of reaction out of them was one of Ilya’s favorite pastimes, ranking somewhere between fucking and driving fast cars.
Hollander’s cheeks flushed slightly. “No, I know. I know I have an appointment.”
The seer craned his neck toward the planner where Svetlana neatly jotted down all his appointments and found the slot that belonged to the last client of the day.
“So Shane Hollander is your stage name, or is Harris Drover your alter ego? Do you patrol city looking for crimes to prevent when you’re not playing hockey?”
A rush of delight shot through the base of Ilya’s spine seeing the color on the other man’s cheeks turn a beautiful deep red. He didn’t know why or how he was so sure of it, but he had a feeling that making him blush would become one of his life’s goals.
“Harris is the team’s Social Media Manager. The guys used his name because they know I’m a private person,” he explained, clearly trying not to stammer due to his obvious embarrassment.
Instead of continuing to tease him, Ilya decided to take pity and not make him even more uncomfortable. “We can start the reading when you’re ready.”
If the seer thought his words would ease his discomfort, he was sorely mistaken. Suddenly, all the color drained from Hollander’s face, turning him white as a sheet; his dark eyes screamed terror. Ilya had no idea what he had said to provoke such a violent and frightened reaction, but nothing could have prepared him for the words that came out of the hockey player’s mouth.
“Actually... I was hoping to cancel the reading.”
He... What?
“Sorry, I’m not sure I heard you correctly. You do not want the reading you paid for?”
“I was not the one who booked the appointment,” he replied defensively, as if that explanation would be a valid reason to refuse a reading and the chance to discover his soulmate.
“I don’t understand.”
“It was a gift from my team. They’ve been trying to set me up for years and this is their last resort.”
Yeah, looking at the man in front of him he doubted he needed help finding a girlfriend, or someone to simply hook up with, if he wanted to. Shane Hollander was gorgeous and now that he was standing in front of him in the flesh he truly had to focus on being professional to avoid getting lost in his eyes and the soft curves of his lips.
“Okay... But I still don’t understand why you don’t want to do the reading.”
“I don’t want a soulmate. And I don’t want to know who they are either,” he said resolutely.
And if that wasn’t the most absurd thing Ilya had ever heard in his entire life. His voice was firm, but the corners of his mouth had curved slightly downward and there was a tension in his shoulders that the seer was sure hadn’t been there a few minutes earlier.
“You... Sorry, I must have got that wrong. You don’t want your soulmate? Your soul’s missing piece?” Ilya laughed, and he could hear that it was more of a hysterical laugh than a real laugh, but, seriously, what else was he supposed to do?! He had never been in such a situation and didn’t know of any other seer who had experienced anything even remotely similar. Usually, people were willing to give up anything and everything for the opportunity to receive a reading, especially if the seer was as renowned and competent as he was. Yet Hollander was refusing his reading. He was refusing his soulmate. Why? He could not find a single reason good enough to justify such a choice. The client’s eyes were seas of sadness, even from a distance it wasn’t hard to see the deep despair they contained, and for a moment his whole face turned into a mask of heartbreak. But it lasted only an instant - so fleeting that Ilya began to wonder if he had imagined it - because then he closed his eyes and when he reopened them there was nothing but determination. It was the look he had seen hundreds of times on a screen, the look he had when he positioned himself for the face-offs against his opponents.
“No. I don’t want to know anything about them.”
“I thought that after so many years in this business nothing could surprise me anymore. But I was wrong. Boy, was I wrong,” he said more to himself than to the other man. Hollander waited without saying anything, only jutting out his chin defiantly. “This is the first time this has ever happened to me, so I’m not sure how to proceed... If you’re sure about your decision then fine, I guess. I’ll refund your friends."
As ridiculous as it seemed, he would have never forced anyone to do anything without their consent. Ilya wasn’t a barbarian or an utter asshole. The defiance slipped from Hollander’s face, replaced once again by unease. Now what? What else was wrong?
“No, I... Would it be possible to keep them in the dark? The reason I don’t want to know anything about my soulmate is very personal and I don’t want to share it with them. Also, I’d hate for them to know that I turned down their gift: they’d be very upset and, besides, they’d keep trying to set me up with any girl who has two eyes, breathes and ranges in age from twenty-one to seventy.”
The seer had always been proud of his ability to read people, of his perceptiveness, yet every time he thought he knew what was about to come out of the mouth of the boy in front of him, he surprised him by saying something completely different.
“I’m sorry, the only way to refund a reading is to return the money to the original payment method. I can’t give it back to you if you didn’t pay for the appointment,” he explained simply, trying not to show how much the whole conversation had thrown him off balance.
“Can’t you just... Keep the money?”
Was he serious? Ilya knew how much hockey players earned and knew that, although his readings were not cheap, they would not be bankrupted by losing the payment, but keeping the money in exchange for nothing would be theft, and the seer had absolutely no intention of going to jail for that.
“No, that would be unethical on my part.” It was as if his words had punched him: his shoulders slumped and his whole posture shifted inward, almost as if he were trying to protect himself. There was no rational reason for it, but the man’s despair felt like a noose tightening around Ilya’s heart and suddenly he just wanted to wipe that miserable expression off his face. “There is one thing I can do, though. The best compromise I can offer you.”
Hollander perked up a bit. “What’s that?”
“I can do the reading, but I will tell you nothing about what I see. I’ll write everything down on a piece of paper and give it to you in a sealed envelope, so you won’t know anything about your soulmate, but I’ll still complete my work. And then, if you change your mind in the future, you’ll have the option to open the envelope and discover the identity of the person the universe intended for you.”
“But you would know who they are.”
Well, duh? What did he think he could do with that information? Go out and seduce Shane Hollander’s soulmate?
“Just me. I couldn’t reveal it to anyone due to client confidentiality. I’m professional who takes his work very seriously, I would never jeopardize that.”
The player seemed calmer than before, less on the verge of a panic attack, but it was obvious that he still wasn’t fully convinced. Whatever was the reason for all the secrecy about his soulmate, it was clear that it was something that scared him shitless.
“Do you swear you won’t tell anyone?”
“No one. I swear. And even if I wanted to, I couldn’t do it legally, I told you.” He tried to keep his tone as monotone as possible, the way you would with a wild animal, ready to flee at the first sign of danger.
Hollander hid his face in his hands and then rubbed his palms vigorously over his eyes; he took a deep breath and made a decision. “All right. Okay. Fuck. Okay, let’s do it.”
Ilya breathed a sigh of relief that they had found a solution that worked for both of them.
“Come this way.”
The seer walked toward the small room where he held his readings. Hollander followed him silently. “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing toward the various oversized pillows scattered across the large rug that covered most of the room. The man chose the light blue one, which was secretly his favorite, and sat down on it with all the grace of an athlete who was used to having complete control over his body. Ilya sat down on the yellow cushion directly next to the blue one before he even realized he had moved. He usually sat further away from clients to avoid invading their personal space, but that time his body had made the decision before his head. From so close up, Hollander’s freckles looked like constellations and Ilya had to discreetly pinch his thigh to stop himself from doing something stupid like leaning in and kissing them one by one.
“When you’re ready, I’ll begin. I’ll need to take your hand, if that’s okay with you.”
His expression clearly said that it was not, in fact, okay, but his mouth gave him permission. “Go ahead.”
“There’s no need to be nervous, you won’t feel a thing. You may feel a slight warmth in your chest and at the base of your neck, but is usually a pleasant warmth. Like a hug.” To be honest, it was Ilya who was nervous and he couldn’t understand why: even before his very first reading he had been confident, without a shadow of anxiety, and after that he had done thousands of them. There was nothing different, it was a reading like any other, yet his body vibrated like an exposed wire the moment before touching water. The seer chose to attribute his nerves to the fact that the person in front of him was not a normal client, but a hockey superstar and, probably, his favorite player of all time; he didn’t have time to try to dissect his emotions and why his body was reacting that way, he had a job to do.
“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Hollander muttered so quietly that if they hadn’t been sitting practically attached, Ilya wouldn’t have heard him. Since it was obvious that the words were not meant for his ears, he pretended not to hear.
“The reading usually takes a few minutes. I usually read the details that appear to me aloud to the client during the reading. In your case, once I’m done, I’ll write down all the information I’ve seen about your soulmate, without telling you anything.”
Hollander nodded and rubbed his palms on his jeans-covered thighs before taking the hand Ilya had extended to him. His palm was slightly sweaty and his skin was rough and covered with calluses, but when their hands touched a small shock ran through the points of contact between them. From the player’s sharp intake of breath, the seer was sure that he had felt it too. Ilya shook his head as if to clear his thoughts and added that fact to the growing pile of things he needed to think about once he got home.
“Okay, here we go,” he said, before closing his eyes and diving into his mind.
It was different for every seer, but for him, all the informations about soulmates were contained in a large book. Ilya let himself be transported by the familiar current that carried him toward his target and once he reached it, he grabbed the book gently and reverently; he caressed the pages with his fingers, waiting to feel that pull that would let him know he had reached the right page. Sometimes it could take a few moments, but Shane Hollander’s soulmate clearly wanted to be found - even though he didn’t want to find them - because it only took Ilya a few seconds to find the page that had been written for him.
He opened the book slowly, curious to see who was the person who terrified such a big, though hockey player. Even though he was inside his head, and therefore not in a material form, Ilya could clearly see that he was shaking. The moment felt solemn and heavy, cumbersome in its importance, and he had no idea why. Nothing like that had ever happened to him before. The reason became clear as soon as the details about Shane’s other half began to appear on the page. Male. Twenty-five years old. Alive. Born in Russia, but living in Ottawa. An address, the address of his soulmate’s home, familiar as his own because it was his own. Third floor, door 14C. If Shane were to go there now, he would find a dirty coffee cup in the sink, a joystick abandoned on the couch, an unmade bed with a dirty shirt on it that he had forgotten to put in the hamper that morning. The address of an apartment he had considered his home for years now, the address of the place Ilya had been craving to get back to all morning, where he could rest and try to shake off that odd feeling that had accompanied him throughout the day.
And then, as if all that was not enough and was not threatening to send Ilya into cardiac arrest, a name. The name his mother had chosen for him, the name she had lovingly embroidered on the blanket she had used to wrap him in during those first sleepless nights in the hospital, while she held him close to her chest and rocked him to sleep. His name.
Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov.
Well, shit.