ilya is bored.

he tries to kid himself — convinces himself that the only reason he’s not enjoying the gala is because his english isn’t that good, and he doesn’t know the people in his new team well enough yet.

but he knows it’s a lie.

he talks to big sponsors, talks to his teammates. knocks back shots and listens to the speeches being made. and then he sees you. you ‘re called onto stage, and you are clearly drunk. you start talking — no, slurring — about how happy you are to be joining your team, and then the next thing ilya knows, you’re breaking into a rendition of ‘we are the champions’ by queen.

it’s the most entertained ilya’s been since moving to america.

he spots you a while later, being chided by your new coach and manager. ilya watches from his spot against the bar, watches the way you pout, drunk and the way you nod along and hold up crossed fingers, clearly promising to behave. he watches you stick your tongue out discreetly as they turn their backs.

ilya’s intrugued.

he waits until your eyes meet his. you give a small, drunken wave. ilya beckons you over, and you look to your side and behind you, pointing to yourself as if to say me?

ilya nods, biting back a laugh and you stroll over.