gin!!

Well, a few messages are. There’s one from Wyatt around 4 a.m. making sure everyone made it home safe.

Ilya’d loved the message even though he doesn’t remember seeing it.

There are a few others of Troy looking for his wallet and Sveta complaining about the shitty vodka the bar had available.

The rest though, are all from unknown numbers.

Dozens of them. All some iteration of the same thing.

“Hey! This is so and so from the bar!”

Or

“Hey handsome ;) remember me?”

Which, no he doesn’t.

Or

“Last night was fun. Drinks again soon?”

Even a few that just say, “Hey.”

And Jesus how many people had he given his number to? How many had Sveta?

Doesn’t matter.

He knows he talked to so many people last night but not one stands out in his memory after the last.

About an hour before they’d planned to leave and about fifteen minutes after he’d ordered what was supposed to be his last drink he’d all but run into a sweet boy with sweeter freckles and a pretty pink blush that dusted the tops of his cheeks.

Every person he’d met, maybe even seen, the rest of the night faded into obscurity.

Shane.

Sweetheart.

Ilya’s never really been one for love at first sight. Lust maybe. Definitely, if he’s honest.

But if he were physically capable of having cartoon hearts for eyes Ilya’s sure he would be putting Cupid to shame.

He and Shane had talked for hours. Long after all his friends had left but somehow not long enough.

The boy was a sweetheart. A little shy. A lot smart. Ridiculously funny but so, so dry. Ilya could tell he wasn’t aiming for funny, he just was.

He could’ve spent the rest of his days right there on that barstool watching pretty brown eyes roll at his bad jokes, and pretty cheeks pink at his good ones.

When Shane had started yawning Ilya had first teased him for it. But after learning of Shane’s strict sleep schedule and just how far gone it was in the name of talking to him, Ilya tugged him by the wrist out the front door. Told him his pretty face needed beauty sleep. He’d given Shane his number, his own phone in desperate need of a charger, and hoped he’d hear from him by the time he’d made it to his own apartment.

Scrolling through the influx of messages he’d awoken to, it appears he has not.

Ilya’s heart sinks the tiniest bit. The thing is, he is a man on a mission.

He weeds out all of the numbers that included names. Doesn’t even bother to respond.

He sifts through the ones that are overtly flirty, sexy, hinting at any kind of innuendo. His Shane would never.

With the remaining eight or nine numbers with generic enough texts, he sends the same text.

“Is this Shane?”

He finally gathers the strength to get out of bed and go get some food. The Russian perk of no hangover does not also equal not wanting to eat his body weight in grease after a night out.

As he settles into the kitchen, picking through the groceries left in his fridge, the responses begin to roll in.

“No, this is Brooke.”

And

“Who?”

And

“Damn. No, but call me if you don’t hear from him.”

And even one that said,

“Would my chances be better if i said yes?”

He rolls his eyes and slides his phone across the countertop.

By the time he’s finished his breakfast and settled himself on the couch for what will surely be a moderate to okay lazy day, he’s resigned himself to the fact that maybe Shane wasn’t feeling him the way he thought. Maybe he chickened out. Maybe, after one too many vodka shots, Ilya’d given him the wrong number.

He’d given the right one to approximately forty other people though it would seem so he doubts it’s that.

Whatever the reason, Ilya is perfectly content to go back to the bar night after night in hopes of running into him again.

He’s scrolling through today’s top movies when he gets one last message. It’s from the last number that he still hadn’t heard from.

A response to his question of “Is this Shane?”

A simple, “Yes.”