Chapter Text
"Did you order something?" Luca's mother called from the kitchen as he kicked off his shoes in the entryway. The cardboard box on the counter looked obscenely out of place amidst the mess on their kitchen table.
The shipping label glared up at him in crisp black ink, ‘Signature Required’ stamped beneath his own name. His throat tightened around the sudden memory of fingers digging into his own cheeks, spreading himself open for a phone that now sat inside this exact box. The package made a soft scraping sound when he lifted it. It felt too light for something that cost more than his parents' monthly car payment.
"You didn't answer me," his mother said, wiping her hands on a tea towel. The microwave clock behind her read 16:17 PM, still early enough that Ilya would be mid-practice, blades carving into fresh ice time zones away.
Luca swallowed, clearing his throat "Sponsorship thing. For editing." He lied, opening the package. A lie he had been thinking about all day when he realised the package would arrive while he was still at school.
The box opened with a whisper. There nestled in black foam, a phone so new its protective film gleamed under the kitchen lights. The plastic film crinkling under Luca's fingertips. Luca's thumb skated across the screen, blank and pristine, waiting for his fingerprints.
His mother's eyebrows arched at his response and the microwave clock behind her ticked over to 16:18.
"Put it on the family plan then." She sighed, turning back to the sink, the tap squealing. "We can't afford another…"
The words 'family plan' hit Luca like a slap. His fingers twitched against the phone’s sleek edges. "It’s already got one," he interrupted, "sponsorship.” he tacked the lie onto the end of his sentence.
The house phone rang cutting through Luca’s second lie of the day before his mother could press further. She wiped her hands on her tea towel, giving him one last searching look before turning to answer it. Luca didn’t wait for her to ask who’d sponsored the phone or the plan. He bolted down the hallway, the box clutched to his chest like contraband.
His bedroom door clicked shut behind him, muffling his mother’s tired voice. Luca exhaled, pressing his forehead against the door. The new phone weighed heavy in his hands. His mother's voice carried through the thin door, muffled by the sound of her rummaging through the hall closet.
"I'm taking the late shift with your father," she called. "Leftovers in the fridge. Don't wait up."
Luca barely registered the sound of the front door closing behind her. His fingers flying over the screen, transferring data from his cracked old device with frantic precision. The setup process mocked him with cheerful notifications ‘Almost there!' and 'Just a few more steps!’ as if this were any normal upgrade and not a transaction that made his stomach cramp.
A notification popped up ‘Your device is linked to Ilya Rozanov's GooglePay for purchases’ and Luca nearly dropped the phone. He blinked at the notification like it had personally offended him. The words on the screen, bold and inescapable. His thumb hovered over the decline button but his traitorous finger jabbed accept before his brain caught up. The screen flashed white momentarily, then settled into a familiar home screen layout.
"Fuck," Luca muttered under his breath. He shouldn’t have done that. That was… what, financial entanglement? Shared accounts? His stomach twisted. He swiped through the settings frantically, searching for a way to undo it, but the damage was done. The little GooglePay icon in the corner now displayed Ilya’s name next to Luca’s email like some kind of fucked-up merger
He exhaled sharply through his nose and tossed the phone onto his bed. The sleek new device bounced once before settling against his wrinkled sheets. Luca dragged both hands through his hair, tugging at the roots hard enough to sting. This was fine. It was just a phone. Just a phone that cost more than his entire laptop, that Ilya had bought for him, that was now linked to Ilya’s GooglePay like Luca was some kind of…
His new phone buzzed against the bed. The screen lit up with a Twitter notification.
Ilya Rozanov ✔ : kotik. number
Luca’s stomach dropped. He stared at the message, the two-word command sitting there like a dare. His fingers twitched toward it, then hesitated. The setup had finished, his contacts migrated, apps reinstalled, but sending his number felt like stepping off a cliff.
He exhaled sharply and picked it up. The sleek glass was still warm from his frantic tapping. Luca opened Twitter, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. He typed quickly before he could overthink it.
Lucarozzy: +41 032 500 8148
The message sat there bold. Luca's thumb hovered over the screen, pulse jumping at the thought of Ilya's fingers tapping those digits into his own phone. The typing bubbles appeared instantly, pulsed three times, then vanished. Luca exhaled sharply through his nose and tossed the phone back onto his bed like it had burned him.
His new phone buzzed again. Luca lunged for it, nearly knocking over his half-empty water glass on his bedside table. The screen displayed a single notification. The air left Luca's lungs in a rush. His thumbprint scanner failed twice before finally unlocking the device.
Unknown Number: hello
The single word pulsed on Luca’s screen. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, suddenly unsure what to do with the knowledge that Ilya Rozanov now had his actual phone number. That he could call. Right now. Luca swallowed hard, his fingers twitching before typing out the only response his brain could conjure.
Luca: who dis
The typing bubbles appeared instantly. Luca watched them pulse once, twice, and then his new phone lit up with an incoming call. The device vibrating in his hand, the default ringtone obnoxiously loud in his quiet room. Luca’s heart leapt into his throat. He answered it on the fourth ring, fingers slipping on the glass.
“Hello?” His voice cracked.
Static crackled for half a heartbeat before Ilya’s low chuckle curled through the speaker. “You know who this is, kotik.”
Luca exhaled sharply through his nose. Of course Ilya would call immediately. The man didn’t believe in transition periods. “Could’ve been a scammer,” he muttered, pressing the phone closer to his ear as if the distance between them could be bridged by proximity alone.
The silence stretched taut between them, thick with everything unspoken. Luca’s pulse hammered against his ribs so loudly he was certain Ilya could hear it through the line. He swallowed hard, the sound obscenely loud in his ear.
"What is saying, cat grab you by tongue?" Ilya's voice was deeper over the phone, rougher around the edges. The faint echo suggested he was in some cavernous space, locker room, maybe, or an empty hallway.
"Cat got your tongue." Luca corrected automatically then felt stupid for doing so. His fingers tightened around the phone. "Didn't think you'd actually call," he admitted, then immediately wished he hadn't. The truth feels too vulnerable between them.
Ilya's exhale crackled through the speaker, warm and amused. "You send me videos of your ass and now you're shy, kotik?"
Heat flooded Luca's face. Sitting down on the edge of his bed, his free hand fisted in the sheets. "That's different," he muttered, acutely aware of how petulant he sounded.
"How?" Ilya demanded, the word sharp with genuine curiosity beneath the teasing.
Luca opened his mouth, then closed it. Because pixels between them felt safer. Because he could craft texts carefully, erase mistakes before sending. Because right now, Ilya could probably hear the way his pulse jumped.
"You're thinking too loud," Ilya murmured, voice dropping an octave. The observation sent Luca's stomach swooping. "I can hear you biting your lip."
Luca released his lower lip immediately, then scowled at being so transparent. "Stop that."
"Stop what?" Innocent tone, anything but. "Not my fault you make noises when you think."
The accusation lodged between Luca's ribs. He'd spent ages perfecting the art of messaging Ilya, measured responses, calculated delays, the safety of backspacing half-formed thoughts. Now his every hitch of breath was laid bare. He pressed the phone harder against his ear as if that might muffle the traitorous way his pulse thudded against his sternum.
A rustle on the line, fabric shifting. Then Ilya's voice, closer somehow, "Tell me what your room looks like."
Luca's fingers tightened around the phone. "Why?"
"So I know where to picture you." A beat. Luca's traitorous brain supplied the image, Ilya with a towel wrapped low around his hips leaning against his locker room cubby, phone pressed to his ear, imagining Luca's shitty desk, the hockey posters peeling at the corners, not to mention the one of Ilya that he’s had up for years already. "Unless you'd rather I imagine you somewhere else?"
Luca laid back on his bed, his ceiling had a water stain shaped like an uncharted island. He stared at it. "Clothes piled on the chair. Like, a lot of clothes."
Ilya's chuckle vibrated through the speaker. "You wear them first or just enjoy the mess?"
"Fuck off, there's... a skateboard under the bed. From when I was twelve."
"Keep it for nostalgia or just too lazy to move it?"
"Both." The admission slipped out before Luca could stop it. He swallowed. "Desk's covered in shit. Chargers. Sketch pad. Homework" He gestured at the empty red bull can before realizing Ilya couldn't see him. "Energy drink cans."
A considering hum. "How many?"
"Probably enough to build a tower." Luca's fingers fidgeting. The phone pressed hot against his ear. Real. This was real. Ilya's breaths weren't pixels on a screen, they were warm static against his earlobe. "You're... actually calling me."
"Da." The word curled around Luca's spine. "Is ok?"
Luca's fingers dug into his sheets. "Just didn't think you'd..." Want to? Care enough? His throat clicked. "I dunno, you know, after…"
"After you come on camera for me like good boy?" Ilya's voice dropped, the roughness scraping Luca raw. "Or after you give me your number like you were not shaking?"
Luca's pulse thundered in his temples. They'd traded messages. Photos. Filthy videos. But this, Ilya's amusement curling in his ear, carved him hollow. "Fuck you.” Luca hesitated, “but, thanks." Luca muttered, fingers tracing the edge of the phone case. "For the... the plan and the uh, phone. It's…" Excessive, terrifying. "Nice."
Ilya's chuckle vibrated through the speaker, low and knowing. "Only nice?" A rustle of fabric, then his voice dropped.
Luca's laughed lightly but the admission slips out before he can stop it, pressing his palm to his forehead. "My mami thinks it's some bullshit influencer sponsorship thing."
"Mm." Ilya's hum was all amusement. "Tell her truth then. Say your rich sugar daddy spoils you."
Lucas inhaled sharply, pressing the phone harder against his ear. "Don't fucking…"
"Say it," Ilya murmured, the words curling in Luca's ear. "Say 'thank you daddy.'"
Luca's teeth sank into his lower lip. It should have been ridiculous, would have been weeks ago. Now it sat heavy in the silence between them, the implication curling around his ribs. "Fuck off," he muttered, but his voice cracked on the second word, betraying him.
Ilya's exhale crackled through the speaker, warm and knowing. "Say it." Not a request.
The room feeling smaller all of a sudden, Ilya's breathing the only thing he could hear. "Thank you," Luca started, then choked, the title caught in his throat.
"Mm." Ilya's approval vibrated through the line. "Try again."
Luca's fingers twitched against his stomach. "Thank you, daddy." He spoke quietly, the words feeling foreign and filthy in his mouth. His cock stirred against his thigh, traitorous.
“Good boy.” The words pulsed through Luca’s veins, hot and reckless. Two syllables that shouldn’t have twisted his stomach the way they did. The phone was still pressed to his ear, Ilya’s exhale crackling through the speaker like static..
"Fuck off," he muttered, but his fingers a hot brand where it lay across his stomach. The pet name lingered between them, sticky-sweet and humiliating.
Ilya chuckled, low and knowing. "You ok, kotik?"
Luca’s breath stuttered. He could hear the distant clatter of equipment in the background, sticks knocking together, the sharp bark of curses. The realization punched through him suddenly, Ilya was standing in some fucking MLH locker room, murmuring filth into his phone while his teammates shouted over each other mere feet away.
"You’re…” Luca’s voice cracked. "You’re such a dick."
Luca pressed his phone harder against his ear as if that could drown out the rest of the world nd make this moment theirs alone.
"I have to go," Ilya said abruptly, the shift in his voice so sudden Luca felt it like a missed step.
Luca's fingers tightened around the phone. "Right. Of course, yeah."
"Da." A pause. The rustle of fabric, the sharp inhale of breath like Ilya was turning away from the noise, lowering his voice. "Will text you later malysh."
The call disconnected with a soft click. Luca stared at his phone, the screen dimming back to black.
The alarm he had set blared its usual 6:15 AM shriek. Luca groaned, swiping his finger across the screen until silence fell. Sunlight seeped through the gaps in his curtains, stripes of gold cutting across the mess of his room, clothes heaped on the chair, textbooks sprawled open, the half empty energy drink can from last night still perched on his desk.
His phone buzzed against his nightstand where he’d abandoned it last night. He fumbled for it, the notification that lighting up the display.
Ily: what name you save me as?
Luca blinked at the message, the letters blurring before his sleep-crusted eyes. The remnants of yesterdays call clung to him, the low timbre of Ilya's voice, the way he'd made Luca say things that would've scorched his cheeks if he weren't already burning up. He thumbed out a reply, still half-buried in his pillow.
Luca: ily
Luca: not ilya
Luca: not that any1 would believe me
The typing bubbles appeared instantly. Luca watched them, his stomach swooping. He shoved the heel of his palm against one eye, willing himself awake as the reply popped up.
Ily: not daddy? this is sad 😢
Luca choked on his own spit. He rolled onto his back, dragging a hand down his face as if that could erase the sudden heat creeping up his neck. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, torn between playing along and shutting this down before it could spiral. Before he could decide, another message buzzed through.
Ily: save as sugar daddy then
Luca groaned, pressing his forehead into the pillow. The fabric muffled his voice as he muttered, "Fucking hell." His phone buzzed again before he could formulate a response, another text, then another, rapid-fire like Ilya could sense his hesitation through the screen.
Ily: or ‘emergency contact’
Ily: ‘life coach’
Ily: ‘personal trainer’
Luca exhaled sharply through his nose, thumbing back a reply with deliberate slowness.
Luca: not saving u as ‘personal trainer’ when u nevr seen me run
Ily: then show me running
Luca stared at the message, the words burning through the morning haze clinging to his skull. His thumb hovered over the screen, torn between responding with something equally ridiculous or shutting this down before it escalated further. But before he could decide, another text buzzed through.
Ily: or show me stretching
Ily: better view
Luca groaned, pressing his forehead against the pillow. His fingers twitched against the screen, hesitating before typing out a reply.
Luca: ur a dick
His thumb hovered over the camera icon, heart pounding. The angle was terrible, morning light catching the sleep-creased lines on his cheek, the mess of his sheets bunched around his waist, but he snapped it anyway.
Luca: yeh yeh i DO need to train more
The message sent with a soft whoosh. The attached photo showed the sharp jut of his collarbones, the soft curve of his stomach where this season's abs were fading into something less defined.
Ily: look like you spend all practice leaning on stick
Luca snorted, rolling onto his back.
Luca’s fingers froze mid-reply when his bedroom door creaked open, his mother’s silhouette backlit by the hallway light. “You’re still in bed?” Her voice carried the exhausted lilt of third-shift workers everywhere.
Luca: gotta go
Luca: school
He hit send before realizing the implications. His stomach dropped. The phone buzzed immediately against his palm.
Ily: school?
Luca’s throat tightened. Fuck. Fuck. He hadn’t thought, hadn’t considered, Ilya didn’t know. The realisation hit him like a slap. He scrambled to type, fingers slipping on the screen.
Luca: yeh
Luca: high school
The words sat there, black and undeniable. Luca’s thumb hovered over the screen, pulse hammering against his ribs. The typing bubbles appeared immediately, then vanished. The silence stretched thinner than the morning light cutting across his sheets. Luca swallowed hard, fingers twitching against the phone’s edge.
Ily: naughty student skipping class to send me pictures
Luca exhaled sharply, the breath punched out of him. His shoulders loosened an inch before he registered the evasion, the way Ilya had sidestepped the admission like it was a puddle on the sidewalk.
Luca’s fingers twitched against his phone screen, the device suddenly hot against his palm. He typed quickly, deleting and rewriting twice before settling.
Luca: not skipping
Luca: just slow morning
The words felt stale even as he sent it. His mother’s shadow lingered in the doorway, he had almost forgotten she was there, her sigh heavy with exhaustion. "You have twenty minutes." She said, turning away.
The moment the door clicked shut, Luca’s phone buzzed.
Ily: slow morning my ass
Ily: you move fast when i tell you
Luca’s stomach lurched violently as he stared at Ilya’s reply, the words did nothing to acknowledge the grenade he’d just dropped. His fingers trembled against the screen, thumbs hovering over the keyboard as he waited, for anger, for disgust, for the inevitable block, but the next message that buzzed through was just another infuriating joke.
Ily: you still wear little uniform? knee socks?
The tension coiled in Luca’s shoulders snapped. He exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers flying over the screen before he could stop himself.
Luca: fuck off just jeans nd hoodie
The phone buzzed again against Luca’s palm,. Expecting another joke about knee socks or some other ridiculousness. Instead..
Ily: go to school kotik
Ily: do not want you in trouble
Luca blinked at the message. The words were simple, almost gentle, but they hooked under his ribs like a dull blade. He swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the phone. It wasn’t the reaction he’d braced for. There was no disgust, no sudden coldness, just… that. Concern, maybe. His thumb hovered over the screen, torn between gratitude and the sudden, irrational urge to pick a fight.
Luca: bye
Just the word, nothing more. It felt stupidly vulnerable, like tossing a pebble into the dark and hoping it didn’t echo. He pressed send before he could overthink it.
The reply came before he could lock his phone.
Ily: bye malysh
Ily: have good day
Ily: will text you later
The words lingered on Luca’s screen like a promise or a threat, depending on how he twisted it. His thumb hovered over the screen, pulse thudding against his fingertips. The casual endearment, the easy assurance of later, it all sat weirdly heavy in his chest. He should’ve scoffed, should’ve fired back something sarcastic, but instead he just stared at the message until his vision blurred.
His mother’s voice cut through the haze. “Luca. Now.”
He shoved the phone away, leaping out of bed to dress for the day with his mother’s tired eyes tracking his every delay.