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Spring had come to Copenhagen.
Not the warm, blooming spring of Istanbul or Lucerne — no. This was a raw, knife-sharp spring that cut to the bone, clear and purging under a sky stretched impossibly high, its blue gleaming cold as steel. The canals swelled like in Venice, their ripples licking at the Little Mermaid’s tail. Cyclists flooded the streets again — the wind had swept the last ice away. A new tram clattered past, its bell scattering them like sparrows, a red-and-white flag snapping at the front. The air was clean, cold, and metallic.
Ilya cupped his hands to his face and breathed warmth into them. He hated this city. He loved Dubrovnik and Antalya — the warm sea, the easy smiles, the bold sun, the rich food. But was it really Copenhagen’s fault? Too often here, even the taste of pork belly or hot dogs turned bitter with the aftertaste of defeat. Back in September, he’d thought the curse was broken. He was wrong. This time, winning in Copenhagen had been impossible — yet somehow, he still managed to lose.
— Ilyukha, — Valera clapped him on the shoulder and stepped closer.
— Valera, — they fist-bumped, then Ilya pulled him into a hug, patting his back. — What’re you doing here?
— Just walking around, — Valera shrugged. The light turned green, and they crossed the street together, heading down some random block. Ilya considered checking his phone for directions — but why bother? He was with Valera now; Valera always knew where to go.
Ilya had ever felt that way only about one other person.
— Alone? — he glanced around. — Where’s your team?
— They gave us a break from each other, y’know? — Valera shoved his hands into the pockets of his unzipped jacket, walking fast and loose. Ilya struggled to match his pace but at least started warming up. — Flight tomorrow, media in the afternoon. Everyone needs to, uh… what was it Ursula said? ‘Be in their own head’ or some shit.
— Some shit, yeah, — Ilya nodded, barely listening. — I’ve got a flight tomorrow too.
A pause hung between them. Valera weighed his options — comfort him or brush it off — and chose the latter.
— Well, sweet. Whole day to kill. Nice weather today, anyway, — he looked away, eyes drifting over glazed windows, low rooftops, the unreachable sky.
— I’m fucking freezing, — Ilya grumbled, shoving his reddened hands out, blowing on them, rubbing them together.
Valera stopped him with a touch to his shoulder.
— We’re still close to the hotel. Let’s go back — get you something warmer.
Ilya shook his head.
— No point going back and forth. I’ll manage.
— Let’s at least move to the sunny side, — calling it "sunny" was a stretch. At best, it was slightly less shadowy than where they stood now. But Valera barely checked for traffic, grabbed Ilya by the sleeve, and yanked him across to the opposite sidewalk. A cyclist on the bike path slammed on his brakes to avoid hitting them — the screech of a bell rang out — just as another cyclist plowed into him from behind.
"Fandeme! Fucking fodgængere! Se jer for!" — came the angry shouts from two helmeted Danes. Hauling their bikes onto the sidewalk, they seemed ready to hunt down whoever caused the crash.
— Bail? — Ilya whispered. Valera nodded, and they bolted down the street. They dashed past a few blocks without looking back, then ducked into a side alley. Ilya peeked out toward the main road to check for pursuers, but Valera tugged him back.
— Don’t draw attention.
They leaned into each other, half-laughing, half-winded. Valera, still holding Ilya’s wrist, skimmed his thumb over the back of his hand before letting go. Ilya’s cheeks flushed pink, his back damp under his jacket. He couldn’t stop giggling, his stupid, contagious laugh making Valera crack up too as he clung to his shoulder, then his elbow.
— What the hell was that? — Ilya wheezed.
— Well, at least you’re not cold anymore. Right?
A sharp gust of wind hit them square in the face, as if retaliating for the cyclists. Ilya shivered, the chilly needles pricking at his damp neck.
— Let’s go, — Valera gave a knowing nod. — There’s a decent place nearby...
— Since when do you know places in Copenhagen? — Ilya asked, surprised, as he hurried after him, fighting against the biting wind.
— Got myself a proper guide, — Valera bragged. Ilya caught him by the arm, once again matching Valera’s long, uneven stride.
— Who?
— Curiosity killed the cat.
— But you should tell me! I’m your friend, and you’ve never mentioned your affairs before — well, except for that time in Rio...
— Relax, will you? — Valera tried to rein in Ilya’s eager chatter, but listening to him, he couldn’t help but smile.
— Come on, tell me! Did you meet someone?
— Yeah, met you six years ago, and I’m still dealing with the fallout.
— It’s been five, actually.
— No, six. I know better. Here we are, — Valera pushed open the door under the ‘Pasta du Nord’ sign and held it for Ilya, who ducked inside.
— So he’s local? Someone from Blast? Or, wait — a player? — Ilya fired off questions while Valera squinted at the short menu.
— Uh, one pesto and one bolon... boloneze, please. Cash. Thanks, — he fumbled through the order, his accent thick, then turned and waved Ilya over to the counter. — What’s so funny? Get over here.
Ilya took two obedient steps before resuming his interrogation.
— So, have you two already... y’know, started something?
— Ilyukh, why’d you assume they’re male? — Valera teased, one ear still straining to catch their order number in the Danish chatter.
— Holy shit! — Ilya’s eyes lit up. — Are they nonbinary?
— And that’s your first thought? — Valera clapped him on the shoulder, disappointed. — We’ve lost you. Tonya told me about this place. Tonya.
— Wait, are you dating To-
— Oh, food’s up! — he shoved a takeout box into Ilya’s hands. — Move.
They wove through the crowded café.
— So you found yourself a mommy?
— What? No! What the hell are you?.. No, of course not! I just asked her for walking recommendations, and she spent an hour telling me about all the cool places to visit in Copenhagen. She even suggested — okay, it’s me who is just a dumb gamer, but why would she need a Danish bookstore?
— Foreign-language section, probably.
— Huh. Yeah, maybe. Didn’t think of that.
This time, they crossed the road properly (for once) and found themselves in a small park facing some university building. It was work hours, and the weather hardly invited leisurely strolls, so all the benches stood empty, their only company being pigeons and a couple of seagulls that had flown in from the canal. The only exception was a dead-drunk girl passed out in the bushes by the wrought-iron fence. The planted beeches hadn't yet greened, their bare crowns swaying dejectedly in the wind. Beneath a ‘No Bicycle Parking’ sign grazed a herd of unchained bikes, most likely belonging to students. Valera chose a bench right opposite, and they sat down. Ilya tried the pasta from the cardboard box, then looked up at Valera in surprise.
This was anything but a classic take on bolognese. The only thing Italian about it was the name — the food was unapologetic street fare. The pasta was more fried than al dente, and the sauce resembled local remoulade more than anything else, but it was delicious in its own right.
— Vkusna! — Ilya exclaimed loudly, raising his hands, one still clutching a plastic fork. Valera smiled:
— Glad you like it.
— Seriously, why haven't I eaten here before? It's right in the city center.
— Locals probably want to keep their secret spots secret, — he shrugged.
— Come here, — Ilya pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and turned on the front camera.
— Tsk, — Valera rolled his eyes but tilted his head slightly to fit into the frame anyway. Ilya slung an arm around his neck, made a ridiculous face, and snapped several shots.
— Just don't post any… — Valera started, but was interrupted.
— Yeah yeah, I remember - you're unphotogenic, — Ilya selected the best photos and deleted the rest. He zoomed in on one, studying first his own face, then Valera's. — Although… — he turned to examine Valera in real life. They sat close, sides touching, Ilya's palm resting on Valera's shoulder. — ...your jawline's actually not bad.
— Ilyukha, for fuck's sake! — Valera cursed with mock severity, moving away slightly — just for show.
Ilya burst into clear laughter and leaned back against the bench. He tilted his head up: against the sky stretched black veins of bare branches. This was the miraculous effect of being close to someone dear — his soul softened, intrusive thoughts faded, the pain dulled. Of course, nothing was actually resolved or gone completely, but Ilya couldn't give a fuck about solving anything in this life. He'd been spent completely, grated away like cheese for other people's problems, leaving nothing but dusty crumbs for himself.
— There we go, and this morning you were all mopey, — came Valera's familiar, kind voice in response to his thoughts.
«Because you weren’t here with me,» — Ilya thought but didn't say. Too cheesy, perhaps?
— Hey, let's send a video to the group chat, — he suggested instead.
— Uh, you finished eating already?
— Well, yeah, almost, — Ilya scratched the back of his head awkwardly and returned to his pasta.
— I figured out how we're getting back to the hotel, — Valera showed him something on his phone screen.
— Back?.. — Ilya blinked blankly.
— They just opened the first tram line here, less than a month ago. There's a stop nearby and another ten minutes from the hotel. It passes right by — haven't you noticed?
— Haven't noticed, — Ilya shook his head.
— So, shall we ride?
— Yeah, sure. Do you know how to buy tickets?
— Ah, don't worry, we'll figure it out.
Valera stood and reached out his hand. Ilya didn't immediately realize he wanted the empty pasta box. What he himself wanted — had wanted all along — was something entirely different.
At the stop — which was primarily a bus stop, not a tram one — two elderly women sat in silence alongside a man who looked foreign — you know, not the blue-eyed blond type. As for Ilya, he could've passed for a local if he wanted to — but he didn't.
The tram arrived frustratingly fast. It was brand new, bright blue, with a slightly elongated rectangular front and square windows. Above the mirror hung a narrow Dannebrog — the pennant version, the only type of Danish flag permitted after sunset.
The sliding doors parted leisurely, revealing a half-empty cabin. Someone had dragged a bicycle into the passenger area and now stood stroking its handlebars affectionately. Two children with backpacks played a word game in hushed tones, glancing around whenever they suppressed giggles. A rosy-cheeked woman smiled awkwardly while loudly clicking her acrylic nails as she messaged someone on Facebook. The tram was otherwise empty.
Ilya lifted his foot too high boarding, stumbled on the low floor, and Valera deftly caught him by the elbow.
— Hey, careful, — Ilya only managed a grunt in response as he was pulled toward the back seats.
They sat side by side — Ilya by the window — and the tram started moving. Valera gazed at the two-story houses over Ilya's shoulder while Ilya stiffly folded his hands in his lap. Any attempt at conversation would feel forced now, threatening to betray his true feelings. This was new: until today, Valera had been the easiest person to share anything with, precisely because Ilya wanted nothing from him.
— Hm? — Ilya pulled a headphone case from his pocket and clicked it open, offering it to Valera.
— Huh? What? — Valera glanced from Ilya's face to the outstretched hand and shook his head. — Uh, no. Actually, I wanted to suggest...
He exhaled and took both of Ilya's wrists, turning him slightly toward himself.
— Try closing your eyes, — Valera screwed his own eyes shut without checking if Ilya followed suit. — And listen to what's around us. I... fuck, I sound like an idiot, but trams make interesting noises.
Ilya rolled his eyes — what could be so special about it? Orekhovo-Zuyevo had no trams, and anyway, he preferred taxis.
— Oh, listen, — Valera bit his lip. — Something's rattling — high-pitched, almost distant. Hear it?
The tram ride came with its inevitable orchestra of mechanical sounds: a loud but comfortable background that easily blended into the environment, becoming mere mental wallpaper. But if you focused really, really hard, narrowing your awareness to a single point, the sounds would separate like expensive perfume into distinct notes: top, middle, and base.
What Valera noticed first was the top note — a cautious, almost timid rattling, like someone tapping glass with knuckles or shaking a maraca lightly. Nearby came a thin whistle resembling high-frequency bird calls — the sound of accelerating brakes. Then there was the barely-there delicate creak of suspension.
The middle note was unmistakably the wheels' rhythmic "clack-clack" at each rail joint — steady and monotonous as a heartbeat. This was accompanied by metallic screeches and clangs from the rails, irregular and only occurring on turns or uneven tracks.
When the tram reached the next stop, compressed air sighed as the doors slid open to admit a pale, seemingly conjoined couple. Their voices couldn't distract Valera from his intense listening.
Hidden beneath more prominent sounds lay the base notes: primarily the motor's buzz, like the chirping of countless beetle wings, deepening into a drone and sometimes a strained whine during acceleration. Then there was the compressor's dull crack and the hiss of brakes.
Suddenly, a rare but natural interruption — the tram's warning bell scattering pedestrians. Valera caught an angry shout: «Fandeme! Fucking sporvogn er jo vanvittig! Dumme!» — and couldn't suppress a smile. He'd heard a similar phrase earlier today.
As the cyclists disappeared behind them and the bell's echo faded, Valera prepared to resume his sound dissection when he felt Ilya's hands slip from his grasp, move up his forearms, then soft, balm-scented lips pecked his. Yanked from his world of clanging metal, Valera blinked in confusion. Ilya tilted his head to the shoulder with a mischievous smile. A quick glance confirmed their luck: no one in the tram cared enough to stare, let alone film. Valera gave Ilya a wordless reproach: this was reckless.
— What? — Ilya — predictably — misunderstood which part drew disapproval and defended himself: — It’s hard to look at lips you can't kiss, — he shrugged with a silly giggle.
— You were supposed to be listening, not looking. Not that I mind, — Valera confirmed by sneakily sliding a hand to Ilya's waist. Ilya shifted closer until their knees touched, his tactile needs satisfied. — Just not here, okay?
— We're in Denmark. Everything's allowed here.
— We're not in a relationship. And definitely not as public as your previous ones, — Valera clarified what bothered him. — I'm not ready for rumors...
— Okay, got it. I'll only kiss you in strict secrecy then. God forbid NAVI players doubt your heterosexuality, — Ilya adopted an exaggeratedly serious tone: — They've got mandatory orgies after coming out, you know."
— Ilyukh?
— Yeah yeah, Igor spilled everything when he got drunk at the afterparty. There's a whole schedule. Mondays are shibari, Wednesdays — flogging, weekends are that human centipede bullshit. Aleksi loves systemizing everything...
— Ugh, fuck! — Valera elbowed Ilya, who threw his head back laughing. — How am I supposed to look them in the eye now?
— Should've seen your face… — Ilya wheezed between laughs. — During the 'human centipede' part. Like you actually believed me, holy shit.
Now the entire tram turned to glare disapprovingly. One elderly woman even shushed them before looking away. Valera went quiet and elbowed Ilya again to shut him up.
— Told you, — Ilya stage-whispered. — They won't care if we fuck right here, just don't make noise.
— Or kill each other, — Valera added darkly.
— Wait, is that what you wa-, — Ilya's question was cut short as Valera abruptly pulled him up. He barely glimpsed the reflective-vested woman checking passes before they tumbled out, the closing doors nearly catching Ilya's sleeve.
— Valera, can we try to avoid criminal offenses? — he asked irritably, brushing himself off.
— Where's the fun in that? — Valera took his arm affectionately and led him somewhere.
The wind had died down, leaving Copenhagen's streets unusually quiet. A tall man with wheat-colored hair walked a plush-looking terrier, carrying a paper bakery bag. Sure enough, a cozy pastry shop stood nearby under a small awning, its chalkboard advertising "Wienerbrød", "Sneglekage", and helpfully for tourists, "danish pastry”. Around the corner, a standard 7-Eleven occupied the ground floor. Valera and Ilya turned to each other simultaneously:
— I've got an idea, — they said in unison, then laughed.
— Go on, — Valera tilted his chin, prompting Ilya.
— Nah, you first.
— I was thinking... pastry and coffee?
— What am I, child to you? Let's grab beers instead, — Ilya nodded toward the convenience store.
— Not really into drinking today…
— We did it your way with the tram already. Humor me.
— Uh, alright? — Valera shrugged, and they bypassed the bakery for 7-Eleven.
Ilya froze before the enormous fridge stocked mostly with cans and multipacks of beer: local Carlsberg (which Danes themselves disdained) and various Tuborgs interspersed with ale abominations. He tapped his foot impatiently like a rabbit.
— You still drink?..
— Dark beers, yes, — Valera answered absently from behind him, eyes glued to his phone.
— What if we get this one and that?
— Sure, good choice.
— I didn't even point at anything, — Ilya turned. — Valera, pay attention.
— I'm right here, — he didn't look up.
— What's so interesting? — Ilya peered at Valera's phone showing CS Telegram channels.
— They say Xyp9x will be coaching MickeyMouses in Lisbon.
— And what happened to their main coach?
— Dunno, doesn't say.
— Who cares, you're not playing them anyway.
— We might be in the semis.
— You've got no semis coming, — Ilya waved him off. — Face it, you're seeded like shit. First match against Spirit. Not happening in your current form.
— Remind you, they came through the lower bracket.
— I’m not going on with this conversation without a beer. Keep forgetting you got your PhD in being insufferable from Blade, — Ilya instantly grabbed two bottles. Valera secretly rejoiced at not having to choose and they finally left the damp store.
— Watch this, — Ilya took Valera's bottle. Gripping both necks, he interlocked the caps and pressed. A muted hiss later, both caps bent open. He righted them just as foam geysered upward, splattering the sidewalk. Valera recoiled:
— Fucking magician, — as droplets slid down green glass, which Ilya licked off his palm.
— Here, — he handed Valera a bottle, clinking them together.
— Can we really drink outside?
— Yes. It is allowed here, — Ilya grinned cheekily.
— How do you know?
— Got myself a proper teacher. A while ago, — a full minute passed before Valera responded:
— You still act so much like him.
— Valera, — Ilya warned.
— But it's true. He peeks through all your mannerisms.
— Valera!
— What, Kovac the most junior?
— Stop teasing, — Ilya jabbed his shoulder.
— Alright, alright, — Valera chuckled mischievously and, as if apologizing, kissed his forehead near the hairline.
They ambled through several blocks. Valera matched Ilya's bouncy pace, eventually enjoying it. Finally, he tugged Ilya's sleeve mid-ramble, pointing left where their hotel appeared between buildings.
— We're here.
— Already? — Ilya asked as if he wasn’t seeing it.
— We simply bypassed, — Valera gestured vaguely. — Would've come out... there if we'd stayed on the tram.
A blue tram passed by toward the embankment. Valera looked puzzled: he couldn't tell if he'd guessed the route right, but didn’t want to bother and check. They weren't lost, that's what mattered.
Nema jokingly called those «Shanghai flashbacks». Yet Ilya found it less amusing. Every tournament — even studio ones without audiences — left him clammy with dread, imagining fans demanding autographs on inappropriate surfaces, draining his attention like a racecar burning fuel. He'd started going out less because of this anxiety. Now that familiar tightness returned. He tensed, wanting to hide behind Valera's broad shoulders. Valera noticed but didn't touch him:
— You good?
— Yeah, — Ilya chugged his beer, swallowing the lump in his throat. — Fine.
No one waited at the hotel. Nobody needed him. The relief carried a strange aftertaste of... disappointment?
— Wanna come up? — he asked, forcing a lopsided grin to downplay the request.
Valera checked the time on phone:
— Why not?
They went up to Ilya's room. It was a double since single rooms were limited, and G2's management had always been "efficient". But Ilya had it all to himself. It was ridiculous — after all, him and that one person had never been roomed together either — yet the sight of an unnaturally neat second bed just steps away kept reopening the wound of loneliness.
The door clicked shut discreetly, locking out the world. Routinely, they shed their jackets, and the moment they'd toed off their sneakers, Ilya flung himself against Valera's chest, rubbing his cheek there and squeezing his eyes shut, as if trying to pause this dimly lit moment. Valera placed a hand on his back, wanting to hold all of him, stroking just shy of ticklish. With his other hand, he cupped Ilya's chin to tilt his face up, brushed a knuckle along his cheek, and leaned in to kiss him. Ilya rose onto his toes to meet it, their lips slotting together soft and tempting. God, how he'd always wished for this height difference with... someone else.
Valera pulled him closer, fingers sliding into his hair, thumb grazing his ear. It felt like sugar-dusted doughnuts, or those soft bean bag chairs, or dandelions at high noon — good, safe, warm, but nothing like... Ilya carefully guided Valera's hand lower down his neck, just below the nape. Valera withdrew it quickly; he didn't recoil, just seemed... uncomfortable.
Ilya broke the kiss to nuzzle his nose into Valera's neck, clinging to him like a koala. The sudden weight made Valera stagger, bracing a hand against the hallway wall.
— Fuck, — Ilya grabbed his shoulder as they both snorted. — Sorry.
— Hallway's a shit place for this, — Valera nodded toward the room, but when Ilya eagerly dragged him to the bed, he caught his wrist. — Keycard.
— Huh?
— For the lights.
— You need lights?
— No, but you'll definitely…
Valera didn't finish. Ilya hauled him toward the unmade bed anyway.
— Since when have you been like this? Never used to give a damn! — he kicked off his socks and climbed onto the mattress. Valera sat beside him, hand settling at his waist.
— Try living with… — whoever Ilya was supposed to have lived with remained unnamed: humanity hadn't yet invented coherent speech mid-kiss. Valera undid the snaps of Ilya's shirt one by one, sliding it down to his elbows. He kissed below Ilya's jawline, tipping his head back, then reverently, carefully took the delicate skin of his neck between his teeth. Valera had seen careless marks left on Ilya by some other person before and had rejoiced at his friend's reckless happiness in love. He wouldn't leave such traces himself.
Ilya's shoulders jerked up reflexively at the touch, a sharp gasp escaping him. Valera soothed him with a stroke along his forearm before tangling his fingers back in those wheat-colored strands, drawing their faces together until their foreheads touched, breath mingling.
«Mushy shit», — Ilya thought. Someone had said that about someone once — he couldn't remember who or about whom — just the word and that disdainful, almost disgusted tone.
—It's weird, you know, — Valera murmured against his lips, voice brushing his heart. — So much time's passed since our first time... back at NAVI... when we were just curious. I barely see myself in me then, barely see you in that boy.
— Obviously things changed, Valera, — Ilya cut in, shattering the moment. — That’s what time is all about
— Yeah, but… — Valera nuzzled his cheek, then whispered hotly in his ear: — When I kiss your neck, you still shiver exactly like you did at fifteen.
His smirk sent a cascade of goosebumps down Ilya's spine.
— Mmph, — he made some noise as Valera finally pulled off his shirt and slid warm palms under his t-shirt, tracing the trembling line of his spine. Ilya's eyes stayed tightly shut, yet he was clearly seeing something with perfect clarity.
Valera eased him onto the bed and hovered above, one arm braced while the other roamed his side, rucking up fabric until finding that tiny nipple. He rolled the sensitive nub between fingertips, and Ilya arched with a high whine, ankles locking behind Valera's back to pull him closer.
— Please, — he gasped, knowing exactly what that word did to… — N-
Ilya caught himself, the plea dissolving into a ragged moan. Something clenched in his chest, not quite shame, just dull resentment. He cracked one eye to see only the hotel ceiling, complicit in his delusion. Valera pressed a kiss to his collarbone.
— Valera, — Ilya propped up on an elbow.
— Hm?
— Want you inside me, — Ilya grabbed Valera's wrist, placing that hand lower on his neck before crushing their mouths together.
Eyes closed again, the feeling of fingers at his nape, a tongue in his mouth, their shared heat — it all vaporized coherent thought, scattering it like cloudburst. It lasted less than a minute before Valera pulled back, hand retreating. His brows knotted as he looked away.
— Wh-, — Ilya started, but Valera cut in:
— Stop... doing that. It's fucked up.
— What? — Ilya tensed, the haze vanishing instantly. — Doing what?
— Pretending I'm him, — Valera rubbed his nose bridge. — And don't fucking pretend it's accidental…
— Jesus, Valera, can we not? — Ilya yanked on his socks with jerky motions. — Don't want to fuck? Fine, though I don't get why you agreed in the first place. But spare me the tedious attempt to clarify the relationship. My DMs are already full of that shit.
— Ilyukh.
— Thought you'd actually help a friend out, — he sneered, arms crossed. — But since you won't, do me a favor, don't make it worse.
— I am willing to help, — Valera countered, still avoiding his gaze. — But not to be a fucking stand-in for a guy who dumped you.
Ilya vaulted off the bed, took two steps, then turned away like he was addressing the wall:
— Whole goddamn world's conspiring to wreck my head! Know how many times Raf's messaged me today? — he scrolled his phone violently. — Six. 'You happy with everything, Ilya?' 'Who do you wanna play with, Ilya?' 'How do we build around you, Ilya?' 'Draft us a fucking business plan for next season’. Oh, and re-sign for three years at academy wages, since it's so easy for you. Then — 'Ilya, why are you never satisfied?' And Nema? Guilt-tripped himself into being my personal shrink, like calling someone an asshole daily fixes anything. Results are shit, the team hangs on my every word, and now this Lisbon clusterfuck... I'm sick of being everyone's bargaining chip, Valera. Thought you of all people would get that, — he shook his head, the air between them cooling from his outburst.
Valera stood up too, planting his hands heavily on his hips.
— You know what I'm sick of? You acting like the world revolves around your fucking love life. This is sports, not some... fanfiction. There are bigger problems out there.
— Oh, of course, — Ilya shot him a skeptical look. — Enlighten me.
— You were last year's #2 player. Best fucking AWPer in the world. You could join any roster, maybe except Vitality, and even that's not certain. The only reason you stayed at G2 this long was your relationship. And the only reason you're suddenly 'so done' with the team? You want to go back to him, but your pride won't let you. So you're inventing 'objective reasons' to bail before your contract's up. One season, Ilyukh, one fucked-up season separates you from freedom. How many of those have you had already? Meanwhile, I'd kill for that kind of exit clause. What decides your life is a fucking signature. My ties with Navi are much stronger than paper.
— What are you talking about?
— Right. How would you know? You aren’t the affected one, — Valera's usual stoic expression cracked into something almost pathetic. — How would you know what it's like to be part of something bigger than yourself? When hundreds see you as their political representative? And you cannot let them down, just because your passports are the same colour! Such great fans! Such support! If I was born on the other side of that border, they'd hate me. I thought maybe my best friend would care about me, — his voice turned razor-sharp. — Guess I was wrong.
— Sorry I didn't pledge eternal love, then! — Ilya snapped.
— You know that's not what I need, — Valera exhaled. — Just... to matter to someone as more than a means to an end. I know what I am at NAVI, some zoo exhibit: 'Look, relics from when we were actually relevant.' Igor still finds it funny, but he's a kid. Sasha used to say the same about me, and now I get it. That's the cage. Everybody leaves, but I’ll stay. And there is no place for me anywhere else, — he jerked his head away. — Why did I think you'd understand?
— Valera, I do…
— Bullshit. You're everyone's golden boy. Got a standing ovation for that shaggy midget, and bam — you're fan-favorite. Can suck face with whoever, doesn’t matter that in your country one can be imprisoned for that.
— That's not how…
— You're a spoiled fucking hatchling. Had everything fed to you since day one, always tucked under someone's wing. Coddled, protected, groomed for greatness — you, — Valera jabbed his sternum. — But listen, I want better for you. The longer a bird stays in human hands, the less it remembers how to fly.
He blinked, as if startled by his own words, and took a step back.
Something inside Ilya cracked audibly. He felt the fracture as distinctly as a breaking spine. He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to hold together. The urge to flee was overwhelming, but there was nowhere to hide. This was his room, locking himself in the bathroom would be absurd. He took one step back, then another, until he remembered the balcony behind him.
An open balcony: tiled floor, a rain-shielded wicker chair, steel railings, an unfiltered view of the canal. On the sixth floor, the wind reigned supreme — venturing out in just a T-shirt would be reckless even in summer, let alone late March, let alone for someone as perpetually cold as Ilya.
The moment his bare toes touched the damp tiles, the cold pierced him to the marrow. Wind lashed his hair, howling in his ears.
— Ilya! — Valera burst out after him, grabbing his elbow.
— What? — he yanked his arm free, then froze when he saw Valera's face. Was that... fear?
— Fuck, you scared me, — Valera pulled him into an embrace, his touch unbearably gentle, his body warm as dandelions at noon.
Ilya's shoulders shook. His knees buckled. Face buried in Valera's shoulder, he cried ugly, messy tears: nose red, smeared snot, breath hitching in ragged gasps. The same man who whimpered so prettily when pleased now sobbed like a shattered thing. Valera just stroked his hair, rocking them slightly, not even trying to calm him, only whispering disjointed:
— Sorry... I'm so sorry... Didn't mean...
— Valera. Leave, — the words barely left Ilya's lips.
— What? No.
— Go away. I don't want you here, — his voice cracked as he pushed weakly at Valera's chest. — Please.
Valera released him. Ilya curled into a tight ball on the cold balcony, exactly what he'd wanted. Some time to lick his wounds.
The door clicked shut behind Valera like a traitor. Ilya forced himself to breathe. They'd fought before; they'd make up. This was survivable.
Then the rain started. Fucking rain.
Ilya fished his phone from his jeans. Opened WhatsApp, found his agent's chat. His fingers trembled from cold, from the chaos in his skull. Raindrops smeared the screen. Each typed word was a battle, each hesitation spawning useless doubts. He hated this. Hated this city.
Copenhagen heaved a sigh and wept harder than before. Well, spring here was always like this.