Work Text:
Moscow, November 2004
Saturday
Ilya huffed out of the apartment, closing the door quietly behind him. The lights had been out in the stairwell for weeks and there was no hope anyone would fix it. He descended the stairs two at a time, disregarding the handrail entirely, gloved hands shoved in his coat’s pockets. His cheekbone still ached with the reminder of his father’s grief.
Ilya walked out onto the street, navigating through the snow channels dug into the sidewalks. The sun was just barely over the horizon, flinging its warm, orange color across the gray, frozen landscape. He stopped for a moment, blinking, watching the clouds drift by through his misty breath.
He’d set out that morning without a plan. Today was Saturday. No hope for finding refuge at school. Maybe he could walk and keep walking. He’d walk west forever and ever until he hit the Atlantic Ocean and never look back. He’d keep going until his legs ached and his toes were numb but he wouldn’t stop. To be away from here, wouldn’t that be nice?
In the center of the courtyard, the primary colored lines of the playground were being swallowed in white. With a sad smile he remembered the days playing here with Mama, tainted by his brother’s mocking voice, telling him he was a stupid little babe. He was thirteen now. He had been a child then. He still was. It didn’t matter.
Ilya swallowed hard. He’d let his feet take him where they wanted to go.
—
Monday
For the past two days, Ilya had walked for miles, mapping Moscow’s streets. There was so much of the city he’d never seen. He had decided to choose one direction to walk in each day and go as far as he could before heading home.
Today was a school day, but he’d started the day early, out of bed and outside before the sun had risen. Ilya had made it far past his school, the faded yellow building that sat nestled amongst the concrete apartment complexes. The thought of skipping school was tempting, but not enough. The school would rat him out in an instant. He’d be beaten to an inch of his life, begging his father to please stop, it was just a mistake…
He’d go to school today. Just like he always did. He was going to be the good son. Every minute was one more minute less until he could be out on the ice playing hockey. The best moments were when he was on the ice. It was the only thing he could make sense of.
Ilya felt himself begin to sweat with physical exertion. It felt like an achievement. As time went on and more people began their days, he was passing an increasing number of them on the sidewalks. None of them questioned his confident steps as he walked by without a word.
The snow had begun to let up since early morning, and thick heavy flakes had turned to wispy sprinkles that floated quietly through the air. Now, he was headed toward a park he’d never been to, a small lake outlined by paved paths and dead trees, dotted with benches.
It was only when he had decided to take a break did he hear it for the first time. The footsteps behind him, crunching in the snow in the same rhythm as his own. He paused and listened attentively. Two extra steps. The sound of someone stopping suddenly.
Ilya turned quickly to see a figure about his height. Through the flakes he saw her for the first time: a girl, probably his age, her curls escaping her fur-lined jacket.
Ilya scowled.
“Who are you?” he asked.
She only looked at him with her intense green eyes, a sly smile creeping onto her face.
“I wanted to see where you were going,” she said with a shrug.
He scoffed, still unsatisfied. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said.
Her smile grew wider. “Does it matter?”
First stalking him, now playing games.
“Whatever,” he muttered to himself, and turned on his heel, back to his chosen bench. The footsteps followed as he’d expected them to. He brushed off snow from his seat and watched as the girl copied him and sat just a meter apart.
For Ilya, the silence was uncomfortable. The girl didn’t seem to feel the silence was uncomfortable at all.
Ilya didn’t know who she was or why she cared where he was going. He closed his eyes, attempting to will her away. He peeked open one eye to find her still there, gazing out across the frozen lake.
“What’s your name?” she asked after a moment. She sat politely, her back straight and proper, her face neutral.
He straightened. Maybe she’d go away if he answered.
“Ilya,” he said after a moment, not even looking at her.
The girl, satisfied with this, had responded in kind: “Svetlana.”
He didn’t want to reveal any interest in her but found himself nodding.
Ilya lifted his coat’s sleeve and checked his watch. Still early for school, but he’d need to be getting back soon. He found himself unable to scowl at her anymore, and trudged back the way he came, Svetlana maintaining a polite distance as she followed him.
—
If only Ilya had waited until he got to school, he would’ve had his answer then. The girl—Svetlana—had been assigned to his class. He hadn’t realized she had just moved here.
“Class, we have a new student. This is Svetlana Vetrova,” said his teacher. Ilya was finally able to get a complete view of her face, unobscured by hair or parka. She was more than a little pretty. He suddenly found himself a bit flustered with this information. Honey colored skin with large, green eyes and curly, auburn hair now tied back in a ponytail. Everyone was staring at her, but maybe no one more than Ilya.
She gave him a knowing glance before she was assigned to Ilya’s desk and he watched, dumbfounded, as she sat down beside him.
—
Svetlana stood in a hallway corner watching the controlled chaos of the midday break. No one had seemed interested in talking to her any more than she was interested in talking to them, and she’d reverted to her quiet observation.
She had always believed that everyone bared their soul as long as you watched them for long enough. The halls were loud and crowded. She watched as a group of boys copied their homework from each other. Another group was flinging bits of paper at other students, laughing wildly as they landed in open backpacks or in people’s hair. She noticed a group of girls standing in an opposite corner, convening and looking back at her and convening again, as though their little council hadn’t decided what to do with her yet.
She was used to it. She’d been stared at her entire life. It didn’t matter that she was born and raised here, that she was fluent in Russian, that her father was Russian himself. They saw her curly hair and tan skin and knew she didn’t belong. She had learned by now to not even try. It was never worth it.
—
In an empty classroom, Ilya ate his soup—potatoes and cheap beef offcuts in broth—quietly and without complaint. He’d stolen money out of his dad’s wallet for lunch. If he hadn’t noticed by now that Ilya had taken money out every day for the past week, he wasn’t sure his dad ever would.
Some policeman, he thought.
Still, he scarfed it down, scraping his styrofoam bowl with his plastic spoon. He checked his pocket for what he had left. There might be enough for an extra snack.
He decided against it. It was nice here. Being alone. He wouldn’t want to risk going out there again. Not until the bell rang and he’d have to get back to class.
—
Ilya didn’t notice that Svetlana had followed him again. He was too busy thinking about hockey.
—
Two weeks later
Ilya pulled on his brother’s old skates. They needed to be sharpened, badly, but there was no chance of that. His gear was secondhand too, mostly from his brother, who never gave a shit about any of it and it had always showed. His shin and elbow pads were scuffed beyond reason, coming apart at the seams. His stick was apt to break apart at any second. Alexei had always gotten the shiny, new gear. The dregs were left for Ilya.
Practice was meditative. His mind was filled only with hockey. There was no room for anything else.
On the ice, Ilya was invincible. It was the one place where no one could deny his supremacy. His coach yelled at him, as he did all the other boys, but Ilya knew he was faster, stronger, better than everyone else. His puck control was immaculate. Scoring goals felt almost too easy. And he was fast. Even on his shitty skates, he smoked them all. Coach’s cajoling meant nothing to him.
He was beginning to think hockey was the only thing he’d ever be good at. Maybe, it was his way out.
—
Ilya peeled off his practice jersey and caught his breath on the bench. Sweat dripped down his forehead, slicking his hair down, his chest heaving up and down. He laughed quietly to himself in triumph. The only goals scored at practice today were his own.
The other boys filed out from the rink as the next age group filed in. Shit. He’d gotten lost for a moment in a dream world where he’d be drafted into the KHL, or even the NHL, becoming Russia’s pride and joy. Even if it would never come to fruition it was the only source of joy he had, a tiny flame in a cold winter’s night.
His brother Alexei and his friends lingered at the rink’s entrance. Normally, Ilya could pack his things quickly and sneak out before they got there. But now, they stood idling, chatting, laughing raucously at rude jokes, and there was no way he could get past without them noticing.
But Ilya was feeling brave tonight. He swallowed hard as he tried walking out into the lobby, his face betraying no emotion. A hush fell over the boys as they locked eyes on him. Alexei, seeing his chance, emerged from the group and blocked Ilya’s exit.
Ilya looked up at his seventeen-year-old brother. Strong and tall and bearded, he towered over Ilya and took one more step in his face.
Ilya took one step back in response.
Alexei looked back at his buddies for approval. This was going to be a spectacle.
With one hand, Alexei shoved Ilya’s shoulder and he stumbled backwards. He had four inches and fifty pounds of muscle on Ilya. Alexei and his friends guffawed loudly.
Ilya righted himself and readjusted his duffel bag of hockey gear over his right shoulder. He blamed himself for not getting out in time. Too much time in fantasyland, not enough in the real world where his actions had consequences.
“What are you looking at, bitch?” Alexei asked suddenly, his eyes locked on someone behind Ilya. Ilya turned quickly, his heart racing.
Svetlana. She didn’t say a word, just crossed her arms and stared, bemused. Alexei seemed disarmed by her nonchalance. She should be backing away like a frightened animal or else lusting over his strength and power, but here she was, completely indifferent.
“That’s what I thought,” he said, and motioned for his gang to get to practice.
Ilya released his held breath and looked back at her. She gave him a small smile.
He smiled back.
She grinned.
—
At school, Ilya and Svetlana never had a conversation unless required to by their teacher. She didn’t seem to speak unless spoken to first, so Ilya never said anything.
He’d forgotten about her presence there that one day a few weeks ago. He’d been more careful about getting out quickly and avoiding Alexei until he got home.
But he was distracted today. He felt like he was slipping rather behind in mathematics and already received a less-than-satisfactory grade on his last test. Not failing, but he might as well have been.
Ilya looked into the stands during warm up, his mind filled with thoughts other than the game. Dangerous.
That’s when he saw her.
She wasn’t exactly hiding: she was sitting at the back of the bleachers below the scoreboard, far away but still perfectly visible. He wiped a hand over his face. How often was she here?
“Rozanov!” Coach yelled. “Are you a fucking moron? Pay attention!”
—
Ilya changed into his street clothes without showering. He probably smelled terrible, his armpits and forehead still soaked with sweat. She was still there when he came out of the locker rooms, watching from her quiet back corner.
Well, he thought, he wouldn’t have to deal with Alexei if he stayed here with her.
With his gear bag in hand, he entered the stands. She turned her attention to him then, watching with a tiny grin as he came forward and sat on the seat beside her.
He sighed heavily. He felt like he could finally catch his breath.
He glanced over at her nervously, a confused expression on his face. Her eyes searched his, that cool unbothered expression on her face Ilya only wished he could mimic.
On the ice, the harsh sounds of sticks hitting pucks and bodies slamming into boards echoed throughout the rink. These sounds were so normal to him they had often faded into the background.
“It’s like school, huh?” he asked after a quiet moment, glancing at the floor. “You and me, next to each other again.”
When Ilya looked up at her, she was already gazing at him. Ilya was afraid she could see right through him, right into his head where his muddled thoughts swirled. Maybe they made sense to her and only her.
“Yeah,” she said with a small laugh. “I guess so.”
She glanced down then, her fingers tapping idly on the wooden bleachers.
And Ilya felt compelled to ask the question he’d been wondering all this time.
“Have you been to all my practices?” he asked.
She bit her lip and her smile betrayed the answer.
—
Three weeks later
Another winter’s day. Svetlana and Ilya still didn’t speak at school. But she had noticed that the tension in his shoulders had been dissolving day by day, his fingers raking through his soft blonde curls less often. There had been a time at the beginning where she could tell he was trying to look off to the side so he couldn’t see her in his peripheral. Now, he had been watching her more, watching her hands flip through textbooks or fill out worksheets.
Svetlana would wait until Ilya had left school before following behind. She followed him that first day to the rink and watched his practice. She didn’t know exactly why. She found him… compelling. Different from the other boys.
It was a good bet. He was the type of player that you couldn’t forget once you’d seen him.
Svetlana stood by the school entrance, her fur-lined hood up and hands in pockets. She watched as Ilya stepped out and this time, she didn’t let him go in front of her.
“Ilya!” she called, reaching out her hand.
He stopped and turned. A look of suspicion melted into a smile.
For the first time, he looked into her eyes and didn’t look away.
“Are you coming with me?” he asked, pointing in the direction of the rink.
She grinned.