Work Text:
December, 2008
Regina, Saskatchewan
Exiting the airport to the chill of the Canadian winter, Ilya Rozanov could only think of one thing. Well, he could think of many things, but most of them boiled down to one core goal: get drafted. He trained, focused, put in the work for his entire teenaged life, and now there were eyes on him and a hunger to show that it wasn’t in vain. It was a passion that he didn’t feel capable of experiencing for anything else. Or maybe nothing else was worth that same passion. The thought should probably scare him, but he didn’t really care.
The hours on a plane without a cigarette also creeped up on him, but that was something he would need to fix later.
A mindless bus journey, pulling up to the rink where the International Prospect Cup final is being held, and he can just about feel the tobacco warming him up from the inside out. He damn near rushed through the rest of the process, dropping off supplies, getting told where to be and when by a coach, before finally making his way to the first half-hidden locale he could find outside, fighting with the wind for control of his lighter flame.
Finally lit, he looked around at the yellowed grass and grey concrete that he’s come to associate with Canadian scenery, in the few times he had been in the country. It’s quiet, save for the wind. He takes the minute to relax and take in the sparse nature and the feeling of nicotine returning to his bloodstream.
Suddenly, a rustle in the taller grass of the distant no-mans-land of unowned property caught his eye. He squinted, lowering the cigarette and blowing in a low diagonal to keep it out of his vision. The rustle continued, seemingly getting closer, and he held his breath in anticipation for what he assumed was going to be a huge rat. An excellent omen, I’m sure, he thought dryly to himself in Russian, the ultimate symbol of good luck.
What popped up instead was the long ears of a white rabbit. Ilya had to admit that it was cute; white as the snow threatening to cover the frosted ground, pink nose constantly wiggling as it looked at him with its beady black eyes and tilted its head slightly. Without thinking, Ilya returned the gesture.
As soon as he did, the rabbit turned and ran off. Something in Ilya drew him forward, and before he could even think, he was following the flash of white through the field, feeling the frozen grass crunch under his boots.
When the rink was a small dot in the distance, the rabbit had suddenly vanished. Anxious about not being able to find it, he kept going, until before he knew it, his feet fell out from under him. No – not his feet. The ground. A hole, big enough for him to completely fall down, had opened, and down, down, down he went.
While the fear did exist - of course it did – there also existed the slight thrill and curiousity of falling. Something about it felt more simple than what he had been doing for the past few months of his life. It reminded him of teenaged benders and the simple fuck it attitude of being a kid that nobody cared about in Moscow, getting away with things that everyone forbid them from. The fear ebbed away, as he near-floated to the bottom of this hole, and the fear replaced itself with more of that curiousity, until he simply had to know what existed at the bottom, lest he combust from the wait.
And finally, land he did, feet touching down on the floor as he looked around the room.
A small hotel room, still somewhere in North America. It was night time, and he was by himself because he was always by himself.
He looked for a moment at the hotel name on the bedside table, and realized that this is the hotel he was set to check into tonight. No sign of life existed there yet, save for a plate on a ottoman a few feet from where he landed, by the foot of the bed.
Before he had the chance to investigate, the rabbit appeared again, except this time on its hind two legs. It gave him a better chance to look at it, and saw that scattered through the white of its fur was brown, freckled spots. They gathered mostly above its nose, across cheekbones and up to the base of its long, straight ears, which looked like snow they were so white.
It ignored Ilya as it ran over (surprisingly agile for suddenly being bipedal), clearly in a rush to where it was going next. It made its way to the plate that Ilya noticed, grabbed what appeared to be a cookie of some kind, and bit down.
Before long, it was shrinking down, down down, and once it was all done, it made its way to an impossibly small door and disappeared inside.
Ilya had many thoughts. Most of them had to do with how strange this was. The loudest was that curiousity, popping its head up again. When he fell, he compared it to the benders, the loud nights and quick fucks of life before needing to get his shit together if he wanted to make anything of himself. It made him think of Sasha, and the pangs of something indescribable that came with thinking of Sasha.
This was different. It was curiousity, the same feeling that drove him through life, even when the world seemed unfair to the point of cruelty. But it was less for the world, for experiences. It was a curiousity, tying itself around in loops and knots, all into one conclusion.
He really wanted to follow that rabbit.
He approached the plate on the ottoman, and saw that it was, in fact, a small plate of familiar looking cookies. A group of round, brown cookies, covered with a sweet hardened glaze, sat waiting for him, a space missing where the rabbit took one.
He picked one up, immediately smelling the spices as he brought it to his mouth. Biting down, he almost doubled over with the nostalgia, confirming his suspicions that these were pryaniki. They used to be a Christmas staple in his house when he was a kid. When Alexei liked him a little more, and things were at least slightly nice in his house. When -
Before he could fall down that path in his head, he felt himself shrink, seeing the hotel room around him get huge and the door approach a normal size. Once he seemed to be the right size, he took a step through the doorway, enveloping himself into darkness and walking through.
Through the pinhole of light, he felt the cold draft and stale air, unmistakable as that of an ice rink’s. They all stay the same, regardless of country. He had a feeling this one was American, though. He didn’t know why.
Stepping on the black rubber mat, he headed mindlessly towards the stands. It was empty and cold, even with his hat and sweater on. He wasn’t used to empty rinks, but he could sense someone else, existing somewhere among the canned air and faint smell of sweat and thick plastic underneath.
Once he got a better look at the ice he saw the other person he sensed. A man in a Boston Raiders jersey doing drills around the ice, with a plethora of pucks for him to choose from. In the middle is a huge mushroom, seemingly growing from the ice like a great tree.
He waited for the man to finish his play, getting the puck into the net before stopping, shooting snow from his blades.
“Excuse me!” Ilya shouted to him, coming down towards the penalty box. He could finally see the name on the back of the jersey: Marleau.
“Yeah?” Marleau responded, seemingly unfazed by the random stranger watching his practise.
“Have you seen rabbit?” He asked.
“I’ve been practising all day, I didn’t see any rabbit come through. If it did, it probably went through that door, though.” Marleau pointed at what appeared to be a door for a Zamboni to come onto the ice. At the very least, it was large enough to fit one.
“Oh. Ok” Ilya answered simply, frustrated at his lack of English skills. Yet another reason to get drafted.
“If you want to go through there, you should eat some of that mushroom, on the right side of it. It will make you bigger. Then you’ll fit through the door.”
“Ok, thank you.” He walked towards the door to the ice, took a step, and glided like he was wearing skates. He skated past Marleau, stopping for a moment to look at him.
“Keep practising so you won’t give concussion again.”
“... How do you know about that?”
Oh. Huh. How did he know about that? He didn’t even know what he was referring to. And yet, something flickered in his mind, for just a moment. His heart in his throat on the ice, a broken collarbone and the smell of hospitals.
Regaining his composure, he gave the weakest chirp of his life in return (“because fuck you, that’s why”) and skated to the mushroom without another word. He picked the piece from the right side, and took a bite down. It tasted like nothing, but he got the weird rubbery texture of a mushroom certainly growing on the power of whatever plastic those rubber mats are powered by, and ended up just accepting that at least it didn’t taste like one of those.
And just like how he got smaller and smaller and smaller before, he grew and grew and grew now, eventually getting to be his normal size. Ignoring Marleau and the mushroom and the stupid American ice, he walked towards the door the rabbit had gone through.
The fluorescent lights of the rink turned into the dark outside and the warm lighting of a large dining room. Something about this room felt deeply, unnervingly familiar, and he immediately tensed up. He knew he was in Russia, he could damn near smell it. His back straightened instinctively.
The huge table was nearly empty, save for two men eating, and a sleeping woman. One man was wearing a New York Admirals jersey and the gaudiest top hat he’d ever seen, and the other was in a simple hoodie and jeans. They were not Russian, he could tell that much. The woman was wearing a headband with mouse ears, and whiskers were drawn on her cheeks. He had to admit she looked cute, but a part of him bristled on seeing her, more than the Russian setting of all of this.
Once the two men saw him, the one in the top hat gestured to him in welcome. The other called for him to sit down. With seemingly no other option, he followed their instructions, sitting with an empty chair between him and the mouse.
“We were just enjoying some lunch, and we were hoping someone else would stop by!” Before saying anything else, they slid a plate containing a tuna melt towards Ilya. He looked at it, shrugged, and took a bite. It was good, but they started talking before he could forget they exist and enjoy the whole thing.
“We’re celebrating, you see!”
“Yes, celebrating the joys of life.”
“Like tuna melts! And vodka!” A rocks glass of the clear liquor appeared in front of him. He took a sip, appreciating it.
The mouse opened her eyes slowly, looking at the crowd around her. “And love,” she said, voice thick with sleep.
“And love!” they both cheered her addition. Ilya was sure the people here had fully lost it. But then again, he wasn’t all that far behind. He said nothing, but took another sip of the vodka in a silent cheers.
“I am curious,” he said when he felt a time in their conversation to break in, “have you seen rabbit here?”
“Oh yes, I know that fellow well!” said the one in the top hat. “We fought on many occasions, good times,” he laughed as he said it.
“Where is he?” Ilya pressed.
“He should be on his way to the royal court now.” Answered the one in the hoodie and jeans. “He might already be there. He’s on trial.”
“What do you mean, trial?”
“He is to appear in court for the charge of lying without a permit.” The one in the top hat tsk-ed as he heard it, and Ilya couldn’t tell in what way he meant.
“That is bullshit!” he shouted, alarm creeping up his body. “He has never lied, ever”
“Oh yes he has,” said the one in the jersey and top hat.
“Oh yes he has,” echoed the one in the hoodie and jeans.
“Oh yes he has,” finished the mouse, with one eye open.
“You have too!” Ilya said, turning to the man in the top hat.
“Well yes, but I have the permit to do so. Besides, at least I am honest in my feelings.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Ilya was getting angry at the stupid American hockey player, at the boy he’s sharing meals with, who he’s clearly in love with. At the stupid American mouse girl. Why was it their business if the rabbit has lied? Why is it the court’s business? What lies constitute a trial in front of royalty?
“It just means that I at least know what I want to do with my life.” The man in the top hat was suddenly dead serious, and Ilya felt a chill go up his spine.
“So you two are lovebirds?” He gestured between them, the rage still simmering under the surface. “You think you’re so good because you kiss that one time?”
“Rozanov!” The man in the top chided, almost condescendingly. “When were you watching us doing that?”
Ilya had no answer. He didn’t want to ask how the man knew his name.
“What direction is court?”
He pointed down a hallway, and without another word, Ilya ran off.
The ceiling got higher as he ran, eventually opening up to a huge courtyard. Sitting in the high thrones at the head of the room was two people, each wearing venetian masks, long robes, and huge, ornate crowns.
On the floor facing them was the rabbit. It seems Ilya just caught the beginning of the trial.
In Russian, a woman’s voice spoke up, booming and authoritative. “We now begin the trial of one Hollander, accused here of lying without a permit. What say you?”
The rabbit looked panicked, clearly unable to speak the language. Ilya ran forward, unable to stop himself from helping.
“Surely the court would allow a translator?”
“And who are you?” said the woman. She stood to the right of the thrones, near the queen. Her long curly hair dominated a similar outfit of a mask and robes.
“Ilya Rozanov. Your royal highness, I would like to make sure Hollander is able to have a fair trial, to the best of his ability. After all, fairness is important.”
The king paused, thinking it through, until finally settling on a “very well then” and gesturing for Ilya to proceed.
He relayed the information to Hollander (now that he knew the rabbit’s name), and was able to get a not guilty out of him, which he told the court.
“We have evidence of your misdeeds.” The king boomed. Ilya felt eyes on the back of his head, and he was sure there was a huge audience behind him. He swallowed the fear and watched the evidence be unveiled by a masked man to the left of the thrones, standing proud and tall next to the king.
It was a smartphone, in a simple black case and pristine shape. Nothing about it immediately showed any trace of guilt, or even that Hollander owned it.
Still, he saw Hollander freeze slightly in the corner of his eye. Of course he’s a bad liar too, Ilya thought to himself, and watched as the phone was handed to the king with a dignified bow.
“Is this yours, rabbit?” asked the king. Ilya translated, and with fear in his eyes, Hollander shook his head no.
“Alright, then might I ask, do you talk to someone named Lily?”
Ilya’s eyes widened at the name, but any reasons he had for his worry were fuzzy around the edges. He translated with a strained voice. Hollander shook his head again, and somewhere deep inside of his chest, Ilya felt a pang of something sour.
“Once a liar, always a liar, I suppose,” the king spat. It seemed they were at an impasse, that they were going to keep asking and denying and everything over and over until they broke the poor rabbit, and he confirmed this, and they did something horrible to him, all for the crime of talking to this Lily person.
“If I may, Your Highness,” spoke the man next to him. The king gestured for him to go ahead, and he made his way down, standing in front of Ilya and Hollander to address the court directly.
“This Ilya Rozanov is not as innocent as he may appear, either,” he said, freezing Ilya’s blood in his veins. He said nothing as the aide continued.
“He, too, has been lying. In many of the same ways that the accused has. He has committed a similar crime, talking to one Jane, under false names and false pretenses.” He pulled out a second cell phone, similar to the one from before but with a small crack in the screen. He opened up something on it, showing whatever he found to the king, who stared intensely at the screen behind the unmoving mask. It made Ilya shiver, like the king was looking straight into his soul, not just at a phone screen.
“Is this true, boy?” Spoke up the king, aiming the heat of the question directly at Ilya. He’s trained hard to not crack in the face of that tone of voice, knowing that things only get worse from there, so instead he stood up straight, and answered.
“No, your Highness, it is not,” Ilya’s face was as neutral as he could get it. He could see Hollander looking confused out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t dare translate or explain right now.
“Do not lie to me, boy,” the king stood, raising his voice louder, threatening to go all the way into screaming at Ilya. “You have been talking with this Jane, and Jane is not who you say.”
Ilya said nothing, despite not knowing anything about somebody named Jane. The king continued.
“Your lies are bringing a shame to the kingdom. There is only one thing that must be done about this,” he gestured, and Ilya could feel people coming up behind the two of them. He assumed they were guards, and he felt absolutely defeated.
The defeat turned to sadness, turned to rage, unbridled, as he took a step forward before the guards could take them.
“Why the fuck does it matter who I talk to? Why does it matter if I have somebody named Jane on my phone, or if that’s not what her real name is? Me or Shane lying about things that only affect us does nothing to the kingdom. And even if it did, fuck the kingdom! I don’t want to change everything about myself for the sake of a stupid fucking kingdom that does nothing for me.”
Everyone froze, seemingly not expecting someone to yell back. Feels about right, Ilya thought with that last little bit of rage, simmering into something else. Before anyone had the chance to say anything, a voice cut through in English.
“... How do you know my first name?”
Ilya turned to the rabbit, whose panic had finally seemed to subside, and instead was replaced with confusion. Ilya was confused too; didn’t this stupid Canadian rabbit not know any Russian? Then he thought back on what he said. Shane. How did he know that?
How did he know those two at the table were in love?
How did he know about Marleau giving someone a concussion?
How did he know all of that?
The world continued to freeze until the king seemed to snap out of whatever shock had just come over him. “Enough of this insubordination!” he yelled, his booming voice causing Hollander – Shane – to flinch. Ilya stood his ground.
“The court finds you both guilty. Hollander for his lies, Rozanov for going against everything this kingdom stands for. Guards!”
Just as the guards took another step forward, movement caught his eye.
“That’s quite enough,” said the queen, standing up from her throne. Her aide, the woman, took to one knee upon her standing. The guards froze once more.
“Mílȳĭ, give me a moment with the accused, please.”
“But -”
“It will just be a moment, my love”
He sighed and sat down, seemingly freezing in place in his throne. His aide was already by his side by the time he was sitting.
“I don’t understand, your Highness.”
“There is plenty you don’t understand, but that is okay. You have so much time.”
“What do you want from me?” It was all Ilya could think to ask. Something about the queen unnerved him, but also made him feel completely at ease. It scared him, and made him think there was something owed for her, by him, in his life. Something he had yet to repay in any meaningful way.
“I want you to be happy, solnyshko. I want you to be happy, and I want you to be comfortable in that happiness. I want you to be happy with this ‘Jane,’ without the fake names, without the need to hide that love that you have for him.”
The pet name almost completely eclipsed the “he” pronoun she had used for this person he loved. This Jane. Nobody had called him that since -
“How do I know all of those things about everybody here?” He asked, words barely audible around the lump in his throat. He felt like he was 6 years old again, confused by the world, ready to let it swallow him whole while pretending that everything was okay.
“That is your life, little one. It is your love and your hate and your life, and you are about to really truly live in it.”
A loud crack echoed through the room. Ilya looked up, and saw a fracture carve through the female aide’s mask. It fell into pieces and dust, and behind it was Svetlana.
More cracks formed in the masks, falling away to reveal Alexei’s stoic face. His father’s stern face, which he loved in spite of himself.
Then that must mean -
The cracks formed, and behind the mask in front of him showed a face his father seemed to scorn. A face that looked just like Ilya’s, soft and pretty under the right circumstances. Neither of them had the right circumstances very often, but here she was beautiful, smiling gently.
“Mama?”
“I’m sorry, solnyshko. I know it’s been hard.”
He interrupted her by crushing her into a hug, for once unafraid of the tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Please, sweetheart. Let someone love you, the way that I love you. It’s okay.”
The world around them began to crumble. The rabbit was gone, the king and Alexei and Svetlana and the thrones and everything else was gone. All that remained was Ilya, and Irina, and the hug like a vice they were sharing. All that remained in Ilya was the feeling that everything was going to be okay.
*
Shane was awake before him, but not by very long. He looked at the love of his life, peaceful in his sleep, and watched as a tear gathered under his eyelashes, threatening to fall. Concern swept through him, and he instinctively reached and swiped it away with his thumb. Ilya stirred, opening his eyes to Shane facing him. It took him a minute to remember where he was, that he wasn’t in his Boston apartment, that he was actually in Shane’s cottage. The gentle sunlight of the beginning of the day streamed through, lighting up their faces in warm muted yellows.
“Good morning”