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For as long as Ilya can remember, he’s heard what it means to be a “real man.”
“Real men” are respectful and say “Yes sir” and “No ma’am.”
“Real men” are neat. They wear suits on formal occasions and keep their hair short, at least if they have “sloppy” hair like Ilya.
“Real men” work hard, achieve their goals, make something of themselves.
But above all “real men” don’t cry.
The first time he heard that was when he was six, when he came home crying because one of his classmates had said he had “girl hair.”
His father had looked sternly at his blotched cheeks and red nose and said “You are a man, Ilya. Real men don’t cry.”
His mother had told his father that she’d help him get cleaned up, and while she wiped his cheeks, she said “Ilyushka, it’s all right to cry.”
Ilya had wiped his sleeve across his nose. “But Father said—”
Mama put a finger on his lips. “I know what Father said. And you must always listen to Father. But if you need to cry, come to me.”
Ilya had nodded, and after that, whenever something happened that made him sad, he went to Mama and she held him while he cried.
The last time Ilya cried was while he sat on a bed, with his mother’s body sprawled in the next room, while his father repeated “This was an accident, Ilya.”
“But—” He knows what an accident is. It’s when a car runs into another car, or when someone drops or spills something. This wasn’t that.
“Don’t answer back!” his father snaps, and Ilya nods. He’s always a “real man,” except when he has something to say. Then it’s “children don’t answer back.”
“Listen to me, Ilya. Your mother died in an accident. Do you understand?”
Ilya nods again. Apparently it’s okay for “real men” to lie.
With no Mama to hold him while he cries, Ilya does his best not to.
He learns that he can force the tears inside. It makes his stomach burn and hurt, but it’s better than what he’d get from his father.
***
The first time he wants to cry after meeting Shane Hollander is after he wins the stupid Rookie Award.
Yet another thing for his father to chastise him about.
Yet another way he doesn’t measure up.
And then Hollander comes up on the roof and demands to know why Ilya wasn’t there to watch him.
The tears bubble beneath the surface, but the nausea is there too, aided by the anger evoked by Hollander’s “Must be nice.”
Of course Hollander has no idea. Of course Hollander has a perfect family, just like everything else about him is fucking perfect.
His stomach is roiling, but he kisses Hollander, savagely, and it recedes for a moment as Hollander kisses back.
And then comes back tenfold, a wave about to drown him, when Hollander pulls back.
***
He’s nervous having Hollander in his apartment, but things have gone okay so far, even with the call from his father.
But then he makes the mistake of using Hollander’s first name, and Hollander leaves again.
***
When he first sees the news about Shane and Rose Landry, he feels like he’s been punched in the gut.
He shouldn’t have been surprised. Shane was perfect. He deserved someone who could be a perfect girlfriend, perfect wife, perfect mother, someone he can be proudly photographed with in public and who can wear his jersey to home games.
Not like Ilya.
The roiling in his gut sends him out to a club, the one place, he’s sure, where he won’t encounter Shane Hollander.
And guess fucking what?
The nausea gets so bad, during those weeks, that he can hardly eat anything, and the team doctor is concerned about how much muscle mass he’s losing.
But then they’re on a beach in Tampa, and Shane says he and Rose were “not compatible,” and then Shane is in his hotel room.
He almost laughs when Shane tells him he’s gay, it’s so obvious, but doesn’t because Shane looks so serious.
But then Shane pushes, he pushes and pushes and doesn’t understand, again what Ilya would be giving up if they were to be anything more than rivals who occasionally make each other come. Shane had been in Sochi, he should know.
Thinking of that, thinking of his father asking who tied his tie and Sasha biting his lip as he kissed him, the tears well up.
And Shane notices, of course he fucking notices, so Ilya says “Sorry,” but rather than telling him not to cry, Shane sits in his lap and holds him, holds him the way no one had since his mama died, and the nausea wisps away, turning liquid and seeping out his eyes as Shane shushes him, the way his mama used to, stroking his hair and rocking him.
And, just for a moment, Ilya lets himself think of being something.