Archive of Our Own

One time, a make-up artist cried in front of Ilya. Not because of him, to be clear.

It was summer 2014, in the week before he went home. He was at a thing for UnderArmour. They had recruited a few hockey players for their new campaign- Scott Hunter was somewhere in the building, and later they would do shots together, which Ilya tried very not to think about. They’d tried to get Hollander but there were “scheduling issues”. Very disappointing, to have old man Hunter, instead of Shane. Anyway.

It started with a few tears, which Ilya didn’t really notice, and then a few more, which he chalked up to chemicals or a sneeze or something, then more and more, trickling down her face silently.

”Shit” she said, angrily dashing them away. “I’m so sorry, Mr Rozanov, it’s just- my mum died last week. Cancer. And I disowned my father, haven’t talked to him since I was fifteen, so I’m basically an orphan-“ and then she dissolved into proper tears, sob wracking her entire body, streaming down her perfectly made-up face like someone had turned a hose on her face. None of her makeup budged, even as she sobbed, which was very impressive. She was good at her job.

Ilya, who had last comforted a crying woman in 2003, patted her very awkwardly on the wrist. She was tiny, and he was a hockey player- his hand could wrap around it twice, probably.

Eventually, like 15 minutes later, she slowed down, blew her nose noisily on one of her make up cloths, checked her watch and said-

”Shit, we are so behind schedule. They’re going to fire me”

”No, no, it’ll be okay” said Ilya, still patting her wrist, “you will tell them I am-“ what the fuck was the phrase. Prime woman? First lady, no, that was- He snapped his fingers.

”Primadonna! You will tell them I am Primadonna, is all my fault.”

”They don’t care, it’s supposed to be my job to wrestle Primadonnas” she said, shrugging, what can you do?, getting out the concealer, back to business.

”Then I give you my phone number” he said firmly, “you get fired, you call me, your good friend Ilya Rozanov calls your bosses, makes big fuss about his dear friend-“ he checked her name tag “Gemma getting fired.”

She laughed wetly, and demurred, but he bullied her into it, which would probably be bad if it got out- Rozanov forces women to take his phone number!- but it made her laugh again, him gently wrestling her for the phone.

As he left, he waggled his hand, an exaggerated call me!, and she laughed, and waved, so he thought he’d probably gotten a good grade at negotiating a horrible social situation. He’d get himself McDonalds when the shoot was over and send a photo to Hollander- the meal itself wasn’t the reward for good behavior; it was the prospect of the yummy conniption Hollander would have that buoyed him through having to deal with Scott Hunter.

-

Afterwards, though, he wanted to go back and hunt her down, shake her by her very tiny shoulders, say “How can you do this?”, or maybe “How can I do this?”. He’d call her, but he only put his number into her phone. He vaguely hoped she did get fired and then felt awful for even thinking it. He’d google “Gemma Make Up Artist New York” if he didn’t have self-respect. Also, he does not think that would work.

How can you be an orphan with a still-living parent? How can you stop talking to your father at fifteen, like that’s a choice you’re allowed to make? Children can be disowned by parents, he knew this- the fuck ups, the drug addicts, the fags that family must disavow to survive, usually without mercy or regret. You prune the tree before the rot spreads. That’s simple.

Parents can’t be disowned by the children though, what the fuck. That’s not how the world works.

He googled it but didn’t really get answers. A lot of stuff about “protecting your personal peace”, which are all words he knew individually but he didn’t really understand what the sentence meant, and a few deeply unpleasant reddits about bitch wives influencing children.

In America, they like to tell the myth of the individual. Your family does not matter; you can be anything! Be true to yourself! You are unique! Celebrate that!

Like a lot of American things, it is utter nonsense. Of course your family mattered; it was the only thing that did. The Rozanov family name might not hold weight in America, true, but it had smoothed his way into the KHL, which led him to the NHL, and besides, if they had not had money, then his mother would’ve had to get a job, which might’ve saved her life but would have meant Ilya had no one to ferry him to and from the ice rink he spent most of his life at. Not to mention the cost of gear and of going to competitions.

And, because your family gave you everything they had, you gave the same back to them.

Ilya sent money back to Russia, to look after his family. This was as true as his hair being blond, or his eyes being green- he could not change it. It was not his choice. Even if he dyed his hair bright purple, DNA would out. It was the role of the immigrant son, who went off to seek his fortune- he could not be a dutiful boy, who married a good Russian woman, a girl who would cook and clean for his papa, like Ekaterina did now. He could only be a cash cow, so a good cash cow he was.

St Simon had complained about it once, having to go home for the holidays and spend time with his parents and his grandparents and aunties and uncles, “it’s so fucking boring”, he’d griped. All of the other guys had nodded. Ilya had been- what was the fun word? Gobsmacked. It had smacked his gob. It did not matter if it was boring. You looked after your grandparents and your parents. This was what the young were for. His mother looked after his grandparents, even when his дедушка hit her with his walking stick and his бабушка screamed abuse because she had folded the tablecloth in thirds, not fourths. You didn’t do anything else. You took it on the cheek, and looked after them, and waited patiently until they died, and then it was your turn to hit with your walking stick. Except, his mother had found her own way out, and now he had too. He was in America, where you put your grannies in the nursing home and did not visit.

He thought about putting his papa in a nursing home and felt sick.

-

One time, Ilya had a breakdown in the toilet of a gay bar in fucking Houston, of all places.

He’d beaten the Drillers 4-2 and then sucked off a guy in a gay bar, which hadn’t been bad but hadn’t been good- his thoughts kept turning back to Shane, Shane, Shane, seeing Shane at the club with Rose Landry, because Shane didn’t want him, was probably in Montreal fucking pretty Rose Landry right now, and Ilya would never get him, ever again, never watch him fold his clothes before, or see him stretch after, the way he reached to the ceiling, on his tippy-toes, watch him get dressed again, always in the same order, from the top down, so if Ilya timed it right he could sink down to his knees and suck off Hollander while he looked like Winnie the Pooh. It had been hilarious, every time.

He couldn’t suck Hollander off, though, never again, so he sucked off this guy, who looked absolutely nothing like Hollander at all, bruising his knees on the chipped bathroom tile. He did not care about being spotted at a gay bar, because he did not much care about anything at all. Let them see.

Let his family see their precious golden goose now. They’d call him all sorts of nasty things, disown him, stop taking his money, stop calling him, stop texting him, all the things he craved and yet desperately feared. He wanted it the same way he wanted a cyst lanced- at least then, all the putrid shit would be out in the open. Ilya could be free, free to be utterly alone, free to live a life in America, where Rozanov just means Ilya, and the myth of individualism was so strong he could pretend he believed, and his family could say good riddance to bad rubbish. And where guns to kill himself were easy to find.

But then he remembered that his father had months left to live, maybe, maybe a year if they were lucky, according to the nurse who called him once a month and no more, and whom Ilya paid a great deal of money, more to deal with his brother than his father.

His papa had called him a good boy last he called, but then called him Dmitri and asked how his mother was, because Dmitri had been Ilyas’ cousin, twenty years older than him, and had had a thriving lawyer’s career and a beautiful fiancé until he had walked into the sea at St Petersburg and never come out, before Ilya had even turned five, because the black dog stalked their entire family. He told father that тетушка Natalia was doing good, even though тетушка Natalia was also dead; lung cancer, when Ilya was fifteen. His papa hadn’t recognized his voice for two months now, and likely never would again.

It was best, the nurse said, to allow his delusions- they get upset, otherwise, and confused. Let him be. I’m sorry.

Even if his father saw a sordid video of Ilya choking on cock, he would see nothing more than a filthy fag, not his filthy fag son. The ugly recognition Ilya craved would never come.

So, Ilya had a panic attack, sitting on the toilet set, gasping like a fish, hands clenched in his curls.

He didn’t try to be quiet, because he’d never really learnt how to do anything small, and because the club was blasting “Work” by Rihanna, loud enough to damage ear drums, so he thought he was safe until someone knocked on his stall door, which was still ajar from the guy leaving, Ilya not even managing to lock it before he went crazy.

”Hon? Are you alright?” and Ilya tried to make a reassuring fuck off noise, but the only thing that came out was a whistle through his teeth, more a dog-like whine than anything resembling language.

”I’m coming in, okay?” and then someone ducked into the rapidly cramped bathroom stalls.

She was tall, taller than Ilya, which was impressive enough, but she was wearing heels that nearly took her to the ceiling. Her blonde hair was piled on top of her head, too. This woman had balls, perhaps literally (was that okay to say? Ilya thought maybe she was transgender, and that was why she was in the mens’ toilets, but he didn’t know and didn’t really care about stuff like that. Not his circus.). Her dress was very short, and very sparkly, and dark forest green.

”I’m Ana” she said, crouching down on her heels. She said it the Slavic way- Ah-nyuh, not American An-uh. She had an American accent, but Ilya still said-

”Русский?”, small, tired, like a child. Not sure whether he wanted it or not. Recognition bloomed across her face.

”Nyet” she said, carefully, “but my family is from Ukraine.” Ah. Whoops. He wondered how to convey “sorry for all the general conquering and also that one time I got photographed with Putin in Sochi, I didn’t really want to.” through his face, but she seemed to get it, shrugging easily.

”Are you okay?” she said, “I heard you and I couldn’t- I wanted to check.”

”I’m fine” he said, lying like a liar, even though his face was still wet. “It’s fine. It’s just- the boy I love, he is gone, and my papa, he’s dying-“

And then he was tipping forward and she was grabbing him, pulling him in, and then he was crying into this random womans’ boobs, even though he never cried, Russians do not do this, so maybe he really was a weak American now. It was uncontrollable and very uncomfortable. He thought back to Gemma, Make Up Artist and sent into the universe a silent message of “I get it now”.

”I’m okay” he said, when he finally forced himself stop crying.

”Okay. Okay.” She said, still rubbing a little circle into his shoulder. He wanted to shrug her off, say something cutting to get her to go away and leave him alone, like a wounded animal, except- except she was tall, blond, green eyes, skinny as a rake and Slavic. He was not a duckling, he knew she was not his mama, they were probably the same age, he knew it was probably an insult to her to even compare her to a random mans’ mama, but. But. She was comforting, and she called him hon. He maybe had issues.

”Here’s the deal, baby boy” she said. “If you want to go home, you can go home. I’ll call you an uber and walk you to the door myself.”

”But if you still want to have fun, or if- I don’t think you should be alone tonight, so if home means that-, then you’re going to come with me and meet my lovely friends, and we’ll have a good time.”

”What I want neither of those options? What if I want you to fuck off?” he said, just to be contrary. He didn’t know what he wanted.

”No chance” she said, so he let her pull him to her feet, her taking his weight even though she was tottering on heels and he was a hockey player. She waited while he splashed cold water on his face, patted it dry with the rough bathroom paper towel, and then led him out by the hand, through the crowd of writing bodies and past the bar, waving to the busy bartender, who waved back, until they reached the booths at the back.

He was used to high level athletes, really, and the puck bunnies and the WAGs and the models- aka he was used to a very specific type of people, all Hollywood-beautiful. White- really, really white. Usually blonde and skinny or tall and muscular. These people did not look like that. They looked like real people, in faded jean jackets and jumpsuits and short dresses that weren’t tailored to within an inch of their lives, hair many colors, fat and thin and in-between. It was refreshing, actually.

”This is-“ she said, and then paused, because he’d never given her his name.

”Alexei” he said, partly because it was funny and partly because he hoped his brother woke up in a cold sweat.

”Sorry about her” said the black girl with the very long, bright green braids, “Ana likes to pick up strays.”

”Woof woof” he said, which wasn’t very funny, but they laughed anyway.

”This is Tanya”, the black woman, “Con”, a fat person with a bleached blonde buzzcut, “Damian”, a tanned twink with blue hair, and “Lily” who was… goth? Punk? Ilya did not know, it was a lot of black.

”Do you want a drink?” said Ana.

”Coke, please” he said, and she nodded and said, “okay, I’ll just be a sec, these guys will look after you”, and moved back through the crowd.

”So” said Damian, leaning in, “what brings you to our humble table?”

Ilya did not feel like talking about his papa and his mama and all the ways Ilya missed Russia and hated her in the same breath. Luckily, he was fucked up in many, many ways.

”My work- very homophobic industry. Cannot come out. I have a guy that I work with, we’ve been fucking and secretly in love with for 8 years, and we are- well. We are rivals, very famously hate each other. Is not true, obviously. Well, he did not break up with me, because we were never together. I asked for more and he said no and now he is now dating a woman even though I know he is gay, and everyday I see him and miss him and can tell nobody. So, I suck off a guy in the bathroom and have a panic attack, and your Ana finds me.”

”Oh my god” breathed Con, “you’re a messy bitch- no offence”

”Very messy” said Ilya, nodding.

”Wait, 8 years, what the fuck, I need to know more” said Tanya, “does this guy know you’re in love with him”

He shrugged. Honestly, he had no clue whether Hollander had worked it out or not.

“I tried to tell him, but I did not do it properly. It does not matter now.”

”What did you say?”

”I said, I like many women, I have sex with many women, because I am a slut, but I like you too.”

”Alexei, that’s the worst love confession I’ve ever heard” said Lily.

”No, no, I kinda get it” said Tanya.

”And I cannot get over him. I have tried, believe me. He is the most beautiful man I have ever seen- he has these freckles, and his eyes- they are like a cows, so big, so brown, his lashes are so long-“

”What did I miss?” said Ana, carrying over a tray of alarmingly coloured drinks, setting them down confidently in front of each of her friends, and a coke in front of Ilya. He nodded his appreciation as she slid in beside him.

”Alexei is in the messiest friends with benefits situation possible.” Said Damian gleefully, but not unkindly.

It was very fun. He’d never been able to talk about Shane Hollander, not to anyone, let alone a crowd who did not bring up the fucking rivalry and did not understand the baggage of hockey, of Captain Shane Hollander of the Metros, and Ilya Rozanov of the Raiders. He was just Alexei, a boy in love with another boy, who was not loved back. Eventually, Tanya said “okay enough gossip, I want to dance”, and everyone jumped up and he was passed between them, grinding against each other not at all seriously, bouncing up and down, at one point Lily did the cowboy lasso move on Con, which was so stupid he doubled over laughing in the middle of the dance floor, feeling drunk even though the shots he’d had before he’d sucked off that guy had long since worn off, and he’d only had Anas’ coke since. Eventually, they piled back into the booth, and drank water, and everyone showed Ilya their dog photos. It was good. It was fun.

When he checked his phone, he swore up a storm in Russian- it was 2am, which meant it was way after curfew, which meant Coach would kill him, because he was going to wake Marley up when he went back to the hotel and Marley was a little snitch when he was annoyed. They let him go easily, but said-

”Hey, we should hang out again, what’s your insta?”

and he said “I don’t have social media and I travel for work, I don’t live in Houston” and they could’ve let it be but they instead said “phone number, then” and his phone went all around the table, each one putting in their number and texting it to themselves, and they made him promise to let them know if he was ever in Houston again. Connie said “I want to know what happens with Mr freckles” and when Tanya kicked their leg, they said “what! I’m invested now, I wanna know”. Ana walked him out to his uber, like she had threatened, and hugged him when it inched its way down the street, fighting all the other ubers and taxis picking up bargoers.

”Look after yourself, Alexei” she said. Ilya shoved $500 in her face as the uber pulled up, and when she took it reflexively, said “for the drinks” and then ducked into the car, laughing at her outraged face.

-

Marley snitched, because he was a dick.

-

When Ilya had been a teenager, his life had been different. Obviously. He’d had his hockey team, but he’s also had his friends, his real friends, the too-rich teenager children of his fathers’ friends, who all ran around Moscow like a pack of wild dogs- Svetlana and Sasha and Dasha and Pasha and Alina and Katya, all howling at the moon, the entire city their playground.

Once, Svetlana had asked what they wanted, really wanted. It’d been 3am, which had been like 10pm to them, and they were lying spread across Ilyas’ bed, piled together like puppy dogs, his head pillowed on her stomach, Alina behind her slumped against the headrest, Sasha on his lap, Dasha lying on his stomach across Ilyas’ lower legs, which could not have been comfortable, Katya next to Alina at the top of the bed, stretching out, resting her feet on Dashas’ back, Pasha curled up in a chair across from the bed like a cuckhold, because Pasha didn’t like touch. They were one wrong move from everyone falling off the bed, which was how they liked it. They’d been- what, 14? 15? Ilya had been the smallest on the team, because the other boys had already had their growth spurts, but next year he’d tower over everyone.

What do you want?

Sasha had said he wanted to be a Parisienne hooker in the 18th century, doing copious amounts of opium and then dying of syphilis in an alleyway, which wasn’t really what Svetlana meant at all, but it kind of happened to Sasha anyway- he was definitely in Paris, doing copious amounts of drugs and having a lot of sex, some of it paid. No syphilis, hopefully. Funny how things worked out. Alina said she wanted a nice boy, and hit Dasha with her foot, because Dasha and Alina had been dating at the time, but Dasha was not a nice boy, because half the time he was kissing Pasha instead. She’d married a different boy, but Ilya didn’t know if he was nice; it had been a shotgun wedding, when she’d been 18, and she’d stopped talking to them afterwards. She had two kids now, he thought. He couldn’t remember what the others had said.

Ilya- Ilya doesn’t remember what he said, either. Probably that he wanted a car fast enough to beat the sun in the sky. He’d gotten that too, just like Sasha, or as close to it as possible.

He’d forgotten about it, tried to forget Moscow and the person he’d been there, but the bar in Houston had brought it all bubbling back up to the surface, like the bag of bones floating up to the top of the lake, 15 years after the murder.

He missed it. He missed himself. He loved the Raiders, but the locker-room-talking-lads got old, the dick-measuring, the jostling, the masculinity of it all, which Ilya was the best at, obviously, but like stags testing their strength, he had to prove his claim, every day, every week, every month, every year. And the models in the bars, who all more intelligent than anyone wanted them to be, and the WAGs, who smiled with closed mouths, how Ilya had to flirt with them all, because if he didn’t, then he wasn’t Roz, the play boy, the slut (except men weren’t sluts unless they were gay-), a man who was half real and half made of lies, and that Ilya was getting tired of. He was turning 25 this year. It got old.

Sometimes he just wanted to be Ilyushka, the boy who danced with his friends and lay on beds, talking about nothing. The closest he felt to that kid was when he was with Shane.

-

Once, Ilya wanted to kill himself. This was not unusual, Ilya wanted to kill himself lots of times, especially when he was in Moscow, which he was. It was the summer break after his first NHL season, both longed for and dreaded. He’d been so home sick, his first full year in America, he’d racked up nearly $5000 in phone bills calling Svetlana.

He been thinking about slitting his wrists in his fathers’ bed, the one his mother had died in, the one Polina said was haunted even though Ilya knew it wasn’t. He’d once wished hard for the ghost of his mother, and she’d never appeared before him, and he was the one who she would visit, not Polina anyway, so. It was not haunted.

He’d been doing a lot of thinking about suicide, that whole year, and drove his cars a little too fast, skated a little too hard, ran at night in bad neighborhoods where everyone had guns. But it had just been thoughts. Now he wanted it, wanted it so bad the longing came up his throat, and he found himself on the bedspread, kitchen knife in one hand, phone in the other.

He thought about calling Svetlana, but she was tired of his bullshit and had been for years. He thought about calling Hollander, but they weren’t anything- they had fucked, what, three times? He was not even a friend.

He googled what to do, and did not want to call fucking hotlines, because his English was bad and talking was difficult. He’d struggled through interviews all season, he did not want to do any more fucking talking, jesus fucking christ.

But he could text. Writing was easier. The text-line was in America, but he was desperate. He did not want to die, not really, but it didn’t feel like he had a choice.

So he texted "START" to 678-678, and someone on the other side, gorgeously anonymous, said “International numbers aren’t supposed to be able to access this service, I’m not sure how you got through.” And Ilya said, “sorry I’ll go” and the person must’ve sense that Ilya was going to put down the phone and die, because they said “No, it’s okay, just try something local next time :) What’s going on?” and Ilya did not kill himself that night.

-

He donated $10,000 to the Trevor Project. He put down his name as Ana.

-

He does not know how to explain it, not to anyone.

The way there’s a tab on his clock app, labelled home, +7 hours, and Montreal under that (even though when he’s in Boston there’s no difference). He has no reason to check it. He does anyway, every time Alexei calls, every time Svetlana texts, every time he thinks about home- what time is now? Is it late? Shouldn’t she be in bed, maybe this time it’s the call from his brother he has to pick up- he thinks about people in Moscow, when he wakes up in the morning and they’re already halfway through their days.

The way Boston, so old for an American city, is still so young to him. The way he wants to shake Americans and go, when this country was founded, my city was already 600 years old, and sometimes you felt like everyone there was a thousand years old too, trudging along waiting for heaven, tired of the grey sky and the grey buildings.

They way he goes to the Russian store once a month like clockwork, let the old women in their lace shawls kiss him on the cheeks- one, two, three, and pinch them afterwards, let them ask him when he was going to find a nice Russian girl, buy out the entire store, only to go home and not want to eat a single bite, because it’ll just taste like home, and home tastes like saltwater. He donates a lot of it to the food banks and then goes back again the next month.

He doesn’t even like Moscow, he wants to scream to the heavens. I hate it there! I hate the city that killed my mama and wants to kill me! Why can’t I just let it go. Why can’t it just let me go.

-

He really, really did not expect any of them to text him. You told people you met at bars that’d you be best friends forever, and tomorrow the hangover wore off and you went ew and deleted their numbers. But Ana added him to a group chat- not the main one, he could tell, but that was okay- and Con immediately started sending pictures of their greyhound, who was called Bella, and was an ex-racing greyhound, and of course Ilya had to reply, shchenok!!! puppy!!!!! Because she was a Very Good Girl. And it went from there- Ilya met a lot of dogs, so sent a lot of dog photos, and Lily had an ugly meatsack of a cat, completely bald, and Ana had a very orange fish who lived in a tank bigger than Ilyas’ hot tub called Cornchip, and Damian had a boyfriend named Rob, who he said counted, which was very mean but very funny.

In June, they sent him a photo from pride, with Cons’ partner Amber, who Ilya had not met, and Rob, and Lilys’ new girlfriend, who was named Jane, which Ilya found very funny and couldn’t explain why, all with hearts and flags splashed across their cheeks, glitter raining down like it was rain, and Ilya wanted it, wanted the joy, but instead he was in Moscow, trying to coax pills into his papas’ throat, which made him think too much of mama, and joy was hard to find.

In September, Con said I made a gofundme for my surgery! and everyone except Ilya said oh my god, FINALLY, and Ilya looked at his bank account and fully funded it within 24 hours, which made his accountant very mad but made Con very happy and send Ilya lots of nice messages, even though Ilya did it anonymously. He sold a car to do the same when Ana posted her bottom surgery gofundme, even though it made his accountant even madder, and she said, we know it was you, Alexei. Thank you. Thank you.

-

And then Tampa happened and his papa died.

How to put into words, the loss? He did not cry, because he had cried already, when the nurse said “a year, maybe”, then “months” and then “weeks”, and again when she said, “if you want to see him alive, Ilya, you need to come now.” But he had not wanted to see him alive, because his papa was not the one alive, only an empty shell whose chest rose and fell in his place. The man he knew was gone. The man who towered above him, like a great tree, blocking out the light but also providing protection. The man who killed his mother, but held Ilya under his arm at the funeral, and tucked him into bed when he was very small and adjusted his bowtie when it was crooked. The man Ilya had wished dead, so many times, and now wished more than anything he was still alive, so he could finally hate Ilya like Ilya had hated him.

Ilya was the one to make him tidy this time, to adjust his paper crown, hold his hand, no pulse behind that thin, bruised skin. Alexei did not want to touch the corpse, did not want to help dress him in his white robes, did not want to tie the black belt, so Ilya did it all with the funeral director.

It was three days of torture, really, meals upon meals with people he did not care about, aunties and uncles and cousins coming out of the woodwork, all saying “he was so proud of you”, even though he’d never said so to Ilya, and wouldn’t he have, if it were true?

Poor Polina cooked the entire first day, Ekaterina the second and then Ilya ordered catering for the third. Zoya disappeared, so he found her hiding under the table, scared of the corpse in the other room, and Ekaterina was too busy to soothe her, so he coaxed her out to dance on his shoes, playing the Beatles on his phone, not mamas’ records- oh darling, please believe me, I’ll never do you no harm, crooning to her until she laughed. He pinky-promised her she could come visit him in America, whenever she wanted, and hoped she’d remember it, remember him, came to visit him one day, because otherwise he would never see her again.

He knew he would never step foot in Russia again even before he shouted at Alexei, even before called Shane and told him he loved him, loved him, loved him, even though poor Shane could not understand.

The next morning he went anti-clockwise around the thing that had once been his father, kissed his forehead just below where the paper crown rested, and then left the church and the mourners and the waiting hearse to catch a taxi to the airport, because he did not want to go to the cemetery and see his mothers’ gravestone, the one she would’ve hated. He would never see his fathers’ gravestone. He was a bad son for that, maybe. He’d been a bad son his entire life. He would never be a bad son ever again, because he was no longer anyones’ son.

-

Ilya is a very obvious fag to all the other fags in Russia, so it was vaguely surprising to land in America and find everyone thought he was very heterosexual, even the other gays. Back home it was the way he talked, the way he dressed. He wore adidas, like every Slavic teen, but he matched his tracksuits and wore colours. His father said, “you’re spending too much time with that Sasha boy, you talk like him now”, so Sasha and him orchestrated a very fake but very dramatic fall out, snubbed each other in public and kept fucking each other in private.

Which was not to say his father actually ever knew, or that he accepted him. It was a reprimand for hanging out with undesirables; a warning. If he and Sasha hadn’t cut each other off, there would’ve been rumours, and rumours would’ve been unfortunate, and his father would’ve had to step in, and Ilya would not have liked that. So. He started fake-dating Svetlana (the sex was real, the dating was not), and everyone agreed to let sleeping dogs lie.

Alexei knew but had no fucking proof. It was one of the many, many reasons why Alexei hates him.

Americans look at him, the way he cares about his clothes, the way he does his hair, his skincare routine, how he gets his nails done once a month by a very lovely woman named Mon, and they say; European!

Which is insulting on multiple levels, because Russia has famously never been part of the Union, and if they’re going by the continents, then first of all most of Russia was in Asia (Moscow was in Europe, this was true- still, the point still stood, he thought), and second, they really should start calling the Canadians Americans too, and that would cause a riot. He should start calling all the Canadian players Americans on the ice, he thinks he could cause a few heart attacks out of sheer rage.

But no, he tells all his boys I love you, I love you, I love you and kisses them when they score a particularly beautiful goal (one time fully on the lips, because Oregan had managed to slap the puck across the entire rink straight into the oppositions net. What was Ilya supposed to do, not reward the guy?), and leads Hollander in a waltz when they get tied up while everyone else is fighting, Hollander going red with “rage”, even though Ilya knows better, and everyone says; haha, classic Roz. Europeans, amiright?

At this point he thinks he could fuck Hollander right there on the ice, and they’d go; haha, classic Roz. Europeans, amiright?

-

He told his little secret gang of queers- my papa finally died, just got home from Moscow (( but the boy and I spoke before! It was not good bc we said we could never be together aha but we both have feelings for each other. I told him I loved him over the phone, but it was Russian and he can’t speak it ahaha.

and they said, what the fuck Alexei, you poor messy queen.

And Damian said, isn’t there a way you can be together, and Ilya said, Not while we work in this industry and Damian said then quit your jobs??? And Ilya said I like money and also, I have Nothing Else, all my friends are through work. And Ana said, that’s not true. You have your boy and you have us, which was very supportive, and Con said, then you have to find a way or find something else. Which was easy enough to say. Ilya was trying

-

And the problem was, when it came down to it, Ilya was a greedy little bitch.

He wanted it all. He wanted the American life. He wanted his fast cars and his sneakers that cost more than their weight in gold, and he wanted designer clothes, and gold jewellery, and he wanted clubs and booze, and drugs.

He wanted a house, one that felt more like a home than his current one that he bought pre-furnished. He wanted a guest room for Svetlana, and he wanted dogs, big ones and small ones, and he wanted friends who lay on the bed with him, and he wanted big windows to let the sunlight in, like Shane Hollanders exhibitionist cottage.

He wanted Shane most of all. Not 3-4 times a year, for a couple of hours each, because really, they’d spent less than a week together if you did the maths. No, he wanted Shane, in his (their) home, forever and ever. He wanted to wake up in bed with him every morning, to roll over and count his freckles, so when Shane got a new one, he knew it immediately. He wanted to use so much lube, they had to buy one of those 100-gallon storage tubs of it, keep it hidden in the garage. He wanted to play on the same team, if he was honest about it, and he was trying to be honest- he wanted the magic of All-stars, but he didn’t want to give up the C or the Raiders, his brothers, so he wanted to have a cock good enough to seduce Shane from the Metros, and he wanted Shane on his wing.

He looked into his current future and saw only darkness- 10 more years until he retired, maybe more, and maybe him and Shane wouldn’t make it to then, even if they did agree to wait for each other. What was he supposed to do then? He’d kill himself. What a waste. What a sad life.

And he couldn’t stop thinking about it, going around and around in circles in his brain, how he wanted to be himself, faggy little Ilya, who wore adidas and also maybe mesh crop tops (maybe with an ear piercing? He’d always wanted one), and danced in gay clubs and made friends with nice people with coloured hair, and walked in pride parades, and held hands with a Shane-Hollander-shaped boyfriend, out in the daylight where everyone could see, and how he couldn’t do any of that while he played hockey, but he loved hockey too, loved bashing guys into the boards and spitting blood, loved the red of it, loved talking absolute shit, loved being an asshole, loved racing Shane across the ice, loved the scratching noise skates made on ice, loved his boys, loved it all, but it wouldn’t love him back unless he made it love him back.

-

He got the idea about what to do from Connors, which is a really new low for Ilyusha.

Americans talked in movie quotes, which was really annoying when you spent your childhood getting your ripoff VHSs from a guy on the street called Anton, dubbed over by his friends in his basement. All the characters sounded like 50-year-old men who were chain-smokers, even the girls. Ilya had first heard the Beatles on his mamas’ record player, but the record had once been an x-ray, an anonymous mans’ ribs splashed over the front. He couldn’t understand the words, not because his English was bad (it was), but because the quality was so terrible it was completely intelligible. Ilya watched a lot of movies on airplanes, but he feels like every five minutes someone is going “woah dude, you’ve never seen-“ and then the entire team is piling into Ilyas’ house for a movie night.

So when Connor said, “okay Sportacus” about Williams showing off he could do a flip, Ilya very carefully did not make a confused face, because he didn’t know who the fuck sporty cuss was.

It didn’t matter, Connors still said to the international boys, “wait, do you guy have Lazytown? My niece loves that shit.”

Dubek and Ilya said no what the fuck Connors, Linny said yes of course, Latibær is from my country, you stupid Amerisk, so Dubek and Ilya (and Linny still, for some reason) ended up crowded around Connors’ phone, watching a man do a lot of very impressive flips in the stupidest costume imaginable.

”Seems weird, to name a character after cussing, if it is for children,” said Ilya.

”No dude, it’s like Spartacus, yknow, I Am Spartacus?” at which point Ilya had to admit that no, he did not know I Am Spartacus, and the locker room erupted in outrage like Ilya had admitted to fucking Commissioner Crowell on live TV, and then everyone followed Ilya home like lost puppies, and drank all his beer, and threw popcorn everywhere, and made him watch a very sad story about a guy in Ancient Rome.

He was brave, Spartacus. Braver than Ilya. But it was the end that caught his attention; nobody let him stand alone.

-

What do you want, Ilyushka? Said Svetlana, that night in Moscow. What do you want? How are you going to get it? What do you want?

He couldn’t risk being fired. He couldn’t risk not getting another work visa, because he had to get American citizenship, could never go back to Russia. But he wanted to be able to come out. So- he had to force the leagues hand. Spartacus. They could not punish one man, if one man was ten, standing together. They had to stand together. He just needed to find the other people who would do it with him.

-

He texted Shane, “I am going to come out to the Raiders, I think”, which maybe is a little weird of him, because his last message was half a dozen neat tongue emojis, because Shane said, “I’m fucking hungry” after a grueling game that nobody had enjoyed, ending 1-0 Montreal in overtime. He’d arrived at Ilyas’ place with enough Thai food for both of them, which had softened the blow but. Yeah. It’s usually Shane who said the serious shit, and Ilya who turned it dirty for fun (and so he can imagine those blossoming red cheeks).

-

He called a meeting, him and LaClaire, and Marina from HR, and Julius from the union, and he went to one of the conference rooms he’d never been to, and sat down at a boring glass table, wearing a suit like he was going to a fucking interview, why the fuck did you do that Ilyushenka, you dumb fuck-

”I am bisexual” he said to them, before Marina had even closed the door behind her, “I want- I’m going to come out to the team. You cannot stop me. I am just giving you a heads up.”

”Fuck, son” said LaClaire, “we thought there was a fucking sex tape, don’t do this to us.”

”Are you sure?” said Julius from the union, who had a gay flag in his mug in his office, “that’s a huge step.”

”Yes.” Said Ilya, “and I want to come out to the league- soon. Later. I don’t know when, yet, but eventually.”

”Okay.” Said LaClaire. “Fuck, okay Ilya.”

-

-

”Listen up, motherfuckers!” said Ilya loudly, as he stood up on one of the benches after they thoroughly thrashed Carolina, which, of course they did, it’s Carolina. “I have veryyy big announcement!”

Everyone was already looking up, paused in the process of removing all their gear, because Ilya didn’t do this. He did his pre-game speech, they did MVP directly after the game, and then they either drowned their sorrows together or they celebrated their wins together. He’d do post-game break-downs later in the week. He didn’t make a post-game speech, who the fuck would. (Hollander. Hollander was the one who does a little post-game talk with his boys, but Hollander’s both a mother hen and a nerd).

”I am bisexual” he said, “I like cock as well as pussy. I do not like your cocks, because I have fucking standards, and you are all ugly as shit. If you have issue about this, I will beat you to death and make sure they trade you to Toronto.”

”Jesus, Roz” said Marley, rubbing a hand down his face.

”You have issue, Marley?” said Ilya.

”Fuck no, Roz, you know me” which was the problem, he did know Marley. He’s a good guy, a good friend, but he said things, on the ice- everyone did, which meant Ilya hadn’t been able to count on anyone being cool. Oregan was staring at him with the intensity of a dog seeing a rabbit, which either meant there were two queer players on the Raiders, or that Oregan wanted to kill him.

”We should probably stop saying faggot, huh” said Connors.

”Probably” agreed Ilya, who really didn’t care personally, but if he wanted to build a NHL for queer people- “and cock-sucker, and sissy.”

”We just have to come up with better chirps” said Dubak, shrugging.

”Can we still say bitch?” said Williams.

”Probably not.” Said Linny, “but that’s because we should respect women, not because of the gays.”

After some debate, they decided that cunt was probably still okay, because the Australians said all the time, but that pussy was out, because it was demeaning to women, and they all loved women, hooray! Even Ilya, who liked dick too, but loved tits most.

”That’s my boys” said Ilya proudly, “now let’s go get fucking wasted, this was fucking embarrassing.”

He’d noticed the ones who said nothing, who looked at each other, who shifted uncomfortably in their seats, but there was nothing he could do about it now. Either they’d bring it up, and he’d beat them back down, or they’d keep quiet. He’d kept the majority of the room, which was the thing he’d been worried about. It was okay.

-