Chapter Text
Leaving home is never easy. Ilya knew this, people would not shut up about it on the day he got drafted. It usually started as a simple, rehearsed congratulation on being the number one draft pick – how exciting it must be for him to start this new journey of playing for the Raiders, how this will be the best time of his life that he will look back upon fondly after retirement. But sooner or later the conversation would devolve into restrained sympathy. The first few years will be lonely, they said. He'll miss home and the familiarity of Moscow. He’ll miss his family. Ilya would politely smile and nod, trying to look at least somewhat somber to signal that he understands and that it weighs as heavily on his heart as everyone assumes.
The truth was, he wouldn’t miss it at all. There was nothing to miss, really. He wouldn’t miss Moscow’s dry, dusty air that would almost turn into smog during sweltering summers. He wouldn’t miss the old and worn locker rooms of the hockey school, nor would he miss the rigorous schedule and harsh soviet-style discipline. The familiar streets of Khamovniki District, that people assumed would invoke memories of a carefree childhood, only reminded him of dark, snowy schoolday evenings, where everything seemed hopeless. He remembered being jumped by a group of boys on Pogodinskaya when he was fourteen. He didn’t remember his mother teaching him how to ride a bike at the playground next to their apartment complex when he was five years old. Or at least he pretended he didn’t. Sometimes the good memories are the ones that hurt the most.
He wouldn’t miss his family either. Ever since his mother passed, his household was unmoored. Less of a family and more of a group of resentful roommates who couldn’t afford to move out. His father was never a warm man, but he managed to grow even colder with age. He opted to spend more of his spare time at home, maybe hoping that his presence would ground his two sons after a tragic loss, but that only made Ilya walk on eggshells even more than before. Alexei’s angry outbursts at everyone and everything didn’t help either. Ilya often felt bitter when his teammates talked about their older brothers with a mix of reverence and admiration, as if they were the ones who made the world spin. When he met said older brothers, he saw something fond in their eyes, even if they teased their little siblings mercilessly. There was something protective in the way these older boys towered over them. In these moments, Ilya felt like he didn’t have a brother at all – just a young stranger wearing his father’s face.
Polina was a ghost. Ilya didn’t know much about her, apart from the very obvious fact that she was closer in age to him than his father. She entered their life a few months after his mother’s death and has stayed ever since. She was quiet, with chestnut brown hair and a sadness in her eyes that was way too similar to Irina’s. He doesn’t recall ever having a full conversation with her. Their interactions have been limited to awkward nods and questions about whether to expect Grigori home that night. It was easy to resent her, to view her as someone who mercilessly inserted herself into Ilya’s life and tried to replace his mother. As he matured, though, he realised that they were all living the same, shitty life. It wasn’t Polina’s fault.
Ilya’s dedication to hockey never came from the love for the sport itself, but from the life it could give him. He liked hockey, sure. He was good at it, the best, probably. Being the best meant he could have a future away from the sadness of his upbringing. A place where he could escape and forget about his father’s temper and brother’s anger, at least until the off-season.
So when his bags slammed onto the floor of his first apartment in Boston, it tasted like victory. This is what it would feel like to win the Cup, he imagined. The rush, the relief, the gentle tingling in his fingertips. I am finally here and this is really happening.
Ilya waltzed into the kitchen. His very own kitchen, with a double door fridge and a granite countertop island that was illuminated by modern, yet simple light fixtures. He could walk in here in the middle of the night, without his father appearing in the doorway to accusingly ask what he’s doing up at such an hour or going on a tirade about consistent sleep schedules being an essential part of an athlete’s routine.
The kitchen, as it was apparently common in The States, was connected to the living room. It was decently sized, containing an L-shaped gray couch, a flat-screen TV on the wall, and a small dinner table with four chairs. He immediately plopped down on the couch. It was not as plush as the couch in his father’s apartment, but he felt like he could actually relax there. No one would come out of the woodwork to berate Ilya for being lazy. Alexei wouldn’t insist he give up his spot on the couch, so that his brother could lounge around after a hard day at work, which mostly consisted of taking bribes and miscellaneous paperwork.
He moved onto the bedroom. It was small, but the floor-to-ceiling windows made it seem vast. The room only had a bed and a closet, but Ilya didn’t need more than that. He didn’t need a desk for homework anymore, or an extra dresser to keep his childhood things his father always insisted on getting rid of. While lingering in the doorway, he noticed something about the door itself — it had a lock. A bittersweet feeling washed over Ilya, as he realised that he would have benefitted from this little thing only a few weeks ago, but now it was no use for him at all.
***
As days went by, the excitement of having an apartment all to himself did not waver, but he did start missing some aspects of his old life. Not the parts that people said he would miss — god no — but he still hated proving them right, even if it was in a small way. The first thing he noticed was that the fridge wasn’t stocked. He wasn’t a fucking idiot, of course he knew that now he would have to buy all the food, but the reality of it didn’t settle in until it was eleven pm on a Thursday, and all he had left was a single instant noodle cup he bought in the airport.
Back in Moscow, food would just materialize out of thin air. When he woke up in the morning, there were always sandwiches neatly stacked on an old platter for him and his brother to grab before they headed out for the day. When he got back home from school or practice, a hot meal would be waiting for the men of the house. Most often it would be some boiled potatoes and a minced meat sauce, but sometimes it would be borscht. Those days were Ilya’s favourite — since making borscht in small quantities is pretty much unheard of, it would last for days. Borscht tasted better on the next day, anyway.
But now it was just him, his empty double door fridge, and his hungry stomach. Ilya drummed his fingers on the kitchen island countertop, thinking. It was late, but a young athlete needed something more than a cup of noodles to sustain himself. There should be a grocery store somewhere close by that is still open, right? Isn’t America known for having every establishment open 24/7 for no reason? He remembered one of the guys at the Juniors — a slightly annoying boy from Michigan with a booming voice and mousy brown hair — telling him about an after-practice tradition he and his teammates had. If they finished late in the evening, they would go to the nearest 7-Eleven to grab some sort of ice sludge drink. Ilya didn’t ask for any details at the time, because he didn’t really care, but now he almost wished he had asked if 7-Eleven had anything else, like milk or eggs.
He grabbed his jacket from the hook on the entryway and headed out. Boston was cold this time of year, he could see the mist from his breath as he exhaled, but it was nothing compared to Moscow. It wasn’t so much the difference in temperature, but the air itself. Landlocked Moscow was suffocating: the cold, dry air would seep into his lungs and he always felt like he was freezing from the inside out. Boston was nicer. It was still a metropolis with cars and construction and pollution, but it was nicer. He felt lighter here.
Finding a 7-Eleven didn’t prove to be a difficult task at all. After only five minutes of walking, he stumbled upon a red brick building proudly displaying an orange seven. He pushed on the glass panel on the door and let himself in. Ilya wasn’t the only one on a late-night grocery run, but the other customers paid him no mind. As he took in his surroundings, he realised it was definitely more of a gas station, rather than a grocery store. The shelves were mostly filled with snacks of every single variety, but that wouldn’t do. After days of eating nothing but cup noodles and chips, Ilya was hungry for real food. And so what if he didn’t actually know how to make any of the real food he yearned for?
He walked over to the fresh produce aisle. Well, refrigerated juice and pre-packaged sandwiches was as fresh as it was going to get here, it seemed. He grabbed two bottles of supposedly organic orange juice, a rather unappetizing ham sandwich, some bread (who refrigerates bread?), and a jar of peanut butter. That would have to do for now.
***
Another thing Ilya noticed, is that when he threw his clothes on the floor in the evening, they would still be in the exact same spot when he woke up. Yet again, just like with the food, he knew it was his responsibility to take care of that now. To pick his socks off the floor, to hang up his three nice shirts in the closet, and maybe fold his t-shirts while he was at it. But he was never at it, because he’s never had to be before. Now when got back from practice, he felt the heaviness of someone who had actual responsibilities, not just one of a teenager who hated coming home to his dysfunctional family. Ilya had to pay bills now and he had to do it on time without anyone reminding him. He even got a stupid calendar that he hung up on the fridge with all the important dates circled: 5th was rent, 8th was paying the water bill and sending off the water readings, because for some godforsaken reason in this building each tenant had to send them directly to the provider, 9th was paying for the parking spot, which yet again, why couldn’t the landlord deal with that instead. And on top of everything else, he had to do fucking laundry.
Ilya sat on the bed next to the pile of accumulated clothes, eyeing them as if them being there was their own fault somehow. He really didn’t feel like dealing with all of this mess today. It was already not a good day: practice was shit and Alexei had called three times, screaming at Ilya for god knows what reason. But he knew he had to deal with the growing pile eventually, it was best to just get it over with. He grabbed the hefty heap of clothes and stumbled over to the washing machine. It was tucked away in a little closet right next to the bathroom.
The doors to the closet and the bathroom were nearly identical, so the first few days of living at his new place he got them mixed up often, which was frustrating, but at least now he knew for certain that he did, in fact, have a washing machine. He hastily shoved his clothes into the machine and tried to close the top, but it proved to be difficult, since it was so full. Ilya had to take out two pairs of joggers and four shirts before the lid finally slammed shut without resistance. He let out a sigh of relief as he pressed the “ON” button, but the machine didn’t start whirring, he needed to choose a cycle. This should be easy enough. There should be a button that just says “clothes”, right? This wasn’t rocket science and he was a grown man capable of figuring out a household device. Ilya studied the multiple knobs of the machine and the grey text accompanying them, however, the more he read, the more confused he became. What the fuck are delicates? What is a warm rinse supposed to do? Is he supposed to use the bedding cycle? Or would the synthetics cycle work better for every single item of clothing he owned?
Ilya dug the heels of his palms into his eyes with a groan. This was too overwhelming. This was embarrassing. For the first time in a long while, he felt like a little kid. He was away from home — whatever that even meant at this point — he had no guidance, no one to turn to, no one to ask about mundane, domestic things. He just wanted his mom. Ilya spent so much time building up a persona of carefree nonchalance, but he couldn’t do even the simplest tasks. The fact that his facade came crashing down in the privacy of his own home didn’t make it any less devastating. He really needed to get his shit together.
He almost turned back to the washing machine to try to figure out the mortifying ordeal of laundry again, when he remembered that he didn’t actually have any detergent, so it was pointless anyway. The realization came with both relief and a new wave of embarrassment. Maybe during his 7-Eleven run he should have focused on more things than food. He slowly dug his clothes from the washing machine and threw them back on the floor. Square one.
After searching химчистка на английском and dry cleaning boston on his laptop, he found a dry cleaner’s only a few minutes away from his apartment. He grabbed his duffel bag, shook all of his hockey gear onto the couch, and started shoving his dirty laundry into it instead. Cleaning up the gear from the couch would be the problem of evening Ilya, although in his heart of hearts he knew that evening Ilya was also him.
Ilya dropped the bag with his laundry in the trunk, to avoid seeing the evidence of his incompetence in the rear view mirror. As he was standing still in traffic, he found himself wondering: who was doing all of this in Moscow? The food, the cleaning, the shopping, the laundry. He can’t remember ever seeing his father or brother behind a stove or loading the washing machine, so it must have been Polina. Was she the one collecting his dirty laundry from the floor in his bedroom? Was she the one folding his clothes and putting them away, cooking all the meals, making sure their home was clean? Did she really spend all of her time picking up after the three men living in her house? He was pretty sure Polina didn’t have a job for the entire time she’s lived with them, so this was her entire life. Seven years spent doing nothing but serving people who didn’t even notice her efforts or thank her once. Years wasted on holding down the fort. God, he felt awful. He felt awful for never doing anything around the house, for never even thinking to learn. And he felt awful for not feeling awful sooner. He should really send her some flowers as a thank you, although that seemed too little as a show of gratitude.
The dry cleaner’s was a small family business, tucked away between a restaurant and a corner store. As Ilya emptied the contents of his duffel bag onto the counter, he sheepishly mentioned that he just needed to get the stuff clean, nothing fancy. The short middle aged lady with a stoic expression — who he assumed was the owner of the place — gave him a pointed look as she sorted through the fifth pair of socks in front of her. Ilya just smiled and hoped he didn’t come off as a complete jackass to this stranger. He noticed her separating his white tank tops and socks from every other, darker garment. Shit, was that something he was supposed to do at home as well? Even if that was the case, he was too embarrassed to ask.
When she got done sorting through his mound of laundry, she gave Ilya the receipt that he was supposed to bring back to her in two days, when everything was ready. Stepping out of the dry cleaners into the streets of Boston, he looked down to the yellowish paper. It had the stamp of the business and written in blue ink was: “1x Boy clothes”. Ah, well. Better get some laundry detergent for his boy clothes, he thought.