Archive of Our Own

November, 2016

Ilya doesn’t have a brain that works. He knows this about himself. Things just- go away. One minute, there, the next- poof! Gone, and it’s like the thought never existed. It’s hard to focus. Trying to remember is like trying to keep water in his hands- the majority will always slip away, and he’ll be left with droplets. He hires people to do his weekly grocery shopping, and it’s not just because he’s a rich asshole or because he doesn’t have the time (although both are true). He always leaves the store and realises he’s forgotten ten different things and has to choose between going without or going back. If something isn’t directly in his line of sight, he struggles to remember it exists.

Ilya, who is a little paranoid and thinks about CTE on average once a day, and Alzheimer’s on average five times a minute, should probably be freaking about this more, but he’s always been like this. If he is unlucky enough to be the youngest person ever to have CTE due to having been dropped on his head as a baby, he would prefer not to know it. Same for Alzheimer’s, thank you. Denial, it turns out, is a family trait, and the river flows through Mother Russia.

Ilya is lazy, his father said, his teachers said, his brother said. Half of him is glad his mama did not live long enough to call him lazy too. Only half though. He’d prefer her alive, even if she beat him every day for being stupid.

Hockey, luckily, is easy, because he doesn’t have to think, when he’s on the ice. It’s pure instinct.

And the thing with Shane Hollander is exact the opposite. Ilya could not forget him if he tried. Ilya thinks about him all the time. Ilya will go for a run and he’ll think- what would running with Shane be like? Would he peaceably keep pace? Race him? Would he go slow to appreciate the trees and the ducks on the ponds? Would he stop with Ilya afterwards, ignore sweat dripping down his spine to feed them (seed, because bread is bad for them, from one of the free dispensers by the pond)?

It’s a little inconvenient, actually.

But it’s Shane who makes Ilya go- ah, shit. He’s forgotten something important again.

-

-

Yeah, Ilya knows he’s fucked up. He knows he can’t just run into shit blindly like this- and it’s not true that he didn’t think about it, actually, because he did, is the stupid thing. Months ago, he thought “Oh, Ivan will not like me being a cocksucker.” And then a few months later he thought, “I should plan for that” and he made a mental note to do it later, and now it is later, and he forgot Ivan even existed. So. It’s easier to say, “oh I didn’t think of it”, than “yes, Shane, I thought about it, and then forgot, even though I said this time it was important and I wouldn’t”. He always thinks- I should look before a leap, and then he finds himself hurtling over a cliff.

And it’s- frustrating. He’s frustrated with himself. He’s trying to be a goddamn fucking adult, plan this whole thing out, be responsible. He has Scott Hunter blowing up his phone almost every fucking day and Eric Bennet blowing his phone up every other fucking day.

Oregano keeps sending him significant looks across the locker room, because apparently that one time Ilya kissed him for scoring a fucking beautiful goalie goal was his big gay awakening, and he wants to talk about it, and to tell Ilya all about his boyfriend who’s back in Vermont (but planning to move to Boston next year!). He’s like a puppy, silently begging for Ilya to scratch him behind his ears. Normally he would be very happy to talk dick with his teammate, ecstatic, even, but he’s a little stressed, and Oregan needs to learn how to chill the fuck out. The only reason the rest of the boys haven’t picked up on anything is because they’re all too busy falling over themselves to reassure Ilya that sucking cock is cool. As if Ilya doesn’t know that. Sucking cock is the coolest, and they don’t even know whose cock he’s sucking. They would lose their tiny minds, if Shane ever lets Ilya tell them.

Hunter, Bennet, Oregan, all of them are saying; what is the plan, Rozanov? Have you figured it out yet, Rozanov? As if he isn’t trying. As if he isn’t working on it. He’s trying to set it down, A to B to C, but he’s barely even started and it turns out he’s jumped from D to I, and F is suddenly a problem.

He can’t even get his own ducks in order. His metaphorical ducks are shitting all over his metaphorical front lawn. What a shamble. What a goddamn mess.

Maybe Ilya is more than a little stressed.

-

Connors sends the Raiders’ group chat a video of Putin, edited to make him say he is gay, gay, gay and likes long big cocks, with backing music and little guys dancing. He thinks it’s supposed to be a message of support. It’s pretty funny. So. That cheers Ilya up a little bit.

-

He gets a new agent. He chooses her from the list Shane sends him because she puts her pronouns in her email signature, which hopefully means she’s cool with Ilya being queer. Her name is Mimi Van Horn, and she’s a black woman, very tall, with long straight hair.

He knows from Svetlanas’ teenager years that it’s a long process to get straight hair, with a lot of chemicals. He used to go to her house all the time, and his family thought they were fucking, and yes, they did that too, but sometimes he used to go over just to perch on the edge of her bathtub while she did her hair. Her, stripped down to a pair of his boxers and a sports bra. Him, in boxers too, for solidarity. A bottle of cheap wine, from the place that didn’t ID girls if they flashed their tits, passing sips between them while she applied relaxer to her hair, his nose wrinkled at the smell- a mix of ammonia and bleach, made worse by the taste of the wine. Somehow, he misses it. She has a complex “curly girl” routine these days that she follows like gospel. She tries to convert Ilya, and despairs at his own lack of curly routine. She says she’s grateful he isn’t using dish soap anymore, but she’s always conveniently leaving almost-full bottles of curl products behind when she stays with him.

Anyway. Ilya can’t exactly ask when her wash day is so he can come hang out in her bathroom.

He wonders if Mimi Van Horn needs to do it to be taken professionally. Probably. She works as an agent, most of her clients are athletes (although Ilya is her first hockey player)- they’re not exactly the most progressive individuals, to put it mildly. He wonders whether she likes her job, likes having to keep her hair this way, or whether she’d prefer natural curls like Svetlana. He can’t exactly ask about her hair though.

It feels strange, to hire someone who isn’t Russian. Ilya feels the wrongness in the pit of his stomach, and instinct saying, no, that’s not right. You’re supposed to hire countrymen (or countrywomen), so they can send money back to their families, so the money can go into the Russian economy. To go to an American for business is a betrayal of Russia. But everything Ilya does is a betrayal of Russia these days.

On her third day working for him, Mimi Van Horn rings him. She does it on video call, which is a little weird, but maybe that’s just what Americans prefer. Ivan preferred not to be contacted at all. Ilya thought that meant he was getting on with it.

”Hello, Mr Rozanov?”

”Hi?” he says. He’d been in the middle of a workout, so he’s sweaty and gross, sitting on an exercise bike, propping the phone on the handlebar, the pedals swinging to a stop.

“I was just looking through the file left by my predecessor” she says, and there’s a little emphasis on predecessor, a little disdainful twist to her mouth. Huh.

”Mr Rozanov, did you not want to become a permanent resident? I know you still have family and ties to Russia, but I couldn’t really see a benefit to staying on your current visa, so I thought I’d check in, in case there was something I was missing.”

Huh?

”Huh?” says Ilya, intelligently.

”Only- you’ve been eligible for an EB-1A for years. Are you aware of it?”

”No” he says.

"Okay, that’s- okay. An EB-1A is a green card visa (that’s a permanent resident visa) for individuals who’ve had significant national or international fame in their chosen fields. Like in sports. You’d be a shoe in, I really don’t understand why it hasn’t come up before-“

”I think” says Ilya slowly, “my old agent was perhaps not very good.”

”No” says Ms Van Horn, equally slow, carefully, “I don’t think he was.”.

”Would I- would I be able to become a citizen, on that?”.

”Yes, of course. It would take five years, since you can’t back date it but. Yes. Give me a week to gather documents for you, but once it’s submitted it’s only a 45 day wait.”

”Okay. Thank you” he says.

”My pleasure, Mr Rozanov.”

”Ilya, please. Please call me Ilya.”

”Okay, Ilya. I’ll let you know when I’ve got everything ready.”

And with that, she’s gone, Ilya left staring at the black screen of his phone.

Huh.

He sits on the exercise bike, struck dumb by it. He won MVP in 2014- surely that would count as significant achievement. If Ivan had done his job- he wouldn’t be an American citizen, but he’d be three years into the process, instead of starting at zero. Thinking about it, he does not think it was accidental. He thinks maybe Ivan did it on purpose. He was hired by his father- so. You can put two and two together. How dare he. How dare his entire family. How dare they clip Ilyas’ wings, like he was a bird they needed to hurt to stop from flying away.

How could they not know he was a homing pigeon, who would’ve always come home to roost, as long as there was a kind word to return to? A golden goose who would’ve kept laying, as long as he was fed and sheltered? There is a sad world where his papa is alive, and he never stops sending them money, because despite it all, he tried so hard to be a good son. Maybe it is better to live in this bitter world, where his papa is dead, and Ilya is never letting a single cent of his money leave the American continent ever again (except for poor Zoya, who never asked to be born into this terrible family.).

Maybe he should be grateful his family are (were, still are, he doesn’t know what tense to use) terrible. He doesn’t know. He feels twisted up like a knot.

It takes him a long time to peel himself off the bike, his muscles stiff and cold, protesting.

-

Him and Shane are- different now, and yet still the same. They fuck in in their own houses instead of hotel rooms, but they still leave like thieves in the night, through the back entrances. Tampa lurks over them like a ghost, the way they both said, “we feel it”, but there’s something Shane wants to say to him, which Ilya knows because the words trapped behind his teeth make him look constipated. It would be a hilarious thing to tease Shane about, if it wasn’t so terrifying, so he doesn’t say anything, and tries his best to distract Shane from it. Shane says “I can’t come out, not- with you guys, I don’t know when.” and Ilya says “that’s fine” and kisses the corner of his mouth, because Ilya’s pretty sure the words Shane isn’t saying are “so we need to end this”, and he’ll do anything to make sure that doesn’t happen.

Anyway. Since Russia, they call. Not even to have phone sex, although that happens too, but just to talk. Shane is delightfully bitchy sometimes, talking shit about the Metros’.

He tells Shane about it all a few days after his phone call with Ms Van Horn, lying tummy-down on the bed, legs kicking behind him, his phone propped up on a pillow, Shane doing the same on his bed.

Svetlana had said- "I'll fucking kill him. I'll kill them all.", hissing like a cat when he'd told her.

But wonderfully awkward, Canadian Shane says "oh shit, that really sucks. I'm sorry."

Ilya had been- not wanting, exactly, but thinking he'd say something more along the times of- Ilya, you stupid fucking child, I told you, you’re so useless you can't even make sure the people you are hiring are doing their jobs. You deserve to be taken advantage of. I have been trying to tell you for weeks that you are a pathetic worm and I never want to see you again. Goodbye forever.

Or maybe he'd hoped for: Ilyushenka, my beautiful fucked up baby, you are living the worst life anyone has ever had, and that is why you want to kill yourself all the time. We will quit hockey forever, our final season will be a blaze of glory where somehow Montreal and Boston win cups simultaneously, and we will become husbands and we will be become recluses from society and you will stay home to look after our 3 children and 5 dogs, and I will shield you from the world and make sure nothing bad ever happens to you ever again.

Instead, Shane says "did you hire him yourself? When you were 18?".

And Ilya says, shamefully, "no, it was my father".

"Shit. I can't imagine not having my mom to lean on for this stuff, not to mention if she'd hired someone who deliberately fucked me over." says Shane sympathetically.

That's when Ilya remembers that despite appearances, Shane isn't actually a put-together young adult who manages his own affairs, that he too is a bit of a mess, and his mom has been his agent since he was 18. And that makes Ilya feel a bit better.

"It seems like Ms Van Horn has things under control, though?"

"Yes, she is good. Wait- if you've never hired an agent, how did you know about her?"

"I told my mom one of my friends needed new representation."

Ah. Thank you, Yuna Hollander.

"Say that your friend says thank you Mrs Hollander."

"Sure. Hey, I'm gonna read for a bit before bed, do you want to stay on call?"

Which is Shane-speak for "I'm going to put on my special sexy glasses and you're going to seduce me into sexy phone times, but I can't say that, because I'm a bit of a prude sometimes.". If he actually wanted to read before bed, he would hang up.

"Sure" says Ilya, super casually and chill, instead of yes, yes, yes.

-

He kills lots of birds with one stone, and puts Eric Bennet, Scott Hunter and Jamie O'Regan in a group chat and says you all have a similar interest in fucking men. Talk about that or something and stop bothering me, I’m busy. I will let you know when there is an update idk.. Eric says, not cool man. Scott says, Rozanov what the fuck. Oregan says, Oh hey guys, what’s up? I thought Raiders were the gayest team lol, which is why Oregano is his favourite.

your homework says Ilya, is to spread the word to any other gay men you might know. I’m not God, I don’t know everyone in the league. Pull your weight for fucks sake.

Cheers Roz. Charming as always says Scott Hunter.

-

Here is a list of men Ilya thinks might be gay, or queer, or whatever-

Ilya Rozanov (✅)

Shane Hollander (✅)

Scott Hunter (✅)

Jamie O’Regan (✅)

Eric Bennet (✅)

Troy Barrett? (Yes, but also no. Tried to kill Ilya one game when Ilya said, super casually, “you like cock, Barret?”. Cracked Ilyas’ ribs and everything. Ilyas’ definitely caught the guy checking out his ass though, so. Ilya knows what he is.)

That one guy from Sweden who plays for the Drillers (or like. From the Netherlands? Europe? See: Ilya Rozanov is not European, Russia is not Europe, thank you. He doesn’t know countries.)(they were teammates that one year at All-Stars, when it was America vs Europe. Once again, see: Ilya is not European, but since the Canadians got drafted to the American side, Ilya allowed it.)(he still can’t remember the guys’ name though. Linseed? Something like that?)(he definitely checked out Ilyas’ ass though)(Ilyas’ ass is doing a lot of the work identifying not-straight guys)

???

It’s a work in progress.

-

Ms Van Horn emails through the documents six days later, not seven.

His lips are always peeling. He doesn’t know why- they just shed every week, like clockwork. Probably dehydration. Probably his terrible diet, or his lack of good sleep, or too much coffee, or the coca-colas he’s not supposed to drink and does anyway, or the similarly forbidden energy drinks that Shane hates. He’ll kiss Ilya if he’s drunk a coke, but Ilya has to brush his teeth before he’ll let him anywhere near him after a Monster. Like cooties are real, specifically for caffeine addictions.

Anyway, before he calls Ms Van Horn, he bites his lips bloody red and raw, peeling skin caught between his teeth. He still hits call though.

”Mr Rozanov!” she says, happy-surprised, even though he said to call him Ilya. He doesn’t have the energy to correct her. A question in her tone- why are you calling me so soon? “Have you had a chance to look over everything?”

”No, sorry” he says. He’s been infected with Canada-isms, like it’s sexually transmitted. Sorry, sorry, sorry. “I had a question, about it all.”

”Go ahead” she says, and then he doesn’t say anything for so long that she says, “Mr Rozanov, are you still there?”

”If I- applied for asylum, in the US, would that affect the visa?”

Now it’s her turn to be silent.

”I’m not sure. I’ll look into it, but I expect not. Can I ask why you’re thinking about asylum?”

”I’m gay. Bisexual, actually. I want to come out but- Russia, you know.” He doesn’t know whether he needs to add anything. Russia, you know it. Famously not very good at this kind of thing.

“Okay. Wow. Thank you for telling me. Okay. For now, still fill out the form but hold off on sending it until I research a bit more.”

”Okay” he says.

”Leave it with me, Ilya.”

God bless women in suits with briefcases.

-

Shane has started staying overnights, which is as thrilling as it is terrifying. They don’t talk about it- Shane just stops leaving. Ilya is afraid that if he brings it up, the bubble will burst and Shane will realize what he’s doing, as if it were an unconscious accident each and every time. He’s still got that twist to his mouth, the one Ilya is terrified of.

Ilya’s always slept better with another breathing body in the bed, and Shane is the perfect teddy bear to cuddle. He likes more blankets than Ilya usually tolerates, but his friends earnestly tell him relationships are a study in compromise (the queer friends, not the Raiders. He doesn’t exactly talk about his relationship with the Raiders. Yet.).

The only issue is yes, Ilya has generally been trying to quit smoking, but the stress of everything has him back to smoking a pack a week. He’s been trying to hide it but- he’s not always successful.

Shane finds him on the porch, wrapped in a fluffy pink bathrobe that Svetka left behind, knee-length on her but barely midthigh on him, the morning so early the moon is still fat in the sky, the birds only just beginning to chirp. It’s the kind of cold where it’s tolerable, but sharp on the air. There’s frost on the grass. Winter’s coming. They’ll both have to nap after their practice skates later, but maybe that’s not so much of a bad thing. Ilya would like to nap with Shane.

He’s smoking, which makes Shane frown, that beloved crease from a wrinkled nose, that Ilya adores so much he looked it up once and was delighted to find out they’re called bunny lines, and he says, “I don’t understand why you like those things.”

Ilya almost starts explaining it all to Shane, addiction, and how sometimes people crave things not because they like them, or because they’re good, or worth the money, or better for you, but because they’re forbidden. The allure was once in the very act of rule breaking, for Ilya. He was 15. We all do stupid things when we’re teenagers, Shane.

But then he realizes he doesn’t need to explain the concept to the man who has already mastered it. He is the stupid thing Shane did when he was a teenager, the forbidden thing Shane craves, the thing he comes back to over and over again, even though he should know better.

He doesn’t exactly want Shane to realise that Ilya’s not good, worth the money, or better for Shane, he’s just forbidden. One time he goaded Shane into smoking a cigarette, just to try, and Shane refused to talk to reply to his texts for two months afterwards. He might never speak to Ilya ever again, if he works out what Ilya already knows.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he drops the cigarette, grinding it under the heel of his slides, and opens an arm wordlessly. Shane hunches a little to tuck himself into Ilyas’ armpit, like a baby bird under the wing of his mama. They stay like that until the cold drives them inside, Ilya coaxing hot cups of coffee out of his machine, which is older than the federation, Shane wrapping his pink-tipped fingers around his mug.

-

He starts using the products that Svetlana pointedly left behind. They’re- nice. They smell mild, so Ilya doesn’t get shit from the boys. They make his hair very shiny, and very soft. Silky. Shane evidently approves, because head massages go up by approximately 50%, something Ilya is a huge fan of. Overall, it’s a pretty positive experiment into self-care, which is something that Ilya has been oddly craving. He wants to take care of himself- isn’t that strange? He’s never wanted that before. He’s always begrudged his body. He eats his nutritionist-prepared meals with a fair amount of resentment, looks after his body with a vague reluctance. Chokes his lungs with tar, drinks energy drinks and sugary pop, because his teeth don’t matter- he’s already lost a fair amount of them, and he either won’t keep the rest long enough to get cavities, or he’ll die before it’s an issue.

Many teenagers don’t make it to professional hockey. Ilya was encouraged by his teachers to continue his studies, to stop bringing home Fs, to have a backup plan. Ilya didn’t say that Death, his constant companion, was his backup plan, because Ilya knew that would cause concern. Ilya just smiled and said, “I’m going to play hockey”, which was also true.

It’s still true. If this doesn’t work- if Ilya is kicked out of the league, despite his best efforts, if he is deported because his visa is linked to his work, and his work does not want a faggot- then Ilya will kill himself. He has a bottle of helium gas from a party store tucked in the back of his closet, that he bought his first season. He has knives in the kitchen, a wide selection of nice cars to run in his garage, rope to hang himself with, a tree in the backyard tall enough to swing from. No pills, because Ilya can’t stand them, but plenty of other ways to die.

But isn’t it all so strange? Ilya doesn’t want that to happen. He’s almost tempted to rehome the helium gas. He wants to stay here, on this broken continent, with Shane Hollander, and he wants to change, and he wants to start loving himself. He wants his hair to be soft.

Maybe he’ll quit smoking. Or maybe not. Let’s not get too hasty.

-

He fills out the visa application with Shane on the other end of the phone, glasses on, frowning at the laptop screen while he does his own work, combing over his next sponsorship contract with a fine-toothed comb. Ilya can’t even sexualise him like this, it’s so sad (okay, that’s a lie, Ilya is sexualising him so hard. Coincidentally, Ilya is hard for like. 90% of the time it takes to fill out the application. He thinks he might be pavloving himself into associating paperwork with erections.).

It’s a lot easier than doing it by himself- Ilya has always worked better with someone there, even if they’re not even helping. Maybe Ilya just likes having Shane on the other end of the call, though.

”That was nice” says Shane, shy, when they both shut their laptops and set them aside. Shane’s funny like that- he’ll unapologetically bounce on Ilyas’ cock like he’s never felt shame, but then he’ll struggle to admit he enjoyed spending time with Ilya. Ilya gets it.

”It was.” says Ilya, then, leering, “the view was very… motivating.”

”Oh?” says Shane, looking down at his phone, the glasses slipping down his nose. He pushes them back up verryyy slowly, eyes locked with Ilya.

”Strip” orders Ilya, and Shane grins like a wolf.

-

For a long time after his mother died, Ilya did not touch his hair. He did not wash it, or brush it, or cut it. He shoved his head into his helmet for practise, and the sweat matted it until it was a helmet in its own right. It was not pretty.

Then, his papa snapped. Ilya was shoved into a kitchen chair. Polina, who was just the suspiciously-soon-after-the-wifes'-tragic-death girlfriend back then (one that by all means Ilya should’ve hated, but he could not find the energy to, and even at 12 he'd known Polina was too young to blame), was the one to shave his head, and Ilya pretended his tears were from how the razor tugged his sensitive scalp, even though it didn't tug at all, because it was cutting straight through the matt. There'd been a lot of dandruff. It had been pretty gross.

His father had ordered it, but he hadn't watched. He’d locked himself in his office after Polina had put the towel around Ilyas’ shoulders. That's probably the only reason why Ilya got away with crying at all.

Anyway. Afterwards, Alexei said, sneering, “you look like you have cancer”, and so Ilya kept it shaved out of spite. Malicious compliance. He always missed patches, looked like a dog with mange. After a 2-year shaved head phase, Ilya grew it out into a truly terrible skullet, which he enjoyed with the delight of someone who knew he was tormenting everyone around him.

Occasionally he says, "I should grow the mullet back" and Svetlana says, "please dear God no, i barely survived it, I am not strong enough.". It's a shame that these days she's the only one in his life who remembers it.

His papa had dragged him to the barber before Juniors. It was one thing for Ilya to embarrass the family at home, but it was another to do it on the international stage. At the time he'd thrown a viking-style funeral for the shorn locks, crying and weeping like a widow, forcing his friends to gather around the small burning box to say a few words (Dasha with the fire extinguisher, Sasha with the marshmallows). These days he's actually very glad, because he's very sure that even with his god-like powers of seduction, he wouldn't have been able to pull young Shane Hollander with that stupid mullet.

Or maybe he would've still managed to get Shane into his bed. Shane has very strange taste sometimes.

Which is all to say: if Ilya had a dollar for every haircut his papa had forced him to get and he cried over, he'd have two, which is kind of bad.

Despite the teasing, he does not actually want the mullet back. He has seen hockey players with mullets. It is... Not good. He could pull it off but. No.

But he'd like to grow it longer, maybe. He’d like to experiment more with it. He'd like to make a meaningful decision about his body. He'd like to feel like he has more control over everything than he currently does.

-

Bennet says Price is Bisexual, but not sure about coming out, which is two blows to Ilya- one because Price is not willing to join the case, but secondly- Price? Price? Ilya played with him, one season, way back when. Poor guy is the NHL bicycle or whatever the phrase is, he barely stays with one team for more than one season, but Ilya should’ve been able to tell. What the fuck. There was another bisexual on the team and Ilya didn’t know? He didn’t catch Price checking out his ass once? That’s a pretty big blow, to be honest.

Raiders is the gayest team he replies smugly anyway. Fuck off, Price barely counted as a Raider says Bennet.

Oregano says, hey my old buddy Jimmy might be gay actually. We used to suck each other off a lot when we were both in the AHL but we both said no homo so idk. which is. A Whole other thing actually. Ilya blinks down at his phone.

Hunter says that sounds pretty gay, O’Regan. and Oregano says no because we’re both called James. He said that cancels it out? It’s basically masturbation if you’ve got the same name. and Ilya says no I agree with Hunter (🤢🤮). That’s pretty fucking gay, and then a week later Oregano says yeah apparently it was gay the whole time. Jimmy says he’s in. so they might have a guy named Jimmy from the AHL. Joy. Oregano adds him to the group chat, and then they were five.

(Jimmy ends up being from the Larvae Rockets, or whatever the Montreal AHL team is called. History repeats itself, except it’s two goalies nobody cares about who are both called James. Like history, and then the shitter history nobody really cared about, but Ilya is still glad happened. He makes fun, but it’s nice to know that two other men from Montreal and Boston found each other, briefly, even though Oregan has a boyfriend now, and apparently so does Jimmy.)

-

He doesn't know why he's thinking about hair so much except- it's about power. It's about control. It's about how you have a choice, because America loves to pretend everyone has a choice in all things, but the near-guaranteed consequences mean it isn't really a choice at all. It's about how Ms Van Horn could have natural hair, but in a conservative industry already prejudiced against her, her professional opportunities would suffer badly. It's about how Ilya is trying to make the choices that will let him live freely, but the consequences might mean his entire life is trashed by bigots in power. At least he's doing it in good company.

It's about how Ilya has always been in a bird cage. Even when he thought he was flying free, his feet were tied to a leash, like a falcon with a pair of jesses.

-

He paid nearly three thousand dollars to fast track his application, which is barely anything, and still vaguely disgusts him – he doesn’t like using his money to guarantee special treatment, it feels so wrong, and yet Ilya does it anyway, because he couldn’t stand to wait months and months.

Even fast tracked, it takes almost a month. Ilya is so pent up, his hits are harder, he’s snappish, he blocks Hunter and then unblocks him twice. Hunter doesn’t even do anything, Ilya is just annoyed that he’s now in a group chat with the man. The boys joke about a certain time in 2016 and Jane and Roz being in the doghouse again, and then they go oh shit, is Jane Doe a John Doe?, so Ilya tries to kill of his entire team through bag skates. He doesn’t consult a lawyer, but he’s pretty sure no jury would convict him if he drove the Raiders to death by exhaustion. He neither confirms nor denies though, so now every single Raider is aware that Ilyas’ Montreal girl is, in fact, a boy, and yet they think John is someone he met at a club. They’re so dumb.

Shane takes one for the team (the Raiders, that is, although Ilya would’ve probably given Worse Player In The League Hayden Pike a concussion if he hadn’t been able to fuck Shane before their game, so technically it benefits the Metros’ too) and falls repeatedly on the metaphorical sword (the sword being Ilyas’ dick) which helps for approximately 3 days, before Ilya remembers the visa.

His hair grows roughly 1cm before his visa is approved, and just like that, Ilya is one step closer to freedom. Easy. He sends Ms Mimi Van Horn a very nice fruit basket.

-

1st of June, 2017 (exactly one week before Boston Pride.)

-

”Svetlana” he says one day, a long year later, at a certain dacha belonging to Shane Hollander, “do you remember when you used to do your hair and I used to help you?”

”Help me?” she says, fake outraged, “you drank all my wine and heckled me, I don’t remember any helping, Ilya.”

”I was moral support!”

”You were my own personal jester, more like. Yes, I remember.”

”Do you- I mean. Why did you straighten it?”

The other end of the line is silent.

”Why are you asking, Ilya?”

”I don’t know. I want to understand, I guess.”

”You want to understand. Sure. There are- I was the only black student in our class, in our school; did you realise that? Only 0.03% in Russia, and it was a rich school. I already stood out enough. It was just- the boys didn’t like my hair, and the girls made comments if I didn’t straighten it, and it made the teachers take me seriously, and it made my dad happy.”

”I thought I liked it Ilya, but- I realized I liked the way people made me feel, when it was like that. Do you understand?”

”Yes.” He says, although he’s not really sure if he does.

”Why are you bringing this up, Ilya?”

”I miss it- not your hair, I don’t care what you do” (“thanks”, says Svetlana dryly) “but I miss hanging out”

”We hang out all the time”

”Yes, but- it’s different. We hang out, but we don’t hang out.”

”Right” says Svetlana slowly, drawing it out- rightttttt. He doesn’t know how to say- I miss living in your pocket. I miss throwing rocks at your window because I couldn’t sleep without you, like a child who couldn’t sleep without their favourite soft toy. I miss going to the uglovoy magazin at 3am with you, just because we could. I miss being in your bathroom while you did your hair, because if you’d left me outside, I’d have yowled at the locked door like a cat in heat. We have grown up into adult friends, with adult schedules, who only hang out once in a blue moon, and you do your hair behind a closed door, and I’m not there to claw it down. I like being my own person with my own life, Svetlana, but I miss us too. Am I just fucked up? Don’t you miss us too?

”I’m saying this wrong.” He says, instead of all that. “When I’m back in Boston- do you want to drink and dye my hair?”

”My favourite barbie doll” says Svetka fondly, “of course I do.”

”I bought a box from the supermarket”

”Oh, my sweet summer child. No. What colour?”

”Whatever colour you want, I just want to try something new.”

”Hot pink it is”.

”Svetlana!”

”Oh shit, the line’s breaking up, I’ll bring pink dye, goodbye Ilyusha” she says, making frantic faux-static noises into the receiver, Ilya doubling over in laughter.

-

But she brings him blue dye along with a bottle of cheap wine for “old times sake”, so she’s forgiven.

-

A few days later, he takes his new blue hair to Boston Pride with the rest of the Boston Raiders, marching in a crowd of 50,000. It’s the largest in the history of the event. He doesn’t get a mesh crop top, because there’s new Raiders’ pride merch that PR is very firm that they have to be photographed wearing. He also doesn’t get to hold Shane Hollanders hand, but Oreganos’ boyfriend Benji (formerly from Vermont, now living in Boston) is there to hold his hand, and Ilya gets to watch the poor tiny twink get buried under an entire hockey team.

So.

Every moment is the start of something better.