Chapter Text
Svetlana: I'm going to fucking kill you
Ilya quirks an eyebrow.
Between his nationality, his profession, his love life, and the way he generally behaves as a human being, Ilya is very used to receiving death threats. This isn't the even the first one this week.
He does worry, sometimes, what he will do if he ever runs out of clever ways to reply.
Ilya: I will still be hotter than you
Ilya: And richer
Ilya: I hope you're not plotting my murder for the inheritance because no one is getting shit from me, it's all going to my massive fucking tombstone
Ilya: And a solid gold statue of me
Ilya: Outside the mausoleum I will build for all my trophies
I have already sent the concept art to my law—he's halfway through typing out, when Svetlana's reply finally pops up.
Svetlana: You gave me fucking CHLAMYDIA
"What?" Ilya says, out loud.
He blinks.
He deletes his half-typed message.
Ilya: I fucking did not
Ilya: What the fuck
Svetlana responds with a photo of what is clearly a printed lab result, in English, that reads CHLAMYDIA: POSITIVE. Below it, GONORRHEA: NEGATIVE.
The photo is followed by another text message, which consists only of a single exclamation point.
"When is that from?" Ilya demands, the moment Svetlana answers her phone. "Is that from today?"
"Obviously the test is from today," Svetlana snaps. "The chlamydia is from six weeks ago when you couldn't shut the fuck up for five minutes during my movie, and I had to pause it and wear you out like some kind of fucking puppy with the zoomies."
"Well, you picked a terrible movie," Ilya reasons.
"I picked up chlamydia, you asshole."
"Not from me! What the fuck. Just because I am slutty does not mean I am infectious. Who else did you sleep with? Kyle?"
"Kyle?" Svetlana repeats. "Oh, please. Kyle wishes I would call him and accuse him of giving me chlamydia. It's only been you, and some other guy at the club—"
"Ah!"
"—back in August," Svetlana finishes, loudly. "And I didn't have this fucking green shit start coming out of my vagina until two weeks ago. Ergo. You."
"Ew," says Ilya.
"Don't ew me, it's your fault!"
"This is—what do they say in English—" Ilya gestures with his free hand. "Slut shaming. You know this word? Slut shaming, you are slut shaming me. My dick is perfectly healthy. No green shit."
Svetlana lets out a noise of disgust. "Your dick wasn't what was inside me, idiot. Remember?"
Ilya, who had been pulling at the band of his sweatpants just to make one hundred percent sure about said green shit, pauses at this. "…Are you saying I have mouth-chlamydia? Tongue-chlamydia?"
"I am saying that I definitely didn't have chlamydia when I checked back in June, and then you ate me out, and now I've got to wear a stupid pad in my underwear because I've got this fucking green pea soup oozing out of my—"
"SVETLANA."
"It is copious, Ilya. Copious."
"I do not want to know this," Ilya complains.
"And it smells."
"Sveta, please!"
"It's the least you and your chlamydia whore mouth deserve," Svetlana says mercilessly.
"I do not have chlamydia whore mouth!" Ilya protests. "I am sorry you have chlamydia whore vagina, but it is not from me. I am clean."
"Guilty until proven innocent," Svetlana replies.
"You are going to owe me," Ilya says, "the biggest fucking apology."
The doctor frowns. "Well, usually, one test is sufficient for most patients. If the genitalia testing returns—"
"No," Ilya interrupts. "I want both. Mouth and dick. I need to know one hundred percent sure that there is no infections."
After a pause, the doctor shrugs one shoulder and says, "All right. We can do both. And we should probably run the rest of the STD panel as well, while you're here—unless you've had other testing in the last few months?"
"I want most accurate test possible," Ilya says, because he isn't exactly sure when he'd last been tested for STDs but has a sneaking suspicion the answer won't thrill the doctor today.
He's, like, fifty percent sure that it was part of his annual team physical.
Forty percent.
"Of course, of course," the doctor agrees, as she scribbles on a clipboard. "We can do that."
"I will pay extra," Ilya adds. "Any cost. Maybe can have letter, too, saying this is most accurate test, no chance it is wrong?"
"There's always a chance the test is wrong," the doctor says, looking up with a raised eyebrow. "But we can get the odds down to about one in a thousand with the right swab. It's the best test on the market."
Ilya nods. "Okay, yes. Good."
One in a thousand odds, times two swabs, is… two in two thousand. This is basically zero. Svetlana will owe him so very, very many tequila shots.
"Also," the doctor continues, "if you're really wanting the most accurate swab—"
"Yes, yes, most accurate possible," Ilya agrees quickly.
"Right. Well, usually we test for chlamydia and gonorrhea in men via a urine sample," the doctor continues patiently.
Ilya nods.
"But if you want the most accurate, then—well, it doesn't matter for oral testing, that's just a throat swab—but for genital testing, there's some good data to say that in men, a urethral swab is one to two percent more accurate than a urine sample."
"Ur-ee-dral," Ilya repeats slowly.
The doctor nods. At her patient's continued blank stare she adds, a touch sympathetically, "That's the pee hole."
Pee hole?
"It goes up—"
"Up?" Ilya squawks.
The doctor nods. "Yes, up. But only about this far."
Her thumb and her forefinger are terrifyingly far apart.
Ilya could fit a whole hockey puck in there.
"Oh, only that far," Ilya says faintly. "Okay then."
The doctor quirks a smile at him. "Like I said, we can do a urine test instead, if you want. It's only one or two percent less sensitive than the urethral swab."
Ilya swallows.
He grips the edge of the exam table, compressing the foam right down to the metal frame, and thinks of how sweet the vindication will be when he gets to send that photo of his results. The apologies Svetlana will owe him. He will bring this up for years.
"No," Ilya says, with stalwart heroism. "Is okay. You can do pee hole swab."
They're between early morning practice and late morning weights when Ilya opens his phone to find an email from his manager, a handful of Snaps from people he doesn't care about, a text from his housekeeper, three texts from Jane, zero texts from Svetlana, and a voicemail.
Ilya listens to the voicemail, because it's a Boston area code and so he assumes it'll be about the giant television Best Buy is supposed to install in his living room this afternoon.
He is wrong.
He responds to the clinic's voicemail, then, in the middle of the locker room, because he assumes there will be quite a lot of victorious crowing to do over his lab results.
He is wrong again.
The Americans have some sort of saying about this, don't they?
"Both?" Ilya demands, loud enough to make several heads turn in his direction.
Shit.
"Yes, Mr. Rozanov, unfortunately both of the swabs did return positive for chlamydia," the clinic worker says into his ear, with dry sympathy. "The good news, though, is that the rest of your testing came back negative, including the HIV, herpes—"
"S'cuse me, s'cuse me, sorry," Ilya is mumbling as he ducks and dances his way upstream the river of coaches and trainers who are entering the locker room just as Ilya is fleeing. He scans frantically for an empty room off the hallway.
"—syphilis, and hepatitis B," the clinic worker drones on. "You also tested negative for—"
Ilya ducks into a blessedly abandoned equipment room, and slams the door shut behind himself.
"—and trichomonas," the clinic worker finishes.
Ilya clutches at his phone. "Okay, okay, go back—I have chlamydia?"
"Yes, sir." A beat. "I'm sorry, sir. I know this can be a very distressing diagnosis to receive."
"But," says Ilya. "But I don't have any symptoms!"
"That's actually very common," the clinic worker informs him. "Only about half of all men who get chlamydia will develop symptoms—it's why we encourage regular testing if you're sexually active."
"Maybe. Maybe swabs are wrong? Or this is lab mistake? Another person's test?" Ilya tries.
"That's unlikely."
Yes, they had done two separate swabs, from two different areas of his body, and both have come up with chlamydia.
Fuck.
Fucking fuck.
"Okay," says Ilya, who is trying very hard not to think about the text he's going to have to send to Svetlana. And… other people. "Okay, so. Is chlamydia. What now? Antibiotics, yes?"
Yes, antibiotics. He is assured that chlamydia is very treatable, there is an antibiotic he will take twice a day for seven days, he is not to have sex while he is taking it, it will be called into the pharmacy today, he can start it at any time, and is there anyone else that Ilya would like a prescription for?
"…Ah," says Ilya.
"We would need a first and last name, as well as a date of birth," the clinic worker says.
"Right," says Ilya.
A beat.
"Alternatively, I can send you a double supply, and you can just pass on half the pills to your partner?"
"Is… more than one partner," Ilya says.
"Two, then? Three?"
Ilya does some rapid estimations. "How far back, you think? The last two months? Three months?"
"Anyone you've been in sexual contact with in the last year, is what we recommend, if you don't have any other recent negative testing," the clinic worker supplies. "I don't see any prior lab results in your medical record here, but I can only see testing within our own system..."
"You said everyone I had sex with, from the past year?" Ilya repeats.
He does more math.
"Or as I said, if you had known recent negative testing—"
"I think, maybe forty," Ilya decides.
A pause.
"Forty people?"
Ilya tips his head. "Yes. About that. Less than fifty, for sure."
"I see," says the clinic worker.
"You think Walgreens will have big enough bottle?" Ilya asks.
"…Let me give you the number for the health department," says the clinic worker.
Ilya: I have chlamydia whore mouth :(
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Invitation: Your Murder
Svetlana has invited you to Your Murder
When
October 5th 2016 8:00 pm - 11:00 pm Eastern Standard Time
Guests
Svetlana Vetrova - Organizer
[email protected]
Ilya Rozanov
[email protected]
Reply
Yes || No || Maybe
To: [email protected]
From: Amazon.com <[email protected]>
Subject: Your Amazon.com order #113-8791689-2393001
Hello Ilya,
Thank you for shopping with us. We'll send a confirmation when your item ships.
Details
Satin Dams® Box of 100 Assorted Latex Oral Dams | Grape, Strawberry, Vanilla and Spearmint Scented Dental Dams | Bulk Hermetically Sealed Dams | Quantity 5
Arriving: Monday October 3rd
Ship to:
Svetlana Vetrova
3145 India Row, Apt 1276
Boston, MA 02110
View or manage order
The Boston Public Health Commission is going to receive a very generous donation when this is all over. Somehow. The nice lady on the phone had said that as a government organization they are not actually allowed to accept financial gifts from private citizens, but Ilya is Russian. He knows better. Of course this is what the government employee must say over the phone at first. He will take care of it.
For now, though, he needs to compile a list of everyone he has slept with in the last year.
The lady had told him that while the names and phone numbers of his partners were preferable, they can also work with Instagram accounts, Snapchat handles, even photographs—anything Ilya can provide, and they will do the detective work from there. She had also promised that all his partners would be notified anonymously, which significantly decreases the odds that Ilya is going to have his latest plight plastered all over Twitter.
So, tonight, Ilya sits down with his phone and his laptop and begins to type out a list.
He scrolls through his DMs, and diligently copies over names.
He thumbs through texts.
He reads through old threads with Svetlana, and Marleau, and Anton, and anyone else he might have gone clubbing with last year.
Ilya then stares at the compiled list of names and handles on his Google doc, some thirty minutes later, watching the cursor blink and blink and blink—and then he opens Tinder on his phone and goes to re-read his messages. He turns to Twitter, and WhatsApp, and even fucking Facebook. He combs through everything, far and wide, for the last twelve months, looking for even a hint of a memory of a forgotten hookup.
And in the end, there are—
Nine.
There are nine people on the list.
How has he only hooked up with nine people in the last year?
Ilya goes out every weekend! He drinks! He parties! He is the most famous, most sexy hockey player in America. He buys condoms in bulk, and his housekeeper has a Found Thong protocol, and he knows the club back alleys of Boston like the ridges of his mouth guard, and his favorite local delicacy to sample during roadies are vaginas.
But are they, anymore?
Do they?
…Does he?
Nine people.
NINE.
"Eleven," Ilya mutters to himself in the shower, scrubbing his armpits. "Technically, it's eleven."
(But for two very different and obvious reasons, Ilya is not about to add Hollander or Svetlana to his list for the BPHC.)
It's probably old age sneaking up on him.
That's probably it.
Twenty five must be the start of middle age.
Dear god, he's peaked and he's now passing his sexual prime. It's over. The decline into senility has begun. His youth is spent.
"Listen," Ilya says, as he fishes out a vitamin D tablet. "This last spring, at Venu, there was puck bunny there. Alanna. You told me not to fuck her."
"Yeah?" says Anton. "I mean, I don't remember it specifically, but I definitely would have told you not to fuck Alanna."
Ilya replaces the bottle of vitamin D, and reaches for the prescription bottle of ondansetron instead. "Yes, okay. Why not?"
"Why not?"
"Yes, why not," Ilya repeats. He adds another tablet to his pile. "You told me, before, but music was very loud and I was maybe a little drunk."
"Bro. Wait, wait wait, bro I remember this night—it was after that Denver game—dude, tell me you did not sleep with her anyway."
"Answer the question, Anton," Ilya grits out.
"I fucking warned you!"
Ilya tips a doxycycline tablet into the palm of his hand. "You fucking did not."
"Dude, I totally did, I remember this! I told you! Everyone knows she's got fuckin'—gonorrhea or some shit. Chlamydia. I don't know. She refuses to get treated for it. She got Harley and Clutch back in February, and Pullman at Christmas."
"You did not fucking say she had chlamydia."
Anton audibly chokes on a laugh. "Bro. Are you saying—"
"You think I would sleep with woman if you tell me she has chlamydia?"
"So you didn't sleep with her?"
"Of course I slept with her!"
"Man, I definitely warned you, I said 'Bro you don't want to tap that, she's got the clap', and you said 'Some of us like that in a woman, Anton' and I was like oooookay man you do you but—"
"'Clap'?" Ilya demands. "'Clap', what is 'clap'? This is nickname for chlamydia?"
"Yes!"
"You think I know this?"
"Well, yeah, when you said 'Some of us like that in a woman', and not 'Hey Anton I don't know that word, what does it mean'—"
"Fuck you," Ilya announces.
He does, hazily, remember hearing Anton say 'the clap' and thinking about the weather terminology unit of his English 7 class, and how in English clap can mean applause, or a loud boom of thunder, and then he had thought about in English how they are called 'thunder thighs', and how nice it is to have his head buried between two soft, full, warm thighs, and—
"Clap is fucking stupid nickname," Ilya says.
"Yeah. Congrats on the chlamydia, I guess?"
"Fuck you," Ilya says again, and hangs up on him.
He stares at the last unopened bottle on the counter (NatureMade For Him 50+ Multivitamin) and then, with a weighty exhale, he starts to peel the safety plastic off the cap.
Jane: Are you even alive?
Jane: Not that I care.
Jane: Only I'd hate to have to faceoff with Stevens for the rest of the season.
The next morning, Ilya is one of the last to arrive at practice, having had to turn around and go back to take his stupid morning dose of stupid doxycycline. He stomps into the locker room, gym bag over one shoulder and protein shake in hand, and not thinking about the conversation he's going to need to have with Hollander tonight.
"Eyyyyyyyyyyyy!"
Ilya's head snaps up.
"Eyyyyyyyyy—"
"Eyyyy—"
"EYYYYYYY!" Anton, with finger guns, the loudest of them all.
"Welcome to the fuckin' club!" Harley says, slinging an arm over Ilya's shoulders and bodying him into a locker.
"Sucks, dude," says Pullman.
"Happens to the best of us," says Clutch.
"What club are they talking about?" one of the rookies whispers to Marleau, from the other end of the bench, not quietly enough.
"The I Fucking Kill You Club," Ilya snarls, shoving Harley off of him and stalking off to his locker, ignoring the hooting laughter and confused rookie murmurs he leaves in his wake.
Svetlana: Did you send me FIVE. HUNDRED. DENTAL. DAMS????
Ilya: So you know how you complain always I don't get you anything?
Jane: What?
Jane: No.
Jane: I don't need you to get me anything. I make more money than you do.
Ilya: Unfortunately is not returnable gift
Jane: ??
Jane: Are you talking about your dick?
Ilya: No
Ilya: Well
Ilya: Yes but not like that
Jane: And you say I'm bad at sexting.
Ilya: This is not sexting! This is serious conversation
Jane: Right.
Jane: Which you decided to open with a dick joke.
Ilya: All I talked about was gifts, you are the one bringing up my dick
Ilya: Is habit I guess
Jane: Fuck off.
Ilya: Is compliment <3
Jane: Are you watching this Nomads @ Drillers game? Lemaire's a disaster tonight.
Ilya: I don't need to watch game to know this
Ilya: That man makes glaciers look like sonic jets
Jane: He's always been slower but his technique is usually great. Just flubbed his third pass in a row.
Ilya: His winger had injury recently, yes?
Ilya: Left arm?
Jane: You're thinking of Dryden. He's second line this year
Ilya: No no omelet
Ilya: ouimet
Ilya: https://thehockeynews.com/news/latest-news/ouimet-leaves-peaks-game-with-two-minutes-to-spare
Ilya: Listen we are not on the track
Jane: I must have missed that.
Jane: Looks like their official report was no actual injury to his arm, though.
Jane: You think it's Ouimet that's giving bad passes? I haven't noticed anything off with him tonight.
Ilya: Forget hockey game
Jane: So we can talk about your dick again?
Ilya: There is something you need to know
Jane: Because seriously I'm at Hayden's.
Jane: Holding a BABY.
Ilya: Fuck
Ilya: Why
Jane: He's my godson?
Ilya: You are so annoying
Ilya: Fine
Ilya: Text me when you are home, I tell you then
Hollander calls him.
Hollander never calls him. Ilya never calls Hollander. They text, they sext (well, Ilya sexts), they assault each other with deeply casual nudes on SnapChat (okay this is also just Ilya)—but they don't call.
Every day, this stupid STD forges new mountains of chaos for him to traverse.
"Hollander," Ilya says.
"Are you kidding me?" Hollander demands.
"I just told you. Three seconds ago. Is not a joke," Ilya replies.
"Chlamydia?" Ilya has never heard Hollander's voice reach such heights in the absence of a cock. "You have chlamydia?"
"I did not get it on purpose," Ilya complains.
"No, you just have sex with literally every single fucking girl you come across," Hollander says.
"Is not every girl."
Hollander lets out a noise of disbelief.
"Only the hot ones," Ilya explains.
"You are so fucking—ugh—" Hollander blows out a breath. "Shit. It was only a matter of time, wasn't it? Of course you fucking—shit. Shit, I need to go get tested."
"If it helps," Ilya says, knowing it won't, "you are definitely hottest girl I fuck."
"This isn't fucking funny, Rozanov!" Hollander shrills. "Jesus Christ, I—I could have chlamydia!"
"Yes," Ilya agrees.
"I have a game in two days!"
"Is chlamydia, Hollander, not tuberculosis. I think you will play just fine."
"Any infection can affect your playing, asshole, it absolutely—oh my god. I have a game in two days. Oh my god, you googled this already, right?"
"Did I google," clarifies Ilya, "how chlamydia infection affects ability to play hockey?"
"Yeah."
"No."
There is a rustle and a click. Speakerphone. "I'm looking it up."
"Hollander," Ilya says.
"Shut up," Hollander says.
Ilya rolls his eyes, and waits.
And waits.
"Okay, okay, listen—fuck—'While chlamydia primarily affects the genitourinary tract'," Hollander reads, panicked and overloud, "it still produces a systemic inflammatory response that can result in fatigue, malaise and fevers—'"
"How many websites do you have to click on to find this?"
"It says it can cause pneumonia! Fuck, Rozanov, I can't get pneumonia, I can't—"
"Hollander."
"—I could have lung scarring—"
"Hollander. Breathe."
"Fuck you," breathes Hollander.
"You do not have pneumonia."
"I could. I might."
"You don't."
"Oh my god last time I sucked you off in the shower and you didn't fucking warn me—"
"That was eight weeks ago, Hollander. I think if you were going to get pneumonia from choking on my dick, you would already be in hospital, yes?"
"…Maybe," Hollander mutters, audibly annoyed that Ilya is ruining his delusions of tragedy.
This is, truly, a thankless relationship.
"You might not even have infection at all," Ilya points out, because he is apparently the patron saint of catastrophizing hockey captains tonight. "We use condoms, no? This is why we use condoms."
"Not for oral," Hollanders counters, with petulance. "And like. Um. The other oral."
"Oh, yes, so sorry I do not wear condom when giving rimjob."
"Fuck you," Hollander replies.
"Not until I finish my antibiotics, moy malenkiy chaynik."
Hollander groans. "Fuck. I need to go get tested."
"Yes," Ilya agrees.
"I hate you so much right now."
"I will cry many tears into my pillow tonight."
"Fuck off," Hollander says.
Ilya manfully refrains from terrorizing Hollander with the knowledge of what a urethral swab is. He will find out soon enough.
"Okay," Hollander adds, eventually. "Um. Good night. Rozanov."
There is a pause.
"Good night to you too?" Ilya tries.
"Yeah," Hollander says. "You too. Good night. Um. Bye."
The call ends.
Ilya rolls his eyes, and tosses his phone onto the couch cushion beside him. "Fucking weirdo," he grumbles.
He lays in bed that night, phone propped on his sternum, staring at the list of names he'd already relayed to the nice lady at the BPHC. He's not reading them. The nine names. His eyes are instead set in some middle distance, unfocused, the list a place of visual rest than an informational entity—and his thumb moves slowly up and down, preventing the screen from going dark.
No, you just have sex with literally every single fucking girl you come across.
Four days, he had waited to call Hollander.
Four nights, staring at his phone on the nightstand, with inexplicable dread gnawing at the pit of his stomach.
Fuck.
Whatever.
Ilya told him. It's done.
Jane: Rozanov I'm at the doctor.
Jane: This is so fucking embarrassing.
Jane: We are using condoms for EVERYTHING from here on out.
Jane: I'm sorry I freaked a little bit last night.
Jane: I know you didn't, like, do this on purpose.
Ilya: You knew what you were getting into when you chose to fuck a slut Hollander
Jane: [typing]
Jane: [typing]
Jane: I don't know what you want me to say to that.
Svetlana guides the Lamborghini smoothly around the next curve, and then without a word or a glance at the GPS she starts downshifting and abruptly pulls off onto a side street—turns, pulls off the road, and brings them to a stop with a perfect view of the sunset between the half-barren trees of the Blue Hill Reservation. How she knew this spot was here, Ilya does not know, and he doesn't bother to ask.
She turns to him, golden and wind-swept, and says, "Are you going to get the food, asshole, or will we starve?"
Ilya rolls his eyes, but unbuckles his seatbelt and then unwedges the insulated food carrier from between his legs, settling it carefully on his lap to unzip. His knees fall together with relief in the newly available space.
"I am enjoying my apology very much, Ilyusha" Svetlana says, with satisfaction. "Thank you."
"My pleasure," Ilya replies dryly, passing her a takeaway box, a soda, and then a fistful of napkins.
Frankly he's just glad that he was able to get away with dropping five grand on a rental, and didn't have to buy her the damned Lamborghini.
"Thank god I'm done with those pills," Svetlana groans, opening the lid to reveal a North Short 3 Way the size of her head. "The nausea was fucking awful." She glances over at Ilya. "You?"
Ilya shakes his head. "Not really. I take the medicine before I eat, and I've been okay."
"Of course the perfect Ilya Rozanov does not get side effects," Svetlana teases.
A bucket of french fries is carefully inserted between them, ahead of the gear shift, and then Ilya works on finding a place for his own sandwich, his soda, his napkins, his elbows, and also his knees.
It turns out Italian sports cars are not designed with six foot three Russians in mind.
"So," Svetlana says. "No other girls on your doorstep, seeking retribution?"
"No, all the other girls, they understand that I am an innocent victim. They do not blame me. They send me nice cards and teddy bears and balloons. 'Get Well Soon, Ilya'."
"Bullshit," says Svetlana.
Ilya shrugs a shoulder, and lifts his sandwich for the first bite.
"Did you figure out which one gave it to you in the first place?" Svetlana asks.
Ilya nods, and swallows. "Puck bunny, from this spring. Turns out she is insane. She thinks antibiotics are mind control drugs from the government and is treating her chlamydia with herbal tea instead." Ilya pauses. "Unsuccessfully." He tilts his head. "Obviously."
Svetlana turns to him, one eyebrow up. "And you slept with this girl?"
"Well, she seemed very normal during the application process, you know. Gave a good interview."
Svetlana laughs out loud.
Then, just as Ilya is biting into his sandwich again—
"So now that the horrible green pea soup isn't coming out of my vagi—"
"SVETA."
She laughs, and laughs.
Ilya scowls, and tries to scootch even an inch further away from her, but unfortunately his shoulders are still overwide for the seat by about six inches and the laws of physics have not changed in the last five minutes.
Svetlana lets him eat in peace, then, as she sets about demolishing her own sandwich.
It's a mild evening, for October, and Ilya doesn't know how she could have found a better spot for it. There are still splashes of autumn leaves in the trees, here and there, all the more vibrant for the sunset, and Ilya can hear no urban sounds except the faint rush of cars on a distant highway. A sweater and leather jacket are the perfect buffer against the cooling breeze.
Ilya is a city boy, through and through, but. He doesn't hate the countryside.
"How did Jane react?" Svetlana asks curiously.
Ilya, because he makes a living off of expertly honed reflexes, does not choke on his roast beef.
Svetlana gives him an unimpressed look. "I assume you told her."
"Of course I told her," Ilya says, after he's painfully swallowed a half-chewed bite. "I'm not a complete asshole."
Svetlana nods, and reaches for a french fry. "Is she upset?"
"No, she was overjoyed," Ilya says flatly.
Svetlana has a few more french fries.
"Are… you guys okay?" she asks, with uncharacteristic hesitation.
"She is just a girl I fuck sometimes," Ilya says shortly. "There is no—she is not my girlfriend. She's nothing."
"Okay," Svetlana says, shrugging.
The sun is, at this point, low enough that Ilya no longer needs the sunglasses. He shifts a knee, fiddles with the glove compartment until it opens, and deposits them inside. Closes it. Lets his poor leg reclaim the extra four inches of space.
"You know if she stops sleeping with you over this," Svetlana says, "she's a fucking idiot."
Ilya glances over at her. "She might. She is pretty stupid."
"She was smart enough to pick you, out of all the harlots in Boston," Svetlana replies.
Ilya gives her a wry look. "I should rent you nice cars more often."
"You absolutely fucking should," Svetlana agrees, and takes another fistful of french fries.
Ilya glances down at his half-eaten sandwich. He's not really hungry for the rest, but he takes another bite anyway.
Ilya: Hey Hollander
Ilya: Make A Wish called, they said is very nice of you to let Martel and Mckinnon actually play in a game
Ilya: Offsides? On what fucking universe??
Ilya: Yes good contest this!!!!
Ilya: Oh my god is like six replays of your left skate, you are clearly not ahead of puck
Ilya: Fucking finally
Ilya: Ok this is nice pass
Ilya: I would have deked the other way, but you managed to make work
Ilya: Enjoy victory while it lasts. Next week, I crush you
Jane: Fuck you.
Jane: Did you miss the great wall of Dinah on my left? If I'd deked that way I'd have been put straight into the boards.
Ilya: Yes, you would have, but I would not
Ilya: I have better footwork than you
Jane: You wouldn't have gotten the puck over there in the first place
Jane: You don't have the hands for that kind of run
Ilya: [typing]
Ilya: [typing]
Jane: And yeah screw that ref
Ilya: He will be out before playoffs for sure
I've got it too.
This is the text comes from Jane the next morning, as Ilya is taping his stick before warm-ups. Just four words. Ilya nevertheless understands their meaning.
His stomach flips weirdly.
He sets his phone down on the bench beside him, screen-locked but face up, and keeps an eye on it as he winds tape around the blade of his stick. Then as he tapes the knob. Then, still, as he starts pulling at the laces of his skates.
His phone is quiet
Ilya presses his phone against his thigh throughout their first team meeting, waiting to feel it buzz, and checks one last time before he heads out onto the ice just to make sure he hasn't missed any texts. He checks between warm-ups and practice, as he gulps down water. He checks after practice.
Nothing.
Whatever.
Hollander is probably just busy.
Ilya shoves his phone into his gym bag, swaggers over to Marleau's locker and says, "Hey dickface, you owe me burrito."
Ilya gets home for his afternoon break, three hours in hand before he has to return to the stadium for tonight's game, and still there are no texts from Jane. He holds his phone and stands in the middle of his living room, staring at the stupid canvas prints he'd argued with his designer about for a week—she'd wanted him to get real art for some reason—and then he blows out a breath and flops onto the couch.
Ilya: Ok, so?
Ilya: You have world's first case of lethal chlamydia?
Ilya: How long you have left to live?
Jane: Fuck you.
Ilya: Can not
Ilya: Doctor's orders ((((
Jane: They sent an antibiotic for seven days and said I'll be fine.
Ilya: Thank god, I do not have time for funeral right now
Ilya: And you probably have very strange Canadian funeral ritules
Ilya: Rituols?
Ilya: Rituals!!!!
Ilya: There will be a maple syrup involved somehow, no way you have Canadian funeral without this
Ilya: Bury you in tim hortons parking lot like honorable Canadian man you are
Ilya: All the mounties will come to salute
Ilya: Did you know they make SHIRTS?????
Ilya: https://www.etsy.com/listing/1760979259/chlamydia-survivor-shirtsarcastic
Ilya: How much I have to pay you to wear this in public
Ilya: Hollander you know with antibiotic you cannot have sex but you are still allowed to text yes?
Ilya: Or are rules different in Canada???
Jane: Don't you have a game in like 30 minutes?
Ilya: Yes but I am being very funny and you are being very bad audience
Jane: No you're being a fucking asshole.
Ilya: Hollander
Ilya: Is just chlamydia
Ilya: Relax
Jane: Fuck you.
Ilya: You will be ok I promise
Jane: Should have deked right
Ilya: Fuck off Hollander
Ilya: Are you ok today or did you wake up on bitch side of the bed again?
Jane: Trying not to barf at the airport.
Jane: I hate these pills already.
Ilya: Ah, bad timing to start right before a roadie
Jane: At least it's only to Detroit.
Ilya: Hm then Buffalo Toronto Boston
Ilya: Not bad
Jane: Yeah better than last month's. Anything more than five games in one trip should be outlawed.
Jane: Hayden is great but the farts he rips could double as fumigation.
Ilya: How are you this many years into MLH and you do not have contract clause for your own room, Hollander?
Jane: I don't know.
Jane: No one else on the team has one.
Ilya: No one else on the team is captain?
Ilya: No one else on the team is on rolex billboards??
Jane: It would be weird. Like I don't like them or something.
Ilya: I have my own rooms
Ilya: Teammates still think I am bees knees
Jane: Bees knees????????
Ilya: 🐝
Ilya: Look at his little knees
Jane: HER knees.
Ilya: ?
Jane: That's a girl bee.
Ilya: It's my bee? I say is boy bee. Actually his name is Oleg
Ilya: He is good Russian bee
Jane: That bee has a stinger, Rozanov, which obviously means it's a worker bee. All worker bees are female.
Jane: The drones are male but they don't really leave the hive, so they don't need a stinger for defense.
Jane: I mean I think technically bees don't really have a gender at all? Like they don't even have sex chromosomes, but that's how biologists refer to them anyway. To make it easier.
Ilya: Of course you know this
Jane: Yes?
Jane: It's pretty common knowledge.
Ilya: It is cute you think that
Ilya: Anyway do not be homophobic Hollander, Oleg is maybe transgender bee
Jane: Oh my god
Jane: Why are you like this
Ilya: 🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝
Ilya: 🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝
Ilya: 🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝
Ilya: 🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝
Ilya: 🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝
Ilya: 🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝
Jane: Will you STOP
Ilya: Bored
Ilya: You weren't replying ((
Jane: You're not the only person I text with you know
Ilya: Oh yes
Ilya: How many death threats you have from other women so far?
Jane: What?
Ilya: About chlamydia
Ilya: I have three!
Jane: None?
Ilya: I suppose is very early for you. Is ok мой маленький чайник, give it a one or two days for health department to make calls. They will come.
Jane: The health department??
Ilya: Do they not have this in Montreal?
Ilya: In Boston you can ask the health department to call all the women you have fucked. They tell them they should get checked for infection and they keep your name secret whole time. It is VERY GENIUS
Jane: Oh
Jane: I mean
Jane: I don't know
Jane: Montreal probably has that too
Ilya: Do not tell me you personally called your women
Jane: Okay please don't call them my women?
Jane: That's gross.
Ilya: This is more Canadian than tim hortons funeral
Ilya: Of course you called them
Ilya: Very polite, many apologies
Ilya: Oh but they will also be Canadian too so probably they apologize back to you, yes?? And then you apologize for apology. And then they apologize for apologizing for apology. Circles and circles and circles.
Ilya: Fuck probably like thirty minutes of apology circle
Ilya: I hope you did not have many women to call, it will be taking HOURS
Jane: Yeah.
Jane: I mean no.
Jane: Not that many.
Ilya: This means I win death threat competition!
Ilya: I am GREATEST
Jane: Sorry have to board now
Jane: Dude I don't know how you're doing this
What Ilya is doing, mostly, is watching Philadelphia and Pittsburgh be profoundly mediocre on ice while indulging in an idle bit of fondling himself. He'd had an invite out to the club, but Ilya had just finished his antibiotics yesterday and… he must be feeling weird about having sex so soon after getting over the chlamydia. Or something. He isn't really thinking about it. Whatever. The clubs aren't going anywhere, he can go out another night.
Ilya: Doing what?
Ilya: Being so sexy?
Ilya: Being the best hockey player in the world??
Jane: These pills.
Jane: Ugh.
Right.
Hollander probably assumes Ilya is still taking his antibiotics, because Hollander probably assumes that Ilya hadn't waited four whole days to relay the news, because Hollander is just… fucking like that.
Hollander would not have waited four days, to tell Ilya.
Hollander wouldn't have waited four hours.
Ilya: They are making you sick?
Jane: Are you not?
Jane: I haven't kept a meal down in two days.
Jane: Hayden asked if I was PREGNANT.
Ilya: Well if anyone could manage it
Ilya: You are taking the nausea pills also yes?
Jane: What nausea pills?
Ilya: Boston doctor sent me antibiotic and also pills for nausea. Long name. I don't remember. Take 30 minutes before taking antibiotic pill.
Ilya: They do not do this in Canada?
He abandons his phone to the couch in favor of the kitchen, where he opens the cupboard that contains his little hockey pharmacy. He scans over protein powder, vitamins, creatine, various painkillers and gels, and finally comes across the little orange bottle he'd tucked behind the caffeine pills.
Ondansetron
Back on the couch, there are replies awaiting.
Jane: I don't know.
Jane: I guess my doctor didn't.
Jane: Sorry I had to puke some more
Ilya: This is medication
He attaches a photo of the bottle in his hand, making sure to angle so that the entire drug name is visible—which isn't easy, given its absurd length.
Jane: I already told you they didn't send me anything
Ilya: No
Ilya: Is so you can ask for this
Jane: I'm in America I can't just go to the doctor Rozanov
Jane: Fuck
Jane: I hate this so much
Jane: Also this hotel really needs to clean behind their toilets better
Ilya is then treated to a photo from the perspective of someone on level with a toilet bowl, and indeed, the accumulation of hair and debris that peeks out from behind the toilet back.
It paints an unpleasant visual of Hollander on the bathroom floor, sweaty and pale. Alone.
Or worse, with Hayden.
Ilya: You can use black wings team doctor no? This is what they are there for Hollander
Jane: Are you joking?
Jane: I am NOT telling the black wings team doc I have CHLAMYDIA
Ilya: Oh my god you are drama queen
Ilya: Tell him you have stomach problem
Ilya: Bad chicken
Jane: I don't think they give you nausea meds for food poisoning.
Jane: Like they want you to puke up all the bad food.
Jane: Also I don't have a fever or, like, diarrhea, or anything.
Ilya groans, letting his head tip back to stare at the ceiling in despair.
Ilya: He is team doctor not CIA interrogation expert
Ilya: He will not care why you ask for a stupid nausea medicine
Jane: I don't want to risk it.
Ilya: Risk what???
Jane: I'll just wait until I'm back in Canada. It's fine. We'll be in Toronto by Wednesday.
Jane: My doctor can send the meds to a pharmacy there.
Ilya: Wednesday is three days from now?????
Ilya: Hollander. Talk to team doctor
Jane: It's not that bad.
Jane: I'll be fine.
Jane: Hayden got me some stuff from CVS that I'm going to try.
Fucking Hayden.
Ilya is going to check that man into another fucking zip code when they play next week.
What kind of idiot looks at their teammate, who has not been able to keep down food for two days, who apparently spent twenty four minutes on ice last night in this state and plans to do it again tomorrow when he will be even more underfueled and dehydrated—and thinks the solution is ginger tea and that fucking pink shit?
Also fuck Hollander's doctor for not sending him anything to help in the first place. Like a professional internationally traveling athlete can just afford to have horrible side effects for a week? Like Hollander deserves to suffer, just because Ilya Rozanov was a careless fucking idiot?
Ilya: Whatever Hollander
Ilya: Don't faint on ice tomorrow
Jane: Fuck you.
Jane: I said I'll be fine.
And most importantly, fuck Shane Hollander for being so fucking stubborn.
Ilya lays on his couch, phone held loose in one hand, and stares at his own dim reflection in the television screen.
He is thinking about the three shots on goal Hollander had taken last night, but hadn't gotten into the net. The check he'd taken from Popov that had sent him into the boards. The passes he hadn't connected. The game that everyone had expected to a shut-out but instead had almost gone into overtime, until a last-minute goal from Dagenais had secured the Metros their expected victory.
He is thinking about Shane Hollander, clammy and green on the bathroom floor, stubbornly insisting that he is fine and his idiot friend being too stupidly nice to realize that actually Hollander needs someone to be a little mean to him sometimes. Needs someone to hold their ground, rather than capitulate. Needs someone to fight with him.
He is thinking about the gender of bees, and the exhaustive number of ways in which the various brands of ginger ale can be sorted and ranked according to certain neurotic Canadian hockey captains.
His phone buzzes.
Ilya immediately swipes past his lockscreen and opens his text messages—but instead of an update from Jane, he instead finds a series of messages on one of the Raiders group chats.
Anton: Bro they've got DJ Naught you HAVE TO COME
Anton: So fuckin sick roz
Anton: Get your ass over here rn
"Fuck," says Ilya.
He hits the back button, and his eyes go to the thread preview immediately below it.
Jane
I said I'll be fine.
"Fuck," says Ilya, with more feeling, and opens up the chrome app instead.
montreal metros stay what hotel in detroit
Jane: What the fuck.
Ilya: Yes?
Ilya: Good morning to you also?
Jane: Do you want to tell my why the front desk called my room at 7 this morning to sign for a private courier package
Jane: From LILY BOSTONOVA?
Ilya: Lily Bostonov would have been wrong gender
Ilya: Duh
Jane: I fucking hate you.
Jane: What did you even send me? I'm going to be in Boston in less than a week.
Jane: This better not be anything inappropriate.
Jane: If this is one of those chlamydia shirts I will genuinely kill you.
Jane: I know you think this whole situation is hilarious but I really really don't okay.
Ilya: Maybe stop texting me and open fucking package??
Jane: I'm waiting for Hayden to go on his run.
Jane: I don't know what you needed to overnight to my hotel but I'm not opening it with an audience.
Jane: [typing]
Jane: [typing]
Jane: [typing]
Jane: Dude what
Ilya: Oh hello did you open package then?
Jane: [typing]
Jane: You know that sending prescription medication in the mail is like super illegal right?
Ilya: Funny I know my English not so good but I do not think this says thank you?
Jane: [typing]
Ilya: Thank you Ilya for sending me good medicine so I will not vomit all day long?
Ilya: Your welcome Hollander. Is no problem. I have extra I did not use.
Jane: Sorry
Jane: I mean thank you
Jane: You didn't have to do this, like at all.
Jane: It was really nice of you.
Jane: I mean really cool of you.
Ilya: Is no problem
Ilya: Need you in top shape for game next week, not weak and fainting on ice like little princess. Will make for very boring game.
Jane: Fuck you.
Jane: [typing]
Jane: Has anyone ever told you you're kind of a confusing person?
Jane: NICE high wrap on Johnson yesterday.
Jane: He's been a lot sharper this season, I think they got a new assistant goalie coach in.
Ilya: Yes he is actually awake during games this year
Ilya: Now admirals just need him to actually move around the net
Jane: Oh they just showed the fight from third period
Jane: That punch from Wajsford looked rough
Ilya: He punches like wet fish, I am fine
Jane: Aren't all fish wet?
Ilya: Only when they're alive )))))
Jane: ??
Jane: That doesn't even make sense?
Ilya is running along the Esplanade when his phone rings. He has fancy new headphones, and so a few seconds after he feels the vibration against his arm, the music abruptly cuts in favor of a mechanical voice that says Incoming call: Jane.
What.
Ilya wrestles the strap off his bicep, pulls the velcro tab, and pries his phone from the sleeve.
"…Hollander?"
"Rozanov, hi, I—shit, are you alone? Can you talk? I should have texted first, sorry, I just—um. Um, is this a good time?"
Hollander sounds panicked. Not life-or-death panicked, but normal, Hollander-panicking panicked.
Oh, good.
Ilya glances around the Esplanade, which is all but abandoned on this random October morning. "Yes, is okay." He tries to keep the what the fuck from his tone of voice, but he's still thinking it. "But I am not in good place for phone sex, if this is why you call."
"Oh my god, I did not—"
"Relax, Hollander," Ilya says, rolling his eyes. "It was joke."
"Fuck you," says Hollander.
If Ilya ever gets to make a wish on a magic lamp, he is going to ask for one hundred dollars every time Hollander says that to him. He'll never need to appease another brand deal for the rest of his life.
"Okay, okay. Tell me why you call, then," Ilya says, very nicely, instead of the six or seven other snarkier responses that present themselves.
"Um," says Hollander.
Ilya waits.
"Well," says Hollander.
A pair of joggers pass by.
On the other side of the river, Ilya can see a little tent going up and a bunch of people in action around it with tables and crates.
"Holl—"
"I think I might have given Hayden chlamydia," Hollander blurts out.
What.
"What?"
"Listen I know it's going to sound crazy—"
"Yes," agrees Ilya, most fervently.
"—but he's really particular about his compression shorts because he's got, like, really sensitive skin, and there's only a few brands that make the exact fiber blend that doesn't flare up his eczema, and last month when we were on our roadie Air Canada lost his suitcase and we had a game that night and I had a pair of the exact brand that he wears and—"
Oh Jesus Christ.
"—and none of the stores nearby had them and it was our last game so all my other ones were dirty and we didn't have time to have them washed before—"
"Hollander."
"—and you and I last had sex back in August which means I definitely had chlamydia the week he borrowed—"
"Hollander!"
"I know it sounds crazy!"
Ilya lets the silence settle for a few seconds.
"Maybe a little crazy," Ilya allows, after he has heard Hollander take several breaths of air. "But okay. So he wore your shorts. Did he wear your cup, also?"
"Ew, no," Hollander says immediately. "He got a new one from the store. It was just the base layers."
"Okay, and you wear cup, too, yes?"
"Yes, but—"
"So," Ilya says with patience, "should be fine. No?"
"Okay, number one, it's a cup, not an antimicrobial barrier," Hollander argues, because god forbid they ever have a conversation where he doesn't make Ilya's brain trip over a vocabulary word or two. "Number two, did you know that up to twenty five percent of men with chlamydia in the penis also have it in their rectum?"
"…No," says Ilya.
Huh.
"And you know that I—um." Hollander's voice goes lower. "You know. I probably had it there, too. Because."
"Yes," Ilya agrees, letting Hollander off the hook on this one. "Okay, so, what—you think you accidentally gave Hayden butt-chlamydia?"
Hollander lets out a noise like a trodden cat.
"Is this even possible?" Ilya asks. "To give someone chlamydia with your clothing?"
"…Well," says Hollander.
Ilya heaves a sigh.
"It is possible! It's unlikely, but it's still possible."
Ilya's thumbs work on his phone for a few moments. "'No, chlamydia cannot be transferred via toilet seats, clothing, or other surfaces'," he reads aloud. "'Chlamydia bacteria do not survive for long outside of the body, usually less than 30 minutes, and—'"
"Yeah, I know, I know, I read the same article, asshole."
"Okay," says Ilya. "So did you wear the shorts thirty minutes before you gave them to Hayden?"
"No, but—"
"So is fine."
"But what if it isn't?"
Ilya rolls his eyes. "Look, this is another website. 'It is important to know that you can't be infected with chlamydia through casual contact. This includes sitting on a toilet seat, sharing clothes or kitchen utensils, hugging, kissing or swimming in the same water as an infected person.'"
"Oh my god the ice baths with the trainers," Hollander moans.
"Do you even listen?" Ilya demands. "It says it cannot infect in water. Or clothing. You are okay."
"I have to tell the team," Hollander decides.
Ilya face-palms. "Do not do that."
"I have to."
"You do not."
"No, I have to, I—I—I-Ilya, I have to—"
"You are panicking," Ilya interrupts. "Stop. Stop, stop, stop. Take a deep breath."
Hollander inhales.
"Let breath out."
"Fuck you," says Hollander. "I'm not—I'm fine—"
"Take another breath," Ilya orders.
Hollander does.
He exhales audibly.
"Good," says Ilya.
"I'm not panicking," Hollander announces.
"Okay."
"I'm not."
"Okay," Ilya agrees.
Hollander hangs up.
Jane: Fuck.
Jane: Rozanov.
Jane: Jackie's pregnant.
Ilya: Who in the fuck is Jackie????
Ilya: Oh Pikes wife
Jane: Yes.
Jane: Fuck.
Jane: Chlamydia when you're pregnant is probably so bad right?
Ilya: Hollander you did not give Hayden your chlamydia
Ilya: So Hayden cannot give to Jackie
Ilya: IS OK
Jane: https://americanpregnancy.org/pregnancy/chlamydia-during-pregnancy/
Jane: Roz it can cause multiple complications including PRETERM LABOR.
Jane: Oh my god.
Jane: Shit shit shit
Ilya: You did not give Hayden chlamydia with your stupid compression shorts
Ilya: "Chlamydia bacteria do not survive for long outside of the body, usually less than 30 minutes"
Ilya: https://www.sh.uk/about-stis/chlamydia/mythsvsfacts
Jane: I know, I know, you're probably right.
Ilya: Yes me and every other website on internet
Ilya: Jesus Christ
Jane: Did you know that if a baby is born and the mom has chlamydia the baby can go BLIND????
Ilya: Hollander
Ilya: Is 2 am
Jane: I can't sleep.
Jane: What if I make their baby go blind.
Jane: Did you know that chlamydia is the leading infectious cause of blindness worldwide??
Jane: https://www.who.int/news-room/fact-sheets/detail/trachoma
Jane: Fuck you should see the pictures of these babies.
Ilya: Fine then tell Hayden
Jane: HOW
Jane: Fuck
Jane: I can't tell Hayden I might have given his wife chlamydia.
Ilya: Ok don't tell Hayden
Jane: His baby could go BLIND
Ilya: Hollander have you at all considered therapy
Jane: Fuck you this isn't fucking funny
Ilya: Sorry sorry
Ilya: Ok
Ilya: Is just
Ilya: Normally you are very rational person. You obsess on statistics for hockey. You trust numbers. Why are chlamydia numbers different?
Jane: Because.
Jane: I don't know.
Jane: You're right, I know you're right.
Jane: It's just been a hard week. I can't get my head together.
Ilya: You are still sick?
Jane: No the meds helped.
Jane: Thank you, by the way. Seriously.
Jane: I just
Jane: I don't know
Ilya: Tell me
Jane: I know it wasn't a big deal for you, the chlamydia.
Ilya: [typing]
Jane: I mean it's NOT a big deal. I know that. Like it's easily treatable and it won't make me sick and I probably didn't give it to Hayden or Jackie or the baby or anything.
Jane: But
Jane: Getting diagnosed
Jane: It just made me feel like… really stupid.
Jane: You know?
Ilya: No
Ilya: Hollander
Ilya: Listen you are not stupid
Jane: And I feel like if I was dumb enough to get chlamydia then what else am I letting slip? What else am I missing?
"Hey, it's Shane Hollander. I can't come to the phone right now, but please leave your name and—"
"You do remember I'm still sharing a room with Hayden," Hollander hisses, when he finally picks up.
Oh right.
Ilya had, in fact, forgotten.
"Hang on, hang on, let me get in the elevator," Hollander says, still harried.
"You are not stupid," Ilya repeats. He pats around his nightstand for the lamp. "Except maybe for not having private room clause in your contract. This is kind of stupid."
"Fuck you," Shane says.
In the background, there's a muffled ding.
Ilya finally finds the switch for the lamp, and his bedroom floods golden.
"You didn't need to call," Shane mutters.
"I get tired on English keyboard sometimes," Ilya replies. "Easier to just talk. You know?"
"Oh," says Hollander.
For some reason, it makes Ilya's mouth curve into a little smile.
"Are there, uh. I mean. How many letters does the Russian alphabet even have? Twenty six?" Hollander asks.
"No," Ilya says. "Is thirty three."
"Thirty three?"
"Da," says Ilya.
"Wow," says Hollander.
"Yes, is very impressive language," agrees Ilya.
"I was listening to this podcast recently about, uh, how the Chinese type?" Hollander says. "Because they don't really have an alphabet, you know, they just have like thousands of characters that represent words and concepts and stuff. And so when typewriters were invented they couldn't just use a Western keyboard with different symbols on it, like um. Like Russians. They had to come up with another solution completely."
Ilya can hear the beep of a card reader, and the swing of a door.
The lobby? The rooftop? Pool?
It's October, in Toronto, and Ilya doubts Hollander is wearing anything but a pair of slides and his pajamas. It would be just like him to panic and run outside and then freeze.
"And, like, there were all these inventions that tried to fix the problem," Hollander is telling him, cadence speeding up a bit as it always does when he starts getting excited like this. "And—and obviously they figured it out, but it's not like Western countries, it's like—because even today there isn't one standard way that the Chinese type—you can type phonetically, where each key represents a sound, or you can type by shape and build your characters line by line, or—and everyone argues over the best way—and they have typing competitions. Like, on television!"
Ilya's chest feels funny.
Heartburn, probably.
"Um. Sorry," Hollander says, while Ilya is busy propping his pillows so he can sit upright and trying to remember if he owns a bottle of Tums. "I, uh. Just thought it was interesting. I hadn't really thought about it a lot. How character-based languages work on keyboards."
"No, no, is very interesting," Ilya says at once. "You know secret about me is, I actually love Chinese typing reality TV shows? I watch right after Shark Tank."
Hollander exhales. "You're such an asshole."
There's a clang, from the other end of the line, followed by a muffled curse.
"Where are you hiding right now?" Ilya asks, wrinkling his nose.
"The, uh, hotel gym," Hollander replies. "Sorry. I banged the pull bar."
"Ah, yes, you are… what is word?" Prone to. Ilya knows the Russian but he forgets the English. "Eh. You are very often banging things in hotel gym, hm?"
"I mean I'm not usually that clums—" Hollander pauses. "Oh."
Ilya laughs out loud.
"No, I am not," Hollander says sourly. "Fuck you."
"Oh, is just certain very sexy Russian men, you are banging in hotel gyms?" Ilya teases.
There is a very loud, very pointed CLANG! from the other end of line.
"We didn't even… do that," Hollander complains, when Ilya has mostly finished cackling.
"You wanted to, though," Ilya replies.
"Shut up. I wasn't the one with the fucking—phallic water bottle between my spread legs."
"My English was not so good back then," Ilya says wickedly. "I had to make actions, not words."
"Your English was fine," Hollander retorts. "Asshole."
Ilya huffs out another laugh, and runs a fingertip over his silken sheets. They're black, which means they're sexy, except that they show every single stray hair and speck of dust and are a bitch to get come stains out of. (At least, that's what his housekeeper tells him.)
"So?" Ilya asks.
"So?" Hollander repeats. "So, you called me, dickhead."
Oh, yeah.
Ilya had.
Hm.
"Uh. Rozanov?" Hollander ventures. "Don't tell me you fucking fell asleep."
Ilya… wants to say yes. Quite badly. He wants to lay the trap for the next joke he can feel brewing. He wants to seduce. He wants to distract. He wants to just hang the fuck up and go back to sleep and not think about why he is calling Shane Hollander at two-thirty in the fucking morning ever again.
Silk bunches smoothly in the creases of his palm.
"I think—"
"What?"
Ilya sighs. "I am thinking I should say sorry. Hollander."
Silence.
"For giving you chlamydia," Ilya adds.
"Oh," says Hollander.
Ilya's left arm is draped overtop his head, allowing him to give his right ear a few good tugs. "I know I am an asshole," he says, at length. He takes in a deep breath, and rolls out his neck. "I say a lot of things. You say a lot of things. But—all that outside, I would never on purpose give you infection like this. I would not. And. I am sorry."
"Oh," says Hollander, again.
Perhaps he's more eloquent in French.
"I-I mean," Hollander stutters out. "I mean, it's fine. I know you didn't do it on purpose. I know it's like—it's not actually a big deal."
"It is big deal to you," Ilya says.
"Yeah, well, there's—" Hollander stops. He blows out a breath. "It doesn't matter."
"Hollander."
"I said it's fine, dude."
"Ah, this is why you text me all day and night about making babies blind with your chlamydia butthole?" Ilya prods. "Because you are fine?"
"Since when do you even fucking care, Rozanov?" Hollander snaps.
"Oh my god, you are like teenage girl," Ilya says, rolling his eyes. "Get over yourself. I ask simple question."
There is a noise, distinctly similar to a pull bar being brought down, followed by the clatter of weights falling back on the stack as it's released.
It happens again.
And again.
Then—quiet.
"It's stupid," Hollander mutters.
"I am stupid idiot who gave you chlamydia," Ilya reminds him.
"I mean, my—my brain is stupid. Like… It gets stuck on things sometimes. Like, dumb stuff. I don't know."
Ilya frowns. "You mean like, ah… how is it called…"
Тревожность.
Anxiety?
"It's fine," Hollander says hastily. "It's fine, it's—I know how to deal with it. It's not a new thing. The, uh. The chlamydia is just. I guess." Hollander huffs. "I'm just not supposed to be someone who gets chlamydia. You know?"
"Yes," Ilya says quietly. He runs a hand through his hair, and leaves it dug into his curls, thinking.
"I'll get over it," Hollander says. "Don't worry about it. It's—I got over socks, I can get over chlamydia."
Ilya blinks. "Socks?"
"Long story," Hollander replies. "Stupid brain."
"Okay," Ilya says, with skepticism.
"Hey, this is kinda weird, right?" Hollander asks.
"You are very weird person, yes," Ilya agrees. "I am saying this for years."
"Not me, asshole. This. Us. Talking on the phone."
"Is third time this week," Ilya says, because… it is.
Huh.
"Anyway," Ilya says, moving on before this realization can percolate any further. "You think you are suffering, Hollander. Whole team has found out I have chlamydia. They buy me cake before last game that says Congratulations on Your STD."
"Your whole team knows?"
"Yes, they are most terrible gossips," Ilya says fondly. "Worse than old grandmas. But good taste in bakeries! Cake was like… spicy chocolate? Very very good."
"Jesus," says Hollander.
"Still, I make them do bag skate next day," Ilya adds. "I sit on the bench with cake and watch."
Hollander laughs. "You better hope they don't find those stupid chlamydia shirts online."
"Ehhhh," says Ilya. "My housekeeper can always use more rags for cleaning. Or I can give to Svetlana. She will beat me with it, probably, but it will be very funny also."
"Who's Svetlana?" Hollander asks curiously.
Ilya stifles a yawn. "Old friend. From Russia. I give her chlamydia, too."
"…Oh," says Hollander.
Maybe Ilya should ask the magic lamp for one hundred dollars every time Hollander says oh, instead of fuck you. Maybe he could ask for both. You get three wishes on a magic lamp, don't you? He can ask for oh and fuck you, and… hm.
Fuck off, is probably the third most common thing Hollander says to him.
Or fuck me.
Maybe Ilya should just ask for one hundred dollars every time Hollander says fuck.
"You, um. Saw her this summer? When you went home?"
"Yes. But I see her here, too. She lives in Boston."
"Oh," says Hollander, for approximately the ninety-fifth time. "That's cool I guess."
It has never occurred to Ilya, what it would be like for Svetlana to meet Hollander. Part of him thinks she would eat Hollander alive, but… part of him also wonders if she might not. If she might be taken in by Hollander's hideously awkward social manners. How he ducks his head when he smiles. The way he's so fucking earnest.
"So she's like your girlfriend?" Hollander asks, abruptly.
"What? No," Ilya says. "No, that would not work at all. She and I, we are—what is it? Friends with fucking?"
"Friends with benefits," says Hollander, though it's flat.
"Yes, this," Ilya agrees. "Friends with benefits."
"Right."
"She was very angry about chlamydia infection. I had to rent her a Lamborghini as apology." Ilya pauses. "Maybe I should not be giving you ideas, hm?"
"Do you, uh. Like. D'you have a lot of friends with benefits?" Hollander asks.
Ilya frowns. "Not really. Mostly girls in clubs, puck bunnies. Sometimes Tinder, but… this one can be problem. Why are you asking this?"
"What, I can't ask about the girls you're—fucking?" Hollander demands, with an uncharacteristic stumble over his favorite word.
"…Are you jealous?" Ilya asks slyly.
Silence.
Ilya's smirk begins to fade.
"Look, I need to go to bed," Hollander says suddenly. "I need to—"
"You are jealous?" Ilya says, baffled.
"What? No."
"Is… just girls, Hollander," Ilya says, wondering where the fuck this is coming from. "You do not care before, if I am fucking them, same as I do not care about the girls you fuck in Montreal, yes?"
Hollander laughs, but it's suddenly—shockingly bitter. "Yeah. Right. All the girls I fuck in Montreal."
And what the fuck does that mean?
"Look, it's—never mind," Hollander says, before Ilya can even get his mouth open. "It doesn't matter. You're right. Have sex with whoever you want, Rozanov. It's none of my business."
"This is because one of them gave us chlamydia?" Ilya asks, feeling like he's missed a step on the stairs. Several steps on the stairs. "Because I promise to get testing all the time, now, I have learned lesson, I will check every three months, I will—"
"Yeah, sure, whatever," Hollander interrupts. "I said it's fine, dude."
It doesn't sound fine.
Hollander doesn't sound fine.
"Look, I need to go to bed," Hollander says.
"You are upset."
"No, come on, I—I'm tired. It's almost three in the morning."
"Hollander."
"I have be at the rink by like, eight, tomorrow morning and I've got meetings all afternoon and then we've got Toronto at six and then—"
"Do you not want me to fuck other girls?" Ilya blurts out.
His heart is pounding.
The blood is rushing in his ears.
He can hear Hollander breathing, and the phone is slippery against the sudden sweat on his palm, and Ilya doesn't know why the fuck he'd just asked that.
"I can't…" Hollander says, thready and high. "Fuck, I can't do this."
"What do you—"
The line goes dead.
Ilya is very glad that he hadn't listened to his designer, and went for the canvas prints instead of original paintings on his walls.
A canvas print is a lot easier to replace, when you throw a cell phone through it.