Title: Cauterized Heart

Author: Bernie

Pairing(s): Sergei Fedorov / Ilya Kovalchuk & Slava Kozlov/ Igor Larionov

Rating: R? Mentions of M/M slash, but not explicit. Kissing, hints of what else went on.

Disclaimer: This is fiction

Dedication: Mae, for reading, and saying this was not insane. (Anti-dedication to Chip! ☺)

>…< Denotes characters speaking in Russian.

 

In Russia under the Soviet system it was New Years that was celebrated rather than Christmas. So we are going to pretend that the NHL closes down for a couple of days around Christmas / New Years. Fiction people.

 

 

 

“You can’t leave him here.”

 

“You can’t leave me here.”

 

Igor and Slava, wearing the insufferable expression of reunited lovers, start almost in stereo at the voices. What Sergei had thought was going to be a brief catch up drink with an old team mate, as in he played with Slava, not a crack on Igor’s age, was spiraling rapidly out of hand.

 

“Why not?” Slava’s tone clearly contains a note of ‘oh behave you’ as Igor trails his fingers down the back of his neck. “It is only for a couple of days.”

 

“He’s a child!”

 

“I’m capable of staying by myself, I am not a child!”

 

Ilya glares and Sergei ignores.

 

Igor rolls his eyes >”You talk to Ilya love”< he instructs Slava before turning to Sergei.

 

>“I do speak Russian Iggy, if that was your idea of being secretive.”< Sergei’s voice could only be drier if it were rolled between sand before the words were uttered.

 

Igor draws Sergei aside, he carefully explains how Ilya is lonely but won’t admit it. How he has broken up with his boyfriend, and is upset. How he and Slava have decided that the two of them should spend the holiday together, and support each other. He then warns Sergei that Ilya is ‘vulnerable’ at losing his boyfriend, and not to ‘try anything’.

 

Sergei’s face is a study in incredulity at these comments. Not the least of which was the thought he would try to sleep with Ilya.

 

“Are you insane?” Igor seems momentarily speechless at the level of Sergei’s dislike of these plans.

 

“One, he is not staying, two, I don’t think so! Do I look like Oprah or something?” If it is possible to yell while hissing, that is what Sergei is doing.

 

On the other side of the kitchen the conversation is a little less give and take.

 

“You are staying here. Suck it up and try to enjoy yourself. Feds is a cool guy. Don’t jump him.”

 

Ilya stares at Slave in amazement.

 

“I am not staying here!”

 

“Yes you are, you have no way of getting home without me.”

 

“You can’t leave me here!”

 

“Of course I can.”

 

With that Slava jumps down off the bar stool he had been sitting on and he and Igor step outside. Ilya and Sergei get comically jammed into the doorway to the outdoors from the kitchen and by the time they have untangled themselves Slava has opened the door for Igor and moved around to the drivers seat. Ilya and Sergei stand in the doorway wearing identical expression of amazement.

 

Well, shock and dawning horror on Ilya’s part. He literally just has the clothes he is wearing; his cell phone is in his bag.  His wallet is in his bag. His bag is… is in the car. He takes a half step down the porch when Slava pulls out of the driveway.

 

The cars exhaust puffs out fluffy gusts of warm air in the cold afternoon.

 

Ilya is reduced mostly to gaping when he turns to his reluctant host. Sergei’s expression has leveled into resignation.

 

“Shit.” That was Sergei.

 

“Fuck.” That was Ilya.

 

“I need a fucking drink.” One thought it; one said it out loud.

 

Ilya and Sergei sit at the kitchen counter on bar stools, appropriate since they are sucking back vodka like sailors on shore leave. They make the vaguest of conversations; one will desperately say something when the silence between them stretches to longer than five minutes.

 

Cars keep them going for half an hour. Sergei’s is more expensive; Ilya has had more speeding tickets. Plotting Igor’s demise lasts another half hour. It is midnight when Ilya finally drops his head in his hands and complains that he feels unwell. Sergei helps him to the down stairs guest room; helpfully pointing out the en-suite he goes to his own room.

 

In the dark he plots bloody revenge. He falls asleep suddenly, the lights in his mind going blank and he doesn’t remember any of his dreams.

 

Ilya awakens once, and is sick in the bathtub. He drinks several glasses of water, eavesdropping on Sergei’s conversation with his dreams. Finally he stumbles back to bed, hoping he will wake up tomorrow in someone’s arms and this will be a horrible nightmare. In his sleep he twists his body around someone that is not there anymore.

 

Sergei has a headache. Ilya is staring out the window at the snow.

 

They both crawled out of their rooms at about noon. Sergei was unsurprised to find the sheets and blankets he had fought all evening were on the floor.

 

Ilya was throwing up again, this time making it to the toilet, where he could at least flush the evidence away. He runs the shower until the bathtub is clean and then tips half a container of bleach in for good measure. He then flees the guest room before the smell makes his stomach turn over again.

 

Ilya seeks out another bathroom to shower in, vaguely disappointed to find only a couple of styling products in Sergei’s bathroom and a generic brand of shampoo.

 

He stumbles into the kitchen wearing just a bathrobe with his hair dripping in his eyes.

 

Sergei hands him clothes from the airing cupboard beside the kitchen. Deliberately they are older items that he is unlikely to wear any more. He had heard Ilya throwing up earlier.

 

The clothes are warm. Ilya remembers grabbing Dany’s shirt to put on when he climbed out of bed after they had made love. Those shirts were a little warm as well. Ilya resolves to burn the clothes Dany has left at his house, just because he feels the need for flamboyant gesture. He will do it when he gets home.

 

Immediately he realises he doesn’t really have any home to hang his hat and his eyes fill with tears.

 

Sergei makes coffee, drinks vitamin c tablets dissolved in water, and eats Tylenols like they are candy. He wishes, not for the first time, that he would remember to ask for better painkillers the next time he is injured.

 

Ilya has found fault with everything around him.

 

Michigan is cold, and miserable, and the room is too hot, and there’s nothing to eat, and the lights hurt his eyes. Sergei is desperate to flee to another part of the house, but feels trapped in the living room with the unhappy child because of some sort of misplaced sense of what it is to be a host.

 

He makes more coffee, he drinks more orange juice, and the dull throb in his head settles to pain from blinding agony and he stares at the shapes of the snowflakes. One second they are fluffy and floaty, one moment they are hail one moment they flutter down, next second they are sleet. Snow is wonderful. Snowstorms are hypnotising, snow forms into banks and makes it slippery to drive in Michigan in the winter. Snow is white, unless it is grey, unless it is…

 

“Did it always snow at New Years’ when you were a kid?”

 

Ilya’s voice is soft and melodic; it has lost the bratty tones from before.

 

“Yes.” Sergei pauses and tries to remember what his voice sounds like “Yes.” He tries again, pausing this time to think about what the question had been; the ‘yes’ had been a reflex.

 

“Yes.” He says for the third time, adding “but it can’t have been that long ago for you Ilya.” He is more confident that that is in fact what his voice sounds like. It is a little deeper than usual. He hasn’t said anything for several hours, and the shadows on the snow would seem to indicate that the day was nearly over. His voice is rusty from drinking the night before. It is an effort to make what he hopes will be a meaningless conversation.

 

“Where were you supposed to be this New Years Ilya?”

 

Ilya ignores the question, continuing to stare at the snow. Sergei waits for a few minutes then sighing goes into the kitchen to make more coffee. For good measure he dumps a couple of shots of whiskey into them. Coming back into the lounge he puts a cup beside Ilya.

 

So far Ilya has been given coffee: with and without sugar, milk, and, cream. He has expressed no preference so Sergei gives it to him the way he likes it. Black. And with alcohol, it is New Years Eve after all.

 

“In Calgary.”

 

“Yes.” Sergei replies, not sure what Ilya is talking about. But he knows Calgary. Well, he knows they have the Flames and typically two fairly easy points.

 

He tries to imagine why anyone would want to go to Calgary. He vaguely thinks of rodeos and wrestling. He has the wardrobe for neither.

 

“With Dany.”

 

“Yes.” Sergei thinks for a moment. “Heatley?”

 

“He decided he would rather go with someone else.”

 

“Oh.” Sergei casts about for something to add to the conversation wishing Ilya would go back to staring at the snow. “Who?”

 

“Someone with tits.”

 

“Oh.” Fortunately Ilya goes back to looking out the window; Sergei has no idea what to say to this. He desperately thinks about all the other rooms in his house. The office with the computer, reading on his bed, hiding in the garage.

 

“Can I ask you a question?” Ilya asks.

 

“Yes.” Shit Sergei thinks, why can’t you just think no? “No…. umm, go ahead, ask…” he stumbles out when Ilya looks at him questioningly. Just say no! Sergei thinks to himself.

 

“You like girls and guys right?”

 

“Yes.” Well, that ‘yes’ was ok; it was true, and hardly a secret.

 

“So does that mean that guys are just for fun and you really like girls?”

 

“Yes, or no.” Sergei shrugs. “It depends on the guy.”

 

“It depends on the guy.” Ilya repeats.

 

Sergei is sure that he has made things in some way worse.

 

“I guess I just mis-understood Dany.” Ilya’s voice is soft, the way you speak when you are trying to control the pitch, to disguise a flood of emotions.

 

“What did he say?”

 

“That he loved me. Then he said he was just horny and I was closer and less likely to go to the media than a puck bunny.”

 

“Yes. You can’t get pregnant either.” Being slightly drunk and hung-over has affected the censor on Sergei’s mouth. He can’t seem to stop talking.

 

Ilya’s giggle at this makes Sergei feel better, it wasn’t actually a joke, he meant that fucking a guy was a good release, and, well, they /couldn’t/ get pregnant. And teammates were hardly likely to broadcast it anywhere but the locker room, and that was ok, ya takes ya chances when you fuck someone you have to work with.

 

“I can’t help but think that, if I had understood Dany better, this would not have happened.”

 

“Ilya, these things happen in every language. He probably just found playing you easier if you didn’t really understand what he was saying.”

 

Ilya winces and Sergei goes on; “if you had lousy English, then he could just say that you mis-heard a conversation, or didn’t know the meaning of a word he was using.”

 

Ilya’s tears spill out of his eyes and Sergei desperately casts about for something to say.

 

 “I’m sorry though, I know it hurts.” Well, it hurt the first time, the second time less so, the third time it becomes the echo of hurt. He doesn’t share this wisdom with Ilya. Instead he repeats; “I’m sorry.”

 

Sergei vaguely remembers the first hurt, not Pavel or Anna, and although he has been almost without sensation for years the rawness of Ilya’s expression terrifies and nauseates him. He sees Ilya’s eyes as two disks of light, gilded over with tears until they have no colour just a reflection of the lamps into blinding beams that burn into Sergei’s eyes.

 

“Do you?” Ilya’s eyes are bright. “How.”

 

“Pavel and I have spoken Russian since the day we were born, and we managed to ‘mis-understand’ each other.” Sergei gives a short and bitter laugh. “We managed to ‘misunderstand’ each other a number of times in our lives.”

 

Shut the fuck up Sergei! His inner voice shouts at him. Instead his lips twist into what may be a smile and he goes on: “Anna is also a native Russian speaker, and I have managed to completely mis-understand any number of things she has said to me.”

 

“I still blame English. Stupid language! I didn’t know what he was saying! I didn’t understand what he meant.” Ilya’s voice has taken on the whine from before when he was complaining about the CD’s Sergei had at his house.

 

“He meant you were convenient, and now he would like to move on.”

 

Ilya flinches at the words, Sergei watching the day fade into night doesn’t realise how cruel he sounded. He wasn’t really offering a reply to Ilya’s comment, which he hadn’t even really heard. His words were the flicker of memory from conversations he had had with both Pavel and Anna.

 

“Bure?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And then he fucked your girlfriend?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Ilya had intended to wound Sergei back, but Sergei’s simple ‘yeses’ took some of the anger out of Ilya.

 

“What do you want Sergei?”

 

“I want to be alone.”

 

“Bitter man.” Ilya chokes the words out around a mouthful of tears.

 

“Fine. I want to be surrounded by my loved ones, I wish for world peace and the brother-hood of men. And I wish I was a better speller.”

 

Ilya is sitting on the floor in front of Sergei, and with surprising co-ordination grabs a pen and sits in front of him.

 

“Language is the hardest yes? What words mean, how they fit in, what things are called.”

 

Ilya grabs Sergei’s hand and writes F-I-N-G-E-R down his index finger. “But this is ‘thumb’.” And carefully concentrating on his spelling Ilya traces the letters T-H-U-M-B. “And when you think you have them down and you know how it all fits together, well,” and he turns Sergei’s hand over and spells H-A-N-D out, “every time I thought I knew what people were saying I would hear something new.”

 

“Yes.” Sergei says. “That is how you learn a language.”

 

“>Fuck you Fedorov, you know it is not the same.<”

 

>”You already know all those words Ilya, what does it matter what language was used?”<

 

“It is not the same knowing them in Russian! You know that, people think >that you are an idiot if you can’t speak English properly< and then if you try to speak it, they make fun of that as well.”

 

Sergei’s head spins from the yelling, from the feeling of Ilya’s warm hand still holding his, from hearing things in two different languages. He is surprised he doesn’t flick between English and Russian as easily as he did.

 

Sergei looks down at Ilya and smiles as normally as he can manage.

 

“You need to give yourself time.” Ilya is flushed and biting his bottom lip. He drops Sergei’s hand. Sergei realises he is a bit drunk and a lot depressed.

 

“You need to give yourself time,” he repeats more gently. “>English and love will probably appear when you least expect them to.< Pavel’s English is much worse than yours, and he has been here as long as you.”

 

“Bure?”

 

“Yes.” Sergei replies. “I mean no. Datsyuk. But his wife is Russian, so I guess there is no need to learn the language to get laid.”

 

Sergei sits on the floor right in front of Ilya. His legs protest at being crossed underneath him. Retrieving the pen from where Ilya had dropped it he takes Ilya’s hand and writes P-A-L-M across the soft skin there. Ilya’s hands are soft and have only barely formed the calluses that Sergei has on his. They only have a scattering of scars.

 

“If you had known /that/ word when Dany fucked you, he would still have ditched you to take a girl home to meet his parents.”

 

Holding Ilya’s arm out closer to himself, when Ilya tries to pull it away Sergei writes W-R-I-S-T across the soft skin at the base of Ilya’s hand.

 

“What was her name?”

 

“Patricia.”

 

But what Sergei writes next is A-R-M. All the words are lined up under each other, at a symmetrical height.

 

“Even if you hadn’t known /any/ of those words, Heatley would still have taken Patricia to his parents house.”

 

Ilya takes the pen back; pausing for a moment to consider spelling he pushes Sergei’s sleeve up his arm and writes M-U-S-C-L-E across his forearm.

 

“>What exactly is better about Patricia than me? Tell me in Russian so I know exactly what you are saying.<”

 

He offers the pen to Sergei, who takes it, twirling it around in his fingers looking down for a second. Finally he leans toward Ilya and undoes the buttons on the flannel shirt he is wearing. Pushing it off one shoulder he writes T-R-I-C-E-P-S across the back of the top of his arm, and writes B-I-C-E-P across the front. The words almost touch, and Sergei’s hands are warm and rough. He gently, almost dispassionately manipulates Ilya’s arm around, the soft skin paler at the top of his arms, the muscles only beginning to come into definition.

 

Sergei has beautiful writing and Ilya looks down to admire it. His is thin and scratchy, but Sergei’s is all the same size and an even pressure, with a sudden flourish where you least expect it, a curl on the ‘C’, the slash across the top of a ‘T’.

 

“>Patricia is normal, and safe and his parents will be delighted they will have grandchildren and she will probably be fucked by him in much the same way you were.< Unless she fucks him up. Which is also possible”

 

Ilya leans forward and undoes the buttons on Sergei’s shirt. It is not really necessary; there are only three at the top. Sergei holds his hands over his head so Ilya can pull the shirt off, and then passes Ilya the pen. He rests his hands on his knees waiting to see what Ilya will do.

 

Ilya’s writing has become a little shakier again as he writes S-H-O-U-L-D-E-R across the very top of Sergei’s arm, and a little lower traces the letters of C-O-L-L-A-R-B-O-N-E across Sergei’s clavicle. The words curve up slightly following the half circle shape of the bone. The pen is scratchy against Sergei’s skin and Ilya has to press down hard to form the letters of B-O-N-E. Moving a little higher and to the left, where Sergei’s neck meets his chest he spells out the letters for ‘throat’ in ascending order so Sergei feels T-A-O-R-H-T, with the last ‘T’ just under Serge’s chin. The pen isn’t producing much ink any more; there is just a jumble of half-formed lines on Sergei’s neck.

 

“>Do you think he loved me?<”

 

Ilya drops the pen, and sitting up rests one hand on Sergei’s shoulder to balance himself, and he traces C-H-I-N across Sergei’s chin and L-I-P across his bottom lip. Following the outline of Sergei’s prominent cheekbones he spells C-H-E-E-K out diagonally across the hard slash of the bone there. Then his courage somewhat deserts him, and he sits back.

 

Sergei opens his eyes and looks at Ilya.

 

“You stopped? Maybe he loved you. Maybe not. Maybe he does not want to be gay. Maybe he was horny. Maybe he is a bastard.”

 

Ilya traces the letters of ‘love’ across Sergei’s other cheek in cursive writing.

 

“What do you want Sergei? Is it really to be alone?”

 

“I’m better at being alone.” Sergei shrugs his shoulders and the letters across the top of his chest jump and bang into each other.

 

Ilya looks at the smooth expanse of Sergei’s chest, he doesn’t use the black pen, instead he picks up a red pen and draws a heart on the left side of Sergei’s chest; then he carefully draws a jagged line through the middle of it. On one side he write ‘A-N-N-A’ on the other side he writes ‘P-A-V-E-L’ Ilya starts to darken the line on Sergei’s chest, when Sergei closes his hand around Ilya’s.

 

“>I think you want to be in love.< Doesn’t everyone want to be in love, Sergei?”

 

Ilya untangles their fingers and leaning back pulls his t-shirt over his head and offers the pen to Sergei. Sergei draws a heart over Ilya’s chest, more evenly, and writes H-O-C-K-E-Y inside it. Then he writes D-A-N-Y underneath.

 

“>What do you want to be more in love with, Ilya?< You have plenty of time to make a decision. And there are plenty of other people who would line up to fall in love with you.”

 

Dropping the pen Sergei traces the shape of a heart around and around on Ilya’s chest, watching as his breaths grow deeper, then he draws more hearts that are gradually smaller and smaller, grazing one fingernail across Ilya’s nipple.

 

“I was warned not to touch you, Ilya.”

 

“I was told to not to jump you to.”

 

Both are silent, watching Sergei’s finger spiral around Ilya’s chest.

 

“I hate being told what to do.” Ilya closes the gap between the two of them pressing his lips to Sergei’s. Ilya sighs into the kiss; Sergei’s lips even feel different from what he is used to. He feels experienced, he feels older, and Ilya tilts his head back so that Sergei is leaning over him, so that Sergei can control the pace of the kiss. He senses that Sergei will only take this as far as he wants; he chooses to trust his instincts, even though they have not always been correct in the past.

 

Sergei holds Ilya’s face, tilting his head further back; he runs his tongue along the seam of Ilya’s lips, gently pressing his tongue down until Ilya opens his mouth. He spins his tongue lazily around Ilya’s mouth, learning the taste underneath the coffee and whiskey.

 

Pulling away from Ilya’s searching hands Sergei asks; “wouldn’t you prefer to do this in a bed?”

 

Ilya shrugs his shoulders.

 

“You pick. I don’t care, really.” He pauses; “I usually have to make all the decisions, lead everything. So you pick. I don’t mind.”

 

Sergei rather thinks his knees would object to the living room floor so he pulls Ilya to his feet and up the stairs into his bedroom. He is not sure why his room, instead of the spare room, instead of the couch, but it seems a good idea, for himself if not for the child, to have someone else in his room for a change, to cover over some of the memories in there.

 

With sure fingers Sergei undoes the buttons on Ilya’s jeans, his jeans really, and watches as Ilya’s slightly less sure fingers pull his clothes off.

 

They tumble back against the bed and Sergei covers Ilya’s body with his. It is not as hot in this room as the rest of the house; the door was closed so the heat did not circulate properly.

 

Sergei runs his hands down Ilya’s sides, catching his trembling into his warm palms. He holds Ilya’s shaking body apart from the rest of the world and feels a little of Ilya’s release, a little of his enjoyment.

 

Ilya turns huge bambi eyes on Sergei afterwards.

 

“Can I stay here, in this room?”

 

“Yes.” Sergei replies. “Yes. Stay here. Please.”

 

Ilya curls around Sergei’s frame, twisting to accommodate this new body into the way he sleeps, so similar and so different form the body he is used to sleeping around. Sergei twists his head down to kiss Ilya’s temple, he catches his slightly sour breath from the whiskey and kisses him again.

 

The next morning Sergei closes his hand around Ilya’s arm, just under where he had written words the night before.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

Ilya looks faintly embarrassed, although whether it is over being caught trying to sneak off, or being in bed with Sergei, Sergei is not sure.

 

“I thought I should leave you alone.”

 

“Yes.” Sergei replies, not letting Ilya’s arm go. “Do you want breakfast?”

 

Ilya shrugs. “I guess so.”

 

“Good.” Sergei steps out of bed and cutting off Ilya’s retreat says; “I feel like breakfast in bed. So, umm, get back into bed. Please.”

 

Ilya shrugs again, but gets back into bed and even starts to fall asleep again, his eyes popping open when he feels a tray settle on the bed next to him.

 

“Aren’t you worried about crumbs?”

 

“I have more sheets.” Sergei is pleased he didn’t say yes, and passes Ilya some toast. There is also coffee and orange juice and fruit. The two men eat slowly, having the world’s most meaningless conversation about weather and cars.

 

When Sergei laughs after a story about Ilya driving the Zamboni he spills a little of his orange juice across his hand. Ilya licks it off. It seems the correct thing to do. It also seems to be a good idea to have sex again, to welcome in the New Year. So they do.

 

Ilya is lying with his head against Sergei’s shoulder again.

 

“I don’t love you. I’m sorry.” Sergei idly pets Ilya’s hair.

 

“I didn’t think you did.” Ilya’s voice is soft.

 

“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.” Sergei shrugs his shoulder under Ilya’s head.

 

“I don’t love you either. But I like you.” Ilya naps against Sergei’s chest while Sergei watches breakfast television looking for the sports news.

 

Later that day, alone in the quiet house, Sergei is in the shower washing the words away. Some have already faded to just letters and marks. The shape of H-A-N-D and F-I-N-G-E-R and T-H-U-M-B have almost gone, on the body parts you use most, things tend to be erased more quickly.

 

Sergei scrubs at the red heart on his chest, removing the outline and the names, but the jagged line that Ilya had drawn was still faintly visible. The pressure applied was harder, the ink-stain went deeper.

 

Sergei washed Ilya’s tears and kisses and fingerprints off himself; Ilya’s delicate traces of flaked desire. Lust and love and language swirl down the drain and are gone. He remembers grabbing Ilya’s hand while Slava honked impatiently in the driveway, already beginning the grumpy sulk that will last until he touches Igor again, and writing his phone number on Ilya’s palm with black pen.

 

He wonders if the numbers will last long enough for Ilya to call him. He wonders if he even wants him to, if he would care more if he didn’t call than if he did.

 

End.

 

The Hanged Man in the Garden then Scalene

 

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