Title: Where Are You Going? (Happy Birthday Cassidy!)

Author: Bernie.

Pairing. Ilya Kovalchuk/ Dany Heatly

Rating: R M/M, sexuality, religious themes

Dedication: Clearly this is for Cassidy! Happy Birthday. ::hugs:: I hope you get everything you want and the Leafs win the Stanley Cup. Oh wait, that’s my birthday, tell you what, you can pick who wins the World Series. How much fairer can I get?

Disclaimer: This is all fiction. I don’t claim to know anything about Dany, Ilya, or their families.

AN’s. Lyrics and title swiped without permission from a Dave Matthews Band song.

Thank you Mae for looking this over.

 

*   *    *    *    *

 

“I am no hero that’s for sure

But I do know one thing

Where you go

Is where I want to be…

 

…are you looking for answers?

For the reasons under the stars

If along the way you are growing weary

You can rest with me, until a brighter day….”

 

*   *   *   *

 

“You mean the Russian boy?”

 

It is my Mother’s name for him. I feel Ilya standing behind me.

 

“He is your latest little crush?” And I feel his breath in my hair.

 

“Ilya, Mother. His name is Ilya.” And that is where it ended, the final stand off. Later that night I feel the need to apologise to him. Lying in bed, the taste of him in my mouth, my skin doing that peculiar thing it does around him. It tingles, like it is trying to crawl off my body onto his. Like all parts of me are reaching out to him.

 

“I’m sorry that she calls you that.” I say to the ceiling. I bend my head down to look into Ilya’s brown eyes.

 

“It’s Ok. I could pretend I don’t speak English around her.”

 

I smile, “but I wish she understood, she is the only one that knows about me, apart from you.”

 

“I’m sorry Dan.” And Ilya tilts his head up awkwardly to kiss me. “You know I could get my family to call you ‘the Canadian boy’. Would that make it easier?”

 

And I laugh like I’m supposed to, delighting in the silent pleasure in Ilya’s eyes. And I kiss him again, and his breath is sweet, and pure, and perfect.

 

*    *     *    *

 

“I hope you don’t think you are bringing him here.”

 

No I did not think that. I did not think he would be welcome, but I will be there myself. I must.

 

“I can’t make him welcome because of what he has done.”

 

And I don’t bother to say he has done nothing, because it would not make any difference anyway.

 

I have done this all on my own. I accept my guilt, but I don’t wallow in it, no matter what my Mother suspects.

 

“When you are here there are people you can, that you can talk to.”

 

I arrive at their house, I still have a key, I still have access in, I go to my room and collect up the pamphlets my mother has left on the bed, putting them aside.

 

I won’t listen to anyone who would come between the two of us. No one.

 

I lie down for a nap, and it is all a little foreign. Not just the slightly too soft mattress, not just the lack of a presence beside me. I look at the nightlight I never got rid off and Jesus’ red heart seems to gleam, even though it’s not plugged in, even though it’s probably broken, even though mid-day light floods into the room.

 

“I Love You.” The light says across the base like it always has. “I Am Love”, it says across His red heart, like it always has.

 

I run my finger along the top of the light, cleaning off the dust, and I can feel the texture of someone else’s brown hair, silky under my fingertips.

 

I call him later that evening, long after I have said Grace and we have bent our heads over the table in a moment of silent prayer. I know my Mother and I are praying over the same person, I know our prayers are different.

 

Ilya is relaxed and laughing, teasing Igor in Russian, giggling over spilling chocolate milk when Igor hits him in the shoulder for something he said. He respectfully asks after my family and ruins it by laughing in the middle. I don’t tell him, anything, I smile and tell him I love him instead. And I do.

 

*   *   *    *    *    *  

 

We have stalls next to each other in the locker room. It is a balancing act on a knife-edge. We are careful not to overstep any bounds. Ilya handles this with grace; I take my cues from him. He will tell me it is because he barely understands what people are saying most of the time anyway. Talking quietly after a game is allowed, with our heads nearly touching.  Travelling to and from games is permissible, as long as we have different homes. Even if the air in Ilya’s apartment is spoiled from lack of circulation, even if the rooms are a stale hanging breath from doors never being opened.

 

We room together on the road and are careful to mess up both beds; we never leave anything behind that would give us away. We can still make it a game to jump on the beds, make it a contest to be first to disturb the sheets.

 

When Ilya wins his eyes glow in triumph, and he kisses me harder and more than when we win hockey games.

 

Tiny sacrifices are made. Like dating, occasionally we both go out with other people. Occasionally we go out with members of the team but not each other. I am sure no one even suspects, that they see exactly what they want to, what they expect to: two young players adjusting to life in the NHL with the assistance of each other.

 

If you looked closely I am sure we would give each other away a thousand times, but still… I can finish his sentences because his English still isn’t perfect. And later, it will just be expected, no one will know.

 

We prepare ourselves already for the difficult questions, I really want to be a parent, already, at twenty-two, Ilya is not so sure, but then we have our lives to be fathers, we only have to accept being hidden for another fifteen years. A small sacrifice I can make.

 

At night I think about what I would give up. Hockey I could give up. Easily, we could just go somewhere else, somewhere far away; both learn a new language and stay together. We could live in a lighthouse on a spit of land far out in the sea. A guiding beacon of light in the dark.

 

I can give up church, but not the habits, not saying grace or prayers before sleeping, but I don’t have enter the space, I can walk on past.

 

I think I could give up my family, but maybe I think as well that I can handle being two people: one person for them and one person for myself. I can’t help it; I want it all.

 

*   *    *   *    *  *

 

Ilya is much less worried. His parents welcome me, as long as we are not too obvious, as long as we don’t kiss at the table, as long as we pretend to go to different rooms.

 

But even that breaks down, as they accept us being in the same house, making plans for holidays together, they don’t even seem to notice if our hands brush, as they get used to it, it becomes ok, so I hope my family will grow used to it as well.

 

“This is not the worst thing in the world Dany.” He says, his forehead sweaty, the familiar scent rising off him.

 

“We could be murderers, or sell drugs to kids, or beat up women, this is nothing, this doesn’t even register on the scale of sins.”

 

Igor knows as well. But he is as protective of Ilya as a guard dog, and as unlikely to crack and tell someone about us as he is to admit that he likes me. His presence is a silent warning to me. I like it; I like that Ilya will always be surrounded by people who want to take care of him, that will protect him.

 

*   *   *    *    *    *

 

We win the game, in overtime, not thanks to Ilya or me. We cuddle in the very middle of the bed in the hotel room. Light spills from signs outside, and the night sky over Denver it lit up like it is Las Vegas, and the colours form shapes around us, and there is a red heart, bleeding down the wallpaper behind our bed. I hold Ilya closer, stifling his squeak in my shoulder.

 

*   *    *    *   *    *   *    *

 

We stay in a hotel room the next time I visit my family, we have two rooms but don’t use one of them.

 

My father is, as ever, oblivious to what I am and what Ilya and I are. And that is so relaxing. He talks about hockey and houses and jobs and the importance of cleaning the roof every winter and it is so normal I can almost ignore the fact my Mother has not said a word to Ilya the whole meal.

 

I show him around my town. I rechristen all the places I knew as a child. I imprint new memories on every blade of grass. We walk along the perimeter of my old school and I show him where we played kissing games, when I was a boy and I kissed girls.

 

We eat where I had birthday dinners, and Ilya devises his own games to play that are not pin the tail on the donkey or video games. Sitting in the diner Ilya finds ways of touching me without being obvious. Playing footsie under the table, reaching for the salt and pepper when I do so our fingers touch.

 

He drinks out of my glass and then I drink out of it after him. Like a code, like we are kissing in the middle of the restaurant and no one knows except for us. And his brown eyes are a wicked promise, so much so that we don’t stay for dessert and instead sneak back into the hotel just after noon, emerging just in time to join my family for dinner.

 

That night, he is over me in bed. Deep inside of me, and he stretches his head back as he goes further inside me, and light pools across his chest, in red, making a heart pattern, I reach up to touch the shape and he collapses against me and it is gone.

 

I feel the stickiness between us, and it is the red heart dripping off him, but when I touch my fingers to my mouth and it is just him; just the familiar flavour of sweat.

 

“I love you Dany.” He whispers against me and I say it back, pulling him closer, wrapping my arms around him, to protect this sacred love.

 

*    *    *    *    *    *

 

“Well, goodbye. I will pray for you.” My Mother says, the last thing before Ilya and I get into the car for my father to drive us to the airport. But she is resigned to my fate, not accepting what I am.

 

“Thank you.” She tilts her cheek up to be kissed. And I mean it; I do want to be in her prayers, the way that I have always been. I want that to be the same as ever, even if everything else has changed, even if I really have dragged the carpet out from under her feet.

 

Still, the window is down and Ilya’s hair keeps blowing in his eyes, no matter how many times he impatiently shoves it away, as he listens with what appears to be rapt fascination to the history of my father’s business, and it is more than enough.

 

*    *    *     *    *

 

I try to talk to her again, the next time I visit, to get her to understand, but she sends me out to help my father clean the garage.

 

“It would kill him if he knew though.” She holds my arm though the sleeve and looks into my eyes for the first time in a long time. “It would absolutely kill him.”

 

I was going to tell him anyway, but I couldn’t. Couldn’t make my mouth form the words. I am so jealous of Ilya, how his parents have started to accept what he is. I start half a dozen times. I can tell him there are no women in my life, but I can’t tell him why. I can tell him that I see my future but can’t tell him what it is.

 

I agree to go to church with them in the morning.

 

I let the words flood over me, I am moved by them as I always am, I sing along and add my words like I do and I mean every one, and I believe every one. When we are invited to pray I pray for Ilya, that he will be protected even if I cannot be, that he will be safe even if I cannot save him. I pray I will have him for the rest of my life.

 

The sun pours through the stained glass windows behind the priest and when I look up I see Jesus with the light around his head, holding his hand out to me.

 

“I’m sorry.” I say. “I love Ilya more. I want him more than a place with you.” And a cloud passes over the sun and his face goes dark.

 

*    *    *    *    *  

 

“This is my house, remember when I was a kid and you said when I had my own home I could do what I wanted?” I take a deep breath. “This is my house.” And I reach my hand out behind my back so Ilya can hold on to me, so I can anchor myself to him.

 

“You can’t expect my blessing can you?” My Mother sounds so sad I want to take everything back. But Ilya’s fingers tighten around mine and I shake my head.

 

“I don’t expect anyone’s blessing,” I say. “I don’t need them.” I have what I need I add silently to myself.

 

She leaves soon after and Ilya’s family arrive for dinner, it is not quite the same. I still say Grace, but quietly, and only to myself. I still think the food is blessed though, and that Ilya will be kept safe.

 

Ilya’s mother is wearing a crucifix, with Jesus’ twisted body on it, and it winks and twinkles in the light as she moves her head. The same way the light catches the edge of the knives; the same way the light glistens off Ilya’s hair.

 

‘Amen.’ He mouths to me, he half-guessed what I was thinking.

 

*   *    *   *    *

 

It is Christmas and I am visiting home again. Nothing has changed except one more person knows. Bob had been unsurprised, but grim. He simply told us to be more careful, he warned us not to slip up and let anyone else know. We have not slipped up since then.

 

My Mother says grace aloud and asks for grandchildren, even my Father rolls his eyes, but asks me outside church when I am going to meet someone. I tell him I have, but that is all I say.

 

“She must be something.” He says at my smile.

 

And I don’t say anything, just smile wider and nod my head at my Father. I am building up to telling him.

 

*   *    *    *   *   *    *    *

 

Christmas night Jesus comes to visit me. I have never dreamed about him before, or any of the saints. The only angel I know is sleeping in Atlanta.

 

“Don’t be afraid.” He says, and I am not. It is Jesus-of-the-night-light, His red heart glowing on His chest.

 

“Don’t be afraid”, He repeats. “I am your brother Jesus, and I have come to give you a gift.”

 

And he sits at the end of the bed. I sit up, bringing a sleeping Ilya with me, holding him in front of me, cradling him in my arms.

 

He takes the heart off His chest. “I am love.” He says and hands the Heart to me. It drips a few drops of blood onto my hands as I take it, and a few drops fall on Ilya, soaking into his forehead and disappearing.

 

“It is not a sin to be in love.” And then in my dream Ilya is awake and says, “see I told you so.” And I kiss him and when I look up we are alone in the room.

 

I wake up then, alone on the too-soft mattress, and call Ilya, waking him up half a country away.

 

“You were right.” I say. “I love you.”

 

“Of course.” And still drowsy he laughs softly. “I love you to, Dany.”

 

“I feel blessed.” I confess to him. And I feel strong fingers smooth over my forehead, and my room is briefly a warm rich red, glowing from the Christmas light’s outside.

 

“Yes.” Ilya laughs and I hear him roll over in bed. “Of course.”

 

End.

 

Bernie.

 

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