Title: The Hanged Man

Author: Bernie

Pairing: Sergei Federov / Ilya Kovalchuk

Also, Slava Fetisov / Igor Larionov  & Pavel Bure & Dany Heatly

And implied Dany Heatly / Jeremy Roenick.

Rating: NC-17 M/M slash, drinking, drugs, hazy consent issues.

Disclaimer. This is all fiction.

Summary: The hanged man in the garden spins seeing everything anew. But who sees thing correctly, who has perfect vision, who remembers things exactly as they happened?

 

>…..< Denotes characters speaking in Russian.

 

This is a sequel to Heart. You should read that first.

 

 

Slava and Ilya have little to say to each other in the car. They are both considering what they had left behind in Detroit. Although Ilya had told Slava he was ‘checking messages’ he was actually adding the numbers from his hand. His finger hovers for a second over the ‘save’ button as he listens to Dany wish him happy New Year a day late. He keeps them both, the number and the message, just because they are there does not mean he has to do anything with them.

 

Ilya puts his phone in the left hand pocket of the shirt he had borrowed from Sergei and stares out the window. He wishes he were driving because Slava goes so fucking slowly.

 

Slava stares at the rain on the windshield threatening to boil it off with his glare. He scowls at red lights and taps his fingers impatiently when he is forced to halt at pedestrian crossings.

 

But when the two open the car doors outside Ilya’s home, for some reason, the misery that had wrapped itself around them when they left Detroit floats away.

 

Ilya steps up to Slava and laughs, giggles really, and wraps his arms around his waist resting his head against Slava’s neck.

 

“Why so affectionate? Did you sleep with Sergei?

 

“Hung over, out of it, and no.”

 

“Ilya,” Slava hugs the younger man back, “you were there to keep an eye on him not the other way around.”

 

“I don’t understand.” Ilya’s voice is cautious, trying not to display too much interest.

 

“We weren’t concerned with you, Igor was worried about Sergei. He’s, well, he’s fucked up.”

 

“From Anna?”

 

“You two talked about Anna?”

 

“We were drinking.” Ilya replies, not looking at Slava.

 

“You slept with him didn’t you?” Slava pulls back enough to look into Ilya’s eyes.

 

“No. We were just drunk, and talked a bit. Nothing happened.” Ilya maintains eye contact with Slava.  “Nothing. Happened. He mentioned her is all, her and… And Pavel.”

 

“Stay away from him. He’s damaged in a way you can’t understand.” Slava has equal measures of warning in his eyes and voice.

 

“I didn’t…” But, when in doubt change the subject. “Come in for a minute.” Ilya smiles. “I don’t want to talk about Sergei.”

 

It could be a request, it could be an order, but the barely legal man rocking on his heels from exhaustion is in no state to decide anyone’s fate, least of all his own.

 

Slava grabs Ilya’s bag from the car and steers him into his condo manhandling him into bed.

 

“Stay for a while?” Ilya’s eyes are already closed when he lands on the soft mattress.

 

“Nope, I have to get home.” Slava smiles when he feels Ilya’s hand on his wrist tugging him down. Snuggling back against the warm body on the behind him, tucking Slava’s arm around his waist. Like most people Ilya occasionally just wants to shape the world around him the way that makes him the most comfortable.

 

Slava laughs, but does not complain, and does not move away. Affection is appreciated, touching offered, comfort implied within that contact. He would just be moping around missing Igor anyway.

 

“G’ni, Dany.” Ilya mumbles.

 

Slava kisses the back of his neck rolling his eyes but he smiles. “Goodnight Ilya.”

 

*      *     *     *     *     *      *    *     *    *     *     *    *    *   *

 

“Ilya.”

 

Why do people whisper to wake you? If you are really asleep it will not wake you.

 

“Ilya.” And the second one is louder, do they want to annoy you into waking up?

 

“Ilya?” Dany is using his real voice and shaking Ilya’s shoulder.  So, young man, it is no use pretending to be asleep.

 

“I’m sorry I was such a jerk at Christmas. I missed you.” Dany climbs into the warm bed beside Ilya. He is cold; he must have been sitting out in the cool air conditioning for a while.

 

Practising his speech? Planning his attack. Or maybe Ilya was really sleeping, maybe Dany wanted to watch the sweet face of a sleeping lover, the regularity of breathing the way those in love do. Maybe he was just gathering his courage after being, well, a jerk.

 

“Ilya? Forgive me, please?” Ilya kisses Dany back, because his face is there anyway, but, but…  Even inexperienced he senses this could be false. Dany’s fingers probing not touching, scratching not soothing …but Ilya can feel him warming up under the covers and reflecting that warmth down, Maybe his hands are just less sure than Sergei’s maybe he is just less experienced.

 

Lying under him Ilya winces at Dany’s fingers and stifles gasps at how quickly he is inside him. He doesn’t say anything then and doesn’t say anything the next morning when Dany creeps out silently first thing after coming home with Ilya from the airport.

 

He works up enough fury to call him but when he grabs his phone Sergei’s is the last number that was entered and the first number that comes up. So he calls him instead.

 

“Sergei?”

 

Ilya hears a startled sounding ‘yes?’ from the other end of the phone. ‘Painkillers’ he hears as well.

 

“Can I ask you a question?”

 

“Yes.” Sergei says, and sighs.

 

“>Have you ever been to Atlanta?<”

 

“Yes”. Sergei thinks to himself, and surprises himself by saying out loud. Two easy points is his second thought that he manages to keep to himself. ‘Say no to this fucking kid’ he thinks to himself the responses layering over each other until he is not sure just what he said.

 

“Could you come again, only I can’t get away because they would freak out and >I would like to see you again<.”

 

“>Yes<”. Sergei would assume it was the Russian that did him in. Anna sometimes spoke to him in Russian when she wanted something. Or French.

 

“Thank you.” And Ilya gives him an address and tells him when he will be home that week.

 

“Yes.” Sergei says helplessly, taking down words and numbers that he desperately hopes will form meaning when he arrives in Atlanta. Ilya’s apartment number is 9819 Sergei notes it is his number and Alex’s number backwards. Things backwards are seldom any good. Music backwards is a message from Satan, love backwards is hate, time backwards is the past; a place Sergei seldom wants to visit. Even if the past forces itself upon him.

 

Dany drags himself inside his new house and into his bed. He lies carefully in the centre, trying not to roll either way. He tries to decide if he likes or hates the scent of Ilya all around him and decides to hide in sleep.

 

Sergei stretches his arms out crashing into the empty sides of the bed; suddenly he is happy he agreed to visit. His head is still throbbing at the same beat of the telephone ring from before. In his mouth he tastes coffee, sleep and something else, something crawling out of him. He sighs and shivers in the cold room. The memories are rising and he turns on the television. Dimly he hears the echo of a voice, muffled by being face down in the pillow, telling him to turn the sound down at least.

 

Ilya rolls himself into the bed, avoiding the cooling sheets on the Dany-side of the bed and wraps his blanket around himself. He tucks the comforter under his feet to keep them warm and sleeps until it is time to get up and go to practise.

 

*    *       *       *     *       *      *       *        *      *      *

 

The next day Sergei is early his flight had miraculously not been delayed, there was time to kill and time to spare, and he waits it out on the porch for Ilya to let him in.

 

Ilya teases him about the rental car he got at the airport and Sergei ruffles his flat dark hair, and smiles when Ilya casually tells him he can drive his car when they go out for dinner. Sergei is pleased he came, Ilya is pleased he is there.

 

Across the road Dany, less pleased, watches though narrowed eyes and goes home to break up with Patricia. In a rage, he is not sure how come. He takes great satisfaction from Patricia crying and asking him why. He feels hollow the second she goes, cursing him and leaving only tearstains on his shirt.

 

At dinner Ilya tells Sergei a little bit about Dany. Sergei nods and cuts his food into even forkfuls and asks Ilya if Dany would be annoyed about him.

 

Ilya seems flustered, “no, that’s not why I asked you to come.” He says.

 

Sergei taps his feet on the floor under the table in a complicated tattoo, and half-smiles at the blatant lie, he carries on talking to Ilya remembering Pavel’s lies, running through them in his head.

 

“Have you ever really thought about leaving Detroit?” Ilya asks.

 

“No.” Sergei replies remembering Pavel’s promises to call him, to appear, promises that he left phone messages. “I like Detroit.”

 

When they get back from dinner Sergei kisses Ilya deeply dredging the taste of whiskey out of his mouth.

 

Ilya tugs Sergei into his room, twelve steps from the lounge walking backwards.

 

He is kneeling between Sergei’s legs, pressing kisses to the skin above his belt buckle.

 

Sergei is unsurprised but mildly annoyed Ilya has simply brought him here for sex, and pushing his head back says; “You don’t have to beg me, I’m here. My flight is at eleven I’ll leave here in time for that. I don’t sneak out Ilya, I’m to old for that.”

 

He pulls Ilya up and lies on top of him, maybe he doesn’t like Ilya looking like that, looking up at him, his blonde hair falling back from his blue eyes, begging.

 

Sergei holds Ilya’s face under him.

 

“Open your eyes.” He orders, checking double-checking, making sure. Ilya’s eyes are still brown.

 

He kisses the skin under his eyes, his eyelids and his eyelashes.

 

“Open your eyes” he repeats, checking again for brown eyes.

 

“I promise I won’t just leave.” Sergei says directly into Ilya’s eyes. And Ilya smiles happily at this, the tension leaving his shoulders as he relaxes against the bed.

 

Sergei rests on Ilya and kisses him again; “don’t fall in love with me.” He orders.

 

“Don’t feel sorry for me.” Ilya replies, kissing back. “Don’t pretend I am someone else.”

 

“Don’t pretend I am someone else.” Sergei replies. Because Sergei already is. His hands are already around Ilya. Cupped, like to hold water, like to accept an offering, like begging bowls.

 

*   *      *     *     *     *     *     *      *    *     *     *   *     *

 

Ilya wakes Sergei a couple of mornings a week. Road schedules mean he calls at irregular intervals. He often wakes Sergei, sometimes Sergei pretends that he has been woken when Ilya apologies for interrupting his sleep.

 

“Sergei? I’m sorry did I wake you?”

 

He remembers another voice.

 

“Did you ever try counting sheep to sleep?”

 

“I’d never stop.”

 

But the dreamy voice goes on, “I can see all the sheep now,” ‘yes Sergei thinks, fours legs two eyes’ “and they are jumping a fence” yes Sergei thinks the fence has three slats’ “I have something that could make you sleep.” It is a shy offering. ‘And the fence is at the edge of a cliff.’ Sergei thinks.

 

He declines the gift. All dreams end up at the bottom of a cliff.

 

Sergei says ‘yes’ to Ilya’s question, Ilya says he will be there soon and Sergei hopes he will as well.

 

Sergei barely sleeps. Operating on dozing and half slumber where he is only dimly aware of the world around him, layered as it is, on top of the world in his head. He sleeps and dreams deeply for a few hours then. Then he is shunted to dimness again. It is certainly better that way.

 

It’s worse now; Sergei can’t sleep he watches him, waiting for him to leave, to change, the furrowed brow that means the high is wearing off. Without meaning to he relaxes every time Ilya calls and is sober.

 

But Sergei likes to watch Ilya sleep anyway. His lips curl up slightly, his same kind daytime smile. The edge to Sergei’s smile could best be described as wry, maybe as knowing, but not kind. He is sweet. Young, Sergei leans over him, watching the smooth planes of his face, the clocks have not built up a collection of past to throw in his face. He has not learned of the tyranny of time, the power of forgetting, the ecstasy of remembering.

 

Sergei doesn’t know if it hurts more to remember or to forget. He has forgotten his taste, definitely that, deliberately, scraped the memory of his flavour off his tongue. And his smell, and the colour of his eyes when he was laughing over cheesy movies. Sergei remembers everything else.

 

When Ilya bruises his knuckles fighting again Sergei kisses the promised scars, turns his hand over to nuzzle at his intact wrists, to lick across the soft un-pocked skin at the crook of his elbow.

 

Checking, making sure Ilya is not tripping down the same path, watching, being concerned when he has no right to be. When he has no intention of caring.

 

Sergei watched the clock and parcelled out time into achievable portions, Christmas-to-Christmas, birthday-to-birthday, and season-to-season. There is always an underlying pattern, a rhythm a cadence to history. It was within these parameters that he operated effectively, but Pavel, his wildness, his unpredictability seduced Sergei, balanced him he thought, complimented him.

 

Sergei and Pavel hoped for the forgiving nature of time, tangled together afterwards in a sleepy sex high.

 

“What would you do if anyone found out?”

 

“It doesn’t matter, time will smooth everything over.”

 

“No one would care after a while.”

 

“Except us.”

 

“Yes, there is us. We would care.”

 

“I would care until the end of time.”

 

“I know you would.”

 

Sergei has been counting down until the end of time since then.

 

Much less forgiving time, the rigid nature of memories, the inescapable fact that one thing happened after another thing after another after the thing that happened first. In an order that can’t be changed, impossible to alter, that spins in an ancient movie reel in Sergei’s mind. Interrupting his conversations with everyone around him. His words in his head to Pavel and Anna spilling into his daily life when he is distracted. He can’t gloss over his memories; he can’t pretty them up in his mind. He re-mourns every time at the same time every time.

 

Pavel’s eyes the first time were a soft blue, like the sky and clouds had melted together from the heat of the sun. So blue and natural and caused by something most unnatural. Smooth and rich and he’s high as a kite.

 

Examining Ilya’s youthful face Sergei is reminded of Anna, the same round cheeks, the smooth skin beside their eyes,  Sergei remembers more of Anna, how she never understood, how she could never share.

 

“Do you have any idea how annoying that is?”

 

What?

 

“How much you think about Pavel? I'm right here, think about me.” Said like an accusation, she did not like how much time Pavel and Sergei spent together. ‘She would not have liked how we spent that time together’ Sergei thinks. ‘How we share responsibility for the other women, the crystal women, in his life. Anna did not know they existed at all.’

 

They were a terrible surprise to her.

 

All Sergei has left is the ability to appreciate. Appreciate how pretty Ilya is sleeping beside him. If Ilya’s eyes were open they would be brown. Earth colours, solid grounded.

 

He is glad to be chased from his history by his team-mates and ex-team-mates.

 

“He is to old for you.”

He is to young for you.”

 

Slava and Igor feel they should interject some sense into this long distance affair of the heart

 

“He is broken.”

“You’ll break him.”

 

And voices from an older time.

 

“Don’t play with my heart Anna.”

“Sergei has always worn his heart on his sleeve.”

 

Slava and Igor have grounds for guilt, it is their fault, strictly speaking, that Ilya and Sergei even know each other. Sergei assures them that it will not matter anyway. Ilya assures them he is unbreakable.

 

“I won’t fall in love with him.”

“I know what I am doing.”

 

Sergei turns the sound off and puts the captions on scroll through the sports channels looking for the scores, spotting familiar names.

 

*     *     *      *      *     *    *     *     *     *     *      *   *      *

 

“Congratulations on being MVP.” Ilya’s voice is slightly shy in the coolness of the hotel room.

 

“Thank you.” Dany laughs. “It was fun. More fun than I expected, I think I can see why people want to go to it now. All those guys…” He trails off.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Oh Ilya,” Dany rolls his eyes, “I meant all those guys that I have looked up to for a long time.”

 

“Oh. I didn’t mean anything…”

 

“Sergei was there.” Dany smiles at Ilya. “So you can’t pretend to be jealous if I did anything.”

 

“I’m not jealous.” Ilya protests. “But… did you?”

 

Dany rolls onto his side in his bed. “Would you tell me about you and Sergei?”

 

“No.”

 

“So I can’t tell you what happened at the all star game.” Dany smiles. “You’ll be with me there next year anyway.”

 

Ilya smiles at this.

 

“But would it be awkward with Sergei being there as well?” Dany asks.

 

Ilya loses his smile. “It isn’t like that.” He says quietly, “I do like you a lot Dan.”

 

Dany smiles at Ilya; his half smile, just curling one lip up. “I don’t understand Ilya what do you want?”

 

Dany climbs out of his bed and into Ilya’s. “Is it just /this/ you want? Because I can give you that, but you can’t expect me to give you anything you won’t give me.”

 

Dany kisses Ilya softly. “So Ilya what do you want?”

 

But Ilya doesn’t want to tell him. What if it is different from what he wants? He thinks ‘what if I make an idiot of myself? What if when I say what I want I don’t want it anymore. What happens then?’

 

But, he asks Sergei the same question.

 

“What do you want?” Sergei seems surprised Ilya is awake.

 

“Mostly to be left alone. And for you to go to sleep.”

 

“Mostly? What about the rest of the time.”

 

Sergei is silent. “This is ok. Something like this, or not, something different.” ‘Something to remind me why I like being alone’, he thinks to himself.

 

“Do you want me to go?” Ilya’s soft voice cuts across the mists of memories in front of Sergei.

 

He admires the shape of the younger man sitting on the bed next to him, illuminated by flashes of colour from the screen.

 

“I want you to go to sleep it’s late.”

 

“It’s early in the morning.”

 

“Yes. I am late and you are early, or something like that. <Go to sleep, dear child.>”

 

“<I’m not a child.>”

 

Ilya movies around to straddle Sergei’s chest. “Do you mind?”

 

“No. What do you want?”

 

Ilya shrugs, his is getting smoother, almost as practised as Sergei’s. Almost as casual, almost as dismissive. But just a little bit jerky, uncertain, Ilya is not ready to give up on life yet.

 

“I want you to concentrate on me.” Ilya says. “I want you to think about me and no one else.” Ilya’s baby sweet breath is on Sergei’s lips as he bends down to be kissed.

 

“Yes.” Sergei says. He doubts he can do that. He half-smiles at Ilya, as he used to half smile at Pavel at the end, as he used to nod to Anna.

 

*     *      *      *        *     *       *       *       *       *      *     *

Sergei is accustomed to long distance travel and phone calls, and really an hour and a half, Atlanta is not that far. He finds he likes Ilya’s place even if he doesn’t entirely fit in there. It is warmer, but less well stocked. In fact it seems remarkably ill equipped for the activity of living, or at least surviving in any degree of comfort.

 

Although he does have a nice television, and an extremely comfortable couch from which Sergei watches the breakfast shows.

 

The coffee cups don’t match, each other or the space around them. Sergei can remember many coffee cups, cups held in pale hands, brought to him in bed, guzzled while waiting for people to arrive people to leave, people to drop off important parcels. Chipped cracked, cups and nails, held by bruised fingers missing nails from slap shots, callused, shaking fingers.

 

He dismisses them all deliberately and holds his Atlanta Thrashers mug out at arms length. If you squint just right the bird on the outside has the haircut of whoever is on the screen. A bald spot, a blonde bouffant from the weather girl, Sergei almost laughs at this.

 

“Why are you holding the cup out? Is there a crack in it or something?”

 

“Yes I think there may be crack in the coffee.” Sergei almost giggles when he says this.

 

“The team gave me a bunch of them.” Ilya rubs a hand over his face that is still puffy from sleep.

 

He smiles idly at Sergei in the room. He stretches his hands over his head his boxers riding dangerously low on his hips. Sergei could be anyone at all, any blonde man in the world. He puts down his coffee and beckoning the sleepy eyed boy over, kisses him awake. Soon they are both lying back in the bed.

 

Sergei does not have television to watch in here and already knows the dimensions of the ceiling, ten tiles across, fifteen down, and instead puzzles over the uneven number of curtain rings holding up the gaudily striped blinds. He strokes Ilya’s hair, down on the out breath, lifting his hand up every time Ilya breathes in. A slow unchanging rhythm. He loses track of how many times.

 

Sergei does not remember falling asleep, but he remembers waking up, being firmly pushed out of the tar of his dreams. He tries to pick up the remote, but being in the wrong house grabs at Ilya instead. For lack of anything better to do Sergei holds his hand and listens to him sleep counting the freckles on his shoulders.

 

*     *      *      *      *     *      *    *      *      *     *      *     *

 

“I’m worried about you.” Dany seems genuinely concerned. “Your phone is always engaged, even first thing in the morning, and you seem to disappear after practise and no-one can find you.”

 

“Who was trying to find me?”

 

Dany smiles. “I was.”

 

“Oh.” But Ilya smiles when he says that. “I was at the gym.”

 

Dany rolls his eyes, “for two days?”

 

Ilya shrugs. Sergei’s shrug, although Dany does not realise it.

 

He repeats, “I was worried about you.” Then looks at Ilya. Who hadn’t moved to leap into Dany’s arms. Ilya guesses he was supposed to be overcome by his concern; he shrugs into the kiss instead. It’s odd, but not unpleasant to feels his fingers trapped in wiry curls instead of sliding though silky hair.

 

Dany pulls back. “Patricia and I broke up.” Ilya just watches him.” I broke up with her; it wasn’t what I really wanted. She didn’t understand me.” Dany says, ‘like you do’ hangs in the air.

 

Ilya can’t stop his delighted smile when Dany says that. He misses Dany’s smirk when he sees that smile and leans down to kiss Ilya again.

 

*     *     *      *      *      *      *     *      *      *     *      *      *   *

 

“How do you know if someone is just using you?” Ilya asks the question softly breaking the silence in the bedroom.

 

I don’t know, what do they want?”

 

“Umm, just to fuck…” Ilya trails off. “I don’t know, he’s not, interested in me I think. Are you?” Ilya stares at the ceiling not looking at Sergei as he asks that question.

 

“Yes.” Sergei says.

 

He is thinking of how someone can use you.

 

“What price do you pay to have someone?” Ilya runs his hands along Sergei’s side.

 

All kinds of prices Sergei thinks. Street prices, higher prices, prices at fancy parties grams and vials and packets and fifths and bottles and speeding tickets.

 

“How much do you have to give?” Ilya touches Sergei’s face.

 

“Everything.” Sergei says. “It is all down to how much you are willing to pay. And I have always been asked that, how much will you pay, how much are you willing to give?” Sergei wonders how much he has given. Twenty percent, thirty percent one hundred and ten percent all the time. “They will always wonder how much are you prepared to give up, how much are you prepared to sacrifice?”

 

“Everything?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Did you.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What is left?”

 

‘Not much’, Sergei thinks, he remembers telling Pavel he would give him everything he wanted. He remembers giving him anything he wanted. The ability to give to take, to flee, to take money out of your pockets as a bribe, as a gift, as payment for services rendered.

 

“Sergei?  Ilya strokes his hand across Sergei’s cheek. “What is left?”

 

Sergei smiles. “What ever is left is left.” He kisses the worried frown between Ilya’s eyes.

 

“I have nothing to give you Ilya, I hope you know that.”

 

“I know. I don’t want anything from you.”

 

“Yes.” Sergei half-smiles at the lack of conviction in Ilya’s voice. And kisses him again, to make him be quiet.

 

Sergei can feel him, his youthful curiosity, his optimism, trying to understand to fix what is broken, to make everything whole in the world. Sergei can feel him, teasing at the edges of his mind; can feel him knocking dust of his emotions. Peering underneath the carpets, under the beds in Sergei’s mind. But underneath all is damaged, faded, salt encrusted wounds from winter driving. The bleeding slash of Anna’s, of Pavel, the cut surrounded by legs. Sergei should have cleaned the scum off earlier, chipped the ice from the windows, it is too late now he thinks.

 

*     *      *     *    *      *    *    *     *     *    *    *     *     *    *

 

“I have to go.”

 

“Already?” Ilya does not mean to whine.

 

“I have to do an interview.”

 

Ilya does not mean to pout. But he does.

 

“You should wait here for me.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I just want to know where you will be I guess.” Dany smiles. He leans forward and tugs some of the skin on Ilya’s neck into his mouth, sucking hard enough to leave a bruise. “Try and be here when I get back? Please? I miss you when you are not here.”

 

Dany rolls off the bed and swiftly dresses, telling Ilya what they can do this evening. Provided of course, that Ilya is here when he gets back.

 

Ilya calls Sergei who is also sitting in a hotel room, although Sergei is not waiting for anything in particular, maybe Draper, but not really.

 

“Can I ask you a question?”

 

“Yes.” Sergei half smiles when he says this.

 

“How do you deal with the media? I mean get them to not hate you?”

 

Sergei is silent. “I am,” he starts slowly, “the single worst person in the world to ask that question.”

 

“Ok.” Ilya sounds so disappointed that Sergei slightly relents.

 

“Why don’t you ask Slava?”

 

“He is not the same player as me.”  A touch of pride in his voice.

 

“Yes.” Sergei doesn’t smile any longer. “Then you have to score a lot of goals. And you have to win lots of trophies.”

 

Ilya is quiet. Then he says, “>will you stop and see me after you have played in LA<?”

 

“Yes.” Sergei half-smiles again. “Learn English, it makes a difference.”

 

“I will.” Ilya says. “Perfect English.”

 

*   *     *     *   *   *      *    *     *    *    *     *     *     *     *

 

“Who was that?” Dany asks when he enters the room and see Ilya disconnecting his cell-phone.

 

“Sergei.” Ilya had briefly considered lying but decided not to.

 

“Again?” Dany smiles, “you are always talking to him. I think you should just go home.”

 

“No." Ilya springs across the bed and grabs his wrist. They hardly ever spend time at Dany’s house. “We were talking about,” he pauses, “the charity thing Igor wants to do for Russian players.”

 

“Really?” Dany puts a lot of disbelief into one word.

 

“Yes.” Ilya replies. “I am sure he would like to have you involved”

 

Dany rolls his eyes. “Fine. I believe you.”

 

And Ilya tilts his head up to accept Dany’s kiss.

 

*     *    *      *     *      *   *    *    *     *      *   *     *    *    *     

 

“I can’t believe that your accusing me of something. I went out for dinner with JR it’s not a big deal. All we did was eat, you’ve been screwing Sergei this whole time.”

 

Ilya is silent, not sure how to deal with Dany’s words. “I wasn’t trying to accuse you, I just wondered where you were.” He says carefully.

 

Dany sighs running his hand though his hair. “What do you want Ilya? Do you want to stay? Do you want this to be just you and me?”

 

Ilya looks down at the blanket, looks at the bare walls of Dany’s room and finally shrugs.

 

Dany climbs onto the bed swinging his legs over Ilya’s. “If it was just you and me, I wouldn’t want to share you with Sergei.”

 

“Sergei and I aren’t…” Ilya stops not sure what the two of them are.

 

Dany leans down and bites Ilya sharply on his bottom lip. “Don’t lie. The two of you have been screwing since New Years.”

 

Dany licks the tingly pink skin he had bitten and stretches Ilya’s hands over his head. “If you’re mine I won’t share you” Dany whispers biting down on Ilya’s neck.

 

“Yes.” Ilya whispers, wriggling his body on the bed under Dany’s.

 

Dany smiles down at him, and quickly strips their clothes off.

 

Ilya can feet the blunt pressure of Dany between his legs, and moves up the bed slightly. “Wait…” He gasps out, “not yet.”

 

“Yes.” Dany say back, “right now.” He bites down slightly on Ilya’s shoulder slowly sliding into him as he holds his hands over his head again.

 

“Please. Not yet.” Ilya whispers He twists his head away slightly as he feels Dany pushing against him.

 

“Ilya, don’t you want me?” Dany’s breath is tickly against Ilya’s ear.

 

“Yes.” Ilya lets himself relax limply against the bed, trying not to fight against Dany, trying not to tighten his muscles, trying to make it easier, for Dany, for himself. “I want you.”

 

Dany marks him, holds him, brands him, “I won’t share “ he whispers, “not with anyone.”

 

“No.” Ilya whispers his eyes are wild darting around his head, the only part of him moving, except his shallow breaths, his frantic whimpers.

 

“You won’t share? Good, you’re mine then.” And Dany arches his hips downward deep into Ilya.

 

*     *      *     *     *      *    *    *    *    *     *     *     *   

 

Ilya wakes Sergei, calling from the bathroom of Dany’s new house, keeping his voice low.

 

“I don’t know what happened. I thought I said no.”

 

Sergei is not awake. He is quiet, deathly so.

 

“Sergei?” Ilya sobs, “What do I do? Are you there?”

 

“Yes.” Sergei says. His voice is barely a whisper. A flood of unfamiliar emotions is coursing through the dusty hallways of his body. The top layer of his skin itches, the fine hairs on his forearms and the back of his neck prickle.

 

“Did you wake me to tell me you screwed up again?” He spits the words out.

 

“I don’t know what happened.”

 

Sergei feels his sleepiness being shoved aside by anger. He is flooded with anger.

 

“Sergei?”

 

“No. Don’t start Pavel.”

 

“It’s Ilya.”

 

“No.”

 

“Yes.” Ilya cries a little bit harder.

 

“For gods sake I can’t pick you up anymore. I won’t take care of anyone else.” No more brothers and fathers and mothers and lovers he thinks. “No more.”

 

“I don’t want you to.” Ilya whispers back in the cracked voice of a baby his voice echoing a little of the tiles in the new bathroom.

 

“What do you want?” Sergei shouts into the phone, “what this time? Someone to pick you up, some/thing/ to pick you up? Money?”

 

“I don’t want anything.”

 

“Don’t Pavel, not now, I am to tired to deal with this.”

 

“Sergei? Do you know who this is?”

 

“I know what you are, don’t play this game, don’t tell lies, I am not going to fall for this again.” Because Sergei has just been talking to Pavel in his dreams, he is changing the script from the movie in his head; he is finally saying some things that should have been said a long time ago.

 

But to the wrong person, and far too late.

 

“Fall for what? I don’t know what to do, do I go back in, do I go away, what do I do?”

 

“You’ll squirm your way out of it I’m sure Pavel.”

 

“Ilya.”

 

“Anna?”

 

“Ilya”.  The boy chokes out. “Il-ya.”

 

“What?” Sergei relaxes the fists his hands had formed, “I’m not… Ilya?” Sergei trembles his muscles clenching and twitching from the emotion running through him.

 

“Yes.” Sergei is breathing harshly into the phone, trying to regain control of his thoughts. “Ilya.” He says more quietly. “Why are you calling me?”

 

But Ilya hangs up the phone and turns it off. He doesn’t want to talk to Sergei anymore, he does not want to leave the phone on and have Sergei not try to call him.

 

Sergei does try to call back, but first he has to run to his bathroom and purge the anger and adrenaline from his body, he can’t work out what was his dream, what was Ilya, if they even spoke, he remembers too many bathrooms, so much spilt blood, too many bruises, offers of money accepted.

 

He slumps back against the wall sick of trying to fight against the past.

 

“Are you sure you want to watch this?

 

“Yes.” And Pavel bends his head almost shyly, a pink flush on his cheeks, shaky hands, eagerness making him clumsy, or he was already coming down.

 

The smooth skin of his upper arm, then a twisted leather belt, then the obscene pink mottled swell of the flesh underneath the tightly tied buckle.

 

The exposed skin, the naked veins. The shiny blade of the needle. The bright pink pinprick of blood. Entry, release, exit.

 

“Yes I wanted to watch.” He says aloud to his bathroom, folding his long legs up to his chest, sitting beside the toilet.

 

“Yes I wanted.” He whispers, dropping his head onto his bare knees, shaking.

 

“Yes Pavel.” He begs, the cool tile of the bathroom settling around his naked shoulders like a cloak.

 

“Yes.” Sergei says.

 

*     *     *      *       *     *    *     *     *     *      *     *    *    *    *

 

“Ilya.” Sergei’s voice is crackly from his raw throat. “Call me back please.”

 

And Ilya does.

 

“Are you ok? What happened?”

 

“I don’t know.” Ilya sighs. “He was asleep so I went home and had a shower.”

 

“That is not what I meant.”

 

They are both silent. 

 

“Will you come to Atlanta?”

 

“Yes.” Sergei says. And he is there that evening missing training angering his coaches who hiss a little and whisper Anna’s name.

 

Igor ignores them and calls Slava.

 

Slava sees the marks on Ilya and screams at Dany after practise. But Dany can’t understand what the fuss is about.

 

“He liked it.” He tells Slava, blushing to the roots of his curly hair at discussing his sex life. “He did, he was begging for it.”

 

“You’re lying.” Slava is so furious he can barely see, can’t focus on the warning looks that Shawn sends his way.

 

“Besides,” Dany goes on; “I mean Ilya is hardly faithful, it isn’t that kind of thing. If you don’t believe he likes it a bit rough sometimes maybe you should talk to your friend Sergei.”

 

Slava rages, shoving Dany into a wall until he has to be pulled off by someone else. He is sent home, but tears over to Ilya’s instead. But the younger Russian won’t let him inside, won’t even open the door.

 

Won’t let him see Sergei who is already there. Who had talked the security guard into letting him in, who had bribed him, since he has money, Sergei thinks, since he is so good at that. Ilya doesn’t say anything to Sergei who helplessly stands in the doorway.

 

“I. Ilya..” Sergei trails off but Ilya tugs him to his bedroom, twelve steps walking backwards.

 

“Please don’t say anything.” Ilya replies dully. “If you don’t have anything to give me I want this.”

 

Sergei acquiesces. He is as gentle as possible, softly trailing his fingers across the fingerprints on Ilya’s wrists. Licking at the bites scattered across Ilya’s chest.

 

Ilya puts his fingers over Sergei’s mouth when he tries to talk. So they are silent, Sergei desperately trying to remind himself that there is nothing to be said anyway. Ilya shudders at his touch and falls into exhausted slumber afterwards.

 

Sergei watches him through out the evening. The pinched frown between his eyes smoothing out the rasping of his breath levelling.

 

By the time the sports news has repeated for the third time Ilya rolls into him, clinging to him, sleeptalking to Dany in a mixture of Russian and English. Sergei can’t listen to this conversation, understanding to clearly what had happened, and instead counts the freckles on Ilya’s shoulders again, guessing at the ones that are hidden under bruises.

 

*      *      *       *     *      *      *     *     *     *     *      *  *    *

 

“Ilya I would never hurt you.”

 

It is like a bad teen movie, Dany is outside Ilya’s door talking on his cell phone to Ilya’s answering machine. He can hear the echo of it from the hallway.

 

“Please let me in.” He knocks on the door again. Dany does not have Sergei’s experience in offering cash to get what he wants. Perhaps he just does not think of it.

 

He has waited a couple of days to come here, wanting things to die down. He doesn’t know where he and Ilya stand, but he wants Slava off his back, wants that anger fizzing from the Russian turned to someone else.

 

Ilya lets him in.

 

He lets Dany hold him.

 

Accepts his apologies.

 

Makes love to him, he thinks, he hopes. Ilya insists on being on top when they are together, even if Dany is inside of him, to control what is happening.

 

Dany smiles at him; rolling onto his side he talks about how they will be road roommates again. Ilya smiles back.

 

Dany wakes Ilya at six the next morning.

 

“I don’t want you to think I am sneaking off.” Dany half smiles; “see I did pay attention to you.” He smiles uncertainly at Ilya’s blank stare.

 

“But my parents are coming down for a few days, and … and it is really boring stuff, like buying curtains and stuff, you would be bored, so I’ll talk to you at practice, yes?”

 

And Dany kisses Ilya swiftly and is out of the building in less than a minute, whistling cheerily, running his hand through his hair.

 

*     *   *     *    *    *      *     *     *     *     *     *      *   *     *

 

Sergei really can’t remember if he has ever been this upset about a scoring slump.

 

“You’re a good player Ilya, it will happen for you.” Sergei repeats for the tenth time.

 

“Well what do I do until then?” Ilya shrugs off the hair playing with his hair and sits cross-legged on the bed next to Sergei.

 

“I don’t know.” Sergei is distracted by his pouting, fascinated by the way lips can shape them selves, slide into a smile, twist into anger, parted spread wide around… “Focus on your defense?” He suggests, starting when Ilya’s lips tighten into a thin line and he climbs off the bed. “That’s what I was told to do when I was your age…”

 

Sergei does not immediately understand what causes Ilya’s eyes to become shuttered, what causes him to stomp off to another part of the house.

 

‘Don’t stomp around my house’, he thinks, although not angrily to himself. ‘Really this is my house.’

 

He takes the time to get dressed properly; Ilya had just pulled on a pair of jeans over his hips and walked out doing them up.

 

Sergei stands in the doorway watching Ilya flip through the channels until he finds the sports station.

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean it like that.”

 

“Sure. Can I watch this?”

 

“Yes. The Wings aren’t playing your team are they?”

 

“Atlanta Sergei. Or they are called the Thrashers.” Ilya concentrates very closely on the screen.

 

“Yes.” They are both quiet. “Are we playing you?”

 

“No.”

 

“What are you doing here then?”

 

Ilya shrinks a little into the chair. “We were playing the Sens,” he says quietly.

 

“Yes.” Sergei says watching the scores scrolling across the bottom of the screen, Valeri’s name jerks him out of his fog, it must have been Valeri he scored for Florida. “Are you cold?” He asks gently, aware at least that it is not quite the right thing to say.

 

“No.” 

 

“Dany got a hat-trick.”

 

“Yes.” Ilya says even more quietly, “Dany is scoring plenty.” He has tucked his legs under himself and is sitting with his head in his arms, leaning against the arm of the chair. Sergei doubts he is really watching curling and goes into the kitchen to make dinner for them both.

 

Sergei has lost himself in the sounds of the brooms on the rink and the silver glint of the knife sawing into the meats and vegetables he holds in his hands. He is considering the wisdom of sharpening the knife when Ilya appears beside him, still shirtless.

 

Sergei motions to the hot water cupboard and Ilya grabs a t-shirt from the top of the pile. It is the grey Stanley Cup winners’ shirt the Wings had been issued for their victory parade.

 

“Is it bad luck to wear this? Like you are not supposed to touch the Stanley Cup unless you are the champion?”

 

Sergei half smiles at Ilya. “I think a shirt is ok, I only wore it for the pictures anyway.”

 

Ilya smiles back and helps, the two are silent until Ilya nicks the top of his finger with a knife cutting celery.

 

Sergei grabs his hand and holds it under the cold tap, holding Ilya around the waist when he tries to squirm away. “Let me fix this.” Sergei says quietly.

 

“You didn’t do anything.” Ilya replies.

 

“Yes. I didn’t.” Sergei replies. The two of them watch the clean water spiralling down the drain.

 

“My mother used to give me iceblocks to suck when I hurt myself when I was a kid.”

 

‘You’re still a kid’, Sergei thinks, even as he says “there is probably candy somewhere, Fedor leaves it around”.

 

Ilya shrugs and Sergei turns him around so their hips are pressed together, he holds Ilya’s wet hand in his, lacing the fingers together.

 

“Does it hurt?” he asks Ilya stretching his arm around so it is on Ilya’s hip and holding him closer.

 

Ilya shakes his hand free and presses it to Sergei’s chest, “I don’t know, does it?”

 

Sergei slides his other arm around Ilya, resting his palm on the back of his neck and sliding his fingers into his hair. There is a single drop of blood that oozes out, spreads across the fibres of the shirt and drains through to the flesh on the other side. A single drop of blood that makes Sergei jerk like it was acid, but he stands still so Ilya can lean against him, feeling the hot wince of the poison wind it’s way through his body, has he been this close to anyone since Anna and Pavel. Has he ever, shared blood, shared clothes.

 

Yes there has been plenty of blood.

 

He pulls Ilya tightly against him and strokes his hair, not moving the hand off his chest.

 

“One day the puck is in the net, and you wonder what all the fuss was about.”

 

“Yes.” Ilya says.

 

“It gets better. It gets easier.”

 

“Da. Yes.” Ilya whispers.

 

Sergei pulls him closer, rocking him slightly in his arms. He rests his forehead against Ilya’s neck. “I promise,” he says softly.

 

“Yes.” Ilya replies. “Yes.”

 

End.

 

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