Let's hear it for the boy.
Alright, I've finally got some more Lightning fic for the masses. However, this one is centered around the underdog of the team - Ruslan Fedotenko.
To understand this story, background information contained in this article is essential. Mostly, you need to understand that Feds' hometown, Kiev, was only 90 miles away from the Chernobyl disaster...and the 21st anniversary of that disaster is April 26th...tomorrow.
This is a one-shot of Fedotenko's feelings just 21 years later. x-poxted to i_wanna_puck
Title: Twenty-one
Author: Alyssa nera_fiore
Rating: PG
Characters: Ruslan Fedotenko
Disclaimer: I do not own the Tampa Bay Lightning, Ruslan Fedotenko, or any other related characters, items, etc. All is fiction.
Twenty-one.
By Alyssa D'Angelo
Tonight this is war
Allegiance of faith to the dead and shallow
-I Am Ghost, "Ship of Pills and Needed Things"
Twenty-one years. He admired what could happen in twenty-one long, solid years.
Gazing at the small, musty, black and white, water-stained photograph in his hand nearly brought tears to his eyes. Ruslan Fedotenko forced the corners of his lips up into the smile, as he quietly inhaled deeply through his nose and blocked the tears from coming to his eyes. He knew he was alone and that he didn't have to hide these emotions from anyone, but still he felt he'd done enough crying over the matter. Twenty-one years ago the picture in his hand had been taken in front of St. Andrew's Church in Kiev. The seven year old version of himself smiled back, alongside his brother Vitalie and his parents. David wasn't even born yet - and wasn't even a thought at the time the picture was taken - long before the destruction, the shelters, the drills, the sickness, the syrup, and the tears.
Tenderly, Ruslan moved the picture and held it close to his heart and slowly let out a large breath. His chest quivered as he exhaled. Twenty-one years ago they were all so happy and safe outside of St. Andrew's, even though it was only moments before the helicopters began flying overhead. The photograph had captured that moment and seemed to divide time in two. Still, as the images flooded his mind, he continually kept his face from falling. He only looked at this picture once a year. Only on April twenty-sixth.
Debbie didn't recognize the date that morning, and Ruslan was ever grateful that she didn't as she left to do some "last-minute shopping". Every year he anticipated the date, but still it never got to him until he'd glance at the photo. Still, the photo was a necessity. Tonight, he and Debbie would be leaving for Chicago to stay with her brother-in-law, and his own family would still be left alone over in Ukraine. Twenty-one years ago, the thought of living in the United States, playing in the National Hockey League and leaving his family behind wouldn't have frightened him at all. Now though, leaving them just ninety miles outside of the site of Chernobyl did nothing but sicken him. The toxins, the poisons, the filth that they were exposed to every second of their lives was simply killing them while he listened to John Tortorella lecture. The irony disgusted him. Instead, he just let freeze, like ice in his veins.
Ruslan knew it wasn't selfish of him to be thinking this way, but he couldn't help it, he always did. His family was one of the few to at least survive the disaster. Playing in the NHL was his dream, and even when times were tough his family hadn't done anything but support his endeavor. He absolutely loved his life and his wife, and everything he'd achieved; he knew he should and deserved to be happy. However, he couldn't relieve the thought of being here, making thousands - millions, even - of dollars, while his family sat there wasting away in Kiev. He sent them money, he'd applied for citizenship. When Vitalie got sick, Ruslan paid for his medical treatments. It just never seemed enough. Twenty-one years later, and nothing would ever be enough to erase the tragedy and the damage it had inflicted on his family.
Ruslan clenched the picture tighter though not bending it. He kept it in the bottom of his top dresser drawer amongst a plethora of odds and ends from Ukraine - little remnants of his childhood and home that held slight significance since he'd moved to the USA for good. The picture was undoubtedly the most important of any of them though - and certainly the most emotionally painstaking. Even since winning the Cup and marrying his wife he couldn't recall a time when he was as happy as he was in this picture, taken twenty-one years ago before the Chernobyl disaster. Even with his current success, he couldn't gather enough happiness to lift the weight off his shoulders.
Today was the only day of the year he really let affect him...the anniversary. Today was the only day where Ruslan truly let the weight crush him. After all, he was only human - he didn't need it reassured. Every day of the year except today he woke up happy, excited, and ready for the day. He tried to life each day as his last, and he enjoyed every moment of it, especially on the ice. That was why he was always smiling during the game, even when the Bolts lost. Every game was a new game, and every shift was a new shift, and he knew to seize them all. He looked forward to challenges and never regretted failures. He truly lived this philosophy every moment of his being. However, on April twenty-sixth the curse set upon him only twenty-one years ago seemed to hold him just a little bit stronger.
Underneath it all, he knew he could be sick, dying. Hell, they were all dying, but the thought of knowing his death could've been delayed didn't help. The mere thought seemed to light a fire under him though - constantly reminding him that each day could be his last, that each game could be his final. Still, it was utterly terrifying. He played his absolute worst this past season, and he wondered if it was because he was finally slowing down, decomposing away inside. What was worse was that every time he'd lie in bed with his wife, making love, he knew he'd never be able to produce a child in the process; it just wasn't safe. He was only twenty-eight, but the thought of never having one of his own call him "Papa" was heartbreaking.
In fact, it was incredibly heartbreaking, Ruslan wasn't going to deny it. That's why he only let this affect him once a year. Vitalie and Mama allowed it to affect themselves too much, and it only seemed to make them sick. They were sick enough without doing that. Ruslan swore he'd never do the same; in fact, he'd use it to his advantage.
Still, as he looked at the photograph once again, smelling of dust, he couldn't help the tears from welling up. His body was shivering, and finally he gave up and let some of the tears roll down his face. He hated to break down over this, but he just couldn't stand it. All the bitterness that burned inside of him from twenty-one years ago was released in the form of tiny, salty droplets. His face burned its usual shade of red - the shade it was stained back then.
Every year he couldn't believe how much his life had changed since April twenty-sixth of eighty-six. Every year Ruslan practically couldn't get over how lucky he really was. Every day brought him something new, it seemed, regardless of the shadowing curse that haunted him and weighed down his shoulders. He never tried to stuff it down, only to acknowledge that it was there. That's what he was doing now. In a few minutes the tears would dry up and he'd prepare a few letters and pictures to send over to David and the rest of his family to display at home in Kiev. Twenty-one years ago, they should've died, and here he was, playing in the NHL.
Sometimes though, he thinks if he could go back and trade it all, he would. Ruslan sighed, replacing the picture in its rightful spot at the bottom of the drawer, knowing full well that if he could trade his NHL career in order to prevent Chernobyl from happening, he would. He reached up on top of the dresser, and grabbed a tissue to blot his eyes and wipe his nose. They'd all survived another year, but still he decided to take it one day at a time. The goal in the back of his mind was only to make it twenty-two.
To understand this story, background information contained in this article is essential. Mostly, you need to understand that Feds' hometown, Kiev, was only 90 miles away from the Chernobyl disaster...and the 21st anniversary of that disaster is April 26th...tomorrow.
This is a one-shot of Fedotenko's feelings just 21 years later. x-poxted to i_wanna_puck
Title: Twenty-one
Author: Alyssa nera_fiore
Rating: PG
Characters: Ruslan Fedotenko
Disclaimer: I do not own the Tampa Bay Lightning, Ruslan Fedotenko, or any other related characters, items, etc. All is fiction.
Twenty-one.
By Alyssa D'Angelo
Tonight this is war
Allegiance of faith to the dead and shallow
-I Am Ghost, "Ship of Pills and Needed Things"
Twenty-one years. He admired what could happen in twenty-one long, solid years.
Gazing at the small, musty, black and white, water-stained photograph in his hand nearly brought tears to his eyes. Ruslan Fedotenko forced the corners of his lips up into the smile, as he quietly inhaled deeply through his nose and blocked the tears from coming to his eyes. He knew he was alone and that he didn't have to hide these emotions from anyone, but still he felt he'd done enough crying over the matter. Twenty-one years ago the picture in his hand had been taken in front of St. Andrew's Church in Kiev. The seven year old version of himself smiled back, alongside his brother Vitalie and his parents. David wasn't even born yet - and wasn't even a thought at the time the picture was taken - long before the destruction, the shelters, the drills, the sickness, the syrup, and the tears.
Tenderly, Ruslan moved the picture and held it close to his heart and slowly let out a large breath. His chest quivered as he exhaled. Twenty-one years ago they were all so happy and safe outside of St. Andrew's, even though it was only moments before the helicopters began flying overhead. The photograph had captured that moment and seemed to divide time in two. Still, as the images flooded his mind, he continually kept his face from falling. He only looked at this picture once a year. Only on April twenty-sixth.
Debbie didn't recognize the date that morning, and Ruslan was ever grateful that she didn't as she left to do some "last-minute shopping". Every year he anticipated the date, but still it never got to him until he'd glance at the photo. Still, the photo was a necessity. Tonight, he and Debbie would be leaving for Chicago to stay with her brother-in-law, and his own family would still be left alone over in Ukraine. Twenty-one years ago, the thought of living in the United States, playing in the National Hockey League and leaving his family behind wouldn't have frightened him at all. Now though, leaving them just ninety miles outside of the site of Chernobyl did nothing but sicken him. The toxins, the poisons, the filth that they were exposed to every second of their lives was simply killing them while he listened to John Tortorella lecture. The irony disgusted him. Instead, he just let freeze, like ice in his veins.
Ruslan knew it wasn't selfish of him to be thinking this way, but he couldn't help it, he always did. His family was one of the few to at least survive the disaster. Playing in the NHL was his dream, and even when times were tough his family hadn't done anything but support his endeavor. He absolutely loved his life and his wife, and everything he'd achieved; he knew he should and deserved to be happy. However, he couldn't relieve the thought of being here, making thousands - millions, even - of dollars, while his family sat there wasting away in Kiev. He sent them money, he'd applied for citizenship. When Vitalie got sick, Ruslan paid for his medical treatments. It just never seemed enough. Twenty-one years later, and nothing would ever be enough to erase the tragedy and the damage it had inflicted on his family.
Ruslan clenched the picture tighter though not bending it. He kept it in the bottom of his top dresser drawer amongst a plethora of odds and ends from Ukraine - little remnants of his childhood and home that held slight significance since he'd moved to the USA for good. The picture was undoubtedly the most important of any of them though - and certainly the most emotionally painstaking. Even since winning the Cup and marrying his wife he couldn't recall a time when he was as happy as he was in this picture, taken twenty-one years ago before the Chernobyl disaster. Even with his current success, he couldn't gather enough happiness to lift the weight off his shoulders.
Today was the only day of the year he really let affect him...the anniversary. Today was the only day where Ruslan truly let the weight crush him. After all, he was only human - he didn't need it reassured. Every day of the year except today he woke up happy, excited, and ready for the day. He tried to life each day as his last, and he enjoyed every moment of it, especially on the ice. That was why he was always smiling during the game, even when the Bolts lost. Every game was a new game, and every shift was a new shift, and he knew to seize them all. He looked forward to challenges and never regretted failures. He truly lived this philosophy every moment of his being. However, on April twenty-sixth the curse set upon him only twenty-one years ago seemed to hold him just a little bit stronger.
Underneath it all, he knew he could be sick, dying. Hell, they were all dying, but the thought of knowing his death could've been delayed didn't help. The mere thought seemed to light a fire under him though - constantly reminding him that each day could be his last, that each game could be his final. Still, it was utterly terrifying. He played his absolute worst this past season, and he wondered if it was because he was finally slowing down, decomposing away inside. What was worse was that every time he'd lie in bed with his wife, making love, he knew he'd never be able to produce a child in the process; it just wasn't safe. He was only twenty-eight, but the thought of never having one of his own call him "Papa" was heartbreaking.
In fact, it was incredibly heartbreaking, Ruslan wasn't going to deny it. That's why he only let this affect him once a year. Vitalie and Mama allowed it to affect themselves too much, and it only seemed to make them sick. They were sick enough without doing that. Ruslan swore he'd never do the same; in fact, he'd use it to his advantage.
Still, as he looked at the photograph once again, smelling of dust, he couldn't help the tears from welling up. His body was shivering, and finally he gave up and let some of the tears roll down his face. He hated to break down over this, but he just couldn't stand it. All the bitterness that burned inside of him from twenty-one years ago was released in the form of tiny, salty droplets. His face burned its usual shade of red - the shade it was stained back then.
Every year he couldn't believe how much his life had changed since April twenty-sixth of eighty-six. Every year Ruslan practically couldn't get over how lucky he really was. Every day brought him something new, it seemed, regardless of the shadowing curse that haunted him and weighed down his shoulders. He never tried to stuff it down, only to acknowledge that it was there. That's what he was doing now. In a few minutes the tears would dry up and he'd prepare a few letters and pictures to send over to David and the rest of his family to display at home in Kiev. Twenty-one years ago, they should've died, and here he was, playing in the NHL.
Sometimes though, he thinks if he could go back and trade it all, he would. Ruslan sighed, replacing the picture in its rightful spot at the bottom of the drawer, knowing full well that if he could trade his NHL career in order to prevent Chernobyl from happening, he would. He reached up on top of the dresser, and grabbed a tissue to blot his eyes and wipe his nose. They'd all survived another year, but still he decided to take it one day at a time. The goal in the back of his mind was only to make it twenty-two.