(fic) The beat your heart missed two - The Hanged Man
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.
Slava and Ilya don't 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. ”
“”
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
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.
Slava and Ilya don't 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. ”
“”
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