Chapter Text
May, 2008
***Shane***
"How was practice?" David asks as Shane sits down in the car.
"Good," Shane says.
"It's almost your birthday."
Shane nods his head.
"Your mother and I were wondering if you'd like to have a party. Some pizza, maybe a movie?"
"That sounds fine," Shane says, staring at the window. He doesn't know why his parents want to make such a big deal about it. It's the start of the off season. He's going to have a few days off before it's time to start summer school. He's trying to make his academic load as light as possible for his last two years of school. He is starting juniors. Hockey has always taken up most of his focus, but that is going to be extra true soon.
"Okay!" His dad says brightly. "Yeah, that's great!"
Shane shoots him a slightly confused look at his level of excitement, and then rests his head on the window.
There is silence in the car for a few minutes before his father says, "Are you tired?"
Shane shrugs. "It's fine. The season is almost over, and then there will be a couple of weeks to get ahead on online classes before the first camp of the summer."
"You . . . like hockey, right?"
"What?" Shane says confused and offended.
"I just mean. It's something that takes up a lot of your time, and you've been doing it forever. God knows you're good at it. But you like hockey, right?"
"Yes, dad," Shane says, like he's stupid. David's face is still tense, and Shane turns toward him in confusion, "Am I not supposed to like hockey?"
"You're supposed to like what you want, Shane. You've been on this conveyor belt moving toward a professional hockey career since you were a kid, and I just want to make sure . . . that's something that you actually want. Sometimes it's hard to tell where your mom's ideas and yours end."
"Are you getting a divorce?" Shane says.
David lets out a laugh. "No, kid."
"Okay, good. I'm going to keep playing hockey, and the goal isn't just to be a professional player. The goal is to be the best player in the NHL, and get a bunch of cups."
David smiles, "Yeah, I think that's exactly what is in your future."
***Ilya***
Ilya won the game.
Well, his team won the game. But that's never really the way that his dad looked at it. He seemed to have the impression that Ilya was the only one on the ice, at least if he lost.
Which he didn't today.
Which was good.
He glances at the cars in the parking lot. He's not really expecting anyone to pick him up from the rink. Sometimes Poula likes to act like a good step mother, and she might save him the walk, but most of the time she doesn't really care what happens to him.
Which is clearly what today is. That's probably for the best; it might mean that both she and his father are out of the house.
There is slush on the streets and he trudges through it until he gets to the subway. He takes out a book. Technically a library book although it was so far overdue that at this point it was stolen goods.
He's been learning English. Not that he's gotten as far as he wanted. The alphabet being different slowed him down. He still didn’t really know what some of the sounds the letters made were. The internet was a bit confusing sometimes. Stupid language with a stupid other alphabet. His dad would hate that he was doing this.
His dad had already decided that he was going to play juniors in Moscow (two more years in his father's house) and then play for the Russian league. Just the idea of that made Ilya's stomach hurt. He was going to be sixteen in a couple of weeks. He knew that his best chance of getting to play for the NHL was to get to either Canada or the United States for juniors.
That would of course mean that his whole life was going to be in English soon: contracts, school, and even figuring out how to ask for food or how to get his clothes washed, not to mention the hockey of it all and figuring out plays.
There was also the whole matter of the billet. He was going to end up staying with a stranger, and that idea utterly terrified him. A toddler is crying on the other side of the train car. His mother looks embarrassed, and overwhelmed, but the old man next to the toddler starts pulling faces, and it doesn't take long for the little boy to be laughing.
Most strangers were good. Most strangers would be better than his dad.
Besides, if it was horrible then it was only going to be for a single year, and then he could roll his dice on another family the next year.
He gets off the subway, and walks through the dark streets. He goes around to the back door of the house. The servant door, even though they don't actually have servants. Well, they have people who come in to clean, but not servants like in the old days. It's better to come in this door, because you can get the feel of the house before anyone knows that you're home.
The house is empty though. The house is often empty. Which is good. It's so much worse when people are home. If he'd lost the game his dad would be home, and then there would be silence or yelling or throwing or hitting. He never knew which one to get or how to get the better ones.
There would be a bunch of yes sirs.
Not that that ever saved him.
It was nice not to have to do that tonight. He peaks into the nearby rooms just in case everyone is being quiet in the dark, even though that is something that has literally never happened. Then he goes to the fridge. No left overs today. But there are ingredients for a sandwich at least. He makes it, and then takes it to his bedroom. Wrapped in a paper towel so the fact that he was eating in his room wouldn't be obvious later. It was the sort of thing that only seemed to be against the rules about half the time, but you never knew which half you were going to end up with.
He locks the door. He knows that if his dad tries to open the door and it's locked he'll be in trouble, but his dad is noisy and Ilya always gets it opened before that. He likes the feeling of having the door locked. He likes to be able to actually feel safe when he is.
He opens up his laptop, and types in a long memorized website. The application to be billeted. He takes a breath, and starts to fill it out. After all, it's the start of summer, and he could be traveling half way across the world in a couple of months.
He has to use google translate a couple of times. But he knows to translate it word by word instead of letting it eat an entire sentence. He reads it over two times, and then he sends it off.
Well, that's that then. He doesn't have any control over what happens now. He touches the necklace around his neck, and says a little prayer. If his mother is still somewhere in the afterlife maybe she can save him now. she tried to save him when she was alive, and maybe he'll finally be able to do it now.
He rarely takes the English book out of his bag at home. But he knows no one is home, and there are still a few hours before bedtime, so he pulls it out, and forms the English words slowly. There is a colorful picture of a kitchen that looks like it's from the 1970s with English labels. His knowledge of English is still poor enough that he has to keep a finger on the page which tells him what each of the English letters sounds like in Russian. He struggles through the world for refrigerator so long he gives up. But he manages to memorize the rest of the words.
He hears a sound a long way off, and he shoves the book back in his bag, and is careful to close it. Then he rushes to open the door. He knows it's his brother by the sound of the steps. He also knows that his brother is drunk.
Drunk is better than high, but it's not good. Alexi doesn't come home all the time. He's got his own apartment, and he stays at the houses of women that he's sleeping with. But he still comes home. When he gets drunk or high at someplace that is closer to his childhood home than it is to his apartment.
He bursts the door open. "Hello little brother."
"Alexi," Ilya says, not looking at him.
"What are you doing?"
Ilya shrugs.
Alexi turns to the computer. "Looking at faggot things?"
Ilya hopes that he closed out of the tab before he shut the computer. He thinks he did. He really hopes that he did. It's not like his family isn't going to know, but the later they figure this out the better it is going to be for him.
There is nothing on the computer when Alexi opens it up.
"At least you are smart enough to close out of it. But you're still probably going to go to jail for being a faggot. I should probably fix you. Get you a nice girl to fuck."
Ilya's stomach turns, but he doesn't say anything. He could fuck a girl. But he doesn't want to be forced to do anything, and much more he doesn't want his brother to try to force some girl into something.
"How did the game go?"
"We won," Ilya says.
"Yeah," Alexi smiles, "Or else dad would be here wouldn't he?"
"Seasons over now," Ilya says.
"Ah, so now you are going to be useless all summer."
"Just like you are useless all the time?" Ilya asks.
"God, you're such a waste of space. No wonder your mom couldn't stick around for you."
Ilya sees red, but he doesn't move. Alexi continues to talk, but Ilya goes somewhere else in his head. America or Canada maybe. Some place where there was going to be safe and peaceful and where these people can't reach him anymore.
Eventually his brother leaves the room, and Ilya goes through the motions of getting ready for bed. It's still hours before it would be a logical time for him to do that, but he still crawls into bed.
It's summer. So no school tomorrow. No hockey tomorrow either. Maybe he can go to Svetlana's for a bit. Or a park. Or . . . just walk around.
Be anywhere but here.