Ilya always starts with hockey. 

I think Vanier is going to be traded, the text reads. 

Svetlana thumbs out of the text thread and googles Vanier’s name. He’s a subpar d-man on the Raiders, good at fighting and swearing and getting clipped on Tik Tok. Not much else. His current stats are terrible, despite a promising five years with Minnesota preceding his trade to Boston. 

Svetlana remembers him now. He’d let Ilya take a nasty hit in last month’s game against Florida that Ilya still feels in his ribs, and now Vanier had gotten himself injured off-ice in a stupid car accident that reeks of a hushed-up DWI. He’ll be on IR for the next two games at least, making him an all-around bad investment.

Another text pops up just as Svetlana starts her response to Ilya. She taps the notification without thinking. Elise’s text is one lonely white bubble amongst a sea of Svetlana’s blue messages. 

Sorry babe, the message reads, this weekend’s no good. I’ve got Clara’s dance recital and Mark is being a bastard about it. You know how he gets. His moods. 

Svetlana sets the phone down on her desk. It’s a very organized space, clear of clutter. She files her paperwork early, puts all the pens back in the pen cup. Her web browser currently has four tabs, her absolute maximum. Her desktop background is a Porsche 911, so that her clients know that cars are her personal interest as well as professional. She sips her iced coffee and puts it down on a condensation-proof coaster. 

Another text from Elise flies in: 

I’ll make it up to you, baby. It’s the kids… you know how it is. 

Svetlana doesn’t want children. She hasn’t been around a child since she was one herself, but for some reason she knows about this particular child’s dance career. She knows that Clara did ballet before switching to tap, and likes it better. She knows that Clara isn’t really good at either one, but it isn’t about that for Elise. She wants her daughter to be well-rounded. To appreciate aesthetics and art. It isn’t about being good at it. 

“Mark doesn’t get it,” Elise had said, her head pillowed on Svetlana’s stomach. There’d been too much sun coming in through the window, burning a strip of Svetlana’s skin as she ran her fingers through Elise’s hair. “He thinks that if Clara isn’t perfect at something then we should pull her out of it. She’s only ten. She doesn’t need to be great at everything, right?”

Svetlana had stroked her fingers through Elise’s hair. Curly, like hers, but irregular and blonde. 

“Of course not,” Svetlana had said, “If she likes to dance, then she should dance. It’s a wonderful thing to do as a child.”

Elise had turned on her side, smiling at her. “Mark’s such a sports guy, he hates sitting through the recitals, even though it’s only twice a year. He’s all about winning. Dancing is different, it’s about expression, not perfection.”

“Yes, expression. It’s an art.”

“I knew you would understand.”

Svetlana had been a dancer growing up. Her teachers hadn’t spoken about expression, only perfection. Perfect, straight lines. Perfect feet, turned out until she could feel the ball of her joint in the hip socket. Pointed toes and an arched sole that was never pretty enough, never the style the teachers were looking for. If her father hadn’t been so important, they might have said it outright. But her father’s position didn’t stop their criticism. Leg higher, Svetlana, higher. Svetlana had left every class wanting to call Ilya. He would fill her in on everything he learned at hockey practice, and then teach her during free skate at the neighborhood rink. That hour each week was better than all the dance classes combined. 

“I could listen to you talk about anything,” Svetlana had said, brushing the curls away from Elise’s ears, tucking them behind the shell, until she could examine her trim profile. “Everyday, if I could.”

Elise’s expression changed, it always does  when Svetlana talks like that. Sometimes for the better—a melting of Elise’s artifice—but sometimes it led to a hardening, a darkening, a withdrawing of Elise completely. Honestly is punished in situations like this. Svetlana should know better, by now. 

“Why do you always make everything so hard?” Elise had said, using momentum to vault out of bed. She pulls on a robe, and disappeared into the shower. And that had been the last time Svetlana had seen her. 

Svetlana reads her own previous texts. 

I’m sorry, I understand why you were upset.
I understand what we’re doing here, I don’t want to put you in an awkward position.
Can we meet up soon? I know this is a busy time, with the girls in school. 

You’re so sweet, Svetlana. What would I do without you?

Luckily, I have a some time off, so you don’t have to find out. 

Svetlana had sent the last text almost two weeks ago, and Elise’s flippant answer arriving so randomly feels like a slap. She doesn't answer. She’ll answer tomorrow. Maybe she’ll never answer at all. 

Svetlana switches to Ilya’s thread. 

I think Vanier is going to be traded

She responds with what he wants to hear: 

So sad for Vanier. Want to celebrate?

Svetlana applies another layer of lip gloss in the car. Ilya is occupied with his phone, scrolling through a text thread labeled Jane, but not sending any texts. He looks at that thread a lot, more than any of his other regulars. She probes him about it, but he isn’t in the mood to play. Hadn’t been in the mood to play, even when Svetlana had chirped him about watching the Shane Hollander country-boy documentary like it held state secrets. 

“It’s not serious,” he says when she makes an effort to give a fuck. 

“Okay. Fine. Sasha says hi,” she says, because she knows it will annoy him. He doesn’t take the bait. 

Sometimes, Ilya is no fun at all. 

Ilya switches to Instagram, scrolling the thread up and down as if he is looking at anything. As if Edmonton’s official Instagram featuring an interview with their Neanderthal goalie promoting a charity focused on curing babies of ugly noses or some such nonsense is the pinnacle of interest from him. He’s annoying when he’s like this: dark and brooding and thinking too much. Thinking that he is the only man on Earth to ever experience an emotion. Thinking that no one is aware of his sulking. 

“I wouldn’t have invited you if I knew you were in a mood,” Svetlana clips.

Ilya locks his phone and undoes his seat belt. He slides across the seat and nuzzles against Svetlana’s neck. The tip of his nose is cold. 

“I don’t think you are very fun either.” Ilya presses his lips behind her ear. She tilts her head, giving him slightly better access.

“Ah, this is that famous Ilya Rozanov seduction technique? Tell a girl she is boring?”

He flicks her earlobe with his tongue and backs up. There’s something strange in his eyes. They’re unmoored. With fondness, but not for her specifically. 

“Sometimes it works,” he says quietly. 

Svetlana rolls her eyes and shoves him away. “Ugh.”

Ilya throws up his hands, raises his voice a notch. “What, Sveta? What did I do now?”

The Uber pulls up to the club and Svetlana opens the door, throwing him off balance because he’s technically still leaning against her, letting him decide if he’s going to scramble after her or go back to his own door. She doesn’t look back to see, but by the time he falls in step with her she lets him loop their arms together as they go to the front of the line. Whatever. It’s not like she wants to be mad all night. 

The bouncer knows Ilya and lets them in, but playfully warns that if Ilya keeps letting Montreal win the cup then he might revoke his privileges. Ilya calls back that it’s all part of his master plan. A long game.

“Getting your ass kicked two years in a row in the conference finals is one hell of a strategy, Ilyushka,” Svetlana says as they weave through the people stupidly congregating near the door. 

“Whatever. Shots?” Ilya asks. Sometimes they do a table and bottle service, but this had been spontaneous, and going to the bar is sometimes half the fun. Boston isn’t exactly known for its clubs, and it’s better to lean into the local culture. 

Svetlana waves her assent. “Make sure they shake it with ice, if I have to drink piss warm vodka I’m booking a flight home.”

She has her limits, of course. 

The shots are foggy from cold when Ilya returns. They clink glasses and drink, beginning their survey. They’re playing trash house music; it’s not even ten yet so they must be letting the DJ promote their own shit. Boston College kids writhe around on the dancefloor, some of them dressed well but others in denim, like it’s brunch. She’ll never understand American fashion ideals. 

Svetlana’s phone buzzes in her pocket. It’s Slack, one of her co-workers blowing up her phone. 

Did you seal the deal on the Morretti account? Phil is on my ass, Svet. 

She types quickly, squinting at the too-bright screen in the low red and blue lights of the club. 

No, they’re dragging their feet. We have lunch on Monday to discuss details.
They want some special order bullshit– lateral windows like something they saw in a music video.
Our usual body workers don’t do it I had to put in a request to the Milan office. 

What did they say?

Nothing, Milan is asleep. And they don’t work in the evening anyway.
We won’t hear back from them until Monday, which is when the lunch is.

This is really going to fuck me over if we can’t close this deal before Monday.
Can you do a quick Skype call to discuss options?

I am also off the clock, Britt. 

Fine. I’ll deal with it. 

Svetlana locks her phone, chewing her lip. Britt is annoying on a good day, insufferable on a Friday night when Svetlana is just trying to forget about her pointless job for a few hours. 

Ilya is gone, already on the dance floor with some blonde in a denim mini skirt and giant hoop earrings. She’s got her arms around his neck, playing with his curls and laughing at one of his stupid jokes judging by wide grin on his face. Svetlana needs a real drink anyway. 

Ilya joins her at the bar after a while, sweaty with half his shirtbuttons undone. His cross glints in the blue can light above them, tangled with a lock of chest hair. He looks good, she has to admit. He wears ennui well. 

“What happened to blondie?”

Ilya orders another shot and a beer, and then leans in to speak English in a comical Boston accent: “Oh my Gahd, she’s just here with her frieeendddddsss, Sveta, she just wahnts to daaaance, Sveta, why are guys only after one thing?”

Svetlana nearly snorts her drink out of her nose, the prosecco burning her throat as she coughs her laugh. She leans against him. He smooths his hand around her waist; it pulls at her dress but he fixes it. He doesn’t leave messes, her Ilyusha. He knows what things are supposed to look like. He always tidies up. 

“Where does Jane live?” Svetlana asks after they’re done laughing. 

Ilya tenses, but doesn’t blow her off this time. “Montreal. I was trying to set something up with her before. She can be… difficult. It’s a weird thing. I don’t mean to be weird about it to you.”

“It’s fine. And she will come around,” Svetlana says blandly.

Ilya squeezes her waist. “Are you okay?” 

There’s a missed call from Elise lighting up her notifications. Svetlana’s chest hurts after laughing so hard. 

“I don’t want to dance sober,” she says as her response. 

Svetlana reaches into her bra, pulls out a little slip of paper. There’s two tablets folded in there. Ilya opens his mouth for one, and then kisses her, like a bad Euro-porno. The bitter pill lands in her mouth, so she gives him the spare. 

“Ready?” Ilya asks, holding out his hand. 

She’s drawn out onto the floor, and soon the music doesn’t sound so bad. She might even like one or two of the songs, once they start playing something with words. 

The pills aren’t Svetlana’s usual cup of tea, but she’d gotten them from someone at work. They make the packed dancefloor seem like a rolling ocean, all its occupants friendly and well-meaning like the residents of a cartoon coral reef. She kisses a girl in a tight Harvard t-shirt that had been cut off to reveal her midriff despite the snow outside, and then a dark-haired boy with a nose ring who gripped her waist so hard she felt her spine press into her stomach. 

She makes her way back to Ilya, after a time. 

They dance, and Ilya spins her, like they are a couple in an old movie and not two overgrown kids dirty dancing in a trashy Boston club in a random neighborhood next to a shuttered SoulCycle. He spins her again and kisses her knuckles like he used to outside of school when they were fourteen. He would always ask for a kiss— he was one of those boys who wanted to kiss, who wanted to charm the girls and make them smile before he fucked them, like it made him special. More evolved. 

But you are special, Sveta. We don’t even have to kiss, if you don’t want to. I just want to hear you talk about hockey.

Usually, Svetlana wants to kiss, even now, but especially her younger self, starving from ballet, starving from missing her mother, starving from trying to be Russian when she could never look Russian enough. No would would say it outright, not with her Father being the man he is, but she is hungry for the truth. Ilya makes her feel less hungry. Even now, when she is something close to a grown woman.

But Ilya can’t be around all the time, can’t anchor her to the Earth when he is barely tethered himself. Sometimes Ilya doesn’t answer, her texts and calls piling up in his phone until she knows he’s doing it on purpose. Sometimes he calls too much, and during those days Svetlana starts to hate the burr and grate of his voice—it’s like home, a home that never leaves you, when you take a friend into your new life. And Svetlana never stays home for long. 

Elise had been something new. Something to break up the monotony of hook-ups and work and Ilya’s fluctuating moods. Elise husband was letting her try an open relationship after finding her with another woman at their Palm Springs house. She’d been in Boston on business and decided she needed a new car. That she was going to treat herself. 

She hadn’t bought a car, treating herself to Svetlana instead. 

And it’s not as if Svetlana hates the trips out to San Francisco. Elise always pays, always shows her a good time in bed and out of it. She tells Svetlana that she is special and that she is her heart. She handles Svetlana just rough enough, fingers and mouth unrelenting, until Svetlana forgets that it isn’t real, isn’t a permanent thing, and never could be. 

The ocean rolls and rolls and then Svetlana is outside, the Boston winter pressing at her skin, and instead of Ilya’s hand in hers she holds her phone. It registers that she is yelling and screaming and sobbing into it as people shuffle uncomfortably by her. Fuck them. 

“I am your heart! Fucking bullshit, Elise—ah, yes, yes, da, I love you I love you I love you— it is all you say, as if that means anything when you can leash me like a dog.” Svetlana pauses to breathe, letting Elise fill the silence only briefly. “You think I’m stupid, just a young stupid thing— what? I don’t care that I’m speaking in Russian, Elise, you don’t understand me anyway, I am only your toy, or your therapist, something to fuck and complain to when your husband pisses you off —”

A retching sound pulls her focus. Ilya kneels on the pavement, throwing up into a storm drain. She doesn’t even remember him drinking that much. A beer, maybe? She looks at her phone while Elise starts yelling back—2 am, so they closed the club, probably had to be escorted out, and that’s why there are so many ugly people on the sidewalk right now. 

“Don’t even bother calling, Svetlana, we’re done,” are Elise’s last words before the line goes dead.

Svetlana stares at the black screen, a hooting gaggle of frat boys surging by her like a freight train. She puts her phone in her bra. It pokes halfway out, which she thinks looks trashy, but her dress doesn’t have pockets. She stoops down, wobbling on her heels, trying to pull all of Ilya’s stupid meathead weight to his feet. 

“Wha—” he says, thankfully pretty clean despite his foul-smelling mouth. He’d managed to puke straight and keep it off his clothes, at least. “What time is it?”

“Late. The club is closed.”

“I have to get you home,” Ilya slurs, melting into stumbling chivalry, rubbing her arm. He holds her by the small of her back like her father does when he squires her around state dinners. “I have to take care of you.”

“Fucking Christ.” She shakes him off, opening the Uber app on her phone. She gets the cheapest one she can find, hoping that it’s also the fastest and most nearby, and sure enough, the shitty Rav4 pulls up before Ilya can start waxing poetic about their childhood. 

“Do you remember how in the spring time we would—”

She pushes his head down so that he doesn’t whack it on the car door. “Just get in, asshole.”

“Asshole!” This strikes Ilya as suddenly hilarious, and he throws his head back laughing as Svetlana lands with an unattractive thud in her own seat. She’s not putting on the fucking seatbelt. 

The Uber driver turns around, wearing a Red Sox hat because it’s the only thing men wear in this cesspool. “Holy shit! Is that the guy from the Raiders?”

“No.” Svetlana is already typing on her phone. To Ilya. 

Want to fuck when we get back? 

Ilya fumbles for his phone and looks at her text. He’s sort of half-slumped into her anyway. He looks up at her, eyes clear like the sky. 

Maybe it’s relief? Familiarity? God, he is pretty. Prettiest in the middle of the night as Svetlana’s heart breaks against walls of her chest.

He nods. Eager. Well, at least someone is hungry for her. 

They speak English in bed, mostly, a change they’d made when they were both working on honing their English. Mostly Ilya. Svetlana didn’t cheat in English class, like him. There’s a clarity to it. You see people fucking in movies in English and everyone says the same lines: 

“Don’t stop, that’s it, right there, keep going—”

It’s so good, she’s so close and Ilya is driving into her like a machine. She’s not too wet, she hates when there’s no friction and his cock feels like nothing in her pussy. It’s just right, she’s just high enough still for it to feel slightly euphoric, but then Ilya tenses and shifts his knees on the bed. He must have been slipping, not trying to be a jerk, but Svetlana smacks his shoulder when the sensation disappears. 

“Why the fuck would you move, fuck,” Svetlana whines in Russian as the one feeling of pleasure she’d had all night dissipates and her orgasm up and relocates farther away than Moscow. “I was so close, Ilya.”

“Fuck fuck, sorry,” he shakes his head, still foggy despite being hard as a rock inside her. “I don’t know why you even want to be around me right now. I’m fucking—.”

She grips his shoulders, rolls her hips beneath him. “No self-pity until you make me come.”

He pulls out and eats her out instead, but it still takes longer than she likes. Her body feels numb, like his mouth is sucking at a block of wood, but a combination of flat-tongue and riding his face does the trick, and while the release isn’t perfect, it caps off the night. She turns on her stomach then and he fucks her from behind, kissing her back as he comes inside the condom. 

They lie flat after, both of them staring at the ceiling. Svetlana’s phone buzzes on the side table. It’s on 5%. There's four texts waiting, all from Elise. 

I’m sorry, baby. 
I didn’t mean it. 
You just surprised me.
Let’s talk about it tomorrow?

Ilya has no one texting him. His phone might be gone, lost in the club or sitting in the kitchen with his jacket and Svetlana’s shoes. He doesn’t embroil himself in the same kind of messes as Svetlana, he doesn’t let rich women whisper words of love to him in secluded cabins their husbands hate. No one is complaining about their daughter’s dance recital to him. Any yet, he’s trying to set up a long term hook-up with his Montreal Jane and looks just as heartbroken over it. Svetlana doesn’t know who has it worse. 

“Should I marry you?” Ilya asks suddenly, blindly taking her hand.

Svetlana barks a laugh, tossing her phone on the night table. “Are you asking God? Because I will fucking kill you myself.”

He sits up on an elbow, looking at her. “I’m not asking anyone. It’s stupid. But.” His mouth twists. Svetlana stays quiet. It’s been a hell of night. She will allow him this moment of sincerity. “You are dear to me. You know this, yes?”

She rubs his arm, the fine blond hair tickling her palm. “Yes, I know.”

He wets his lips. She’d made him brush his teeth and use mouth wash three times under her supervision before kissing her. He is an obedient thing, when it comes to getting affection. He’d always wanted to kiss the girls. And the prettiest boys. But she doesn’t make him talk about that. 

He gets out of bed and pulls on his boxers. There’s red gooseflesh on his legs, skin bumpy from the cold.  

“Are you thirsty?” he asks.

She is. Her throat is drier than gravel and her heart pumps blood thicker than syrup in her veins. Her stomach growls and they laugh.

“Come. I’ll make you something. I don’t think we should fall asleep this way,” he says, tossing her one of his shirts from a chair heaped with folded clothes. 

In the kitchen, he raids his own fridge for whatever his people stocked since he got home from his last road trip. A jar of pickles and a loaf of brown bread. Some cheese. A coke for him, a pellegrino for her. 

“When do you go home next?” Ilya asks, cracking the can.. 

Home is still Moscow, to him. Svetlana pours the pellegrino into a glass. She wants lemon, but he never has any. “Next month, maybe. My father wants me to attend a dinner with him in Sochi.”

“Ah. You will charm them all, yes?” Ilya smiles as he starts slicing cheese. “Make all the politicians come to their senses?”

Svetlana spears a pickle out of the jar and bites into it with a burst of vinegar on her tongue, suddenly ravenous. “Of course. I always do.” 

Ilya butters the bread and starts layering the cheese between the slices, placing the sandwiches butter-side down in a hot pan. It’s one of the few things he can make, a grilled cheese. He always burns it a little, but it tastes good in the middle of the night after drinking and fucking. And it strikes Svetlana, in that moment, how lucky they are to have each other. Two souls lost between continents, bound my history and understanding. 

“How is your father?” she chances, knowing this topic could get ugly. “I know he wasn’t feeling well last time I saw him.”

Ilya flips the sandwich in the pan. His back is bare, and his muscles tense at her words. 

“He’s fine. I’m taking care of it.”

It’s an answer and a closer. There is nothing else to say. 

“I’m glad to hear it,” she says evenly. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“There’s nothing.”

They sit in silence, the only sound a light sizzle as the cheese hits the pan.

Based on this tumblr post I made a while back. I love a mutually messy Svetlana and Ilya. But they're both doing their best.

Comments are love! Also, I'm Ilyapasta on tumblr, if you want to come play queer hockey show with me.