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In the middle of the night, Ilya muses about home, only to realize that he's found it. Home was a strange concept for Ilya. Home had been his mom and her gentle smile that never reached for her eyes. Home was the embrace of her arms, too thin and shaky when Father had screamed at Ilya for any transgression. Home was her room, that smelled lightly of her perfume and the products she used for her hair. Home was her bed, where they would cuddle together when he was a little child and still allowed to get the comfort of her silent presence before Father deemed him too old for cuddles and screamed at her that she would turn him Пидорас. That had been the first time Ilya had realized that Father was never and he would never be home. Even as a child he was terrified of him, of his words, of his rage, of his judgment. Alexey was a copy of him. He never perceived his older brother as safe. At first, or at least Ilya thought, he had been a normal older brother, always ready to break his things or to eat the last sweets because he could, because he was older and bigger and Ilya didn't want to fight him. Then it happened, the shifts in their lives that would forever separate them. Ilya had been picked for sports, and Alexey never forgave him for being better at something. But it wasn't that which sealed their fate, that decided that Alexey could never be home. No, that happened when Alexey saw him with Sasha. That was the moment Alexey began to hate him, to resent his mere existence. That was the moment Ilya began to die inside knowing that he was alone. None of his family would ever love him for who he really was. Russia was complicated. Russia was supposed to be home. It was the place where he was born. The place where he had learned what a mother's love felt like. Russia was where his mom died by her own hands because she couldn't keep living like she was, a ghost in her own house, always scared of her husband, always mistreated and abused, always alone. Russia gave him his mom and then took her away, and yet Ilya loved Russia, like a boy who learns to love the land that gave him birth. But Russia couldn't love him back as Ilya craved. He craved a place to belong, but Russia rejected him for his sexuality, for the sin to love both boys and girls. Russia issued laws against people like Ilya. Russia made them criminals. Russia would witness, silent and cold like an evil stepmother, while those who dared to love in different ways were arrested, beaten or killed. Russia didn't care for those like Ilya and for that Ilya couldn't love Russia as much as he was supposed to. Russia still demanded his sweat and his blood. When he wore the Russian colors at the Olympic games, he was forced to give everything on the ice. It didn't matter if the same people who were his teammates would probably be in the mob formed to lynch him if they knew Ilya was different. It didn't matter if Father had screamed at him and Ilya had felt like the powerless child he once was, the one who was beaten to make him stronger, taken from everything he had loved to be turned into a machine made only to destroy his opponents on ice. Ilya wasn't the monster many believed he was, but he had to play the part to protect himself, to keep himself safe as much as he could. That monster was Father, that monster was Alexey, that monster was Russia, however it was Ilya who had to play the role. When he went to America Ilya felt like he could breathe for the first time in years. With Svetlana by his side, a connection with Russia yes, but also his childhood friend, one who never betrayed him, who never questioned him, one who perhaps even knew Ilya's secret and never told anyone, Ilya felt like he could perhaps have both, freedom and something that reminded him of home. America never became home. Sure, there Ilya could allow himself to be more open about who he was than he ever could be back in Moscow, but who was he really? Ilya didn't know. There were too many parts of him, too many pieces who couldn't fit together. Ilya had been broken too many times and now he didn't know who he was supposed to be. The only constant in his life was that he was good at hockey — damn good. One of the best players in the division, one of the raising stars of this brutal sport. Ilya knew he could be that. He could rebuild himself around being a player, even if that meant to be alone. Always alone. On ice Ilya was a beast. The Russian Monster everyone feared. On the ice Ilya could delude himself that he had a home, a place where he belonged. Out of the ring he was lost. He was someone who tried to fill the aching void inside his chest with warm bodies and expensive vodka. It worked for a bit, but little by little the void grew deeper in his chest and swallowed him whole. Ilya sometimes was sad, like his mom had been, so sad all he wanted to do was to curl up in bed and cry until nothing remained of him, but he couldn't. He had a team to lead, he had games to win. Father and Alexey loomed over him from afar. Send money. You are only good for that. You lost. We need more. We want more. More. More. More. More and the more he gave them, the more they hated him. The more he gave them, the emptier he felt inside, until, once again, nothing was left of him.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 2,305
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #77023741