Confliction 2
Dany stared down uninterestedly at the food in front of him. "Are you ok?"
"Yep," he muttered, a response he gauged wouldn’t subdue Simon.
"You were not like this last time."
"We were too busy then," Heatley said, smiling. "But really, I’m just not
playing well."
"Sure you are. You assist on like every goal-"
"Every goal Ilya scores, I know." He stabbed a roasted potato with his fork.
"You’re putting too much pressure on yourself."
"No I’m not. Ilya puts too much pressure on himself. And then he performs.
I...I don’t put enough pressure on myself."
"You aren’t Ilya."
"No one is." Dany was still staring at his plate, so he missed the probing
look Simon gave him at that mumbled comment.
But the Flyer didn’t reply. "You aren’t eating, Dany. Let’s just go."
Dany let Simon pay the check this time, and they shared a cab that went to the
arena first. "I’m sorry I wasn’t good company."
"It’s ok, Dany. I know you have a lot on your mind." His accent thickened,
which it did when emotion colored his voice. The realization didn’t help
Dany’s mood.
He bit his lip. "No, really, Simon, I’m sorry. Thank you for coming here."
Gagne brightened somewhat. "I was glad to." He lowered his voice. "I love
you, Dany."
He let himself smile, squeezing Simon’s hand and risking a quick, soft
kiss. "I love you too."
He watched the cab speed away and headed inside the building, glad to be back
in the presence of his oblivious teammates.
Oblivious except for one.
Dany fell asleep quickly on the plane home, worn out by his worrying, worn out
by the game.
It was funny, how sometimes language didn’t matter. Ilya didn’t need to speak
English to speak to Dany. That was something he was eternally grateful
for, because his rookie year would’ve been impossible without him.
And the thing was, Dany didn’t have to do anything that he did. He didn’t
have to spend hours teaching Ilya functional English when his other
teammates were more willing to teach him things that would make him look
stupid. Dany took him shopping and out to eat and just out to do things –
things that at first he’d been too nervous to do himself, much as he hated
to admit it.
And he only told Dany those fears, those insecurities. Because the North
Americans would just laugh because oh, American culture is just so scary.
The Europeans, some of them, were already put out by his cocky, superior
attitude. The didn’t want the job of shuttling him around.
And Dany did. And Ilya, despite his youth and naïveté, was very loyal. And
no matter how hurt he was that Dany hadn’t trusted him with the truth
about Simon, no matter how cold Dany was being to him, the Russian wasn’t
going to quit being his friend. He sighed, and Dany shifted, burrowing
deeper into his shoulder.
Ilya leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. He couldn’t
let Dany get distant from him. No matter how hard he tried.
Continued in part 3