by me
Rating: My arbitrary rating of the day is R
Pairing: Dany Heatley/Ilya Kovalchuk; Igor Knyazev/Bruno St. Jacques
Series: This ficlet takes place within the universe of
Confliction. I guess it can stand alone, but a few things won't
make a lot of sense unless you've read that series.
Summary: After Edmonton, Ilya Kovalchuk's goal drought reached 6
games. Plenty of players would take that hard.
Dedication: Thanks to Fi for the Tokyo subway quote!!
Notes: I think the IlyaMuse just needed his ego stroked. Oh, and
mnye kharasho means "I'm fine" or "I'm good". Usually it has a
positive connotation, but Ilya's using it as a brush-off.
Dany hadn't forgotten what Ilya was like just a few weeks ago. He
hadn't forgotten about the insecurities. He hadn't forgotten about
his tendency to blame himself for everything the team did or didn't
do. He hadn't forgotten that he had to break out nearly everything
he had, both as a team leader and as a best friend, to calm him down
some nights. Dany hadn't forgotten any of that. But within the
last couple weeks, the Russian had been happier, less inclined to
anger at himself, found sleep easier. And Dany had sort of hoped
the change was permanent.
Ilya had been quiet on the flight to Vancouver. The team was pretty
happy with their hard-fought tie, many guys had seen friends and
family that had turned up for the game, Dany included, and they were
jovial and loud. Dany didn't push. In fact, he didn't really
notice Ilya's silence, because Jeff Odgers started telling stories
about Spy Hill, and those weren't worth missing.
It wasn't until they got to their hotel that Dany really begin to
realize Ilya was less than happy with the tie, and even then he was
able to chalk it up to fatigue. "We're going to go down to the bar
for a little while, are you coming?" Dany asked, as he tossed his
bag on one of the beds next to Ilya's.
Kovalchuk shook his head slowly from where he was laying on the
second bed, staring at the season. "Nyet. Mnye kharasho," he mumbled
absently.
Dany couldn't see his eyes, but Ilya didn't usually use Russian
around him unless he knew Dany would understand or unless he was
distracted and wasn't thinking. "You sure?"
Ilya made a non-committal sound.
Shrugging, Dany left him alone.
As soon as the door shut behind Dany, Ilya swung his legs off the
side of the bed and stood up, ignoring the blackness that danced at
the edge of his vision, a result of standing too quickly. Probably
also had to do with fatigue and hunger. Though he wasn't
consciously hungry, he'd only been able to force himself to consume
enough food at the pre-game meal so that Dany wouldn't question, he
was still a little weak without much food all day.
Sighing, he glanced around the room, his eyes finding the copy of
Sports Illustrated that stuck out of the side pocket of Dany's bag.
Ilya didn't need to read the article again. He knew what they said
about him. The words were in his memory, and he knew they shouldn't
bother him because he knew they were true. He supposed
that "flamboyant one-way talent, a puck hog who lives to score"
could be a complimentary description. But what good is living to
score if you can't?
He paced his way into the bathroom, and, looking at his own
reflection, wondered how Dany had possibly believed him when he said
he was fine. Six games. Six fucking games without a goal. Hell,
he shouldn't go one game without a goal, or at least an assist, and
he couldn't even do that lately.
His eyes fell on the disposable razors thoughtfully placed in with
the soap and shampoo by the sink. Swallowing, he tore his gaze away
from the blade and reached into his pocket for his cell phone,
hitting memory one and leaving the bathroom.
Igor's voice was heavy with sleep, and Ilya responded to his mumbled
hello with guilt.
"Ah...I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up. It's ok, I'll call
back in the morning..."
Knyazev, on the other side of the country, three time zones away,
rubbed his eyes and slid out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake
its other occupant. "Don't hang up, Ilya," he said, switching to
Russian to match his friend. "It's ok. How'd your game go?"
"We tied. We came from behind 2 goals in 6 minutes."
"Oh, well, that's good...are you ok?"
"I...six games, Igor."
"Oh...but it's not so bad...you're still playing what, 20 minutes?
You get shots."
"I had 2-on-1 in overtime tonight and missed the net! I missed the
net!"
"Calm down, Ilya," Igor said, wondering where Dany was. "Relax. It
is hockey, you know it better than anything. Things will happen,
you're too good for them not to."
"But...they have not so far. I have only had one assist during this
drought."
"But they will. They always do. Think back to every other goal
drought you've had."
"I...I don't think any of them have been this bad."
Knyazev sighed. What could he even say? "You're trying too hard.
Relax and let things happen."
Igor listened for and heard Ilya's slow release of breath. "I�
you're right. But...I know all this. I just..." He trailed off
and mumbled the rest. "I needed to hear your voice."
The defenseman was suddenly very glad he'd picked up the phone,
because he knew there was plenty Ilya hadn't told Dany about his
life pre-NHL. And if he was calling Igor up in the middle of the
night to "hear his voice" then some of those things were
resurfacing. In the face of Ilya's struggles on the ice, it didn't
surprise his friend. "Hey, you know I'm always here."
"I know. I'm sorry to call so late."
"Always means in the middle of the night, too. Though if you'd
called an hour earlier, I wouldn't have picked up."
Ilya laughed, as Igor knew he would. "Oh? Anyone I know?"
"Probably not. He's a recent addition. To Lowell, I mean."
"Oh...I'll let you go then."
"Only if you're ok."
"I...yeah. I'm ok. Thank you." His words were punctuated by a
yawn, and Igor laughed softly.
"You're welcome. Get some sleep, Ilya."
"I will. I miss you, Igor." His words were soft and tinged with
exhaustion. Igor cheerfully vowed to strangle Dany at the next
convenient interval.
"Me too. Good night."
"Night," Ilya said in English. Igor clicked off the phone and stood
up, somewhat surprised to find St. Jacques standing in the doorway,
watching him with a slight smile.
"Oh...sorry, Bruno. I wanted not to wake you," Igor said, stumbling
through the words a bit in the shift in languages.
"It's ok. Who were you talking to?"
"Ilya's a...good friend. Just having some problems."
"Oh," Bruno said, obviously not caring to which Ilya Igor was
referring. "Everything ok?"
Igor nodded and propelled him back down the hall. "Ok, yes. I know
you are not sleeping much since trade, go back to bed." Things were
ok, he was pretty sure. But sleep still didn't come easily to
Knyazev the rest of the night.
Not for Ilya either. He paced the hotel room a few hundred more
times, then gave up and left, walking down three flights of stairs
to the bar. The other guys were crowded around a table in the back,
watching something on TV. Ilya went straight up the bar, ordering a
shot of Chopin vodka. It was Polish, not Russian, but it was good.
He was downing his fourth when Dany noticed him. "Hey, I thought
you weren't coming down."
Ilya shrugged, not looking at him. "Ilya..."
Ilya closed his fingers around a fifth shot glass and shifted his
gaze to Dany. "I only came for this." He threw it back, letting
the liquor pool on his tongue before swallowing it down. "I am
leaving now." Throwing money on the counter, he stood up.
Thoroughly confused, Dany watched him go. It took about 30 seconds
for him to realize that the last thing Ilya needed to be was alone.
When he pushed into their room, Ilya turned towards him, and Dany
suddenly noticed how his posture slumped some and how, despite his
bravado, his eyes betrayed him. "Ilya?"
"Nothing, Dan."
"No. No, it isn't nothing. Don't do that to me. I'm sorry...god,
how did I not notice this before?"
"You have been busy. Media things. And your family in Edmonton."
"Fuck," Dany sighed, knowing it was true. "I'm...I really am sorry."
"I know."
"I'm not busy now," Dany said softly, sitting on the edge of the bed
and looking up at Ilya. "What's wrong, buddy?"
"Stupid," Ilya said, sitting next to him, carefully ensuring that
their shoulders were pressed together, "just hockey."
"That's not stupid. I know you're frustrated. But...you just have
to relax. And then suddenly the puck will hit the back of the net
and you'll forget you were in a drought at all."
Ilya knew this too. But he wanted Dany to tell him even more than
he had wanted Igor to do the same. "Yeah."
"I promise. We're going to get a power play against Vancouver.
You're going to get the puck down low...thread it to me like you've
done a thousand times. And the defense will commit and the goalie
will commit because they know I've one-timed that one in almost as
many, but instead I'll send it right back to you and it'll be a bad
angle, but that won't matter because you could score from behind the
net if you wanted. Goal. Thirty-one." He could feel Ilya relax as
he spoke, but he couldn't tell if it was from his words or just from
his voice.
"Am I a puck hog, Dan?"
"Yeah, a little," Dany smiled, sliding his hand under Ilya's shirt,
easing it off. "But that doesn't matter. `cause you know what?"
"What?"
"You could find me with a pass if I was on the other side of a Tokyo
subway station at rush hour. Do you know why?"
"N-no," Ilya's breath hitched has Dany's fingers trailed over his
bare skin.
"Because you're really, really good. And you have 30 goals. Thirty
fucking goals at 19 years old."
Nothing Dany was saying was going to keep Ilya from blaming himself
the next time he missed what he felt should have been a goal. It
wasn't going to stop him from feeling like he should always be
playing better, like he could always be doing more. It wasn't even
going to guarantee that he ate the next day. But, Ilya realized, as
Dany pushed him gently backwards on the bed, as Ilya managed "I love
you" in between deep kisses, it was going to make sure he slept
soundly.
Fin.