by me
Rating: R
Pairing: Dany Heatley/Ilya Kovalchuk
Series: Part of the universe based on the Confliction series. Parts of it
won't make sense without knowing the background, probably.
Setting: Takes place after the Thrashers home game vs. Minnesota.
They were leading 4-2 and gave up four unanswered goals to lose 6-
4. Ilya could be deemed directly resposible definitely for one and
probably for two of those 4 and he was benched for pretty much the
entire third period.
Notes: "mnye zhal" is "I'm sorry", "khakkist" is "hockey player".
I know the game was a while ago...sorry, I write too slowly.
"Ilya?" Dany tossed his jacket on a chair he knew was there, even
though he couldn't really see more than a foot in front of him.
There was no answer, but since the glowing green numbers of the VCR
clock told him it was 2:47 am, Dany expected that. He had hoped to
catch the Russian before he left the locker room, but the demands of
the press combined with Ilya's hurry to leave on top of Bob wanting
to talk to him had meant a much later night for Dany.
He paused in the doorway to the bedroom. The adjoining bathroom's
light was on and the door cracked, providing enough light for Dany
to see Ilya tossing in his sleep, mumbling something Dany couldn't
make out. "Ilya," he spoke aloud, stepping into the room, biting
his lip in worry. Ilya didn't usually have nightmares, certainly
not ones this violent.
Just his name had the wanted effect, however. Ilya sat up, gasping,
and his eyes focused slowly on Dany. "Oh...is you," he said with
what could only be described as relief.
Dany frowned, moving forward quickly to sit on the bed, noting
Kovalchuk's hair, damp with sweat. "Of course it's me. Who else
would be here in the middle of the night?"
"I don't know."
"Oh. Well..." Dany slipped his shoes off and moved closer. "About
the game, Ilya, don't be too hard on yourself." The Russian's jaw
clenched and he looked away. "It happens, ok? We all screw up."
"But I-"
"But you fucked up and you paid for it and I know that and so do you
and so does Bob because we talked about it tonight. It's over.
Ok? Stop...obsessing."
There was no response from Ilya as he continued to stare at the far
wall.
"Ilya? Ok?"
Still nothing. Dany gave up. "You didn't have to leave so quickly
tonight, you know. I tried to catch you...I didn't want you to come
back here alone and mope. It obviously didn't help, what were you
dreaming about?"
"I don't know."
"Nightmare like that, you don't remember?
"No."
Frustrated, Dany stayed quiet. There was something going on,
something besides Ilya just being upset about the game. Dany had
seen him dream like that before, but it was last season, and the
Canadian had chalked it up to homesickness when the nightmares
ceased a few weeks into the season. Sighing, Dany pushed himself up
from the bed and pulled off his shirt and jeans. "Fine, whatever.
It isn't like I had a great game either. I'm going to bed."
Ilya watched him blankly. "You scored twice."
"Yeah, well. We lost, didn't we?"
"That was my fault, not yours."
"Shut up, please. Turn off the light." Dany pulled the covers over
him.
"Dan?"
"What?"
"I'm sorry."
"You don't have to apologize."
"I do."
Something in his voice made Dany roll over. "God, Ilya, what the
hell is wrong? You can't just do this, night after night...you make
yourself sick, you don't eat, you don't sleep...you have to relax
about these things, they just-"
"I...I had told Igor I would not again. That was two years ago."
He was sitting up, though his shoulders slumped as he stared at his
hands. "I do not know why, now..."
"What are you talking about?" Ilya didn't reply. Struggling to a
half-sitting position, Dany reached over for his hand, ignoring
Ilya's flinch at the touch. "You've got to calm down. I understand
slumps, Ilya, but this is ridiculous."
"You just do not understand. You would not...you never would kill
yourself over hockey game, Dan."
"Oh, and you would?"
The final word died in Dany's throat as Ilya turned towards him,
eyes hard and tired. "Dan-"
He looked then, and Ilya made no move to hide his wrist. "Christ,"
Dany breathed, feeling sick as his thumb brushed over the angry red
scratch marring the pale skin on Ilya's left wrist. "What is this?"
In reply, Ilya reached for the razor blade on the night table,
clutching it between his thumb and right index finger, digging the
tip into his left wrist anew, a few drops of blood easing from the
re-opened wound. "I do that," he muttered. "Is not to cause
injury...is just...I never can do it. Only hold it there." Dany
got the message, unclear as it was.
"Then...you've done this before," Dany said, his hand shaking as he
took the blade from Ilya.
"Many times."
"Many..."
"Not for while. Over year ago...was in Moscow. But, always I am
too weak to...to actually..."
"Too weak? How about too smart?"
"You do not understand."
"So explain it to me!"
"What is to explain?"
"Just...you. I...think that I know you, but..."
"I'm sorry," Ilya said weakly, reaching out for his hand, suddenly
wanting the contact desperately. "You...you do..."
"Then talk to me."
"I do not know how to start."
"The beginning."
"Beginning. I...ok." He paused and took a breath, glancing
nervously at Dany, who squeezed his hand and made a silent vow to
stay quiet through whatever Ilya was going to say. Because he had a
feeling he wasn't going to like it.
"When I was 3 years old my father would take me to gym with him. It
was games, you know, he would teach me stretches and things like
that, how to catch and kick ball and things. Just games to me but
really to teach me...balance and coordination and things that most
can not do as children. When I was 5 I played hockey for first
time."
Forgetting about being quiet, Dany asked, "Did he take you to do
that?"
Ilya shook his head. "No...I was just outside and older kids were
playing and so I did too."
"Oh."
"And from there...all I did was hockey."
"What do you mean, `all'?"
"All. I would run before school, go to school, practice until dark,
exercise at home, push-ups and things, go to bed."
"What did your father do?"
"Made sure I remembered when I was young. I never forgot or missed
anything after I was 8. Always he watched me. But everything was
about hockey, you know. If I wanted to sleep later in mornings he
would say that Red Army did not take lazy players. Later of course
it was not Red Army, just `hockey players do not cry'. Hockey
was...is...my whole life, all I am."
Dany was quiet a minute, processing this. It was hard for him to
fathom � his North American childhood had been filled with hockey,
yes, but more than half of that was wild, unending games of pond
hockey with no coaches, no refs, no stress. And there were summers
of baseball, games of capture the flag and flashlight tag, rainy
afternoons of movies and video games with his little brother. He
was about 14 when he'd really started working exclusively towards
hockey as a career choice. Fourteen, not...five. "When did you
start...this?" His thumb traced gently across the cut.
"Eleven," Ilya said quietly. "First time I was eleven."
"Eleven?"
"I remember...I had game couple hours from home...it was late, I
slept whole way back...I was playing with 14 year olds then, first
line...I had fight with other defenseman that night too and of
course was beaten up because I was much smaller. My father was not
talking whole way, mad at me, was first game I did not have point
all season. At home...I was tired, hurting...I did not do exercises
well. He...made me do them twice more...and when I was in my room
finally...I was too tired to go to sleep. I thought about it
then...I had small knife I was holding...but I did not really have
strength."
Dany decided not to ask what kind of father made their 11-year-old
child exercise after playing an entire hockey game against boys 3
years older. "How can you even play anymore? After...after all
that?"
"What else can I do?" he answered, shrugging. "Ya khakkist. I am
hockey player...I would not know how to be anything else. Also...I
love it, Dany. I love to play. On ice I could always forget
about...everything. Pain and stress would go away until game ended."
Dany knew Ilya loved it, he'd seen his eyes during practice, during
high-flying games. He didn't play with the air of all-in-a-day's-
work as some people did. But the Canadian had trouble imagining how
he still loved it. Something to ask about later. Now, Ilya's eyes
were half closed and he was still staring at his hands, seemingly
frozen in place. Dany pulled him close, felt his arms go around
Dany's back. "It's not true, Ilya. A hockey player is not all you
are. You would be good at anything, you know...it's how you are.
You don't give up. And I'd love you no matter what."
"Mnye zhal," he mumbled again, and Dany's fingers reached up to idly
play with his dark hair.
"Just...stop apologizing, ok? This is ok. You are allowed to make
mistakes. I...talked to Bob tonight, I told you that."
"'bout me?"
"Yeah. Talk to him tomorrow, ok? He's just doing his job, you
know. He likes you. He's not...not..."
"You are right."
"You need to get some sleep, buddy."
"You are one who has not slept."
"Oh, shut up," Dany pulled back a little, relieved to see a small
smile. His eyes were red, though, a fact he was trying to hide by
not looking at Dany. "Things will work out. I promise."
Ilya collapsed back on the bed, sighing, keeping Dany's hand
clutched in his own. "Dan?"
"Hm?"
"You...can not tell Igor about this."
They would be talking about that later, Dany vowed, because the last
thing he wanted to do was cause anything to come between that
friendship. "I won't." But you will. "Go to sleep."
"I love you..."
"Love you too. Sleep." Dany pulled the covers over himself,
watching Ilya's eyelids close, his breathing even out.
When he finally slept, from pure exhaustion, the sun was already
over the horizon.
Fin.