Chapter Text
December 2008
It was Ilya’s first time in Canada – first time outside Russia’s borders – and he couldn’t say that he was very impressed. The rink in Regina where the World Juniors were held this year was kind of dingy and there was nothing to do in the town except hockey. He supposed that’s what they were all there for anyway.
Team Russia had arrived earlier in the day and he had already seen team Sweden and team Latvia. Neither of them would be a real challenge in the tournament, not this year. Not with Ilya leading his team. There was really only one unknown in team Canada’s Shane Hollander. Ilya hadn’t seen Hollander yet, but he was determined to squash all the talk about how he could challenge Ilya at the upcoming draft. He would carry the national team to the gold here in Canada and then win the league back in Russia. Nothing and nobody would be able to stop him, least of all some Canadian upstart.
It was cold and windy outside, but Sezja was pressing her warm body against his leg and the two of them made their way inside the rink and took a seat in the stands. Sezja sat down next to him, still keeping up the physical contact. Ilya’s fingers reached out and dug themselves into her scruff. She was large for a daemon, though far from the largest Ilya had ever seen. Some of the size was carried in her long legs, though she had muscles under her grey and brown fur. She had spent a lot of their childhood as different animals, but she had always leaned toward the canines.
Ilya had gotten an old book from his mother with different dog breeds from around the world and he and Sezja and him had spent hours together pouring over the pages with their color photographs. Alexei’s Avdotya had settled as a dog when Ilya was seven and with the help of his book he had determined that she was an East European Shepherd (page 74). Sezja had spent the next two days as the same breed until Avdotya had put her teeth against her throat.
Five years later, Sezja too settled as a dog, but not one found on any of the pages of the dog book. Ilya had suggested different types of shepherds – she had the body for it, though her ears were floppy rather than upright – but none of them fit.
Her fur changed between grey and brown with flecks of black mixed in, and it was thick enough to not be bothered by the cold climate of their home city. Her legs were longer than Avdotya’s and her chest broader, and when she snarled, her teeth, especially the canines, were sharper than what Ilya was accustomed to seeing in other dogs.
Ilya had asked Sezja what sort of dog she felt like, and in the privacy of their childhood bedroom, she had confessed that she didn’t feel fully like a dog. She looked like, something that both Grigory and Alexei weren’t slow to point out, the street mutts of Moscow. His father and brother portrayed Sezja as a failure, especially compared to the seemingly pure-bred Avdotya, but Ilya couldn’t disagree more. Let his brother and father think that she was just a mutt, and don’t push them into digging up just what parts made up Sezja.
It was the tail end of the Canadians’ ice time, but with their practice jerseys not spelling out any of their names it was impossible to tell which of the boys was Hollander. Ilya turned instead to study the daemons gathered by the bench, taking in the ones visible from his seat. There were at least two other dogs, though both of them were smaller than Sezja. A large rat was balancing on the edge of the boards and what looked like a lynx was standing with its large paws against them. He could see a bundle of tan fur laying down on the floor, but even through the plexiglass, he couldn’t make out what sort of daemon it was.
Ilya didn’t know what sort of daemon Hollander had. None of the articles he had read had mentioned it, but even so he was confident that Sezja could take her in a fight. He reached a hand out, stroking Sezja’s head and she leaned into his touch. They didn’t talk to each other much in public or around others, but he couldn’t imagine not having her quiet confidence and stability next to him. It was bad enough to leave her on the benches when he was out on the ice, but hockey had stupid rules about no daemons on the ice. They were all probably too afraid of what would happen if Ilya and Sezja had the chance to kick everyone’s asses.
The Canadian players started to leave the ice, several of them laughing and clapping each other on the backs. None looked at Ilya, and he left shortly after, heading to the dressing room to get changed before Russia’s turn on the ice.
His team mates were boisterous and music was playing from a CD player that was at least ten years old. The speakers must have been blown by people like them, because the Russian rap was accompanied by crackling static every few seconds. Ilya didn’t know whose CD it was, but he raised his voice over the subpar rap.
“Who is playing shit music? We’re supposed to win, how is that gonna be possible with this garbage?”
“Who gave you air, Rozanov? It’s just fucking practice. We’re not actually playing a game until tomorrow.”
Vasiliev, presumably the owner of the CD bristled at that, getting up in Ilya’s face. His stupid toad daemon was sitting on his shoulder, puffing itself up to appear larger. All this posturing was ingrained into the Russian team’s DNA, but Ilya refused to back down. He had almost two inches on Vasiliev and probably ten pounds. He didn’t want to actually start a fist fight in the locker room, but he was their captain and that came with a certain image he was keen to uphold.
Next to him, Sezja stood. She didn’t growl or curl her lips up to expose her teeth, but her hackles were raised, making her look even larger than usual. A part of Ilya couldn’t help but to compare that to Vasiliev's toad blowing herself up to double her size, but obviously there was no doubt in his mind who would win the fight between the two of them if it came down to it.
Ilya was the best player on the team by a long shot, and he deserved the captaincy. He also knew that having a large daemon capable of being physically intimidating was only helping. A guy like Nikitin, his left wing this year, with his grasshopper daemon could only dream of leading team Russia.
“We are going to win this shit and we’re gonna use every minute on the ice to do that. We’re gonna go out on the ice and skate like hell and intimidate every other team out there! And that starts in here, with some good fucking music!”
He pointed at Rybakov, a defenceman who was minding his own business, tying his skates, left first and then right.
“Rybakov,” he called out, making the guy snap up in attention. “Tomorrow you are in charge of music. Do not disappoint us!”
Out on the ice, they ran drills and got shouted at by their coaches. Ilya got called out by name once, being asked if he had somewhere else to be, and he shook his head, focusing back on his game. He shouldn’t get distracted, but he had slipped up at the sight of the young man in the stands with the team Canada jacket. He had two adults with him – presumably his parents. It was hard to tell from the distance. He couldn’t make out either of the men’s daemons from where they were sitting, but the woman had a tall, white bird perched on one of the seats next to her. It had a striking black and red features - Zhuravli, a crane. She was Japanese or something, and Ilya was pretty certain he was looking at the Hollanders. So maybe Ilya spent the latter half of the Russian team’s ice time pushing himself even harder.
The next day, Ilya was standing outside the loading dock of the rink, his lighter clicking as he tried to light his cigarette. Sezja was laying down an extra foot away from him. She had long ago given up on the idea of getting him to quit smoking, but her sensitive nose still didn’t like the smell. Ilya at least always made sure to stand downwind of her. Sezja raised her head then, looking at the person walking up toward them.
“You’re not supposed to smoke here.”
He definitely wasn’t. There was a sign and everything, but it was cold and windy and who gave a fuck if he smoked here? Apparently the answer to that question was Shane Hollander. The other man made sure to take respectful steps around Sezja, giving the dog her personal space, before reaching a hand out for Ilya to shake. Ilya finally had a chance to get a good look at him, even though he was all wrapped up for the Canadian winter. He had jet black hair sticking out from under his dark brown eyes, looked to be maybe an inch or so shorter than Ilya, and most eye-catching, a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheekbones.
“I’m kinda surprised you smoke,” he said, but it sounded more like he was making a note for himself than actually conversing with Ilya. “Anyway, I’m Shane Hollander. I wanted to introduce myself. This is Mokomichida.”
Hollander indicated to the red bird on his shoulder. It had a mohawk-looking tuft of feathers on the top of the head and a black band around the short beak. Ilya vaguely remembered seeing it on a Christmas card somewhere. How Canadian.
“Okay.” Even the simple word sounded so bad in his heavy accent.
Ilya considered ignoring the outstretched hand since they were supposed to be enemies here, but in the end he did shake Hollander’s hand. Sezja was keeping an eye on Hollander and his daemon, but the bird just fluffed itself up and nestled into Hollander’s collar. Ilya felt like his earlier prediction about Sezja being able to kick—Moko-mishi or whatever’s—ass in a possible fight was more than apt. Some amount of politeness took over him. “This is Sezja.”
“Sezja,” Hollander repeated, stumbling over the unfamiliar syllables. It made Ilya feel a smidge better about his own accent.
“You’re an awesome player to watch.” Hollander turned to Sezja then, addressing her directly. “And uh, you’re pretty cool too, Sezja. Never seen a dog like you.”
Ilya didn’t know what the Canadian customs were, but in Russia it was pretty much unheard of to speak to someone else’s daemon. What was Hollander’s play here? They were supposed to be on opposite sides in this tournament. Russia and Canada wouldn’t meet each other until the final, both playing on opposite sides of the bracket, but Ilya had no doubt the two teams would reach the top. But there could only be one winner and Ilya intended to fly home with a gold medal. So in the end, he only said: “Yes.” Sezja said nothing.
Hollander was bouncing on his heels, hands now tucked into the pockets of his team jacket. He glanced between Ilya and Sezja before he looked behind himself, even though there was no one outside except the two of them. A gust of wind hit them, tossing snow in the air and making the bird daemon fluff up even more. She looked like a ball of bright red feathers with stark black eyes that peeked down at Sezja as the two daemons quietly took each other in.
“I should go,” Hollander said, seemingly uncomfortable with the silence between them all. “My parents are waiting for us. But uh, good luck in the tournament.”
Ilya took another drag of his cigarette and Hollander turned around. His daemon, however, left his shoulder and took flight. She swept in a circle above the three of them before landing on Hollander’s head, sharp claws probably digging into his scalp. A small smile spread on Ilya’s face. Before Hollander had taken more than three steps away from them, he called out.
“You will not be so nice when we beat you.”
The lengthy English sentence felt odd in his mouth, but the words succeeded in having Hollander turn around and give him a grin in return.
“That’s not happening.”
It was what happened. Russia and Canada both made it to the final and while he had snuck some peaks at team Canada’s games through the tournament, watching Hollander and playing against him were two different beasts. Ilya hated that people were right about the two of them being on the same level, but in the end, Hollander was just one player and the rest of his team couldn’t keep up. Hollander had scored two goals, but he had been the only Canadian player to do so. Ilya too had scored two goals, and with two of his team mates contributing, the game ended 4-2 with a gold for Russia.
Sezja had spent most of the game with her front paws on the boards, observing the game with intense focus. He knew that the rules stated that daemons should remain behind the plexiglass as a precaution against stray pucks, but the rule was rarely followed and for this game, both teams had daemons balancing on the edge of the boards. He hadn’t seen the red flash of Hollander’s bird, which was kind of strange. He had expected Hollander’s soul to be interested in the game.
When the final horn sounded for the Russian victory, Sezja leaped the boards and rushed him. Even with his padding, he could feel her weight against him and he shucked off his gloves to dig his fingers into her mottled fur. She pressed her nose into his stomach, wanting to be impossibly closer. He knew that he smelled like sweat and he also knew that in this moment, she did not mind. They would come home with the gold and it might just be enough to tide them over with Ilya’s father for a few months.
Around them, his team mates' daemons were celebrating with their persons and on the other side of the ice, more dejected Canadian daemons came up to try to comfort the silver medallists. Ilya tore his eyes away from Sezja for a moment to look at Hollander and his whole body froze up at the sight.
Hollander had his neck bent, hiding his face in dark brown fur, as a weasel of some kind nuzzled him back. It was distinctly different from the daemon Ilya had seen before, and the bird was still nowhere in sight. Who did the weasel belong to, and why was Hollander so comfortable with touching them? Was it Hollander’s father’s? A girlfriend’s? Ilya couldn’t remember a single time that either of his parents touched each others’ daemons after years of marriage (though an unbidden image of a slender swan’s neck in the jaws of a wolverine crossed his mind before he pushed the memory down).
Hollander looked up then, their eyes meeting across the ice. Ilya knew that he should look away. He hated when people were observing him after a loss, as if staring at him hard enough would magically turn it into a win. He didn’t need the disapproving glares of the people who expected him to do better. Hollander’s mouth twitched and he said something that was impossible for Ilya to catch over the ruckus on the ice. The weasel stopped its nuzzling though and looked over at Ilya. At his feet Sezja had stilled her celebration and was looking over at the other pair.
Ilya could see Hollander’s jaw set before he said something else to the daemon and straightened up. He squared his shoulders, but his eyes dropped away from Ilya’s and instead looked down at the ice. On his shoulder, the weasel shimmered for a second before the red bird was back, landing on Hollander’s shoulder.
There was no time for him to react to what had taken place before the referees started calling for them all to line up for the handshakes. Ilya blinked. Hollander’s daemon had shifted forms. Hollander hadn’t settled yet. Sezja had settled as a dog more than five years ago and when Nikitin had settled about one and a half years ago that had been considered late, at least according to the team’s chirps. It didn’t help that the poor guy’s daemon had settled as a fucking grasshopper.
Ilya, as captain, was last in line to shake the Canadians’ hands and Hollander was on the other end. He made his way through the other team, offering handshakes and a couple of stiff ‘good game’s. Finally, he was face to face with Hollander who still had his jaw set, his mood probably not improved by having to congratulate the whole Russian team. The bird was still sitting on his shoulder, less fluffy than she had been outside. She was watching Ilya intently. He held onto Hollander’s hand for an extra second, pressing it firmly.
“See you at the draft.”
They had to move on then, no time for Hollander to give him a response, but Ilya could have sworn that he had seen the hint of a smile.
June 2009
In the end, Ilya’s victory in the World Juniors and the victory for his club back in Moscow for the Russian Nationals had him as the first draft of 2009. The Boston Bears had won the lottery and used it to draft him as the first pick of the season. Ilya had interviewed with a slew of teams before the draft and he remembered walking out of his interview with Boston with a good feeling so he wasn’t surprised by their choice.
One of the owners, Brian something and his goat daemon, were currently praising Ilya in front of his father. Grigory had made a rare trip outside Russia to join him at the draft, but he hadn’t yet congratulated Ilya on being the number one pick. Ilya supposed there was no point in congratulating him on something that was expected of him.
His father’s daemon Ninel crouched next to him, and Sezja had positioned herself between Ilya and the wolverine. Sezja had long since taught herself to remain as unflappable as possible, something that Ilya knew was a struggle for someone who was the physical manifestation of his soul and feelings. She no longer pinned her ears back or tucked her tail when around Ninel, but just kept her eyes focused on a spot on the floor, pressing her body against Ilya’s leg. His suit pants were probably getting covered in fur. He couldn’t care less.
“We’re really excited to have Ilya onboard,” Brian went on, and the goat daemon that Ilya already forgot the name of nodded. “As you know, Mr. Rozanov, the Bears have experienced a bit of a slump in the last few years, but we have a good feeling about the future. I wouldn’t be surprised if Ilya ends up playing on the first line. We have been needing more depth at center, and there was no way we’d miss a chance to sign him. A natural number one pick.”
“He is strong, yes,” his father agreed, but of course he followed it up with “You will need to be firm on discipline. He has to work. He can be, how you say, lazy. Terrible habit. From his mother.”
Brian laughed at that, as if it had been a joke. Sezja pressed firmer into his leg and Ilya counted to three in his head before making eye contact with the man. “I promise to work very hard for you.”
Ilya knew that it had been a mistake to speak up, even as Brian smiled at him, telling him that there was no doubt about that. Ilya’s father switched to Russian spoke to him, his voice even to not alert Brian next to them.
“You will listen and you do not speak. Do not embarrass me in America. Do you understand?”
Ilya thought about pushing his luck and following the order a bit too literally, but in the end he gave his father a quiet nod. “Da.”
Switching back to his stilted English, Grigory kept talking with Brian and Ilya spaced out quickly. His eyes drifted to the floor beneath him where the number two draft was standing with his parents and someone with a small snake curled around his shoulders—probably a representative from the Montreal Voyageurs. The tall crane from Regina was standing next to Hollander’s mother and Ilya also caught a glimpse of a beaver that must be his father’s daemon. But by far the most interesting part of the sight was the small bird perched on Hollander’s shoulder. Instead of a red tufted bird, this one was monochromatic in whites and greys, with a sharp beak and sharper eyes. Ilya wondered what this bird said about Hollander, wondered if this form was permanent or if the daemon would shift if he kept watching them.
Hollander had looked far from pleased at losing the number one spot, having to be coaxed into holding up two fingers and told to smile when they were being photographed with their new jerseys. Both Ilya’s and the third draft Sullivan’s daemons were larger with Sullivan having some sort of boar, and neither fit in the photograph, but Hollander’s small grey bird-–the same form she was now—had stayed on his shoulder through the day.
It looked like the Montreal man and Hollander’s mother did most of the talking, though Ilya had to blink at the realization that the woman’s crane daemon had spoken up, and even more so, spoken to the team official, a human way outside their family unit. Neither Hollander nor his daemon seemed to do much talking and seemed to both be far away in their thoughts. Sezja may have trained herself to not project Ilya’s emotions, but it was an effort she did not keep up around the clock. The bird's expression, however, felt impossible to read. How did you even emote with a beak? Ilya found himself wishing he could hear what they were all talking about.
A comment from Brian brought Ilya back to the present, and he nodded and offered a simple “Thank you”, hoping it wouldn’t be read as defiance by his father.
The rest of the evening passed by, filled with handshakes, congratulations and drink offers. Ilya had recently turned eighteen, the official drinking age in Russia, even though he had been drinking for years before then. Here in the US, it would be three more years before he could buy himself a beer at a bar, but it seemed like the NHL cared little for those rules tonight. He saw Sullivan downing a shot with some of the later drafts and he was just a year older than him and Hollander.
Hollander himself, though, was seemingly absent from the party. Ilya spotted his mother once, speaking to someone that was either a journalist or management, but her son was nowhere to be found. Talk about a sore loser.
Hours later, the party started to die down with some people talking about hitting a bar or some club. Someone invited Ilya to tag along, but he declined. Drinking at the NHL function had been enough of a risk for today. He wasn’t about to risk his chance for a fresh start away from his family for a couple of overpriced shots of shitty vodka while technically underage.
His father had retired earlier in the night with Ninel, and Ilya let himself into the room next to his fathers, Sezja walking in behind him. He took off his suit jacket at once, not caring about leaving it crumpled in a heap on the floor. Soon he would be able to buy one that actually fit him. One that made him feel good and look good.
Sezja stretched out on the plush carpet that covered the floor of the hotel room, yawning with a relaxing whine, finally letting go of the knot of tension they both had felt through the evening. “My eto sdelali.” We did it.
It was an understatement. Getting drafted in the NHL had been the plan since they were twelve and it had finally happened. And as a cherry on top, they had been the number one draft pick. He wouldn’t have to play for the KHL, no matter his father’s wishes. He would have an apartment of his own and more money than he could have ever imagined. Ilya wasn’t dumb. He knew that there were some high expectations resting on his shoulders from Boston’s side, but he hadn’t been lying when he said that he would work hard to make Boston playoff contenders again. He was ready to play some good hockey. Some great hockey.
“We did it,” he repeated. Unbuttoning his dress shirt and shrugging it off, he joined Sezja on the floor, pressing his face into her soft fur, pushing his fingers into her scruff. “Just a little longer and we’ll be here again.”
He wished that this was the switch, that he would just stay in America now, but he had another season with his team in Moscow and his last World Junior tournament before he would move to Boston. They would fly back to Russia tomorrow afternoon, going back to Alexei and Avdotya, and Polina and Kir, but this night belonged to them.
“I am going to miss Moscow, or at least parts of it.” It felt like a confession of a crime. They had achieved their goal, but they had never lived outside of Moscow. Apart from hockey tournaments and games they rarely left the city. “Does Boston even have blinis?”
It was a small thing to miss, and sure, he could cook them himself, but he wouldn’t be able to hit the food stand on the corner of the bar where they cared little about checking IDs in the middle of the night anymore. He wouldn’t be able to find shitty Plombir ice creams;even if they mostly tasted like cardboard and artificial sweetener, they had been a staple of his childhood summers with his mother. His mother. He wouldn’t be able to visit his mother’s grave.
Sezja put one of her large paws against his bicep. “We’ll go back. We’ll have to, probably in the summers. We can have both Moscow and Boston, and whatever city we’ll play for next. This is just the beginning, Ilyushenka. We'll take over the world. They won't know what hit them.”
Ilya couldn't and didn't want to imagine a world where Sezja didn't exist. No one understood him like her, because she was him. They had spent every day of their lives together, and would until they died together, hopefully old and filthy rich.
They laid together on the carpet for close to an hour, talking about the car Ilya wanted to buy with his first paycheck, about how dumb the fifth draft’s beagle demon had acted once her human had gotten too drunk, and wondering about the range of Russian food options in Boston. Ilya could feel his skin buzzing, both from the alcohol and the anticipation of a changing life. He knew he should sleep, but it felt like an impossibility. He thought about heading out on a run, but at past midnight it might just be a better idea to stay in the hotel.
“Come on,” he said and pressed a quick kiss to Sezja’s head before getting up from the floor. He would bet good money on Sezja feeling the same energy in her body. “I gotta move. Let's hit the gym.”
After changing into a tank, shorts, and sneakers, and grabbing a water bottle, the two of them headed down into the hotel gym. He could hear the telltale thudding of someone running on a treadmill behind the closed door. Maybe that shouldn’t be surprising with a hotel full of hockey players and their entourages, but he had thought that most of them were drunk or sleeping by now. He hesitated, lingering in the empty, bland hallway.
Sezja bumped her head against the back of Ilya’s leg, shifting on her paws impatiently. Ilya jerked forward to open the door. While being alone would have been preferable, he had his headphones and the need to burn off the excess energy in his body was thrumming through his muscles. So he opened the door and found, with a jolt of surprise, that what waited within was actually preferable to solitude.
Shane Hollander was running at a steady pace, staying focused even as Ilya and Sezja entered the gym. His daemon, still a white and grey bird, perched on the console of the treadmill. Unlike her human, the bird turned her head immediately to watch them.
Ilya put his water bottle down and got on the treadmill next to Hollander. He glanced over at Hollander’s speed setting and set his own once level higher. The bird still watched him, shifting her weight from one skinny leg to the other. Ilya ran for a few minutes, feeling his muscles finding the rhythm of running. Hollander, still not looking at Ilya, bumped his treadmill up two levels, one higher than Ilya. Ilya immediately reciprocated. He could feel sweat starting to soak into his tank and hair, but when Hollander once again upped his settings, Ilya did the same.
It wasn’t an effective workout and the competition certainly did nothing to quell the static under Ilya’s skin that he had gone to the gym to extinguish. Hollander was breathing heavily beside him, and Ilya could feel his own lungs burning. Still, he followed Hollander and increased the speed once again. The small hotel gym echoed with the beating of their sneakers against the treadmills and their ragged, heavy breaths.
And then Hollander cursed—a bit surprising to hear from the little Canadian–and slammed the emergency break on his treadmill, stumbling off it. Ilya pushed himself for another ten seconds before he hit his own break. His legs burned, and he sank down on the floor opposite of Hollander, feet not quite touching. He pushed a hand through his sweat-coated curls, leaning his head back against the wall. Hollander’s eyes dropped to the floor between them, his cheeks flushing.
Sezja, who would probably would have preferred to go on a real run outside to the artificial treadmill, had laid down next to him during the impromptu competition, and turned now to curl up in a donut shape, her snout facing the two men. She didn’t close her eyes but just observed them. Hollander’s daemon stayed on the treadmill console, no longer looking at them and seemingly concerned with preening herself.
“What a fucking day, huh?” Ilya said, as it was becoming increasingly clear that Hollander wasn’t about to talk first this time around. The other man’s chest was heaving still, and sweat beaded his face.
“Yeah, totally.” Hollander wiped the back of his arm across his face, smearing the sweat over his enchanting freckles.
“Was it everything you two dreamed of?” Ilya knew that it was an asshole thing to say. He had beat Hollander three times now, and he wasn’t above rubbing some salt in those wounds. Hollander scoffed in reply and finally looked back up at Ilya.
“Almost.”
“I’m sorry.” He wasn’t.
“No, you’re not.”
They both smiled at that, and Ilya could feel his heart beating against his ribs. Some of that was the remnant of the pushing he had done on the treadmill, but a not-insignificant part was because Hollander’s eyes were definitely dipping down toward Ilya’s lips. He took a deep sip from his water bottle, watching Hollander as intently as Hollander was watching him.
Ilya prided himself on being able to read people well, and the way Hollander was looking at him was causing heat to pool in Ilya’s stomach. They were alone in the gym, and it was unlikely that someone else would walk in at this hour but it would still be risky to do anything with Hollander. He had a good feeling Hollander wouldn’t mind if he kissed him, but Ilya was heading back to Russia in less than twenty four hours and if the wrong person found out he might never get to leave his home country again.
So he took the safer option.
“Montreal is...” Ilya paused, trying to recall what he actually knew about the Canadian city. It had been one of the teams he had interviewed with during the pre-draft season, but unlike his interview with Boston, it hadn’t been very memorable. Finally he settled on: “Is nice, yes?”
Hollander gave him a short nod. “Yeah, it’s awesome. My mom’s been a fan of the Voyageurs for forever.”
Given their draft orders, both Boston and Montreal needed some strong players to turn their latest years of poor luck around. Brian from Boston’s management had talked about how Ilya was the obvious pick for them, but Ilya had a suspicion that the Montreal management had said similar things about Hollander. He wasn’t Ilya Rozanov, but any team should be happy with the second best player.
“Boston is nice too?”
The next question came from his right, and Ilya blinked in surprise that Sezja had spoken up, and not just that, but actually addressed Hollander. True that the man had spoken to her first all those months ago, but still. He saw her ear twitch minutely.
Anything would be better than Moscow, but Boston would soon be home for the next few years, and they were both hoping that it would actually be a nice place. He wasn’t sure how much Hollander picked up on the undercurrents of the question.
“I think so, yeah. People like it there.”
If Hollander was weirded out by Ilya’s daemon addressing him directly he didn’t show it. Judging by the other Canadians and Americans he had met it seemed like North America had similar social rules about daemon interactions as Russia. But here Hollander was, ignoring those norms.
They were quiet for a moment, both of them catching their breaths. Taking a chance, Ilya tapped his foot against Hollander’s because he just couldn’t fucking help himself. He nodded his head toward the grey bird. “She’s settled now then?”
Hollander’s brow scrunched for a moment in confusion before following Ilya’s gaze to his daemon. The bird shifted from one leg to the other, feathers fluffing slightly before she shook out the apparent nervousness about being called out. Maybe it had been a mistake to point out something that might be a sore spot for the two of them.
“Moko is male,” Hollander responded, paused, and quickly added, “and he has. Uh, grey jay.”
Oh, that had not been what Ilya expected. Same-sex daemons were more common than hybrids and color morphs, but still an oddity. Ilya felt a twinge of guilt for assuming that Hollander’s daemon was female. He gave Moko another look. The bird was understated with its monochromatic pattern, but he was sleek and his eyes were meeting Ilya’s. His lips curved up slightly.
“He’s pretty.”
Hollander’s Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. Ilya didn’t see a water bottle belonging to him. Maybe he was just thirsty after the run, but Ilya would bet on there being more than that. He took a moment before he answered, and Ilya could almost see him processing the words.
“Thank you,” he finally said. “So is Sezja.”
Ilya took a long haul from his water bottle, ignoring the fluttering feeling of Hollander remembering his daemon’s name. He probably knew the name of every one in the league.
Hollander’s eyes definitely kept flicking to the lower half of Ilya’s face and Ilya couldn’t help but grin. He stretched his arm out into the distance between them, holding out his water bottle. Hollander refused it first, but Ilya just raised an eyebrow and shook the bottle. When Hollander accepted it, Ilya’s fingers ghosted over his.
He watched Hollander squirt water into his mouth and swallow down. And when Hollander passed the bottle back to him, Ilya, ever pushing limits, let his fingers remain over Hollander’s for an extra moment. The other man’s cheeks were flushed and Ilya highly doubted that it was from running. Then Hollander stood up and wings fluttered as Moko took off to land on his shoulder.
“I, uh, need to go to bed.” Hollander looked around himself, like there was something in the gym that would help him escape the situation. “I guess I’ll see you around?”
“You’ll be seeing plenty of me,” Ilya said before Hollander all but ran out of the room, followed closely by Mokomichida, wings fluttering. The door closed behind them and Ilya leaned his head back against the wall.
The soft pat of Sezja’s paws were followed by her sinking her head in his lap.
“Smooth,” she offered and Ilya let out a short laugh at that.
“Oh, I know. Probably better this way though. He’s like a deer, all spooked. Risky.”
The two of them stayed on the gym floor for another ten minutes, Ilya gently carding his fingers through Sezja’s fur, their legs sprawled together. He had no idea how Hollander would have reacted if Ilya had kissed him. Or well, he would probably have kissed him back. It was what would have happened afterwards that was the unknown factor. Still, those freckles haunted him.