This was fun -- thank you!
From a Svetlana character study, my eternal WIP:
She tries to be gentle, but all those years of lying curdle her voice and turn it sour. She puts more space between them, backing up to the kitchen counter and sliding up to sit on it. Her skintight dress makes it harder than it should be; it's chafing the skin beneath her arms. Suddenly, she’s so tired.
Across from her, Ilya is looking down at the floor, back toward the door. She can feel his mind whirring, probably panicking, in the stillness of the kitchen.
“My love, it is late and I am starving and I need to get out of this stupid dress. Please, put us both out of this misery. I have known for sure since last summer, and suspected long before that."
Still he tries to remain impassive, avoiding her eyes, and Svetlana rolls her eyes fondly. "Honestly I don't know how you thought you could keep it from me. Have you forgotten that I've known you since we were seven years old? I would never tell. I will never tell. You know this. You know you can trust me, and you can tell him too — you do not have to worry. I promise."
He gives her nothing, but glances up again and clears his throat.
“When can I meet your Lauren?” he asks, and she laughs. Dear god, he's so obvious.
“I don’t know, when can I meet your Shane Hollander?”
Ilya groans in frustration, covering, his last-ditch attempt. “Christ, Sveta, stop saying his name like that.”
“I’ll stop when you answer my question,” she says, and then, at long last, she sees him soften. His shoulders drop and he lets out a long breath.
“Montreal plays here next week…” He trails off, but she doesn’t need him to say the words. Finally, finally, here they are.
“And you will get to see him then?” she asks, quiet. An ambulance wails in the distance, and she can hear music from someone else’s party seep through the windows.
“Yes,” Ilya says, his nostrils flaring, not meeting her eyes. He looks so young. “I will get to see him then. Never for long enough.”
“How long has it been going on, Ilyusha?”
He swallows hard. “Summer before rookie season.”
The entire time they’ve been in America. Svetlana nods; she’s not even surprised, somehow, that it’s been so long.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I'm sorry— for a lot of things."
“It's all right," she says, and it is. "That’s a long time to want someone. Especially other hockey players. Especially the ones that you pretended not to notice.”
He huffs a sad little laugh. “Yes. Only the one, unfortunately.”
She pets his hair. “Maybe not so unfortunate.”
“I don’t know, it’s very specific. Has to have freckles.”
"I never noticed his," she says. "I like freckles too."
"Really?" he asks, too sharp, picking up on something she hadn't even meant to put down. “You notice his hands, you notice his backshot, you notice how hot he is when he does his dumb yoga — but you never notice the freckles?”
She smiles and holds her arms out, and he comes over to rest in front of her, still sitting on the counter. They're the same height when she's up here; she widens her legs so he can lean between them. She cups his cheek, so familiar and dear to her. “I never did, no. I think you have spent more time looking at that Canadian than I have.”
He hugs her, at an even level now, when she's still sitting on the counter, and she's glad they can still give each other this, at least.
“Japanese-Canadian,” he says quietly, over her shoulder.
“Hm?” She puts a hand on the back of his neck, covering that vulnerable spot, protecting. Jesus, the summer before their rookie season.
“He is Japanese-Canadian. His mother, her family. From Japan.”
Over his shoulder, she smiles. “Oh I see. Pardon me. Your dumb boring Japanese-Canadian.”
“Yes. Thank you for accuracy."
They’re quiet for a moment, and she pulls away so she can examine his face.
“You love him,” she says quietly.
He takes a big steadying breath, and he doesn’t even try to say it isn’t true. Outside, there's more noise, the bass from the music and now a cacophony of honking from the street, Boston drunk and loud on a Saturday night.
“I can’t— I shouldn’t. And I cannot tell him, Sveta.”
Oh, her sweet sad Ilya. “You don’t deny it, then.”
“No, I can’t deny it. I do. I love him.” His voice is soft and sad. She cards her hands through his curls, messing them up. Tears glitter in his eyes, and he tips his head back so they won’t fall, sniffing hard, rolling his eyes at himself.
"Fuck, enough of this," he mutters, and Svetlana’s heart hurts for him, and she gives him an out. She pushes him back, gently, smoothing her hands over his shoulders.
“Yes, enough. I am starving, and I need to take off this stupid dress."
"Starving, huh? You eat food now?”
“I always eat food, don't be ridiculous.” She avoids his eyes.
“Only if you count cigarettes," he scoffs. "You think you are the only one who notices things?"
“Lauren does this to you?”
"Maybe, probably yes," she says, smiling. "Could you make yourself useful for once and go get us something to eat? Or get something delivered? Pizza, whatever, I don't care."
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