i came here from northern italy (and the gdr)

The woman didn’t seem to notice. “I hear the Bolshoi are quite intense.”

“Well, they’re one of the oldest companies in the world. You don’t get that on sheer talent alone,” her husband pointed out with a grunt before clapping Shane’s shoulder, shaking him once for good measure. “Our young star here is going to give them a run for their money. Aren’t you, Shane?”

“You’re too kind, Mr. Martin,” Shane responded easily like a reflex. “And yes, I’ll do my best.”

The wife shook her head. “Now now, Joseph, it’s not a competition.”

“I know,” the older man huffed. “All I’m saying is that sometimes egos need to be managed. Shane is just the man to put those Russians in their place.”

“You’re being ridiculous—”

“No, he’s right, to a certain degree,” Shane said with a slight shrug. “But it’s not just me. The entire company is excited to learn from the Bolshoi.”

He had a feeling that if he said it again, maybe he’d believe it.

Mrs. Martin wore a soft look that almost reminded him of his late grandmother. It was almost like she could see right through him. She reached up and pat his shoulder. “I’m sure it won’t be an easy six months, but I’m also sure it’ll fly by.”

God, I hope so. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

She hummed, her hand lowering to find her husband’s arm. “Well, we won’t keep you too long then. I’m sure you have to get some rest before your flight tomorrow.”

“I’m gonna need it,” he said lightly. “It was nice talking to you.”

“Likewise, dear.”

Shane watched them walk away before he sighed, letting his shoulders sag slightly. 

Perhaps it was time to go home after all. He still had to pack and inevitably reorganize his suitcase three times before he could even think about getting some sleep—all before cooling down and stretching before bed. Playing Prince Siegfried earlier that night left him winded and sore. His ass was definitely feeling it. He was going to have to build up more strength if he wanted to survive the next six months in one of the most brutal environments known to mankind.

He took another sip of champagne. Still too sweet.

As if on cue, a familiar voice groaned, “Jesus Christ, if I have to drink another sip of this, I might actually puke.”

He turned to see his dance partner. Rose. He was almost surprised to see her. Somehow she was usually surrounded by the younger patrons who had way too much money and time on their hands. Unfortunately for them, she wasn’t that kind of girl.

She was actually more like an angel. Shane couldn’t count on his fingers how many times she had saved him from awkward conversations. She knew how to read him both on stage and across a room.

“How are you still drinking?” she asked, quirking a well-defined brow.

Shane only shook his head, a crooked smile on his lips. “It’s better than nothing.”

She hummed in solemn agreement. “I suppose, but you’d think they’d buy better booze to send us off,” she pointed out, swirling her half-empty glass for effect. “This is cheap enough to make anyone completely lose hope in humanity.”

He snorted softly. “Oh, come on.”

“I’m not joking.”

“I know you’re not.”

“But aren’t I right, though?” she chuckled dryly. “I mean, if you think about it, our careers are short anyway, we don’t get paid nearly enough to survive here in Toronto, and our audiences have been dwindling since the pandemic. Let’s face it, ballet is dying, and us too.”

He was stunned for a moment, staring at her as if an angel had just grown horns. “Are you drunk?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “Hence why I came to find you. I need you to be my service dog.”

A chuckle bubbled from his chest. “Service dog?”

“Yeah. To sense when I’m about to say something regrettably stupid. You can boop me with your nose or something.”

“Fair enough,” he relented, his gaze sweeping out over the crowded ballroom.

Most had gone home at that point, but there were still enough guests there to warrant them staying for another half hour or so.

She sighed next to him. “This is hardly the send-off I was expecting.”

He glanced down at her. “Oh?”

Her eyes found his. “Yeah,” she lamented. “I mean, I didn’t expect fireworks or anything, but we’ll be gone for six months in enemy territory.”

“Moscow is hardly—”

“It is,” she cut him off with a dry smile. “You know how the Russians are. Cool. Calculated. Insanely pretty. Meanwhile we apologize for everything.” She downed the rest of her champagne with a sigh. “We’ll be judged the entire time we’re there. It’ll be amazing and all, but I’m not looking forward to being on my toes all the time—literally.”

She wasn’t wrong. He knew they’d be scrutinized, but it didn’t leave him with as much despair as he thought. After all, he grew up watching old VHS tapes of the Russian greats—Baryshnikov was one of his heroes. He remembered playing them over and over, wondering if he’d even be half as good or even half as stunning. Now they were going to Moscow, and the whole thing seemed like a dream. His 4-year-old self would go into shock.

“Anyway, enjoy your freedom now, while it still exists,” Rose singsonged, her voice pulling him straight out of his fleeting moment of nostalgia. “We’ll be under curfew and shot on sight.”

He nearly scoffed as he shook his head. “Rose, that was a completely different time.”

“You should keep up with the news,”she said, nearly sounding like his father. “There’s always tension in politics and whatnot. I heard the Russian mafia is making a resurgence.” She caught glance of his unamused look and shrugged. “You never know. We could be kidnapped or—”

"You read too many dark romance novels."

“Would that be so bad though?” she contemplated. “I mean, the dating scene here is so…”

She didn’t have to finish.

He knew it too.

He always felt so lost with anything that had to do with the opposite sex. He never really knew what to do with all those tiny emotions that typically came with a relationship. Somehow he always got lost in his own thoughts and managed to keep everyone at arm’s length naturally, but he supposed it was safer that way.

Less messy that way.

He hummed lamely in response.

Rose turned to look at him, her blue eyes soft, and for a moment, he imagined what it would be like to be a normal guy in his position. He’d probably kiss her in that moment, hold her close, confess and whisper some sweet nothings in her ear. It was what she deserved, but not what he could give her. Besides, it was better for him to have her as a close friend.

“Hayden’s having some of the dancers over at his place. Jackie’s making the usual,” she said.

He could feel his lips curl. “Rabbit food?”

“What else?” she laughed. “We’re still on the clock.”

It was going to be a long six months.

—

Vodka did nothing to soothe Ilya’s frayed nerves.

He swirled the glass once, twice—almost expecting some kind of genie to materialize out of nowhere. Maybe if he drank enough, one would actually appear and grant him every wish in his heart.

But alas, he was sitting up against a shitty headboard in a shitty hotel with shitty sheets that felt no better than a burlap sack. At least the woman laying next to him wasn’t shitty.

Svetlana was far from shitty. She was the one thing in the world he didn’t hate—couldn’t hate. She had seen him at his worst, and even as he continued to spiral deeper into the hellhole of his family business, she still saw him as the stupid little boy who would run around the fields outside his family home to look for a butterfly she made up. 

His other hand ran up and down the soft skin of her back, feeling each vertebrae of her spine. She hummed softly in response, sinking further into the mattress.

“What time is your rehearsal?” he asked, breaking the silence.

She turned her head, looking up at him out of the corner of her eye. “Early,” she said simply. “No different than before. Why?”

He looked away before she could analyze his look. Another sip of vodka helped. “I will be there. The president wants to talk about the exchange with Canada. Lots of events that need sponsorship.”

“Oh, that,” she said, turning onto her side. “Yes, it’s the talk of the town.” Her eyes twinkled in the dim light. “Some of the girls were talking about taking them to a club when they get here. The Canadians.”

“Hm, yes, that might be good. Boring lot, I’ve heard.”

She chuckled softly. “Don’t underestimate them. I hear they have some very special stars.” She must’ve seen his grumpy expression because she laughed a bit harder, poking his hip. “Okay, maybe not as good as us, but still.”

“As good as you. There is no us.”

Not anymore.

His heart twisted in his chest. He didn’t mean for it to sound biting, but the memories that surfaced were nearly too much. There was a pain there that lingered, gnawing at his leg like a rabid dog. 

“I’m sorry,” he grumbled, turning his attention back to his vodka glass.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, and he believed her.

She sat up, and his eyes found her curves. They had become such a welcome and familiar sight, mapped out by every inch of him. God, how he didn’t deserve any version of her—and yet she stayed despite it all.

Her hand cupped his jaw before she leaned in and pressed her lips to his. His body melted as she pulled away.

“You should come with us,” she said after a moment, a small smile blooming. “You’ve been busy, no? It’ll be a good chance to blow off some steam. Maybe you can find a shiny new toy to play with.”

A grimace had no trouble finding his features. He always hated when she put it that way.

He wasn’t the type to seek anyone out. Not anymore, at least. Ever since his father began to step down, Ilya found himself at the helm of his family’s business. His older brother wasn’t much help either, doing whatever it was he did with the coke-heads and whores for hire. Ilya hadn’t the time for loose ends and pretty, empty heads—hence Svetlana. She had no problems keeping personal life out of the bedroom, and she certainly didn’t complain when he was rough with her as a result.

“The only ballerina I’d fuck is you,” he grumbled, and he didn’t really mean it as a compliment.

They were usually a stuck-up breed of attention whores. He wasn’t too sure how the National Ballet of Canada would be, but he suspected they weren’t too different than the Bolshoi. 

Then again, there could be a surprise blossom among the thorns. His hopes weren’t high, but he made a mental note to check the roster of incoming dancers.

He watched as Svetlana lay her head against his shoulder.

“I know, but you deserve someone to love,” she said with almost a motherly tone.

Almost his mother’s tone.

A wry smile tugged at his lips. “I am not someone who deserves love, let alone someone to love,” he said with resignation. “I’ve got too much blood on my hands.”

“And yet you still treat me with love,” she pointed out. “Not everyone is capable of that. Even normal, boring Canadians.”

That earned her a real smile from him, one that made his eyes crinkle in the corners and deepen his dimples.

“Come on, Ilya,” she cooed as her hand ran up and down his stomach. “One more round before I go?”