Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Ilya Rozanov first shakes hands with Shane Hollander aged seventeen, outside a rink in the middle of Canadian nowhere. Shane Hollander is embarrassingly earnest, practically wagging his tail as he compliments Ilya's play, and he has freckles. Ilya had just come out here for a stupid fucking cigarette.

The second handshake when Hollander says goodbye leaves Ilya prickling under his skin with something else entirely. He has never wanted to beat anyone more in his life.

The third time Ilya Rozanov shakes hands with Shane Hollander they are on the ice and there is a gold medal around Ilya's neck. He thinks maybe Hollander will not enjoy this handshake so much, so he leans in and holds on just a second too long. "See you at the draft," Ilya says. The world is at his fucking feet.

The fourth time Shane Hollander tries to shake hands with Ilya Rozanov, they are both twenty four. Ilya is several days into an experiment to see how long he can outrun a hangover by always being one vodka ahead, and Hollander has just rung Sveta's doorbell.

"Hi," Shane Hollander says, hand out, ready to shake. He has some kind of gift basket on his other arm. "Ilya, right? I'm Shane Hollander, from next door. Sorry I missed you when you moved in. Welcome to the —"

"Nyet," says Ilya, definitively, and he shuts the door in Hollander's face.

Sveta never answers her phone when she's working, so Ilya texts her: Why did you not tell me that Shane Hollander is your neighbour.

I think you mean your neighbour, he gets back half an hour later.

It is your house. Even though she left for New York six weeks ago.

You should make a friend, she sends. You have lots in common.

Like what. Ilya is eating honey mustard pretzel pieces by the handful. The crunching is obnoxious even by his own standards. And don't say hockey.

He is breathing and has a pulse?

Nice that Sveta’s standards for him are so high. I am not so sure. He brought a gift basket and tried to shake my hand. I think he may be a robot.

Did you at least invite him in?

I shut the door in his face.

Sveta doesn't reply. Ilya probably deserves that.

He scrabbles in the bottom of the pretzel bag but there are no pieces left, just greasy crumbs. He tips the bag back and empties them into his mouth. Fuck Shane Hollander. Ilya bets there were no pretzel pieces in the stupid gift basket anyway.

Hollander is a quiet neighbour, at least. No wild parties. No hookers ringing Ilya's doorbell at three in the morning because Hollander has kicked them out and they need a cab home.

Not that Ilya thought Hollander was the type to do that. Probably he is a hockey robot after all, good for nothing but skating and working out. Ilya does occasionally catch glimpses of him heading out for a run in the early mornings, around the time Ilya finally gives up and gets into bed. If Hollander does have sex it is probably polite robot sex, very neat and quick and not a hair out of place, then back to the treadmill.

Ilya has not done any exercise, let alone fucked anyone, in — Christ. Six months. If he doesn't look too closely in the mirror, and he doesn't, he can pretend the softness around his chest and his thighs is still muscle, and not the result of a solid diet of pizza pockets.

Boston does not know how to do December correctly. It is cold, but not cold enough. There is not enough snow, only stupid rain.

Sveta comes home for a few days over American Christmas, because apparently no one in New York wants to work then, but she has to go back before New Year, because Americans are wrong about almost everything. Ilya makes exceptions only for their deep fried snack foods.

Sveta frowns at Ilya when she realises he has not put up any decorations. "I told you to get a tree," she says. "Where am I going to put your presents?"

"You are not going to be here when we open presents," he reminds her. She just puts a hand on his head, and doesn't try to fuck him the whole visit. Ilya doesn't mind. He thinks it is probably not a good sign.

The beginning of January is a little better than December. It is colder and there is some snow, at least, though not much — global warming, they say on the TV. Anyway, cold enough that Ilya can wear three or four layers during the day, and take only the top one off when he gets into bed. He left everything with the Dynamo logo behind in Moscow but he still owns plenty of hoodies. Probably he smells bad, but the only people who come near him are the delivery guys, and they mostly leave things on the porch. It's cold enough that the ice cream doesn't melt.

On real Christmas Day he gets so sick of the sight of his own feet on the coffee table that he goes out in the back yard. There is a little snow on the ground, scattered patches. His house shoes are no good for this weather, but probably he won't slip over and freeze to death in Sveta's backyard. Anyway he has heard that hypothermia is a peaceful way to die.

There's a wrought iron bench out here, metal cold even through his thickest sweatpants. He reaches into his pocket for his cigarettes, then remembers he smoked the last one earlier, sitting on the toilet.

He is trying to decide if it is better to go and find more cigarettes, or stay here until his sweatpants freeze themselves to the bench, when something moves in the bushes that line the fence. Probably a squirrel. Or a stupid American bird. Or —

A dog. A cat?

Definitely a dog. Black, with a few lighter patches over the nose. Not too big, not too small.

The dog has crept all the way out of the bush now. He is standing amongst the patchy snow, looking at Ilya, ears pricked up.

"Privet," Ilya says, and holds out his hand for the dog to come and sniff. At least if he's talking to a dog he doesn't have to speak English. "Good boy. Come, say hello."

Is it a boy? The dog’s tail wags a little as it comes closer. Yes, it's a boy.

"Hello there," Ilya says. The dog gives his hand a sniff, cold wet nostrils on Ilya's palm, then warm and wet when it licks him. Ilya should definitely have gloves on, but he is glad he doesn't. The dog’s ears are very silky.

"What are you doing out here?" Ilya asks. The dog doesn't have a collar, or a tag. "You should not be out alone in the snow."

The dog bumps its nose up into Ilya's hand, like he's asking for more. "You are a good boy, yes," Ilya tells him, and scratches him under the chin. "But where did you come from?"

The dog follows Ilya back over to the fence. The bushes are dense, but eventually Ilya forces a gap big enough to see behind: a couple of the wooden panels have come loose, maybe in the storm last week, and there is a dog-sized gap. Into Hollander's yard.

"Are you Hollander’s dog?" Ilya asks him.

The dog wags again. He looks smart, this dog. Well, obviously he is smart, because he has escaped from Hollander's clutches and come to see Ilya.

"I am sorry you belong to such a boring robot person," Ilya tells him. "Do you want to come and live with me instead?"

Another wag of his tail. Yes. Way too smart for Hollander.

"Probably he will call police on me if I steal you, though." Ilya rests his hand on the dog's head. "Let's go see if he is home, and I can shout at him for being stupid and letting such a good boy escape. Yes? Okay, come."

The dog trots obediently next to him as he goes down the side of the house, through the gate. Once they're out in the street Ilya has a moment of panic that the dog will run off and he'll have to explain to Hollander how he lost him. It seems like the dog is probably Hollander's, though, because it turns into Hollander's driveway without a fuss, and at the front door, he sits down politely next to Ilya.

Ilya rings Hollander's doorbell. Waits. Nothing.

Hollander has a garage so Ilya can't tell if his stupid boring Jeep is home. Ilya had had a Lamborghini in Russia, his one indulgence. Terrible in the snow, yes. But fun. Much better than a Jeep.

Ilya rings the doorbell again. Still nothing.

The dog is still sitting politely, but Ilya is worried he will get bored and wander off. Ilya does not want him to wander off. Ilya wants to keep him and give him pats and feed him treats and rub his belly because he is such a good boy.

Probably Hollander is not home. Maybe he went for one of his stupid runs, even though it is so cold. Why would Hollander not take his dog though? This dog looks like it would be good to run with.

He rings the doorbell a third time, waits until he hears the echo die out.

Okay. Enough.

"Come," he tells the dog. "We will go and wait at home."

Hollander's dog likes to sniff things.

They have been in Ilya's house for five minutes now, and the dog has methodically worked his way around the entire room, starting in the kitchen, then around the table, then the couch and the television and the rug and Ilya's slippers and the coffee table and the —

"Wait, no." Ilya snatches the cookie box off the dog's nose. He doesn't think he'd left any crumbs but the cookies were chocolate chip and Ilya is pretty sure chocolate is not good for dogs. Or is that onions?

The dog’s eyes follow him as he puts the cookie box out of reach and sits down on the couch with his phone. Sveta will know. Does Hollander have a dog? he sends. Also can dogs eat chocolate?

The dog puts a paw on Ilya's knee.

"What is it?" Ilya asks. The dog tips his head to one side, then the other, and makes a little whining sound. "Do you need to go out?" Ilya had been worried that the dog might pee on the furniture. They were just outside, though, so hopefully the dog did its business in Hollander's yard earlier.

The dog puts a paw on the couch cushion, then back on Ilya's knee.

"Ah. You want to come up? Okay. Come." Ilya pats the couch next to him. The dog jumps up, curls into a C with his nose tucked over his back legs, and promptly closes his eyes.

Good boy. Stupid Hollander probably doesn't let him on the couch at his stupid house.

His phone vibrates. Sveta. I have no idea.

Hm. Ilya snaps a photo of the dog curled up next to him and sends it to Sveta. Found in backyard. Came through a hole in fence. Hollander's dog?

Sveta: Looks like Hollander. Probably his.

Which is — hmm. The hair colour is similar, and the dog has a few spots over his nose that look a little like freckles. Ilya watched a show once about people who look like their dogs. The pugs were great. Also the bulldogs.

Why don't you ask him? Sveta sends.

Tried. Not answering door.

He can almost feel Sveta's eye roll across state lines. Call him.

Do not have number.

Of course Sveta's reply is just Hollander's phone number.

I could just keep the dog? He is good boy.

He waits two minutes but Sveta doesn't send anything else. Fuck. The dog whuffles a little and his paws twitch like he's dreaming.

Ilya saves Hollander's contact and opens a new message. No way is he going to let Hollander make fun of his spoken English; texting will be bad enough. Have you lost dog? I have found.

He sends that, then attaches the picture and sends that too.

Then he remembers Hollander won't have his number.

This is neighbour. Ilya.

And then, in case Hollander thinks he means the neighbour on Hollander's other side, Live with Svetlana.

Still nothing.

What if it was an emergency? What if Hollander's dog was hurt, and no one could get hold of him? Hollander should not be allowed to have a pet if he is so irresponsible.

Ilya is not irresponsible. Ilya will sit right here with Hollander's dog, keep him safe.

Also, Ilya did not sleep so well last night and he is tired. It's warm inside, and Hollander's dog is sleeping, and if Ilya gets up it might disturb him, so Ilya will just stay here until the dog wakes up, or Hollander finally gets his stupid freckled head out of his ass and answers Ilya's texts.

It's dark when Ilya wakes up to a wet nose in his face. The groggy feeling of being roused from a nap is familiar, but the paws on his chest are not.

"What?" he mumbles.

The dog sniffs his nose and licks his chin.

Oh. Yes. Hollander's dog. "You are still here," Ilya tells him, and scratches under his chin.

But of course the dog is still here. The doors are all shut. He could not get out. Ilya has kidnapped him. Dog-napped him?

The dog jumps down and runs to the back door, back to Ilya, back to the door, nails clicking on the floor. Finally he sits down by the door and whines.

Right. Ilya blinks away sleep. "You need to go out?"

The dog whines again.

"Okay, okay. I am coming."

The dog races out of the door the second it's open wide enough.

"Wait," Ilya calls, belatedly, but the dog is already off the back porch and into the garden. Ilya thinks maybe he sees movement near the hole in the fence, but it's too dark to make out properly. Fuck.

Ilya stands in the doorway long enough for his toes to go numb. He would call for the dog, but he doesn't know its name.

Ilya turns the lights on when he comes back inside and picks up his phone. Still nothing from Hollander. His hands are a little shaky. Probably from the cold. He manages to tap out Dog left. Is back with you?

He puts his phone down, takes a piss, and when he sits back on the couch there is finally a reply from Hollander: Yeah. He's home.

No apologies for ignoring Ilya's texts. The manners robot must be broken. Why did you not reply for four hours?

I do silent meditation. Sometimes I go for longer than I plan to.

Ilya snorts. Of fucking course Hollander does. Robot hockey monk.

What if dog had problem?

He's a smart dog. He can look after himself.

I know he is smart, he found hole in fence and came to see me.

Thanks for looking after him.

What if someone steal him. Or hurt him

The only person he can get to is you. Are you going to hurt him?

Hurt, never. Steal, yes, if he can get away with it. But Hollander does not need to know that.

Of course not, I am not horrible person. Then: What is his name?

It takes a few minutes to get a reply. Then, I just call him Dog.

Fucking hell. Ilya types out Are you most boring person alive? but then deletes it because he doesn’t want Hollander to hate him so much that he withholds access to his good dog.

I will call him, he types instead, and then has to stop and think. Vesnushki, for his nose? No, he needs a boy name. Chernysh.

Okay? Ilya gets back.

He should have collar and tag, Ilya sends.

He just gets out of them if I put them on, I don't think he likes them.

He is good dog. Can he come visit again?

Sure. I'm home a lot this week, he'll probably wander over.

Good, Ilya texts. He puts his phone down, scratches his balls, picks it up again. Thank you

Don't thank me, he does his own thing.

Who let Hollander adopt a dog, seriously. Chernysh will be much happier when he is Ilya's.

Ilya sleeps late again the next morning, and the weather is cold but clear when he drags himself out of bed.

There's no special reason that he chooses to have his first cigarette of the day in the backyard. Maybe he is just taking Sveta's advice to get out of the fucking house, Ilyusha.

There is no sign of Chernysh. That is also fine.

He smokes his first cigarette down to the filter and lights a second. It is no one's business if he wants to spend time in his own backyard.

He is worrying at a hangnail on his left thumb when he finally hears movement in the bushes.

"Is that you, Chernysh?"

It is. Chernysh comes a little way into the yard but stops a few metres away, cocks his head and whines at Ilya.

"What is problem?" Ilya crouches down and holds his free hand out, palm open, for Chernysh to sniff. "We are friends, yes? From yesterday?"

Chernysh whines again and keeps his distance. Fuck. Ilya should have bought treats. Maybe there is people food in the house that Chernysh can eat. Probably not though, almost everything Ilya has bought recently is deep fried or processed cheese flavour or both, probably as bad for Chernysh as it is for Ilya.

"Come," he tries again. "Say hello."

Chernysh does move this time, but just bumps his nose quickly into Ilya's hand and then backs away again, wary. It almost seems like he's watching — Ilya's cigarette?

Ilya moves his hand out, in. Yes. Chernysh tracks the movement. "You don't like cigarette? Okay. No problem." Ilya stubs it out on the ground, takes the butt to the trash can and comes back to Chernysh, crouching down again. "Now you say hello?"

Now Chernysh can say hello.

He is such a good boy.

Okay. Maybe he is not such a good boy. Because when Ilya tries to take up his usual daytime spot on the couch, patting the seat beside him for Chernysh to sit, Chernysh does not.

Instead, Chernysh goes and whines at the front door.

Ilya gets up. Opens the door. Chernysh goes two steps outside, stops, looks back at Ilya. Doesn't move.

"What is it?"

Ilya is not sure if he was actually expecting an answer. Chernysh is smart, but not so smart he speaks Russian.

Maybe Chernysh heard a noise outside. Maybe a car went past and he wanted to see. Dogs do this, right?

"Okay," Ilya tells him. "No one there. Come back inside."

Chernysh comes in. Ilya sits on the couch. Chernysh goes right back to the front door and whines.

The third time they repeat this, Ilya throws up his hands. "What? What do you want from me?"

He needs to stop talking to the dog like it understands him. But seriously. What the hell does Chernysh want?

Chernysh whines. Then he goes to the pile of shoes by the door, picks up one of Ilya's sneakers in his mouth, and drops it at Ilya's feet.

"Are you serious," Ilya says.

Chernysh brings him the second shoe.

Fuck.

It turns out there is a nature reserve two blocks down the street where dogs are permitted off lead. Chernysh leads him straight to it, waiting politely at every street corner. Hollander must bring him here all the time.

Fortunately, being a weekday in the middle of January, there is no one else at the reserve. Fortunate because Ilya probably looks like a drug dealer: a hulking, hairy, unwashed Russian man in this nice, clean, expensive Massachusetts town of white picket fences. Ilya should really have asked more questions when Sveta had said come to Boston, Ilyusha. Wellesley is hardly the city.

Chernysh doesn't seem content to let Ilya lurk on a bench while he sniffs around, either. Ilya knows because he tries to sit. Chernysh just puts his nose on Ilya's leg and whines until Ilya gets back up.

"Okay, I am coming, I am coming," Ilya tells him. "Be kind. I have not had breakfast. Or coffee."

There are several gravelled paths through the reserve. Chernysh takes him along one of the loops. Chernysh keeps stopping to sniff every few metres, so Ilya can keep up. When they make it back to their starting point Chernysh must decide he’s finished, and leads the way back home.

"Is enough now?" Ilya asks him when they're through the front door. "I am allowed to sit?"

Ilya is feeling hungry, though, so he makes himself breakfast first. He is pretty sure Chernysh is judging him for the frozen waffles. And they are chocolate chip flavour, so Ilya can't even bribe him with table scraps.

Chernysh showed me park today, he texts Hollander that evening. Chernysh had barked at the back door around three o'clock and took himself off through the fence after Ilya let him out. Ilya guesses he'd had enough couch and television time.

Oh yeah? Hollander texts back. It's a nice park. He likes to run.

No running. Just walking.

He was going easy on you then

Hmph. Ilya thinks for a minute. He doesn't want to show his hand here, but also he doesn't want to make Chernysh sick, so. What does Chernysh eat?

The reply comes quickly. Don't feed my dog.

Serious. What does he eat?

Serious, please don't feed my dog.

Is important. In case of accident. Does he have allergy?

No allergies.

So what does he eat?

Human food, healthy food. Same as me.

Poached chicken. Brown rice. Vegetables.

Of course robot Hollander feeds his dog robot food. Still, Chernysh seems healthy, so maybe Hollander does know what he is doing.

No peanut butter? Ilya may have been doing some googling.

No. Then: Seriously, don't feed my dog peanut butter.

Ilya is making no promises. He does make a grocery order.

The second day after he meets Chernysh it snows. Ilya stands at the back door, looking out, and drinks a mug of thick, sweet coffee. Then he texts Sveta: Is OK if I get someone to put a dog door in the laundry room?

Sveta: You are getting a dog?

No

Then why do you need a dog door

Is okay or not?

It's your house too, Ilyusha

It really isn't — he’s pretty sure Sveta’s father bought it sometime in the nineties — but okay. Ilya looks up pet doors and finds a company that will arrange installation, too. He can put all his information and payment details in on the website and doesn't have to talk to anyone on the phone. They will come the next day.

Can Chernysh come for visit tomorrow afternoon? he texts Hollander.

Probably. What time? You want to take him to the park again?

Ilya cannot tell Hollander about the pet door. 2?

OK. Hope it's not still snowing.

Ilya’s groceries arrive after lunch. He puts them away methodically. The fridge is almost full when he finishes, even though it's one of those giant double door American monstrosities. Maybe Ilya overdid the order a little.

He stands there staring into its depths for long enough that the door alarm beeps at him, then takes some chicken back out. It will go bad if he doesn't use it and wasting food makes him think of his mother. Eat up, Ilyushenka, not everyone is so lucky.

He bought pasta and tomatoes too, and he's used this kitchen a little before, in his first couple of months in America. Before Sveta left for New York. Sveta has never learnt to cook as a matter of principle. So Ilya knows where the pans are and how the stove works. It's just — well.

The internet tells him dogs shouldn't eat tomato, so he cooks the chicken separately and puts a little aside as treats for Chernysh tomorrow. He eats his pasta on the couch and does the dishes and goes to bed early.

He doesn't feel any better, which doesn't seem fair.

The pet door installation man loves dogs, and agrees that Chernysh is a very good boy. This means Ilya doesn't have to do anything more than point at where he wants the door to go, tell the man Chernysh's name, and leave them to it.

Maybe he should get a dog of his own. But that would not be fair to the dog, if —

When —

Anyway. After the pet door is installed and the man is gone, Chernysh goes to the front door and whines, and Ilya had sort of let Hollander think that he was going to take Chernysh for a walk, so he guesses that's what he's doing. There's more snow on the ground, after yesterday. When they get back home, Ilya googles is it OK to walk dog in snow and then orders boots for Chernysh's paws, and a jacket to keep him warm, express delivery.

The fourth and fifth days, Chernysh comes in through the dog door late morning, takes Ilya to the reserve and keeps whining at him until Ilya walks round and round with him. Chernysh is fast. Ilya has to sit on one of the benches and catch his breath before he can walk home.

Your dog is thief, he sends Hollander the second evening.

What did he do?

Stole cigarettes out of my pocket

You shouldn't be smoking, it's bad for you

I know this, I am not idiot. How Chernysh knows?

He's smart, Hollander texts back. Obviously. But also, thief. And please don't smoke around him, it's not good for his lungs.

Ilya hasn't, actually, after that second day. But that's none of Hollander's business. He can come again tomorrow? Ilya sends instead. Ilya has been giving Chernysh bits of chicken every day when they get home, as part of his master plan. Then Chernysh sits with him on the couch and they watch some television and have a nap. It is worth the going outside and the walking and the cigarette theft, Ilya thinks.

Yeah but might be last day for a while.

Why?

I have to go back to work day after tomorrow. Then, I play hockey. Training in mornings. Games in the evenings.

So he can come over when you are at practice and games?

No, I take him with me.

This is allowed? No way would it have been allowed at the rink in Moscow.

Not normally but they make an exception for him

Hm. Ilya maybe saw a TV program about this. Lots of cute puppies being trained as… assist dogs? for soldiers and things. Dogs that can go where animals are not usually allowed.

Chernysh is assist dog? You have been in war? Ilya sends.

Feels like it some days, he gets back.

Ha. Hollander thinks he is funny.

You should leave Chernysh with me, Ilya texts. Not take to rink.

Stop trying to bogart my dog.

Ilya has to google that one. English slang is stupid.

Whatever. Chernysh can still come in afternoons? Between practice and game?

Maybe.

Ilya can work with that.

The third week of January passes. The fourth.

They have a routine, now. Most days, Chernysh lets himself in and they go for a walk if the weather is not too bad. Chernysh tolerates the snow boots but not the jacket — he had looked at Ilya with betrayal and sat on his haunches until Ilya took it off again — so they can't stay out too long, now that winter has properly started. Sometimes Ilya will cook, and offer Chernysh little bites. Then they sit on the couch together and watch TV until Chernysh decides to go.

Ilya presumes Chernysh is making it back in time for Hollander to get to the rink on game days, but it is not his problem either way. Ilya is not going to look at Hollander's season calendar.

This backfires spectacularly when he looks out of his bedroom window one day and sees Hollander out the front of his house with a suitcase. Ilya is wearing his usual mess of sweatpants and four hoodies and doesn't stop to change his shoes on his rush out the door and over to Hollander's driveway.

"Uh, hi?" Hollander says, when Ilya staggers to a halt in front of him. Hollander looks taken aback. This is probably fair. Ilya is not fit for human consumption.

"You are going somewhere?" Ilya demands.

"Yeah, road trip. For hockey?"

Ilya does not care about hockey. "Where is Chernysh?"

"He’s gone to, like, a dog hotel?"

Ilya frowns. He knows those words but they don't usually go together. "What is this?"

"A place for dogs to stay if you're away or whatever. There's people there to look after them, walk them, feed them."

Ilya's frown is now more of a glare.

Hollander tugs on an eyelid and avoids eye contact. "Come on, don't look at me like that. He likes it there. They're really nice, lots of hockey players use them."

Because hockey players are stupid. "Why you send Chernysh to dog hotel," Ilya says, finally. "Why you not ask me to look after him."

"I didn't — think you would want to?"

Ilya just keeps glaring. Stupid Hollander. Idiot Hollander. Now Ilya won't get to see Chernysh again until —

"When you will come back," Ilya demands.

"Tuesday?"

Idiot. "Next time you tell me," Ilya tells him. "I will look after here. I look after better than stupid hotel. Better than you."

He leaves without wishing Hollander a good trip. Hollander deserves no such thing.

It turns out six days alone is a long time when you have gotten used to company.

The first day Ilya spends the afternoon smoking his way mechanically through two packets of cigarettes, staring out at the empty garden. His stomach hurts, and without Chernysh to feed scraps, what is the point in cooking. He eats a chocolate bar in the evening for something to do and because he doesn't have to worry about Chernysh getting crumbs.

Maybe the nicotine messes with his head, or maybe it's just the change in routine, but he doesn't fall asleep until five the next morning, so the second day is a write off, too. Ilya stays in bed until evening.

Day three, he thinks about Chernysh coming home and snuffling his way through the detritus of cigarette butts, chip packets and discarded sweaty clothing all over the floor. He thinks about how Chernysh will put his head to one side and rest a paw on Ilya's knee and whine at him. How a dog can look so disappointed is beyond Ilya, but Chernysh has it down to a fine art.

This is assuming Chernysh will come inside at all, given the smell.

Fuck. Fucking fuck.

Okay.

Ilya gets out of bed, leans against the wall for a moment until his balance returns, and makes it into the shower. He puts a load of laundry on. Empties the ashtrays. Takes out the rubbish. Makes soup out of the odds and ends left in the fridge, and eats it for a late lunch. Orders some groceries: he will need food for Chernysh when he comes back. Then he stares at the television until it's time to go back to bed.

Day four, he opens the door for the delivery man and unpacks the groceries into the fridge. The weather is bad. He watches television and tries not to think about the feeling of Chernysh's heartbeat under his hand. He makes pasta for dinner, with a bit of plain chicken put aside for Chernysh. It will still be good in two days.

Day five the weather is clear and Ilya takes himself for a walk, so he doesn't get too out of practice. It is cold and he hates every second of it, but it does not feel so bad when he is sitting on his couch in the afternoon.

He wakes up on day six and realises he doesn't know what time Hollander will be back. And will Chernysh come home straight away?

Fuck it. He opens a private browsing window so he's not haunted by hockey ads for the rest of his life, and pulls up the Raiders' schedule. Boston have lost both their away games so far. They have one left to play tonight, against Montreal.

You are coming back tonight? Ilya texts. He doesn't offer his commiserations on the lost games, because Hollander is a dog thief. You said Tuesday.

Yeah, he gets back.

When you will get home?

Late, like 11? 12?

You pick Chernysh up on way? Or he is not back until tomorrow?

I'll bring him home tonight.

Okay. Good. Ilya chews the toggle of his hoodie absently. He knows this is pushing it, but the way Ilya sees it, Hollander is a thief who needs to make reparations. Can you send Chernysh over for visit when you get home?

I just said it'll be really late

I don't mind late. I want to see him. You let him come?

He doesn't get an answer straight away. Ilya wonders what Hollander is doing now. Lying on a bed in a hotel room in Montreal, maybe, trying to nap before the game. Or having team lunch? Somehow Ilya can't imagine robot Hollander socialising with his teammates, but Hollander must do it. He has been with Boston since he was drafted, he would be one of the longest-serving players on the team by now. Did they make him captain yet? But would anyone want to be captained by a robot?

Okay, Hollander sends, eventually. If you don't mind late, I'll send him over.

Thank you, Ilya sends. Good luck for Montreal.

Wednesday is one of the strangest mornings of Ilya's life.

Perhaps he is drunk? Though he does not remember drinking.

No. He did not drink last night, because Chernysh was coming home. Ilya does not know if Chernysh dislikes vodka the way he dislikes cigarettes, but Ilya was not going to risk it.

Anyway, there are no glasses or bottles anywhere. Ilya has looked.

So. Not drunk. Sober.

Dreaming?

He pinches his thigh. It hurts. Closes his eyes. Opens them again. Chernysh's blanket is still in disarray on Chernysh's side of the couch. Ilya's neck still hurts from having fallen asleep tucked against the armrest.

Okay.

He can figure this out.

So, these are the facts:

One. Boston had lost in Montreal.

Two. Ilya had heard a car just before midnight, and a few minutes later Chernysh had come in through Ilya's dog door.

Three. Ilya and Chernysh had fallen asleep on the couch.

Four. Ilya had woken up on the couch at sunrise to find a naked Shane Hollander next to him, rolled up in Chernysh's blanket. Also, a total lack of Chernysh.

Five. Ilya and Hollander had both screamed like little girls. Ilya is not proud of this, but he includes it in case it is important. Maybe screaming is some kind of magic trigger.

Six. Naked Hollander had vanished into thin air, and Chernysh had reappeared.

Seven. Chernysh had run out of the dog door.

Okay. Put those facts all together, and…

Do people often turn into dogs in America?

While he waits for Sveta to answer, Ilya changes his sweatpants and hoodie and finds some socks.

It is not even nine o'clock in the morning, Ilya. How much have you had to drink?

Okay. Probably not normal then.

There's no answer the first time Ilya rings Hollander's doorbell, so Ilya props himself up against the wall, shoulder holding down the button. He can hear it chiming over and over inside the house. That's okay. Ilya can do this all day. He has nowhere else to be.

It's a good five minutes before Ilya hears the lock turn and the door opens. Hollander still looks about as freaked out as he had on Ilya's couch. He is now wearing clothes, though, so that is something.

"You," Ilya says.

"Uh," Hollander says. He runs a hand through his hair. "Hi?"

"You," Ilya says again. "You are dog. You are Chernysh."

Hollander closes his eyes and his whole body sags. "Fuck."

"I am right, yes? I saw." Ilya is more and more confident the longer he stands here. Chernysh has freckles, for fuck’s sake. What kind of dog has freckles?

"Fuck. Okay." Hollander opens his eyes and steps back. "I guess you'd better come in."

Hollander’s house is nicer than Ilya expected. Modern, clean lines. Much newer than Sveta’s. Hollander looks uncomfortable in it, though, or maybe it's just having Ilya here. Hollander leads them through a brightly lit hallway and past the kitchen, then gestures to a glass-topped dining table.

"Uh, do you want to sit down?"

"You will explain?" Ilya demands.

Hollander isn't meeting his eyes. "I can — try. But. It's complicated?"

"Yes." Obviously. "Try."

Hollander is still dithering by the kitchen. "You want coffee or something? Tea?"

"Explain first."

But Hollander's explanation starts with a lot of long words that are definitely not in Ilya's English course.

"Hollander. I speak Russian. Learning English only. Use little words."

"Shit." Hollander looks appropriately guilty. "Sorry. Maybe — do you want to ask questions instead? What you want to know?"

It's a good idea. Hollander cannot be trusted to know what is important. Like, for example, telling your neighbour that you can turn into a dog.

"Okay. You are Chernysh. Chernysh is you."

Hollander nods his agreement. Ilya swears. At length. It feels good.

Hollander blinks at him. "You know I don't speak Russian, right?"

He even blinks like Chernysh. Fucking hell. Ilya makes himself take a breath. Concentrate on English, and on not sounding like a crazy person, even though this whole idea is crazy. "So you can, what. Just change? Between?"

Hollander nods again. His hands are fisted, white-knuckled. Maybe Ilya should have let Hollander make coffee for something to do, before he sprains something.

"You are oboroten? Uh." He pulls out his phone for Google translate. "Werewolf?"

Hollander almost cracks a smile at that. "No! Fuck, no. Just a dog. Not a wolf."

Well, Ilya guesses it's nice to know he didn't spend the night on the couch next to a rabid supernatural beast. "Okay, not werewolf. Then how come you can change?"

"I don't know. It's —" Hollander looks like he's about to start in with the big words again, but catches himself. "I just can. Since I was a kid. My parents don't know why."

"Did they not try? To find out?"

Hollander shrugs. His death grip on his own hands has relaxed a little. "I guess. But they didn't want to take it too far in case it caused trouble for me." He must notice Ilya's raised eyebrows. "You know, like, get me taken away to a secret laboratory for experiments or whatever."

Ilya has to pause to look up ‘laboratory’ and 'experiments', but then he's good. "Okay. And you just change? When you like?"

"I think so, yeah. I hadn't really — I hadn't changed at all for a few years, but the past few weeks I've — I don't know." He rubs at his knuckles. "Maybe it fucked something up? Cause this morning, I didn't mean to change back. Like that."

"You did not mean to be naked."

"No, I mean, I'm always, when I — it's not like I wear clothes, as a dog, so." The tips of his ears are turning pink. "I meant, I didn't mean for you to see me. Like that."

"Naked," Ilya says again, to watch the colour spread further.

"Fuck off."

Hollander is no fun. Fine. "I still want to know how come you can do this. Maybe is, what is called. Come from parents?"

"Uh, genetic?" Hollander offers.

"Da. Parents can do too?"

Hollander shakes his heads "No, just me."

"Then is magic?"

"I don't know."

"From witch?"

"I don't know."

"Bitten by spider?"

Eye roll.

"Bitten by dog."

"Jesus, I said I don't know!"

"How can you not know?" But Ilya is forgetting that Hollander is the most boring person in the world. Of course he is even boring about being able to do the most interesting thing Ilya has ever heard of.

"I told you, I haven't changed for a while," Hollander says. "My parents thought maybe I'd grown out of it. I guess we kind of stopped trying to find out."

So Hollander’s whole family is boring and lacking imagination. Ilya stares at him for a long moment. Hollander is staring at the table. "Okay. Then I want to see," Ilya says, eventually.

That gets him a quick glance. "What?"

"I want to see," Ilya repeats. "You show me again. Become Chernysh.’

"Like, right now?" Hollander glances around wildly.

"Is problem?"

"I —"

Hollander looks about two seconds away from running out of his own house. Ilya relents. "Fine. You show me later. Yes?"

"Do I really —"

"Hollander. You can turn into fucking dog. Yes, really."

Hollander runs a hand through his hair again. It really does look a lot like Chernysh's hair. Ilya wonders if it's as silky. "Okay. Okay." Hollander abruptly stands up, chair legs squealing on the tiles. "I'm gonna make coffee. You want one?"

Ilya doesn't need coffee. He needs vodka.

"You shouldn't be drinking, it's like nine in the morning," Hollander says.

"What would you know," Ilya shoots back. "You are a dog."

Ilya feels like he's actually taking this very well. It is not every day you find out the dog you have been trying to lure away from your hockey robot neighbour with pats and chicken is not, in fact, a dog at all. Is really your neighbour.

Your human neighbour.

Your human neighbour who has, at least some of the time, human ears.

Oh, fuck. And Ilya has been letting Chernysh into his house for the best part of a month now. Ilya has been talking to Chernysh. Mostly in Russian, sure, and presumably Hollander doesn't speak Russian in dog form either, but — fuck. Fucking fuck fuck. Ilya has been practising his English, sometimes, too.

"Hollander," he says, trying to keep his voice level. "When you are dog. What is it like."

"What do you mean?"

"Is same as human?"

Hollander switches on a complicated looking machine. It makes a horrible whirring noise. "Kind of? I'm still me, so like, I can remember some of what I've done, after? But dogs are different, so it's mostly, like, smells and stuff."

Now Hollander is messing about with some coffee beans, oblivious.

"Hollander," Ilya says, loud, so it's clear over the machine. "I want to know if Chernysh can understand. If you know things I said to Chernysh."

"Oh. Oh!" Hollander finally stops with the coffee stuff and looks at Ilya, who clearly did not manage to hide the panic in his voice. "Right. Sorry. Uh, no. I just get, like, tone of voice, I guess? So if someone's angry or happy or whatever."

"But not words," Ilya says. Insists.

"No, not really. Other than, like, commands or whatever." Hollander looks a little embarrassed. "You know. Sit. Walk. That kind of thing."

Jesus Christ, what a relief.

"I do remember stealing your cigarettes, though," Hollander says with a smirk.

He is an asshole. Why do people think Hollander is nice? He is an asshole.

"Anyway, did you want a coffee?" Hollander asks. He pulls two mugs out of a cupboard. Maybe he is not a complete asshole.

"Okay," Ilya says. "Two sugars."

"Sorry. Don't have sugar in the house. It's not good for you."

Wait, yes he is. Complete.

"So, uh," Hollander says, when he has sat back down and pushed a sadly unsweetened mug over to Ilya. "This is awkward, but. I don't really know you?’

Ilya shrugs and takes a sip of coffee.

"And I know Svetlana is good people, and you're married to her, so I'm assuming you're good people too. But."

Hollander seems to have run out of words. Ilya raises his eyebrows. "Yes?"

"Okay. Uh. The thing is. I really need you to keep this a secret. Like, really really need you to. So I don't get taken away by big men in unmarked vans."

Hmm. Ilya takes another sip of bitter coffee.

"So. Can I, you know. Trust you?"

Ilya runs a finger around the rim of his mug. Then, because he is not a complete asshole, he says, "Svetlana married me for passport."

Hollander blinks. "What?"

"We are not really couple. Me and Sveta. We are friends, yes, but marriage was just for American passport. So that I can leave Russia, come and live here."

Hollander exhales heavily. "Fuck. Really?"

"Yes, really."

"Wow. Okay. You know, you really shouldn't tell people that."

Ilya rolls his eyes. Idiot. "Of course I don't tell."

"No, seriously. Or, like, scary dudes from immigration will come and take… you. Away."

Ilya looks at him steadily over the rim of his mug.

"Oh," Hollander says.

"Yes," Ilya says. "But, now you know."

"You keep my secret, I'll keep yours?"

"Yes. So no one is taken away."

"Okay. That sounds. Good." Hollander turns his mug around once, twice. He glances at Ilya then back down at his coffee and mumbles, "Fuck, this is weird."

Ilya does not think Hollander deserves to be the one having a crisis here. "You think is weird? I fell asleep next to dog and woke up with naked hockey player."

"What, do you normally do it the other way around or something?"

Ilya looks at Hollander. Hollander looks back. Hollander's lip twitches, and then he breaks, little sniggers growing into full on laughter. "Holy fuck. Sorry. I — holy fuck. What an end to a shitty week."

"Yes," Ilya says, because for once Hollander has gotten something right. It has been a shitty week. Ilya is not laughing.

"You too?"

"Yes. Worse."

Hollander frowns. "What — come on. We just lost three games in a row. I scored literally zero points. You think you've had a worse week than that?"

Hockey. Who gives a fuck about hockey. "Obviously."

"How?"

Ilya considers not answering. But Hollander should know what he has done.

"Chernysh is good dog," he says, eventually, because this at least is true. "He was very good for naps. But he was not here all week, and now you are back and have told me truth, I am thinking, that."

"That what?"

"That there will be no more Chernysh."

Fuck. He brings his mugs to his lips, takes two big swallows. Clears his throat and puts the mug back down.

Hollander is looking at him. Ilya is not sure about the expression on Hollander's face. He doesn't think it's pity, which is good, because Ilya does not want to have to punch him. It would be a little too close to hurting Chernysh.

Eventually Hollander looks away. "You really liked him, huh?" he asks the window.

"He is good dog," Ilya says stubbornly. Use present tense, idiot Hollander. Even Ilya knows that and he barely speaks English. Chernysh is not dead. Just not here.

The silence stretches out.

"Listen. I, uh. I should take a shower, get unpacked and stuff," Hollander says finally.

Of course, Hollander had barely arrived home before Chernysh came over last night. He probably has many things to do. But this also sounds a bit like Hollander is trying to get rid of Ilya. It is not going to make anything any easier, seeing Chernysh one last time, but Ilya is allowed to make stupid decisions that hurt him if he wants to.

"You have food here?" Ilya says, abruptly.

"What?"

"You were away. Just came back. You have food to eat?"

Hollander shrugs. "I guess? I've got stuff in the freezer, for smoothies."

Ilya makes a farting noise. Hollander looks appalled.

"Smoothie is for old people with no teeth," Ilya says. "You come to Sveta’s, one hour. I will cook real breakfast. You show me change, I can see Chernysh."

"I'm not really sure," Hollander starts, then his brain apparently catches up to his mouth. "Wait. What do you mean, real breakfast?"

Hollander is probably thinking of the pop tarts. Or the frozen waffles. "I can cook. What do you eat? Eggs, toast?"

"No, I. I mean, eggs, sure. But I'm on a. Uh. Macrobiotic diet?"

Stupid English, so many words. "What is macrobiotic?"

"Health food? Like, for athletes."

Ilya looks at him.

"It means I don't eat bread."

"You do eat bread."

"Not for, like, a year."

Hah. That's what he thinks. "You ate bread last week."

"What are you talking about?"

"Last week." Ilya gestures in the direction of Sveta's house. "I was on couch, watching TV, eating tuna melt. Had to go piss."

"O…kay?"

"You were there also. Being Chernysh." He waves his hand irritably at Hollander. Still so unfair. "And when I came back from bathroom, you had stolen tuna melt. All gone."

Hollander is frowning. "Maybe you ate it and forgot. The way you are with food."

"What way I am?"

"Like, all." Hollander mimes someone frantically gobbling up their food, two hands working imaginary forks. "Like you're starving."

Huh. Rude. "Anyway I know you ate it."

"How?"

"Because you licked me after. On face." He mimes a big sloppy Chernysh kiss. "Breath smelled like tuna."

Hollander blushes. Interesting. "You're such a dick. I can't believe you made me break my diet."

"I did not do anything. You are one who stole tuna melt."

"You shouldn't leave food around when there are animals in the house."

"You should not follow such a stupid diet. Bread will not make you play bad hockey."

"How would you know?"

Ilya shrugs. "Is, how you say. Everyone knows."

"Common sense?"

"Sure, probably." It is something that Hollander is sorely lacking in, anyway. Ilya swallows the last of the bitter coffee and pushes his empty mug over to Hollander. "Okay. No bread. Omelette is okay?"

"Uh. Yeah? Just egg whites though. But you don't have to —"

Ilya stands up. "Good. See you one hour."

"I —"

"And do not chicken out, or I will find you." Ilya winks at him, because it turns out flustering Hollander is fun. "I know where you live."

If Ilya thought Hollander looked uncomfortable in his own house, it's nothing compared to Hollander on Ilya's front porch.

"Uh, hi?" Hollander says. "Did you still want —"

He shoves his hands in his pockets and glances back toward his own house like he's planning his escape route.

Ilya is not going to let him go that easily. "Yes. Good." He stands back. "Come in. Take shoes off."

Hollander toes his sneakers off obediently and adds them to the pile by the door, then follows Ilya down the hall.

"I have made things for omelette," Ilya tells him over his shoulder, as he returns to his chopping board and knife. "But I did not know what you like, so you choose."

But Hollander has stopped by the kitchen island and is staring at the couch with a very strange expression on his face. Which is stupid, because he has slept on it many times. Once as a human, even.

"Hollander? You have seen this couch before. Yes?"

Hollander shakes his head like he's trying to clear water out of his ears. Or, Ilya supposes uncharitably, a little like a dog drying off after a bath. "Yeah. I know. Sorry, I." He does the shake again. "It's not the couch really, it's the smell? In here?"

Ilya does not know why Hollander keeps phrasing things as a question. Ilya has known that Hollander is a dog for two hours now. Hollander has known his whole life. Ilya should not be expected to have any answers for him.

"Is bad smell?" he asks. Possibly it is, Ilya has not exactly been a diligent housekeeper. There had been someone coming in to clean when he'd first arrived, but she had moved to Florida in October, and Ilya had not bothered to find someone new. He'd thought he'd been doing better these past few weeks, anyway.

"No, it's just. Super familiar, I guess."

Ilya resumes chopping mushrooms. Mushrooms do not change into anything other than a mushroom omelette. Mushrooms are good like that.

"You have been here many times," he says. "Of course familiar."

"Yeah, it's not that though, it's like — really familiar? Like, makes me feel nostalgic, or — I dunno, homesick but not in a bad way?" Hollander runs a hand through his hair and glances at Ilya. "I'm not explaining things very well today, sorry."

Ilya nods and moves on to rinsing spinach. Hollander huffs a laugh. "You were supposed to say something like, no, you're doing a great job."

"Is not true though," Ilya says. "Also you are using too many fancy words."

"Sorry." Hollander comes around the counter, hands still shoved in his pockets. "And I should have offered to help chop stuff, too, sorry."

"Now is too many sorrys," Ilya says. "Come, you choose."

"Wow." Hollander surveys the little piles of ham, mushroom, onion, cheese. "This is. I mean." He looks over at Ilya. "Thanks."

Ilya shrugs. "Is better to cook for two than one. Yes?"

Hollander meets his eyes for a second. "Yeah. I. Yeah."

"So, choose."

Hollander's omelette is the most boring omelette that ever omeletted, but Ilya supposes that is not his problem. He loads his own up with all the delicious fillings Hollander declined, and when they are both ready, he points Hollander to a place at the table.

"There, sit." It's next to Ilya's usual place. Chernysh would sit by his chair and Ilya would offer pieces of chicken while he ate. Fuck. Ilya swallows and pushes the thought away. "Try again now. To explain smell thing."

"Huh?"

"You came in and had panic attack. What is problem?"

"Oh." Hollander takes a forkful of omelette and chews thoughtfully, swallows. "Well. I've always had, like, a really good sense of smell. I guess maybe because of the dog thing? I don't know." He smiles, wry. "I used to be super picky with food as a kid, drove my parents mad."

"Ah yes," Ilya says. He looks pointedly at Hollander's miserable egg white and spinach omelette. He wouldn't even let Ilya put any cheese on it. "And now you are so relaxed, eat anything. So much better."

Hollander rolls his eyes. "Fuck off, it's an athletic performance diet. I'm trying to say that smells tend to be really strong for me, and like, good or bad, too? So the smell of marshmallow used to freak me out when I was a kid, even though it's sweet or whatever. It just smelled really wrong to me."

"You do not like marshmallow." Of course Hollander does not. Probably he also does not like kittens and puppies and rainbows.

"I can't help it, it's just how it works for me."

"Okay. So what has this got to do with couch?"

"It's not just the couch, it's this whole place. And, you, maybe, I think?" Hollander hurriedly shoves another forkful in.

"Me?"

"Yeah, I." Hollanders cheeks are tinged with pink. "I came over a few times when Svetlana was living here, and it never felt like that before, so. I'm guessing it's at least partly because of you?"

"Huh." Ilya is not sure what to make of that. "And is bad?"

"No. That's what I'm trying to explain. It felt, like. Right?"

"Right," Ilya repeats.

"Yeah. A good smell, anyway. Like home, almost? I think maybe — maybe that's why I came through the fence, the first time." Hollander is now pretending to be very interested in the remains of his boring omelette.

"Because of smell?"

"Yeah." A quick glance up at Ilya, then back to his plate. "I guess since you were out in the yard, I could smell you."

That settles it. "Nose is broken," Ilya says firmly. He knows what he smells — smelled — like. Vodka and cigarettes and not showering. "Was bad smell."

"I didn't say you smelt good, exactly. Just. Right."

Hollander is definitely blushing now. It is tempting to push, but Ilya still wants to see Chernysh again. He had better not scare Hollander off before that happens.

"So you do have magic power," Ilya says instead, between mouthfuls. "Not just turning into dog sometimes. Super smell always?"

Hollander looks surprised. "I guess? I never really thought about it like that."

"No?"

"It's a pain, more than a help, usually." He pulls a face. "So many things smell bad."

Ilya rolls his eyes. "Poor Hollander, only having unhelpful magic power."

"Fuck off. At least it's not an unfair advantage for hockey."

Ilya can't help laughing. "Of course you say that."

"What?" Hollander looks confused.

"Anyone else would say, so sad my magic power will not help me win hockey. But you don't want magic to help, because it would not be fair for other team."

"I don't want to win if I haven't earned it."

"Of course not." Ilya herds the last bits of ham and mushroom around his plate. "I looked up on internet, you know," he says conversationally. "Just now. About man turning into black dog and back again."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Is lots of information."

"Really?" Hollander looks suspicious. As he should.

"Yes." Ilya taps the side of his nose with one finger. "Don't worry, I will not tell."

"Tell what?"

"That you are wizard. From Harry Potter. What is name? Sirius Black?"

"Fuck off," Hollander says, but his lips are twitching.

"You have magic wand too? You will take me for ride on broomstick later?"

"Seriously, fuck off," Hollander says, and now he's biting his lip to stop the smile spreading, and Ilya does not have any feelings about that at all.

The awkwardness is back when they have cleared their plates away. Ilya thought he had made himself pretty clear about wanting to see Chernysh again, but Hollander hasn't said anything about it, or offered to get on with it. Instead, Hollander is just standing, hands in pockets again, frowning at the countertop like it holds all the answers.

Ilya gives up. He may have all day, but he does not have all patience. "You will show me now?" he prompts. "Change to Chernysh. Yes?"

Hollander is still hesitating. Ilya frowns. A thought occurs to him — something he'd read in the stuff about Harry Potter, though obviously that was not real, but still. "It hurts you? To change?"

"No, it's. No."

"So what is problem?"

Hollander is biting his lip. "I've just never, uh. No one has seen before? Apart from my parents?"

Ah. "I already saw, here," Ilya points out. "In morning."

"But you weren't really looking."

Yes. Which is why Ilya wants Hollander to do it again, where he can see.

"And there's the, uh. I have to take my clothes off to change, or I get all tangled up. And. When I change back, I'm. You know."

"Naked. Yes. I noticed."

Hollander is blushing again. How does this man survive in a locker room? Ilya can't imagine it.

"Could I — would you mind if I, like, changed in the bathroom? And come out when I'm done?"

Seriously, how does he survive.

"Okay," Ilya says. Hollander nods and starts toward the bathroom, but Ilya interrupts him. "Wait. How long will you stay Chernysh?"

"Oh." Hollander looks at him quickly, then away. "I was — just a few minutes. I've got to go in for video soon."

Ilya can't say anything for a moment. Hollander must interpret it as confusion, because he adds, "That's, like, watching tape of the games and figuring out what we did wrong?"

"Okay." Ilya has to force the word out, but he supposes there was no guarantee he could even have this. They shouldn't have wasted time on the stupid omelettes. "If you have to."

"Okay," Hollander echoes. "So." he runs a hand through his hair. "I guess I'll see you in a minute?"

Hollander seems to know where the bathroom is without being shown. Ilya hopes that's from visiting Sveta. He tries to remember if Chernysh ever followed him into the bathroom, before. He does not think so. Naked is one thing, but even Ilya draws the line at watching someone on the toilet.

There is no sound from the bathroom. It seems to Ilya like there should be a noise to announce the transformation — a whoomph, perhaps, something to accompany the displacement of air as an adult human turns into a medium sized dog — but there is nothing, and then Chernysh is just there, in the hall, tail low and uncertain but looking at Ilya with bright eyes.

Ilya makes himself move, makes himself push the bathroom door open and look inside. There are Hollander's clothes, folded nearly on top of the closed toilet, and no sign of Hollander himself. Hollander really is Chernysh. There is no way this could be an elaborate prank that Sveta has orchestrated long distance.

He turns back to Chernysh. Chernysh looks just the same as before. Of course he does. Ilya is not sure what he was expecting.

Ilya can't help it. He crouches down and holds out his hand for Chernysh to sniff. "Hi there," he says softly, Russian rolling so smoothly off his tongue after struggling with English all day. "Hey, my good boy, my lovely sweet boy. So good to see you again."

Chernysh pushes his head into Ilya's hands wanting scratches, and Ilya obliges. Chernysh feels the same as before as well, fur soft and silky with smooth muscle underneath.

Ilya gives in and sits on the floor, lets Chernysh lay his head in his lap, pats and strokes him, buries his face in Chernysh’s neck, presses kisses into his fur. Hollander can be horrified if he wants. Ilya has been telling Chernysh how much he loves him for weeks. What is the point of stopping now?

Too soon, Chernysh stretches and stands up. He presses his nose into Ilya's chest, then trots back into the bathroom and noses the door closed.

Ilya did not cry at his father's funeral. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, once, then again. This close, he can hear the rustling of clothing behind the bathroom door. Hollander must be getting dressed. He will be coming out in a second.

Ilya tells his legs to stand, and after a moment they obey him. He tells them to take him into the kitchen. He rests his hands on the cool countertop.

The bathroom door opens and Hollander is there. He doesn't look entirely collected either. He’s rubbing the back of his neck as he comes into the kitchen, then seems to realise what he's doing and shoves his hands into his pockets.

"So, uh." Hollander clears his throat. "Was that. Okay?"

What does Hollander mean, okay. How was saying goodbye to Chernysh going to be okay.

"I mean, like. You believe me?"

"I believed you before," Ilya manages.

"Okay. But you still wanted to, like. Okay. "

Ilya is waiting for Hollander to make his excuses and leave. Ilya is pretty sure there is a bottle of not terrible vodka left in the freezer. But Hollander is shifting his weight and rubbing the back of his neck again. Then he says, "Okay. So this is. I get this might be too weird. But I was thinking that, like. If you wanted? We could maybe keep doing this."

"Doing what?"

A brief moment of eye contact. "Uh. Hanging out. Like, I could come over in the afternoons, when I can. Like before."

"Be Chernysh?"

"I thought — yeah."

Ilya swallows. He has been doing his best not to think about everything Hollander has seen, as Chernysh, but it's getting harder and harder to avoid. Lonely smelly sad Russian man, no friends, no job, sits around watching daytime television, talking to himself. No. Even having more time with Chernysh is not worth that humiliation.

"You feel sorry for me," Ilya says finally. "No. I don't want." He can't think of the word in English.

Hollander shakes his head. "No, that's not it. I don't, uh." He exhales heavily. "Look. I know you're not into hockey or whatever so you probably don't know, but it's been a shitty month for me. Season. Year?"

"Okay." This is still not Ilya's problem. His vodka is not getting any colder.

"I've been — not good," Hollander continues. "Not sleeping well. But I think maybe it was helping, coming over here?"

The silence stretches out. Ilya is trying to work out if Hollander is calculating enough to have come up with this story on the spot. To make it feel like Ilya is the one doing Hollander a favour. Judging by the deepening flush in Hollander's cheeks, Hollander either means it, or is a very sophisticated actor. And this is robot Hollander. Ilya cannot imagine him winning an Oscar anytime soon.

"You want to come here," Ilya says eventually. "Because it will help you sleep."

Hollander shrugs uncomfortably. "Maybe. So. Would you mind if I came over? Sometimes?"

"You don't think will be weird."

"I — maybe. I hope not. But, maybe worth it anyway?"

Ilya thinks about what he has been doing with Chernysh. Sitting on the couch together; this is okay. Hollander says he needs the sleep. Ilya can still talk to Chernysh in Russian, no way for Hollander to understand, Ilya just has to be careful not to use English. Going for walks? Maybe, maybe not, but it's too cold most days now anyway.

"Okay," Ilya says. "We will try."

"Yeah?" Hollander looks so pleased. No way he is this good at acting.

"But," Ilya says, because he has just thought of something. Hollander’s face falls immediately. "No, is not bad problem, just. Sometimes I make food while Chernysh is here."

"Yeah, I know?"

"So, when I make food, you have to change." Because Ilya is not going to hand-feed Chernysh-Hollander chicken scraps. That really would be too weird.

"You mean, go?"

"If you want. Or you can stay. Like today. Eat real food."

The pleased look is back. "Okay. Yeah. That would be — uh. But I only eat, like…"

"Yes. Yes." Ilya shakes his head. "Special terrible diet. I know." No wonder Hollander was so freaked out at the thought of Ilya giving Chernysh peanut butter. "You can give me list, what is okay for you."

"Yeah. Thanks. I. " Hollander glances at his watch and winces. "Fuck. I should really go. Video in an hour."

Ilya is not sure how he ever thought Hollander was a robot. His face is an open book. "It will be bad?" he asks. Cherchesov would have shouted himself hoarse after a three game losing streak, but maybe Boston's coach is not like this.

Hollander shrugs. "Probably. After last week, yeah."

Ilya nods. Then he hears himself say. "Okay. You want to come back here, after? I can cook again. Have lots of food."

Hollander blinks at him. "You — really?"

"If you want," Ilya says. "Yes. Would be okay for me."

"Okay," Hollander says. He's smiling again. "And then, I can, uh." He hesitates, like he's not sure it's allowed. "Change? After? If you want?"

"Okay." Ilya thinks he might be smiling back.

The empty house after Hollander has gone leaves space for Ilya's thoughts to crowd back in. He has already spent more time with another human today than he has in months. And he has invited Hollander back again later. What the fuck was he thinking? He is an idiot.

No. He knows exactly what he was thinking. That look on Hollander's face: Ilya has seen that in the mirror many times these last few years.

So.

He stares into the refrigerator for several minutes, Googles ‘microbiotic diet’, then realises that can't be right and tries ‘macrobiotic’ instead. Then he stares into the fridge again.

He texts Hollander: you do not eat meat?? For special diet? Because this is what the internet says, but Hollander has not complained about Ilya feeding Chernysh chicken. Also, Hollander ate eggs this morning. Also, Ilya has never heard of a hockey player who doesn't eat meat, what the fuck.

No red meat, he gets back half an hour later. He wonders if Hollander is at the rink now, surrounded by teammates, waiting to be yelled at. Chicken is okay, and fish. Not strictly macrobiotic but I try to avoid processed foods if I can.

Ilya has to do some translating, some more googling and some more staring into his fridge. Eventually he sends salmon, brown rice, broccoli. OK?

He gets a thumbs up.

Hollander comes for dinner in a hoodie and sweatpants so worn even Ilya would be proud to wear them, holding a six pack of Coke and one of… ginger ale?

He shoves them at Ilya as soon as he's in the door. "Here. I stopped at the store on the way home. Thanks for having me."

Ilya frowns. "You did not have to bring anything."

"It's rude to come to dinner without a host gift," Hollander says. "Anyway, the ginger ale is for me, but you like Coke, right?"

Ilya wonders if it will stop being weird, that human Hollander knows things from when he is Chernysh. He thinks probably not.

In the kitchen, Ilya finds room for the cans in the fridge, but takes out a Coke and passes a ginger ale over to Hollander. "How do you drink this but worry so much about food?"

Hollander shrugs. "I don't drink it all the time. Just sometimes. Anyway, it's this or alcohol tonight, so."

Ilya pauses with his finger through the ring pull and looks at Hollander. "Was very bad?"

"Can we, like. Not talk about hockey stuff?"

Ilya would be delighted.

Soon the rice cooker pings and the salmon comes out of the oven. Ilya microwaves the broccoli, over Hollander's protests, and then dinner is ready.

They sit in the same places they did at breakfast. Hollander drinks his ginger ale and looks less and less like he's going to run away every second. It's nice.

Ilya asks about where Hollander grew up, and Hollander tells him about Ottawa. It sounds about as idyllic and boring as Ilya would have imagined for him. Better is hearing about Hollander turning into Chernysh as a boy, a tiny puppy digging up his mother's garden.

Hollander asks about Russia, once, but tentatively enough that Ilya wonders if Sveta has warned him. Anyway, it’s easy enough to put Hollander off with a shake of the head, and Hollander doesn't bring it up again.

Afterwards, Hollander insists on helping clean up. Ilya is starting to suspect that Hollander falls back on manners when he's at a loss for what to do with himself. But there are worse coping strategies, Ilya supposes. Vodka and cigarettes, for one.

The other thing Hollander does is avoid any contact with Ilya.

It is very strange, because Chernysh is always nudging into Ilya's hand for pats, or pushing up against Ilya's legs. Hollander keeps a half metre clear radius around him at all times, even when they're both in the kitchen. If Ilya comes closer, Hollander will step back.

Maybe Hollander can't touch another man unless they're on the ice. Ilya has played with guys like this. Ilya does not think that is it, though. And Ilya is usually right about these things.

Also, Ilya is a curious person, and he has been wondering about Hollander’s hair all day.

Now the dishwasher is full. Hollander's hands are in his pockets and he's biting his lip. "So, uh. Should I change? Like we talked about? Or."

"Change," Ilya says definitely. "But before, I want to do —" But he can't think of the word, even though Hollander had said it this morning and he’d had to look it up. Fuck. How young can dementia start? He pulls his phone out, opens Google translate. "Ah. Experiment. For science."

"Okay?"

"With you."

"O… kay?"

"Yes. Come here."

Hollander takes a tiny step.

"Closer."

Hollander flinches as Ilya's hand comes near his face, but tries to hide it. Then Ilya plucks out one of his hairs and Hollander flinches for real.

"What the fuck?"

"I needed hair."

"You could have fucking asked!"

Ilya gets one of Chernysh's hairs off his blanket on the couch, and holds them both up to the light. "I was right," he declares. "Is same."

Hollander is still in the kitchen, rubbing his head like a baby and frowning at Ilya. "Of course it's the same, it's me, you dick. You didn't have to pull my fucking hair out."

Ilya tests the hairs between his fingers, one in each hand. They feel the same, too, both silky. "We should look at with — thing. Makes bigger. Scientists use." He mimes looking down the lens.

"Microscope?"

"Sure, probably. We can buy from internet, you think?"

Hollander has stopped running his head now and is giving Ilya a look that is impossible to interpret.

"What?" Ilya asks.

Hollander shrugs. "Nothing. You're just. Not what I expected, I guess?"

Ilya is not sure how to take that. He makes do with a shrug. "You also. I thought you are boring hockey player, did not know you can turn into dog, so. All surprises today."

Hollander laughs. "I guess so."

One more surprise is how normal it feels to wait for Hollander to change. Hollander goes into the bathroom and comes out as Chernysh, tucks himself into Ilya's side on the couch and closes his eyes. Ilya can't stop the hand that settles over Chernysh's chest, or the way he strokes softly over Chernysh's head while he sleeps.

Ilya turns on the television for form’s sake, but mostly he breathes and feels Chernysh breathing next to him and that's enough.

What is not the same is that around nine o'clock Chernysh stirs, yawns widely, and jumps off the couch. He pads into the bathroom and comes out again a minute later as Hollander, looking tired but not unhappy.

"I should head home," he says. "Training tomorrow."

Ilya nods. Hollander's hair is sticking up at the back. Is that from Ilya playing with Chernysh's hair while he slept? "Okay."

He walks Hollander to the door and waits while Hollander puts his shoes on.

"Thanks again for dinner," Hollander says in the doorway. The half-metre bubble is back. Ilya has to resist the urge to break it, see what Hollander would do.

"Thank you for coming," Ilya says instead. See, he can play the manners game too.

"I'll, uh, text you tomorrow maybe?"

Ilya nods solemnly. "You have filled fridge with terrible ginger ale, now you have to come and drink."

"It's not terrible," Hollander protests. "You should try it, it's —" he breaks off when he notices Ilya laughing. "Oh, fuck off. Okay. I'll. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Ilya says back.

Hollander does not text until mid afternoon the next day. Sorry, shit morning. And I forgot I have to go to a stupid fundraiser thing tonight.

Ilya turns his phone over in his hands, once, twice. Then he texts back: does Chernysh have time for a nap in between?

Chernysh does.

The Raiders have an evening home game the day after that. Chernysh comes for a short nap in the afternoon, arriving and leaving in dog form. It's okay, it's what Ilya expected — or more than he had any right to expect, really. But it means he hasn't spoken to person-Hollander for almost two days now. It's odd that it feels like a long time, since Ilya had gone months without speaking to him before.

Not that Ilya cares. And he is still not going to watch a hockey game. He calls Sveta instead.

"Good evening, darling husband," she answers cheerfully. "Seen any werewolves lately?"

"Fuck off," he replies, without any heat. He had texted her back, eventually, the day he'd found out that Chernysh was Hollander. Ilya had told her he'd woken up, drunk and disoriented, midway through an episode of Teen Wolf. He's not sure Sveta had found that reassuring but it's better than the truth. "Remember I also have many stories about stupid things you do when drunk."

"Not at nine in the morning," she says, and her tone has turned serious. "Ilyusha. Are you sure you don't need me to come home. I can be back for the weekend, just let me —"

"No. No, I am fine. I promise."

"Really?"

"Really." Fuck, he is going to have to give her something, isn't he. "I promise. Listen. You will be proud. I have been playing nice neighbours with Hollander."

"You what?"

"He came over for dinner. Few days ago."

"And it didn't end in murder?" Ilya hears rustling on her end of the line. "No, I can see it didn't. He is not looking great again tonight, though. Probably poisoned from your cooking."

"You are watching the game?"

"Of course."

"Who is winning?"

"You have a TV there also, you know. It will not explode if you put a hockey game on."

"I don't want to watch." He just wants to know whether Hollander will be upset, after. And will maybe want to come over and sit on the couch together. Pathetic.

"No," Sveta says. "Boston is not winning."

Ilya shouldn't feel good about that. And he doesn't exactly want Boston to lose, but if they do, it won't have been his fault, and there will be a silver lining. So.

"Did you tell him who you are?" Sveta says, after a minute.

"He knows my name."

"Ilyusha."

"Svetka."

"Ilyusha."

"Sveta."

"Ilya."

"Svetlana."

Sveta’s patience does not match his. "Seriously, Ilyusha. If you are going to be friends, you should tell him."

Ilya closes his eyes. "No. He probably does not remember me from before, anyway."

Sveta makes a disbelieving noise.

"It was a long time ago, we only played each other one game." They maybe would have played again, in Sochi, if the Games hadn't been such a shitshow for Russia. But then 2014 had been a shitshow for Ilya all round, really. At least he had been playing so poorly that they had not made him captain. Also, that his father had been too far gone to know what was happening.

"Yes. One game, when you beat him to the gold medal at world juniors. I think he will remember."

"Was only juniors. He has probably never thought about it ever again."

Another disbelieving noise. Then, "I am glad you are making friends."

"I am not making friends. It was one dinner." And breakfast, before that. And three naps, although they possibly don't count since Hollander was Chernysh at the time.

"It's good, Ilya." The television noise in the background increases in volumes then settles again. "And I'm sure you don't care at all that your new friend is on the ice right now."

"You are right, as always."

"Ilyusha. Do yourself a favour."

"What is it now?" Stop drinking so much, stop smoking so much. Stop sulking.

"Don't fuck this up on purpose, okay?"

Ilya doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to do things on purpose; that is the problem.

Another roar of sound from the television. Sveta says, "Huh."

Ilya lets the hoodie string fall from his mouth. "What happened?"

"What did you feed Hollander when he came over?" Sveta asks.

"What did I —? Just food. He is on a stupid diet, hardly eats anything. Why? He is not really sick?"

"No."

"Then what is the problem?"

"Well, Ilyusha. Shane Hollander had not scored any points in like six games."

"Yes." Hollander had said as much; that he'd been having a bad month.

"But he has just made a beautiful goal."

"Oh." Ilya loosens his grip on the phone.

"And now Boston are 3-2. Not that you care."

"No."

"Maybe you should invite him for dinner again. For Boston, Ilyusha."

"I don't care about Boston."

"Invite him for dinner. Tell him who you are. Then remind him where to find the net. Maybe he will listen to you."

In the end, it's the US Postal service that does Ilya in, and only two days later. Ilya had been expecting Chernysh to arrive through the yard for his afternoon nap. Instead, there is Hollander at the front door. He looks angry.

"You."

"Yes? What is now?" Fuck, it is cold outside.

"You are Ilya Rozanov."

Fuck. He keeps his voice level. "Yes. So what?"

"Don't you fucking so what me."

"Is not a secret," Ilya lies.

He's figured out what Hollander is holding. It's an envelope, presumably with Ilya’s name on it. It wouldn't be the first time mail’s been misdelivered on this street. Ilya once got a letter for the family down the road, but he had just dropped it off in their mailbox.

What he had not done was shout at them and then barge into their house. Uninvited. Without taking his shoes off.

Ilya sighs. "Shoes, Hollander." He shuts the front door behind them.

"Fuck you it's not a secret." Hollander does come back and toe his sneakers off, though. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Ilya shrugs. "What should I say?"

"That you're a fucking professional hockey player!"

"Is not true."

"What do you mean?"

"I am not professional hockey player. I quit. I am not anything."

"You. What?"

"You think I have been secretly playing hockey all season and you did not notice?"

"But you were, before you left Russia, which is the same —" Hollander breaks off, shaking his head. "I can't believe I didn't recognise you." He's staring at Ilya like he's trying to develop x-ray vision. "I guess you do look really different, with the…" He waves a hand over his head.

"What. Hair? Beard?"

"I guess."

The beard is just since the funeral, because shaving is a lot of effort. The hair has been around for longer: his father had stopped recognising him anyway, the last year, so it hadn't mattered.

And now Ilya is thinking about Russia. Fuck it.

He should kick Hollander out.

He is not going to kick Hollander out.

"So, you are here," he says. "You want to shout some more? Or I already ate, but there are leftovers."

"No. I'm okay, thanks."

Ilya opens the fridge. "Drink? Ginger ale?" He is pretty sure Hollander does not have a game tonight. He pushes a can across the counter to Hollander, then pulls out a Coke for himself and cracks it open. Hollander opens his own can and takes a seat on one of the stools. He looks less angry now and more — bewildered. A little lost.

"Sveta said I should tell you," Ilya says, after a moment, when the guilty feeling in his throat doesn't pass. "So. Sorry?"

"I mean, yeah," Hollander says. He spins his can around. "I just feel like such an idiot. You let me explain hockey stuff to you."

"Not really. We did not talk about hockey." Ilya had liked it that way.

Hollander looks up at him. "Seriously, though. Why didn't you say anything?"

Ilya shrugs. "Did not want you to know."

"But why?"

Ilya shrugs again. He does not have words to explain the feeling of being scraped out, emptied, when he'd left Moscow. How any mention of hockey or Russia fills up the empty space with everything he's trying to forget.

"Oh, shit." Hollander's earnest eyes go wide. "You're not, like, in hiding from the mob or something, are you? Is that why you grew the beard, and like, never leave the house?"

Even with Moscow in his head, Ilya can't suppress his smile. "Oh my god Hollander."

"What?"

"You are so dramatic." Hollander's expression starts to resemble a pout and Ilya relents. "No, I am not on run from Russian mob. Anyway, would be stupid place to hide."

"Because…?"

"Svetlana is daughter of Sergei Vetrov. He was famous goalie. Everybody knows him. Many Russians know I married Svetka, came to Boston. I am very easy to find here."

"But no one does find you."

Ilya raises his eyebrows.

"I mean, I've never seen you have anyone over, other than me. And you don't go out."

"Where should I go."

"I don’t know, restaurants? Bars? Clubs? Fucking Walmart? Anywhere!"

"You do these things, yes?"

"I mean, I should. Probably."

"Hm." Ilya is pretty sure Hollander doesn’t. They are two little neighbour hermits. "I went out, before. When Svetka was still here. She can drive, help with English. Is easier."

"But then she left."

"Yes."

"New York, right? For work?"

"Yes. They asked her. Is very good, ah, opportunity."

Hollander nods and takes a drink. "Did she ask you to go with her?"

Ilya shrugs.

"You didn't want to go?"

"So many questions," Ilya says.

"Sorry."

Hollander looks abashed. This should be a good thing. Finally he will stop. But Ilya finds himself explaining, "She thinks she is responsible for me. Better she is far away, does not worry."

I would not have brought you here if I knew you you would sulk like a child, Sveta had said in July, when Ilya had declined another invitation to go out with her friends.

I didn't ask you to, Ilya had snapped back, but he had. The morning after the funeral when he'd woken up in Sveta's bed, stale mouth, hands still shaking with the echoes of trying to wring Alexei’s neck. I don't know what to do, he had said. Tell me what to do. And she had told him to marry her so he could come to America, and there had been nothing left for him in Russia, so he had. He would say it had been his first mistake, but that would be a lie, too.

"So you're just gonna — what," Hollander says. "Wait here until she comes back."

Ilya shrugs. "I can't drive car. Don't want to talk in English. What else to do."

"Go places anyway? Take the train? Get an Uber?"

Ilya grimaces. "No. Besides, I am not doing nothing here. I watch TV, I am practising English."

"With who?"

Ilya looks pointedly at Hollander.

"Apart from me."

"Your English is not good enough?"

"You know what I mean." Hollander is playing with the ring pull on his can, bending it back and forth. Ilya wonders if he ever stops fidgeting. He glances up at Ilya, then looks back at his can. "You know, if you ever want to go anywhere, I’d be happy to take you."

This is an easy one. "I don't want to go anywhere."

"Okay." Hollander nods. "Just. Keep it in mind, okay?"

Hollander must finally bend the ring pull too far, because it pops off the can. He looks at it, confused, like he didn’t know they could do that. Ilya rolls his eyes and holds his hand out for Hollander to drop it into. "Uh. Thanks. So, anyway, I guess we're properly even now, right?

Ilya tosses the ring in the bin, and follows it with his own empty can. "What are you talking about?"

"I mean I didn't tell you about the dog thing, but you didn't tell me who you really are."

This is easy too. "I am really just Ilya. From Russia. No job. Nothing."

Hollander shakes his head. His gaze is steady. "I don't think that's true at all."

Probably Ilya should have expected it. Now he knows why Sveta likes Hollander so much, even though he has been playing like shit this year: neither of them can leave well enough alone.

Hollander has another home game the next day. Ilya doesn't watch. Sveta texts him that Boston wins and Hollander gets two assists. Maybe it is all the ginger ale Hollander is drinking, not Ilya's cooking, that is making the difference. Probably his poor deprived body is desperate for sugar.

The day after that, Hollander texts Ilya mid morning to ask if he can come by. Ilya expects Chernysh, but it is Hollander at the front door again.

"Hi." He is fiddling with his keys. "I'm, uh, going for a haircut this morning. And. I wondered if you wanted to come?"

Ilya doesn't say anything.

"The place I go is super chill." Hollander babbles when he's nervous; this is already familiar. "Like, they don't expect you to talk or whatever."

Hollander dresses terribly, but his hair is okay. Boring, but okay.

"Okay, never mind. No pressure. We can go another time. I'll just —"

Somehow that makes it possible for Ilya to say, "Okay. Yes. I will come."

The barber is a short drive away. Hollander taps his fingers on the steering wheel the whole time, out of sync with the bland song playing from the stereo.

It must be months since Ilya was last in a car. As they leave their quiet residential area there are more signs by the side of the road, advertisements, shop names. Ilya is surprised to realise he is not having to translate them in his head to know what they say.

"So," Hollander says, when he has parked. "I guess we’ll just — go in?"

It's like Hollander is nervous too. On Ilya's behalf? Or maybe Hollander just really hates getting his hair cut. Ilya unbuckles his seatbelt and gets out.

There is no queue. Ilya is shown to a chair straight away. They have some posters on the wall of models with different styles, so Ilya can just point to one with a simple cut, on a man with a curl to his hair not unlike Ilya's own. "Like this. Please."

When Ilya was a very small child, his mother had cut his hair for him at home with the kitchen scissors, punctuated by Ilyushenka, be still! and Stop moving about, do you want me to cut your ears? But the little hairs that dropped on his neck were so itchy and she would take so long. She would save one of his curls each time in a piece of folded tissue paper, kept in a lacquer box with his first tooth, the hat he had worn home from hospital. He has not seen that box since — since. His father probably threw it out.

He has no trouble sitting still now, eyes closed. Hollander is in the chair next to him. He is not talking either. Clippers buzz. The barber moves around Ilya's head, fingertips brisk and professional as he lifts the hair section by section and snips away — six months? Longer? Ilya has lost track.

Finally he stops, and whisks away the loose hairs with his little brush. The back of Ilya's neck feels cold.

"Okay?" the barber asks.

Ilya opens his eyes.

The haircut is fine, probably, but he looks terrible. The beard and hair together had not been a good look, exactly, but at least it had been a coherent mess. Now — no. And he does not have a razor at home.

"Please can you." Ilya points to his beard. "Get rid of it."

Hollander is finished well before Ilya is, waiting on one of the chairs and concentrating on his phone. Ilya pays, and it is done.

In the car, Ilya can't stop his hands wandering to his chin. It feels cold. Naked. If he had thought, he might have brought a scarf. Also, Hollander keeps sneaking looks at him. He's a cautious driver, so it's only at stop signs and traffic lights, but still.

"There is problem?" Ilya says eventually. He doesn't think the barber cut him while shaving, but if Ilya is bleeding he would like to know.

"Sorry, no."

"I look stupid," Ilya says. Hollander's cut does not look stupid. Boring, maybe, but Ilya cannot say that the style doesn't suit him.

"No! No. Uh. You look good. I was just." Hollander's cheeks are tinged pink under his freckles. "I guess now you look a lot like I remember from Saskatchewan? I don't think I'd have trouble recognizing you any more."

Ilya grimaces.

"No, I don't think — I mean, you look older. Obviously. And I don't think anyone else at juniors paid as much attention to you as I did."

"Yes." Even now, he can remember Hollander's eyes on him on the ice. Hollander watching from the stands, sitting with his perfect parents. Hollander introducing himself, you’re an awesome player to watch. "I remember."

"I guess you made a pretty big impression on me. Well. You beat us, so."

"It was many years ago," Ilya says. Though he does like the idea that Hollander has not forgotten either.

"So, uh." They pull up at a traffic light and Hollander glances across at him again. "I was wondering. Why did you quit hockey?"

Of course it would be too much to ask that Hollander would let this go. "Is complicated."

"Did you get injured, or?"

"Hollander. I don't want to talk about it."

The light goes green and Hollander turns back to the road. "Do you still skate?"

Hollander and Sveta, two boots make a pair. "How would I skate."

"Go to a rink? I don't know. There are public rinks around, you could —"

No, Hollander is worse than Sveta. Ilya does not bother to keep the frustration from his voice. "I told you. I do not drive. I do not know anyone here. And I do not want to skate with stupid American babies at stupid American rink."

"Okay. It was just a thought."

A stupid thought. "I do not even have skates." Ilya does not imagine this will be the clincher, but Hollander seems to accept it.

"Anyway," Hollander says, "thanks for coming with me. I used to hate getting haircuts before I found that place." They have made it back: Hollander is turning into their street, then his driveway, then his garage. "Hey, maybe next time we can go get our nails done."

Hollander is looking over at him, bright eyed and hopeful. It takes Ilya a minute to parse the English and then to realise — thank fuck — that Hollander is not looking at him like that because he actually wants to get manicures together, but because he's trying to make Ilya laugh.

To his surprise, Ilya does.

Hollander says he is busy that afternoon — having his picture taken for something — but he is free in the evening.

"You want to come for dinner?" Ilya asks, before he can think better of it. "Sveta's orders," he adds quickly. "She is Boston fan. She thinks you play better after I fed you, last time."

"Oh," Hollander says. There is a little smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Well. If it's Svetlana’s orders, sure."

"You are still not eating real food?"

"It is real food. Just healthy food."

"Boring food," Ilya counters.

Hollander rolls his eyes. "Fine, whatever. Yes I am still eating boring food. Is that a problem?"

"No, no problem." Ilya smiles innocently. "Seven o'clock?"

Dinner is okay. Ilya makes liberal use of barbecue sauce on his plain chicken and ignores the faces Hollander pulls at him.

Afterwards, they do the dance around the kitchen again while they clean up, Hollander's half-metre bubble of personal space carefully preserved. It's more frustrating than last time. Ilya thinks the people must have put some makeup on Hollander for the photo shoot, and Hollander has not washed it off completely. There is something different around his eyes, or maybe it's his eyelashes, a shade darker even than usual. Hollander does not let Ilya get close enough to look properly.

"Okay if I change and stay for a bit?" Hollander asks when the dishes are done. As if Ilya would say no.

Later, when Hollander is back as himself and putting his shoes on in the hallway, he says, "So, uh. We're playing in New York tomorrow night. Flying out in the morning and back late, after the game."

"Okay." No Chernysh tomorrow, then. Annoying, but better than last time. "At least is short trip."

Hollander sighs, more deeply than Ilya thinks is probably warranted. "I guess. There's still so much hanging around, and I'm sick of watching dumb movies." He glances up at Ilya. "I was thinking, uh. Maybe I might get a language app, try learning some Russian?"

That is not at all what Ilya was expecting him to say. "Why?"

"I kind of like the way it sounds when you talk to Chernysh."

Huh.

"And I know it’s probably really hard, but I could learn, like, basic stuff, right?"

Why is Hollander talking in questions at him again. Ilya shrugs. "Probably, sure. Anyway, I already taught Chernysh most important Russian."

"Huh?" Hollander blinks at him.

"He knows sit, and shake. Also I taught him ‘give me kiss.’"

It's hard to tell in the dim hallway light, but Ilya is pretty sure Hollander's cheeks are dark red. Together with the remnants of eyeliner or mascara, he makes a pretty picture.

"Right," Hollander says hurriedly. "Anyway, maybe if I stick with it you can help me sometime? Like with pronunciation and stuff."

"Okay. If you want."

"Okay. So I'll see you day after tomorrow, maybe." Hollander seems reluctant to go. It's not that Ilya would mind if he stayed, exactly. But it feels like that would be crossing a line somehow, and Ilya does not know what would be on the other side.

Ilya opens the door for him and the cold air floods in. "Let me know when you are back." Ilya says. "Good luck for game."

Ilya is getting better at finding things to occupy himself on days when Chernysh — and Hollander, he supposes — are not around.

It helps that Chernysh sheds a lot of hair. Ilya does laundry, he vacuums. He makes lunch and it even includes two vegetables, though he suspects Hollander would not count one slice of tomato and a lettuce leaf in a bacon sandwich.

After lunch he realises he has run out of cigarettes. It is harder to keep track, now he is not smoking so much.

He could get a delivery. Or — he glances outside. It is not so bad outside today. If he goes down the hill from Chernysh’s park, there is a little row of shops about ten minutes’ walk away.

The man behind the counter at the convenience store does not even look up from his phone when Ilya asks for cigarettes, just reaches into the cabinet behind him and puts the packet on the counter. "Nine forty," he recites, bored, with an accent that Ilya can't place but is almost as thick as Ilya's own. Ilya pays and leaves.

The shopfront next door is shuttered, and on the other side is a nail salon. Ilya wishes there was some sort of fruit and vegetable shop here, but it does not seem to be a thing in America. Hollander has strong feelings about fresh produce, and the stuff Ilya has been getting delivered is apparently not up to his standards.

Ilya has seen people on American television shows going to farmers markets. Is that where people get fresh produce here? But maybe not in winter. Anyway, the crowds would not be good. But maybe it would be okay to go with Hollander, bundled up in a scarf, pink cheeked from the cold. There might be a bakery stall where Ilya could buy a pastry or a donut and tear a piece off for Hollander to try. Hollander would argue, of course, but that would make it all the sweeter to watch him lick the sugar off his fingers.

Or not. Just because Hollander took Ilya for a pity haircut one day, it does not mean he would want to go with Ilya to a fucking farmers market. Stupid.

By the evening, Ilya has run out of things to do. He messages Sveta but only gets back: not now Ilyusha, I am watching your new friend play.

Of course she would be at the game.

Fine. Okay. It is just a stupid hockey game. What harm could it do.

Ilya pours himself some vodka and turns the television on. It is the beginning of the third period. Boston are up by one. He lights a cigarette for something to do with his hands. He will just watch like Sveta does, stop thinking about it like he is a player. This is not his game anymore.

The resolution lasts right until Hollander goes over the boards for his first shift.

By the third time Hollander hits the ice, Ilya has his phone back out to text Sveta: does he always play like this?

Without the name on the jersey, Ilya is not sure he would have been able to identify Hollander. In Saskatchewan, Hollander was fast, but also smart. Always one move ahead, clever with the puck, making space where there should not be space. Ilya had beaten Canada to the gold medal in spite of Shane Hollander, not because of him.

And now this. Stupid, choppy play. Passing when he should take the shot. Teammates out of position.

This is not Hollander from Saskatchewan. This is just an average MLH player. Hollander should not be average.

On the bench, Hollander's face is carefully blank.

Yes, Sveta sends back. Nothing else.

How long has Hollander been playing stupid?

Hm.

Ilya loves YouTube. Some nice person has made highlight reels for each of Hollander's seasons. Rookie year is the most fun to watch, baby-faced Hollander practically bouncing on to the ice. But the bouncing stops pretty fast. By his fourth season he is barely looking up at the crowds.

There are plenty of goals, of course. A few fights, in his third and fourth seasons, which Ilya would not have predicted. And more and more, Hollander looks like he does not want to be there.

Boston wins. Hollander is not interviewed after the game. Ilya is not surprised; nobody would want to talk to such a sad sack.

Ilya's alcohol tolerance has probably fallen recently, and maybe that's what has him texting Hollander: Why do you play stupid hockey

It takes Hollander a while to respond. Showering, maybe, then on the bus back to the airport. It's literally my job.

No, I mean why bad hockey.

Fuck you

Fuck, Hollander is annoying. Am not trying to be asshole. Trying to understand. You are a very good hockey player.

Yeah, we did win

But you hate it, you are not playing right, not having fun

If it was fun all the time they wouldn't pay me to do it.

Ilya supposes that's true. He runs a few words through Google translate and back again, trying to find the right words. Eventually he gives up and just sends: Do they pay you to be miserable

He doesn't get an answer.

Ilya is not sure what to expect the next day. The morning passes, then the afternoon. No Chernysh, no messages. Maybe Hollander has training all day, even after returning from an away game. Or maybe Hollander just doesn't want to talk to him.

Then his doorbell rings at six o'clock.

"Hi," Hollander says. Now the dark circles under his eyes are just from fatigue, not makeup. He holds up a grocery bag. "Have you eaten?"

Hollander has brought quinoa. Stupid English, so many different sounds for each letter. It tastes okay though.

Hollander is clearly determined to make small talk while they eat. He asks what Ilya got up to while he was away. It's hard to spin an entertaining story out of ‘went down the street and bought cigarettes,’ so instead Ilya asks Hollander about farmer's markets. Hollander has thoughts about food miles and how vitamins are lost in cold storage. Then Hollander fiddles with his fork, turning it over and over, tines up then down again, before he finally pushes his plate away and looks at Ilya.

"Hey, uh. Can I tell you something?"

Ilya shrugs. "Sure." Probably not even Hollander with his Canadian manners would consider it necessary to make Ilya dinner before telling him he doesn't want to hang out anymore. Probably.

What Hollander says is, "I hate playing for Boston."

Ilya snorts.

"What?"

"I don't think it is big fucking secret, Hollander. I watched you play for five minutes, already I can tell."

"Fuck." Hollander’s head drops.

Ilya takes pity on him. He taps his fingers on the tabletop. "Hey. Is not so bad. I will tell you secret back."

"Yeah?"

"I hated playing in Moscow."

That gets Hollander's head back up. "You did?"

"Yes. I wanted to come to America, play here."

"Why didn't you?"

"Is long story." One that Ilya is not going to tell. "So is why you play bad hockey? Because you hate your team, want to lose?"

Hollander looks properly offended. "No! Fuck, no. That's not — no."

"So why?"

"I thought it would be different."

"MLH would be different?"

"No, like. I thought I could do what the team needed me to do. And I…" he trails off. Looks at Ilya, then back down at his hands, resting on the table. "You know I went first in the draft."

Ilya knows. He has not been smart enough, then, to cut himself off from American hockey news. He had watched the clip, Hollander pulling on the Raiders jersey, and thought it should have been me. He nods.

"Yeah. Well Boston needed a center. But I was maybe not as aggressive as they were hoping for, or — I don't know. I just, I've never, uh. Fit? The way they needed me to. And then."

"And then what."

"I, uh. Can I tell you something else? Like, really a secret. You can't tell anyone."

"How many secrets you have, Hollander?"

Hollander has the grace to look embarrassed. "I mean, this is the last one, probably."

"Sure, okay. Tell me."

Hollander is chewing on his lip. He glances at Ilya then away. He doesn’t say anything.

"Is hard to explain? Here." Ilya opens his phone to Google translate and slides it across to Hollander. "Write down. Make sure I understand."

It takes Hollander a long time to type not very much. But eventually he slides it back. He's not looking at Ilya.

I'm gay, it says, in English and in Russian.

Ah. Okay.

Ilya nods to himself, considers for a moment, then clears the text and types I am bisexual. He's pretty sure he has the English spelling right for this one, because it comes up a lot on daytime TV, between things like "Am I the father?" and "I caught my husband cheating with the nanny!" but he translates it anyway to confirm, then slides his phone back to Hollander.

Hollander looks at the screen. Looks at Ilya. Looks at the screen. Looks at Ilya.

"Are you serious?" he says eventually.

Ilya snorts. "No, Hollander, is joke. Very funny, ha ha."

Hollander is still just looking at him.

"Yes is serious!"

"Is that — I mean, like. Allowed? In Russia?"

"What is they say here? Do not ask, do not tell. I played hockey for Moscow, I did not say on television about sucking cock. Good deal for them."

"Is that why — I mean, did they find out and kick you out, or?"

"We are not talking about me. We are talking about you playing shit hockey."

"Great," Hollander says, hand in his hair. "Love it."

"You do not love it. This is problem."

Hollander makes a dismissive noise. Ilya, despite his best intentions to be patient, is starting to get annoyed. Sure, Hollander has to play hockey for a team he doesn't love and he likes to fuck men. Ilya can see him that, and raise him a dying father, an asshole brother, a dead mother. "So what has gay got to do with bad hockey? You get fucked too hard all the time, you can't skate?"

Hollander’s face goes in his hands. The tips of his ears are red. "Oh my god."

"Oh, maybe you suck dick so much you hurt your knees?" It is not kind, maybe, to enjoy this. But Ilya has never pretended to be kind.

"Shut up, oh my god."

Ilya leans back in his chair. "I just don't see problem."

"It's not — fuck." Hollander takes several slow, deep breaths. It looks practiced, like he has to do it a lot. "Okay, so. Some of the guys on the team found out. My third year in Boston."

"Found out that you are gay?"

"Yeah."

"So?"

"So it, I dunno. Changed things, in the room or whatever."

Ah. "They are bad to you because you are gay?"

"No."

"I thought was allowed here. Sveta told me, Boston is first to let men get married."

"Yeah, I mean. They weren't bad. But just, different. And management — I dunno."

"They were bad to you," Ilya repeats.

Hollander shakes his head. "No. It was never, like, anything that I could call out. Just. I wasn't as important to them any more. They hardly wanted a gay guy to be the face of the franchise, or whatever." He scrubs a hand across his forehead. "Also I was probably playing like shit because my worst nightmare had just come true, so there's that, too."

Ilya is not sure he got all the nuance of that, but he is not about to ask Hollander to repeat it. He thinks he has got the general idea right, anyway.

"So why you keep playing for Boston?"

"You think it would be different somewhere else?"

Ilya shrugs. "Maybe."

Hollander shakes his head again. "I doubt it. News gets around, you know. I'm not, like, out, I'm not doing interviews about it or anything, but I think it's pretty common knowledge in the league by now. So."

"Other teams have been dicks?"

"A few guys have said things, on the ice, you know. Not so much lately, but a few years ago, yeah."

Ah. That would maybe explain the fights Ilya had seen on YouTube. "So you are just going to keep playing bad hockey for team you hate forever?"

"I guess so."

"You are twenty four, Hollander. You will play maybe ten, fifteen more years like this? Hating it?"

"Unless I get injured, yeah."

He almost sounds like he wouldn't mind. Which — what happens to Chernysh when Hollander gets hurt? Chernysh better not have to suffer for Hollander being an idiot.

"Is very stupid idea."

Hollander shrugs. "What else am I supposed to do?"

"How long is left in contract? You go somewhere else. Go to shit team, they will be so happy to have you, they will be very nice to you. They will not care if you like to suck dick."

"I don't want to play for a shit team. I want to win a cup."

"You have not won a cup with Boston," Ilya points out. "Besides, you go to shit team, team is not shit any more."

That gets him eye contact. "Oh yeah? How does that work?"

"They will have you."

Hollander snorts. "I thought you said I'm playing badly."

"That is not same as being bad player."

Hollander shrugs and looks away. "Or I could just quit."

"Why would you do that? Is waste."

"You quit."

"Is different."

"How?"

"Is complicated."

"You said that last time."

"Yes."

"Did you get injured?"

"Hockey was not problem."

"So what, then. Was it the bisexual thing, or — like, your family, or?"

Ilya shakes his head and looks blindly away from Hollander.

"Ilya."

In the corner of his vision, Ilya sees Hollander make an abortive movement with his arm, like he was going to reach out and touch.

Ilya swallows. "I haven't said. Before. To anyone."

"Do you want to?"

"No."

"Okay."

"Probably I should." He takes a breath. Shakes his head. "But English is hard. And — not today."

"Okay." After a moment, Hollander clears his throat and pulls his plate back toward him. "We should clean up."

They clear the plates away in silence. "Do you want me to go?" Hollander asks, afterwards. "Or."

Ilya is not sure whether Hollander means staying as Chernysh or himself. He is surprised to realise he doesn't mind which. "Stay."

Hollander changes in the bathroom, and then Ilya sits with Chernysh through an episode of a cooking show. Ilya is hoping maybe it will be like subliminal messaging: if Chernysh sees enough real food, maybe Hollander will relax a bit.

Afterwards, when Hollander has changed back, he hovers by the TV with his hands in his pockets.

"So. Uh. I had an idea. About what we were talking about before?"

"About you hating hockey."

"No, about — if you ever wanted to tell me about whatever happened in Russia. I mean, if you don't want to, it's totally cool, but. What if you told Chernysh?" Hollander still stumbles over the Russian name, his accent terrible. "You could say it in Russian."

Ilya frowns. "Then you still don't hear."

"No, sure, but. It would be, like, practice? Or you could use the translation app. The one you can talk to. Leave it open, I mean, and tell Chernysh, and then I could read it when I've turned back. If you wanted me to."

Could he?

"It was just an idea. You don't have to tell me. I'll just mind my own business."

But to be able to tell someone. To get it out of his head. For Hollander to just know, to stop asking about it, without Ilya having to say it to his face. And maybe it will get easier, once he has done it the first time. "Sveta says it is better to talk about it."

"Svetlana is a smart woman."

"Too smart for me." Ilya takes a breath. "Yes. Okay. Can we — tomorrow."

Hollander pulls a face. "Game in the afternoon tomorrow. But I'll come after?"

The minute Hollander has gone home, Ilya almost texts him to say he has changed his mind. But Hollander has a game tomorrow and needs to sleep. Ilya can text him in the morning.

It takes Ilya a long time to fall asleep, and he wakes close to midday. Hollander is probably already at the arena. Ilya doesn't want to disturb his pre-game preparation. Hollander will have a complicated routine with meditation and special rituals for taping his stick and all sorts of things. He does not need Ilya interrupting him. Also, Ilya does still want Hollander to come over after the game. He is just not sure he can follow through on telling him anything.

He texts Sveta instead: Hollander keeps asking me about Russia

Probably he is trying to be your friend, Sveta replies, too quickly. Are you going to tell him?

Ilya does not know. That is the point. He has told me some things about himself. I think maybe they were not easy for him to say

Were you an asshole to him?

Ilya hadn't meant to be, anyway.

Tell him, Sveta sends. You think he will keep hanging out with you when you are always a moody asshole for no reason?

Who says I want him to

She has known him for twenty years; she doesn't bother to reply.

Hollander comes over after the game; another win for Boston. He doesn't say anything after dinner, but he opens his phone to Google translate and leaves it on the coffee table before he goes to the bathroom to change.

Ilya leaves the TV off so the sound doesn't interfere with the translation. It's quiet. Chernysh’s chest is warm under his hand.

So Ilya tells Chernysh about coming home from Saskatchewan with a gold medal to find his father in hospital with pneumonia.

About the doctors pulling him aside to ask if he's noticed anything different about Grigori's memory lately.

About Alexei, insisting nothing is wrong, even when their father does not know the day, or the year, or where Ilya's mother is.

About his father being discharged into Ilya's care, a little weakened by the chest infection but still such a large presence, dominating the house with his voice and his demands.

About those first few months, playing for Dynamo, when his father was — proud. Almost kind. Would put a hand on his shoulder when he came home from a winning game, and say well done, my son.

About the slow decay, one step here, another there, then a rapid slide, a little recovery.

About coming home after training one day to find his father alone, disoriented, with a lit cigarette smouldering in the rug at his feet.

About Alexei saying no, you are such a big shot, you look after him if you're so worried. I have a wife, a child, a real job.

About hockey, always hockey, games punctuating his days so he could pay more and more for carers to tolerate his father's abuse. Hating his asshole coach, but unable to leave.

About his father not knowing Ilya for two days in a row. Then five. Then greeting him at the door by name, slapping him on the back with an arm still so strong, you will show them how real men play.

About the slow grind of the last year, his father's mind gone, body taking so long to catch up.

About his father back in hospital.

About the funeral, and going home with Sveta afterwards, feeling as ancient and whittled down as his father in his last days, nothing left but a heart stubbornly beating and lungs stubbornly drawing air.

Ilya taps the screen to stop the translation. He doesn't look at the English on the screen. He has lived it, he does not need to see it in black and white.

He can feel Chernysh's heartbeat under his hand, faster than a human’s. The gentle rise and fall of Chernysh's chest. "Can you stay like this," he asks. "Don't change." He speaks Russian like Chernysh can understand him.

But maybe he can. When Ilya gets up, finally, Chernysh follows him into his bedroom and waits by the bathroom door. And when Ilya lies down on his bed, Chernysh jumps up next to him, gives him a lick on the cheek, and curls up next to him, nose to tail, and goes to sleep.