Chapter Text
Vlada’s heart leapt with excitement as she saw the notification. She quickly looked around - the subway train was packed at this evening hour - like someone could care enough to peek over her shoulder.
She opened Telegram and saw the forwarded post with a question.
Former hockey player of the Russian national team Ilya Rozanov has made a statement about his sexual orientation.
Rozanov issued a public statement in which he confirmed that he has been in a long-term relationship with Canadian hockey player Shane Hollander. Rumors about their relationship appeared after a compromising video of them was leaked online.
Vasya: Is this your uncle?
Vlada stared at the screen and suddenly felt dizzy.
She hadn't thought about her uncle in a long time. Didn't really have a reason to.
The last time she had seen him was at grandfather Grigoriy’s funeral. Her memories of it were blurry - some dark room full of gloomy faces, smell of dust and candles, a ride home with mom and dad in heavy silence.
She vaguely remembered him playing with her and bringing her expensive toys you can't buy here. She couldn't say he was bad to her, but one time she asked her parents why uncle Ilya doesn't visit her anymore and dad yelled at her to never mention him again.
Dad sometimes still brought him up though, when he was drunk - cursing him and complaining about uncle Ilya abandoning his family to live in the degenerate West while still dragging their mother's name through the dirt and telling lies about her.
So Vlada knew better than to ask about him, ever.
She didn't see him on the TV or in the magazines that often either. Just brief mentions in a sports section of the evening news broadcast - look, our athlete won again. It seemed like even after his move to the West, Russia was entitled to his victories somehow. But then the victories stopped, and so did any mentions of him.
So to her, he might be as dead as grandfather Grigoriy, just a vague memory from her childhood.
She typed "no just someone with the same last name" but deleted.
Then answered "yes but we're not in touch"
Vasya: ah got it
Vlada didn't dare to check the comments under the article. She knew for a fact they were brutal.
The rest of the way home Vlada was antsy, constantly checking her dms with Vasya and looking again and again at her uncle's photo in that article. It was definitely an old picture, he looked so young and nervous there. How old was he back then, nineteen, twenty?
She didn't know why this post bothered her so much and kept plaguing her thoughts all evening. She couldn't shake this sticky feeling of shame and awkwardness, even if this whole thing with uncle Ilya had nothing to do with her.
If Vasya saw it, then other classmates must've seen it too. Would they make fun of her tomorrow because of it? A couple of them definitely will. Were her teachers going to treat her any different?
Mom's ‘Dinner's ready!’ pulled her out of her thoughts.
Vlada was picking at her plate, working up the courage to ask one question.
“А почему мы не общаемся с дядей Ильёй?” / “Mom, why did we stop talking to uncle Ilya?”
“Что, новости увидела?” / “You saw the news, huh?”
“Ага…” / “Yeah…”
“Ну вот поэтому и не общаемся.” / “Well that's why.”
Mom looked at her puzzled face and elaborated a bit.
“Отец твой с ним сильно поругался. И Илья оборвал все связи с семьёй и уехал в Америку. Сказал никогда ему больше не звонить и не писать. Я уж подробностей не знаю, у отца спроси.” / “Your father and him had a big fight. And Ilya cut off all ties with the family and moved to America. He explicitly asked to never call or message him again. I don't know the details, go ask your father if you're so curious.”
Well that she wouldn't do. She doubted dad would say anything new besides his usual rants about how ungrateful and entitled Ilya was. She didn't like calling dad without a good reason anyway - his mood was so unpredictable, and even more abrasive after the divorce. Vlada was perfectly content with meeting him for one weekend a month.
“Ладно, мне просто интересно было.” / “Okay, I was just wondering.”
“Ну Илья конечно даёт.” / “Your uncle is… something else, I tell you,” mom sighed and stood up from the table.
Vlada felt a pang of bitterness in her chest - so uncle Ilya really wanted nothing to do with them after all. She just had this naive assumption that it was a matter of time and distance - unintentional drifting away rather than going fully no contact.
But she clearly remembered aunt Sveta getting her toys and clothes ‘from uncle Ilya’ after he moved. Maybe she lied?
Well, whatever. She just hoped her classmates wouldn't make a big deal out of it tomorrow.
—----------------------------------
Vlada was sitting in the backseat of her dad's car, phone in her hands, earphones in her ears. They were going to her grandparents for the May holidays, to their dacha 2 hours away from Moscow. Dad reluctantly agreed to give them a ride.
Him and mom were in the front, talking about something - well, Vlada knew exactly what it was. The same thing she was looking at her screen.
Hockey player Ilya Rozanov is getting married to another hockey player, Shane Hollander, who is Canadian of Japanese descent. So our boy first changed his country, and now his sexuality. Maybe he’s doing it for Canadian citizenship? Someone tell him there are easier ways! Or are only same-sex interracial marriages allowed in the liberal West these times? First, he competed with Hollander and hated him, then they started a money laundering NGO together, and now he’s the groom (or the bride?). That's how brainwashing happens.
With a morbid curiosity Vlada scrolled through the comments. As expected, they called her uncle all sorts of names, ‘traitor’ being one of the kindest.
She took one earpiece out - parents were still talking about him.
“- было похуй на нас. Делает что хочет, на остальное поебать. Мужики на работе до меня доебываться начали.” / “- never cared about us. Just doing what the fuck he wants, not a care in the world. Guys at work already give me shit for it.”
“Не ругайся при Владе!” / “Don't swear in front of her!”
“Да ладно как будто она этих слов не знает.” / “Oh come on. Like she doesn't know those words.”
He looked back - Vlada pretended she hadn't heard him.
“Ее теперь одноклассники загрызут. Всё из-за него. Позорище блять.” / “Now watch her classmates bully her too for this shit. Fucking disgrace.”
“Успокойся.” / “Calm down.”
“Успокойся? Этот пидор-” / “Calm down? This faggot-”
Vlada put her earphone back.
Her eyes stung. She blinked back the tears and closed the comments under the post.
She looked at the photo again. Uncle and his soon-to-be husband looked very serious and too pretty for regular men's standards. He looked nothing like the man she remembered.
She googled Илья Розанов. One of the top links was his Instagram profile. She tapped on it.
The last post was a video.
Ilya, hair disheveled and face tan and freckled, was waving at the camera.
“Hello! I am Ilya, and this is my boyfriend, Shane. Say hello, Shane.”
Another man appeared in the frame, looking confused, and mumbled, “Um. Hi.”
“Shane, when are we getting married?” Ilya asked with a frown, pretending to not remember.
“July.” Shane said and a bashful smile blossomed on his face.
Ilya made an exaggerated surprised face. “Wow, July!”
“Still can’t believe it, huh?” Shane's smile grew bigger.
“We are getting married. And then we are going to keep playing hockey, break more records, and win more cups. Yes, Shane?”
“Hell yes.”
He sounded a bit awkward but really excited.
“See you in October, hockey fans,” Ilya said and threw up a peace sign.
Then he kissed Shane on the cheek with a loud smack, and the video ended.
The description under the video said, “VERY IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT. I love Shane Hollander and we’re getting married. Not a prank!”
And below, “Мой любимый помидорчик” / "My beloved tomato"
Vlada huffed a tiny laugh. This had to be an inside joke or something.
She watched it again. Then tapped through his recent stories - all cute pictures with his boyfriend, smiling and goofing around.
So this is what people are mad about? Two men laughing and kissing?
Seeing uncle Ilya smile like that, wide and boyish, brought back some memories.
She almost forgot this smile, his real one. He never smiled like this in the press photos.
But he smiled like this with her, a long time ago. When he chased her around the apartment pretending to be a big bad wolf, growling and laughing. When they played with the fancy dolls he just gifted her. When he gave her piggyback rides.
All the memories washed over her in a sudden, suffocating wave. She felt a stubborn urge to do something. She tapped on his dms and typed.
Hello. Congratulations to you and your fiance on your engagement. Wishing you a happy marriage!
She paused. He would probably not even recognize her. He probably forgot all about her like she did about him.
She added.
This is Vladislava, Aleksei’s daughter.
She hit Send.
Her hands were shaking. So stupid. He won't see it anyway. God knows how many dms from fans he gets daily.
But she felt a weird sense of accomplishment.
Did she miss him? Can you miss a person you barely remember? Or did she do it solely out of spite?
Well, at least it made her feel a little better.
She kept glancing at her notifications throughout the morning. What time was it in Canada, nighttime? He won't read it until… well he won't read it anyway so no use worrying.
She stopped thinking about it after a few days spent with her grandparents and her mom, her real family.
Holiday break was over in a blink and she reluctantly woke up for another day at school.
She turned off the alarm and unlocked her phone.
Her heart skipped a bit at the sight of an Instagram notification starting with IlyaRozanovOfficial: Ладушка?....
She jolted from her bed.
Ladushka. Only Ilya called her that.
She opened the app. It was real. She really saw it with her own eyes.
Ladushka??? Is it really you?
She closed the dms. Took a second to catch her breath. She tapped on her profile and looked at it, trying to see it from an outsider's eyes.
God, it was so immature and stupid. Photos of her and her classmates goofing around and making faces at the back of the classroom. Photo of her school bag with keychains and pins with her favorite anime characters. Flowers she got for her mom for March 8. A close up of her new cool sneakers. Middle finger to the math book.
She felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment. She mustered some strength to reply.
Yes, it's me. Sorry for bothering you.
She left her phone on the bed and hurried to brush her teeth and get dressed for school. She dared to look at the screen again while eating her breakfast.
He replied. 
No no don't be sorry.
Can I message you on telegram?
Give your @
So he's replying in real time? Right now? He’s sitting somewhere in Canada and waiting for her reply?
She googled Canada time. It was around midnight for him.
She replied.
He messaged on telegram almost immediately.
Ilya: It’s Ilya
Vlada: Hello
Ilya: Can I call you right now?
Vlada: Sorry I can’t talk right now, I have to get ready for school
Ilya: Right
Ilya: You’re 17 right? What grade?
Vlada: 11
Ilya: How are your parents doing?
Vlada: They divorced. I live with my mom
A pause.
Ilya: Okay
Ilya: Did you message me on your own?
Vlada: Yes. They didn't know I messaged you
Vlada: But they saw the news
Ilya: Ah. Okay
Ilya: I’m very happy that you reached out. It’s very important for me and my fiance to hear such kind words from you. I didn't expect anyone from my family to support me. Thank you so much.
Well it felt like an appropriate message to end the conversation. They probably have nothing to talk about besides that, so that was his way of saying it politely.
But when she was already on a train on her way to school, another message popped up.
Ilya: Can I practice Russian with you? I started to forget it to be honest)
Ilya: I have nobody to talk Russian with except my husband and Sveta.
My husband. She kept staring at the screen. It was so weird to see a man saying ‘my husband’. Weird in a good way though.
Vlada: Well
Vlada: I can call you after school
Ilya: What time?
She compared the time zones.
Vlada: 6 PM Moscow time. Deal?
Ilya: OK. Great
Ilya: And you don’t have to speak so formal with me)
She smiled and replied.
Vlada: Got it, Ilya Grigoryevich
Ilya: )))
Ilya: Later