Chapter Text
Locked in the face off position, bent low on the ice, their intense gazes connect. One, two, three, four seconds. Bright lights are pointed directly at his face, but Ilya tries not to squint behind his helmet. The director calls out something and Hollander pulls back, so he does the same. He turns the English phrase over in his mouth one more time before he finally spits it out.
“You look pretty,” Ilya says, in a single breath.
Instead of being flattered by the compliment, Hollander’s eyebrows pull together and he looks irritated. Grimly, Ilya is reminded of the harsh frown his father wore when he was caught playing with his mother’s minuscule collection of make-up. In one swift move, his father smacked the tube of pink lipstick from his chubby five-year-old hand and Ilya dropped it on the rug. . The sharp slap left a blunt red mark on Ilya’s skin. He didn’t make a sound.
“You’re wearing makeup too,” Hollander retorts.
From the way he hurls the words at Ilya, it’s intended to be an insult. Sitting in the foldout chair, feeling the featherlight brushes pass over his skin, made him feel ethereal. The gentle touches of kind women, blending creams and magical powders with their careful fingers, was safe. He listened to them chatter like finches, watching in wonder as his reflection transformed. His face grew softer and smoother, blemishes disappearing. Stray curls were fixed neatly into place and sprayed with something floral-smelling. Nobody raised their voice. Ilya felt he was in a dream.
When he rose from the chair, his eyes lingered on the figure he saw in the mirror. For a moment, Ilya saw his mother and glowed with pride. Then, he looked beyond the expert touch-ups and noticed the nineteen-year-old boy cowering underneath with distaste. Turning away from his reflection, Ilya made a joke about modelling for the cover of Sports Illustrated.
“Yes, but I don’t look pretty,” Ilya says, quickly.
He pauses to admire Hollander’s round, rosy cheeks; his huge, dark eyes; the freckles speckling his nose and cheeks. Privately, Ilya envies how pretty he looks before a makeup artist even gets close to him. It twists his stomach into pleasant knots. Hollander gets his good looks from his mother, who Ilya saw in the stands at the International Prospect Cup. She likes to watch her son play hockey, the same way Ilya’s mother did when she was well enough. Similarly, Hollander’s mother is beautiful. He also envies Hollander for his mother.
Secretly, in a dark place he wants to ignore, Ilya yearns for a correction. His heart would seize and stop if someone — if Hollander — called him pretty. A delicate and flowery word, forbidden among their peers unless sneered as an insult. Fear may outweigh the private desire to hear those words uttered aloud. But once may be enough. Once, he can carry around forever and return to repeatedly, like the few precious memories of his mother.
Wordlessly, they resume their domineering poses.