ilya gets his grand prix assignments late in the summer. they're sending him to skate america -- presumably they're hoping he'll finally put scott hunter out of his misery -- and to france. (he won't be meeting junior world champion shane hollander at either event, a thing which ilya carefully does not have any particular feelings about.) he didn't get the cup of russia, which would have been convenient, since the rink is barely twenty minutes from his house. possibly the federation thought they were doing him a favor, not putting him up against makarov, giving them both a better chance at qualifying for the finals. he isn't russia's top skater yet, after all.
ilya does not relay any portion of this reasoning to his father, who is predictably terse when he hears the news over breakfast. "typical," grigori says, with a soft scoff. "maybe if you spent more time working on your quad and less time fooling around with that idiot boy, they would want you in russia, hmm?"
"yes, father," ilya says, very evenly.
naturally, the first thing he does, when he finally gets a free minute, is invite himself over to sasha's. sasha doesn't know why ilya is upset about any of this ("i'm not upset," ilya insists, and thinks he is probably telling the truth), because going to france sounds much more enjoyable anyway.
"i'd definitely rather be in paris than this shithole, if you gave me a choice," sasha says derisively, and then his expression shifts into a wide, lazy grin. "hey, maybe if i ask nicely papa will let me tag along with you all, hmm?"
ilya snorts. "you know that's not going to happen," he says. because his father and his coaches may not know what's actually going on between him and sasha -- the response would be much more violent if anyone did -- but the fact remains that absolutely no one in ilya or sasha's life, including ilya himself, thinks their relationship is a good idea.
sasha's smirk is undimmed by the harsh intrusion of reality into their circle of two; ilya is halfway tempted to kiss it off his face. "no. i suppose not." he stretches lazily on the bed. "maybe in a couple of years, then. once you're grown-up and they've let out that collar around your neck a little."
"maybe," ilya says, letting the obvious dig go. he thinks about the season ahead -- america, france; the final in italy, maybe; europeans in croatia and world championships in sweden. the energy drink advertisement he has to shoot next week. the looming specter of vancouver. he looks deliberately away from sasha, out towards the street below, where an old man is leaning against a lamppost in the corner, smoking a cigarette. "probably not."
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