[eulerist]

cw: displacement, state repression

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[eulerist]

Names Clarification Post

UK: Юрій Олександрович Козленко EN/international: Yurii Oleksandrovych Kozlenko (2010) Passport: Юлія Олександрівна Козленко (He's a 1994, he strongly prefers to romanize it as Yuriy because the double i looks stupid and utterly bizzare) BY: Міхаіл Андрэевіч Ігнацік RU: Михаил Андреевич Игнатик Latin Script: Michaił Andrejevič Ihnacik EN/international: Mikhail Andreyevich Ignatik

[eulerist]

some art, lots of kiryas

[eulerist]

yura, you mentioned your connective tissue disorder a few times. did you inherit it? and—if it's okay to ask—what happened to your father?

My father died when I was twenty-three. I have not talked about this. I am talking about it now because someone asked where the disorder came from. It came from him. Oleksandr Kozlenko. Sasha. That is what my mother called him. I called him Papa.

He was diagnosed late. This is common with connective tissue disorders. Doctors said it was stress. Doctors said it was his diet. Doctors said many things that were wrong. By the time they figured it out the damage was already done. His stomach had stopped working. Not slow. Stopped. The muscles that move food through the digestive tract quit. Food sat in his stomach for hours. Days. He would eat a small meal and still be full the next morning. He lost weight. Then more weight. Then he was mostly bones with a belly that would not empty.

They gave him a feeding tube. He hated it. He called it his leash. He said the pump that moved formula through it at night sounded like a cricket trapped in the wall. Not loud. Just constant. Just enough that you could not forget it was there. He would unplug it sometimes just to hear the silence. My mother would find him in the morning, disconnected, and he would say "I forgot" and she would say "you did not forget" and he would say "no. I did not forget."

The feeding tube helped. For a while. But the formula was hard on his system and he kept getting infections around the insertion site. He was hospitalized three times in one year. Third time he did not come home.

I was in Odesa when he died. Training camp. I had a competition coming up. My mother called and said "come home" and I said "I cannot, I have short program on Thursday" and she said "your father is dying" and I said "I know. He has been dying for two years." I went to practice instead. I landed my double lutz. Clean. I called her back that night and she said he was gone.

I did not cry. I have not cried. Not at the funeral. Not after. I do not know why. I loved him. He was a good father. He came to my competitions even when he was sick. He clapped when I landed things. He never understood skating but he understood that I needed it. He said "I do not know what a lutz is but yours looked very nice." My lutz was flat. It has always been flat. He was lying or he did not know the difference. I did not correct him.

I have his disorder. The same one. The doctors disagree. They say my presentation is different. Milder. Maybe different subtype. Maybe something adjacent. It does not matter what they call it. Symptoms are the same. Joints are loose. Stomach is slow. Not stopped. Not yet. But slow. I eat small meals. I drink Boost because liquid is easier than solid. I do not have a feeding tube. I do not want a feeding tube. I saw what it did to him.

He was forty-seven when he died. I am thirty-two now. This gives me fifteen years. Maybe more. Medicine is better now. I am monitored. Alice knows what to do if I faint at the rink. Noémie is a better physiotherapist than anyone my father had access to. I am not dying. But I am aware of the math. I have always been aware of the math.

He named me Yuliya. He died thinking I was his daughter. I never corrected him. I do not know if I regret this or if I am grateful. Both. Neither. It is complicated. I think he would not have accepted me. He was a good father but he was still a man of his generation. He wanted a daughter who would marry a nice man and give him grandchildren. Not a son who would change his name and disappear into a different country. He loved Yuliya. I do not know if he would have loved Yuriy. I did not give him the chance to fail. This is cowardice. I know this. But I have his name still. On my documents. The ones that still say Yuliya Oleksandrivna. Daughter of Oleksandr. I will change it eventually. But I will keep it somewhere. So I did not leave him behind with the name.

— y.kozlenko 🧊

[eulerist]

"Yura, do you think he misses being called 'Pamplemousse' by the baristas? Do you think he had a life before us? A French life? A life of croissants and bilingualism?"

“He is a cat.”

“He's a Quebecois cat. He has a cultural identity. He was found outside a Starbucks. That's bilingual. That's a dual-culture upbringing. He probably understands French commands. Maybe he's been ignoring you this whole time because you only speak to him in Ukrainian.”

“...”

“What.”

“I am not answering that.”

“You're not answering because you're worried it's true. You're worried the cat is francophone and you've been miscommunicating for two years.”

“I am not answering because it is the most stupid thing you have ever said. And you have said many stupid things. This is the top. This is podium.”

“Ryzhyk. Viens ici. Viens ici, mon petit pamplemousse.”

“Do not speak French to my cat.”

“He looked at me! He definitely looked at me. He understands.”

"...He responds to Ukrainian, English, and sound of the can opener. This is not bilingualism. This is opportunism."

[eulerist]

Character Notes

Alice is a native Québécoise French speaker, fluent in both French and English. She has a superiority complex over Parisians. Has Opinions™ about what’s “real” French anything. 

Jun is Russophone—his father is a Harbin Russian, his mother is a Northeasterner. His Russian is old-fashioned / pre-Soviet and his Mandarin is receptive only. He contains multitudes, I think. Ironically the only actual Russian character.

[eulerist]

I went to Jun's apartment last week. Alice asked me to drop off a music file. The file was on a flash drive. I do not know why we cannot email files like normal people. Alice says the quality degrades. This is not true. Alice is paranoid about compression. But I went.

I knocked. Jun opened the door. I held out the flash drive across the threshold. I did not step inside. I was not planning to step inside. I had one task. Deliver the file. The task could be completed in the hallway.

Jun looked at my hand. He looked at the flash drive. He looked at where I was standing. Then he grabbed my jacket. Two hands. Fisted in the front like I was a shoplifter. He pulled me inside.

"Come in, come in, you'll freeze, take off your shoes, here's tea, sit down."

I said I was not staying. He said I was staying. He was already pouring tea. It was already happening. I said I could have handed him the drive from the hallway. He said "not across the threshold" and then he muttered something about bad luck. Something old. Something his father would say.

I said that is superstition. He said "yes, and you're inside now, so it worked. Tea."

His apartment is small. Books everywhere. Not in shelves. In stacks. On the floor. On the table. On the chair I was supposed to sit on. He moved the books so I could sit. I picked one up and he said "careful, that one is older than both of us combined" and I put it down very carefully.

I do not understand threshold rules. Jun would not hand me the flash drive across the doorway. Misha hands me soup across the doorway like he is throwing a javelin. These are opposite problems. Neither is correct. There should be a middle way. A reasonable distance. Arm's length. Not superstition. Not projectile. Just handing. This is not difficult. I do not know why everyone is like this.

Jun is paranoid about doorways. But he made tea. And he did not let me freeze. And he had books older than both of us. This is acceptable.

— y.kozlenko 🧊

[eulerist]

bought myself a cake. it's not my birthday. the bakery had a slice left at closing and the woman asked "whose name should I write" and I said "misha" and she said "happy birthday misha" and I didn't correct her. it felt good. someone wrote my name on a cake and didn't ask for anything. the chocolate plaque broke in the bag on the way home but that's fine. it's still my name.

— m 🧸

[eulerist]

“Honest opinion on soccer? Would you guys imagine yourselves in an alternate universe where you guys were soccer players instead?”

🧊 y.kozlenko:

I do not think about alternate universes. This is pointless. If I were a soccer player I would be even shorter in a sport where height matters. What is the point of imagining yourself as something you are not. You are what you are. I am a skater. Misha is a skater. We are skaters. In every universe. This is not imagination. This is fact.

🧸 m:

soccer is okay i guess. good cardio. terrible uniforms. the shorts are too long. i don't think about alternate universes either. i mean, what's the point? if i weren't a skater i'd be—i don't know. something else. something where i still left minsk, probably. i think i'd leave no matter what. but i don't know if i'd have—

never mind. this is getting weird. soccer is fine. go sports.

🧊 y.kozlenko:

You were going to say something. You stopped.

🧸 m:

i stopped because it was stupid. it's an alternate universe. it's not real.

🧊 y.kozlenko:

Hm.

[eulerist]

Soccer AU: Part 4

(Mikhail’s phone) 

short bastard: Crying emoji.

you: what

short bastard: Crying emoji.

you: did they give you the good stuff. are you high right now.

short bastard: Where is crying emoji. The emoji for crying. To express crying. I cannot find it.

you: ...you have to press the little globe. on the keyboard. bottom left. and then choose the face.

short bastard: 😭

short bastard: I am crying. Because of how bad you played. You did not win. You promised to win. You promised to destroy Halifax. You scored one goal. One goal is not destruction. One goal is a mild inconvenience. You lied. Liar Peesha.

you: NOT MY FAULT YOUR DEFENSE IS TERRIFYING. YOUR CENTER BACK IS BUILT LIKE A BRICK WALL. I ALMOST DIED. TWICE. HE BREATHED ON ME AND I SAW THE AFTERLIFE

short bastard: Crying emoji.

you: STOP SENDING CRYING EMOJI

short bastard: 😭

you: I AM GOING TO DRIVE TO THE HOSPITAL AND UNPLUG YOU

short bastard: 😭😭😭

[eulerist]

Soccer AU: Part 3

(Yuriy's phone)

you: Peesha.

Tall Stupid Deaf Idiot: STOP. it is too early for this. it is too early for YOU.

you: At hospital. I will not be at the match tonight.

Tall Stupid Deaf Idiot: wait. what do you mean you're not at the match. you're ALWAYS at the match. you have to play. i've been planning my runs against your weak side for THREE DAYS. 

Tall Stupid Deaf Idiot: who am i supposed to yell at for ninety minutes if you're not there. the referee?? i already yell at the referee. it's not the same. they don't yell back properly.

you: I ate mold.

Tall Stupid Deaf Idiot: ...what

you: Mold. In the bread. I did not see it. The bread was on the counter. I ate it. 

Tall Stupid Deaf Idiot: you ate moldy bread and now you're in the HOSPITAL

you: The mold was advanced. Very advanced. It had ambitions.

Tall Stupid Deaf Idiot: oh my god

you: Ah. Nurse is here. She wants my phone. She is very stern. I like her.

Tall Stupid Deaf Idiot: don't flirt with the nurse you just ate poison bread

you: I do not flirt. I am professional. Ok bye Peesha. Win for me.

Tall Stupid Deaf Idiot: WIN for YOU?? dumbass i'm playing AGAINST your team tonight. you want me to score on your OWN goalkeeper. you want me to humiliate your club. you are asking me to destroy halifax

...fine. i'll do it. i'll put them to shame. i'll score a hat trick out of SPITE. tell the nurse you have a very dangerous belarusian who is about to ruin your team's evening

ALSO DO NOT EAT MOLD AGAIN. CHECK THE BREAD. USE YOUR EYES. I KNOW YOU HAVE EYES. I'VE SEEN THEM. THEY ARE VERY JUDGMENTAL. USE THEM FOR GOOD

yura??

...text me when you're done with the nurse. please. i need to know the person i'm supposed to embarrass next season is still alive. for professional reasons. 

you: [Image attached]

you: Alive. Not dead from bread. Nurse says I am "very stubborn." I said thank you.

Win. I will be watching on tiny hospital TV. Make it worth the bread.

[eulerist]

Soccer AU: Part 2

(Mikhail’s phone) 

short bastard: Misha.

short bastard: Misha. Hello.

you: ??? it is 4am. what do you want.

short bastard: Shit head.

you: excuse me

short bastard: It is shit head. Not poo-poo head. I am correcting. Poo-poo head is inaccurate. It implies childishness. Feces is feces. Adult feces. I am calling you shit head now. This is the upgrade.

you: is this an apology

short bastard: No. This is taxonomy. This is precision. I was imprecise earlier. I am fixing. This is not apology. Do not confuse.

you: you woke me up at 4am to tell me you're upgrading my insult from poo-poo head to shit head

short bastard: Yes. You deserve accuracy. Even in insult. Especially in insult. I am professional.

you: i'm blocking you

short bastard: [image attached]

short bastard: Do not block. This is Ryzhyk. He is watching. He will miss you. You want to break kitty heart? This is cruel. Cruel Misha. Evil Misha. Misha Peesha.

you: MISHA PEESHA

short bastard: It is rhyming. For emphasis.

you: GOODBYE. GOODNIGHT. I AM PUTTING MY PHONE ON SILENT. TELL THE CAT I LOVE HIM BUT HIS FATHER IS A MENACE.

short bastard: Ryzhyk says he loves you also. He says his father is correct about taxonomy.

you: the cat does not speak english

short bastard: The cat speaks Ukrainian. He is diaspora. We have discussed this.

[eulerist]

Soccer AU: Part 1

Across the field, 76th minute:

KOZLENKO: IGNATIK! YOU ARE A POO-POO HEAD!

IGNATIK: —stops mid-run, turns— A what?

KOZLENKO: You heard me! POO-POO! HEAD!

IGNATIK: —looks at the ref, looks back at Kozlenko, looks at his own teammate—

After the match, tunnel:

IGNATIK: —limping slightly, ice pack on ankle— "Poo-poo head."

KOZLENKO: —does not look up from unlacing his boots— Yes.

IGNATIK: That's what you went with. You had the whole English language. You could have called me anything. And you chose poo-poo head.

KOZLENKO: It was accurate.

IGNATIK: Accurate. Accurate. You—you two-footed me in Warsaw. You called me a "tactical liability" to a journalist last season. And now I’m a poo-poo head.

KOZLENKO: Consistency is not your strength. Insults should be consistent. Simple. True.

IGNATIK: Oh, so it's true? My head is full of poo?

KOZLENKO: You argued with the referee for two minutes about a throw-in. A throw-in, Ignatik. In the 73rd minute. You kicked the ball out yourself. With your own foot. Everyone saw this. You kicked it out and then you argued it was not your kick. To the referee. For two minutes. The referee who was standing right there.

IGNATIK: It was a bad call!

KOZLENKO: It was a correct call. The ball touched you last. Everyone saw this. The ball, the touch, your foot. The referee saw it. I saw it. The ball saw it. You argued anyway.

IGNATIK: That's not—

KOZLENKO: Head. Full of poo. This is the diagnosis.

IGNATIK: Well—fine. Fine! How would you like it if I called YOU a poo-poo head?

KOZLENKO: Ah. If I were you, I would agree.

IGNATIK: What?

KOZLENKO: I would say, "Yes, Yuriy, you are correct. I am a poo-poo head." Not because I take insult. But because it is true.

IGNATIK: I—that's not—I meant if I said it to you. You as yourself. Not you as me saying it back to myself. That's not—the pronouns—you've made this very confusing.

KOZLENKO: I am a philosopher of the Poo-poo Head. The first of my school. Do not attempt to argue with the philosophy. You are not qualified.

IGNATIK: There's a SCHOOL now? For poo-poo heads?

KOZLENKO: There is one student. You. Enrollment is mandatory.

IGNATIK: I don't want to be enrolled in your poo-poo head school!

KOZLENKO: No one wants to be enrolled. This is the tragedy of education.

[eulerist]

!! Soccer AU Note !!

Mikhail was never detained, never gave the interview, never lost his career. He’s not a dissident or political refugee, he’s just a talented footballer from Belarus who moved to Canada for the money and the league. His Russian is just his default.

When he encounters Yuriy who refuses to speak Russian, he’s genuinely confused. He’s not political, he’s just playing football. He’s not responsible for what his government does. He doesn’t support the war. He doesn’t even think about the war. He doesn’t think about much, honestly, besides football and where to find good döner in Toronto.

(Yura plays for Halifax, Misha plays for Toronto. They don't live together in Montreal in this AU. Their rivalry started on the international stage in Europe before they both migrated across the Atlantic.)

[eulerist]

“Misha, could you wear your potato costume again?”

🧸 m:

no. absolutely not. i don't know how you know about the potato costume. i have never mentioned the potato costume. there are no photographs of the potato costume. i burned the potato costume. i burned it in almaty in 2014 and i scattered the ashes in the dumpster behind the old rink. it does not exist anymore. i do not exist anymore. the boy who wore the potato costume is dead and i killed him myself.

🧊 y.kozlenko:

What is the potato costume.

🧸 m:

nothing. it's nothing. it's a thing that didn't happen.

🧊 y.kozlenko:

They said potato costume. They know about potato costume. This means there is evidence. You said there is no evidence.

🧸 m:

there WAS no evidence. i destroyed the evidence. someone must have—my mother. my mother kept a photo. i told her to burn it. she said "but misha you were so cute, you were a little potato, you represented the harvest." I REPRESENTED THE HARVEST. i was fourteen years old and they put me in a brown felt sack with a head hole and made me skate to a medley of belarusian folk songs about agriculture. the program was called "bounty of the soil." BOUNTY. OF. THE. SOIL. i had to do a twizzle sequence dressed as a root vegetable.

🧊 y.kozlenko:

You did a twizzle sequence. In a potato.

🧸 m:

it was a LEVEL THREE twizzle sequence. in a potato. i hit all my levels. the federation officials were very impressed. one of them wrote 'good speed and flow despite tuber costume' in the event program. i still have the program. my mother laminated it. TUBER COSTUME. on official agricultural ministry letterhead. that's my legacy.

🧊 y.kozlenko:

I want to see the photo.

🧸 m:

no.

🧊 y.kozlenko:

I will ask your mother.

🧸 m:

you don't have my mother's number.

🧊 y.kozlenko:

I will get your mother's number. I will call her. I will say "this is Yuriy Kozlenko, I skate with your son, he says there is potato photo." She will send it to me. Mothers like me. I am compact and respectful. I do not complain about costumes. I will get the photo.

🧸 m:

you wouldn't.

🧊 y.kozlenko:

I would. For the potato. For the tuber costume. For the bounty of the soil. I would do this.

🧸 m:

i hate you. i hate you more than i have ever hated anyone. i hate you more than i hated the potato costume. and i REALLY hated the potato costume.

🧊 y.kozlenko:

You wore it for your exhibition gala. You represented national agriculture. This is not shameful. This is service. You served your country. As a potato.

🧸 m:

STOP SAYING POTATO.

[eulerist]

“In nutrition class we spoke about drinks for athletes, so what are your guys go to drinks after a session?”

🧊 y.kozlenko:

Iced Capp. Tim Hortons. Medium. No modifications. I do not understand Starbucks. Too many words. Too many sizes. Tall is short. Grande is not large. This is lies. This is linguistic fraud. I will not participate.

Also the ice in Iced Capp is blended. Not cubes. This is important. The texture is consistent. Like soup. Drinkable soup. Cold soup. Good soup.

🧸 m:

okay so i usually get a grande iced caramel macchiato with oat milk, extra shot, light ice, and sometimes i add cold foam if i'm feeling like i deserve something good in this terrible world. or a mango dragonfruit refresher with lemonade instead of water, no inclusions because the seeds get stuck in my teeth and i have to talk to alice after practice and she already thinks i'm annoying without seeds in my molars.

🧊 y.kozlenko:

This is not a drink. This is a paragraph. You ordered a paragraph.

🧸 m:

it's a CUSTOMIZATION. it's SELF-EXPRESSION. you drink blended coffee sludge from a gas station and call it soup.

🧊 y.kozlenko:

It is consistent sludge. I know what I am getting. You do not know what you are getting. You order different paragraph every time.

🧸 m:

i know EXACTLY what i'm getting. that's why i order it. it's the same every time. it's RELIABLE. like you. you're both reliable and cold and sometimes a little bitter.

🧊 y.kozlenko:

Did you just compare me to iced caramel macchiato.

🧸 m:

...no. i compared you to the iced capp. the macchiato is me. you're the iced capp. consistent. cold. efficient. three words. no modifications.

🧊 y.kozlenko:

Hm.

🧸 m:

that's it? just "hm"?

🧊 y.kozlenko:

That was almost compliment. I am deciding how to respond.

🧸 m:

you could say thank you.

🧊 y.kozlenko:

I could. I will not. But I could.

[eulerist]

2010 potato costume

Hmmm you are doing a comedy routine in a potato suit to promote national agriculture