Notes

His hands are shaking. So much so that it's impossible to take his eyes off him, and the noise around him doesn't matter. Nothing in the literal sense-it seems to Artem that there is absolute silence in the apartment.

They lost. They lost to some Croatians, who after the match against Spain seemed like an easy target, a small stepping stone on the way to the semifinals. He doesn't really remember what happened to all the excitement that everyone - he's sure everyone really - felt. What happened to the feeling of omnipotence, what happened to the belief in themselves. Artem doesn't remember, and even that, for the most part, is irrelevant now.

Artem looks at his shaking hands so intently that he doesn't notice the phone ringing. It vibrates frantically, wriggling on the smooth surface of the table, alerting its owner of an incoming call. It's Stas calling him. Artem doesn't even have to pick up the phone to know that all he will hear is a long, profanity-laden speech from the coach, and eventually attempts to calm him down in an apologetic tone.

Somehow, he happens to be the most irascible of the entire team, unable to hold back emotion where he definitely should have. Maybe it was this character trait that cost the whole team the win.

On the eighth call, Artem does turn his head. Igor is calling him, probably not for the first time, but he doesn't know it yet. He picks up the phone, not taking his eyes off his free hand.

"Come over," Artem says quietly, but a little angrily, only to add on the exhale later:

"If you want to."

***


Igor, of course, wants to. When Artem still picks up the phone after the fifth time, he can't hold back a sigh of relief.

"How are you?"

The usual question, the answer to which, of course, is silence. Many years in the same team have not been in vain - he knows perfectly well every reaction of his teammate. His friend.

"Why don't I come over?" Igor picks a worn seam on his pant leg, nervously looking at Denis Cheryshev, hoping that he will still hear the answer to the inherently simple question. Denis looks intently as if listening to the silence in the tube. They both frown and avert their eyes as Igor puts the phone in his pocket.

"Of course, I do," Igor says somewhere into the void because Artem hung up right after his answer.

"You make sure he's there," Denis pats him on the shoulder as Igor, already wearing a sports windbreaker, puts his palm on the doorknob.

***


Artem wants to close the door in Igor's face, but the only thing stopping him is that he agreed to come himself.

"Hello," Artem squeezes out, taking a step back.

"Hi," Igor nods and enters the apartment. "We were very worried about you. Stanislav Salamovich," he grinned, because they hardly ever call the coach by his patronymic, "especially so. Why aren't you answering the phone?"

Igor drops his sneakers off his feet and hangs his jacket on the hook. Walks into the kitchen and sits down at the table.

"Have you come to tell me off?" Artem leans his shoulder against the wall and looks intently at Igor. He obviously noticed the pack of cigarettes on the table - the look that Artem met him makes him shudder.

"I'm not your mother. I'm your friend, in case you forgot," Igor states and nods at the pack of cigarettes. "What is this?"

"You're not my mother," Artem snorts, mocking, and walks into the kitchen to sit next to me at the table.

This pack of cigarettes is at least six months old. Artem keeps them in case he's particularly stressed - he doesn't smoke himself, but sometimes it helps him relax. He doesn't say it out loud, of course, thinking it's obvious.

"Sometimes I don't see any other way out," he says in a frustrated, wistful way, as if he's not talking about some cigarette packet, but about something more global, something he hasn't talked to anyone on his team about, in principle. Except for Igor.

"Look, I'm upset, too, and a lot. But that's no reason not to pick up the phone when your friends and coach call you. That's no reason to shut us out, you know that..."

"That we fucked up, and I'm just ashamed to look you in the eye?" Artem squints. "Yes, I know. That's why I don't answer the phone and try to be alone."

"You like to twist words, eh."

"That's not the point. The point is..."

Artem doesn't know what this is about. And he doesn't know what to say. He clenches his palms into fists, trying with great effort to control the urge to grab Igor by the scruff of the neck and push him out of the apartment.

***


Igor can smell the faint smell of cigarettes. He knows that Artem smokes when he feels bad, but it's been stressful every time. He feels the urge to care, in a friendly or even fatherly way - after all, he is the captain of the national team - to flog him for such things. But they all sin with something: whether it's alcohol or cigarettes.

Igor is really not Artem's mother, and the desire to care for a while subsides when Artem responds to attempts to reason with rudeness and neglect. Although, of course, that was all him: over the years Igor never managed to get to the bottom of Artem's soul. He could not get farther than he allowed. He could not get any further without quips and jokes in response to serious questions.

The only thing Igor knew even without any questioning was that Artem was very vulnerable. Vulnerable not to words, but to things that happen. He's a soccer fan, a fan of the game, and a fan of success if you can call it that - for him, a loss equals death, a failure in life. And if the others perceive it more calmly, rather, as a reason to think: now we have to work on the mistakes, to understand the miscalculation in the scheme. Each of them is upset and killed in his own way, but something to none of the whole team does not need to come.

He has a temper, and Igor knows that, too. He has said many times that this trait will not do any good: many teams will foul and provoke, and Artem will be led on, and it could end badly for the whole team. The flip side of this trait manifests itself in this maximalist approach to everything that happens.

"Let me go to the store?" Igor looks melancholically out the window, feeling Artem's gaze somewhere at the level of his cheek. "Let's have a drink already, like in the good old days?" He turns his gaze to Artem's shaking hands and gets up from the table.

"Go ahead," Artem shrugs indifferently. "A drink is always a fucking good idea."

"So it's a deal," Igor pats him on the back and runs off into the hallway to quickly put on his sneakers and make a quick trip to the nearest store.

***


Artem looks at the bottle of whisky Igor brought him, scrutinizing the letters on the glass, behind which the amber liquid splashes. It seems to him to be thick as he pours it into a glass for himself and Igor. It seems viscous and tearing at his insides as he takes his first sip. It seems salutary when it is his fourth or fifth glass-he has lost count because he hasn't had a drink in a long time.

"I'm so tired," he says, resting his chin on the arm bent at the elbow. He's trying to be honest, primarily to himself. "I am ashamed. Very ashamed in front of all of you."

"Soccer is not a solitary sport," Igor puts his glass on the cup holder, pushing it back a little. "We all messed up, let's be honest, Tyom."

"Yes, but I feel guilty for all of you," Artem smiles a little, covering his eyes, feeling the warmth in his stomach. "I don't know why."

"You just take too much on yourself sometimes," Igor reaches out to pat Artem's shoulder, but the gesture is a little embarrassing - he runs his hand across his broad back, briefly but gently, causing him to pull his hand away.

"Yeah, sorry to take away your prerogative to be the most responsible and the most," snorts Artem, trying not to pay attention to this touch and the fact that he is both pleased and embarrassed.

"That's enough," Igor puts his hands on the table and lays his head on them. "Let's talk about something that... That's what we always talk about when we drink," he shrugs.

"Soccer is what we talk about, in case you forgot."

"Not only that. We talk about other things too," Igor smiles, trying to smooth out Artem's growing irritation in a gentle tone.

"But mostly we talk about soccer, and, in case you haven't noticed, I'm not eager to talk about it," eventually snaps back at Artem.

"Look, this argument is going to be blown out of proportion. If you don't want to talk about it, let's talk about something else," Igor rolls his eyes. "What have you been doing all day?"

"Sitting around," Artem grumbles back, pouring more whiskey into his glass. Igor didn't bring anything to eat, and he wasn't ready to set the table.

"That's all?"

"Why did you come? To try to get me to talk?" Artem unexpectedly for himself switched to shouting. "Don't. What the fuck did you come here for anyway? Go calm Golovin down, and I'm not a kid to have my snot wiped."

"Not a kid, but you act like you're fifteen years old," Igor retorts, not even lifting his head from his hands.

"Get out," Artem closes his eyes, swallowing his saliva and trying not to get more pissed off. "Just get the fuck out of my apartment," he says in a syllable before he measures Igor with a look full of anger and contempt.

Igor silently gets up from the table, not touching the glass or the bottle he bought with his own money, and slowly weaves into the hallway before Artem, who has jumped up from his chair, grabs him by the elbow and holds him against the wall.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, almost growling, right into Igor's lips.
He doesn't know why he's acting this way. But he really doesn't want Igor to leave.

***

On the third drink, Igor feels his body relax and the anxiety that had plagued him all day until he found himself in this apartment goes away. And despite the fact that Artem is rude and all sorts of wisecracks, he still feels a little calmer. He looks at Artem, trying to see, to understand without words what's going on. But he doesn't succeed.

As he drinks his fourth, he feels his arms and legs get a little woozy. Drinking clean was a bad idea, but because he was in a hurry - it's unclear why - it slipped his mind.

He knows that talking about how it is a common defeat, that it is a common mistake, and not Artem personally, is useless in its essence, because he has put a crown of thorns on his head and carried it proudly.

Igor wants to console Artem, and he is ready to do anything for that. Is it because he is the captain of the team, and this is his unspoken duty, he does not know, and does not particularly want to dig into it.

He hears Artem's voice asking him to leave, and he doesn't respond immediately. He considers asking what this is all about but decides he won't ask the question, after all, so he silently stands up to really leave Artem alone. Maybe it's really for the best, though this is hardly the only time he's ever been this upset. So much so that he doesn't come to general meetings after matches to discuss and not pick up the phone. Igor at some point catches himself thinking that he blames the Croatian national team for everything and with a chuckle cuts himself off, because then how is he different from Artem, that he acts like a teenager?

When Artem grabs his elbow, he knows what will follow. That there will be an apology, that it will be an overbearing grab, that he will be pinned against the wall and Artem will do whatever he wants with him without regard to his wishes - they have played hand in hand for so many years, so many years of friendship, that it's just stupid not to know. And he kisses this apology, pressing his parched lips against Artem's moist mouth, feeling his sweaty hands under his shirt, squeezing the skin on his stomach. Artem strokes his chest, clawing at the thin skin with his nails, leaving marks. Igor succumbs to this spontaneous rough caress, responding with wet kisses to his neck as crimson streaks, small and large, remain. Their enormous - as he thinks - height difference is felt especially strongly when Artem takes him by the hips, lifting him up and dragging him after him into another room, into the bedroom, where he rips Igor's shirt off, toppling him onto the sofa to pounce on top of him.

***


Igor seems so small and defenseless to Artem. He hovered over him, gazing into his hazel-green eyes as if trying to find his reflection in them. Artem runs his thumb over Igor's rough, bristly cheek, putting all the tenderness he feels for his captain into it. More tenderness than in a hug after the match. More than the time they'd won Spain and he'd picked Igor up and just yelled in his face - what kind of tenderness was that when euphoria was tearing at his chest?

"I love you," Artem said softly, touching the tip of his nose to Igor's nose. "I love you so much."

"I know," Igor mutters back, covering his eyes. "I know, Tyom," he repeats in response before his lips cover Artem's.
He kisses Igor's neck, chest, and stomach, pulling down his light-colored jeans. Igor succumbs to this, arching his back a little. Artem hears someone else's heavy breathing and gets even more turned on.

How can he kick him out? How can he kick the man out, the only one he can trust? Whose call would he be sure to answer, whose doorstep would he let into his apartment? It often occurred to him that such a gesture would not only offend Igor, but would forever shut the door to his soul, and they would never be able to communicate as they did now. And never again would there be conversations until morning with a bottle, watching matches, their jokes at practice. There will never again be tenderness, tactility, suspicious glances of Stanislav Salamovich, wide smile of guessing Denis Cheryshev, and silly questions of Sasha Golovin who does not understand what is going on.

It`s all not going to happen. It's all gone now, when Artem presses Igor into the sofa, kissing every moan, every exhale, picking up the pace and muttering a stupid elementary "sorry" into his neck. He apologizes for yelling. For not picking up the phone, for acting like hell, for almost losing Igor. For letting himself show weakness.

***


Igor hugs the back of his neck, adjusting to the rhythm. He hears this mumbling and responds with short kisses to his neck, no hickeys. Right now he's not interested in what happened a couple of days ago, not interested in the Croatian team celebrating their victory, not interested in their mistakes. He's only interested in Artem, greedily taking up all the space in his head, pressing him into that creaking couch in his bedroom. He's only interested in Artem's words of love, only interested in the fact that he can't say "and I love you too, very much, do you hear?"

Artem gives a muffled moan as he reaches orgasm. He hovered over Igor some more, covering his eyes and trying to catch his breath. Igor runs his thumb over his cheek, copying the gesture Artem made at the beginning. If the hard-headed Artem could recognize and put words to his touch, he would hear, feel a reciprocal acknowledgment.

And he'd really like to tell him that, but Artem lies on his back, and after literally a minute Igor feels his broad back trembling, and it takes a split second for him to realize - Artem is sobbing. He's sobbing like a little kid who has had his favorite toy taken away. Igor doesn't say anything and isn't surprised - it's an outlet of emotion. Artem needed it, it was vital. He doesn't see it as a sign of weakness. He sees it as a show of trust.

Igor puts his arm around Artem's shoulders, gently stroking him and softly murmuring "shhh". He wants to calm him down, he is still ready to do anything for this, but Artem quickly calms himself down and lies on his back.

"Thank you," he suddenly says for some reason, and this gratitude makes Igor smile.

"You don't have to thank me for that."

"Why are you helping me?"

"Because I love you," Igor thinks and closes his eyes.

"Because I am your captain. It's my responsibility."