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Ilya never understood how people could say the dead looked like they were sleeping.
She had looked waxen; there had been a moment where he thought that somebody had taken his mama and replaced her with a statue. Her cheeks, usually flushed pink and rounded with the small, exhausted smiles that never quite reached her eyes, were pale. Somewhere between yellow and grey, bloodless and flat.
The lips that had pressed countless kisses to Ilya's cheeks, nose, brow, were nearly white. A pool of green bile dripped from her mouth to the floor. One of her eyes was closed, dark blonde lashes resting delicately against her cheek. The other was half-open. Her unseeing blue eye peeked out from under her eyelid.
Mama had...episodes, sometimes. Her eyes would go glassy and empty and she would stare off into space. It used to scare Ilya, to see his mama disappear somewhere nobody but she could go.
As he got older, he had learned to sit with her. He would take her hands—cold, always cold, fingers like icicles—in his, and rub gentle circles against her soft skin. Her eyes would flick back and forth, tracking invisible movement, body still aside from her trembling chest.
When he was ten, Mama had gotten so small that he could see her heartbeat fluttering in her neck. It had scared him to see her become less and less with each passing week. She had gotten smaller and smaller until one day, Ilya had tried to curl up in her lap and cried because he could feel her hipbones against his thighs. She started eating again after that, small bowls of the meals she would cook for Ilya, Andrei, and Papa.
She had filled out a little, but Ilya could still see the blood gently pumping through her veins when she had those episodes, as still and quiet as she was.
At first, Ilya had thought that perhaps Mama was having an episode. He had fallen to his knees beside her, stomach twisting at her unnatural stillness, her yellow-grey skin. There was a strange smell in the air that he did not know what to make of.
He picked up her hand to thumb circles into the skin and recoiled. Mama had always run cold, but now she was frozen. Her fingers were stiff and her hand felt like it weighed ten kilograms.
As her hand flopped lifelessly back to the floor, Ilya allowed himself to notice what he had refused to.
Her chest was still. There was no rise and fall of her lungs, and no soft whistle of air.
Sometimes, Ilya and Mama would sit together in silence and he would count the seconds between each soft noise. He would find himself matching his own breathing to hers, and had dozed off into her side more than once doing so.
Now, there was no whistle.
The vein in her neck was still. Her lungs, her heart, her eyes. Still, still, still.
Ilya would never forget the feeling that had spread over him when he put it together. His arms went numb, vision blurred like the oil paintings hanging in Papa’s study. His throat had dried while his mouth filled with saliva.
Staticky hands desperately curled into the soft cotton of her tee shirt.
“Mama,” Ilya gurgled around the bile in his throat. “Mama, please! Mama!” His voice was shrill, ringing in his own ears like the lick of leather against skin. “Andrei! Andrei! Papa!”
Andrei came barreling into Mama’s room. He froze just past the doorway, taking in the sight of Ilya shaking their mother, her head lolling limply.
“Mama?” Andrei had whispered beneath Ilya’s screaming. That was the last thing he said until Mama was in the ground.
When Papa finally ambled into the room, he took in the scene with clinical detachment.
“Ilya,” he said firmly. Ilya could not hear him over the buzzing in his ears. He did not stop screaming, even when Papa’s hand curled around his shoulder. Andrei’s hands gently untangled Ilya’s unfeeling fingers from Mama’s shirt. As he led him out of the room, away from Mama, Ilya’s eyes caught on the empty orange bottles on Mama’s nightstand.
Ilya took to the ice alongside his husband. It was a home game, early in the playoffs, and the stands were a sea of black and red. Centaur fans screamed their support. Some waved homemade signs, but more raised empty hands to the sky, thunderclaps of applause and stomping feet echoing across the rink.
When Ilya hit the ice, he pushed off into a meandering glide. He skated around the boards, waving up to the fans with a self-assured grin. He blew a few kisses to the Pittsburgh players warming up, waggling his fingers teasingly at the ones who rolled their eyes.
Ilya spotted Shane half-leaned over the board, poring over a clipboard with Coach Wiebe. He hooked his elbow around Shane’s and tugged him along the ice for one more lap.
“Ilya!” Shane laughed.
“Yes, moya lyubov?”
Shane shook his head with a small smile and a roll of his eyes. A flush dusted high on his cheeks, both from the bite of the rink and the bashful joy of being shown off so flagrantly.
“You’re so lame,” he said fondly, waving to the crowd.
“Truly cutting words from the most boring man in the world,” Ilya teased. Shane scoffed and unlinked his arm from Ilya’s, pushing off to glide over to where the rookies had gathered. They had been staring nervously up at the packed arena, very much not warming up. It was still new to expect to make it to the playoffs when you got drafted to Ottawa, and the rookies were clearly at a loss.
Shane shared a few words that Ilya could not hear, but could tell were helpful by the loosening of the trio’s shoulders. He started stretching, unsubtly prompting the rookies to follow his lead.
Coach called for a huddle and went over the game plan. Ilya had faith in his team. They had had a great season, lines clicking and bonds forming faster than any team he had ever been on. The rookies had melded seamlessly into the team, and despite his trepidation, it was as if Shane had never not been here.
At the referee’s signal, the first line fell into place. Ilya grinned at the Puffins’ captain and won the faceoff.
The locker room after the second period was electric. They were up 4-2, and the Puffins’ second forward was out for the rest of the game after Holmberg checked him hard enough to rattle his brain around his skull. Coach Wiebe was fired up, delivering an impassioned speech about strategy and teamwork, and was met with cheers and clapping when he stepped back.
In the lull, Ilya stood from the bench and took up his place in the centre of the room. He looked around at his team, face stoic.
“Pittsburgh has a good team,” he started. “They have a good fucking team. They are good at the game. But we are not good.” Ilya paused, scanning the room again. His eyes landed on Shane, who was looking back at him with a wide grin.
“We are great! We have the best fucking roster that Ottawa has ever seen! We shoot better, defend harder, skate faster. We have something to prove today, and that is that the Ottawa fucking Centaurs are better than we have ever been! Let's tell these Puffins exactly who the fuck we are!”
A deafening cheer roared from the team as fists beat against lockers and sticks bullied into the ground.
The cheers echoed down the hallway as the team piled back into the bench. Ilya skated casually up to the center, Bood and Barrett flanking him. He smirked to himself and claimed the puck as his own.
Shane had been on the ice for two minutes when it happened. A Pittsburgh defenseman panicked under the pressure of Shane Hollander bearing down on him and hooked his skate mid-stride. He went down hard.
It had only lasted for a moment, but seeing Shane laid out on the ice brought him back to 2017, when he was knocked down and did not get back up. Ilya remembered how he had scanned Shane for any movement. A twitching finger, the shaky rise of his chest. Eyes flickering underneath eyelids. He remembered how he had prayed to a God that he had barely spoken to in ten years.
Today, the whistle blew, the crowd boo-ed, and Shane stood up. Both Shane and the sad little Puffin left the ice, one to the penalty box and one to be checked over by the team doctor.
The Centaurs won the game, but something had tightened in Ilya’s chest and refused to unravel.
Shane was waiting in the locker room with a taped wrist and a performative pout. Ilya leaned down and kissed the moodiness off his face.
“Great work, everyone! Was a fantastic game, and now I get to go home and make passionate, victorious love to my poor, injured husband!”
Laughter and playful jeers rose up from in the room as Shane swatted Ilya’s shoulder with his good hand. The poorly-concealed giddiness twisting his mouth made Ilya want to forgo the media scrum, throw Shane over his shoulder, and march them both home. Through a force of will never before seen by man, he resisted. Even still, looking at his perfectly healthy husband standing in front of him, Ilya could not stop thinking about Shane motionless on the ice—except, in his mind, Shane was truly motionless.
Ilya could not help but imagine Shane’s chest stilling, his fingers giving one final twitch.
Shane, the real Shane who was staring up at him with adoration and pink cheeks and constantly-fidgeting hands, frowned.
“Hey, are you okay?” he asked softly, grasping Ilya’s hand in his own.
“Yes, I’m fine,” Ilya promised. “Just tired, I think. Is hard carrying this entire team on my back.” Shane huffed out a laugh and studied Ilya’s face.
“Okay,” he relented. “Go run your mouth to the press, I’ll wait for you.”
Ilya quickly unlaced his skates. He wiggled his sneakers on, not bothering to untie them and only enjoying Shane’s wince at the flattened heels a little bit.
“I love you,” he said, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of Shane’s mouth.
“I love you too,” Shane answered, “Now go, before TSN busts into our locker room.” Ilya was hustled out to the media room, something small and dark and fragile weaving its way into his ribcage.
He hated himself for it, but Ilya was grateful that he had not been there when Papa died. By the time he had boarded the plane to Moscow, Papa had been prepared for his funeral. Ilya’s plane landed at Sheremetyevo, and his father had already been bathed and dressed and propped up in his casket for over a day.
Shane had been a lifeline during that terrible week. As he grit his teeth during conversations with his father’s colleagues, he thought of Shane’s gentle hands exploring his body with quiet reverence. When Andrei fought him in the bathroom, he remembered Shane’s wide, earnest eyes, incapable of deception or secret agendas.
It was in that bathroom, Svetlana’s hand on his shoulder and Andrei’s skin bruising his hand, that Ilya knew he had lost his brother, too.
The Centaurs sent the Puffins home crying after beating them four games to two, and similarly destroyed the Carolina Pirates. Okay, maybe not similarly—they had been stretched thin in a brutal second overtime in game seven, and definitely only won due to a brutal-but-legal check from Chouinard that sent the Pirates’ second line center to the ice hard enough to dislocate his shoulder. But that was semantics, and Ilya did not care about semantics. He left that to his husband, who had been incredibly restrained in not talking about how they could show up and show out in the next round against the Bears.
Ilya may not harbour the same painful feelings toward his past team that Shane did, but he couldn’t lie—he would love to beat them. Realistically, he knew that it probably would not happen. He was not nearly a good enough captain to bring his team to the level they would need to reach to beat Boston. He could still dream, though. Ilya loved to dream.
Just last night, he had dreamed that he was playing hockey alongside Shane. They were younger, happier. Their jerseys were black and red, or yellow and black, or red and blue. It changed every time he noticed. His mama was in the stands, clapping and cheering him on.
Ilya loved to dream, but sometimes he hated waking up.
He had been so caught up in his thoughts that he had not realized when Shane parked at Bood's curb. The driveway was already filled with cars, and Ilya felt the familiar anticipation of social interaction build in his gut. The usual excitement was there, but he had to wade around to find it.
“What’s wrong?” Shane asked. His hand left the gearstick and wrapped around Ilya's, stilling his fingers drumming against his thigh.
“Nothing,” Ilya answered, “Just thinking.” Shane hummed and rubbed his thumb along the top of Ilya's hand. His calloused fingers were grounding, and Ilya took a deep breath as he reoriented his brain. He opened the car door and stepped out, knowing that Shane would follow.
Hazy was handing Ilya another beer. They'd made it to the eastern conference finals, and everybody wanted to celebrate by getting drunk and belligerent and sloppily dancing across Bood's back porch.
Cassie and Selena were near the stairs to the garden, laughing at whatever Shane had just said. Ilya wondered if Shane had meant to make a joke or if he had said something genuine that had been misunderstood. That happened a lot, to Shane's private frustration. In the moment, he had told Ilya under the armour of their heavy blanket, he went along with it, but he never knew what he had said that was so hilarious. Ilya understood. He had been speaking English for over a decade, but every now and then he misremembered his words and spat out a sentence so absurd that it could be greeted by nothing but laughter.
That unsure, wrong-footed feeling followed Ilya tonight. Dykstra and Dillon were arguing passionately about some macho movie over his head, and Young was across the room laughing at something his new girlfriend had said. Her name was Kate, maybe. Ilya felt bad to admit that he was unsure, and felt worse to realize that he did not particularly care to find out. That was unlike him; Ilya had always made a point of knowing his team on and off the ice. He had been feeling unlike himself recently, though, so perhaps he should not have been so surprised.
Ilya set his sweating can down on the patio table. He pushed off the couch and headed inside, where it was cooler and quieter and he could take his brain and carefully form it back into the shape it should be.
The glass door sliding shut muffled the cacophony of conversations happening outside and Ilya felt sudden, surprising relief. He started toward the kitchen for a glass of water, which was more of an excuse to stay inside than anything.
“Oh, hey, I was looking for you earlier!” Bood greeted him from the doorway as he pulled paper plates from a cabinet. “C’mere, I grabbed a bottle of that vodka you recommended, I’ll pour you a glass.” He pulled two short glasses out and took the vodka out of the freezer. Two fingers were poured in each glass and Bood slid one over the kitchen island.
“I tried some earlier, and I totally get what you were saying. It still burns, obviously, but in a nice way, and not a terrible way that reminds me of being a rookie,” Bood continued. “Anyway, cheers!”
Ilya obligatingly lifted his glass and took a sip. He could barely taste it as it went down. Whether it was due to the chill of the drink or something else, he had no desire to confront.
“I’m happy that you understand, good vodka and bad vodka is like an apple and an orange.” Ilya replied. Bood smiled widely and set his glass down. He scooped up the plates and pack of plastic cutlery and turned to leave.
“See you out there,” he said as he departed. Ilya raised his glass in salutation. When Bood was out of sight, Ilya took another sip. It really was good vodka. Ilya could drink a whole bottle, he thought to himself. And he could. Vodka was hardly Bood’s drink of choice. Ilya could probably take the bottle and have his theft go unnoticed until Bood reached for it again in a month. He could take it home and lock himself in the bathroom and drink it all in one go and choke to death on his own vomit in the bathtub, and Bood would never drink vodka again, and his crime would go forever undiscovered.
Ilya stared into his glass. The drink was too clear to see his reflection. Probably for the better, he decided. He did not really feel like looking at himself at the moment. Before he could think any further about choking and burning and green, green bile, he tipped the rest of the drink down his throat, and then the rest of Bood’s for good measure.
A gentle hand came down on Ilya’s shoulder and he flinched like he had been caught doing something naughty. His eyes snapped up to meet his husband’s worried gaze.
“Are you okay?” Shane asked. “You’ve been inside for a while. Zane’s finishing up on the grill, food’ll be out soon.”
“Am fine, just got…distracted,” Ilya replied. His answer did not smooth out the crease in Shane’s brow.
“With what?”
With how I could take my own life with just a bottle of vodka, he could not say. Instead, he let a sly grin spread across his face.
“With all the things I want to do to my beautiful, flexible husband that is madly in love with me.”
“Madly in love with you?” Shane scoffed. “Lucky you.”
“No need to worry, I am also madly in love with him. It’s quite annoying, sometimes,” Ilya teased. He pulled Shane in front of him by the hips as he leaned back against the island counter.
“Oh, so I’m annoying now?” Shane tried to sound mad, but the smile in his voice and the shine in his eyes gave him away.
“Oh, very. I go to check on laundry, my husband is bent over wagging his ass in the air while he changes loads. I go to the kitchen, he is there whisking eggs with his big strong biceps about to rip his sleeves off of his shirt. I go to the gym to work out my frustrations and there he is, sweaty and sometimes with no shirt, if I am lucky. Very distracting. Very annoying.”
“Good to know. I’ll make sure to start wearing potato sacks and move to the attic so you can have a nice, distraction-free life,” Shane said haughtily, crossing his arms in the small space between his chest and Ilya’s. Ilya wished there was no space at all. He would crawl under Shane’s skin if he could.
“No, muya lyubov, don’t punish me this way!” he whined. After a moment, he added, “There are much better ways to do that.”
Shane uncrossed his arms to smack Ilya’s chest. “Fuck off!” he laughed. “But seriously, you’re okay?”
“Yes, I am fine, I promise. I just needed a little bit of quiet.”
“Does your head hurt?” Shane frowned.
“No, I just—” Ilya stopped and weighed his words carefully. “My head is loud. All is okay, I promise.” He raised a hand to thumb away the fold that had returned between Shane’s eyebrows. He had not spent so long explaining collagen creams to his Shane to lose the wrinkle war to misplaced concern.
“Okay,” Shane agreed. “I’m kind of feeling off, though. Maybe we'll stay to eat, hang around for half an hour, and go home?”
Now it was Ilya’s turn to frown. He moved his hand petting across Shane’s forehead to press the back of his hand against the skin.
“Are you sick? Headache? Stomachache?”
“No, I’m okay,” Shane promised. “I just kind of want to go home. Caitlyn brought that potato salad you love more than me, though, so we should stay for a little longer. Is that okay?”
“That’s fine, yes. And don’t worry, I love you and Caitlyn’s potato salad equally.”
Shane snorted and pulled Ilya back outside, and Ilya tried not to think about everything he knew he was not supposed to.
Ilya wondered, in a world where Mama had not died, if Andrei was nice to him. He had never needed his big brother more than he had in the last years, but Andrei did nothing but push him away.
A few weeks ago, Papa and Andrei had gotten into a fight. A real fight, one that ended in Andrei’s nose leaking blood and Papa’s eye turning purple around the edges. Ilya had hidden under the stairs with his hands over his ears. He held Mama’s cross in one of his clenched hands and pretended she was whispering to him.
“Ilyushenka,” she would say, “Do not worry about these silly boys. Stay quiet, like we practiced, and they will not even think of you.” Then, he imagined her saying, “I love you.” He was not sure if it made him feel better, but it was nice to think about.
After Andrei’s nose healed, Ilya wanted to ask if it whistled like Mama’s now, and if it made him unable to even breathe without thinking of her. Ilya had broken his nose playing hockey last year, and while it did not always whistle, when it did, he always looked over his shoulder to see if Mama was behind him. She had always stepped so quietly.
Ilya wondered if Andrei ever even noticed that Mama whistled when she breathed. Ilya had always been more observant. He walked into a room and scanned it like he was KGB, he noticed when the floors were freshly waxed, he always wrote that they needed new tissues on the grocery list when the last box was half-empty.
Ilya also noticed when Andrei started coming home at sunrise, and then stopped coming home at all. He noticed when there were flecks of white powder rimming his nostrils. He noticed when Papa’s bottles of alcohol were emptier than they should be. This, of course, Ilya noticed because he was trying to steal sips from the fancy scotches and whiskeys displayed proudly in the old oak cabinet. Everything hurt less when his vision fuzzed out around the edges and his brain did slow somersaults around his skull.
Everything, as the word suggests, was more than just Mama—not that Mama would ever be ‘just’ anything. But as he got older, Ilya noticed things, as he did. He noticed that he seemed more tired than the other kids on his hockey team. He noticed that they laughed more freely, made friends quicker, and that everything just seemed easier in a way that deeply unsettled Ilya.
The problem was that Ilya was sad all the time. It was not just when he thought about Mama, or when he lost a game, or when his hands finally stopped shaking after Papa yelled at him until his face went purple. This was not normal, he suspected. He also suspected that Mama was sad in the same way. He felt guilty that this shared experience did not bring him comfort. More than anything, it terrified him.
Ilya was not happy that the Centaurs had lost in the playoffs to Boston. There was, of course, the disappointment of their Cup chance falling through his fingers, and the self-awareness that came with being one of the best that let him know exactly where he fell short, as both a player and captain. But, and Ilya loved his team and said this with all of the love in his whole heart, it was unbelievable that the Ottawa Centaurs made it all the way to the third round of playoffs. He could not imagine facing the Centaurs in the playoffs at all back when he was a Bear, much less make it five games into the eastern final.
So, let the records show that Ilya Rozanov was, in fact, sad that their Cup run had ended.
However.
Ilya was in bed at his cottage, listening through the open bedroom door as his husband spoke to their dog in a baby voice that Ilya was not allowed to tease him about under pain of celibacy. He heard Anya’s excited paws hit the ground again and again, and Shane’s quiet laughter.
“Sit down, Anya, honestly,” Shane scolded. “We do this twice a day, you know how to wait for your food.”
Anya’s pattering paws ceased, and Ilya heard Shane’s muted, “Good girl,” as he finally gave their poor, starving daughter her breakfast.
Ilya stared at the ceiling and thought about getting out of bed. He walked through the steps in his head. Throw the blanket back. Sit up, then stand. Kick his slippers on, maybe put on a shirt. Brush his teeth, wash his face. Walk downstairs and smooch his husband and watch as he made them breakfast, hopefully also shirtless. Go for a run together, all three of them.
It was not hard.
So why did it feel so fucking impossible?
Ilya laid in bed like a dead fish. He counted the wood panels that made up the ceiling and supposed that he was a little better off than a dead fish, because he was an alive man and also because he did not smell like dead fish. At least, he hoped not.
“Babe? You awake?” Shane asked, suddenly in the doorway. Ilya flopped his head to the side to look at him. Shane was disappointingly clothed. That was okay, though. Ilya would find him sexy in a full nun habit. Actually, now that he thought about it—
“Ilya?” Shane asked again, interrupting Ilya’s sexy nun fantasies.
“Come here,” he whined, sticking his arms up from under their thick blanket and making grabby-hands at his husband. Shane laughed and padded over to the bed. He wiggled under the covers and tucked himself into Ilya’s arms like he was molded especially to fit into them.
Privately, Ilya thought that he had been molded to hold Shane. He thought that God saw Shane enter the world, and a month later brought Ilya into the mix with the sole purpose of wrapping his arms around what would become a six-foot neurotic mess that was destined to change Ilya’s entire life.
“Have you been up for long?” Shane asked into Ilya’s chest.
“No. Yes, maybe. Not long, but I should be out of bed now.”
“Okay,” Shane said, in the way that meant that he was thinking about what he actually wanted to say. “Are you feeling comfortable and just don’t want to get up yet? Or is it a ‘hard to get up’ day?”
Ilya’s arms tightened around Shane, just a little bit. “Second one, I think.”
“Okay,” Shane replied, in the way that meant that it really was okay. He wiggled around in Ilya’s arms so his chin was resting on Ilya’s collarbone. “That’s okay, we’ll take it slow today. I made breakfast. It’s microwaveable, so we can take as long as we need. Do you want to reschedule dinner today? My parents won’t mind.”
“No,” Ilya declined immediately. David made vatrushka yesterday. He texted a photo to Ilya, who had nearly invented teleportation so he could travel through the screen to eat one right then and there.
Shane hummed. “Dad will be happy to give you some of the vatrushkys he made,” he said knowingly.
“Vatrushka,” Ilya corrected softly. Shane repeated it and Ilya pressed a long kiss to the crown of his head.
Later, when Ilya found the great strength to leave his bed, he watched as Shane reheated their breakfast on the stove. He was going to microwave it, (‘nuke it,’ as Shane always said,) until Ilya whined about soggy eggs and sausage. Shane had sighed in exasperation and heated up a pan to appease his selfish, hungry husband.
When the two newly-warmed plates were placed on the table, Ilya was glad to see Shane happily eat the sausage. A year ago, he would have poked at it as it rolled forlornly around his plate until he thought enough time had passed for him to get up, sad egg whites and soppy oats the only thing to successfully pass his lips.
They took Anya on a walk, not a run, after breakfast. Ilya tried to not feel guilty about throwing off Shane’s routine—runs were for the morning, walks for the evening. He failed. Shane tried to make it seem like he did not mind the disruption, which Ilya tried to appreciate. They were both compromising, he supposed. Shane would rather be running along the forest trails, and Ilya would rather be dead.
Woah.
Ilya was shocked at how normal the thought felt. He was not a stranger to those kinds of ideas. Of course not. But they did not usually arrive so boldly, as if they were flaunting themselves.
“Anya, leave it!” Shane barked ahead of him. Anya was carefully stalking a squirrel who was happily sniffing around the grass. Ilya was sure that it would scamper away in a few seconds, but it was the principle of the matter.
There was a part of him that wondered what would happen if the squirrel did not run. If Anya would try to play, or if she would grab the little animal between her teeth and shake her head like she had done to her toys so many times. He wondered if the squirrel would even know the danger it was in, or if it would welcome it. Maybe the little squirrel was tired of hiding nuts and running from big bad dogs.
Maybe the squirrel knew it was inevitable that his life would end between the teeth of a beast much, much larger than him.
Maybe the squirrel felt the same way about dogs along the treeline that Ilya did walking past a church.
The moment passed, the squirrel ran away, and Anya obediently returned to Shane's side.
Ilya spent the rest of the walk wondering if he should tell Shane that he was fantasising about dying. He pointed out birds' nests and patches of flowers to Ilya, and Ilya tried to figure out how to break his soft, precious heart.
When they returned home, Shane gave Ilya that special little smile and asked if he wanted to watch a movie together. Ilya decided that it was enough that Shane knew it was a bad day. He did not need to know all the nasty, shameful details.
Seeing the Hollanders was good. David and Ilya were in the living room poring over a sudoku book and secretly eating vatrushka together. Ilya was pretty sure that Shane had noticed his dad not-so-subtly sneaking past him and Yuna looking over a new sponsorship contract at the table and even less subtly scampering away with a plate of pastries.
Oh well. Ilya was sad today. That meant he was allowed dessert before dinner.
“David, we have fucked up,” Ilya said gravely. He tapped his finger against a square. “We have written a five here, but there’s another five in the line.”
“It appears we have,” David agreed, equally serious. The pencil left his lips, the silver band around the eraser brutalized with tooth marks.
The oven beeped in the kitchen and David stood up with a groan. Ilya followed. He was sick of looking at those nine squares of nine squares. His vision would permanently turn into a numbered grid if he did not walk away.
Annoyingly, there was not much for Ilya to help with in the kitchen. The Greek salad was already prepared and chilling in the fridge, and the pork chops were a one-man job. David shooed him away to the kitchen table with instructions to tell their respective spouses that dinner would be on the table in a few minutes.
“Wonderful David says that dinner will be out soon,” Ilya parroted as he pulled out the chair beside Shane. He noticed the sharp set of his shoulders and the frustrated fake smile on Yuna's face. He wanted to ask, but that could wait for later, when they were tucked into bed or wrapped up on their couch at home.
“Great,” Yuna said, clipped and short. “I'll help him bring it out.” She pushed away from the table, the legs of her chair making a terrible squeak against the floor. Shane flinched at the noise, nose crinkling in displeasure.
“Is something wrong?” Ilya asked softly.
“No. It's fine,” Shane answered, equally short.
“Mm, okay. It does not have to be, if it isn’t,” Ilya reminded him. That was the worst part of his bad days, Ilya thought. When something was bothering Shane, he felt like he could not bring it up. Aside from the wishing he was dead and the absolute apathy to everything that has ever existed, he hated that the most.
“I know,” Shane said. His voice was still tight, but his shoulders had dropped. Ilya would take the wins he was given.
Ilya had a big, beautiful chunk of feta on his fork when Yuna brought it up again. He happily swallowed down the salad and unhappily noticed Shane’s shoulders reacquaint themselves with his ears.
“Are you sure you won’t even think about the deal, Shane?” Yuna asked. Shane put his fork down so carefully that Ilya knew he wished he could slam the prongs into the table.
“Yes, I'm sure. Can we drop it?”
“It’s a great opportunity! They even agreed to pledge part of their profits to the Irina Foundation, isn't that nice?”
“They could donate money to a charity without having me parade around in rainbow fucking underwear, Mom. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
Ilya frowned and darted his eyes between Yuna and Shane. He glanced at David, who grimaced. Shane and Yuna were very similar, and usually it worked well. They could get anything done with the efficiency of a full team and not break a sweat. Sometimes, though, they both planted their feet and refused to budge on the opposite sides of the same issue, and it ended in clenched jaws and carefully sharp, corporate-polite dismissals.
“It’s important that you at least think about it! And it isn't just underwear, Shane. They have a whole line, you could probably negotiate just modeling the sportswear. Campaigns like this mean a lot to people. It would mean more coming from you—”
“I'm not doing it,” Shane cut her off. “These are great, Dad.” He forcefully stabbed a piece of pork chop and shoved it in his mouth.
Yuna breathed sharply through her nose and returned to her plate. Conversation picked up slowly, with David asking Shane about something in his investment portfolio that Ilya should probably know more about, considering that they were married.
Dinner returned to normal, mostly. The undercurrent of tension never fully went away, but Ilya had sat through many worse family dinners.
Shane drove home with the radio on and his knuckles white against the steering wheel. Ilya stared out the passenger window. He hated himself for it, but he never knew what to say when Shane fought with Yuna. He wished his mama was alive to piss him off about things like modeling contracts and overbearing support. He understood, of course. Ilya had been watching Yuna manage Shane for years now. She was stubborn and strong-willed, and that was great, until Shane asked her to stop and she seemed to forget that it was not just her client asking, but her son.
Still, it was difficult to see Shane be mad at his mother. He knew it was not fair, but it was the truth. Ilya knew better than most that the truth was not fair. So he kept his mouth shut and watched the trees zip past his vision while Shane took measured, even breaths. Ilya knew he was counting them. In for six, hold for four, out for six. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat, until your fingertips stopped buzzing and your tongue stopped feeling like lead wedged between your teeth.
Ilya could tell when Shane stopped counting every breath and started falling into the rhythm naturally. The inhale was less sharp, and the exhale was through his nose instead of his mouth. They pulled into the cottage driveway and quietly got out of the car. Ilya gathered the orange-stained Tupperwares in his arms while Shane fumbled with the keys. They kicked off their shoes and Shane only nudged his sneakers toward the shoe rack. He was still mad, then.
While Shane pretended to be busy by fluffing pillows on the couch and sweeping the floor that their Roomba would have vacuumed twenty minutes ago, Ilya put the leftovers in the fridge as Anya danced around his feet, hoping for a scrap of something to fall to the ground. He left the vatrushka on the counter and tried not to let his fingers linger too long on the lid.
How long had it been since someone made him vatrushka? It used to be Andrei’s favourite, before he stopped liking anything that wouldn’t get him high or give him money. Homemade pastries did not give you money. Only the quiet reassurance that somebody cared enough about you to meticulously fold dough to perfection, and then watch, hawk-eyed, as it baked in the oven.
Ilya remembered the warm yellow glow of the oven light while Mama baked. He would sit in front of the oven with his knees drawn up to his chest, carefully monitoring croissants and cookies and sweet buns. He wondered if Shane ever did something similar. He would ask another day.
“Zaychik,” Ilya called when the shuffling from the living room stopped. No response. Ilya poked his head out of the kitchen and saw Shane with his palms over his eyes, back rising with every breath.
“Hey, hey,” Ilya cooed. He fell into the couch beside Shane and rubbed a hand across his back.
“Sorry,” Shane muttered. “You’re already having a shitty day, you shouldn’t have to worry about me too.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I always worry about you,” Ilya added unhelpfully.
“Thanks,” Shane retorted drily. Ilya snorted.
“Tell me what is happening in your brain.”
Shane sighed and sunk back into the couch cushions. He crossed his arms across his chest and wrapped his hands around his biceps. He did this when he needed a little extra comfort, Ilya had learned.
“Mom wanted me to do this stupid fucking Underarmour campaign. It wasn’t a Pride collection or anything, but it was all about queer athletes, and athletes of colour, and disabled athletes. Which—that’s great. Really cool that they’re doing that.”
Shane paused and squeezed his arms tighter. Ilya leaned over so he fell into Shane’s side, his cheek smushing against his shoulder. Shane brought an arm around Ilya and pulled him closer.
“I’m just so—” Shane’s voice wavered. “I’m just an athlete. I am so fucking sick of being the Asian guy, and now I'm the gay guy too. All my stats and records start with ‘the first Asian player to-’ when I was just the first player. I broke the fucking record for points scored in a rookie season, and every headline was about how I was the first Asian player to reach those numbers. I was the first fucking player ever to do that. My mom’s parents being born in Japan had nothing to do with it. I don’t have secret samurai superpowers or some shit, I’m just good at hockey.
“She just—she’s so happy to market me as this diversity hire hockey player. Maybe that’s shitty to say. I don’t really fucking care. I don’t want to have to be a poster child for diversity in hockey, I just want to be a good player. I’m the best player in the league, and I’ve given up so much because some old white dudes don’t think I’m the same kind of human as the rest of their players. It shouldn't be such a big goddamned deal that I don’t want to do some photoshoot that would just bring more attention to how different everyone thinks I am.”
Shane let out a shaky breath that told Ilya that he was both done speaking and doing everything in his power to avoid bursting into frustrated tears. This was far from the first conversation that Shane had had with Ilya about what it meant to be the best player in the MLH while also being Asian. To Ilya’s chagrin, this also meant that he had to admit that Shane was, in fact, the better player, but it was harder to give a shit about their silly chirps when his husband was angrily sobbing over a cutting board of half-sliced tomatoes because all the reporters could ask after a bad game was how his performance reflected on other Asian athletes.
Ilya had nothing helpful to say, so he tugged Shane into his lap and tucked his face into his neck. He politely pretended that he couldn’t feel a few angry tears soak into his collarbone, and ignored the wetness pricking at his own eyes as he rubbed a hand across Shane’s spine under his shirt.
Ilya felt sudden, nauseating guilt at how annoyed he was about Shane being irritated with Yuna just ten minutes before. It was different, he told himself. If his mama was still alive, they might have butted heads just as often. If Ilya still even spoke to her. Who knew. Who fucking knew.
Twelve was so young. Ilya had no idea how his mama felt about gay people, or about America, or the other handfuls of decisions he had made about his life since being drafted to the MLH.
Shane eventually unburied his head from Ilya’s neck.
“Are you ready for bed?” he asked quietly, as if Ilya would not rewire every clock in the world to accommodate Shane’s bedtime.
“Yes, lyubimyy, let’s go to bed.”
Sergey Minaev and Arabesque echoed through the house. Mama sang quietly under her breath as she dragged the mop across the floor. Ilyusha hummed along from the kitchen table as he coloured in his crayon drawing.
Ilyusha had felt very sick that morning, so he was allowed to stay home from school all day. Mama had pressed her lips to his forehead to take his temperature and tutted when she pulled away. He thought that meant that she thought he was lying, but instead, she had wrapped him in blankets and given him a warm bowl of soup.
Ilyusha’s blanket hung around his shoulders like a cape. He was rambling to Mama about one of the boys on his hockey team, one who had moved to Canada and came back again and played with a very talented boy in his U8 team in Ott-oh-wa. Ivan said that the boy he played with was going to be the best hockey player ever, but Ilyusha thought that was silly. The best player ever was going to be him, of course, so he knew Ivan did not know what he was talking about.
“Of course you'll be the best, Ilyusha,” Mama said fondly. She leaned over and ran her fingers through his sweaty curls, and Ilyusha preened. He loved when Mama said how good he was. He hoped Andrei would not be jealous of all the Mama time he was getting while Andrei was stuck at school.
Andrei was in grade five now, and Ilyusha was in grade three. He did not like it very much. It was hard to stay still and harder to listen to his teacher, but Papa said listening was respect and he better figure out how to do it before he tied Ilya to his chair. Papa never called them Ilyusha or Andryusha like Mama did. Mama said it was because Papa loved them different than Mama did. Ilyusha liked how Mama loved them better, but he knew that was a thought that should stay inside his head.
“Papa shouldn't be home for a few hours, would you like to make some pelmeni with me?” Mama asked. Ilyusha lit up. He loved helping Mama cook, and he loved pelmenis. Especially the ones Mama made, with ground chicken instead of beef. Ilyusha did not like beef. It tasted like farts.
Mama pulled out the pelmenitsa while Ilyusha found the flour and the eggs. They kept the flour in a big, white container, and Ilyusha grunted with exertion as he pulled it out of the cupboard.
“Thank you, my strong boy,” Mama said when he dragged the whole thing over to her. He smiled and carefully got the eggs out of the fridge while Mama muttered about her rolling pin.
Mama carefully made the dough while Ilyusha sat on the counter and talked about the game all his classmates were playing; a bunch of tiny, made-up animals that they had to chase down and fight. He did not remember what it was called, but it sounded fun. Maybe he could get it for his birthday.
His heels drummed against the cabinet door while Mama whisked the eggs inside the circle of flour. She wiggled along to the song playing over her CD player. ABBA, he thought. Ilyusha did not really like a lot of Mama's music, but he liked ABBA. His favourite song was Chicka Tee Ta. He did not really know what they were saying, but he liked the piano and the way the music grew and shrank. It reminded him of the encyclopedia page about oceans, when they talked about tides. Ilyusha had never seen the ocean before. He bet it was really pretty.
Ilyusha was allowed to roll out the dough while Mama cooked the chicken. There was flour streaked across his clothes and dusted in his hair, and the smell of garlic and dill spread through the air like laughter. Ilyusha wanted to stay in this day forever and ever.
Ilya had an appointment with Galina in three hours.
He did not fucking want to go.
It was not even in person. It was a Zoom meeting, one that Ilya could join from bed if he wanted to. But there he was, staring at the ceiling and counting the planks of wood spanning it. Thirty-seven. It bothered Ilya that it was an odd number. He felt like the builders should have pushed about ten centimetres further and made it a clean forty.
Shane was not home yet. He had gone to sacred Wine Night with the WAGs, which Ilya had been invited but had not gone to. He told Cassie that Shane had been a WAG longer, so he should go while Ilya stayed home with Anya. Cassie had said that that made sense, but she would miss him. Shane had looked at him for a long time before he left and told him to call if he needed anything.
“Anything at all,” he had said. “Even if you need to ask where I hid the Nutella.” That is how Ilya knew Shane was worried. He hated when Ilya ate Nutella. He hid it away and only brought it out as a reward for good behaviour, because Ilya may have been a grown man but he had a mouth full of sweet teeth and no impulse control.
Ilya fumbled for his phone and opened his browser. He navigated his way to Galina's appointment profile on muscle memory and cancelled his booking. He did not give a shit about the charge that would hit his card for cancelling so late.
While his phone was in his hand, Ilya wanted to call Shane. He did not even need him to say anything. He wanted to hear Shane breathing over the line, listen to the rustle of his shirt as he moved. But then he would need to speak, and Ilya did not have the energy to speak, and had even less energy to answer the three thousand questions Shane would ask if Ilya called and did not say a single word.
Ilya had no clue how long he stayed in bed. The sunlight through the blinds slid from the headboard, across his face, and down to his chest. His stomach growled and his bladder screamed, but Ilya stayed in bed, unmoving. He felt like he was experiencing his body through a separate person. He had played some VR game with the Pike twins the last time he had babysat. Something with gorillas and running around with strangers—Ilya didn’t get it. But that was how he felt now, like he was looking down at his own body and merely controlling it instead of living inside of it. Press this button to move your arms. That one to move your legs. Look down at your fake body wrapped in pixels.
What finally got Ilya out of bed was Anya whining at him from the door. She needed to go outside and eat and probably needed fresh water. Ilya felt terrible—moreso than he already did. It was not Anya's fault that he was such a sack of shit that he could not even pull himself from under the covers.
He did not stop to brush his teeth or do his three-step morning skincare routine. He was still wearing the pants he had worn yesterday, not having bothered to change into pajamas. His shirt was thrown off in the night and half-hanging out of the laundry basket.
Ilya let Anya outside and leaned against the open doorframe as she did her business. His mouth felt gross and filmy, and there was a sheen of day-old gunk sitting on his skin, but Ilya could not be fucking bothered to go upstairs and clean himself.
With Anya fed, Ilya figured that he might as well make something for himself. There was not a single thing he wanted to spend time cooking, though. He decided to just have some bread that he would not bother with toasting or buttering. Maybe he would spread some jam across it. Probably not.
Ilya pulled out the bread and unsheathed a knife from the block. He did not bother with a cutting board, sawing into the loaf directly onto his plate.
It was when Ilya was standing over the sink with the knife in his hand that the thought occurred to him.
Anya was fed, the doors were locked, and Shane would be home soon.
Ilya had a very large, very sharp knife in his hand.
He remembered how it felt to find his mama in a pool of her own vomit. How the bile had seeped into the ends of her hair. It had been washed out for the viewing, of course. Her curls were primped and set carefully on her shoulders against the flowy white dress she was in.
He tried to imagine watching Mama spiral for more years. Imagined the pain she would have been in while she denied herself the rest she so badly craved. Would she have still been his mama, then? Or would her pain have twisted her into somebody she was not?
Would Ilya turn into somebody he did not recognize? Would he turn cruel and angry and harsh? He did not want to do that to Shane. Maybe it would be better to stop himself now. They had had a good day yesterday; Shane re-stained the dock and Ilya watched with a joint between his lips and yelled compliments about his rippling pecs. They had gone for a walk (another morning walk, Ilya was such a fuck-up) with Anya and found a nest full of baby blue eggs on the trail. Shane had ridden Ilya to orgasm, and then Ilya had flipped them around and eaten Shane out until he was sobbing and limp in the legs.
That would be a good way to send himself off, Ilya figured. One last good day for Shane to remember.
Mama's last day had not been a good one. She had been angry and short all day.
“Honestly, Ilyusha,” she had said. “You need to learn how to pick up after yourself. I am so tired of this house always being a goddamned disaster. You have to know how to take care of yourself.”
Maybe Mama was less angry and more scared. Ilya understood the fear, now. He had not seen it as a child. But now—
Ilya held the knife and thought about all of the soft, vulnerable parts of his body. He would not slit his throat; he wanted a traditional funeral, and he did not want everybody to have to think about why his body had been decorated with such a high collared shirt. He did not want Shane to think of kissing across his neck and stopping short at the image of Ilya's life pouring out of him from the same place he had so tenderly touched. Maybe he would go for the wrists. Or maybe he could drive the knife into his stomach. He wondered if he would feel every serrated bump when he pulled it out. Would Shane have to buy a new set of knives? Ilya would, if it were him.
He should probably leave a note, Ilya figured. Write down the password to his bank account. All of the bills were under Shane’s name, but should he find the log-in information for the TV subscriptions? Shane barely watched Netflix, he should know how to get into the account to cancel it.
Ilya was still standing over the sink. He was still holding the knife.
The sound of the lock turning in the door. Anya's excited pitter-patter paws. The shuffle of shoes being toed off, and the jingle of keys being hung on their hook.
“Ilya?” Shane called.
Ilya could not move.
Soft footsteps trailed toward the kitchen. Stopped. Ilya did not turn around.
“Ilya?” Shane asked again, quieter.
Ilya felt something in his chest give way.
Shane was beside him before he knew that he was crying. Sobbing, more like. Ilya could not catch his breaths, caught in a loop of desperate, sucking inhales and choked-off exhales. The knife was gently untwisted from his fingers and his body was lowered to the ground, wrapped around Shane's.
“I'm here,” Shane was saying, Ilya eventually noticed. “I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere, baby. I've got you. I've got you, it's okay.”
Ilya sobbed harder, until his throat was raw and his eyes burned. His face was buried in Shane's neck. A hand rubbed circles across his shoulders. Ilya clutched at the fabric of Shane's shirt and pushed himself even closer to him. Into his skin, if only.
“I love you,” Shane was still speaking. “I love you so fucking much. It's gonna be okay, I promise.”
Eventually, Ilya calmed down enough to stop the tears that had nearly flooded their home.
“Have you eaten?” Shane asked once Ilya pulled his nose out of his collarbone. Ilya shook his head.
“Do you want to?”
Ilya shook his head again.
“Okay. Let's go upstairs, I'll brush your teeth and we can take a nap, okay?”
Ilya nodded, and Shane pulled him up off the floor. They stumbled up the stairs together, Shane having to support Ilya's body like a drunken loser.
Shane sat Ilya down on the toilet and squirted toothpaste on his toothbrush. He tapped it once against Ilya's lip and he opened his mouth, allowing his husband to clean his teeth for him. It made Ilya feel like a child, but not in a terrible way. It was humiliating, but Ilya had done too many humiliating things around Shane to care at all.
“Spit,” Shane instructed, holding the garbage can under Ilya's chin.
Ilya's face was tenderly wiped with a face cloth, and smeared with cleanser. Wiped again. Toner dripped from the ampoule and Shane gently worked it into his skin. Hands brushed through his hair while it was absorbed. Cold moisturizer followed.
Shane pulled Ilya up from the bathroom and to bed. He tucked Ilya under the blankets and slotted himself beside him, pulling Ilya onto his chest. Ilya was asleep in seconds.
When Ilya woke up, he did not have the luxury of forgetting what had happened hours before. There was a rock on his chest, the dread and shame pressing down on him so hard he was sure his ribs would splinter.
Shane was there, one hand flipping through a book and the other coiling Ilya's curls around his finger. Ilya's hands tightened in Shane's shirt, which he must have been clutching at as he slept.
“Hey,” Shane whispered. Ilya tucked his face into the gap between his arm and Shane's side. He shook his head and did not say a word. Shane did not push; he just adjusted the hand in Ilya's hair to scratch at the nape of his neck. Ilya heard his book hit the nightstand, and Shane moved his hand to rest over the fist Ilya had formed over his hip.
“Can I—” Shane started and stopped. Ilya moved with the deep inhale that Shane took to collect himself. “I have some thoughts. Can I tell you about them?” Ilya's shoulders hiked up to his chin but he nodded. He hoped Shane was not angry with him.
“Okay. Thank you, my love. First of all, I'm not mad, okay? I'm sad, and I wish—well, I wish a lot of things right now. But I'm not mad.” Ilya allowed himself to relax ever so slightly. He was still ashamed, and still scared for himself, but he trusted Shane. If he said that he was not mad, then Ilya had no reason to be scared about that, too.
“I think I've known for a while now that you haven't been okay. I'm sorry for not pushing more; you've always been the one between us that’s better at that. I know it's scary for you to feel like this, especially with—” Shane paused, like he was not sure if he should say what he wanted to. Ilya knew, though.
“With Mama,” Ilya finished for him.
Shane hummed thoughtfully. “Yeah, with your mom. I want to be able to be here for you when you feel like this. I don't want you to feel like you have to deal with it all on your own. I've been thinking that we could do a few therapy sessions together? I would probably benefit from going on my own, too, if I'm being honest. And…” Shane paused. His hand in Ilya's hair stilled, and the thumb swooping across his hand stopped.
“I think you should go on meds. I get why that's scary, and I get that you don't want to, but—”
“You're right,” Ilya said stiffly. “I do not want to.” He did not need to have the same problem as his mama, staring down little orange bottles every time she brushed her teeth until she finally snapped. Hers had not been filled with antidepressants, but something for her heart. And then there was whatever of Papa's she had taken along with it.
“I'm going to say something that might hurt to hear,” Shane said, as if this whole conversation had not already hurt. “It wasn't the pills that killed her, Ilya. It was depression. You know that.”
Hot anger flared up in Ilya's chest, because obviously he fucking knew that. Mama did not wake up one day and get attacked by little white circles hiding in the bathroom. She wanted to die, and she made it happen. The fucking pills had nothing to do with it.
Oh.
Maybe he did not know that.
Ilya felt his whole world tilt. Shane held him through it. The hot anger welled up and up. Anger at Shane, for knowing this before he did. Anger at himself for not realizing. Anger at his mama. Anger at her for not being able to hold on, not being able to get help. For dying on purpose. Anger at her for leaving him all alone, because even though he had Papa and Andrei, they were usually just bodies, or things to avoid.
He had Sveta, and Sasha, but after Mama died, things had gotten so complicated with them and they didn't get easy again until Sveta's seventeenth birthday when they climbed to the roof of her house and passed around a bottle of shitty, flavoured vodka.
Ilya was so fucking angry, and so tired of being angry.
He was crying again, he noticed. Ilya was not like Shane, who cried frequently and quietly, and had learned how to calm himself down. When Ilya cried, it was loud and messy and hysterical.
Shane sat up and pulled Ilya along with him, draping Ilya’s legs over his own to hold him closer. Ilya clutched at Shane's shoulders and wet his shirt collar while Shane rocked them both back and forth.
“I know, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry, baby, you're okay.”
Ilya gasped in heaving breaths. Shane breathed deeply against him, and Ilya desperately copied the cadence of his lungs.
“I'm so tired of this, Shane,” Ilya admitted when his tears had slowed to a small, acceptable trickle. “I think you are right. I'm just so scared, and then I get mad about being scared, and being mad is exhausting. I am trapped in my own head, I think.”
Shane nodded like none of this was news. “It's not your fault that your brain works how it does. Depression happens because of chemicals in your brain, and you can't fix that without help. You don't have to decide right away, but think about it?”
“No need to think about it,” Ilya said, and Shane's face fell. “No, I mean I know you are right. I will call—who do you call?”
“Our family doctor,” Shane said with a quiet laugh. “I'll call and make an appointment later.”
“Thank you, lyubimyy. You're too good to me.”
“Wrong,” Shane replied serenely.
They sat in silence for a moment, just holding each other.
“I want to talk about what I walked in on, but that can wait, okay?” Shane asked. “I think I know, but I want to hear it from you.”
“Okay,” Ilya agreed. “It was not planned. I am just—sad is too small.”
“You're depressed,” Shane said, like Ilya needed a reminder.
“Yes. It is hard to explain how it feels. The feeling is not gone now, but it is kind of like—hm.”
“It's okay, you don't need to know the words right now. Do you want to go downstairs? It's late, I'll make supper.”
No, Ilya wanted to say. But he had scared Shane earlier, and he needed to try.
“Yeah, okay,” he agreed. He wiggled off Shane’s lap and waited for his husband to shake out his numb legs.
“I think I'll make kale salad,” Shane said as he walked down the stairs. Ilya groaned dramatically.
“Maybe some chicken breast, too. Unseasoned, of course.” He threw a teasing grin over his shoulder to Ilya, who rolled his eyes in fond exasperation.
“Will I be allowed to have a single berry for dessert?” Ilya asked.
“Only if you're good,” Shane decided. Ilya laughed. He settled down in a chair at the island and watched as Shane puttered around the kitchen.
The organized chaos of Shane cooking filled his eyes and ears. Shane chatted idly about the latest hospital drama that Lisa had shared, and how Selena had not been prepared to have two children learning how to walk at the same time. It sounded like a nightmare. A fun nightmare, but all the same.
Ilya hated to admit it, but he was only half-listening. He was distracted by the honey glow of Shane’s skin where the setting sunlight hit him. The curve of his pink lips as he laughed to himself at a memory. The freckles dusting his face that were darkening with every day spent in the summer sun.
He could not believe that he was willing to give this up, even for a moment. He would have to stay alive, he supposed. Nobody else could do it for him, and he had so much to do.
Ilyusha was at the pool! He was playing with Andrei while Mama floated nearby.
“Ilyushka, watch!” Andrei squealed as he clambered to his feet on the edge of the pool. He jumped and tucked his knees to his chest, tucking himself into a ball.
The splash was so big it even hit Mama, who shrieked in surprise. Ilyusha laughed.
“My turn!” he cried. Andrei helped push him up out of the water. Ilyusha stared down at the pool and took a big breath, puffing out his cheeks. He jumped.
When he hit the water, Ilyusha could not figure out which way was up. He thrashed around, trying to swim. Firm hands grabbed him and pulled him to the surface.
“You're okay, Ilyusha,” Mama cooed while Ilyusha coughed and sputtered in his arms. “I've got you, don’t worry.”
Ilyusha had been scared while he was under the water, which was silly. Mama was right there. She would never let anything bad happen to him.
He wiggled out of her arms and splashed back into the water, chasing after Andrei with a loud laugh.
Mama stayed behind and watched, arms crossed and lips curved into a soft smile.
Yes, Ilyusha had nothing to be afraid of.