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If someone had told Ilya in June that 2017 would be the worst year of his life, he would never have believed them. How could it be, between All Stars and Shane and the cottage? Even his father’s death, as brutal as it had been in the moment, had brought more peace to leaving Russia behind than Ilya had anticipated.
No. All it takes is November—one measly, miserable month—for everything to fall apart.
All it takes is one night.
He doesn’t know it at the time. He doesn’t know it until the next morning. No, when it had all gone down Ilya had been holed up in his apartment hoping that Shane would find time to Facetime after his game in Vancouver.
If he’s really being honest, the fall hasn’t been that great at all. Ilya knows that the team can see that there’s something separating their captain from them—it’s impossible to get through all of the things that are normally firsts knowing that they are his last. At least, his last training camp, preseason, first game, first win, first goal in Boston.
And it’s hiding that while hiding Shane and missing him like Ilya hasn’t allowed himself to before.
So when Ilya is summoned into LeClaire’s office before practice on Tuesday, he thinks it has to be about his attitude, or his lack of leadership, or Boston has smelt the blood in the water and they know that he’s going to try to leave during his free agency.
Ilya can count on one hand the number of times he has seen Coach LeClaire cry. It actually only takes one finger—when they won the cup in 2014.
He is crying when Ilya knocks on the door.
“Coach,” Ilya greets, nerves replaced with dread as he rushes forward. “Are you okay? Is your family okay? What—”
“Have a seat, Ilya.” LeClaire has never called Ilya by his first name. He is Roz, or if he’s fucked up Rozanov, or if he’s really fucking fucked up Ilya Rozanov. Never just Ilya. “This is going to be hard to get out, but you need to know before I gotta go tell the team.”
“What is happening? If something is terrible, if you got fired, where is Marly? I need my A,” Ilya is catastrophizing, he knows it, but he must say something terribly wrong because all he gets out of his coach for a long minute is an sob.
“There was an altercation last night down in the South End,” LeClaire says, and it’s clear from the tone that the trembling of his words is despite all of his efforts to keep it together. “Cliff was at some convenience store when a robbery went down. He—”
“No,” Ilya says. “No. Whatever you think—”
“There was a teenage girl at the counter. He saved her life. But he—”
“Why was he in the South End? He lives in Beacon Hill,” Ilya says dumbly.
“I don’t know, kid, I really don’t. He didn’t make it. He’s gone,” LeClaire forces out, before Ilya can say something else to delay the terrible truth of it all.
“No,” Ilya says, and that’s only when LeClaire realizes that Ilya never sat down, because he collapses to the floor. The noise that comes out of him is far more animal than human, a pained howl being dragged out of the man who broke two bones in his arm on the ice and didn’t say a damn thing until they won the game in overtime. “No,” he repeats.
Before LeClaire can get to his captain on the floor, Ilya is bolting out of the office. When LeClaire gets his own oddly disconnected body into motion to track him down, he hears the violent retching in the nearby restroom before he sees the kid collapsed on the floor.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “I know that you two were close. I’m so sorry that—”
“Fuck that,” Ilya says, wiping the snot and bile dripping out of his nose with the back of his hand. “Sorry won’t bring him back.”
“Take as much time as you need,” LeClaire says. “The team doesn’t know yet. We’re running out of time before the news this morning beats us to it.”
“We aren’t playing tonight,” Ilya says bluntly. “Does his family know?”
“The police called them. They called me,” LeClaire confirms. “We are not playing tonight. I hate to do this to you, kid, but the team is going to need their captain.”
“They need Cliff,” Ilya says. “I can’t—I haven’t—” Ilya breaks off into a new sob, which quickly becomes a new round of heaving. “I don’t believe it. It can’t be true. They’ve got it wrong—it’s someone else—”
“It’s not. It’s real, kid. His mom had to identify his body,” LeClaire says as gently as that sentence can be said. “It is real.”
Ilya Rozanov just pukes. LeClaire is suddenly wondering if he’s gotta call the team doc up, but eventually Ilya just slumps back against the stall, no tears or snot or vomit dripping down his face. “I need to talk to his mother.”
“Kid, I don’t know—”
“I am paying for the funeral—”
“The organization was going to—”
“No. He was my best friend. I am fucking doing it,” Ilya says. “I don’t need to talk to her. I need to just send her the blank check.”
“Let’s focus on the next fifteen minutes. Can you pull it together long enough for us to have the conversation with the team?”
“We need the team psychologist there,” Ilya says immediately. “I can’t… I can’t—”
“I am asking for something terrible and impossible from you,” LeClaire says. “I know that. I just can’t… I can’t let management be the ones to tell them. It needs to be, but I can’t do it alone. So I’m asking you to share the burden with me. It is horribly unfair, but I am asking it of you.”
“He should be captain,” is all Ilya can get out after a while. “He holds the team together. I’ve been barely here.” LeClaire has enough tact not to correct the tense of the Russian’s verbs. “I will do my duty. I can’t promise that I can hold it together. But I will do it.”
“We’re not fucking talking any logistics today,” LeClaire says, as he hands his captain a disposable toothbrush so he can get the smell of vomit out of his mouth. “I don’t want the team alone. I don’t want you alone. We are getting through this shit together.”
Ilya really doesn’t have it in him to fight with his coach. He doesn’t have it in him to do anything, but the longer that he sits on the bathroom floor, the farther away his brain floats from his body. None of this is real. It cannot be real. Ilya had just fucking talked to him last night; Cliff had invited himself over for dinner, his weird sixth sense for Ilya’s shitty moods drawing him to Ilya’s apartment without bothering to ask Ilya if he wanted company at all.
He had just seen him. They had drank shitty beers and played stupid videogames and laughed about stupid fucking jokes.
Cliff cannot be dead. He can’t be.
————————
By the time Ilya stumbles back into his dark apartment, skin buzzing and brain nothing but static mess, his phone is ringing. It is ringing again.
The world knows. The world knows and the NHL knows and now every news outlet is trying to get Ilya to say something and every captain in the league is calling him to offer hollow condolences and meaningless platitudes. His phone has run out of battery four times today already.
But this is a Boston number, and it’s not the news outlets he has already blocked. So Ilya answers it, not sure if he’s hoping if one of the lecherous press has slipped through or if it’s the call he had begged LeClaire to make being returned.
“Hi,” a watery voice says. “Is this Ilya Rozanov? It’s Laurie. Laurie Marleau.”
“Mrs. Marleau,” Ilya says immediately, sinking onto his couch without turning on a single light. “I am so sorry for your loss. Cliff was… Cliff is my best friend.”
“I know,” she says softly. “He talked about you all the time.”
“I want to pay for the funeral,” Ilya says bluntly. “I don’t want your family to worry about any of it. Please let me.”
“That is very kind of you, Ilya,” Laurie Marleau says quietly. “I am guessing there is as little point arguing with you about it as when you paid for my husband’s funeral and burial?” Ilya had never intended for anyone to find out about that, especially Cliff and his mother.
“I didn’t think you knew,” is all Ilya can manage. “Please allow me to do this. I know it does not help the pain, but—”
“Thank you, Ilya,” Laurie says. “You were a good friend to Cliff. I do have a question, if that’s alright.”
“Of course, m’am,” Ilya says, because one does not grow up in the house that he survived without learning how to properly respect his elders.
“He had this bag from a restaurant he went to right before the convenience store. I’ve never heard of it, and it was odd because, well, you know Cliff was allergic to tree nuts? So I was just wondering if you knew what he was doing there?”
Ilya’s heart drops into his goddamn stomach. There is one restaurant in the South End that Cliff goes to in order to buy things he doesn’t eat. It is Ilya’s favorite Russian restaurant, and he always buys him the goddamn walnut cookies when he thinks Ilya is getting depressed again.
Cliff was in that goddamn store because Ilya had been throwing a temper tantrum over not seeing his goddamn boyfriend for a month.
Cliff is dead because of Ilya.
It is Ilya’s fault.
“I am so sorry,” is all he can force out. “Oh my god I am so fucking sorry.”
“Ilya, sweetheart, wait—”
“Send me the bill. I will pay it,” is all he can get out before he hangs up the phone. Fuck.
He’s got nothing left in his stomach, but it tries to evict itself out of his esophagus regardless. His back is fucked from dry heaving, but he cannot stop it. He deserves every scrap of pain, he thinks, even as he feels a blood vessel burst in his eye from the force of the fit. His tears are salty and painful, well past the point of dehydration, but he sits there on his floor shivering and heaving and crying like it will do anything to change his role in this tragedy.
His phone buzzes, minutes or years later, and Ilya does not want to pick it up if Laurie has deciphered exactly how this is Ilya’s fault yet.
It isn’t. Shane’s face is on his phone.
Ilya wants nothing more than Shane right now. But he does not deserve it. He does not deserve the comfort or understanding or gentle handling he is certainly going to get if he picks up the phone. He deserves every second of suffering that he will face for the rest of his miserable life.
But Ilya is a weak man. His father had known it, his brother knows it, and when Shane calls back for the third time, Ilya gives in to his worst impulses.
“Ilya,” Shane says, his voice entirely an exhale of relief. “I’ve been trying to reach you all day. I saw—”
“It’s my fault,” Ilya blurts out, knowing that this will be what makes him lose Shane, too. “He was… he was getting comfort food for me because—”
“Hey, no. Ilya, no—”
“He was at a Russian bakery, Shane. My favorite Russian—”
“Baby, it was not your fault—”
“He wouldn’t have been there if—”
“Ilya, you need to listen to me,” Shane says seriously. “Unless you knew that there would be an armed robbery in that convenience store, unless you pulled the gun yourself—”
“It is my fault. He was my best friend, and I killed him,” Ilya sobs out, and finally confessing his sins aloud does not bring him any speck of peace at all. “He’s dead and it’s my fault.”
“It is not your fault, Ilya,” Shane says seriously. “I need you to believe me.”
“I can’t,” Ilya’s voice cracks, and he doesn’t realize how hoarse it’s gotten until he tries to force more words out and nothing but a painful rasp comes out.
“I am so fucking sorry, Ilya. I cannot imagine—”
“No. You do not do this,” he forces out, before he’s keeled back over the toilet. “If you just fucking tell me what every other captain texted me, I’m going to fucking scream.”
“I can’t imagine it. I haven’t grieved like you have,” Shane confesses. “That’s all I’m trying to say. I know that I don’t get it. But I’m here. And I’m not leaving you alone when you’re hurting like this.”
“Don’t ever join this club,” Ilya says darkly. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You don’t have to do anything tonight,” Shane says immediately. “I’m flying out tomorrow morning.”
“What? Montreal is at home,” Ilya says, unable to hide any of his genuine bewilderment.
“They paused games tomorrow. The league is doing something for Malreau—all of the east coast captains and most of the west coast ones are coming down for it. I finagled a few more days out of Thierault, so I’ll be there through the funeral,” Shane explains. “I’m not leaving you alone with this. It hasn’t even been eight months since your dad—”
“There is nothing you can do to help it,” Ilya says. “Don’t throw away your good standing with management because I’m—”
“Fuck that,” Shane says bluntly. “The person I love is hurting. That’s an easy fucking decision for me, and not one that you get to make for me.”
“I won’t be good company. I will be an asshole. I won’t want to fucking do anything but—”
“That’s fine. We can do it together,” Shane promises. “Where are you right now?”
“Bathroom,” Ilya admits.
“Get into bed, even if you can’t sleep. It’ll be more comfortable,” Shane says immediately. “I will be there in the morning. Please try to get some rest. You can call me whenever tonight. Or I can stay on the line. Even if you don’t want to talk—”
“Thank you,” Ilya croaks out, groaning as he battles his watery and blurry vision to pull himself to his feet. “I do not deserve you.”
“Yes you do. I love you,” Shane says, and when he doesn’t hang up the phone immediately, they just let the call and silence linger.
If Shane hears the muffled sobs that break out of him at random, he doesn’t say anything about them at all. If he hears the stupid television quiz shows in Russian that fail to put Ilya’s mind to sleep, he doesn’t say anything about it at all. He keeps breathing on the other side of the line, and Ilya tries to not let his gut turn the sweetness sour with guilt.
It does not work.
————————
Shane stands as close to Ilya as he can without it being suspicious during the public memorial. Ilya has to speak, and he ditches the canned PR shit written by Boston about two seconds in, and he ends it sobbing so hard he’s worried he’s going to puke on national television.
Shane is at least five meters away, clustered with the rest of the NHL giving the Bears space to grieve and be, but Ilya can feel his eyes on him.
Ilya does not speak at the actual funeral. He carries the casket with Connors and Marleau’s cousins and his childhood best friends, but it is not his place to speak. He attends, and he does not remember a goddamn thing.
He is grateful that it is a closed casket, because he doesn’t think he could bear to see his friend like that.
It still doesn’t feel real. There are people talking about his soul and peace and how great he was, and Ilya still cannot get over how fucking wrong the past tense feels. He just misses him.
He misses his gross fucking spitting on the ice between drills. He misses Cliff’s favorite dingy ass dive bar with his shitty fucking American beer; he misses shooting the shit with him, a poorly rolled joint passed between them. He misses the motherfucker’s too-loud laugh. He misses waking up to twelve tiktoks sent from Cliff that in no way or shape should come from the same feed, but are apparently all curated for Cliff.
He misses him. He really fucking misses him.
————————
“That was a goddamn mess, boys.” LeClaire doesn’t even have it in him to yell at his team. “Too many goddamn penalties, too many sloppy turnovers, and too fucking few shots within five feet of the goddamn net.”
“You didn’t hear them, Coach,” Hammersmith says bravely. “I won’t apologize for breaking fucking noses when they’re talking about Marly.”
“Breaking fucking noses doesn’t bring him back. You think this is what Marleau would fucking want out of you? Sloppy fucking hockey? Pee wee shit?”
“You just said it—he’s dead. He doesn’t fucking want anything.” Ilya’s voice is cold. “Don’t fucking use him against us. We fucking sucked. We all know why. Don’t fucking rub dirt in it.”
“This is his last season. Do you all want to give him a losing record?” LeClaire pushes. “Or do you want a second fucking Stanley Cup next to his name? That’s how we get his jersey in the rafters, boys. That’s what it’s going to take.”
“It was the first game back,” St. Vincent adds. “None of us were ready to be back here, Coach.”
“The season isn’t going to stop. I know you’re all hurting. Fuck, I’m hurting, too. But we have to channel that grief somewhere, boys. He wouldn’t want us to wallow in it.”
“He doesn’t fucking want anything,” Ilya repeats. “He is dead.”
“Roz, my office,” LeClaire orders immediately. “The rest of you—stay fucking put. I am not done with you. We are going through all of your fuckups before I release you to the showers and the trainers.”
Ilya follows, because he really does not have it in him to argue with anybody, and if LeClaire is taking his anger out on him, it’s not on the rest of them. LeClaire can bitch until the cows come home. Ilya will stare right through him until it’s over.
That’s what he’s hoping for at least. Instead, he’s hit with a question right off the bat that requires an answer.
“Why should I keep you as captain?” LeClaire asks, his voice blunt. “You were halfway out the door before we lost Marleau.”
“Strip the C then,” Ilya says. “You’re in charge.”
“I still have to answer to the penthouse,” LeClaire grumbles. “I need you to pull it together, Rozanov. I know that it’s an unfair ask, but I am doing it anyway. You need to pull it together, or the rest of them never will.”
“We buried him yesterday, Coach,” Ilya croaks. “It’s going to take time.”
“We don’t have time. We’re already on the bubble for playoffs, and it’s not even fucking 2018,” LeClaire says. “I wish we had time, but we don’t.”
“Then strip the C. Because I don’t think I can do that,” Ilya says. “He was my best friend, Coach. We shared an apartment as rookies.”
“No,” LeClaire says simply. “I won’t. You are the only one that can get us back on track.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m going to be really blunt with you, son. You hold his legacy in your hands. What we do with this season is going to determine what the higher ups are willing to do with his name and jersey. It is the last time his name is on the roster. And I can tell you that it’s going to take another cup to get what you want for him.”
“That’s a pipe dream,” Ilya says. “I can’t just—we don’t have all the pieces. We just lost our best fucking defensemen.”
“You made something out of nothing in 2014. Give the boys something to fight for—something to rally around,” LeClaire says. “You’ve all got a lot of pain. Fuck, so do I. Let’s do something with it. “
“The grass hasn’t grown over his fucking grave,” Ilya says. “Fuck you.”
“Do you think he’d want you to wallow in it? Fuck no,” LeClaire says. “He wants his name in the fucking rafters next to yours. He told me that this year, when he was in my office asking what he could do to make you stay in Boston.”
“I haven’t made free agency plans,” Ilya recites dully, just like Farah told him to.
“Cut the shit. We all know,” LeClaire says. “You were prepping Marleau for the C.”
“What do you want from me?” Ilya asks.
“Give it your all. Get him a cup,” LeClaire says. “Give me your everything for the rest of the season. Give your team your everything. Give him a legacy.”
“Don’t yell at them today,” Ilya says. “It won’t do anything but put a wall between them and you.”
“Fine. So get out there and fucking rally them.”
Ilya couldn’t recite a goddamn thing that he said. He didn’t mean fucking any of it, but if the choice is to pretend that he is not shriveling up into rot and dust instead of the rest of the team getting kicked while they’re down.
He has barely turned on his car before Shane is calling him, his stupid Snoopy profile picture filling the screen as his engine roars to life. “I’m just about to drive,” he says. “I don’t want to talk about the game. I know it was a mess.”
“How are you holding up?” Shane asks, after a long pause. “I can call you back when you’re home—”
“LeClaire chewed me out after the game,” Ilya admits. “I just want to crawl into bed and hope that sleep is going to come.”
“Why the fuck did he chew you out?” Shane asks, already aggravated on his boyfriend’s behalf.
Ilya shrugs, before he forgets that Shane cannot see him. “It’s still his job for us to win games and to make the front office money. I am not helping the shitshow by also being a shitshow.”
“And what does he want you to do about it?” Shane cannot keep his own emotions under wraps. “Seriously, Ilya, what the fuck?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. I’m really tired, Shane. Can we talk tomorrow?” Ilya tries, if only because he really does not have the energy to explain or really care that LeClaire wants things that Ilya is pretty certain he cannot give him.
“I’ll drop it,” Shane says. “I can keep you company on your drive.”
“You hate when I talk while I’m driving,” Ilya says, genuinely confused.
“I hate the idea of you being alone right now more,” Shane admits. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t stay longer.”
“I will call you tomorrow,” Ilya lies. The truth is that he is too tired to even talk right now. He is so tired and there are cinderblocks tied to all of his limbs, making the effort of moving through the day, of speaking, too much for him.
He cannot talk about his feelings, because then he will have to acknowledge the empty cavern inside of himself from all of the people that he has failed. He has lost pieces of himself with them; even though he knows that it’s his fault, it does not stop him from dying alongside them.
How many beautiful, bright people is he going to have to lose before he admits that he is the problem?
He really doesn’t know if he can do it again. He doesn’t know if he can handle the love he had failed to excise from himself for Shane, nor the growing camaraderie with Yuna and David Hollander. He just knows that if he loses anyone else, he isn’t going to be able take it. He can’t fucking take this any more.
But Ilya is so weak that the damage has already been done. Trying to pull back now from the tangled mess of thorns and ivy he has created to try and make someone, to make anyone stay, is just going to kill them both. Shane deserves better than him, he always has, and Ilya knows for a fact that he will ruin Shane.
He just can’t find the strength to save Shane if it means Ilya has to add to the growing mountain of pain and despair in his own chest.
How fucking selfish can one human be?
————————
LeClaire is worse, the next morning. He has them all doing bag skates every time a pass is missed or a play isn’t done correctly.
When Ilya doesn’t rally them sufficiently and the coach walks into a deadly silent locker room of men just trying to get their bodies safely to their cars, he has him back out there alone.
Ilya is so fucking exhausted that he passes out as soon as he gets home and does not wake up until his alarm is going off for the next round of hell.
Practice goes just the same as it had the day before.
It’s when he’s on the line alone at the end of it that Ilya realizes he deserves every bit of this. Maybe this pain is his punishment for Cliff’s death.
LeClaire is right. The only way that Ilya can get Cliff’s name where it belongs amongst Boston’s greatest is if he can get him a final cup. It’s going to be impossible. It’s going to require every fucking day keep going like this—the fucking impossible standards, the tough punishments, until they are all so fit and so cohesive that they can do it despite the gaping wound in their defense and their hearts.
So Ilya buys in. If he’s doing this, he is not leaving anything to chance. He will be the best, fittest, most devoted hockey player he is capable of being.
It is the only thing he can do. So he has to give it his all.
————————
Ilya is supposed to be shopping for houses in Ottawa. He is supposed to be touring houses curated by Shane and Yuna with both of them and a realtor who has the most extensive NDA he has ever seen on the face of this earth. The Ottawa deal is all but signed, which it cannot be until free agency, and so it is time to start planning for next year.
Leaving Boston both feels like the only way he can keep himself alive and the most cowardly thing he has ever done in his life.
At least right now they’re back at Yuna and David’s house, not debating open floor plans and outdoor space and whatever the fuck else both Shane and Yuna care about and Ilya cannot bring himself to.
“Hi. I made chicken parm. How did the viewings this morning go?” David greets them, pulling off his oven mitts as the trio meanders into the kitchen. “Don’t worry, Shane. I made you a vegan version.”
“Oh, um,” Ilya says. “I’m so sorry. I can’t eat it, either.”
Shane whips around, the shock blatant on his face. “What do you mean?”
“We are winning the cup. If we’re going to do it without… without Cliff, I need to be better. Diet is part of that.” Ilya tries to sound casual, but every single alarm bell in Shane’s head is blaring at full volume.
For a split second, he looks to his parents to make sure he is not completely overreacting, but he only sees his shock and alarm mirrored back at him.
“Ilya, let’s go outside for a minute,” he says quietly. The last thing he needs is for this to become a three-on-one lecture. He knows his boyfriend well enough to know that when cornered, he will gnash and bite and snarl and fight his way out.
“It is not a big deal. I am not hungry. I am sorry that you went to the trouble—”
“Ilya.” Shane’s voice leaves no room for argument. “Outside, or we’re doing this here.”
“Is this a fight?”
“Come outside and find out,” Shane says, holding the front door open. The panic is giving way to icy calm—Shane has read enough books about navigating grief and supporting people through the grieving process that he had planned to not push. He had planned to give Ilya the space and time to process, support always there but not forcing it if he doesn’t want it.
This is beyond anything in those books. Ilya going on a diet is as unfathomable as Shane eating through a bag of Halloween candy by himself. It is a cry for fucking help, and he will not ignore it.
“You are mad at me,” Ilya surmises, retreating into his winter jacket like a tortoise in its shell. His hands twitch by his pockets, and Shane knows what that motion usually means.
“You can smoke,” Shane says. “I know I lost that fight a while ago.” He has not, but he is trying to gather more information without Ilya sniffing out that’s what he’s doing.
“I quit,” Ilya says, and sure enough, Shane doesn’t see the familiar bulge in his pocket. It is the only time in the world that that is not the answer he had wanted to hear.
“I am not mad at you,” Shane says carefully. “I am pretty fucking worried, though.”
“You are constantly on me about what I eat,” Ilya says. “I don’t understand why you’re mad that I finally got it together.”
Shane wants to fire back with a sharp quip, that this looks a hell of a lot more like self-punishment than a journey of health and self discovery, but that is what Ilya, or whatever is poisoning Ilya’s brain, wants him to do. “I am not mad,” he repeats. “You’ve made a lot of big life changes in a month, Ilya. That concerns me. Especially after Cliff—”
“Don’t talk about him.” The words come out harsher than Ilya intends. “I am doing more off ice training, I am eating healthier. I am winning one last cup for him and for Boston. I will not let anything get in my way.” Maybe Shane would believe Ilya if his voice did not sound so empty.
“I think you’re punishing yourself,” Shane says quietly. “Ilya, I am worried. You’ve lost a ton of weight, and I know you’re playing injured.”
“You are not in a place to argue with me about performance diets. I am just doing what you do,” Ilya says bluntly. “So if I’m unhealthy, then—”
“I am still within ten pounds of my preseason weight,” Shane says, not rising to the bait. “Ilya, please. I hate watching you hurt. If I can help—”
“You can’t bring him back,” Ilya says. “I’m not trying to be cruel, Shane. But you can’t bring him back. So…”
“I can’t,” Shane agrees. “But I love you.” Shane nudges their shoulders together, and when Ilya doesn’t react, Shane wraps his arms around his boyfriend. “I love you so much that I refuse to grieve you. I will not watch you slowly fade away. I won’t do it.”
“I wouldn’t… I would not do that to you.” Ilya’s voice cracks. “I fucking know how much it sucks. I wouldn’t wish this shit on fucking Troy Barrett.”
“So let me help,” Shane begs. “Please let me help you.”
“I feel so guilty, Shane,” Ilya admits. “I can’t feel anything else. I need to do something to pay him back. This is the only thing I can do. So I have to try. I have to try my absolute hardest.”
“There is a difference between giving it your all and running yourself into the ground,” Shane tries to reason, holding on tighter when Ilya tries to wiggle out of his grasp. “I know it’s been a shitty fucking year. I know that I do not understand exactly what you are going through because I haven’t lived it. But I will not leave you alone in this.”
“I can’t eat the chicken parm,” Ilya confesses, and it sounds like he is genuinely upset. “My stomach… I can’t… it’s been hard.”
“That’s fine. I can make you a smoothie,” Shane offers. “That’s nice and easy.”
“No grass,” Ilya says, his lips twitching upwards into a poor impression of a smile for just a fraction of a second.
“No grass. I know what you like,” Shane agrees. What he strategically leaves out is that smoothies are a great way to hide a fuckton of calories if the maker knows what they are doing. Which is exactly what Shane will be doing.
“I am sorry,” Ilya says, right as Shane is turning back inside. “I know… it is Canadian Christmas. I am being—”
“You are a part of this family,” Shane says firmly, tugging Ilya back into the warmth. “Do not apologize for this.” He does pause as he relocks the door. “I will warn you. It’s not just me that’s worried. And my mom doesn’t really do subtle.”
“They should not worry about me,” Ilya says. “I do not want to add to their—”
“Oh, that ship has fully sailed. Ready to face the music?”
“There is nothing bad about what I am doing,” Ilya says defensively. “It is exactly what you do.”
“It’s not. I can prove it to you, but something tells me that’s not actually what you want,” Shane says. “But I will if I have to.”
“I can handle it. I will be better behaved,” Ilya promises, before Yuna Hollander is already ushering them into the kitchen again.
————————
Ilya’s heart almost leaps out of his throat when he unlocks his apartment after a terrible roadtrip to find it already occupied. Despite the red eye from Vegas, Ilya had done his penance for the overtime loss on the ice at the practice facility before he’d considered going home.
He had been joined by pretty much the entire first two lines and all of the rookies. No one had said anything, but they had all worked on their own failings on the ice together. Ilya corrected the rookies’ form, and Connors tossed water bottles and Gatorade at Ilya’s head until he had been forced to drink one between his own brutal agility and speed drills.
Ilya does not understand—it had been a sloppy mistake by Ilya that had cost them that game, but all it had taken was Ilya opening his bag and dumping it open on the locker room floor to find his skates for the rest of them to lace up with him. And they had done every rep with him.
So he is exhausted, and he’s still hurting from the several harsh checks into the plexiglass last night and the puck he had stopped with his thigh; he probably should have noticed that lights were on well before he stupidly walked into a home invasion, but hindsight is 20/20.
“Hi. I’m guessing you didn’t get Shane’s message,” Yuna Hollander greets cheerily, despite Ilya clutching his chest and trying to suck in a breath after the shock of her presence.
“Hi, Ilya,” David adds from Ilya’s kitchen, where he is making something that part of Ilya registers as delicious and makes the exhausted, grieving mess of his stomach flip anxiously.
“What are you doing here?” Ilya manages, dropping his bag in the front hall. “How did you get in?”
“Shane gave us his key and his codes. You should look at your phone,” Yuna suggests.
“Why are you here?” Ilya asks, shaking his head. “What is going on?”
“We all saw the hits you took in San Jose, then Vegas. I know your ribs are at minimum bruised, likely cracked,” Yuna explains. “We’re here to help.”
Ilya feels like he’s been dropped into a parallel universe. “You have lives in Ottawa,” he says, dumbfounded. “Boston has trainers. I have seen them.”
“David works remote, and I can work from anywhere,” Yuna dismisses. “You need help if you’re going to make it through the regular season in one piece, much less playoffs.”
“I have it under control,” Ilya lies. “You do not need to worry about me.”
“But we will anyways,” David says softly. “You don’t have to do this all on your own, kid.”
“I will hire cleaners?” Ilya tries. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to worry Shane.”
“You should give him a call, but I fear neither he nor I will budge on this,” Yuna says bluntly. “You look even skinnier than Christmas, and I’ve seen the way LeClaire has been chewing you out on the bench. None of us want you to suffer alone with this.”
“I haven’t been performing as I should. We slipped to the wild card slot—”
“Because he’s been increasing your ice time despite your battered ribs,” Yuna cuts him off. “Shane gave me your schedule. I’ve got you booked with a good physio and masseuse and nutritionist this afternoon.”
“What—”
“She’s not gonna budge, kid,” David says, wiping his hands on the dish towel. “Come on. Let’s have a late breakfast so can catch some sleep before she overhauls your life.”
“How long are you staying?” Ilya asks, after he’s eaten as much as he can of what is put in front of him and is being actively ushered to his own bedroom.
He should have known when Yuna did not answer him that they have no intention of leaving.
————————
“Your mother is a force of nature,” Ilya mumbles into his phone, trying to distract himself from the several needles currently embedded in the backs of his calves and thighs. “Does she plan out your schedule in fifteen minute blocks?”
“No,” Shane answers, but he’s smiling. “Is acupuncture helping? I’ve found it’s the only thing that works for me during playoffs.”
“She barely lets me do my own dishes,” Ilya continues to complain. “It is all rest and recovery and strength training, as soon as I am back from practice.”
“You look stronger. Your speed against Carolina was the best I’ve seen since…” Shane trails off.
“Since Cliff,” Ilya finishes, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat. “You can say his name, Shane.” His voice is soft.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring him up,” Shane apologizes. “But if you want to talk about him, I’m here.”
“I haven’t had time to think about him,” Ilya confesses. “And then I feel guilty because I haven’t had time to think about him, and then I remember that we lost to fucking Carolina in a dogfight we had no reason on being in, and I don’t think there’s any way we make it to the Cup Finals.” He takes a shaky breath. “I’m trying to do this for him, but I really don’t think that I’m going to be able to do it.”
“All you can do is do your best,” Shane reminds him. “You’re playing good hockey, despite the fact that you’re held together with KT tape.”
“I’d be fucked without your parents here,” Ilya finally admits. “You need to tell me what I can get for them when I’ve got the brain space to repay them for keeping me alive.”
“They don’t want any kind of gift or thank you,” Shane says. “They love you, and they want to help you when you need it.”
“I shouldn’t need it,” Ilya says. “I’m an adult. I should be better—”
“Enough of that,” Shane cuts him off. “I want a good fucking match up when I’m in Boston next week. So listen to my mom and be fucking ready for a dogfight.”
————————
Boston keeps winning. Ilya keeps playing. He plays through LeClaire’s lectures about each one of his inadequacies, he plays through all of the bruises and brutal hits that he takes, and he plays even though he spends most nights staring at his ceiling and willing sleep to come.
David makes meals that he forces Ilya to eat at least a portion of; Yuna schedules every physio and trainer and treatment known to man to try and keep his decomposing body from failing him. He is never alone, but Ilya still feels like he is fundamentally alone on a raft at sea.
He trains hard, and he cannot stop himself from looking behind him for Cliff when a rookie finally manages something they had tried to get into them at training camp. He is the first in the gym and the last off of the ice, and it is never enough.
There is not much more of himself than he can give, but LeClaire is demanding what he’s got last and a whole lot more.
Ilya needs to be marketable during UFA. He needs to get Marleau the fucking cup. He needs to give him the legacy that he has always deserved.
He misses him. It’s so fucking quiet in the locker room after practices. The team has never been more united on the ice or off of it, but they have never spoken less than they have since November. There is very little partying, no celebrations—just a group of people sharing an impossible task and refusing to become the reason that they all fail.
Ilya is not going to remember much of these months. He feels like he is a ghost piloting his body from far above, observing without physical sensation or pain.
He has to keep going. Chasing the cup is the only thing keeping Marleau alive. He’s still on the roster for the team. It’s the last piece of him that the administrative bureaucracy of dying has not been able to cross off. As long as this season lasts for Boston, Cliff is on the roster.
Ilya cannot kill him twice by being the reason they lose.
————————
By the time Shane gets through the end of the season debriefs and locker room cleanouts, he only beats Ilya back to Boston by a few hours.
He’s not even that mad about Boston knocking them out of cup contention, because the first game in Florida had been an absolute fucking shitshow. Tampa plays dirty, and Shane thinks about the knees of his retiring vets on the backline and knows that they didn’t stand a goddamn chance.
Ilya, when he finally parks his stupid sports car, limps straight through the door and into Shane’s arms.
“If we lose tomorrow, he’s taking the C,” is all Ilya can get out. “He had us practicing as soon as we got off the bus.”
“Why on earth would he? Connors and St. Vincent are so fucking injured,” Shane says. “There’s still a lot of hockey left.”
“He told me he doesn’t think we’re getting past Tampa,” Ilya mumbles into Shane’s shoulder. “It’s my fault.”
“It’s only Game 2,” Shane says. “Why are you limping?”
“Are you staying?” Ilya asks Shane. “I know you’ve got brand stuff—”
“I’m staying,” Shane says firmly, his hands now seeking out the injuries he knows Ilya is sporting for himself. “You smell like a hockey rink and sweat.”
“No playoff sex,” Ilya teases, but there’s very little mirth behind his eyes. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve got you,” Shane promises. “Whatever you need, I’m here.”
“I don’t know if I’m here,” Ilya confesses. “I’m so fucking tired, Shane.”
“Then let’s rest,” Shane says, like it is simple. To him, it is simple. Ilya is on an insanity quest that leaves him a shell of a functioning human. Shane has fucking been there, in a much less grandiose sense. He intimately knows how fucking exhausting playoff hockey is, and that is without the months of grief and hardship leading up to it that Ilya has endured. “I think you’ve got a few hours before Mom has the calvary coming.”
“Do you think we can beat Tampa?” Ilya asks, as he gives up more and more of his weight to Shane’s strong presence.
“I think your team is winning because you’ve got no other options. You weren’t the better team against us, but you knocked us out in four,” Shane says honestly. “You’re all scrappy and desperate and that’s hard to beat.”
“We’re always on a power play kill,” Ilya says. “Have been since November.”
Shane just holds Ilya as he lets him work through whatever is going through his head as he thinks about his best friend and playoffs and his own sore and protesting body.
————————
“Regardless of what happens, the season ends tonight,” Ilya begins, still sitting down in the stall that has been his since he was eighteen years old. Regardless of what happens, it is his last time sitting in this spot in this locker room as this team’s captain.
He has thought about resigning with Boston many times since November. But this season has proven that he can’t stay. He can’t keep playing for LeClaire; he can’t keep letting him hold his best friend’s death over his head like a motivator. It’s going to kill him.
It already is.
So this is his last fucking dance.
“We’re all tired. We’re all hurting far more places than we’re not,” Ilya continues, looking each of his teammates in the eye. “We are not supposed to be here. In December, we were hanging onto a playoff spot with one measly point. We were projected to lose against Montreal, and then Tampa, and then Philadelphia. Everyone thought Colorado would sweep us in four.” Now Ilya stands, moving to the center where he can be seen and heard by his whole team.
“We have beat every team in our path that has been better than us So fuck being the better team. Play as hard as you fucking can, because this is the last game that we’ve got together. It’s the last game we’ve got with Marly.”
Ilya’s voice breaks, and it takes him longer than it should to keep his tears held back.
“Leave it all on the ice. Give it your blood and your sweat and your tears, just like you have all season. Do it for him. Win him a fucking cup on his last night on the team. Win it for all of us. Win it because we have no other fucking option. I want to watch them lift his jersey into the fucking rafters tonight. I know you do, too.”
He looks at LeClaire specifically.
“One last dance, boys. Don’t come back here with any regrets. Play with your fucking hearts and your legs aren’t going to feel how dead they are. Play with your hearts and play for him.”
There is no screaming. But the locker room is buzzing with a desperate energy that has been building all playoffs long. They’ve gutted out in seven game slugfests and they’ve passed every team that should have swept them on paper.
Ilya is swarmed in a mess of bodies, a group of men bound together by grief and who are all ready to leave their teeth and blood and sweat on the ice to come out of this with a win.
————————
Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals ends on a powerplay for Colorado. Ilya is on a triple shift trying to stop them from tying it late, their net wide open and Ilya playing defense, center, and winger as his lungs burn against broken ribs.
He doesn’t hear the final buzzer sound, but his body knows that it’s over for him. By the time the screaming and the sound reaches his ringing ears, Ilya has collapsed on the ice.
He fucking did it. He did it. He did it with three broken ribs and as many broken fingers, and he cannot do it a second longer.
Despite himself, Ilya still looks for Cliff on the ice for the celebration. It has felt so much like he’s been there that the fact that he is not still hasn’t sunken in for him. Once Ilya realizes that he is sobbing, curled over on his knees like a toddler, he is grateful that Cliff isn’t seeing him like this.
He is so fucking tired. He’s tired and he’s hurting and this is the last thing that has kept Cliff alive in Ilya’s mind. And it’s over. It’s over and there’s nothing left that he can fight for in his best friend’s name.
Connors gets to Ilya first, piling on top of him and holding him like he can physically hold the broken pieces of his captain together. “He’s so fucking proud of you,” is all Connors says, still-gloved hands ruffling Ilya’s hair and getting him off of his knees. “He is goddamn smiling with a shitty fucking Sam Adams. I know it.”
There are bodies swarming the ice, and somehow LeClaire is the next person to them. Ilya cannot tell what is a show for the press, what is genuine joy, and what is his own grief. “Thank you,” LeClaire says, shaking Ilya with his joy. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“I hate you,” Ilya says, uncaring of the microphone certainly still recording on his person. “I hate you so much.”
“I love you. Thank you for what you did for this team. Thank you for what you did for him. You’re a fucking legend, Rozanov,” LeClaire says into his shoulder, refusing to let Ilya go. “You got them here. You got us here.”
“I hate you,” Ilya repeats, and he really does not care that he sounds like a petulant child. He feels like one of Pike’s toddlers—he is so sick of giving this man his all and he is so tired and he is so fucking glad that he got this city and his best friend one last cup, but he cannot do this song-and-dance for a second longer. He cannot pretend that he feels anything but bitter grief and overwhelming relief.
He remembers the joy from last time.
He doesn’t feel any of it this time.
“I know, kid,” LeClaire says softly. “I know this was our last dance. Thank you for what you’ve done.”
“Get them out on the ice now. None is touching the cup until the Marleaus hold it,” Ilya forces out. “And get his goddamn jersey in the rafters. You promised me.”
“I’m proud of you,” LeClaire says, like it is what Ilya wants to hear and not something that sets off a fucking Molotov cocktail of rage in his gut.
“Coach, fuck off,” Connors says tiredly, pulling them apart. “Go accept the fucking cup and give us some peace.”
“Pull it together. The cameras are staying on for a while,” LeClaire warns Ilya, but he walks away to celebrate with the rest of the team. Ilya watches him go, until Connors barrels into his captain with enough force to knock the air out of Ilya’s chest as he hugs him.
“Tonight?” Connors asks. “Accept the cup, get it done, get you home to Jane,” he decides. “Now let’s go make sure that a Marleau lifts the goddamn cup.”
————————
The lights are still on when Ilya stumbles into his apartment hours later, more exhausted than drunk. All three of the Hollanders are still awake, and his rapidly jelly-ifying bones are quickly caught before he can hit the floor when he loses his balance trying to toe off his shoes.
Just like that, Ilya is crying again. There’s something about the softness of Shane’s t-shirt and his warmth and strength that just zaps the last bit of resistance he had been clinging to through all seven brutal games.
“We’re proud of you, son,” David says, reaching over to pat Ilya’s back gently even as Shane starts hauling them both towards the couch. “You made the impossible happen.”
“I’m so tired,” Ilya confesses, allowing himself to be deposited onto the couch. He wants to cling to his boyfriend, but his muscles are quickly becoming a part of the comfortable leather. “I’m so fucking tired.”
“I know,” Shane says softly, returning with a Gatorade and ice packs and himself. “I’m guessing you haven’t had anything but shitty light beer and champagne tonight.”
“Yeah. Puked it all up,” Ilya admits. “Can we just go to bed?”
“We can do whatever you want,” Shane says, even as he uncaps the Gatorade and hands it to his boyfriend. “You won the fucking Conn Smythe again. We’re tied, now. “
“M’gross. Shower, sleep?” Ilya suggests.
“Can you stand in the shower?” Shane asks doubtfully. When Ilya just stares at him, Shane gets the hint that not even Ilya is brave enough to say in front of Yuna and David. “Yeah, okay. Up we go, Captain.”
“Gotta wrap my tattoo,” Ilya says, slinging his arm around Shane’s shoulders. “Me and Hammy and Connors got ‘em done together.”
Shane doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but the small initials and number #7 on the inner side of his wrist are both not at all what he feared and exactly what he expected. “Why right on the bone, and not the back or front? That had to have hurt.”
Ilya demonstratively lifts up his gatorade bottle, and Shane gets it. He isn’t going to lift a beer for the rest of his life without seeing his best friend’s mark on his skin.
“Okay. Yeah. Let’s get you to bed, Ilya,” Shane says softly. “You can sleep for two weeks if you want.”
“I’m so tired. I’m so tired and now there’s nothing left,” Ilya says, as he allows himself to be led into the bathroom. “Had to get something permanent. So he’s never gone.”
Shane just brushes his thumb gently over Ilya’s cheekbone, before he kisses his forehead. “I love you. I’m proud of you. Let’s get the sweat and alcohol off of you.”
And that’s what Shane does. It is the most fucking PG-13 shower they’ve ever taken together, because Ilya cannot keep his eyes open or himself upright, and so he sits on the floor while his lover washes his hair and his body with far more care than Ilya has ever shown it. He makes sure Ilya is warm and dry and bundled into his comfiest clothes, and then he crawls into bed right beside him.
He doesn’t say anything, when Ilya sobs into his shoulder for twenty minutes before sleep mercifully takes him. He’s just there, his thumb rubbing circles on Ilya’s clavicle and his person safe in his arms.
Shane cannot wait until they can disappear to the cottage for several long weeks of nothing. He and Yuna have just one more week of organizing the movers and closing up Ilya’s business in America before he can whisk his boyfriend away so he can finally rest and exist without holding the entire emotions of a city on his shoulders.
It’s only one more week. One week to pack up a life and heal a body broken by an impossible season as much as they can.
————————
Ilya thinks about Cliff every day. He thinks about him when the news drops that he’s moving to Ottawa, and he imagines Cliff throwing every fucking swear word in the book at him when he hears the news. He thinks about him when he’s at the cottage with Shane, and when he realizes that the Centaurs suck on the ice but the locker room is something truly special. He thinks about how much Cliff would fucking love Bood.
He thinks about how Cliff would spoil Anya.
He thinks about him just as often as he thinks about his mama, and far more often than he thinks of his father, and then it takes too many days for the complicated tangle of guilt and grief to sort itself out inside of him.
He thinks about him after Shane proposes, and Hayden declares himself as his best man. Years and lifetimes ago, Cliff and Ilya made a stupid pact that they would be each other’s best man if someone was ever dumb enough to marry them.
There was never a world where Ilya wouldn’t honor that promise.
They don’t have chairs, but one is left empty metaphorically. Laurie and Taylor Marleau make the journey, and that alone means more than Ilya can actually put into words.
And then after Hayden’s speech, the microphone is handed to Laurie.
Shane’s hand squeezes Ilya’s tightly, and he pulls his husband tighter to him because he knows exactly what is coming next—he had been an integral part of its planning.
“Hello,” Laurie says nervously. “I don’t know how many of you know me, but I’m Laurie Marleau. You all probably are more familiar with me as Cliff Marleau’s mother.” She takes a shaky breath. “I was not surprised when Ilya invited my family today. Ilya has made it a point to call me every year on Cliff’s birthday and the anniversary of his death, and he sends me flowers from the same place in Boston Cliff used to for every mother’s day and birthday. He is family, and I am so grateful that I get to share in the joy of my son’s best friend. The reason I have the microphone right now is because I found something in Cliff’s old journals that I would like to share on his behalf.”
Ilya feels his throat go dry. He is clinging to Shane like he is the only thing keeping him upright.
“Not many people know that Cliff had journals. Taylor made him start when she started medical school, because she attended one lecture on CTE and memory and bullied him into it. It took me three years before I could open them, but now I read them whenever I miss him. I’m going to read one of his entries now, from September of 2017.
Training camp fucking sucks. I thought that Roz’s improved mood would mean he’d take it easy on us, but all it’s done is give him extra energy to whip us into shape. I could barely walk up my stairs to collapse onto my bed today.
I know he’s in a better mood because he spent all summer with his Jane. I tried to goad him about it today, and I asked him when he’s getting married and if our deal still stands. It’s the first time he’s ever not answered that with a blunt ‘nyet’. He said he hopes he’ll get married someday, but many years in the future.
I gotta get on the best man stuff now, because google said I would have to give a speech and I know for certain now that Roz and Jane are getting married someday.
So this is my first draft.
I have to start it with a confession—I know about Jane. I don’t know how or when I’ll tell him that I know, because I think he might kill me, but November last year was just so fucking bad. The team wrote a goddamn petition begging me to contact Jane, because that was the only way we thought we could survive the demon that possessed our captain. So I stole Jane’s contact off of Roz’s phone.
Imagine my surprise when I tried to save her contact only to find out that number was already in my phone as Shane fucking Hollander.
Someday, Ilya Rozanov is going to marry Shane Hollander and I think I am the only person who knows that this is real and not the worst weed hallucination of all time.
And I’m going to have to give a speech while his terrifying mom glares at me for that hit last year.
I’m already shit at this. Fuck.
Hollzy, I hope you know how goddamn lucky you are. You’re never going to find a man as loyal, kind, hot, or as good at hockey as Ilya goddamn Rozanov. I hope you know that this man is so stupidly head over heels for you that he’s making my life hell right now because he misses you.
I hope you know how happy you make him.
Roz always comes back from Russia and summer break a little… off. I’d rather chew off my own arm that push him on his family stuff, but I probably should have, because I have never seen Roz as goddamn happy as that first day back at training camp this year.
Roz and I also don’t talk about how it’s hard for him sometimes, I think, just getting through the day. We probably should. But there’s a lightness to him after he’s with you that I haven’t seen before.
So you better not fuck it up. Or I will fuck you up, even if your mom rightfully murders me for it. Got it, Hollander?
I’ve known Ilya since rookie season. We’ve puked on our shoes after too much shitty vodka multiple times that first year, and I know his Dunkin’ order and his favorite Russian bakery and how many fucking levels of Candy Crush he can get through on a four hour flight.
So treat him right, Hollander. I know you will, but I feel like I have to threaten you anyways.
I guess I should wrap up this fake speech. I’m supposed to wish you all happiness and health, but that’s boring and I think Roz would hate it.
I’m so fucking happy for you, Roz. I’m glad that if you’re getting married that means you’re probably not hiding anymore and that probably also means that it’s years in the future and we’ve won ten more Stanley cups. I can’t wait to be the godfather to your dogs. Congratulations.”
When Ilya raises his beer bottle to cheers, tears streaming down his face, he can see the tattoo peeking out from behind the rolled-up sleeves of his button down.
It’s a terrible fucking Sam Adams, but with the sunset and the warmth in his chest and the way he can still hear Cliff’s voice through the words, it is the most perfect fucking sip of beer he’s ever had in his life.
There’s a warm breeze that ruffles through Ilya’s hair, and he can almost imagine that it is his best friend deliberately fucking up freshly-washed curls.
He doesn’t know what to do with the information that Cliff knew, and that it had not changed a goddamn thing. It makes him want to cry or scream that Cliff had apparently predicted this wedding five years in advance and yet he doesn’t get to be here.
Ilya taps the tattoo idly with his free hand. That breeze drifts through his hair again. The Sam Adams in his hand is cold, and somehow the rookies have made sure that it is never empty.
“If you’re up there controlling the fucking wind right now, I’d appreciate if you’d pick up a shift in the fucking winter,” Ilya whispers to himself. “I miss you, buddy.”
Grief is Ilya’s oldest companion. He knows the shape of it better than he knows the caverns and ridges of his own mind after so many years of it hanging over his shoulders. He misses his mother and Cliff every day, and it does not feel any less painful than it did in the early days after their deaths.
Shane would remind him that they aren’t gone, because Ilya has made it a mission of his life to keep their memories and stories and life alive in this world.
Ilya will keep them alive for as long as he is able, but it does nothing to change the shape or weight of the grief.
Nights like tonight feel lighter. His mother’s cross is around his neck and Cliff’s number and initials are on his arm. They are with him the only way that he is able to keep them close. It doesn’t feel like enough, most of the time.
Not tonight. Not when Shane’s hand is squeezing his own and he is leaving a gentle kiss in Ilya’s hair. It is truly a perfect night, and Ilya is going to choose to believe that it is a gift from the ghosts that are always going to haunt him.
Ilya takes another sip of his beer. It is just as cold and refreshing as it was five minutes ago.
Cliff can give him shit about the lack of chairs at his wedding when they meet again. Ilya hopes that when it’s his time, what’s on the other side is Cliff and Mama and Shane and somewhere identical to where they are right now.
He knows that Cliff won’t mind if Ilya takes his sweet time getting there.