Chapter Text

Ottawa, Ontario

July 7th 2003

It had been nearly a month since Ilya’s birthday.

Since his father failed to call.

Although, Ilya didn’t know if it counted as ‘failing’ if he didn’t actually try.

Either way, he was done with it.

He was done expecting things from his father. Done hoping he’d visit. Done wondering if his brother would ever acknowledge his existence. Every unanswered phone call only broke off another piece of him.

So he stopped worrying about it. He put all his focus into his mother. And hockey. Mainly hockey since his mother works a lot, but it did him good. He was better than he’d ever been. He was currently leading his team in points, and everyone hated playing against him. As of right now, life was pretty good. Better than it had been a month ago.

Ilya was currently in the locker room tying his skates. He listened to his buddies ramble on about their amazing weekend, not that he paid too much attention. Troy sat next to him going on and on about how awesome his other team was. How they went out for pizza after every game. How everyone there was really nice. Especially his new friend Dallas Kent. Ilya didn’t pay too much attention to that either. He didn’t want to hear about how awesome his ‘real team’ was. He tried not to be bitter about it, but every time Troy brought it up, it was just another reminder of all the things he misses out on. Ilya doubts he’ll ever make it professionally with hockey since he doesn’t have the money to do all the experiences he needed to actually compete for real, and he’s made peace with it. That part is true. But that doesn’t mean he likes to hear other people talk about all the opportunities he’ll never have. Maybe if he stayed in Russia his father could’ve afforded it, but after a year of being away from him he knew moving was what was best for both him and his mom.

He does miss her though.

“Hey.”

Ilya glances over to his right, Troy had finished getting dressed and was now leaning against the locker beside him.

“You busy this Saturday?”

Ilya shrugged.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” A pause. “Probably not.” Troy grimaces sympathetically. It was the last game of the season, so Ilya’s summer was going to be pretty much spent doing a whole lot of nothing. Besides missing hockey. Missing his mom. Missing a lot of things, really. A sad summer for someone so young, but there wasn’t anything anyone could do about it, so there was no point in being sad.

“My team’s got a game. It’s going to be the last one till next season.” Troy pauses, waiting for Ilya to get the hint.

Ilya nods politely.

“Okay.”

“You should come.”

Ilya sighs. Troy had asked earlier this year and had gotten shot down pretty quickly. Ever since then, he’d been scared to ask again. But it was the last game of the season, and Troy really wanted his friend there.

“Me?”

“Well, yeah. I know you said you didn’t want to last time-”

“Then why you ask again?” Troy hesitates, his timid smile slipping off his face.

“I just thought, since it’s the last game….” Troy trails off, looking like he wanted to bolt out of the room to escape the awkwardness.

Ilya hesitated.

Watching other kids play the kind of hockey he’d always wanted to wasn’t exactly his idea of a good afternoon, but his eyes grow softer once he notices his friend’s rigid stance. Almost like he was afraid the ground would swallow him up if Ilya didn’t agree to go to the game.

“I…” Ilya trails off.

“You don’t have to.” Troy says quickly, keeping his head down, out of sight of Ilya’s lingering gaze.

“I just thought it’d be fun. But my dad can’t make it anymore. He’s on a business trip, so I just thought you might want to. But I understand if you can’t.”

Whatever trace of hope Ilya found on Troy’s face was flickering in and out like a broken light bulb. Like he was scared to let himself hope for it, but wanting desperately to believe in something.

Ilya knew that look all too well.

Plastered on his face every night for the last year waiting for the phone to ring. To hear their voice. To forgive their overdue apologies.

With one last second to think about it, he finally gives in.

“Okay. I will go.”

Ilya decided that the smile that spread across Troy’s face was worth it.

—

Friday arrived far sooner than Ilya would’ve liked. He stood outside the arena with his hands shoved into his pockets.

“You do not have to go in,” Irina said softly beside him. For the first night in a long time, she wasn’t working. Ilya almost called to cancel on Troy once he found out, wanting to spend as much time with his mother as possible, but he didn’t want to watch Troy’s face fall, or hear the lies in his voice when he tells him that it was okay. Plus, it was easier to go through with it when his mother said she’d go with him.

“I know.”

“If this is too difficult—”

“It is okay.”

Was it?

He wasn’t sure.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled open the arena doors, his mother trailing behind.

The familiar smell of ice and sharpened steel greeted him immediately. It felt like home. And somehow… Not at all.

He watched as the players moved with confidence. Their passes were cleaner than anyone on his own team. Their shots were harder. Parents filled the stands wearing matching jackets. Some carried cameras. Others shouted encouragement every time someone touched the puck.

Ilya found himself wondering what it would’ve been like.

To wear that jersey.

To skate beside Troy instead of watching from the stands.

When the game was over, everyone flooded outside. He watched the parents hug their kids, offering them ice cream to celebrate their big win. Meanwhile, he stood outside next to his mother waiting for Troy to come bouncing out of the arena.

He doesn’t have to wait long, seemingly pretty eager to greet Ilya. Or maybe it was to see if he actually showed up.

“You came!” Ilya walks forward, meeting Troy half way, and greeting him with a half smile.

“I said I would.”

Troy huffed out a laugh, his face flushed, ears ringing from adrenaline.

“Yeah. I guess I just thought you might chicken out.” He watches as a frown makes its way onto Ilya’s face.

“I am not a chicken?”

Troy laughed, running his hand through his growing black hair.

“No, it’s just an expression. It means like, backing out of something cause you’re scared.” Troy hesitates, afraid he might offend Ilya with his next words. “I thought you might back out or something. Like not come to the game cause you were scared or something.” He admits, slowly sinking into himself, as if it could make him smaller.

It only seemed to confuse Ilya more though. “Chickens are scary?”

“No it’s-” He cuts himself off, letting a shy smile slip onto his face. “Never mind. It’s not really important. So, what’d you think of the game?”

“It was good. I was afraid you would do bad and I would regret coming.”

Troy grinned. “Just admit you had fun.”

Ilya tilts his head side to side, as if he were contemplating it.

“Was not so boring like I thought it would be.” A beat. “But your skating is still slow. If Kent had not caught up to you, you would have given up a breakaway.”

Troy huffs, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, yeah I know.” Ilya always teased him for his slow skating. And it wasn’t necessarily that he was slow, it was just that Ilya was super fast. Faster than anyone on their team that’s for sure.

A voice interrupted them.

“Troy.”

They both turned.

A tall man wearing the team’s jacket approached with a clipboard tucked beneath one arm. He looked between the two boys.

“You’re Rozanov?”

Ilya blinked.

“Yes? You know me?”

The coach smiled.

“I’ve actually wanted to meet you for a while. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Troy looked far too pleased with himself.

“I might’ve talked about you a little.” Troy grins proudly. He’d been trying to get Ilya on the team for months now, hyping him up maybe a little too much, not that he didn’t know Ilya could live up to everything he said.

“A little?”

“Maybe more than a little.”

The coach chuckled.

“Your coaches speak pretty highly of you too.”

Ilya hums.

“Yes. I am very good. I did not know they talked to other coaches.”

“They say you’ve got great hands. Great vision.”

He paused.

“And that you’re one of the fastest kids on the ice.”

Ilya wasn’t sure what to say. For one, he was definitely the fastest. And two, he never knew what to do when someone complimented him.

Ilya didn’t have to think of an answer, as the coach continued

“If you’re ever interested… We’d love for you to join our program next season. Tryouts are in August, but I have no doubt you’ll pass with a breeze.” He waves his hand through the air like he wasn’t altering Ilya’s life. Like what he was asking was for him to just borrow a pen.

For one brief second… Ilya forgot to breathe.

His heart pounded against his ribs.

They really want me? I’m good enough? He thought to himself. And obviously he knew he was really good. Good enough to get on the team, but it was different hearing it from someone else.

Then reality settled back in.

His smile faded.

“I cannot.”

The coach frowned.

“Already committed somewhere else?”

Ilya shook his head.

“No, is just…. My mama cannot afford competitive hockey.”

The words came out quieter than he’d intended. He kept his gaze on the ground, feeling almost embarrassed that he couldn’t afford it.

The coach’s expression softened.

“Oh.”

Silence settled between them. An uncomfortable one. But it doesn’t last long.

“Hey sweetie. Are you ready to go?” Irina asks softly, coming to stand beside her son to rest a hand on his shoulder. She looks up, noticing the coaches presence.

“Hi. You must be Troy’s coach.” They shake hands, offering each other a smile.

“Hi. Nice to meet you. Coach Wiebe.” They break apart, Wiebe glancing down to Ilya for a moment before looking back up. “And yes I am Troy’s coach. I was hoping to be Ilya’s next season.”

Irina gasps, a smile spreading across her face. “Dorogoy! That is great!” She smiles down at her son, but it falters when she seems him frowning.

Ilya glances between his mother and the coach, before speaking quietly.

“Eto bol’shiye den’gi, mama. YA znayu, chto u tebya ikh nemnogo, poetomu nichego strashnogo, yesli ty ne smozhesh’ za eto zaplatit’.” (It is a lot of money mama. I know you do not have a lot, so is okay if you cannot pay for it.)

His mother frowns slightly. She hates seeing Ilya sad. It felt like ever since they moved, it’s all he ever was. He never expects anything, or asks for things, like he was always expecting the answer to be no. And she felt guilty because she wasn’t around much. He spent more time with the neighbors than he did with her. She would do anything to see him smile again.

Now though, she wasn’t contemplating whether or not she could afford it.

She was counting what she’d have to give up.

Even fewer nights at home.

Even more overtime.

Another winter coat that could wait another year.

Maybe she’d finally fix the washing machine next spring instead.

But it was all worth it, if she could see her son smile like he used to. Even if it was only for a minute. It was worth it.

She smiles, kneeling down in front of him and placing both hands on his shoulders.

“Chto zh, ya stal bol’she rabotat’ i bol’she zarabatyvat’. Bylo by neplokho rasporyadit’sya etimi den’gami s umom.” (Well, I have been working more. Making more money. It could be good to put it to good use.)

Ilya freezes. “Deystvitel’no?” (Really?)

“Konechno, dorogoy. YA prosto khochu snova videt’ tebya schastlivym.” (Of course honey. I just want to see you happy again.)

And for the first time in years, Ilya’s face welcomes a toothy smile, this time hope feeling louder than disappointment.

Ottawa, Ontario

December 2007

The snow fell softly, hitting the rooftops of cars and buildings, before slowly melting to the ground. Cool wind blew past the trees, breaking branches and cracking the crunchy leafs left over from fall. The sky bled blue as the sun dipped into the earth, moving on to give sunshine to someplace else for a few hours. The streets were bare, not a single person in sight, leaving the white powdered snow to cover up the old footprints left by pedestrians throughout the day.

But despite the oncoming storm, and the whistling wind blowing harshly against his rosy cheeks, Shane stood outside Bean+Brew, waiting patiently. Foolishly, more like. It was Tuesday evening, and Shane wasn’t going to let the storm stop him from his and Ilya’s tutoring session. He hoped Ilya felt the same way, though it was doubtful, as he’s been standing outside waiting for him for nearly half an hour. His ears tinted red, and his nose ran runny, but still, he stood in front of the bakery window, almost wanting to break his diet and stuff his face with a donut for being so stupid. Of course Rozanov wouldn’t come. He didn’t even want to come when it was nice out, there was no way he’d come in this shit show of a storm. Not when there were no signs of the storm slowing down.

Shane waits another five minutes before sighing. Realization sinking in, he adjusts the straps on his shoulders and starts his walk back home. He gets a few feet when a voice calls out, almost going unheard over the grating wind.

“Leaving already? I just got here.”

Shane whips his head around fast, almost too fast as he nearly falls face first directly onto the icy patch of snow. At first he thinks he was just hearing things, the snow pelting down harder, leaving him with almost no vision in front of him. But as the figure walks closer to the door, pulling out the key that sat cozy in his pocket, he can make out the annoying, cocky, smirk he’s grown to hate.

“You’re half an hour late. Where were you? I’ve been standing outside like an idiot waiting for you to show up.” Shane complains, carefully moving his feet towards the door as Ilya gets it open, not wanting to fall and embarrass himself even more.

Ilya groans, not even bothering to kick the snow off his shoes as he heads inside. “No need to be work up about it. I am here now, yes?”

Shane follows him inside, breathing in the warm air as the door shuts, leaving the snow and wind behind. “You mean, ‘get worked up’?” He questions, watching as Ilya makes his way behind the counter. Probably to make himself a coffee.

“Yes, that is what I said. Coffee?” Ilya asks, raising his own mug in the air before quickly going to work in brewing a pot.

“You want to make me coffee?” Shane takes a hesitating step towards the counter, sliding his bag off his shoulders before placing it on the tabletop.

“Well, we both know you can’t make it. Well, not good.” Ilya smirks, catching a hint of Shane’s scoff before turning to face the pot once again.

“It’s already almost five. If you drink that coffee now you’ll be up all night.” Shane states.

“I am already up all night. Now enough questions, you have too many of them. Yes or no?” He holds up the mug one more time, offering a last chance to claim it, but Shane just shakes his head.

“It was like one question. And no thanks, I don’t drink coffee.”

Ilya huffs, blowing a raspberry between his lips before rolling his eyes. “Boring.”

Ten minutes later, they were sitting at a table in the far corner, away from the window, and the whistling wind howling through air. It was just the two of them so they didn’t bother going into the storage, though it was better for Shane’s back not to be leaning down so much, he had more room to lay out his papers perfectly in the back. Ilya didn’t seem to think too much about it, but then again, when did Ilya think much of anything. He got the luxury of sitting and sipping happily on his cup of coffee without a care in the world while Shane stressed about how he was going to have enough room for his colour coded notes and cue cards. Life was truly unfair.

“The storm is going to get worse and then we will be trapped here. We should have just scheduled again.” Shane ignores him, continuing to lie out his papers, picking them up and replacing them in a different order.

“Hollanderrrrr.” Ilya whines, dragging out every syllable.

Shane replies, keeping his eyes trained on his work. “You complain too much.”

Ilya huffs, dramatically falling forward to bang his head against the table.

“Hey!” Ilya lifts his head up to see Hollander staring wide eyed at all the papers he was currently laying on top of.

Slowly, Ilya gets up and looks at the mess. “Oops.” Ilya apologizes, if you could even call it that. Shane just groans, before redoing everything again.

-

“Hollander, I cannot take this anymore. My brain is dead now.”

They had been studying for an hour and a half. Ilya had spent eighty of those minutes bitching about the way Shane wrote, the way he talked, the way he organized his pencils, but Shane’s had enough with him.

“Oh my god, do you ever stop complaining?” Shane brings his hands up to rub at his temples, trying to get rid of the ache pulsing against his skull.

“Maybe I would not complain so much if you taught me something useful.”

Shane’s jaw drops momentarily, before he quickly recovers. “I can teach. You just can’t listen.”

“Not my fault. We have been here for hours,” Shane rolls his eyes at the exaggeration. “and the only thing I have learned is that you organize your pencils by how sharp the led is.”

“Organize? That’s a pretty big word for someone who doesn’t know how to spell it.” Shane mumbles under his breath.

“Hmm, you want to know what I think? I think you do not want to help me. You just want to be in control. So you over work me to make yourself feel better.”

Shane knits his eyebrows in confusion. “Over work? Rozanov, it’s been an hour and a half.”

Ilya doesn’t say anything else, just scoffs and walks over to the sink behind the front counter, dropping the mug into the sink with a bang.

“If you didn’t plan on graduating, you probably should’ve stuck with hockey.”

Ilya halts, his back facing Shane. And for a moment, he doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. He just hovers over the sink, gripping the corners tightly as if it could make the ringing buzz in his head go away. The words were simple enough. Simple enough to go over Shane’s head as he focuses back on his own work. Simple enough to get stuck in Ilya’s own head. Enough to make him freeze. To pass on any comebacks.

But Ilya felt the weight of the words. He felt them overload his brain, and crush the bones in his shoulders. He felt them in his veins, traveling up to his erratically beating heart.

But it wasn’t that simple, though Shane would never understand how effective his words were.

Or so Ilya thought.

Ilya finally gains his breath back. His strength. His will to move, and run out of this cafe as fast as possible.

Shane looks up at the sound of ruffling. He sees Rozanov quickly pulling his winter coat over his shoulders. Watched his shaky fingers zip it up. Then make his way over towards his toque and scarf.

“Where are you going?”

He doesn’t get an answer.

“Rozanov?” Shane gets up, panicked at the sight.

“Enough for today. I am going now.” Shane watches the other make his way to the door, confident he could make it home in the storm. But as he hears the wind battling against the store windows, he knows Ilya won’t make it ten steps out of the door.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you-” Shane starts, but he gets waved off.

“I will be fine.”

Shane doesn’t say anything else. He stands back as Ilya confidently opens the door, nearly toppling over from the wind, before stubbornly marching out.

Not even ten seconds later, the bell above the door rings as Ilya walks back in. Every inch of clothing covered in snow. Every inch of skin was red and blotchy and shivering. And Shane had to fight back a laugh at the dead look in Rozanov’s eyes.

“Not a word.”

-

Once Ilya got dried off and had (mostly) stopped giving Shane the death glare, they were sat back at the table in front of the thousands of papers Shane thought they needed. But unlike before, Ilya didn’t spit out any sarcastic comments, or bitch about the work, or make fun of the colored cue cards. He was, uncharacteristically quiet. Which was even more concerning than his usual insults.

Still, even though he sat quietly through Shane’s dialogue of the difference between territories and provinces, he didn’t seem to be paying much attention, if any at all. His gaze stayed trained on the only spec of table that wasn’t covered in papers. He stared at it like it was the reason he was so suddenly miserable.

“Are you even listening to me?” Shane questions, finally looking up from his colour coded map of Canada, something he was sure Ilya would have laughed at him for, but he stayed silent. Not giving any hints if he even heard Shane’s question.

“Hello?” This time Ilya looks up from the table, raising his eyebrows like he was annoyed at the interruption.

“What?” Ilya asks, clearly irritated.

“You’ve been staring at the table ever since you sat back down.”

Ilya sits back, letting his arms hang across the back of the bench. “Oh really? I have not noticed.”

Well, at least his sarcasm is back. Shane thought to himself.

“Look, I understand you’re over it. Lets just do one more thing and then we can be done.”

Shane has to look away from Ilya’s intense stare, instead, moving to take out a piece of paper from his binder and placing it down in front of him.

“Just write out the provinces in each space correctly. I know it sounds boring, but it’s a great cheat sheet for later in the year when we get into the more advanced stuff.”

-

They continue like that for twenty more minutes, spending over half of that trying to fit Saskatchewan into the tiny slot. Shane packs up all his stuff while Ilya stands by the door, like he was deciding whether or not the storm had calmed down enough to walk home. By the time Shane had everything packed away, Ilya had found his way over to the side of the front counter, sitting down with his phone in hand. Shane makes his way over as well, sitting down across from him, his back leaning against the smaller counter.

“No service. The lights will probably go out soon too, so I guess we are stuck here.”

Shane nods but doesn’t answer. They sit in silence for another thirty minutes, Ilya scrolling through his messages, and Shane scribbling in his notebook.

Truthfully, Ilya hated silence. He heard it after every fight. After every hit his father gave. Every time someone left and never returned. It was cruel and unforgiving, and Ilya hated it with every fiber in his body.

Still, he stays silent.

He scrolls through his lasts texts with his mother. Her saying she’d be home soon. Ilya now knowing it was a lie. She hasn’t been home in months.

Before he knew what he was doing, his hand goes up to the crucifix laying gently across his chest. He recalls the last memory he had with his mother in person. They were standing by the door, her wanting to say goodbye. Him not wanting to. Her hugging him. Him letting go sooner than he should’ve. All because of a stupid fight.

He didn’t cry when he thought of her. He didn’t get a lump in his throat at the thought of not seeing her. First came the numbness. The dull pulse in his veins trying to get him to feel something. To feel anything, because she at least deserved that. And when he finally did let the emotions through, it wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t guilt. It was anger. Because even though he knew he shouldn’t be, he was still angry. At her. At the universe for taking him away from Russia. Because yeah things were bad in Russia, but at least he had her.

“What’s that?”

Ilya shakes his head, trying to get rid of the unwelcoming thoughts, and looks up from his phone he’d dozed off to.

Shane is staring back, his eyes zeroed in on the chain Ilya was currently clutching to his chest. He unclenched his fist, letting it fall back to its rightful place, before going back to scrolling through his phone.

“Nothing.”

Shane squints his eyes, trying to see it better, and wishes he brought his glasses so he could see all the little details.

“Is that a crucifix? I didn’t know you were religious.” He puts his notebook down, for some reason now more focused on the chain.

“You do not know a lot of things about me, Hollander.”

Shane nods, fiddling with the string unraveling from his brown plaid sweater. “It looks nice.” He spits out, somewhat awkwardly.

And Ilya doesn’t know why he responded. Maybe it was out of boredom. Or the fact that he needed something to distract him from the loud banging of the wind and fallen branches against the window. Or maybe it was just to fill the awkwardness that settled in the air between them.

“It was my mother’s.”

Shane goes still at the confession. The string falling against his wrist, forgotten.

“Where is she now?” He asks hesitantly, almost not wanting to know the answer, but deep down already knowing what it is.

Ilya puts his phone down but doesn’t look at Shane. Instead, he focuses his gaze on the ceiling. On the flickering lights, hanging above them.

It takes him a while to respond, thinking he maybe shouldn’t be confessing any of this, but they had no where to go for who knows how long, so he might as well.

“She is…. not here. Gone now. They say I will see her again, but I don’t know. I think I probably won’t.”

As Shane sat across from him, he started to piece things together. He was seeing Ilya from a new perspective. Now he understood why he was the way he was. Why he always hid behind humor. Why he always seemed like he hated the world. If Shane’s mom was dead, he’d probably hate the world too.

“I’m sorry. That must be hard.”

Ilya goes to open his mouth, a sarcastic remark ready on his lips to put his all too known facade back up, when a loud bang rattled through the air, shaking the ground.

“What the fuck was that?” They both jumped at the noise, Shane calming down when he realized it was just something thrown against the store windows by the wind. Ilya though, stayed rigid and tense, not totally convinced it wasn’t someone trying to break in.

“It was just the wind.” Ilya whipped his head towards Shane to find him staring intensely at his stiff form. He immediately forces himself to relax, as if he was embarrassed at the fact Shane saw him panicked.

“Obviously. I am not stupid.” Ilya ignores the looks Shane gives him at the statement, instead leaning back against the counter and closing his eyes.

Shane is quiet for all of ten more minutes before he’s speaking up again.

“So, did you wanna do something?” He asks.

Ilya lifts his head up towards him, blinking slowly. “What?”

“Well, we’re probably going to be here for a while, so I just thought-”

“Thought what?” Ilya cuts him off, irritation slipping through his voice. “That we would become best friends and braid each others hair because we are trapped here?”

“No- I just- I just thought that we-” Shane sputters out, startled by Ilya’s sudden outburst.

“We are not anything Hollander. We are not friends. We are barely co-workers. So when we are not doing work or studying for meaningless tests, we don’t have to talk. We don’t even have to be civil. Da?” Ilya leans back with closed eyes once again, seemingly done with the conversation.

“You know, you’d probably have more friends if you weren’t such an asshole.” Shane mutters under his breathe uselessly, before picking up his notebook again.

“I do not need friends.”

A pause.

“I don’t need anyone.”

-

Hours had passed in silence. Shane had fallen asleep at around ten, preferring to stick to his routine schedule, even though they were still trapped in the store. The lights had gone out shortly after that, though Ilya doesn’t mind. He actually prefers the dark, because his mother told him not to be afraid. That the darkness wouldn’t last, the sun was just moving on to shine for other people for a while. He had spent a lot of time in the dark. That’s where he had the majority of his favorite memories.

That comforting feeling knowing that once it got dark enough, the yelling from his parents would grow quieter. Sitting by the window after hours, while he waited for his mother to come home from work.

It was currently 1:00am, Ilya wide awake, his blue trained steadily on the glass windows. Preparing for every bang. Every incoming flinch. Every rattle of the wind.

He could never sleep when it was loud. Every fight with his parents, left their screams permanently embedded in his brain, keeping him awake even after the fight was over. He was used to late nights. The times on his alarm clock burned into his retinas every hour like clock worth.

1:00am

2:00am

3:00am

4:00

It was practiced behavior now. He was lucky if he fell asleep before four in the morning.

Which is why Shane had to shake the tired confusion out of his head once he found Ilya, awake and focused, all his attention still on the awaiting blasts echoing through the cool store air. Though they were getting less frequent.

“Rozanov?”

Ilya’s eyes stayed focused on the windows, watching them like a hawk, and Shane isn’t quiet sure he even heard him. But after a minute of silence, Shane clearly having no intention of going back to sleep until Ilya told him why he was awake, finally speaks up.

“Go back to sleep Hollander.”

Shane ignores him, sitting up from his uncomfortable position against the counter.

“Why are you up? What time is it?” He asks, holding back a yawn.

“I am waiting for the storm to go away. Now will you go back asleep.” Ilya made it seem like more of a demand then a request.

But after another moment of watching the boy clench his fists at every noise made outside, he decided to ignore him.

“You’re scared of storms?”

Ilya sighs, not giving any information away. And truthfully it wasn’t the storm itself that had the chills creeping up every bone in his body. It wasn’t even what could be in the storms. But every bang, every rattle made him feel like he was back in his childhood bedroom in Russia, hiding from his father’s screams. His promises that the hit would be the last one. But it was never the last hit. And this wasn’t going to be the last storm, so there was no point in letting it get to him.

“It’s okay. We’re all afraid of something.”

“For a tutor, you are terrible listener.”

Shane reels back, more annoyed than hurt or even confused by the statement. Annoyed that every time he tried to have a serious conversation with Ilya, he resorted in insults hidden with a deep layer of sarcasm. Ilya was possibly one of the hardest people to talk to, Shane found.

“Excuse me?”

“I said we do not have to talk. I don’t want to talk, so why is your mouth always moving?” Ilya complains, a groan slipping through his lips, though his eyes never left the windows.

“Why are you such an asshole?” Shane retaliates, frankly done with Ilya’s attitude. “I have been nothing but nice to you, but all you do complain about how much you don’t like me.”

“Because I don’t.” Ilya shouts, his eyes finally leaving the stained glass. “Is nothing personal Hollander, I don’t like most people. You want to tutor me? Fine. But that doesn’t mean I have to be nice to you. If that makes me asshole, then whatever. The world is filled with them. Is better if you learn that sooner than later. Now if you are done trying to braid my hair, will you leave me alone?” He turns his body back to face the windows, not caring to see Shane’s reaction.

He doesn’t see the overwhelming tears well up in his eyes. He doesn’t hear each deliberate breath he takes, like he’s trying to calm down a panic attack. And he doesn’t see him get up and walk away, though he can feel the presence of the empty space he leaves behind.