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When Ilya wakes, it is with the echo of his mother's voice in his ear, her words already fading even as he struggles to catch them. It's the worst part of waking, sometimes, losing the vivid memory of his mother's smile that he only seems to find in dreams. In dreams, she is there—flesh and blood, unchanged since the last good morning he had with her. Fortunately, his dreams don't often show the last moments, his subconscious giving him a break from the sight he remembers easily enough in his waking hours.
Unable to hold on to the dream, Ilya opens his eyes, letting the room around him come into focus. It's not as light as he would expect, the sky outside the window shrouded in gray clouds instead of the sunlight he's grown accustomed to. He shifts his head to the side and finds Shane already awake, half-propped up on his elbow and looking down at Ilya with a softness in his eyes that still takes Ilya's breath away.
"Good morning," Ilya mumbles in Russian, feeling his lips turn up into a smile.
Shane dips his head to press his lips to Ilya's forehead, the touch soft and warm. "Good morning," he repeats, his Russian clunky but improving. With his free hand, he brushes at the curls falling over Ilya's forehead and Ilya leans into the touch, letting his eyes fall closed again.
“You were talking in your sleep.” Shane’s voice is soft, tentative, his hand moving to cup Ilya’s cheek, his thumb brushing at a tear Ilya hadn’t felt fall. “In Russian.”
Ilya hums and opens his eyes to find Shane's brown ones looking back at him, searching for something in his face. He lets out a slow breath. "I was dreaming," he replies softly. "About mama." There's a tickle at the back of his throat, a telltale itch in his eyes, and he watches Shane's expression shift, the slightest crease in his forehead as he moves his thumb to catch another tear before it falls.
"Do you want to tell me about it?"
Ilya shrugs, the movement made difficult by the fact that he's lying half on his side, his body curled towards Shane's. "I don't remember it much now." The feeling is still with him, the warmth of her presence, the cold of her absence. "Just the usual, I think. She is here. Outside." His throat constricts and he swallows around it, blinking back more tears. He doesn't remember the exact tilt of this particular dream, but based on the lingering emotions he guesses it followed the usual format—wanting Shane to come outside and meet his mother, waking before it ever gets to that point.
Other things about the dream change. Sometimes his mother speaks, sometimes not. Sometimes he's speaking English, other times Russian. But a few things remain constant. It's always here, at the cottage. Always summer, the season that belongs to him and Shane in this place. And always waking before the two people he loves most can meet, can look at each other and share in the knowledge that they are the two people Ilya Rozanov has loved best.
“I wish…" Shane hesitates, and Ilya knows to wait. Sometimes he needs more time to find his words. For a while Ilya thought it was because of the secrecy of their relationship. Now he knows that's just Shane—careful and thoughtful, never one to speak without being sure of what he's saying. Shane's lips twitch into a self-conscious smile. "I wish I could understand what you were saying.” There's a slight break in his voice and Ilya feels a warm rush of fondness, exploding in his chest in a way he still hasn't quite gotten used to.
He shifts so he can lift his arm and lace their fingers together, moving Shane's hand from his cheek to press a soft kiss to the back of it. “You are learning.”
“Not fast enough,” Shane grumbles.
Ilya’s lips twitch upward. His husband, always the perfectionist, clearly taking it as a personal failing that he hasn't perfected a new language overnight. "Oh, sorry learning your third language is taking too long for you."
Shane rolls his eyes and lowers himself so his head rests on Ilya's chest and Ilya adjusts to bring his arm around him and pull him closer, the warmth of the moment doing its best to chase out the lingering melancholy from his dream. He presses a kiss to the top of Shane's head and looks out the window, watching as the first few drops of rain start to tap against the glass. They only have a few days left here before they return to their regular lives, and he breathes in slowly, not wanting to miss a moment.
"We should get up," Shane mumbles into his chest, making no move to actually follow through on his words.
In response, Ilya just holds him tighter, breathing easily for the first time since he woke. "No."
"We're supposed to have lunch with my parents."
"That is lunch." Ilya runs his hand up and down Shane's back, lazily tracing across his bare skin. "Is so far away."
Shane sighs, his breath ghosting across Ilya's chest. "I was going to go for a run."
"It's raining."
Shane chuckles, his voice slightly muffled from pressing his face into Ilya's skin. "Okay. You've convinced me."
Ilya presses a kiss to the top of his head, satisfied. "Good." With Shane in his arms, he finds he can push the strangeness of his dream to the back of his mind, tucking it away for now. He closes his eyes again with a content sigh and sees a flash of his mother's eyes, light and smiling, before he dozes back into sleep.
--
Ilya has lived more of his life without his mother than with her. In a few years, he will be older than she got to be. The knowledge of it sits in his chest, a hardened knot that he tries to avoid touching. She was only thirty-six when she died. More than a decade younger than his father, and never enough in his eyes.
To Ilya, she was everything. Beautiful and strong, with a laugh that sounded like music. Before she met his father, she was a skater. Sometimes, if Ilya asked nicely, she'd show him her old costumes and medals, letting him run his hands over the sparkling fabric and cool metal in gold and silver and bronze. The ice was something they shared. Alexei never had the skill or patience for it, and his father only cared once Ilya started winning. For a long time, the rink was a place just for Ilya and his mother, her smile visible in the stands as he skated drills and pushed himself to be the best he could be.
When she died, the magic went with her. The rink became another place shadowed by his father's expectations, standards that kept getting further and further away each time he thought he reached them. It was years before he felt that spark again—on a practice rink in freezing Saskatchewan, a boy with beautiful freckles watching from the empty stands.
"Next week is the anniversary of my mother's death," he tells Galina, breaking the silence that had filled the room once they exhausted the usual pleasantries.
Galina tilts her head and gives him an appraising look. "What is that day usually like for you?"
The word comes before Ilya can think about it. "Lonely." His therapist waits, giving him space to gather his thoughts. He sighs and looks down at his hands before going on. "My father and brother never… Never acknowledged it. Even the first year, when I was upset… Nothing." When he thinks of that time, he feels overwhelmingly alone. His father and brother going about their days, nothing but a sharp reprimand to Ilya when he couldn't stop his tears from falling at the dinner table. No mention of the woman who used to fill the empty chair at his father's side, no trip to the cemetery to lay flowers at her grave.
"And you were how old?"
"Thirteen."
His therapist nods, but doesn't speak. He knows how this works by now, that she's giving him space to reach the end of his thoughts, untangling everything that stands in his way until he can lay it all out between them. He goes on, looking down at his hands as the memories flow. "And then I moved to America, and it was during the start of the season. I'd have practice, or a game, and I'd…" He runs a hand over his face, through his hair. "Go drink, or fuck, or something." The shame that burns through him at the words is a surprise. He's never been one to apologize for his lifestyle, somewhat famously so. But those years were characterized by the same loneliness he'd felt at home taking a different shape. Surrounded by teammates, fans, lovers and admirers who wanted any crumb of his attention, and still completely unable to talk about the woman he missed more than anything.
"And this year?" She leaves it unspoken, how this year is different. The changes he's made in his life, the progress that feels agonizingly slow until he looks back at where he was before he forced himself into her office and started trying to be honest with himself. Teammates who care about him as a person, who see more sides of him than the one he projected for so long. Yuna and David, who got over their initial shock about him and Shane and made the decision to love him fiercely in a way he's still not sure he deserves. And Shane. Of course, Shane. His husband, who knows him better than anyone, who is learning an entirely new language to try and understand him even more completely.
Ilya shrugs. "We have practice, but no game that day or the day after. I thought I should do something, but…" He trails off, unsure what the end of the sentence was supposed to be.
"But?" Galina presses, not letting him off the hook.
He tries to put voice to the swirl of thoughts and emotions that have been growing over the last few weeks as he considered the date approaching. "Before, I'd bring flowers to the cemetery." Something he did himself, every year, his father and brother determined to have nothing to do with honoring his mother's memory. A carefully wrapped bouquet of lilies in hand, walking on his own because first he couldn't drive and then he couldn't be caught taking the car there. He'd wonder if he would ever feel her presence there, kneeling in the damp grass in front of an impersonal block of stone.
He inhales and exhales slowly, building up the courage to say what comes next. "I can't do that now. Sometimes I remember that I can never visit her grave again. And then I… I don't know why that bothers me. I never truly believed she was there in the first place, but now that I can't go…" He twists his face in an effort to stop tears from forming, his hand reflexively finding the crucifix around his neck. "It feels like losing something."
Galina gives him a sad half smile. He'd been nervous to talk about his feelings about Russia at first, never certain what feelings other Russian immigrants have about their homeland. It took time, some carefully dropped hints, and eventually Galina looking him in the eyes and saying she had no trouble hearing criticism of the country she left two decades ago and that she'd rather he be honest than beat around the bush. He appreciated the directness.
"What did you get out of visiting her grave?" Galina asks, her head tilted slightly as she studies him.
"What do you mean?"
She gestures vaguely with one hand. "What did you feel, before and after? Why was it something you kept doing?"
Ilya opens his mouth to speak, then stops. He's never really thought about it. It was the thing to do, the last place he knew where some physical memory of his mother remained, long after her presence was wiped from their house, her belongings stuffed in an attic or thrown away within the year after her death. "I wanted… I wanted to feel close to her. To know there was a place where I could…" His throat constricts and he clears it, awkwardly struggling through the feeling to speak before he loses his nerve. "Where I could know she was there."
Galina nods, her eyes thoughtful. Ilya has nothing left to say and he waits for her verdict, aware that she won't have a magic solution but finding himself hoping for one anyway. Finally, she speaks, slow and deliberate. "It sounds like you may want something tangible to remember her. Here, not across the world. Something or somewhere that you can go and feel connected to your mother. Does that sound accurate?"
He considers, then nods. He doesn't regret leaving Russia, certainly doesn't regret making Canada his home. But there is still a part of him that longs for the places his mother walked, the world he left behind that was the only one he knew her in.
Galina clasps her hands together and leans forward slightly. "Okay. Let's think about what that could be."
--
When Ilya gets home from therapy, he finds Shane on the couch, a book in his hand and Anya napping at his side. He's wearing his glasses and gently stroking the fur on Anya's head with one hand, only removing it to turn a page. Ilya stands in the doorway, a rush of fondness warming his chest as he takes it in, the calm domesticity softening his edges that always feel more sharp after therapy sessions. It's a moment before Shane notices he's there, his lips tilting into a soft smile as he looks up from his book and finds his husband across the room.
"Hi," Shane murmurs, his voice slightly hoarse from disuse. "I didn't hear you come in."
Ilya shrugs and crosses the room. "I was quiet." He dips his head to give him a kiss before settling onto the couch beside him, opposite Anya. The dog lifts her head briefly, looking around at the change and settling back down once Ilya reaches over to scratch behind her ears.
Shane places his bookmark in his book and leans to set it on the coffee table, then turns to Ilya and runs a soft hand along his cheek. "How was your session?"
Ilya leans into the touch, softening under the gentle slip of Shane's thumb against his cheek. "Okay." He presses his body into Shane, seeking the comfort of feeling his husband beside him, and closes his eyes when Shane shifts to put his arm around him, pulling Ilya into his side. Lips brush against Ilya's forehead and he lets himself savor the sensation of being surrounded by warmth, the way Shane knows exactly what he needs without him needing to ask for it.
Eventually, he feels relaxed enough to return to the conversation with Galina, the plan he'd made before coming home. He lifts his head from Shane's shoulder and looks him in the eye, smiling slightly at the barely-there pinch in Shane's expression, concern written across his face that Ilya thinks would be imperceptible to anyone else. "There is something I want to talk to you about." Shane's hand stills where he has been running it up and down Ilya's arm, and Ilya smiles slightly. "Nothing bad."
Shane nods, his hand resuming its movement. Anya continues to sleep on his other side, her quiet snores punctuating the silence of the room.
Ilya takes a breath. "Next Wednesday is the anniversary of my mother's death." The words come out rushed, afraid he'll lose his nerve and never say them if he doesn't get them out as fast as possible. "I want to do something."
Shane blinks at him, his face softening into an expression so fond and careful that Ilya feels tears prick at the back of his eyes. "Okay." Carefully, he moves his other hand from Anya's fur to take Ilya's, their fingers twisting together like second nature. "What do you want to do?"
Ilya squeezes his hand and lays out the plan he'd come up with under his therapist's careful prodding. "I want to go to the cottage. I know it would not be for long, but… It is a place I think she would like. We could go after practice in the morning, get back before practice the next day."
Shane nods, his voice tentative when he speaks, slowly like he's weighing the words as he says them. "We could miss Wednesday practice. Get on the road early, spend the whole day."
"You would miss practice?" Ilya raises his eyebrows, looking around with exaggerated alarm. "Who are you and what have you done with my husband Shane Hollander?"
"Shut up." Shane laughs.
"Shane?" Ilya calls, still looking around the room. "Shane, if you hear me, this body snatcher will not get away with it!"
Shane leans into his shoulder and slaps his free hand against Ilya's chest, his laugh bright and beautiful. Anya lifts her head at the noise and movement and gets up with a huff, sending them both a withering look as she settles on the other end of the couch and curls back up to sleep. They both watch her with a laugh, then Shane turns back to Ilya. "I'm just saying," he continues. "I think Wiebe would understand if we missed one day."
Ilya leans in to kiss him, unexpectedly overwhelmed with emotion. When he pulls back, he knows Shane sees the tears glinting in his eyes. "Okay." He lays his head back on Shane's shoulder, sighing happily when Shane's arm tightens around him. "Thank you."
Shane presses a kiss to the top of Ilya's head, letting his lips linger as Ilya closes his eyes to savor the feeling. They stay that way for what could be hours or minutes, Ilya isn't sure. There is no rush to move, nowhere they need to be, and Ilya simply lets himself be held.
--
They arrive at the cottage mid-morning, and Ilya breathes in the clear air when he steps out of the car and goes to let Anya out. She bounds excitedly around him, alternating between jumping up at him and dashing around the yard, sniffing all around the borders of the grass. Before she can get too close to the lake, Ilya whistles, and she comes trotting dutifully back to him, greeting him with a lick of his hand. "Not polite, Anya," he admonishes, wiping his hand on his sweatpants before going to help Shane get their things from the trunk.
"What is this?" he asks, lifting a cooler he didn't remember packing.
Shane's cheeks flush slightly. "Oh, um. I told my mom we were coming and… Why." He says it a little guiltily and Ilya touches his cheek, nodding so Shane knows there was no line crossed. "She made something for us. Or, well, you, mostly."
Ilya blinks, looking down at the cooler in his hand. The lump in his throat returns and he tries to cover it by calling for Anya, herding her into the house with Shane close behind. Shane gets straight to work unpacking the groceries they brought—just enough for the day and a half they'd spend here, but neither of them wanted to bother going shopping once they arrived—and Ilya carefully opens the cooler and pulls out the glass container nestled inside.
"Pelmeni," Ilya exclaims when he lifts the lid, smiling at the neatly formed dumplings dotted with herbs. He wonders if Yuna bought a mold for them, or if she learned to shape them by hand. His own mother had always done it by hand, insisting that what worked for her ancestors would work for her.
Shane looks over his shoulder. "Dumplings?" he guesses.
Ilya nods. "My mother used to make these." His vision blurs, and he supposes he should get used to having tears in his eyes today.
Shane's hands snake around his waist, pulling him in so Ilya's back rests completely against Shane, Shane's chin on his shoulder. "My mom always made dumplings when I was younger too. I guess that's sort of a universal food."
Ilya chuckles. "Every culture has learned to put meat and dough together."
"Those don't look like hers, though. Different shape."
"This is the Russian way," Ilya explains, replacing the lid on the container and reluctantly pulling away from Shane to place it in the fridge. "She must have practiced." He makes a note to thank Yuna personally, for the time and effort she clearly put in to giving him some comfort today.
The sound of aggressive squeaking gets their attention and they move to the living room to see Anya has found her toys and is delightfully pouncing on a limited edition Centaurs dog toy that all of the team dogs were gifted. She grabs it in her mouth and tosses it in the air, letting out a yelp of confusion when it falls back on her head. Ilya and Shane laugh and meander into the room. Ilya settles on the floor next to Anya, picking up the toy and moving it around for Anya to try and grab, chuckling softly when she starts zooming around the room in between efforts. Shane settles on the couch and Ilya adjusts to lean against his legs, every now and then tossing the toy for Anya to bring back to him, a game that seems to focus her a little better.
It's nice. No different from how they usually pass their time at the cottage. But beneath it lies a weight in Ilya's chest that he can't quite ignore, that he feels in the way his smile doesn't sit comfortably on his face, that he hears in the slight hollowness of his laugh. The press of Shane's legs against his shoulder helps, but Ilya knows it won't be enough. Not today.
The thing is, he's spent the last few years seeking distractions on this day. If he could play hard enough, drink enough, fuck enough, he could forget the way this date on the calendar had the power to render him useless and small, drowning in a grief he couldn't afford to show. When the emptiness came from him, once he found himself alone at the end of the day, he'd let it. He never had something—someone—to pull him out.
Shane's hand touches his shoulder. "You okay?"
Ilya looks up and realizes he's been frozen in place, Anya laying in front of him and looking expectantly at the toy in his hand. He nods and tosses the toy to her, watching as she sets to work chewing on the squeaker. Once he's sure she's content playing on her own, he lifts himself to sit beside Shane, curling into him on instinct and sighing when Shane's arm comes around him.
"I do not know," he answers honestly. "I feel…" He waves a hand vaguely over his chest. "Heavy."
"Yeah." Shane nods, and Ilya feels the movement against the top of his head. "I get that."
"But also…" He lifts his head to look at Shane and feels his heart settle at the comfort in his husband's eyes. "Nice to not ignore it. Or try to stop feeling it."
Shane brushes his hand against Ilya's cheek and he leans into the touch, turning to kiss Shane's palm. There are emotions warring inside him, complex and conflicting, but with Shane in front of him he doesn't feel as terrified that they will pull him under. He can look in Shane's eyes, feel his touch on his skin, and know that he won't be left alone with these feelings ever again. That even though Shane never knew Ilya's mother, he had already done more to lighten the burden of his grief than any of his blood family.
"Do you need anything?"
Ilya shakes his head slightly, not enough to move Shane's hand from where his thumb lightly caresses his cheek. "Not now. Just want to sit, I think."
Shane nods and leans in to press his lips softly to Ilya's forehead. Ilya lets his eyes flutter shut as he rearranges himself to lean against Shane, practically sprawling across his chest in the way he used to long for but held himself back from. They sit like that for a while, Shane's hand tracing gentle patterns along Ilya's back, their breathing quiet and even. Once she tires herself out with her toys, Anya hops up on the couch on Ilya's other side and tucks her nose against him, like she also senses his need for contact.
Ilya breaks the silence, remembering what he and Galina talked about. "I want to plant a garden. Here, maybe. If flowers will grow."
"That sounds nice. What kind of flowers?" Shane's voice is soft, and Ilya wonders if he's already mapping it out, considering the perfect place to fulfill Ilya's wish.
"Don't know. Wildflowers, maybe. Ones that are…" He searches for the word, his English more difficult under the emotional weight of the day. "Native. They can attract butterflies."
Shane smiles. "Okay."
"When I was young, my mother had a garden." His voice catches in his throat and he instinctively reaches for Shane's hand. "Scattered seeds everywhere. My father hated it." Grigori Rozanov lived by order. Everything in its place, doing exactly what it was meant to do. Ilya remembers him scoffing at the colorful flowers that grew around their house, leveling cutting remarks at his mother about the waste of time and the eyesore of it. Ilya loved the garden. He loved sitting outside with his mother while she cut flowers for vases, listening to her hum to herself as she worked. Sometimes he thinks it was the happiest he ever saw her. He clears his throat. "I think she would like something like that."
Shane presses his lips to the top of Ilya's head. "I would like it too."
Ilya's lips twitch close to a smile, his plan settled. "Okay."
They lapse back into silence, and Ilya lets his thoughts wander. He thinks of Russia, a place that no longer comes to mind when he thinks of the word home. He feels guilt about that now, that the life he shared with his mother has become part of his past, no longer the place he returns to at the end of his longest days. Home is here—this cottage, the house they share in Ottawa, hotel rooms and practice rinks and anywhere he can look into Shane Hollander's eyes and see the love reflected there.
If his mother were still here, he thinks she would fit into this new home. She would love Shane. He knows this with a fierce certainty carved deep into his bones. They both have a gentleness about them, a vulnerability that they do not show the world but only those lucky enough to see past the veneer they face outwards. Ilya sometimes wonders if things would have been better for his mother if she'd had more people to see past that, to witness the depth of her struggling and reach a hand to pull her out. He'd seen it. He'd tried.
Tears fall against his cheeks and he feels Shane brush them away every now and then, saying nothing but never letting Ilya forget his presence. He is grateful for it, leans into the touch when he can, closes his eyes and breathes and tries to remember that here is the place where it is okay to let his tears fall.
--
Irina Solovyova was meant to be a champion. She earned a scholarship to the most competitive skating academy in the country at eleven years old, leaving her struggling hometown behind for the cold city streets of Moscow. All that time, she was told it would be worth it. In their letters, her parents said how proud they were of her, how they wanted the best for her, how she would go further than they ever did. And for a time, they were right. She kept training new, harder skills, executing them with a grace and elegance that made the other girls seethe with jealousy and talk behind her back about dulling the blades of her skates.
Her rise was meteoric. Three junior national titles in a row, a silver medal in her first senior national championship. Fire in her blood as she trained for the next year, the crowd roaring as she claimed gold. European competitions, world competitions. A whirlwind of a life, spending all of her time in the rink, skating until her feet were numb and bloodied and she could barely feel her legs but had to keep pushing because this was all she was, the only way she could hope to make something of herself.
Until a poor landing on badly tended practice ice left her shattered in more ways than one. Surgeries to fix her leg, doctors whispering about the possibility of walking again, coaches staring down at her in a hospital bed with faces set in hard lines. Doors closed in quick succession, a one way train ticket back to the life of poverty she never truly escaped. Her name forgotten, quickly replaced by one of the dozens of girls who had always secretly hoped she would come tumbling down. Her world dimmed, the colors faded. Her future stretched ahead of her, dull and harsh, all of her promise stripped away in an instant.
And then, a military officer, stationed in her hometown. He saw her walking to the bakery, her limp slowly improving though movement could still cause her agony without warning. He took interest in her—a broken bird, with no power to resist—and followed her home to the small apartment she and her parents shared, waited to be invited for tea. She was tired, by then, dazed by how quickly she'd lost everything. Too weak to do more than get from sunrise to sunset, she didn't think to protect herself from a man who looked at her like something to conquer.
They were married within the month.
Less than a year later, she gave birth to a son, and felt her world shrink. She loved her child, but something had broken in her that she feared could never be repaired. Her husband was distant and uninterested in making her comfortable in this new life. She was mean to stand by his side, to be seen not heard, to tend to his son and raise him to carry the family name well. When a second child was on the way, she prayed and prayed for a daughter, in the hope that she might avoid her father's scrutiny and be free to live as she pleased.
When her second son was born, he didn't cry. Irina clawed at the bed, consumed with a need to reach her baby, to pull the trapped sound from his lungs with her bare hands. A nurse held her back, shouting about her being too weak, and she felt tears stream from her eyes, hot and punishing, sinking into darkness until she heard the most beautiful sound in the world. Her son's cry, loud and strong, reaching across the room in reassurance that he was there. She held him in her shaking arms and tried to make a promise that this time, she would do it right. This time, she'd be enough.
And for a time, she was. She loved both of her sons, but Alexei was already lost to her by the time she learned how to be a true mother. His father's son, for all the good and the bad, he learned quickly to look at her with disdain as she cut flowers for the table and hummed the songs her mother used to sing to her. She tried, but she knew he was a lost cause.
Ilya was her second chance. Perhaps it was his rocky start, but he clung to her in a way Alexei never did, her little shadow from the day he was born. Babies don't know they are separate from their mothers until six months old, a woman at the grocer told her, cooing at Ilya in his little kolyaska. She sometimes wondered after that if her son ever learned that he was supposed to separate himself, if she should have tried harder to let him.
The first time she took him skating, she felt a flutter of something she hadn't felt since the jump before the fall. It was weaker now, buried under years of pain and loss and resentment. But as she watched Ilya toddle along on his skates, his lips pursed in determination, she wondered if she might find that light again.
She tried. She tried to be good, to be what her sons needed, to be the wife she was expected to be. But the darkness crept in, no matter how she pushed against it. It hovered in doorways, slipped into bed at night, tucked itself away in the corners of her mind until it couldn't be ignored. There were things that cast it out. Ilya, quickly becoming the best on his hockey team, skating over to her with a grin wide and unburdened at the end of each game. The flowers that bloomed in the garden she planted, an eclectic mix of pinks and purples and golds, growing where she let the seeds fall from her hand. Alexei, those rare times she had his attention, allowing himself to accept her affection outside of his father's influence. Little moments of light she tried to cling to even as she felt herself sinking further and further away.
--
As the light outside shifts towards afternoon, Ilya gets restless. They've missed practice for this, and he can't help the prickle of shame that creeps over him, the voice in the back of his mind that sounds an awful lot like his father chastising him for wasting the day.
Ilya's father used to say he got his laziness from his mother. Drive and work ethic were traits that belonged to his father, that Ilya could claim in his eyes too rarely, no matter how many hours he spent pushing himself to the point of exhaustion. But when Ilya was six, his mother took him into her bedroom and pressed her finger to her lips before pulling a worn suitcase from under the bed, opening it to reveal all she kept from her skating days. He still remembers the soft twinkling sounds of medals brushing together, the feeling of them cool and solid as he brushed his finger over their surface in awe. In the photos, he saw both his mother and a stranger. The smile frozen on her face, becoming rarer those days. The elegance in her posture, the overwhelming beauty of movement that he could sense even in still photos. She worked so hard, and lost so much. He never saw laziness in his mother. Only love, protection, a fierceness that he only hopes he can carry with him every day.
He feels the urge to move, to unburden himself with all the things he wants to say to his mother. Years of unspoken conversations have piled up and he hates that he spent so long afraid to address her memory, seeking out distractions to stop himself from feeling it. He gets to his feet, patting Anya on the head when she grumbles at the disturbance, and answers Shane's questioning look.
"I want…" He pauses, knowing Shane won't take what he's about to say the wrong way but feeling guilty for it nonetheless. "I want some time by myself. By the lake."
Shane nods. "Okay." He stands too, then reaches out to cup Ilya's face in his hands. "Tell me if you need anything?"
Ilya nods, warmed by Shane's careful attention. "Thank you." He gives him a gentle kiss then steps outside, feeling Shane's eyes on him as he walks down the lawn.
He settles on a rock overlooking the water, a spot where he and Shane often come to watch the sunrise. It's not cold enough yet for the lake to freeze, though he knows it'll happen sooner than later. Winter comes in with a fierceness here, in a way that reminds him of his youth trudging through snow while icy wind cut at his skin.
"Hello, Mama," he says softly, directing the words across the open water. "I miss you." He speaks to her in Russian, finding comfort in the language they share, one he doesn't use as often anymore even though Shane is trying his best to learn. He waits, like the sky will open up and her voice will rain down on him, shaking his head at the silliness. That is not how this works. All he can do is say what's on his mind, and let himself believe there is some way she can hear him. "It has been too many years without you, and I still miss you every day. I wish I could call you. See you in the stands at games. Watch you play with Anya—that's my dog, she's the best. I try to think of what you would say to me. Probably that I need a haircut."
Once he starts, he can't stop. The words flow easier than ever. Here, in a place his mother never saw, he feels like he can speak without restraint, no longer looking over his shoulder for his brother's cool judgment, his father's bitter disappointment. This is a place they cannot touch.
"Shane is here with me. We missed practice, which, I'm sure you know, for Shane is…" He makes a noise like an explosion, chuckling softly to himself. "He loves me so much, Mama." He runs his hand over the rough expanse of rock, overwhelmed by the enormity of his feelings. "Sometimes on my bad days I think I don't deserve it. And then I wonder if you ever felt like that. Like you didn't deserve my love."
Ilya pauses and takes a few deep breaths. He's talked about this with Galina. It took many sessions for her to unravel the tightly guarded truth of his mother's death and the guilt he has carried since. He's working on accepting that it wasn't his fault. He certainly knows more about depression now, from his own therapy and from the foundation. In theory, he knows that depression is a complicated mix of chemicals and conditioning and genes and a whole host of factors researchers are still trying to pin down. He knows his mother was in need of professional help and in a situation where she could never get it. He knows that at twelve years old, he could not shoulder her burdens for her. He knows all of this. That doesn't mean he always believes it. So, they're working on it.
"I'm sorry, Mama," he whispers. "I'm sorry Father was terrible. I'm sorry no one helped you when you were struggling. We are trying to do better." Tears are flowing freely now, his voice thick with them. "With the foundation. We want to help people feel less alone. Because I couldn't help you. But maybe I can help someone else's mama." He sits with that for a moment longer, not fighting the tears but closing his eyes to let them run, feeling wrung out and tired but oddly free once they stop.
Ilya opens his eyes and looks out at the lake, everything around him appearing brighter. "I love you, Mama," he says softly. "Always."
--
Irina is somewhere warm. There is the sound of water nearby, lapping lazily against a shore. Unfamiliar birds call to each other, the sound carried on a soft breeze that tickles against her skin. Through the wind, another sound, one that makes her chest ache with recognition.
Ilya. Her son, her golden boy, her light. He's talking to her, like he often does. Telling her about his Shane, this man who came into his life when they were both young and scared and so lonely, who made him smile and promised through everything to love him. She thinks she knows Shane, through Ilya. Loves him completely, knows he shares her love for her son.
She regrets leaving Ilya on his own. His father always saw too much of her in him. Sharp words tried to force it out, to shape his son in his image, but Ilya resisted. She wishes she'd been stronger. He has some of those parts of her, too. The darkness at the edges, the heaviness that likes to settle in and make its home in your chest, whispering in your ear that you are a burden to the people you love. She is glad Ilya seems better at not listening to it, at telling someone what it says and trusting their loving words over the darkness's manipulation. He is strong, and so so loved.
He talks to her now, and she listens, letting his words wash over her like a wave, hoping he feels her there with him.
--
Ilya sits and looks at the lake stretching out before him, listening to the brush of wind through the trees and the birds calling to each other as they swoop over the water. It's peaceful. He feels himself settle into it, the tension he's been carrying in his body fading into nothing, his breath coming easier as he closes his eyes and breathes in the fresh pine-scented air.
In a few minutes, he will go back inside. He will pet his dog, kiss his husband, and eat pelmeni lovingly prepared by his mother-in-law. They will tidy up the kitchen together and then move to the couch, or maybe straight to bed, curling into each other in the way that's become second nature. And Ilya will tell Shane stories about his mother, about everything that made Irina Rozanov special. About how she showed Ilya what it meant to love someone completely and that even though his love wasn't enough to save her, he knows now that it was everything. He will let Shane into his grief, feel its weight lighten as he shapes it back into love, scatter pieces of it here in this place that was home to him from the moment he first arrived.
In the summer, wildflowers will bloom in the yard, and he will know his mother is with him. He will know she is loved, and that will be enough.