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Ilya Rozanov would like to believe there is a God.
He would like to believe that there is an afterlife, that his mother, Irina, is somewhere in heaven, gentle and sweet, no longer engulfed by the crushing sadness she must have felt before the weight of it all became too much.
Ilya thinks something inside of him is broken, something that died with Irina.
His mother’s birthday is in four days, and Ilya is flying back to Moscow with his husband. His husband, Shane Hollander, who is so gentle with him, just like Irina was.
Ilya knows, deep down, that he shouldn’t go back home. It’s not home anymore, not really. Shane knows Russia isn’t home for Ilya anymore. He knows how dangerous it is for people like them, a gay man and a bisexual man, to be roaming Moscow’s streets together. If anyone recognized them, Ilya doesn’t want to find out what would happen. But, somehow, if they were to be caught and faced with violence from people who don't understand, Ilya knows that Shane is the last person he'd be looking at, the last person he'd be touching, and he thinks he's okay with that.
It’s early in the morning, the house quiet and this side of the world still sleepy and slow. Shane is still sleeping when Ilya opens his eyes, and Ilya takes a moment to admire the freckles on his husband’s face that always seem to grow more prominent during the summer and last until deep into the winter.
He reaches over to the nightstand and checks the time and date on his phone; Friday, September 18, 6:27 AM.
Irina Rozanova’s birthday is in four days.
Laying in bed, in the syrupy slow morning, with his husband tucked against his side, Ilya thinks about his mother.
-
Ilya is five years old. He falls and scrapes his knee, and the shock of his own blood and the sharp sting of broken skin brings tears to his eyes.
Andrei calls him a crybaby, and it makes Ilya cry harder.
Irina consoles him softly, all gentle hands and soothing words. She hums a song under her breath as she cleans Ilya’s knee up, placing a colorful bandaid over the scrape, kissing over the wound with a tender smile.
“You are not a crybaby, my sunshine. Andrei is silly,” she says, and her hair is backlit by the lamp behind her.
Ilya thinks she looks like a goddess. He stops crying, and hugs his mother tight.
-
Shane begins to stir, making a soft, sleepy sound as he wakes, and it snaps Ilya out of the memory. “G’morning…” Shane mumbles, words a bit muffled where his cheek is pressed against Ilya’s shoulder, voice a bit rough from sleep. Ilya turns over to face him, giving the smallest smile as he brings a hand up to run through Shane’s bedhead. He’s always loved how crazy his husband’s hair is in the morning.
“Good morning,” Ilya says, and his voice is softer than usual, quieter. Shane knows Irina’s birthday is coming up, knows how his husband gets, how floaty and far away he seems. He presses a bit closer, letting his eyes close as Ilya runs his fingers through his hair.
“Slept well?” Shane asks.
“Yes. Had a strange dream,” Ilya says.
“Oh? What was it about?”
“I do not want to talk about it.”
Shane nods, deciding not to press further, and gives a gentle kiss to the tip of Ilya’s nose. “Breakfast?” he asks, bringing a hand up to cup Ilya’s jaw, rubbing his thumb over the apple of his cheek. Ilya nods, and the two take their time getting out of bed, stretching, yawning, clinging to each other as they throw comfortable clothes on.
Shane makes breakfast sandwiches for the both of them, letting Ilya help with plating them when he notices his husband just sort of hovering nearby.
They’re supposed to pack today and tomorrow, leave for the airport Sunday morning, and should be in Moscow by Sunday night. Ilya has a hotel booked already, has been working out the logistics in his head since he brought up the idea of going to his mother’s gravesite for her birthday. He hasn’t been back to Russia since his father passed and since he broke things off with Andrei. Russia hasn’t been home for a very long time, and it’s like going back to a ghost town where everything and everyone is stuck in the past.
Ilya doesn’t know if this is a good idea, but he wants to see his mother again. He wants to lay her favorite flowers on her grave, introduce Shane to her, tell her about everything he’s been through, everything he’s accomplished.
“Ilya?” Shane’s voice is soft, and Ilya realizes he’s been staring down at the table. “Eat something, sweetheart. You won’t feel good later if you don't.” Ilya nods, and takes a bite of his breakfast sandwich, the movement looking stiff and forced.
Throughout the rest of the day, Ilya feels like he’s on autopilot. He feels like a ghost, haunting the house more than actually living in it. Shane has to keep telling him what to do, keep reminding him that he’s here and present and alive.
“Brush your teeth, love. Don’t forget deodorant.”
“Drink some water, Ilya. You need to stay hydrated.”
“You were looking for your coat, remember?”
Shane doesn’t know grief as intimately as Ilya does. Both of his parents are still alive and well, both incredible people. His grandfather passed when he was a kid, but his relationship with the man was borderline nonexistent. His death didn’t hit as hard as it might have if he knew his grandfather better. His cousin’s cat died when he was a teenager, and Shane cried like the animal was his, but it doesn’t compare to losing a parent.
Ilya lost his mother when he was twelve years old. He lost his father when he was twenty six, but the man could have been dead long before that. He lost his brother, figuratively speaking, at the same time their father died.
Ilya has had too much loss in his life, whereas Shane has had next to none.
It’s odd, sometimes, when Ilya really thinks about it. Losing his mother at twelve broke something in him, he’s almost positive, but that something was slowly rebuilt when Shane came into his life; this frustratingly kind Canadian boy, the one who just had to point out that he shouldn't have been smoking in the ‘No Smoking’ area behind that rink in Regina the first time they ever met.
Sometimes, Ilya wonders where his life would have gone if his mother was still here. He wonders if he would have turned to hockey for some other reason. He wonders if he would have ever met Shane somehow. He wonders if he would have stayed in Russia, born in Moscow and destined to die in Moscow.
Shane does most of the packing that night. Ilya feels like he’s sinking, but he can't do anything to stop it.
The next morning, Ilya is the first to wake up again. He checks the time; Saturday, September 19, 7:12 AM. Irina Rozanova’s birthday is in three days. Him and Shane are leaving for Moscow tomorrow morning.
Most of the day is a blur of Ilya zoning out, Shane keeping him afloat, and both of them ensuring they have everything they need for the trip. Packing doesn’t take too long, both considering Shane had started last night and they aren't going to be in Russia for too long. Ilya doesn't want to stay long, and Shane understands.
Ilya thinks about his mother again, pieces of his life with her in it flickering in and out.
-
Ilya is seven years old. His mother takes him ice skating for the first time, and he looks like a baby deer learning how to walk.
Irina laughs as he stumbles and grabs onto her coat for leverage, the sound sweet and open. He knows she’s not laughing at him, but rather with him, and it makes him giggle with her.
She ensures Ilya is stable against the barrier around the rink before skating a few feet away and spinning a few times. She lifts her leg behind her like a figure skater, and she’s anything but graceful as Ilya laughs.
Ilya forgets about the fear of falling on the ice, and Irina buys them both hot chocolates before they go back home.
-
Sunday is another blur, but a bit more chaotic this time. Ilya feels like his limbs are made of lead. He feels like someone has stuffed cotton into his ears and pushed it all the way into his brain. He feels like one strong gust of wind could completely blow him away.
Shane sticks close.
He places a gentle, grounding hand on Ilya’s thigh as they're driving to the airport. He presses his shoulder to Ilya’s as they're getting their bags checked and standing in line through security. He holds Ilya’s hand on the plane.
Ilya lets his hand go when they touch down in Moscow. Shane doesn’t say anything, but he knows why they can't be all over each other here. They make it through the airport with little fanfare, no one recognizes them immediately, and then everything finally slows down once they're in the rental car and the doors are shut. Shane exhales a heavy breath. Ilya knows airports stress him out.
Ilya checks his phone; Sunday, September 20, 11:31 PM. Irina Rozanova’s birthday is in two days. He thinks about his mother again, how worn down she seemed just a couple years before she took her own life.
-
Ilya is ten years old. His mother is tired, he thinks. She doesn't play with him as often, her smiles don't quite reach her eyes, and she's been fighting with Grigori more.
He draws her a picture of the sky, placing a bright yellow sun in the corner of the page and fluffy clouds scattered like cotton balls. “Oh, my love, it’s beautiful,” Irina says. She holds the drawing like it’s something fragile and precious, pressing a big kiss to Ilya’s cheek that makes him giggle.
Her skin is paler, and Ilya knows it’s because she doesn't go outside much anymore. She lies and tells him that she stays inside to care for him and Andrei. Ilya knows it isn't true.
Andrei has gotten meaner and Grigori is hard on both Ilya and Irina.
The house is tense, tenser than it’s ever been, and Ilya forces himself to smile for his mother’s sake.
-
Ilya and Shane drive in silence to the hotel. It’s not tense silence, maybe not comfortable, but rather it’s just there. Just existing between the both of them. It’s not heavy, or sad, but it’s gentle and understanding.
The hotel is small. Ilya booked this one in particular because he knows it’s out of the way, a smaller space that not many people flock to, and it settles only a piece of the anxiety that's been building in his chest for weeks now. They check in, get their bags upstairs, and take a moment to breathe and decompress.
“How are you feeling?” Shane asks suddenly, his voice soft in the otherwise silence. Ilya doesn’t look at him, but he's got that look on his face that tells Shane he's thinking about something.
“I do not know. I am… jumbled,” Ilya says after a moment.
“Jumbled in a bad way, or in a ‘today was stressful’ way?”
“Today was stressful. And also maybe I am a little sad.”
“It’s okay to be sad,” Shane says, taking a seat on the edge of the bed next to Ilya. He rubs a soothing hand up and down his husband’s back, leaning his head on his shoulder. Ilya leans his head on top of Shane’s and lets his eyes close with a small sigh.
“Do you think she is cold?” he asks, voice quiet, almost a whisper. Shane doesn't respond at first, the question making his chest tighten. Every year, around Irina’s birthday, Ilya starts talking like she’s here with them. He asks about her as if Shane would be able to answer such painfully sad questions. Shane brings his other hand up to gently cup Ilya’s jaw, rubbing his thumb over his cheekbone with sickening gentleness.
“No… I think she's comfortable, sweetheart,” he says softly. Ilya doesn't say anything else. They fall asleep tangled together, Shane the big spoon because he knows Ilya needs any form of support he can get right now.
Shane is the first to wake up this time. He checks his phone; Monday, September 21, 9:55 AM. Irina Rozanova’s birthday is tomorrow.
Ilya cries when he wakes up. He tries to hide his tears, but Shane knows him like the back of his hand, recognizes how his shoulders tremble slightly, how he’s trying to hide his face by turning over and smushing his cheek into his pillow.
-
Ilya is eleven years old. His mother has gotten thinner and paler. She looks like she barely has the energy to sit up, and most days, she doesn't even get out of bed. She takes lots of pills these days, ones that are supposed to help her in ways that Ilya is unsure of.
“Are you okay, mama? Are you sick?” Ilya asks her one day, curled up beside her in bed. She's still warm like she always is, running a soothing hand through his hair. Irina gives him a soft smile, but he sees the way it doesn't quite reach her eyes. She is sad. Ilya knows she is sad, and he cannot do anything to make it better.
“I am just tired, my sunshine,” Irina tells him, “You keep my heart full, Ilya. You make me proud every day.”
“I love you, mama,” Ilya says.
“I love you more than you know, Ilya.”
-
The day comes and goes, and then it’s midnight, and Ilya whispers happy birthday to his mother before falling into an exhausted sleep.
—
Tuesday, September 22, 6:41 AM. It’s Irina Rozanova’s birthday, and Ilya feels like his head is being held underwater.
Him and Shane get dressed quietly and slowly, not saying much besides Shane checking in every now and then. Ilya knows he’s worried. He’s worried about himself, about how he might respond to seeing his mother’s grave again after so many years, but he needs to see her. He needs to tell her happy birthday. He needs to know that her gravesite is still being taken care of.
The drive out to the cemetery is quiet, layered by a veil of melancholy. Shane’s hand stays on Ilya’s thigh for the entire drive, a warm, comforting presence. He had suggested driving, but Ilya just shook his head, said something about knowing where to go, needing to be in control of something as simple as the vehicle and the direction of their travel.
When they get there, parked in the small parking lot just outside of the cemetery, Ilya takes a moment to breathe. He hasn’t been here in years, hasn’t seen his mother’s grave or read her headstone since his father died. They’re buried together, that much he knows, but he’s here for his mother today. He’s here to wish her a happy birthday, to tell her all about Shane and his hockey career, and everything he’s been through. He wants to tell her he’s been seeing a therapist, that he’s been put on antidepressants, that it isn’t her fault he took after her.
“Ilya?” Shane breaks through Ilya’s train of thought, his thumb gently rubbing over Ilya’s jeans where his hand is still placed on his husband’s thigh.
“Yes, sorry. I would like… Can you wait in the car for a minute?” Ilya asks, almost hesitantly, his eyes already shining with unshed tears as he looks over at Shane. Shane’s expression is sad, knowing, and he nods, reaching up to cup Ilya’s face.
“Of course. Just let me know when you want me with you, okay?” he says. He leans over the center console to give Ilya a gentle kiss before his husband gets out of the car.
Ilya doesn’t move for a moment, clutching the flowers he’d gotten for his mother’s grave tightly. He takes a deep breath, watching a young woman leaving the cemetery with wilted flowers in her hands. He wonders who she was visiting. Gathering the courage to put one foot in front of the other, Ilya starts walking, knowing exactly where he’s going. Despite it being years since he came here last, he remembers where his mother is buried. He doesn't think he’ll ever be able to forget.
Irina’s headstone is polished. There are purple flowers in the vase next to it, fresh and bright, like someone had recently taken the time to put flowers out for her. The first few tears fall at the thought, and Ilya brings a hand up to cover his mouth, takes a moment to swallow down the sob rising in his throat.
“Привет, мама,” he whispers.
Ilya kneels down, maneuvering the flowers already in the vase to add his to the mix, knowing someone had taken time out of their day to ensure his mother had flowers. He looks around and notices a few other graves with the same purple flowers, knows that some kind soul got rid of the wilted, rotting flowers that were once placed by loved ones who no longer show.
“С днём рождения. Я скучаю по тебе,” Ilya says. Happy birthday. I miss you.
He sits down, doesn't care that his pants may get wet from the grass, and just lets himself cry. He cries like a baby, sobs leaving his body like they’re being ripped right from his lungs, hands smoothing over Irina’s headstone like he would be able to feel her warmth again. Someone took care of her while he was away, and it makes his heart clench in his chest.
Once he’s mostly done crying, Ilya starts talking.
“I met a beautiful man, мама. He is so kind to me,” he says in English. Then he spills everything in Russian, knowing his mother would not understand what he is saying if he were to speak to her in English.
“His name is Shane Hollander, and… and he’s my husband. He plays hockey with me. I am on an NHL team, Mom. I play for the Ottawa Centaurs with Shane. I have a lot of friends now. I found my place, I think, and Shane is so good to me. We got married at our house, in our backyard, and our friends were there. We have a dog. Her name is Anya.”
Ilya tells Irina that he is bisexual. He tells her all about how Hayden accidentally outed them. He tells her about Shane leaving his old team, the Voyageurs, and signing with Ottawa to be with him instead. He tells her about how they bought a house and got a dog and got married. He tells her that he has clinical depression, that he’s seeing a therapist, that he was put on antidepressants after giving up on fighting that part of himself. He tells her it isn’t her fault that he turned out this way, that he’s sorry if she thinks it is. He tells her about hockey, and all the Stanley Cups he’s won, and how he made it all the way to the Olympics. He tells her about Andrei and Grigori, as much as that aspect of his life has pained him. He tells her about Svetlana, and about Scott Hunter coming out on live TV, and about how Scott’s brave display pushed Ilya to finally confess his love to Shane.
His words circle back to Shane more than once. Ilya tells Irina about how kind Shane is, about how supportive, and loving, and funny, and intricate, and boring Shane is. He tells her about how he loves that Shane is boring, how he loves how boring their lives have gotten after settling down, how stable and calm things have been.
He talks forever, and then finally, after crying all of his tears and spilling everything that’s happened since he first got drafted, he stands and makes sure to tell Irina that he’ll be right back. Ilya walks back to the car to see Shane scrolling through his phone, tapping his fingers against his leg, looking a little anxious. He knows how fidgety his husband gets when he’s left to wade through what's probably a million thoughts at once.
He opens the door, making Shane jump a little, and gives him a small smile. “Come meet Irina,” Ilya says softly.
They walk hand in hand back to Irina’s grave, and Shane is already tearing up once they get there. He reads her headstone; Irina Rozanova, September 22, 1966 - 2003, Mother, Wife, Daughter.
“This is Shane, мама,” Ilya says first.
“Hello, Ms. Rozanova… uh- Irina..? I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you'd prefer to be called,” Shane starts, and Ilya almost starts crying all over again at how considerate his husband is, “I’m Shane Hollander. Well, Hollander-Rozanov now. I’ve heard a lot about you, and it’s nice to meet you.”
Ilya grips the gold cross that's always hung around his neck, the one his mother wore, and he’s almost surprised that he has more tears to cry. Shane holds his hand tight, squeezing it when he feels Ilya’s fingers tremble.
“I’m happy to have met Ilya. I think you were an amazing mother, and that's how he turned out to be so great. I wish I could have met you, maybe… I’m sorry I didn’t ask for your blessing before marrying him,” Shane says. Ilya gives a small laugh at that, shaking his head, shifting his weight so he’s pressing his shoulder to Shane’s.
They sit and talk to Irina for what feels like hours, crying and clinging to each other and laughing about memories both old and new.
After everything has been said, once there’s a comfortable silence that falls over them and the rest of the cemetery, Shane’s head resting on Ilya’s shoulder, Ilya takes a deep breath. He presses a kiss to Shane’s head, nuzzling into his hair a bit, and then rests his head on top of his.
If Irina Rozanova is up in heaven somewhere, or in another universe, or maybe just in a quiet slumber in her coffin, Ilya hopes she is comfortable. He hopes that she isn’t cold, or scared, or sad anymore. He hopes that she is glowing like she always seemed to be when Ilya was a kid, that her laugh brings warmth to whoever she's with, that she is watching over him with a smile and a hand over her heart.
“Я люблю тебя, мама,” Ilya whispers. I love you, Mom. He lifts her cross and kisses it, and he feels like he can finally breathe again.