Chapter Text
Ilya knew that today would be difficult, but he didn’t expect it to be more difficult than any other year.
His mother died when he was twelve. It had been fifteen years. Fourteen anniversaries had come and gone, and now it was number fifteen. Just another day of mourning, of painful memories, of wishing he didn’t have to remember his mother as a victim of her own mind. Another day of wishing that the ‘accident’ didn’t happen, that he could have been quicker, that he could have been there.
So why was this day so much worse?
It couldn’t just be because it was a no-practice day, on account of their early morning flight the next day to play the Admirals.
It couldn’t just be because he and Shane were spending a lazy day with the Hollanders, Shane and Yuna in the kitchen while David and Ilya worked on a puzzle.
It couldn’t be because he had dreamt of Irina last night.
Definitely not.
It wasn’t the dream where she beckoned to Ilya and he couldn’t get Shane to move fast enough to meet her. No, this one was a memory.
Ilya’s team had just won the championship game for his little league 10-year-olds team. He had only gotten 2 of the 3 goals scored by his team, and he could already feel the frustration curling in his gut at his father’s disappointment. And it was like his mother could tell he was dreading the celebration, because she overtook his father in getting to him.
She wrapped him in a hug, her arms squeezing him as tight as she could. Ilya pressed his nose into her shoulder, breathing in her scent of feminine musky perfume and shampoo and —
He woke at the time his father would have broken up the hug, anyways. A natural conclusion to a dream - a memory - before it became a nightmare.
So why did he feel like he was missing something?
“You alright, Ilya?” David asked him in a quiet voice.
Ilya suddenly realized he had been staring at the same edge piece in his hand for the past five minutes. Ilya flashed a smile, settling into the present, and put the piece in its place.
“Yes, am alright.” Ilya said, taking another piece.
David let it drop.
They worked on the puzzle for another half-hour or so, listening to Yuna and Shane amicably bicker in the kitchen while they cooked dinner. Ilya hadn’t been listening while Shane detailed the dinner Yuna had planned on the drive over, focusing instead on the curve of his husband’s - his husband’s - nose.
Moments later, Yuna called David and Ilya into the dining room.
Ilya hoped dinner wasn’t something no-carb, no-dairy, no-fun. He didn’t need that right now.
It was chicken parmesan. With a shit ton of freshly grated parm in a bowl in the middle, next to a heaping pile of saucy pasta and breaded chicken breasts bigger than Shane’s.
Ilya felt a smile grow on his face. “Is real pasta? Not cauliflower or whatever?”
“Shut up, Ilya. It’s real pasta and bread.” Shane said, taking a seat.
Ilya joined him, sitting across from Yuna.
They served each other, giving heaping portions of food on each other’s plates. David moved the cheese to Ilya’s side of the table, Ilya put extra chicken on Shane’s plate, then topped off Yuna’s wine. They made comfortable conversation, laughing at stupid jokes and poking fun at each other.
Ilya thought he was doing a good job of hiding his subdued mood.
He chirped at Shane, giggled with Yuna, agreed with David. He drenched his pasta in parmesan cheese, drank his Coke, forced another piece of garlic bread on Shane’s plate.
When the time came to clean the dinner plates, Ilya helped David clear everything while Yuna and Shane bickered about something. Ilya wasn’t really listening.
Ilya started washing the dishes. David stacked bowls and scraped plates, Ilya scrubbed the baking pan. He moved without thinking, using the plastic scraper to chip away at the baked-on cheese. The water was warm against his hands, the glass dish gripped carefully in his fingers.
At some point, David went to go frost the brownies that he had made before Ilya and Shane arrived. Ilya didn’t know what kind of brownies they were, but he secretly hoped they would be double chocolate, with no bullshit nuts or fruit.
Ilya kept loading the dishwasher. He dried all of the pots and put them back in their places. He even wiped down the sink.
There was a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to see Yuna.
“It’s alright, Ilya, it doesn’t need to be perfect.” Yuna said.
“Shane has influenced me.” Ilya teased, squeezing out the sponge before rinsing his hands.
The chirp must not have reached his eyes, because Yuna squeezed his shoulder.
“Are you doing okay?” Yuna asked.
Ilya nodded, drying his hands. “You and David both asked. I am good.”
Yuna stared at him, unblinking and unwaveringly patient.
Ilya sighed, drying his hands and leaning against the oven. It was still warm, the latent heat warming his lower back.
Ilya opened his mouth, then closed it. He bit his lip, averting his gaze from Yuna’s eyes. Her eyes weren’t sparkling with determination, or pride, or aggression, they were just sad. Sad and wide.
Ilya sighed again, rubbing his arms absent-mindedly.
“Is anniversary of mother’s death. Fifteen years ago.” Ilya said.
“I know, baby.” Yuna said.
“Something is… off. Different, this time.” Ilya muttered, rubbing at his chin.
Yuna hummed, leaning against the oven next to him against the oven.
Ilya felt a startling pull in his chest. A sudden pang, rocketing from behind his sternum to slam into his stomach.
He wanted Yuna.
Not the way he wanted her son. He wanted Yuna to hold him, to push his bangs out of his hair, to coddle him when he is sick, to laugh at his jokes no matter the quality.
He let out a shuddering breath and turned to Yuna. “May I please have a hug?” He asked quietly.
Ilya spoke in perfect english like that was going to hide his embarrassment.
Yuna didn’t notice his english or his embarrassment. She just gathered him in her arms and held tight.
Ilya wrapped his shaking arms around her waist. He leaned down, pressing his face into Yuna’s shoulder. His eyes stayed open, peering through the fluffy sweater Yuna was wearing to look at his trembling hands where they gripped his elbows.
It wasn’t enough.
“You won’t break me.” Yuna chuckled, but it was thin and sad.
Ilya flattened his hands on her back, pulled her closer, and shut his eyes against the swell of emotion in his chest. He buried his face in her neck, his arms tightening around her.
Ilya had no idea how long they stood there, Yuna rubbing her hands across his back. They were not disturbed, either because David and Shane knew better or they were distracted elsewhere.
Ilya was held by Yuna, somehow. He was several inches taller than her, easily one hundred points heavier than her, but he was still being held by her. Yuna was safe. Her hands were steady. Her breath pushed against his chest, forcing the ache away.
When Ilya finally started to pull away, she pressed a kiss to his cheek, squeezing him once more before pulling her hands away.
“David made brownies with no nuts or fruit. Extra chocolate chips.” Yuna said, taking his hand.
Ilya smiled and followed her back to the living room, where David and Shane sat on the couches, brownies in hand. Ilya took a corner piece, sitting next to his husband and putting his feet in Shane’s lap.
“With frosting? And chocolate chips?” Shane asked, “You spoil us.”
Ilya smiled into his brownie, letting the chocolate cover his tongue.