Chapter Text
Day 1: The Rain and the Silence
It was raining in Boston. Ilya Rozanov hated rain. Rain was useless. Snow was good; snow meant hockey, snow meant Moscow, snow meant silence. Rain was just noise. It tapped against the glass of his penthouse windows like a thousand tiny fingers, demanding attention.
Ilya was lying on his custom Italian sofa. It cost more than most cars. It was uncomfortable.
His left leg was propped up on a tower of silk pillows. A bag of ice was strapped to his knee with clear plastic wrap.
Grade 1 Sprain. Two weeks. No skating.
"Is stupid," Ilya said to the ceiling, which was twelve feet high. "Is barely a bruise."
He picked up his phone. The screen was too bright in the dim room.
Cliff (Marleau): I brought you a smoothie. It is kale. It is outside your door. Drink it or your bones will turn to dust.
Boris (Agent): GQ wants to do a shoot. 'The Wounded King'. Can you look sad but sexy? Maybe shirtless with a crutch?
Andrei (Brother): Ilya. Papa is bad again. He does not know me. He threw soup at the nurse. She quits. Need money for new one.
Ilya stared at the last message.
He felt the cold rock settle in his stomach. It was the same rock that had been there since he was twelve. Since the night he came home from practice and found the house too quiet. Since his father had grabbed his shoulder with a shaking hand and told him, “It was an accident, Ilya. She was confused. She took the wrong bottle.”
Ilya knew now that you do not take thirty of the wrong pills by accident. He knew that the silence in his mother’s eyes had been growing for years, eating her alive, until there was nothing left but the urge to stop the noise.
He did not reply to Andrei. He turned off the phone and threw it onto the other cushion.
His hand went to his chest. He found the cross under his shirt. He rubbed the metal with his thumb. It was old gold, soft and warm. It was hers.
"I do not believe," Ilya whispered to the empty room. "You know this."
He was talking to the cross. Or his mother. Or the God he had decided was useless a long time ago.
He picked up his iPad. He needed noise. He needed distraction.
He opened YouTube.
He watched a video of a bear fighting a tiger. (Bear won. Obviously).
He watched a video of a guy fixing a $100,000 Patek. Philippe watch. The tiny gears were soothing.
Then, he scrolled. The algorithm was confused. It knew he was in Boston, but it knew he had been hate-watching Montreal Voyageurs highlights yesterday.
Recommended: LIVE: Daily Mass - St. Jude’s Parish, Montreal.
Viewers: 4.
Ilya frowned. "Montreal?"
He hated Montreal. He hated the Voyageurs. He hated the French signs. He hated Hayden Pike and his stupid haircut.
"Four viewers," Ilya muttered. "Is pathetic."
He tapped the screen.
He expected a big cathedral. He expected gold and incense. He expected to laugh at the Canadian people.
The video loaded.
Screeeech.
Audio was terrible. High pitch feedback. Ilya winced, fumbling to turn the volume down.
Then, the image settled.
Ilya blinked. He brought the iPad closer to his face.
This was not a cathedral. This was a ruin.
The camera was crooked, tilted slightly to the left. It showed the interior of a church that looked like it was slowly dissolving. The walls were high and arched, but the plaster was peeling off in great, scab-like patches, revealing raw grey stone and brick underneath. It looked cold. It looked abandoned.
In the center stood a stone altar structure, flanked by grey columns that looked like they hadn't been dusted since 1950. Above the altar, in a recessed niche, was a painting of Jesus—the Sacred Heart—but the paint was faded, making Christ look tired and washed out.
There were statues clinging to the crumbling walls high up on the left, looking down like silent, dusty ghosts.
And there, in the middle of this decaying cavern, was the setup.
The laptop wasn't on a tripod. It wasn't on a table. It was balanced precariously on a stack of hardcover hymnals that had been piled onto a folding metal chair right in the center aisle.
But there was also a tablet.
It was sitting right on the altar table, propped up against a brass candlestick, dangerously close to the chalice. The screen was glowing, displaying the chat.
"He reads comments during Mass?" Ilya snorted.
Then, the priest walked into the frame. He came from the right side, stepping onto the red carpet runner that led up the stone steps. The carpet was threadbare.
He was... a child?
He looked tiny against the massive, crumbling backdrop. He was wearing green vestments that were visibly too big for him; the shoulders slumped down his arms. He had messy black hair that stuck up in the back.
He walked to the altar table—a simple wooden table covered with a white cloth that looked like a bedsheet.
He looked at the laptop on the stack of books. He squinted. "Is it on?" he whispered. The microphone picked it up perfectly. "Am I... hello?"
He took a deep breath. He looked terrified.
"Welcome," the priest said. His voice was soft, shaking slightly. "In the name of the Father... and of the Son..."
Ilya snorted. "You are disaster," he said to the screen.
He looked at the chat. There were only two comments.
[YOUTUBE LIVE CHAT: St. Jude’s Parish]
Yuna Hollander: Good morning Shane! You look handsome! Fix your collar honey.
David Hollander: Sound is a bit buzzy today son. Love, Dad.
Ilya stared at the chat.
"Parents?" Ilya whispered. "He is streaming for his parents?"
It was... sad. And weirdly sweet. Ilya’s father did not know Ilya’s name half the time. This priest—Father Shane Hollander—had a fan club of two people, and they shared his DNA.
Ilya watched. Shane walked to the ambo and started reading.
"A reading from... um..." Shane squinted. He leaned close to the book, his nose almost touching the page. "James."
He read badly. He stumbled. He kept reaching up to touch his collar, pulling at it like it was choking him.
Sensory issues, Ilya thought. He didn't know the word in English, but he knew the look. He had seen it in rookies who couldn't handle the scratchy practice jerseys. This priest was uncomfortable in his own skin.
Shane finished reading. He went back to the altar table.
The camera angle—shot from the low folding chair—made the church look even bigger and emptier. The peeling paint on the walls loomed over Shane like storm clouds.
Shane picked up the water cruet. His hands were shaking. Trembling violently. Clink. The glass hit the chalice. Shane flinched hard, his eyes squeezing shut for a second.
"He is scared," Ilya realized. "Why is priest scared of God?"
Shane finished the mass. It took thirty minutes. It was boring. It was clumsy.
But then, the end came.
Shane walked down the steps. He walked right up to the folding chair. His face filled the screen.
Ilya saw the dark circles under his eyes. He saw the chapped lips. He saw the way Shane’s eyes darted around the empty, ruined church, as if checking for ghosts.
Then, Shane looked at the chat. He saw his parents' comments. And he smiled. It wasn't a big smile. It was small. Shy. It crinkled the corners of his eyes and made his freckles dance. It was the most honest thing Ilya had seen in ten years.
Uh oh.
Ilya felt a physical thud in his chest. Like he had been checked into the boards by a heavyweight.
"Uh oh," Ilya whispered.
For thirty minutes, Ilya had not thought about his knee. He had not thought about his father throwing soup. He had not thought about the silence. He had just looked at this messy, terrified boy in a crumbling church.
"Thanks for watching, Mom, Dad," Shane whispered to the camera. He rubbed his arms. "And... whoever else is there. Please pray for the heat. The furnace is acting up again."
The screen went black. Ilya stared at his own reflection in the dark iPad screen. He looked stunned.
"No," Ilya said. He tossed the iPad onto the other cushion. "Is stupid. Is just bored."
He went back to icing his knee. He rubbed the gold cross until his thumb hurt. He did not believe in God. And he definitely did not believe in love at first sight. That was for movies. That was for people who did not have dead mothers.
But he did not delete the tab.
Day 2: The Withdrawal
Ilya tried to be normal.
He drank the kale smoothie. It tasted like grass. He threw half of it in the sink.
He watched hockey. He watched the replay of the Bears playing without him. They won. Cliff Marleau scored a goal and pointed to the camera.
"Show off," Ilya grumbled.
He tried to read a book about investing. He got through two pages.
It was 10:55 AM.
His hand reached for the iPad. It was automatic. Like muscle memory.
"I just check," Ilya told himself. "To see if he fall down."
He opened the tab.
LIVE: Daily Mass - St. Jude’s Parish, Montreal.
Viewers: 3.
Shane was there. Green robes again. Same robes.
He was swaying. Rocking back and forth on his heels. Rock. Rock. Rock.
Ilya watched the rhythm. It was soothing.
But something was wrong.
Ilya zoomed in.
Shane was shivering. Not just a little. He was vibrating.
Ilya could see his breath. Every time Shane opened his mouth, a little puff of white fog came out.
"Is freezing," Ilya said. "Why is freezing?"
He looked at the background. The church was a ruin. The stone walls were wet. The water stains looked like maps of countries that didn't exist.
Shane was giving the homily. No notes today. He was gripping the edge of the wooden ambo so hard his knuckles were white.
"We want the noise," Shane said. His voice was scratchy. He cleared his throat. "We want the fire. We want God to shout. But... mostly God is quiet. Mostly God is just sitting in the dark with you."
Shane looked down at his hands. He was picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. Pulling it. Pulling it.
"And that is hard," Shane whispered. "Because in the dark, we have to look at ourselves."
Ilya stopped breathing.
In the dark, we have to look at ourselves.
Ilya looked around his penthouse. It was bright. It was expensive. It was full of things. But at night, it was just him and the silence.
On screen, Shane shivered again. A violent shudder that made him stumble.
"He is cold," Ilya said loudly.
Cliff Marleau walked in the front door. He had a key. (Ilya hated that he had a key, but also, he would starve without Cliff).
"Who is cold?" Cliff asked.
Ilya slammed the iPad cover shut. "Nobody."
Cliff looked at him. "You look guilty. Are you watching porn?"
"No!" Ilya snapped. "I am watching... documentary. About penguins."
"Penguins," Cliff said flatly.
"Yes. They are cold."
Cliff sighed. "Here is soup. Eat. Don't die."
Ilya waited for Cliff to leave. He waited five minutes. Then ten.
He opened the iPad.
The stream was over.
Ilya felt a sharp spike of disappointment. It felt like missing a goal.
He Googled.
St. Jude Parish Montreal Priest.
He found the website. It was ancient. Comic Sans font.
Pastor: Father Shane Hollander.
Staff: None.
He found a photo. It was Shane, standing outside the church in the snow. He wasn't wearing a coat. He was wearing a thin cardigan. He was smiling, but he looked like a stick figure.
"He is alone," Ilya said.
He thought about Andrei. Andrei always asked. Ilya, send money. Ilya, help.
Shane asked for nothing. Shane just shivered and smiled at his mom in the chat.
Ilya looked at the "Donate" button.
He hovered his finger.
"No," Ilya said. "Is stupid. I am Russian. I do not care about clumsy priest."
He closed the tab.
Day 3: The Labyrinth
Ilya woke up at 5:00 AM. His knee throbbed.
He texted the PR girl. She didn't answer.
He texted his dealer (for watches, not drugs). He didn't answer.
He was alone.
He waited. He watched the clock change. 8:00 AM. 9:00 AM. 10:00 AM.
At 10:50 AM, he was sitting on the couch, iPad in lap.
"I am pathetic," Ilya said.
He clicked the link.
LIVE: Daily Mass - St. Jude’s Parish, Montreal.
Viewers: 5. (Mom, Dad, Ilya, Random).
Shane was there.
He looked worse.
His face was grey. His eyes were red-rimmed. He was swaying more today. Rock. Rock. Rock.
He walked to the altar to wash his hands.
He picked up the glass water bottle.
His hand shook. A spasm.
SLIP.
The bottle fell.
SMASH.
Water splashed everywhere. Glass shattered on the stone floor.
Shane froze.
He stared at the broken glass. He looked devastated. He looked like the world had ended.
[YOUTUBE LIVE CHAT: St. Jude’s Parish]
Yuna Hollander: Oh no! Honey, don't touch it!
Shane didn't see the chat. He dropped to his knees. He started picking up the sharp glass with his bare hands.
"No!" Ilya shouted at the empty room. "No hands! You idiot!"
Shane winced. He pulled his hand back. He stuck his finger in his mouth.
Blood.
Ilya groaned. He flopped back against the pillows. "He is disaster. He is walking catastrophe."
Shane stood up. He wrapped his bleeding finger in a tissue. He looked at the camera.
He didn't smile today. He looked like he was about to cry.
"Sorry," Shane whispered. "I... I am sorry."
He looked so small. So cold. So incredibly lonely.
Ilya felt that thud again.
No. Not love. Concern. Annoyance.
"He needs keeper," Ilya decided. "He needs goalie."
Ilya sat up. He opened the chat box.
He had never typed before. He didn't know what to say. He was Ilya Rozanov. He chirped people. He made fun of them.
He typed.
[YOUTUBE LIVE CHAT: St. Jude’s Parish]
RussianRocket81: Do not use hands. Use broom. Also, you are bleeding on the tablecloth. It is gross.
On screen, Shane paused. He looked down at the tablet on the altar. He blinked. He looked confused.
"I..." Shane stammered. "I don't have a broom in here."
RussianRocket81: Then get one. And put on a coat. You are shaking.
Shane looked at the camera. He looked right at Ilya.
"I can't put on a coat," Shane said softly. "It is mass."
RussianRocket81: God does not want you to freeze. God wants you to buy heater.
Shane looked at the comment. A tiny, confused smile touched his lips.
"God hasn't sent the budget for a heater yet," Shane murmured.
Ilya stared at him.
"Budget," Ilya whispered.
He looked at his Rolex. It cost $40,000. He looked at his shoes. They cost $1,200.
He looked at the shivering boy with the bleeding finger.
Ilya clicked the 'Donation' button.
He typed in a number. He added a zero. Then another.
Donation from RussianRocket81 — $5,000 USD.
RussianRocket81: For heater. And vacuum. If you use hands again, I report you to Pope.
On screen, Shane’s tablet pinged.
Shane picked it up.
He froze. He wiped the screen with his sleeve. He looked at it again.
"Uh," Shane said. "Rocket?"
He looked terrified. "Five thousand dollars? This is... I cannot take this. Is this illegal? Did you rob a bank?"
Ilya grinned. It was the first time he had smiled in three days.
RussianRocket81: Is hockey money. Is clean. Fix heat.
Shane stared at the camera. His eyes were wide.
"Okay," Shane whispered. "Okay. Thank you, Rocket."
Ilya lay back on the couch. The silence in the penthouse didn't feel so loud anymore.
He touched the gold cross.
"You're welcome, idiot," Ilya said.