Chapter Text
March 2017
Moscow, Russia
“I have no one now.”
Ilya crouched on the frozen ground, phone pressed to his ear, pouring his heart out to Shane in Russian. Shane wouldn't understand a word, but speaking his truths aloud brought relief, even as each confession scraped his throat raw.
“Well, not no one I have...my niece, Tati. She is pure and kind. She is a light on a dark day, but I know my brother will blow out that light one day. She is the only family member I love and who loves me. Beside her, I have…Svetlana. She loves me. And I love her. But not like…”
He fell silent, bowing his head until his chin nearly touched his chest. "Fuck me," he whispered, the words barely audible even to himself.
Ilya pressed the phone against his mouth, his gaze drifting down the tunnel where snow swirled in the red and blue lights of a passing police car.
He returned the phone to his ear, blinking as the first tears escaped despite his efforts to hold them back. “But not like I love you. That’s the worst fucking part of all this is…that all I want is you. It’s always you.”
He sniffled, rubbing his nose on his sleeve.
“I’m so in love with you, and I don’t know what to do about it.”
Returning to English, “Ok, I’m done.”
“Do you feel better?” Shane asked from the other line.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Maybe you could teach me Russian someday.”
“Yeah. Ok. Only useful phrases.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, like: “Harder, please. Yes, sir.”
Shane let out a low chuckle, the sound warm even through the phone, “Fuck you.”
“No, more like: “Fuck me, please.”
For a moment, neither spoke. Then Ilya pushed himself up from the frozen ground, joints stiff, and trudged back through the tunnel toward the swirling snow.
“How about…"I wish you were here right now”?”
Ilya stopped in his tracks to respond once more in Russian, “I wish I was too.”
After the call with Shane ended, he asked Svetlana to pick him up.
Twenty minutes later, her black Mercedes pulled alongside the curb. The driver got out to open the door.
Ilya got in. He allowed the heated leather seats to envelop him as they drove through Moscow's streets. His mind circled back to the decision he'd made—cutting Alexei off completely. His brother called it betrayal. Ilya called it self-preservation. For years, he'd watched his hard-earned money transform into powder that his brother snorted up his nose, needles in his arms, and God knows what else. Not a ruble had gone to Tati's education or well-being.
Speaking his heart to Shane—even in Russian—had loosened the rock that had been sitting in his chest.
He hated to leave Tati, but he had to. If he ever wanted to find happiness with Shane or be happy again simply on his own, he needed to leave Russia. He hoped she would understand, but maybe if she didn't, it would make leaving easier.
"Can we leave tonight?" Ilya's voice was barely audible as he broke the silence between him and Svetlana.
"Father's arranging the jet now. We should be wheels up in four, maybe five hours." Svetlana, who had been typing on her phone since he got in the car, looked up and studied his face. "Will that work?"
"Da. I just need to pack what's left and say goodbye to—" His voice caught as he fought back tears.
"Tati?" she questioned.
Ilya looked away, his voice cracked as he spoke, "How do I explain this to an eight-year-old?"
Svetlana's eyes softened. "Be honest with her. Just leave out the details about your relationship with Jane."
He whipped his head toward her. "I can't do that. She deserves to know everything."
"And if she mentions it to your brother? Even by mistake."
Ilya's shoulders dropped. "Tati wouldn't betray me."
“She’s eight.”
“She’s smart, though. She can keep secret.”
"Still a child," Svetlana said as the car came to a stop.
"She already knows about Jane anyway."
"How?" she questioned, sounding rather stunned.
Before Ilya could answer her, the driver opened the door, and Ilya stepped out into the bitter cold.
Tati knew Jane as Jane because he saw her name on his phone and asked him about her. Not ready to tell the truth, he lied, saying Jane was a girl he liked. But tonight he was telling her the truth.
"Let's get this over with," he said as he walked around the car to the other side.
"I would like to know how Tati knows," Svetlana said as they walked up the steps to the front.
"She read the name on my phone two summers ago. It is not that uncommon a name."
"But does she know—"
"No, but she will."
They had barely stepped inside and handed their coats to the footman when a blur of brunette hair and black velvet ran into him.
"Dyadya (Uncle)!" Tati's face tilted up, eyes bright despite the funeral clothes. "My dolls are having a tea party. You must come! Chef has made me many different pastries for my party."
Ilya crouched down, pressing kisses to her hands. "For a little while, мой сладкий (my sweet). Then I need to return to Boston."
"Tatiana Alexeyevna Rozanova!" The sharp voice cut through their moment.
Tati stiffened, stepping back from Ilya. "I was watching from the window, Papa. When I saw Svetlana's car, I just wanted to—"
"Did I not explicitly forbid you from leaving the nursery?" Alexei's knuckles whitened on the banister. "After I permitted you to attend Dedushka's reception, this is your gratitude?"
"I'm sorry, Papa." Her gaze dropped to her patent leather shoes.
Alexei's voice cracked like a whip. "Upstairs! Now!"
"Yes, Papa." Tati scurried up the imperial staircase, not daring to glance back before vanishing up the left-hand staircase.
Alexei's lips curled into a sneer. "Have you come crawling back already?"
Ilya met his brother's gaze, jaw tight. "I didn't come here for reconciliation. I came for my things and Tati."
His brother scoffed, "You think I'd let you take her from me? My child?"
"If the law allowed it," Ilya said softly, "I wouldn't hesitate for a second.”
He shoved past Alexei as he passed, taking the right-hand staircase toward his childhood bedroom with Svetlana steps behind him.
Ilya yanked open the doors of his wardrobe, pulling shirts from hangers and tossing them toward the bed.
"I won't be long."
Svetlana lingered in the doorway, watching him. "Don't rush on my account."
"Most of my things are in Boston already. I kept a few things here for…emergencies. Now I can leave," he replied, but never looked at her. "I do have more things at my apartment. I will hire someone to clean it out, except for the furniture, which I will leave for when Alexei, Varvara, and Tati move there. Only because Tati deserves decent furniture for once in her life."
His father's death and the cut off from Alexei meant he'd never need to walk through this place again. Perhaps he'd never need to return to Russia at all, though that thought still lodged in his chest like something too large to swallow.
As he thought, it didn't take long to pack his things. Svetlana had stepped out to take a call, but assumed he needed some space.
Ilya scanned his childhood bedroom one last time when his gaze caught on the framed photo from last June on his desk.
His birthday, to be exact. After the death of his mother, he never cared for birthdays—at least not until 2009 on his 18th birthday, when his niece was born. The best gift he could've ever received.
He approached the desk, fingers tracing the old knife marks he'd carved in it as a boy instead of doing his maths homework. He picked up the frame. The image showed him and Tati at the White Nights Festival in St. Petersburg.
Every summer since she was three, they would go, and when he got drafted by Boston, he'd return each summer to Russia, mostly for her. That one week they spent together in St. Petersburg was the only moment he truly loved about being back in Russia. He loved their tradition of watching ballet and opera at the Mariinsky Theatre. Now that he was leaving, that tradition would end. His throat tightened.
Svetlana appeared in the doorway. "I know I said there was no rush, but we may want to leave soon, the snow is picking up."
Ilya glanced over his shoulder at the window where the snow was becoming thicker. He crossed back to his suitcase and slipped the photo inside without responding, then hefted his bag and stepped into the hallway.
They started to descend the stairs together until he halted abruptly on the landing of the grand staircase. His gaze drifted upward, toward the left wing where the nursery was.
"Tati—" he began.
"Go," Svetlana said, taking his suitcase. "I'll handle this."
He took the stairs toward his niece.
Light spilled from the nursery's half-open door, brightening the dark corridor. The sound of Tati's voice as she played by herself echoed through.
He eased the door wider. Tati was arranging her toys around a miniature tea service, her mourning dress stark against her pale skin, mocha-brown hair captured by a black ribbon.
She must’ve heard him at the door as her eyes found him, and her face brightened. "Dyadya! You came! Perfect timing!" She bounded toward him. "Will you join our party?"
Kneeling, he committed every detail of her to memory—those clear blue eyes, the waves in her hair, the softness of her skin.
"Anything for you, Tati," he said, forcing cheer into his voice.
She squealed with delight, tugging him toward the table. "You can sit by Mister Hippo. He needs lessons in manners."
Ilya lowered himself awkwardly into a child-sized chair. "What did Mister Hippo do?"
"He stole принцесса (princess) Blossom's cookie," she explained, rummaging through her costume chest.
Ilya bit back inappropriate laughter. "Cookies are wonderful," he managed, "though lately I prefer eggplants.”
“Eggplant is not a dessert,” his niece said as she still rummaged in her chest.
“Then eclairs. They have lots of…cream.”
“The cream is the best part!”
Ilya bit his lip to hold back another laugh with a nod.
She came over to him and placed a plastic tiara on his head and draped a feathery pink boa across his shoulders. "Sorry, Dyadya Ilya. I don't have anything for boys."
His lips quirked up at one corner. "Tiaras and pink aren't just for girls, Tati."
"Papa says it is," she said, placing a tiara on her head.
Irritation flickered behind Ilya's eyes, but his voice remained gentle. "Sometimes Papa is mistaken about things."
Tati's brow furrowed. "So... I could like blue if I wanted?"
"Of course."
"But I still like pink best."
"That's perfectly fine too."
She tilted her head. "I'm confused."
"It's simple, Tati. Colors are for everyone. You can enjoy whatever makes you happy, as long as it doesn't hurt anyone."
Tati nodded slowly, her small hands carefully tipping the empty teapot over his cup.
"Maybe don't mention our talk to your parents, though."
"Like a secret?" Her eyes widened.
"Just between us."
"But you told me secrets are bad."
Ilya smiled sadly. "You remember everything, don't you, clever girl?"
She beamed at him. "I remember everything you say." She took her seat and raised her tiny teacup, pinky extended with exaggerated formality. “Cheers.”
"Cheers," he replied, tapping his cup against hers.
Her eyes narrowed critically. "Dyadya Ilya! Your pinky isn't proper."
He gasped dramatically, correcting his grip. "How terribly rude of me. Can such a breach of etiquette ever be pardoned?"
“I think it can this once.”
“Oh, thank you so much.”
She clinked her cup against each stuffed animal's cup in turn. “Coach Ivan says I'm ready to try the axel jump."
Ilya's eyebrows shot up. "An axel? At eight?"
She raised her chin. "Eight and a half," she corrected. "Coach Ivan says I'm gifted.”
"And when do you rest, малышка (little one)? Between all this natural talent?"
"Um…I have school, then skating, then homework." She poured imaginary tea for Blossom. "On the weekends, I have all day skating. I didn’t have skating these last few days because of the funeral. But I go back tomorrow." Her face brightened. “Coach Ivan says the minister and many sponsors are already impressed with me. They are calling me Russia's Golden Child. And when I finally win a real gold medal like at the Olympics, just like you have, the whole world will know my name."
"Winning medals, especially gold, is not everything, you know."
"But you win medals all the time—or you used to. Papa says that Canadian player always beats you now." She crinkled her nose. "What's his name again?"
He didn't want to say it, but he did. "Shane Hollander."
"Right. Hollander." She said the name "Hollander" as if it disgusted her, which Ilya didn't like the way she said it. Not because it was Shane, but because this wasn't the Tati he knew. "Papa doesn’t like him. He says the Canadian is cheating somehow. He says nobody from Canada can skate like a Russian."
Ilya was silent for a moment, considering how many lies had been spoon-fed to her. She would believe what she was told until she learned not to. That is, if she ever learned not to.
She seemed to sense the change in his mood, because she leaned over, propping her chin on her hands. "The thing is, Dyadya. I don’t get why Papa doesn’t like him. He may not be Russian, but Russia isn’t competing against him.”
There was the real Tati that he knew and loved.
“But I am competing against him, and I am Russian.”
“Do you like him, Dyadya Ilya? Hollander?"
Ilya nearly choked on his pretend tea, “What?”
“Do you like him?”
He set his teacup down. “The media says I don’t.”
“Why?”
“When you compete, sometimes you have to hate your opponent a little. It makes you try harder." He shrugged, hoping the simplicity would satisfy her.
"But you don’t hate him?”
He shook his head.
“Is that what you meant before when you said you wanted to be friends with your rivals?" Tati replied. “Keep your friends close, but your enemies a lot closer.”
Ilya sighed, and this time the laugh was a real one. "You remember too much, Tati."
She looked pleased to have caught him out and took a delicate bite of one of the cookies. "Dyadya?”
“Yes?” he asked, taking a bite of his own.
“Is that why you and Papa were fighting?”
“What?”
"I heard you and Papa fighting at the dinner after Dedushka’s funeral.”
Ilya nodded, “We did, but that is not why. I am sorry you had to hear that.”
She shrugged, “Papa gets angry often, especially after drinking.”
“I’m sorry, Tati. That isn’t fair for you.”
She shrugged. “Next time you see Hollander, you should try to be nice," she advised. "Maybe he is not so bad, even if he is Canadian."
He studied her, wondering how her world—so small and bright now, so full of rules and exceptions—would ever accommodate the strange, contradictory people who waited for her beyond this house.
"I think I would beat him if I were a hockey player, but I love figure skating."
He reached for a napkin and dabbed away the crumbs from her chin. "I think you would beat anyone, if you wanted to."
"I'm a Rozanova," she declared, as if that explained everything.
His smile faltered. "Remember, Tati, that even champions need rest days."
“I got our birthday trip! I get a week's break then. The ballet is my favorite part!"
Ilya's throat tightened. It was time.
"Tati?"
"Yes?"
"About our birthday tradition... the festival..."
He watched as fear crossed over her face. "What about it?" she asked nervously.
"I don’t think I will be in Russia this summer." He kept his voice gentle, even as her eyes widened. "Or perhaps for many summers after."
"But we never miss it! Not once!"
"I know," he touched her hand.
Her bottom lip trembled. "Have I done something wrong? Did I make you angry? I promise I'll try harder to be better."
"You have done nothing wrong, Лапочка (sweetheart). There's nothing about you that needs changing. I want you to stay exactly as you are."
“Then why?” her voice cracked.
"Your papa and I... we've reached a point where our paths must separate. Because of this, he will not allow me to take you anymore."
Her chair toppled backward as she leapt to her feet, pulling her hand out of his. "I'll make him understand! I can change his mind!" She bolted toward the door, but Ilya's outstretched arm blocked her path.
"Tatiana, wait—"
"Papa will change his mind." Her voice began to tremble as tears began to stream down her face. “He has to.”
“Tatiana, he won't.”
She sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "But you promised. Every summer, you said."
"I know what I promised." Ilya pulled her into his arms, her face pressed to his chest. His eyes darted toward the door before he kissed the crown of her head. “This is a promise I need to break. If I tell you why I need you to keep it a secret.”
“Another secret?”
"Not a bad secret, but this needs to stay between us."
“More than color one?”
“Way more.”
She peered up, eyes still wet. "I won't tell."
He inhaled slowly. "Tati, you remember Jane?"
She nodded.
"And remember what you said about Hollander? About being nice to him?"
"Mm-hmm." She wiped her nose on the sleeve of her dress.
"The truth is, Jane is Shane Hollander. And well... we've grown close. Over the years, we've spent time together in private."
"Oh!" Her eyes widened. "Like when Papa is with those ladies, Mama doesn't like?"
Ilya's expression soured. "Different from that. Very different."
"But..." Her voice fell to a whisper, glancing around as if the stuffed animals might report them for speaking this way. "Shane is a boy."
"Yes."
Her brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "I thought that wasn't allowed."
"In many places, it is. Just not in Russia."
She leaned in closer, her voice barely audible. "You have feelings for boys?"
"I do. I also have feelings for girls. I like both."
Her small face scrunched in thought before clearing. "Is that why you're leaving? Because of Shane?"
"Because I need to live somewhere I can be with the person I...love without hiding."
She hugged him fiercely. "It's a stupid law," she whispered against his chest.
"The stupidest," he agreed softly.
She pulled back, her eyes solemn. "I promise to keep your secret, Dyadya Ilya. Blossom and Hippo will too."
"Thank you, Лапочка (sweetheart). One day, I will tell everyone, and when that happens, Russia won’t allow me to return."
She squared her shoulders. "I'll make them change the law when I'm older."
Ilya brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. "Keep that fire inside for now, Tati. The world isn't ready for your revolution yet."
"But I don't want you to be afraid. I want you to come home."
"And I don't want you in danger. That is much worse to me," Ilya whispered, cupping her cheek. “What you can do is when you skate, think of me.”
“And when I win gold.”
“Especially then. моя маленькая ледяная принцесса (my little ice princess).”
“Will I ever see you again?
“I hope so. Perhaps when you make it to the Olympics, you can find me then."
“That’s a long time, Dyadya.”
“It will go by quickly. You also have Svetlana. Your papa and her papa are close, I hope you can still know her."
"And Sasha!"
Ilya wrinkled his nose with a small, irritated groan. He knew Sasha only tried to be nice to Tati to win his favor, though it would never happen. "I would prefer Svetlana."
She shrugged, clearly not caring about that part.
"I gave your papa my apartment, you think of me when you live there.”
“I like your apartment. There are no rats or roaches.”
Ilya kept his composure, but was pissed once again at his brother for not using the money he sent them to give his niece better living conditions.
“What will happen to Dedushka’s house?” she asked.
“Polina will keep it until she passes, and then it will go to your papa. And one day you."
She looked around the nursery. "Wow, like a real princess."
"In a way."
Ilya looked at the grandfather clock as it chimed.
He sighed. “Tati, I do need to go now. I have to catch my plane to Boston.”
“I’ll miss you, Dyadya,” she held him tighter.
“I’ll miss you more, Лапочка (sweetheart).”
Ilya held his niece close one last time, pressing his lips to her hair, then carefully removed the costume pieces and slipped out of the room.
Outside, snow crunched beneath his boots as he paused to look up at the window where Tati's small face pressed against the glass. She blew him a kiss that he caught with his hand, placing it on his heart before repeating the action to her—their ritual when he left.
"The airport, Mr. Rozanov?" the driver asked.
With a nod, Ilya slid into the backseat where Svetlana sat, fingers tapping at her phone screen.
"Was it difficult?" she asked without looking up.
"She's eight years old and losing the only person who—" His voice caught. "She's younger than I was when my mother—”
"She's strong," Svetlana reminded him.
"But my leaving is a choice."
"Is it really? When the alternative was to live a lie?"
Ilya pressed his forehead against the cold window, watching the estate shrink behind them. "Promise me you'll keep her safe."
"When I can. Alexei may not welcome my visits once you're gone."
"And Sasha's father—"
"Ivan? He's still her coach. Still odd considering he is a hockey coach, not a figure skating coach."
"You two are in touch?"
"I am with Sasha. You have his number, too. Perhaps you should—"
"No. I can’t do that."
Svetlana's fingers found his, squeezing gently. "She will be alright."