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The air is so much cleaner in Ottawa.
It was one of the first things he’d noticed when he moved here. It was the first thing he’d thought when he’d forced himself to leave the house that morning, if only to smoke a cigarette and let Anya out for a piss.
Then he felt terrible. Such a stupid, banal thing to think. Normally, he’d have the voice of Galina or Shane in his ear, reminding him that it was a good thing, to notice those small pleasures that could stack up into a day not spent feeling completely empty.
Not today though. Today, the dog walker was coming at nine am, then again at five that evening. He had left a key under the mat for her. Shane was in Montreal. Galina would be seeing another client, although she had advised him, strongly, to call if he needed to.
Ilya would not be doing that. He would be going back to bed, closing the curtains, and wrapping himself in the duvet. He would forget the time, even if he couldn’t forget what day it was.
***
It doesn’t happen as easily as that. It’s weirdly reminiscent of a bad comedown, although Ilya hasn’t taken drugs in a long time. His brain can’t seem to shut down: he feels listless then jumpy, angry and panicked and then unusually calm. Anya scratches and whines at the door but then refuses to settle next to him, so much so that he actually yells at her, and then buries his face in her fur, apologising over and over again. He holds on to a pillow wishing that it was Shane, then throws it away in frustration.
All the while images of his mama bob and float behind his eyes, but when he tries to close them, she vanishes.
He stares at the blank wall instead.
***
When he was eleven, Ilya had a growth spurt. Early for his age, he had overheard his papa saying proudly. If he could only fill out, he could put it to good use on the ice.
His mama had been silent, but that night she had cuddled up next to him in bed.
You’re still my baby, Ilyushka. Don’t grow up too fast, do you hear me?
I’m not a baby, mama. I’ll be bigger than you soon.
Bigger than her. He liked that idea.
If she liked something, he could buy it for her. He would take her on holiday. Maybe to see the friend from her home town whom she mentioned sometimes, but Ilya had never met. He’d hire a woman to do the cooking so she wouldn’t feel so guilty on the days dinner went forgotten.
Had he really thought all that when he was eleven? It was hard to tell sometimes. Memories of his mama had a habit of sliding into one another, touched and retouched on so many occasions that sometimes all he could see were his own grubby finger prints.
The friend from home- had he even known about her then? Or had that come later, at the funeral?
A ghost comes forward- a woman with dark hair, crying so hard her nose was running.
You don’t know me, Ilyushka, but I loved your mother very much…
He pushes her away, just like he did then. He doesn’t want her.
He rolls over, and tries to think clearly. Had he cared enough? Had he looked forward to being bigger than her because he had wanted to look after her? Or had he just been a stupid kid, desperate to tease her, to talk back when he got scolded because I’m a man now, you can’t tell me what to do.
Do you think one day you’ll be big enough to stand up to Papa, Ilyushka? Keep dreaming. I’m as frightened of him as you are.
You think you’re looking forward to being taller than mama, Ilyushka? I’ll be older than her one day soon. Ask me if I’m looking forward to that.
***
It hadn’t been this bad since he was a teenager.
When he was playing for Boston, the anniversary of his mothers death had mostly fallen on a game day. In Miami or Chicago or Toronto Ilya would wake up with a stone where his heart should be, but once he was on the ice the emptiness shifted into a kind of savage focus.
Ilya always played like a berserker the day his mother died.
There was a clip of him somewhere, blood streaming down his face, the opposing team and the ref and the fans all yelling a combination of orders, heckles and insults. He had turned to the stands and not been able to resist grinning, electrified by the power of it.
“That’s Roz for you” the commentator had said wryly-
“Always been a bit of a masochist.”
That night he drank until the sun came up, fucked a woman in the club toilets, and another in the hotel room. Despite not usually being into that kind of thing- at the time, at least- he had let her slap him about a bit. The next day the long, livid scratch marks on his back got him mercilessly chirped in the locker room. He had let it roll off him, just grateful that it was the next day. That he had bought himself another year until the next anniversary.
Now, in Ottawa, the Centaurs were out of the playoffs. Even if they hadn’t been, Ilya couldn’t imagine meeting a game with that same manic energy, grateful as he would’ve been for the distraction.
He’s been tired recently, in a way that he can’t explain except that he feels it in his bones.
It would be nice to sleep. And dream, maybe. A nice one.
***
Half lucky, like always.
His mama, smoking out the window, her nose nipped with cold. He had liked the way the smoke had existed in two streams, the grey pale ribbon from the cigarette intermingling with her cloudy exhale. Two things can be true at once, Ilyushka.
Papa yells, but he isn’t a bad man.
I have a mother. And I have a boyfriend, Shane. Won’t you exist at the same time, just for a little while?
She doesn’t turn her head, but the smoke from her mouth is a different colour now, a sickly green. It plumes down instead of up, and that can’t be right, can’t be healthy.
What are you doing to yourself, mama?
If only she would turn around and face him. Ilya is too scared to move, and suddenly the room is so thick with smoke he feels like he might suffocate.
“Don’t worry, Ilyushka. I will be better in a few hours. You rest now.”
***
He’s awake.
He knows because there’s the distant sound of Anya barking. The dog-walker, Shreya, must’ve come and gone, although for which time Ilya can’t be sure. The nightmare felt like it lasted forever, but it’s hard to tell how long he was actually asleep.
A long time, Ilya hopes.
The duvet is too hot, too heavy, and he’s suddenly aware that he’s desperately thirsty. The water bottle on the bedside table is empty save for a few drops that he swallows down greedily, feeling disproportionately annoyed by the inconvenience.
It’s not fair. It’s stupid, all he has to do is go downstairs to the kitchen: yet he doesn’t feel stupid. In fact, there’s something grimly satisfying about feeling such childish anger. Indulging in it, Ilya swings his legs off the bed and stamps his feet into a pair of slides, muttering furious nonsense and grabbing the bottle so hard it crumples. He slams the door on the way out and kicks at the landing radiator (which of course the radiator doesn’t feel but Ilya does, so he swears loudly, feeling savagely thrilled to have something else to be pissed about).
He’s so wrapped up in himself that he’s halfway down the stairs before he notices the two women sitting in the front room.
They’re both silent, staring at him with a combination of confusion and concern.
Fuck. So they definitely heard all of that.
One of the women is Shreya, the sweet, college-aged dog walker who Anya adores (so of course Ilya adores as well). He had told her he was out of town for the day visiting a friend, as opposed to stewing upstairs in bed. Ilya is suddenly aware he must look like shit: sweaty, eyes red and puffy, wearing nothing but boxers and one of Shane’s hoodies with the hood drawn tight like he’s trying to disappear into it.
The other woman is Yuna.
“Ilya?” She sounds worried.
“I’m sorry, I thought you were out. I only came by to drop off some paperwork for the foundation. I was just going to put it in the mailbox, but I caught Shreya coming in, and…”
She trails off. The same words coming from anyone else might sound sheepish, embarrassed even about randomly walking into his house unannounced.
But this is Yuna Hollander. The woman who books Shane’s appointments at the hairdresser without asking, who nags Ilya about the holes in his socks and won’t let it go until she’s watched him open his laptop and order new ones.
You’ll say you’ll do it later, but you won’t.
David had mildly chided her to leave him alone honey, he’s a grown man, but Ilya had been secretly thrilled.
He doesn’t feel thrilled now. Shame is rising quickly in his throat.
“Sorry.”
Jesus, what is he, Canadian? Maybe not, because the word comes out flat and not at all sincere. People have told him that his accent makes him sound stand-offish, so he clears his throat, consciously adjusting the tone of his voice to try and put them both at ease.
“I am not feeling very well.”
“That sucks” says Shreya, her mouth twisting in sympathy.
“Anya was a good girl today. She got kind of dirty, but I got the worst of it off outside.”
Ilya is suddenly aware that he’s still halted halfway down the stairs, and quickly clears the rest of the steps. Anya greets him eagerly, and sure enough she smells faintly of doggy shampoo.
“Thank you.”
“Of course” Shreya smiles faintly, “I have to get going, but I’ll be back later.”
She gives the dog a parting stroke and tells Ilya to get well soon before shutting the front door behind her.
Then it’s just him and Yuna.
“Are you okay, sweetie?”
Fuck, he’s not sure sure if he can do this. Her voice is so soft, so gentle. He might actually burst into tears. Instead he sits on the bottom step so he can hug Anya between his legs.
“I’m okay. Just sick, a little.” It’s a struggle to maintain eye contact, which makes him think of Shane, which doesn’t help the whole trying-not-to-cry thing.
“You need to stay hydrated. Here-” She takes the water bottle from him,
“I’ll fill this up for you. Have you eaten? Why don’t you sit on the couch. Get under a blanket but open a window, maybe. Fresh air can help.”
She puts a cool hand to his cheek and then leaves for the kitchen. Numbly, he does exactly what she tells him. The tumultuous feeling that’s consumed him all day has dissolved, replaced with familiar misery.
Yuna comes back into the room a minute later, carrying water and a steaming mug of something.
He takes it from her with a mumble of thanks, sipping it immediately.
It’s hot and sweet. Black tea with sugar. It undoes him.
“Oh Ilya-”
It could be worse. Not loud and messy. Since the night Shane held him in Miami, Ilya’s been able to cry again, something he hadn’t been able to do for more than a decade prior. He’s cried in Galina’s office more than once, but mostly at everyday things, sad movies and Instagram reels of abused puppies being rehabilitated.
Occasionally he cries during aftercare when he and Shane do something particularly kinky.
Shane holds him then, strokes his hair-
Cry if you need to, but don’t feel guilty. You didn’t hurt me. I wanted you too. I want you.
But always, something in him still holds back the tears from ever getting too much, too embarrassing. His fathers voice, maybe.
Today, it only pains him more. He wants to sob, wants to express to his mother- because he knows, somewhere, she’s listening- how much he aches for her.
How much he loves her. How he remembers, after all this time, that she would chase away any small sickness or heartbreak with a mug of hot black tea with sugar.
“Ilya, sweetheart…”
Yuna is sitting beside him, rubbing small circles on his back.
“What’s going on? Talk to me.”
He tries to speak but hiccups instead, which makes him giggle in spite of everything. She smiles as well, and it breaks the tension for a second.
“It’s not anything” Okay, bullshit. He tries again-
“Well it is something. My mother. It’s the anniversary of her death today.”
She says nothing, but her face falls into an expression of utmost empathy, and almost without realising how he got there, Ilya is suddenly wrapped up in her arms.
He lets himself be rocked, one of Yuna’s hands held firmly in his hair as if she’s supporting his head, as if he’s a baby.
Neither of them move for a long time, and only when he unpeels himself from the embrace does Yuna speak.
“I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me. You don’t need to be alone, if you don’t want to be”
She pauses, brushing an errant curl behind his ear.
“I’m so sorry she’s not here. She must be so, so proud of you. Like I’m proud of you.”
The present tense alights something inside of him. It’s difficult to explain, even to himself, how he sometimes feels the presence of his mama as much as her absence.
It’s nice to hear it affirmed from somebody else. Calming, somehow.
“That might be good. Please don’t tell Shane.”
“Not if you don’t want me to”. Then (because it’s Yuna),
“Shane doesn’t know?”
He’d asked before, but Ilya had always given vague responses without mentioning specific dates.
“He cannot help not being here. I don’t want to make him feel guilty. He worries.”
The last part is redundant. There are no two people on earth more familiar with Shane’s inclination for anxiety than them.
Yuna smiles as if she’s guessed what he’s thinking.
“That’s for sure.” Then, more tenderly-
“I’m sorry. It’s not fair.”
“Mmm. I’ve felt this way once or twice”
It’s a lifelong habit, being snarky to avoid anything too serious, and Yuna sighs in exasperation. But her eyes are fond, and Ilya feels lightened by the fact that this is the most like himself he’s behaved all day.
***
An hour later, they’re tucked up on the couch with trays on their laps. Yuna had insisted on making soup, giving Ilya the small, mindless job of chopping vegetables and retrieving bowls and spoons from the cabinet. It had felt good to have something to do with his hands, and even better to have something warm in his stomach.
“Did your mother cook?”
“Yes. She wasn’t very good at it- I don’t think she enjoyed it much. But it was expected of her, you know?”
“By your dad?”
“Yes, but also by…society, I guess. At least with the people we knew. It’s a stereotype, I think, amongst westerners. That in countries that are more conservative, or just foreign, that all the women are submissive. I never thought so. All the women I knew were strong, opinionated, even when things were hard on them. Even my mother… she was scared, a lot of the time. But that wasn’t her fault. She was just trying to survive. To protect my brother and me. I think that made her very brave.”
“I think so too. I know what you mean, about people's assumptions. I got it a lot, especially when I was younger. Men thought-”
She pauses for a moment, as if searching for the right word,
“That I was meek. Because I was Japanese. Then I opened my mouth of course, and then they thought I was a bitch.”
Yuna laughs drily. Ilya frowned.
“Anyone who thinks that about you is an idiot.”
“Oh, I know. They can suck it.”
They both eat in silence for a moment before she speaks again, more considered this time.
“Meeting David helped. I’m sorry that Irina didn’t get that.”
A lump rises in Ilya’s throat, so he just nods.
***
The dishes are washed and dried, and Ilya smokes another cigarette, which Yuna doesn’t comment on like she normally would.
When he slopes back into the room (after washing his hands twice out of politeness), she’s flicking through Netflix.
“Do you want something on the TV? We don’t have to. Just for a bit of background noise.”
He shrugs, so she picks something at random, a nondescript action movie they’ve both seen before, leaving the volume on low.
It’s barely a few minutes in when she grabs a pillow, putting it on her lap and touching his shoulder lightly-
“Do you want to lie down?”
Ilya can only blink dumbly.
“Are you sure?”
Yuna is looking at him with reassuring neutrality. It helps to ease the fear that she’s trying to give him something he won’t be allowed to keep.
Without saying anything, he pulls the blanket closer, and lowers his head on the pillow.
It’s hard not to tense up at the intimacy of it. Angling his face away from her, the purpose of the movie becomes clear: she put it on to help him feel normal about this.
‘Normal’ isn’t a word he could ever use for this type of affection. Maybe one day. He had drawn a blank on the concept of growing older recently. Some days, trying to picture it felt like trying to invent a new colour.
But lying there on Yuna’s lap, the thought occurred to Ilya that if he could only hold on, there would come a time when he would have more years surrounded by love than starved of it.
***
It was one of the things he noticed first about the Hollanders. They had been kind to him, even during that first, surreal meeting where Shane had been brave enough to tell them the truth, the whole truth, even though the decision to reveal it in the first place had been taken away from him.
Ilya couldn’t imagine how different it would’ve been if their roles had been reversed. Well, he could, but dwelling on it felt like an exercise in pain, so he simply didn’t bother.
But Yuna and David had pulled up a chair for him, right there at the kitchen table, and that was that. Welcomed in once, he had never left, never been made to feel like he had to earn his keep as a part of their family.
Not that the reflex to guard himself had gone away immediately. It was muscle memory, something Ilya hadn’t even noticed until one day he asked Shane for the third time in an hour if his parents wouldn’t prefer it to be just the three of them for dinner that evening.
Well, it hadn’t come out exactly like that.
I think I’m coming down with something. I don’t want to get everyone sick.
I have to get up early tomorrow to sort out some stuff for the foundation.
Then, when his boyfriend wouldn’t leave it,
Maybe I don’t feel like sitting around doing boring puzzles and talking about how shitty the team’s been playing recently.
Fuck you. Fine. Do whatever you want, I don’t care
He had sounded more hurt than angry, storming out of the house and leaving Ilya alone with the echo of his own cruelty.
When Shane returned hours later, Ilya had been curled up in a ball under the covers. He had been half prepared to keep the fight going, blow everything up just for the sake of it.
I don’t get it. I thought you liked them, but…is it too much?
I love them, Ilya had replied plainly, feeling the urge to argue sap from his body.
But I’m not their son. I don’t want them to feel like they have to invite me just because they want to see you.
He had been so sweet about it, his Shane. Big dark eyes and beautiful freckles. His endless efforts to understand Ilya.
They had fucked about it, of course. Ilya had put him on his knees and fucked his throat, pulling out at the last second and coming all over his face. Shane normally preferred to swallow, but that night Ilya had wanted to see him marked, to know that he could do anything he wanted and that Shane would take it, beg for it.
Gently, he had smeared the combination of cum, spit and tears with two fingers, pushing them inside Shane’s mouth and making him suck.
You are mine, yes? You need it. Such a good boy for me. So beautiful, sweetheart. I want to hear you say it.
Then, he returned the favour, taking Shane in his mouth and edging moans and whimpers from deep inside him. He loved it when Shane got bossy, telling him deeper and faster and harder Ilya, like that, like that. It was a reaction most often elicited when he put his cock in him. Not rough, exactly, but too uninhibited to be gentle.
After he came, Ilya had pulled off him-
Spit in my mouth, Moya Lyubov. I want to taste all of you.
And Shane had wrenched him by the hair, hard enough to sting, and done just that.
You’ll tear it all out one day, Kotik. Will you still love me when I am bald?
No, Shane had replied, after deliberate consideration.
That had made Ilya laugh, and then feel relieved that he could laugh. That the idea of Shane leaving him was back to seeming absurd, rather than inevitable.
***
Ilya only realized he must’ve fallen asleep when the end credits began to roll.
“I’d forgotten how terrible this franchise is.”
Yuna’s voice, from somewhere above him. He sat up and rubbed his eyes.
“Rose Landry is going to be in the sequel.”
Yuna scoffed-
“She needs better management. It’s a waste of talent. One day some creepy exec will decide they want a younger model wearing the catsuit, and if she hasn’t diversified by then it could make things very hard on her.”
“Maybe you should diversify. Why stop at hockey? Take over Hollywood while you’re at it. Then maybe, I don’t know, medium sized country?”
She swats him with the pillow.
“Do you ever think about what you’ll do when you retire?”
It’s something he and Shane have talked about.
Investing, real estate, expanding the Irina foundation; becoming fluent in Russian, then Japanese, then, fuck it, Swahili or something. Going to college. Mentoring. Coaching junior hockey.
It doesn’t really matter, because Ilya knows that (except for maybe the last option), Shane will excel at whatever he chooses to do.
His own ideas hadn’t really developed beyond not killing himself, but he doesn’t feel like telling Yuna that.
“No idea. Be a WAG, I guess.”
“You realize Shane will probably be retired when you are?”
“Fine. I’ll be like a…” he gestures, trying to remember the reality show he and Svetlana had discovered during a particularly gruesome hangover.
“Real housewife. Shane will take me out to dinner and I keep the house nice and look pretty. Anya will have an outfit for every day of the year.”
“She already does. You treat that dog like a princess. If you two decide to have kids they’ll be spoiled rotten.”
Ilya smiles at the idea. But there’s also a small voice at the back of his head-
She’s right. You’ll ruin them
***
Shreya comes to collect Anya again. She drops her off an hour later. They order food from a nearby Indian place. Ilya begins to wonder if he should tell Yuna she can leave.
They’re spending ever lengthening periods just sitting in silence, her reading one of Shane’s hockey books whilst he stares at the wall, letting waves of grief and wanting wash over him.
Eight o’clock rolls around, and suddenly Ilya just wants the day to be over.
He gets to his feet, so abruptly it makes her startle.
“I think I will, uh, turn in.”
Who is this old man speaking out of his mouth? He tries it again-
“I think I’ll go to bed now.”
“Will you be able to sleep?” She sounds concerned again, and Ilya kind of wishes she’d just leave it, then feels ashamed.
“Maybe not. But it’s okay. Thank you, you’ve been very kind-”
It’s not the right word, but aside from actually taking a knife to his chest and presenting her with his beating heart, Ilya doesn’t know if there’s anything that could communicate how he feels about today.
“- but I want to close my eyes for a while.”
I want to be alone with my mama. Forgive me. I don’t want her to feel lonely, not today.
“Of course, baby.”
She stands, brushing a crease from her pants.
“You go up. I’m just going to make a phone call, but I’ll put my head round the door to say goodnight before I leave. If that’s alright with you.”
He nods, and makes his way upstairs.
***
Curiously, sleep comes quickly after all. The bedroom is dark and silent, the way he left it, and for once the dreams are good.
His mama, the blue sweater she used to wear. Her warm hands, nicotine stained nails disguised with pale pink nail varnish. He can see morning light catching on her curly hair, and there’s a comforting weight on his back. He leans into it, and for once the touch doesn’t pull away, doesn’t plunge him into the nightmare of losing her all over again the way it normally does.
It feels so real.
Love you, Mama.
He’s sure the words are coming out of his mouth. What’s more, he’s sure she can hear them.
***
“Oh, Ilya. I love you too.”
She shuts the bedroom door behind her.