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On David Hollander’s doorstep, framed by the blue shades of twilight just beginning to streak the sky, stood Ilya Rozanov in comfortable pyjama pants and a faded Centaurs t-shirt, his long arms hanging limply by his sides.
“Hello,” he said haltingly, one of his hands lifting from his side in a small wave.
David opened his mouth to reply, but all that came out was a confused breath, so he pressed his lips back together and took it all in again — slower this time, processing his thoughts so he didn’t say something that the man across from him might misinterpret.
He wasn’t sure why the sight was so surprising, but it was.
It wasn’t that it was out of character for Ilya to visit, even without warning. He’d been coming over for dinner every so often ever since he’d been traded to Ottawa, sometimes with Shane, sometimes without. David knew it must have been lonely in that big house the boy had bought when he’d moved here, and he and Yuna had insisted that Ilya was welcome anytime. Even now that Ilya and Shane were married and living together, the odd occasion cropped up where Shane had to travel alone — for ad campaigns, promotions, meetings — and Ilya would predictably end up at the Hollanders’ house in the fading light of day, sometimes without calling ahead.
So, it wasn’t that Ilya was here. That wasn’t what had caught David off guard when he’d opened the door. It wasn’t even that Shane wasn’t with him — he was staying the night in Montreal, where many of his connections were still based, and something in the back of David’s mind had been expecting a visit because of that — or that he’d knocked instead of letting himself in with a yell as he usually did.
It was something subtler. His demeanour. David couldn’t place it immediately, but Ilya almost seemed… awkward.
As a father with a lot of experience in these sorts of things, David’s instincts told him immediately that something wasn’t quite right.
“Is this a bad time?” Ilya asked, glancing back at his car in the drive. “I can go…”
“No,” David said quickly. He gave a warm smile and stepped back to let the boy in. “It’s never a bad time, Ilya. Come in.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Ilya slipped inside, stepping past David and into the front hallway with a quiet nod of thanks. He buried his hands in his pockets and walked slowly, looking as if he’d been holding his breath all night, and he didn’t seem to know where he was going until David spoke again.
“Yuna’s just in the kitchen,” he said, closing the door behind him as a quiet flame of concern licked at the walls of his stomach. “We were just finishing dinner. If you want, you can help set the table.”
Ilya nodded absently. He drifted through the hallway towards the kitchen, and David followed two steps behind him.
“Yeah. Okay,” Ilya replied. Then, as if he was trying to force more words out, “Smells good.”
David smiled. “Thank you.”
Yuna looked up as they entered, her expression lighting up immediately. Three salmon steaks were cooking on the stove in front of her — the packets at the store always had one extra — but she put down the tongs for a moment.
“Ilya,” she said warmly, and David could tell she’d clocked the same strangeness David had in the first half-second. “You’re just in time.”
Ilya gave her a small smile, his hands never leaving his pockets. But there was genuine fondness in his voice as he said, “Hello, Yuna.”
“Dinner will be ready in a few minutes,” she told him, then looked at her husband. “David’s just finishing the rice.”
As instructed, David maneuvered around her to check on the rice while she and Ilya exchanged a few more words: how was Ilya’s day; has he eaten; how is Shane? Ilya gave subdued, one-word answers, and Yuna did most of the talking until she took the cue and fell silent with gentle eyes.
The kitchen overlooked the dining table, and slowly, Ilya floated over and took a seat. He was quiet for the most part, which David couldn’t stop noticing. And he looked so out of place.
“Would you set the table, Ilya?” he called, just to give the boy something to do. But Ilya didn’t move.
He shared a look with Yuna by the stove, but neither of them pushed.
David set the table, in the end.
Dinner was good. Steady. Familiar. There was the usual conversation, albeit more reserved than Ilya’s typical personality allowed it to be, but mostly they just sat in each other’s company. Yuna cooked a great salmon, and it was good to have someone to give the excess to.
Ilya ate everything on his plate, which David took as a good sign, but he didn’t talk much. When he did, it was soft, a little delayed, like he was choosing every word before he let it out. He laughed once or twice — short, quiet things that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
It wasn’t like he was hiding something. There wasn’t anything guarded about him like there sometimes was with Shane. Since the beginning, Ilya had been completely and unapologetically comfortable around the Hollanders. He didn’t deliberately keep secrets, so whatever it was, he simply mustn’t have wanted to talk about it.
He just seemed tired, David eventually landed on. Tired and sad. It was a simple explanation. And wasn’t everybody tired sometimes? There was nothing to be ashamed of there. So, he and Yuna stayed steady, and they soaked up the quiet with him.
After dinner, they ate ice cream in front of the television. David told Ilya he could stay as long as he liked, so neither he nor Yuna said anything when the boy curled up at one end of the couch, hugging the armrest with a blanket draped over his shoulders, and made himself at home.
On the TV, a narrator spoke in calm, measured tones about migration patterns and changing seasons. Wide shots of open landscapes filled the screen — oceans, plains, long stretches of sky.
It was David’s night to pick the channel. He liked these things. He always had.
When the night drew darker and quieter, Yuna rose from her spot between David and Ilya and collected all their empty bowls and spoons.
“I’m going to bed,” she announced, her tone level so as not to break the spell the documentary had cast. David’s limbs felt liquid, his worries quiet. Ilya had sunk further into the couch. “You two enjoy your program.”
She pressed a gentle hand to Ilya’s shoulder as she passed him — brief, grounding — and then she was gone.
The documentary continued, long sequences of breaching whales and rushing salmon passing across the screen. The story was covering a flock of birds, too, with drifting close-ups detailed enough to make out the individual barbs of their feathers.
Yuna usually went upstairs early when he tuned into this channel, but David found it soothing. Interesting, but low-stakes enough that he could let the information wash over him and just… watch the screen.
He glanced sideways at Ilya.
The boy — not really, not anymore, David corrected himself; he and Shane were thirty now, but it was hard to shake the thought when Ilya looked so small like this — had slumped even further into the armrest, his legs extending into the spot Yuna had vacated, and the blanket was pulled up towards his chin now, like he was trying to hide himself from sight.
His eyes were fixed on the screen.
David’s chest squeezed bittersweetly. He’d chosen well tonight, then.
At some point, Ilya shifted, drawing one knee up slightly from where he’d let it extend just moments before. He tucked himself into the corner of the couch in a way that felt almost unconscious, and one of his hands came up to touch the silver cross he wore around his neck, like it meant more to him than David understood it to.
David didn’t speak. Instead, he let the documentary carry on, the low voice filling the room, the steady rhythm of it smoothing out the silence.
Minutes passed. Then more.
When he finally sensed David’s eyes on him, Ilya didn’t look away from the television. But he shifted a bit again, pretending to be getting comfortable to cover up the way he squirmed a little under the scrutiny.
“You like this?” Ilya asked eventually, his accent thick. “Boring animal channel?”
David hummed.
“It’s very interesting. And the photography is beautiful,” he replied evenly.
Ilya stayed very still, just staring at the screen, at the whales drifting through the sea.
“It is slow.” Then, a pause, like Ilya was testing how the words felt in his mouth. “I don’t mind it.”
David felt something within himself relax. That was good to hear.
“It doesn’t ask anything of you,” he said simply. That was the crux of it. What he liked.
Ilya’s mouth twitched, but his expression stayed carefully neutral. “No.”
They watched a while longer.
Salmon climbed a river towards their breeding grounds, moving as a unit in front of the slow-motion cameras. There were bears waiting, yes, but the ones who made it through had reached their homelands. The narrator was calm despite the harrowing scene, and the music was subtle, sweeping shots of the forest breaking up the action and slowing it all down to a resting heart rate.
Then, softer still, Ilya spoke again.
“I did not want to be alone tonight.”
The words were a surprise. David hadn’t expected Ilya to address whatever had come over him tonight, but he was grateful to be proven wrong. He took a moment to let the admission sink in, breathing evenly, and tried to soften his eyes like Yuna did.
“I’m glad you came then,” he said.
Ilya exhaled slowly, and his shoulders loosened a fraction.
Then, like that had been the final thing keeping him small, his leg extended again, his bare foot poking out from under the blanket and almost pressing against the side of David’s thigh.
It twitched back immediately.
“Sorry—” Ilya apologised quietly, but David shook his head and moved closer. His hand rested over the side of Ilya’s ankle — which was cold to the touch — and squeezed lightly.
David was a father. He’d done this dance a hundred times before with his other son, and Ilya looked like he needed the comfort.
It seemed to work. Ilya relaxed again, staring at the floor now, and David moved on to rubbing slow circles into Ilya’s skin, just making sure he knew he was there. The documentary played unnoticed in the background, and David watched Ilya without scrutiny, letting his concern warm his chest and wash over him until it simmered into care.
Ilya’s chest rose and fell, hitching sometimes but mostly steady, until he decided to speak again.
“I am sad sometimes, like my mother,” he admitted, and David carefully schooled his reaction. He knew, of course, about Ilya’s mother. Everyone did, with the Irina Foundation making the same headlines each year. But it was another thing for Ilya to admit to something so sensitive himself. “When it happens, I cannot do some things, and I start to think…”
He cut himself off, swallowing thickly, and David tilted his head to try to catch his eyes. They shone when David finally saw them — wet, aimed directly at the ground. David was overcome with the urge to hold him, to take some of that hurt away, though he knew it wasn’t his choice to make.
“Shane knows. He is usually there. He would come back if I asked, but… I do not want to bother him.”
“Ilya…” David murmured.
So Ilya had had a low day, alone. He’d been scared of himself, maybe.
And he’d come here.
He’d known he could come here, and that David and Yuna would let him be however sad or quiet he needed to be.
“I really am glad you came,” David reiterated, giving the boy’s foot a comforting squeeze.
Ilya looked over at him then, finally. He looked so tired, but so safe. Glassy-eyed. He took the corner of his blanket in one hesitant hand and asked:
“Can I…?”
David nodded. Of course.
They were family.
Ilya brought the blanket with him as he moved down the couch, and David found a pillow for him, resting it against his leg. When Ilya curled up against him now, he looked every bit as sad and small as he’d looked curled up against the armrest. But he looked so much less alone.
David carded one hand through the boy’s hair and ignored the quiet hitching of Ilya’s shoulders as he cried.
“You would not be good Russian father, David Hollander,” Ilya murmured when he’d let it all out, now boneless and exhausted. “Too soft.”
David smiled openly. With one thumb, he rubbed circles into his second son’s warm shoulder.
“Good,” he said quietly.