Chapter Text
Summer 2005
When Ilya is fifteen he doesn’t get out of bed for four days. Their father is away on business and it scares the shit out of nineteen-year-old Alexei. Their mother has been dead for three years. Alexei shouts at Ilya to get up until his voice is hoarse, then pleads with him, and when that doesn’t work, vanishes to get high with his new girlfriend.
Ilya lies in bed and stares and stares and stares at the ceiling. He doesn’t know what’s happening to him. It’s like there’s a huge weight pressing down on him, always, and he’s only just remembered it’s there. His mom used to do this and he wonders if this is how she felt.
On the last day he hears his father come home. Hears him enter the house, move things around, shout for Ilya and Alexei, getting louder as no-one answers. Hears the housekeeper try to placate him and be dismissed. Hears his father come down the hall to his room, open the door, say in annoyance, “It’s two o’clock. You are still in bed?”
The lights come on, angry and bright. Ilya throws an arm over his eyes. It’s the fastest he’s moved in days. His father is moving around, opening windows, saying something about lazy teenagers. He doesn’t sound very angry yet. His business must have gone well.
His voice stops and Ilya realizes he must expect a response. “I’m sick,” he mutters, arm still thrown over his eyes.
“Sick?” says his father, and comes to sit on the bed. He doesn’t realize the kind of “sick” Ilya means. It’s strange, anyway: he never took care of Ilya as a little kid, Ilya’s mom always did that. Most of the time, now, his father is colder, meaner, tougher; but sometimes it’s like he remembers Ilya and Alexei don’t have a mother anymore and like he’s trying to fill in. “Sit up, let me look at you. Where’s Alexei? He should keep an eye on you.”
“I’m fifteen,” says Ilya quietly as he sits up. He’s feeling better, somehow, with his dad here and the light streaming in, now that his eyes are adjusted. Still strange, still numb, but like the weight has been lifted a little bit. His father presses a hand to Ilya’s forehead. “Mmm. You are not feverish. You are imagining things, being lazy. Get out of bed and eat something.”
He gets up to leave. Ilya thinks about it, walking downstairs, getting a sandwich, sitting in the kitchen while his father complains about his coworkers. It seems like a lot of effort. “My head hurts,” he says instead.
He knows it’s a mistake instantly, before his father freezes in the doorway and then turns around. It’s what his mother always used to say, when she wouldn’t get out of bed. He wants to take it back, but it’s true. He is like her. Whatever was wrong with her has suddenly gone wrong in him.
His father is staring at him. “Your head hurts,” he repeats, dangerously.
An explosion is coming. May as well give him a reason for it. Ilya runs his hands over his newly-shorn hair carelessly.
“Da, my head hurts,” he says. “I’m staying in bed. Like mama did.” He looks up and smiles.
His father grabs a book from the desk by the door and throws it at Ilya’s head. It hits the wall just above his left shoulder, and Ilya flinches, but only a little. Now his father is really yelling, yelling and cursing, and it’s all so familiar he could be ten years old again, pressing an ear to his parents’ bedroom door.
“Staying in bed, are you? Sick, are you? Just like her? You want to ruin everybody’s lives, just like her, you want us all to wait on you hand and foot, you lazy fucking kids, you don’t know what life is, you’re going to wind up just like her–”
Then something happens that Ilya does not expect, something that shocks him to his core, scares him far more than the book thrown at his head. He sees that tears are streaming down his father’s angry face.
“Papa,” he says, shocked, and his voice stops his father completely. His father looks at him and then raises a hand to his face, as if noticing he is crying for the first time. He says nothing, just turns and storms out of the room.
Ilya follows him, feeling lightheaded and unsteady. He didn’t eat this morning. When was the last time he ate something?
His father has gone back to the master bedroom, the room he used to share with Ilya’s mother, the room he technically still uses although they all know most nights he’s either sleeping on the couch or off somewhere with his mistress. He is sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking. Shame floods Ilya. He is hurting his father, just as his mother hurt him. Hurt them all. He walks over slowly, sits at his father’s feet, leans his head against his father’s knee. His father doesn’t acknowledge him at all.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Papa, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m fine.”
“I don’t care,” says his father. His voice sounds flat and wrong. “You want to kill yourself, fine. Put a bullet through your head, see if I care.”
“Papa,” says Ilya again, scared, the word stuck in his throat.
“No, I do care,” continues his father. “A bullet is a big mess. Like sleeping pills. Do something neat. Go jump off a bridge, so we don’t have to deal with the body.”
Ilya is shaking now, too. They both sit there, shaking, for a few minutes, until his father leaves, presumably to go eat lunch. The next day, they don’t talk about it, but Ilya gets out of bed on time.
Winter 2027
Ilya startles awake with a sudden rush of adrenaline, as though someone’s just yelled in his ear, but the room is quiet. He sits up, panting, and runs a hand through his hair. Just a dream. He can’t even remember what about; the harder he thinks about it, the more it slips away. Something in Russia, probably.
He sits back against the headboard, letting his breathing slow. Shane’s side of the bed is empty, but there’s a light on in the hallway. Maybe Shane made a noise and woke him up. He doesn’t know what time it is–Shane’s been on a kick about getting more natural sleep lately, so they’ve been using blackout curtains, and they’re leaving their phones in the kitchen overnight. Ilya thinks it’s a little silly–it’s not like either of them are getting more than a few hours uninterrupted, now the baby’s here–but Shane says better quality sleep will help with the lack of it, and he’s never been able to say no to Shane.
He tugs the curtain behind him open a little, and moonlight shines into the room. Not morning yet, then, but he feels very awake. He takes a moment to stretch his back out a little. He’s officially in his late thirties, now, and he can feel it. But it’s good to be here.
He gets up slowly and pads to the door, knocking a pile of clothes off the end of the bed as he goes. He picks them up and refolds them, although he’s sure he’s not doing as neat a job as Shane.
Shane’s not in the hallway or the nursery, but Ilya hears low noises in the kitchen. He makes his way over and stops in the doorway. Shane doesn’t see him: he’s half asleep, cradling the baby to his chest, rubbing her back gently and swaying back and forth as he sings. Shane’s voice is terrible, off-key and wobbly, and Ilya doesn’t know the song–some classic Canadian lullaby, no doubt. Ilya stands there for a long moment, watching with a joy so powerful that his eyes are wet and his throat tight. All those long years, alone–he’d never hoped, never dreamed–that it would be as good as this. He must make some noise, or maybe it’s only Shane’s instinct that alerts him–but his husband looks up, catches Ilya’s eye, and grins at him over their daughter’s peach-fuzz hair. His smile is the same as it was when they first met, nineteen years ago.