Work Text:
Ottawa, 2023
They were in the cottage when it happened. It was a dark, heavy winter, with snow that curled in the wind and settled thick on the ground outside. Inside, a fire burnt its final embers in the fireplace, a gentle warmth compared to the biting frost that could rival even Moscow’s December chill.
Ilya and Shane were on the couch; there was a hockey game on, but they weren’t really paying attention. It was the final minutes of the third period; San Jose was up 3-2 against Toronto. The occasional cheer or referee whistle echoed out of the TV, but neither were focused on the screen.
Ilya was more focused on the feeling of Shane’s fingers running through his hair, tender love, coiling through the short spirals at the base of his neck and brushing his thumb over the shell of Ilya’s ear.
Ilya’s head was resting in Shane’s lap, nose pressed against the fabric of Shane’s sweats on his thigh, breathing him in. His eyes were closed, blocking out all sensation other than the feeling of Shane’s gentle touch and the soft cotton.
They had been at the cottage for three days; a quiet Christmas they had definitely earnt with the season they had played. Sure, they were older now than they were during their days at Boston and Montreal, but since playing on the same team, sharing practices, and drives to rinks, and hotel rooms on the road, since becoming Hollander-Rozanov, they had cemented themselves as they generational players they were fated to become.
Ilya had quietly hoped that being on the same team as his husband, being one of the greatest MLH players this century (of all time, if he was feeling especially egotistical that day) would fix what was broken in his head. Maybe proving his father wrong, proving to himself he was good enough, maybe that would make him normal.
Since starting therapy, and all that came with it, the bad days had gotten better. They were far less frequent, and Ilya has learnt to manage them - communicate to Shane what he needed without as much fear or embarrassment, eat when he needed to, let himself feel and acknowledge the pain without being pulled in too deep by its sirens curse -
like his mother had.
Ilya wondered sometimes how similar he was to his mother. Did she also feel the vicious beating behind her chest in the place of a heart? Did taking a breath feel like running through the eye of a storm for her?
Ilya had learnt to manage the bad days, but today was not just any typical bad day.
Today marked twenty years since he lost Irina. Twenty years since his world had tilted on its axis, and he had to pretend nothing had changed. Twenty years since he had held his mother’s bone-cold hand as the life dripped out like sand in an hourglass.
Sometimes he wondered if his own sand was running out. He tried to ignore that aching thought that pressed its way to the front of his mind – he had Shane, he had a family now, he had an incredible team who he loved and loved him in return. Ilya would never do that to them; never give them the same pain he’d carried since he was 12. But sometimes he thought he couldn’t help it.
His father had told him he was weak, just like her, for feeling that deep rooted sadness that clung to his heart like a vine. He had told Ilya he was a failure, too soft, too loving, and that had stuck with him just as much as the grief.
It wasn’t until Shane, at this very cottage five years ago, that he let himself trust enough to love again. Shane - the kind, wonderful man, who understood everything and stuck with him through it all. Who held him when he cried on the days where his mother’s curse flooded his mind, who stayed with him in bed when he didn’t have the energy to get up, who was currently tangling his fingers in Ilya’s hair and whispering gentle words in Russian. His Canadian tongue rounded the vowels more than necessary, but to Ilya’s ears it was perfect. It was love.
I love you, Ilyusha
I’m so proud of you
She would be so, so proud of you
Ilya had learnt to manage the bad days, but when they got especially bad, he knew Shane would be there to keep him upright.
⌁₊˚⊹ ⊹˚₊⌁
There was a knock at the door. Three raps against the glass. A bullet through the softened silence.
Ilya dragged his head away from his husband’s lap - he could stay in that soft comfort forever - and looked up at him in confusion. His expression was mirrored by Shane, who was slowly moving to get off the couch and see who had interrupted their evening. Yuna and David knew Ilya needed to be alone (or at least, alone with his husband) today, so either there was an emergency, or someone else had come to visit their cottage.
A million possibilities ran through Ilya’s mind, fear of whatever was waiting outside that door pressed into his mind.
Shane stood, pressed a brief kiss to Ilya’s forehead, and promised he would tell them to leave. He walked out into the open hall, towards the door, towards their unwelcome guest, leaving Ilya alone on the couch, the glowing embers in the fireplace the only remaining light in the quiet room.
Ilya lied there, hushed and unmoving, watching the burning coals. They spat up sparks that spun through the air and landed on the hearth before fizzling out into dust. He listened to the footfalls from the hallway distantly.
He heard the muted creak of wood against hinges, and muffled voices. Ilya couldn’t make out any words, but he heard a gasp, and an all-too-familiar cadence in the vibrations in the air.
It was the voice that spoke to him before every game. The voice that told him he was strong, good enough, that whispered king encouragement when everything felt too much. The voice he searched for in the amplitude of every person he spoke to, knowing it was gone. The tone he heard in his dreams – which he had accepted was the only place it remained.
He jumped from the couch, suddenly filled with terrified energy and the slight fear he was going insane. Maybe this was it; his brain had finally broken, shattered. Shane would have to pick up the pieces of pink sludge that must surely be staining their couch. He must have finally lost his mind.
He ran through the wooden halls towards the voice, towards Shane who was standing deadly still, blocking Ilya’s view of the doorway.
Ilya’s heart was pounding. He could feel his veins pulsing in his temple, his head was light as lead.
Shane moved to the side, turning to face Ilya. His eyes were blown wide, mouth hung open in a silent scream. His chest was rising with shallow breaths. Confusion was scraped into his skin. Ilya could see behind him now, to the person standing on their front steps.
Her hair fell on her shoulders, neat curls of sunlight gold. The moonlight glow reflected off them, like the sun on fresh snow. It shone on her eyes, the same seafoam sapphire Ilya only saw in his own reflection. Her face was as young as he remembered – too young – the face of a woman only recently turned 33. There was a sadness carved in lines on her forehead though, sadness he hadn’t noticed as a child. She looked eerily as he remembered, as if the memory of that day had split from his mind and was now walking, breathing, living.
Her skin was pale grey, like no blood was rushing underneath. Her lips were chapped and tinted blue. And yet, there was a light in her pupils, something, not quite alive, but something human.
He choked out a strangled cry.
« Mama? »
⌁₊˚⊹ ⊹˚₊⌁
Moscow, 2003
The house was finally empty. Grigori was at work, Alexei was out, probably smoking weed behind the school with some girls who didn’t want to be there. Irina had just dropped off Ilya at hockey practice. He wouldn’t be home for at least 3 hours; she had plenty of time.
Irina moved from the front door towards the bathroom, footsteps slow, heavy. She opened the cabinet and reached for the bottle at the back. It was a nearly full bottle of codeine – Grigori used it for his hip, he would be annoyed it was gone, he would have to go the pharmacy to pick up more. That wouldn’t be her problem anymore. That was the point, she supposed.
She moved to the kitchen, pills in hand, and grabbed the icy bottle of vodka tucked away at the back of the freezer.
Her fingers trembled around the frosted glass, the condensation clearing under her firm grip. She had to do this; there was no going back. She loved her sons more than anything, and she hoped they knew that, but this was inevitable.
All the lamps were off. The only light was the thin glow from beneath the curtain of the slowly setting afternoon sun. A slight splinter of that glow shone on the bed, a halo over her final resting place.
On the table beside the bed was a copy of her favourite book, the one she had wanted Ilya to read when he was old enough to understand it. It was densely annotated and drawn over, her love spilling out onto the margins. She left a note on top, a small scratch on an old scrap of paper.
Read this and think of me, malysh. I love you, always - Mama
Irina sat on the bed spread, careful to not disrupt the neatly tucked sheets – Grigori would be furious if he had to remake the bed. She poured out the pills into her hand. She counted them, one, two, three, fifteen. She hoped it would be enough; it had to be.
The vodka bottle was a heavy weight in her lap, an anchor of sorts. She lifted her palm, filled with the small white circles. She raised them in pairs into her mouth, washing it down with the cold vodka. She couldn’t risk doing it too slowly, she couldn’t risk being sick and having to explain to Grigori what she had done.
The liquid burned down her throat; her tongue was coated in chalk. She gagged against the powdery pills, but swallowed them anyway.
Once she reached the twelfth pill, her eyelids were growing heavy. Her head was falling against her shoulders and the tugging, clawing pain behind her heart was loosening its vice grip. This must be what peace felt like – no feeling other than a gentle pushing on her brain to lie back onto the bed, weightless. Her mind was empty. Her body was sluggish and almost unresponsive.
She swallowed the final three pills, chasing them with the final drops of vodka. The bottle fell frown her weak grasp. She distantly heard it shatter against the cold wooden floors. She pressed her palm against the bruise on her thigh from Grigori’s fist, and found that she felt nothing anymore.
She had no worry anymore. Her mind was less loud, no longer yelling in the voice of her husband. As she let her eyes close, she brought a leaden finger to her cross. She ran her nail over the metal ridges, and thought a final prayer for her son.
Irina wasn’t sure she believed in God anymore, but she had to hope there was something out there, something to watch over her boy, her Ilyusha.
Please keep him safe, please watch over him. Please let me know he’s okay.
She felt the final drops of life pour out her mind. Collapsed against the bed, her arm fallen over the edge, as if reaching for the broken bottle on the floor.
Suddenly there was a tugging at her mind. She rose from her crumpled form and was standing in the room. Was she breathing, was she living? She felt weightless, almost floating. She turned around and saw herself; she was so small, more peaceful than she had ever seen herself. There was the memory of a smile on her bluish lips. Her skin was already greying; the blood had stopped racing beneath her skin.
A door appeared in front of her; one she was positive did not belong in her house. It was standing in the middle of the room, nothing behind it, just a lone door.
Irina heard the turning of a key in the lock echoing through the hallway. She heard the excited rambling of her Ilyusha. She couldn’t see his face. She couldn’t deal with watching him realise what she had done, how selfish she had been.
She had to get out of this room, so she reached for the golden handle.
She twisted it, opening the large wooden door. Through it, she saw a house. One she had never seen before. It was large, wooden with floor to ceiling windows. It was clearly expensive, and she was positive it wasn’t in Russia. It was far too grand, too ornate. It reminded her of the American shows she could sometimes pick up on their TV when the winds were in the right direction.
It was surrounded by dense forest, painted in a wash of white snow. She heard a distant call of some animal, something wolfish, racing through the trees. It was almost idyllic, as if it had fallen out of a poem.
Footsteps were running through the hall of her Moscow home, calling out for her, increasingly panicked. She couldn’t respond, and she knew her body couldn’t either. She couldn’t turn back to her cold Moscow bedroom she had left behind, so all she could do was walk forward into the snow-covered scene.
The grass crunched beneath her feet, icy with frozen dew. She turned around and the door had vanished; the only thing that remained was lilac pansies shooting up through the frost. A small bird landed at her feet. It was black with checkered white markings like a chessboard. Its eyes were red and looking up at her. Its inky beak tapped at her ankles, urging her forward towards the large house.
Irina couldn’t identify the bird, she wasn’t sure she had seen anything like it in Russia, furthering her assumption she was no longer in Moscow. Wherever she was, it was peaceful, the inside of a snow globe.
She walked towards the house, or more like floated, she still felt weightless, almost like she wasn’t really there, but she could feel the chill in the air and the snow under her shoes.
Through one of the large windows, she saw a television. It was bigger and thinner than anything she had seen in Russia. There was no wooden frame, only a slim sheet of glass. It had no antenna. The hockey game it showed was playing was in crystal quality.
She saw two men, curled together on the couch. One man was running his fingers through the curls of the other, whose head was lying in his lap. She recognised those curls. He was far older than her son, her boy, but she would know those golden spirals and cerulean eyes anywhere, they were her own. She would know that sadness anywhere, the pain drawn onto his face. She knew it from her own mirror.
Irina knew, almost instinctually, that man was her boy, her Ilyusha.
She stalked forward to the door, large and wooden with thick glass windows. She raised a fist and knocked, three times. She wasn’t sure if it would work, if she had any physical presence here, but the resounding noise that came from the hardwood proved she did.
Through the window she saw the first man, the one she did not recognise, raise himself from the couch and press a tender kiss to her son’s forehead.
He opened the door and his eyes blew wide. His mouth fell open like a fish, and he drew in a sharp breath. His palm hurried to the wall, steadying himself. He clearly wasn’t going to speak first; he only breathed shallow gasps and spluttered confusion.
Irina spoke; she wasn’t sure if he would understand Russian, but her English had never been the greatest.
« Hello Milyi, can you tell me where I am? Is that my son in the other room? »
The man continued to flounder, gasping for air. Irina couldn’t tell if he had understood what she had said, and she prepared to vaguely translate, but then she heard running footsteps, and Ilya appeared behind him.
⌁₊˚⊹ ⊹˚₊⌁
Ottawa, 2023
A million questions choked through his trachea, but Ilya couldn’t voice a single one. He stood there, in the hallway, knees trembling. He felt like they would give out soon – he was one second away from collapsing onto the oak floorboards like a marionette with its strings cut.
« Ilyusha, malysh, is that you? »
That did it. Suddenly, hot bile ran up Ilya’s throat like scalding coffee. He felt a stabbing pressure behind his eyes; the weight of a thousand memories that he had slowly been forgetting as the years went on. He heard the distant sound of the win siren blaring from the TV.
He ran to the bathroom, luckily speed had always been his strong suit, not only on the ice, and made it to the sink as he retched. His stomach was empty – he hadn’t been able to eat since lunch yesterday. Nothing came out his mouth except the thin yellow green acid. It burnt his mouth and tasted of bitter pain.
He coughed and gagged and chocked into the basin, tears pricking his eyes like needles against skin. A hand was on his shoulder, accompanied by soft whispers.
“I’ve got you, Ilya. It’s okay, I’ve got you, it’s gonna be okay”
He shook his head and a sob tore out of his mouth. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t do anything but cry and shake his head and mumble « Mama » under his breath like an elegy. A eulogy. A prayer.
Ilya’s knees shook under him; his knuckles were white where he gripped the sink, the only thing keeping him on his feet. How could this be happening? Had all the concussions finally caught up with him, and his broken brain was taunting him like a child?
He finally looked up at Shane, his eyes were glistening with worry, and his hand was a grounding pressure on Ilya’s shoulder. Shane grabbed a washcloth that was hanging on the edge of the bath and dampened it with warm water. He wiped at Ilya’s eyes and mouth. It was oddly comforting, being treated like a sick little kid, rather than a grown man shaking and coughing up his organs into the sink.
« Is this real, Shane? Is this really happening? » Ilya’s mind was too far gone, too confused for English. He was struggling enough with Russian as it was. His mind felt like a sieve, the only thoughts remaining was a metronome of How?
“Yeah, baby, its real. I don’t know how, but yeah, its real.” Shane threw the cloth back against the bath and wrapped his hand around the back of his husband’s neck, massaging the stiff tendons that lied there.
Ilya turned to face the cabinet mirror. His eyes were red rimmed and wet with tears. His curls were flat against his forehead, weighed down with sweat. His lip was trembling and shining from the gentle care of Shane cleaning him. Ilya gripped the basin of the sink and let out a shaky breath.
In the reflection of the mirror, Ilya saw Irina standing in the doorway playing with the cross around her neck, the same cross Ilya had worn every day for the last twenty years. Her face was drawn with concern, she seemed afraid to cross the boundary of the door, afraid to reach out for her son.
« Ilyusha, are you okay? »
Ilya’s mind finally snapped. He went towards her in two strides and wrapped his arms around her neck. He was at least a full foot taller than her, but as she pulled him in closer and brought a hand up to his hair, he looked like a child, like the twelve-year-old he had been the last time he had hugged her. Ilya’s quick breathing slowed as he breathed her in. She smelt of coffee and the floral perfume she loved. It had been retired in 2002, but she had found a way to make the bottle last the whole year. It was a mix of lilies and chamomile; Ilya hadn’t smelt it in twenty years.
Ilya pulled his head away from her shoulder and her hands found his jaw. She held his face with so much love, the same way Ilya had always held Shane, her thumb running along his jawline. She tilted his head down to face her, and pressed a short kiss to his nose.
« How are you here, Mama? I’ve missed you so, so much. » His voice trembled around each word, but his Russian was quicker than Shane had ever heard it. He didn’t enunciate every syllable, falling into something quicker and more comfortable that he only ever got with Svetlana. Shane had been learning for over five years, and he was honestly getting very good, but it would never be the same as what Ilya had at home, the home had left behind for Shane.
« I don’t know, Milyi. I don’t know. One second, I was in Moscow, then I was here. » She told him of the door, and the bird that pecked at her ankles. Of praying that he would be okay. She apologised for leaving him behind.
« it’s okay, Mama. I understand. I’m sorry I couldn’t , I don’t know. I’m sorry I didn’t protect you from Papa. » her hand remained firm at his jaw, and she shook her head softly.
« No, malysh, that wasn’t your job. You’re my boy, it’s not your job to protect me. I wish I could have kept you and Alexei safe from your Papa. I’m sorry he was always so cruel to you. »
Ilya released shaky breaths that could almost be considered sobs and hugged her tighter. He was only a year younger than her now, but he looked every bit the child he had been the last time she saw him, with hockey gear that was slightly too big, a large fishbowl helmet covering his face, clutching his stick in his fist like a trophy.
Shane stood awkwardly near them, watching his husband cling to his mother who was, for so long, only a memory. What could he even say? What do you say to the woman who died twenty years ago, and then appeared at your door in the snow like an angel?
He coughed and looked down at his socked feet on the tiles. “Do you want to, um, do you wanna go downstairs? I can make tea.” He coughed again and wrung his hands together. Ilya looked at him with so much awe and love Shane almost blushed under it. He nodded and led Irina out of the bathroom towards the living room.
Shane went to the kitchen and took down three mugs from the cupboard. He wasn’t sure how Irina would take her tea, could she even drink it? She was both spectral and definitively, absolutely, here in their cottage.
Ilya could hear the distant clattering of mugs from the kitchen as he held onto his mother’s hands. He couldn’t believe she was really here – sitting beside him on his couch, her fingers in his.
She was as beautiful as the last time he saw her. Her face had been fading from his mind like a layer of dust had settled over it, but now that dust had been wiped clean.
« Your home is so beautiful, Ilyusha. Where is it? »
Ilya suddenly had the urge to laugh. He released a couple of breaths that could be considered a chuckle and shook his head, maybe trying to get over the inexplicability of his situation.
« Thank you Mama, we’re in Canada. I came here five years ago. »
At that, Shane entered the room clutching three mugs between his hands, trying not to drop them. He looked afraid to sit too close to Ilya, but knew he would want the comfort, so he placed the mugs on the low coffee table and sat behind Ilya, a hand on his lower back out of the view of Irina.
Ilya looked at him thankfully – as much as he said Irina would love Shane, he knew deep down there was a chance she would be just as accepting as the rest of Russia.
Irina was smiling wide, her pale blue lips drawn out across her face. « Canada! That’s wonderful! So far from home, I always wanted to go. »
Ilya looked down at his hands and nodded. « Here is home now, Mama. I’m sorry I left you behind in Russia. »
She scoffed and tilted up his chin, forcing him to look into the eyes that were a mirror image of his own. «Ilyushenka, do not be stupid. I am glad you left that place behind. Remember, you cannot leave me behind, I am here. » She pressed a hand to his beating heart. He drew in a breath and smiled properly for the first time all day. Shane continued to press gentle pressure into his back, rubbing small circles with his thumb.
« What took you to Canada, malysh? »
Ilya smiled, he knew it had always been his mother’s dream for him to go professional with hockey, he just wished she was there to see it happen. Although, she sort of was now.
« Hockey mama, we play for Ottawa. » he nodded his head back at Shane, who was still yet to say a word.
« Ottawa? Ilyushka they are terrible, I expected more of my son. » she said it with a teasing tone, dropping her voice to sound like Grigori . Ilya just laughed, properly, a real laugh. He had been so numb just twenty minutes ago, and now he was more himself, talking rapidly and laughing. Shane couldn’t help but smile.
« They’re not so bad anymore, mama. They have us. I was first draft pick, you know. Shane was second. » he looked back at Shane, grinning, whose nose twitched like rabbit and scoffed.
“Show off.” He said it with so much affection, Ilya knew he meant no heat.
“Sorry, milyi, I ignore you. You are Shane, yes?” Her accent was thick, it reminded Shane of a carpark in Saskatchewan, of whispered I Love You’s in the middle of the night.
“Um- yeah, I’m, I’m Shane. It’s so nice to meet you, Irina. Wait, can I call you Irina?”
“If you want me to reply, yes Shane. It is nice to meet you too.” Her eyes crinkled as she smiled, it was warm and welcoming. It reminded him of his own mother.
« Shane is my husband, mama, is that- is that okay? » his eyes were wide with nerves. Shane could feel his leg tapping softly on the floor, trying to expel his fear.
Irina turned to Shane, something protective in her eye. “You love him, yes? You make him happy? He makes you happy?”
“Yeah, yes, of course.” He nodded aggressively, always so eager, to make sure she understood. She smiled wider and reached out to ruffled Shane’s hair.
« Then of course that’s okay, malysh. I love everyone you love. How did you boys get together? »
Ilya exhaled heavily, grateful, and dropped his head briefly to hide his brimming tears. He turned back to Shane and grabbed his hand, no longer afraid. He pulled him closer so the three were sat in a triangle, Ilya holding both their hands like a prayer circle. He leaned into Shane’s hair and kissed his temple, whispering “I told you she would love you.” His eyes were wet with emotion, and honestly so were Shane’s.
« We were rivals for a long time, but it was never real. I think I loved him since the beginning. He introduced himself to me in cold carpark in Canada, it was 2009 and I barely spoke English, all I saw was his beautiful freckles and I was in gone. He was like the night sky, stars sprinkled over his face. He was a whole universe condensed into a very pretty Canadian hockey player. My heart knew I wanted him, but we did not admit that for a very long time. It was not until 2017 when he was braver than I could be, and he invited me to this cottage. I was terrified to go, but I knew I wanted to be with him forever, forever if he would let me. I told him all about you, mama, and he woke me up in the middle of the night to tell me about his plan for a charity, it was for you, mama, the charity, it was to support mental health, so other people would never feel as bad as you did. I hadn’t felt that much love from someone since you left, I didn’t feel like I deserved it, that much kindness. It was the nicest thing someone had done for me, and I just had to tell him, he needed to know I loved him. It was difficult, the hockey world is not always kind to men like us, but I knew he was worth it. I love all of him with all of my soul. »
Ilya’s eyes were glistening and his lip was trembling, but for once, Shane knew it was with joy. He hadn’t understood it all, but he got the vague idea of what Ilya had just admitted to his mother. He leaned in and kissed his curls, the golden spirals he loved so much.
« Ah, you boys are so cute! I’m so glad you have someone, Ilyusha. So handsome as well! » she reached out and grabbed Shane’s cheeks like he was a child getting ready for his first school dance.
« I’m sorry life was not always easy for you, malysh, I knew it would not be, but I also knew you would be okay. My son, you are so strong, I do not know where you get it from. » She was smiling wide, showing all her teeth, and her sparkling eyes were damp with tears.
Ilya shook his head and tightened his hold of his mother’s hand « From you, mama. I get it from you. I love you so much, Mama. »
He pulled her in for a crushing hug, and their identical crosses clinked against each other between them. He ran his fingers through her hair and breathed in deep. He knew she couldn’t stay here forever, her skin was already beginning to glow in ethereal white light, so he tried to commit the feeling of her against him to memory. His eyes shut and he pressed a kiss to her cheek.
« Did you find my book, malysh? I would hate to think your father took it. He does not deserve it. »
Ilya had found the book, and he had hidden it under his bed along with the cross around his neck. He read it almost every day, it went with him for away games and was currently living on his bedside table, just as he had found it twenty years ago. He read it to Shane to help him practice his Russian. Shane always fell asleep to the sound of Ilya’s gentle voice wrapping around the syllables. Ilya had added his own notes along his mother’s beautiful cursive.
Ilya had learnt to read from her writing, a tiny five-year-old holding her hand as she wrote in large swooping letters, slow and patient. And now Shane had traced over the ink with his fingers, memorising the curve of the letters like they were a prophecy. She had taught them both.
« Yeah, mama, I found it. I still have it; I would never let Papa steal another part of you. »
« Thank you, Moya Lyubov’. »
Irina was beginning to glow harsher; her fingers were fading into angelic light. Her eyes shone out like beacons and the sandy coils of her hair were radiant, more so than normal. Ilya knew they didn’t have much more time left.
She turned to Shane and took him into her arms. It was tight and grounding, the kind of hug only a mother could give.
“Thank you for taking care of my boy. Thank you for loving him, Shanya.” She looked deep into his eyes and kissed his forehead. His breath was shaky and he struggled to speak; afraid he would cry into her shoulder.
« Thank you for giving him to me, Irina. I’m so, so glad I could meet you. »
She nodded and ran her thumb over his ear, as he had done for Ilya, and she had before that.
She turned to her son and held his face with both hands. « I love you, my Ilyusha. I love you more than anything. My handsome boy, be good, take care of yourself, be good to your Shanya. You were my whole life, and I will always be with you, always in your heart. »
Ilya begun to cry, it wasn’t the sobs from before, he was too tired for that, it was just small tears that fluttered down his cheeks like dew on grass.
« I love you, Mama. I love you so much. I miss you every day. I’ll see you again, okay? I know I’ll see you again. I don’t know when, but this isn’t the end. I love you always, Mama. Goodbye. »
« I know, malysh, I know. I’ll wait for you. »
He hugged her and cried against her shoulder. She rocked them gently, kissing his curls.
Her movement slowed. She pressed a final kiss to the ridge of his ear.
His eyes were still shut tight, but he felt as the pressure faded away in his arms. He pulled away, and all that remained was light – a glowing spectre that was quickly dimming. He let his arms drop and whispered into the empty air a final goodbye – except it wasn’t final, he knew he would see her again, but hopefully not for a while. He had a whole life to live.
⌁₊˚⊹ ⊹˚₊⌁
Moscow, 2003
Ilya ran up the short steps leading up to the front door, careful to not slip on the frost that had clung to them all day. His hockey gear bag was bouncing on his shoulder with each step, and his curls (that were in need of a cut) flopped over in front of his eyes.
He unlocked the door with shaky fingers – he had forgotten his gloves when he left that morning, and his fingers were stiff with a bone-deep chill. He managed to unlock the door after a few attempts and began yelling out to his mama.
« Mamochka! I’m back! Guess what? I finally scored on my backhand today! »
Ilya had been struggling with his backhand the whole year; he could make the passes connect but when he was in front of the goal, he always shot too wide, or it went over into the stands. Coach was so disappointed in him, but today he had finally done it. The puck had travelled cleanly from his stick over the goalie’s shoulder.
Coach had almost smiled.
His mama still hadn’t replied, she must be sleeping. She did that a lot recently. He called out again for her.
« Mama? Mamochka? » He ran through the hall after stopping to throw his bag into his room. He skidded to a stop outside her door, cracked slightly ajar, and pushed it open slowly. His mama was lying over the covers, her face turned away from him. There was broken glass on the floor by the bed, under her outstretched hand, her index finger reaching out, lightly grazing a clear shard. It reminded him of a painting he had seen once in an art textbook hidden away in his mama’s bookcase. His mama always loved reading, she read about anything.
Whenever Ilya had a nightmare, after his papa was done yelling at him, she would sneak into his bedroom and curl up on the bed beside him holding him close, and she would read him stories of a brave knight who defeated robbers, a young boy who learned to speak to nightingales, a witch who lived in the forest in her house with chicken legs. He would fall asleep against her shoulder to the gentle rhythm of her voice.
He walked towards her, his breath quickening, and grabbed her wrist. He tried to feel for the gentle beat under her skin, the tempo of blood rushing in her veins, and felt nothing. He grabbed her shoulders with both hands and shook her.
« Mama! Mama, wake up! Mama, you’ve gotta wake up, please mama. What happened? »
He shook her and begged her to get up, he would say sorry for waking her up and she would say it’s okay malysh, how was practice and he would tell her all about his day and she would kiss his forehead. She didn’t do any of that. Her skin was growing pale and her lips were blue. He kept shaking her shoulders, but he knew she was gone.
A sob ripped through him, and he covered his mouth. His papa would hit him if he made too much noise.
Ilya Rozanov, why are you screaming in the house? Stop being so childish.
The house was silent except for his muffled cries against his palm. Ilya knew he had to call someone, call his papa at work, call the police, but he couldn’t move. He held onto his mama’s cold hands and shook with sobs. He wanted to scream; to yell and fight, he wanted to punch a wall, and he wanted to cry into his mother’s shoulder.
He reached forward over her small body, and unclasped her golden cross with shaky fingers. He knew his papa would probably just throw it away; remove all evidence that Irina Rozanova ever existed, so he took her cross and held it in his palm. The metal edges pressing into his Heart Line was the only sensation he felt other than total, complete devastation and fear.
He looked up through his tear-filled lashes, and finally noticed the book his mama had left on her bedside table. He stood with quivering knees and took the book into his hand. He noticed the note his mama had written laying on top, written in her beautiful swooping handwriting.
Read this and think of me, malysh. I love you, always - Mama
He shook and sobbed and clung to the small paperback. Its cover was faded saffron, white at the corners where the paper had rubbed away. He held it to his chest and whispered goodbye to his mama.
He walked to his room, turning to look back at her small, broken body. He hid the book in the box under his bed filled with small mementos. A shell from the Black Sea coast they had visited when he was nine. A puck signed by Sergei Fedorov he had gotten for his tenth birthday. A polaroid of him, Sasha, and Svetlana from his last birthday.
He pushed the box back under his bed, safe from his papa and brother.
He moved back into his mama’s bedroom and called his papa at work, smoothing out his voice before he did.
⌁₊˚⊹ ⊹˚₊⌁
Ottawa, 2023
Ilya did not cry this time, not really. He closed his eyes, exhaled, and smiled. For the first time in a very, very long time, he felt truly at peace. He looked up at Shane, who face was wet with tears.
Ilya grabbed his jaw and wiped them away.
“I’m okay Shane. Really, moya lyubov’, I’m okay.” And, truly, he was. He got to say goodbye this time.
“She was so beautiful, Ilya. I’m so glad I got to meet her. I’m so, so proud of you.” Ilya pulled him into a hug, pressing his nose against his neck. He kissed his Adams apple and trailed kisses up to his earlobe.
“I knew she would love you. I love you so much, moye solnyshko. Thank you.”
Shane held his husband against his chest and rocked him slowly, touching featherlight kisses to his temple. They sat there for hours, or maybe it was just five minutes, breathing and swaying in the shimmering moonlight reflecting through the window.
“I think, now I am ready.” He looked up at Shane and hoped his eyes conveyed everything he needed them to. How much he loved Shane, how okay he truly felt.
“Are you sure, baby? You don’t have to.”
“I know, kotenok, I want to.”
Ilya pulled his phone out from his back pocket, and opened the Irina Foundation Instagram, and made the post he had been dreading all day.
It was a picture of a much younger Ilya, maybe four or five, on Irina’s shoulders. They were standing in the lapping tide, the water rushing at her ankles. Ilya was smiling wide, pointing at something past the camera, and Irina’s hair was blowing behind her in the beach breeze. She was waving at the camera with one hand, and holding Ilya’s ankle in the other, to keep him from rocking backwards and pulling them both down into the sand. She was wearing a long, white sun dress that was damp from the waves at the bottom. It was a low-quality scan of an old film photo, but it was recognisably Ilya and his mother. It was one of the only photos Ilya had managed to save from their home in Russia.
He captioned it:
Twenty years ago today, the world lost my beautiful mother Irina. She lost a long battle with depression; one I am fighting still today. This foundation works to keep her memory alive, and to save others from losing that battle.
It is hard to think you have been gone longer than I have known you, sometimes I think you are still here, but when I see a flower or feel a breeze through the trees, I know that maybe you are. I hope you would be proud of what we are doing, and I know you would love the family I have made here in Canada.
I miss you every day, mama. I love you always.
- Your Ilyusha
⌁₊˚⊹ ⊹˚₊⌁
That night, Ilya had the same dream he always did. He was standing by the hammock in the garden, and the golden sun was pouring over his face. Irina was looking up at him and laughing. Her face was crystal clear, no longer a blur, a smudge. She was speaking now too; she didn’t normally do that in these dreams. Except, she wasn’t speaking to him. Ilya turned, and saw Shane next to him, smiling and laughing and talking with his mother. He finally made it down from the cottage, and the three of them were together under the sunlight.
Ilya woke the next morning, and he smiled. He pulled Shane further into his chest, closed his eyes, and fell back into a peaceful sleep.