Chapter Text
The apartment is too quiet without her.
Ilya notices it in strange ways. The radiator still knocks like it always has, pipes clanging in the walls, but now there’s nothing to soften the sound, no humming from the kitchen, no voice calling his name from the other room. Even the air feels sharper, like it’s missing something warm.
He sits on the edge of his bed, still in his practice gear, socks damp and cold against the floor. His hockey bag is slumped by the door where he dropped it. He hasn’t unpacked it. He hasn’t done anything, really. Just sat.
They lost today.
He can still hear the coach’s voice, the scrape of skates, the way his father’s silence in the stands felt heavier than any yelling would’ve been. He missed an easy shot. He knows that’s what his father will remember.
But that’s not why his chest hurts.
It’s been hurting all day, this tight, aching pressure, like he swallowed something too big and it got stuck somewhere behind his ribs. He tried to ignore it at the rink. He tried to skate it out, but it only got worse.
He wipes at his face with the heel of his hand, frustrated when it comes away damp.
“Stop it.” he mutters to himself, but it doesn’t stop.
The door opens and he sits up straight.
His father steps in, bringing cold air with him, the smell of cigarettes and the outside clinging to his coat. He doesn’t look at Ilya at first, just sighs and looks out the window, moving through the space like Ilya isn’t sitting right there.
Ilya watches him, something small and desperate rising up in his chest. “Papa?”
His voice comes out thinner than he meant it to. His father glances over briefly. “What.”
It’s not angry, not yet. Just flat. That almost makes it worse.
Ilya hesitates. The words feel heavy in his mouth, unfamiliar. “I. . . ” He swallows. “I had a bad game.”
A pause. Then a short, humorless huff. “I noticed.”
Ilya flinches a little, but pushes forward anyway. He has to. The feeling in his chest is too much, too loud.
“I just,” His voice wobbles. He hates that. He tries again, quieter. “I don’t feel good.”
His father finally looks at him properly then, eyes narrowing slightly, assessing.
“You’re not sick.”
“No, I,” Ilya presses his hand flat against his chest, like he can show him. “Here. It hurts.”
For a second, just a second, he thinks maybe his father will understand. Maybe he’ll come closer. Maybe he’ll say something like his mother used to, something soft, something that made things feel smaller.
Instead, his father lets out a sharp laugh. “Your chest hurts?” he repeats, like it’s ridiculous. “From what? Missing the net?”
Ilya’s fingers curl into his shirt. “I just. . . His voice drops to a whisper. “I miss,”
He can’t finish it. The word мама gets stuck, caught in his throat along with everything else. He feels his eyes start to burn and he no matter how hard he bites the inside of his lip or holds his breath he can’t stop the water that comes from his eyes.
His father’s expression hardens anyway, like he’s heard enough. “Don’t start that,” he snaps. “Crying like a baby over nothing.”
“It’s not - ” Ilya says, too quickly, panic creeping in. “I just, I wanted - ”
“What?” His father’s mouth twists. “Wanted to feel better? After playing like that?”
The words hit harder than he expects. Ilya feels them land somewhere deep, right where his chest already aches.
“I tried.” he says, small.
“Not hard enough.”
Silence fills the room again, thick and suffocating. Ilya stares at the floor, blinking rapidly. He wishes that he hadn’t said anything at all. That he’d just stayed quiet, swallowed it like he always does.
But he can’t stop now. The feeling is still there, pressing, pressing.
“I just wanted. . . ” He swallows again, forcing the words out. “A hug. Or something, I don’t know.” The moment the words leave his mouth, he regrets them.
His father actually laughs this time. Not loud, but sharp, cutting.
“A hug?” he repeats. “You think this is what makes you better? This?” He gestures vaguely, dismissive.
Ilya doesn’t answer.
“You want comfort,” his father continues, voice colder now, “then earn it.”
Ilya’s head lifts slightly, confusion flickering through the hurt.
“Be good.” His father’s gaze is steady, unyielding. “Play well. Be someone worth being proud of.” A beat. “Then maybe.”
Maybe. It’s not even a promise. Ilya nods anyway, because he doesn’t know what else to do.
“Okay,” he whispers.
His father turns away, conversation already over, moving toward the kitchen like none of it mattered.
Ilya stays on the edge of the bed. The ache in his chest hasn’t gone away. If anything, it’s worse now; sharper, heavier, like it’s sinking deeper inside him.
After a while, he lies down without changing, curling in on himself, arms wrapped tight around his middle. He presses his face into the thin pillow and finally lets himself cry; but quietly, as quietly as he can, so no one hears.
By the time he falls asleep, he’s already repeating it in his head like a rule, something solid he can hold onto:
Be good, and then maybe.