Work Text:
It starts off the way it always does with Ilya. Discomfort at being ignored.
Not ignored. David Hollander would never. But the man is clearly distracted. Maybe Ilya has become greedy. His father had always said as much. Greedy, lazy, disrespectful. It was good his father never really knew of his lustful exploits because he would have loved to add another of the Seven Deadly Sins to the take down of his youngest child. Wrath was the only one to be respected after all.
The Hollanders were fine with his gluttony however, content to let him soak up all their affection like the water for Shane’s sad neglected cactus in his Montreal apartment. When Yuna greets him at the door and immediately hugs him he knows he holds her maybe a little too long but she always lets him pull away first. David does the same, getting up from where he’s sitting or wiping off his hands and throwing the towel over his shoulder if he’s in the kitchen to pull Ilya into a, slightly looser, hug that’s equalized by the solid pat to his shoulder and while he teases Shane about it, he always gets at least one more shoulder pat than the man’s own son does.
So when David doesn't get up from the couch, barely glances up from his phone for a quick smile and a “Hey, welcome home, son!” Ilya doesn't like it.
He’d gotten in late last night from a string of away games, all too eager to accept the standing invitation to the Hollanders for breakfast or brunch his first day back. Not that he keeps track but usually he can count on the essential, grounding embraces to be a little tighter, a few extra shoulder pats on these days.
They had lost 2 of their 3 away games but the Hollanders would never hold that against him . . . Would they?
Yuna, ever the whisperer for sad hockey boys now that she had all the information she needed, must see something on his face as she squeezes his shoulder, taking the funnel of narcissus flowers he’d picked up on the way over. “Oh don’t mind him. He’s mad he isn't going to get the wordle today. I got it in 2.” She singsongs, clearly pleased as she heads into the kitchen to put the flowers in a vase.
“I still have one more try!” David calls after her back, her answering laughter cut off with an indignant hey when he adds on “Ilya I hope you've already eaten. Yuna decided she should make brunch today.”
Ilya would eat charcoal if Yuna served it to him so he isn't terribly upset by the revelation, but he is intrigued by what it is that has taken David’s attention, coming round the living room to look over the older man’s shoulder. “What is Wordle?” It's definitely not one of the strange compounded words he’d come to expect from English (which for once isn't the biggest perpetrator. German compounds were ridiculous) and the little blocks on the phone screen didn’t do much to clear it up.
“Its just a silly word game.”
“It’s only silly because he’s losing!”
The long suffering sigh is, mostly, an act. “You have to guess the five letter word. You have 5 tries. See where the blocks are green? Right letter, right spot. The yellow is right letter but wrong spot. Grey means it’s not in the word at all.”
Ilya sees. And immediately sees how incredibly frustrating it would be. David is close, has been close, but the options are frustratingly large.
S T A R E
L E E V E
M A P L E
C A B L E
“I like picking words at the start that have the most common vowels and letters. Things like a and e, s and t or h are pretty good starts. So when none of those are in it it can be harder. Or when you get some letters but they're too common. This could be fable, table, gable, sable, and I have one guess left.”
“And Yuna got it in 2?”
“So she says. She’s a witch about more than just hockey. Her first guesses are so unhinged I don’t understand it.” More than once David had thought she had reached out to the New York Times for insider info. “At least I know I can beat her in connections after this.”
And so began the great New York Times check ins. Every morning, or afternoon, the Hollanders, at first, could expect to receive a text or a reply to theirs of “got it in 4! Connections done, no hints!” or occasionally, after David had revealed his own “done in three!” With a “what the fuck is valve?!” With someone else doing his property maintenance and not having too many hobbies outside of hockey it was always interesting how many little words Ilya just didn't know, not really essential to his life and so never looked for. Valve he took particular offense to, even days later.
“‘Valv-eh’ it’s just gross. Feels wrong in my mouth. клапан. Much better in Russian.”
“Actually it’s just valve.”
The disgusted sneer on Ilya’s face was priceless and for a moment David wonders if Ilya doesn’t have a touch of synesthesia. He does truly look disgusted by the taste the word leaves in his mouth. “Valve? That’s even worse!”
“It definitely isn’t quite as nice as klah-PAHN,” Davjd can admit that much, though ilya is quick to correct his emphasis on the proper syllable. David will never surpass his son on his Russian language journey, but he can at least boast that his vocabulary is more esoteric.
It’s connections though where Ilya truly thrives, and honestly does make David wonder more about the synesthesia theory, or maybe it’s just how Ilya’s mind works, but aside from the irritating “nouns with a letter removed” and other similar tricks Ilya usually doesn't even need to use the hints
They’ve fallen into such an easy routine it’s fairly quick that David realizes Ilya hasn't texted him back.
“Got it in 3! Only got 2 of the categories”
With time-zone differences and away games Ilya doesn't always answer right away, but he can usually count on a message coming in by lunch. Supper at the latest. But Ilya’s season is over, knocked out of the play offs two days ago and David knows he’s home, he came for brunch the day before, tired but seeming content, definitely back in Ottawa. There’s a queasy feeling in his stomach when he goes to bed with no update. He sends a quick text to Shane before he can second guess himself.
“Have you talked to Ilya today?”
He doesn't get a response until early the next morning, likely as Shane is prepping for his first workout. His season isn't yet done, off for two away games in New York.
“Yeah. He’s at home. Why?”
“He didn't do the wordle or connections yesterday."
“??”
“We play them every day and text what we got. Have for months. He didnt answer yesterday.”
“Oh. Okay.”
And suddenly David feels silly. Ilya was probably busy. Maybe his enjoyment was waning as Yuna’s had about a month ago, playing now and again but not consistently. He actually feels a little bad as later that day he gets:
“No wordle for me ((( but connections perfect!😈”
But when the next day comes and there’s nothing from Ilya, and he declines coming over to watch Shane play, David can’t shake the discomfort.
He’s not sure if Yuna has noticed or if she’s only picking up on David’s anxiety, not sure of what she and Ilya talk about or how often privately outside of the family chat or the family chat minus Shane that they use to coordinate without his actual son. But when he says “I’m worried about him.” She knows immediately that he isn't talking about Shane.
“Honestly. . . Same. . .” And then her phone is out, fingers moving rapid fire as she texts, setting it down decisively before picking up her glass of wine, taking a solidifying drink.
It’s 4 o’clock and David had started making dinner, planning to have it prepped and ready so they could eat on tv trays in the living room to watch Shane at 7. So it’s not surprising that it takes awhile, David dutifully blanching tomatoes, in the process of peeling the skins when the phone dings. Three times in rapid succession.
“David, pack up the food.”
“Honey, is Ilya okay?”
“He says he’s fine.”
“Are you home? Can you check on him?”
“I dont think he is. 1410. 2418”
And so 30 minutes later they’re letting themselves into Ilya’s house with the gate and door code Shane had given them, David carrying reusable grocery bags of his dinner prep.
The house is dark. Dark and in a state of disarray David isn't used to seeing. They had come to Ilya’s plenty of times and it has always been put together. He knows Ilya has hired a house keeper, but even still he usually has the cushions righted, blankets folded. There usually isn't glasses in the sink, throw pillows cast off the couch, a blanket seemingly discarded halfway down the hallway.
Yuna is off in a flash as she kicks off her shoes, already racing down the hallway, her call of “Ilya?” not answered. David is a little slower, setting his bags on the kitchen island but still close enough behind to hear Yuna’s soft “oh honey” as she hits the master bedroom moments before he does.
The room smells, is the first thing David notices. He imagines it’s what a teenage boys room must smell like if your teenage boy is anyone other than Shane. It’s sweat and unwashed laundry, dirty sheets, unwashed body.
Ilya is just a lump under the duvet. It’s moving though and tension David didn’t realize he was holding dissolves as the greasy mop of hair appears, at the disoriented and incredibly soft “mama?” that gets breathed out. Ilya’s on his side, curled up as small as the massive 6’3 Russian can manage.
“It’s Yuna, honey. Are you decent?”
“What?” He seems to be slowly coming back online as Yuna sheds her jacket with the rest of the laundry on the floor.
“Are you wearing anything?”
“I. . . Boxers. I” he starts to sit up, a spark of panic in his still hazy eyes that doesn't get a chance to take hold because Yuna is lifting the duvet and sliding into bed with him, pulling him to her, back to chest, and Yuna is so slight compared to him, it can hardly be called spooning, more like she becomes a backpack.
Ilya is rigid but not really resistant. “Yuna! What are. . . I smell! The house!”
Yuna only clutches him closer, running her fingers through his sweaty, greasy curls. “Baby, I don’t care. My poor sweet boy.” The words or the soft drag of her fingers undoes something, because Ilya is suddenly trembling, floodgates open and sobs bubbling forth.
“David, can you go start dinner again?” Yuna asks softly and David nods, glad for something he can do. Retreating to Ilya’s expansive kitchen trying not to let Ilya’s I’m sorry, I shouldn’t- and Yuna’s shh honey, no sorries. Just lay here. We’re here break his heart.
He sends Shane a simple text.
We’ve got him.
In his quiet moments, David worries about his sons, and then feels homophobic because what he worries about is his sons without a woman. Now he especially worries about Ilya. It’s sexist, he’s sure, and homophobic, but hugging a woman is just. .. . Different. Hugging your mom is different, and Ilya can’t. Yuna had so unquestioningly crawled into bed to hold Ilya when he needed her too, to drag him into her softness in a way that David wouldn't have done. Wouldn't have been able to, even if he had tried. There was a difference between hugging your mother and hugging your father. He can't help thinking there's a difference between hugging your wife and hugging your husband. He’s hugged both boys, there isn't that same . . . Give. Not the way there is with your mother or your wife, a woman. At least he doesn't think. . .
David doesn't want to think, so instead he does. He gets back to peeling his tomatoes, throwing them under the broiler with the garlic and peppers to get them all on their way into being a sauce, pounding out the chicken. When his cooking comes to a standstill of waiting he cleans. He picks up the pillows and rights them, loads the dishwasher with the glasses that look like they contain protein powder and milk but not really anything else. It was probably disgusting but enough to sustain Ilya at a bare minimum and that makes his heart clench even more for a man who finds so much joy in good food.
So he cleans the kitchen, then the living room, starts a load of laundry with clothes he finds scattered around the house without having to go into the bedroom. He does pace outside of it a few times. Listening at the door while pretending he isn't. Sometimes he hears Ilya’s voice but can’t make out the words, and then he only hears Yuna, unable to hear the words but knowing the melody immediately, a song she used to sing to Shane to get him to sleep, to get him to calm down when everything was too much.
He moves the laundry to the dryer and returns to his chicken parmesan about the time he hears some movement, a shower running in the ensuite.
He’s plating up three portions of the chicken parm with penne and garlic bread that's saturated with garlic butter and cheese because Ilya isn’t Shane and he just wants this meal to taste and feel like comfort and love and home.
He hears another load of laundry start, and then Yuna is leading Ilya into the kitchen, her arm looped in his. They're both still damp from the shower, Yuna in Shane’s still too large sweats and a Centaur’s t-shirt, damp hair pulled into a bun to keep it off her neck. Ilya looks similarly, and David suspects Yuna tore through the boy’s drawers until she found the softest fabrics for his sweat pants and hoodie, the clothes the gentle constant hug they couldn't personally constantly maintain.
For a moment Ilya freezes as he sees David more of the real world filtering in from wherever his mind has been. “Is not. . . . I insist. I sweat, I smell . . .”
Two years ago David would have, uncharitably, wondered just how many wives Ilya had slept with under their husbands noses. But now he knows Ilya, and only shakes his head, crossing the kitchen and pulling Ilya into a hug.
It’s a proper hug. Fully embraced, no shoulder pat, and while he stiffens for a second the boy quickly just melts. David is reminded so painfully just how young Ilya really is. Younger even than Shane, technically, and even if he is 6’3, 240lbs and could probably bench press David if he wanted to, he was just a boy. And oh it wasn't just Yuna who could hug like this. He was allowed to too.
They eat their chicken parm in the living room, watching the last half of Shane’s game, and when the metros are kicked out of being trophy contenders, David wishes he could feel bad about it. Them being out means Shane can come home and the boys can head to the cottage, to reset.
They turn on a movie and Yuna bullies Ilya into laying out across the couch, his head in Yuna’s lap as she strokes through his curls. He’d kept himself curled up until David had reached over and pulled Ilya’s feet into his lap, a solid firm hand on the boy’s ankle.
Ilya falls asleep somewhere through the first movie, but Yuna just starts a documentary before the credits finish. Somewhere during it Ilya shifts a little, turning so he can press his face into the softness of Yuna’s belly and she pauses her gentle stroking long enough for him to settle before resuming, and reaches her free hand out for David.
Quickly he entwines their fingers together, their hands resting somewhere on Ilya’s ribcage, the space between them.
“I wish we knew how much he was struggling.”
“Well, we know now.”
“He told me more about his mom.”
Yuna doesn't offer more and David doesn't ask, just squeezes her hand and smiles sadly at the tears beading in her lashes and the poor boy asleep in her lap.
They don’t wake him. They sleep on the couch there, fingers entwined and Ilya asleep across them both, and in the morning when he’s apologetic and embarrassed they refuse to let him dwell.
They don’t leave.
The next two nights they sleep in one of the guest rooms, both of them stealing Shane’s clothes instead of venturing the short drive to pick up their own things.
They give Ilya his space, say nothing of how late he sleeps or how long his showers are. He’s getting out of bed. He’s showering. David does go for groceries at one point but that's it. If it were Shane they would be smothering, but Ilya just sinks into the hugs he’s gifted every morning when he comes out of his room to the kitchen, and before he goes to bed at night, and randomly in between. The quick squeeze of a shoulder, the gentle caress of his curls.
They all three play wordle, and connections, and strands together over breakfast, and the day ends with Ilya’s head in Yuna’s lap and their hands on him with a movie or documentary David can tell Ilya isn't actually watching.
They’ve kept Shane updated, David sending more than a few pictures of Ilya with his head in Yuna’s lap content while her face is pinched behind her glasses, negotiating something on her phone.
Without thinking he sends one of the pictures with proof of life as the message and then the thought hits him and he has to excuse himself to either cry or vomit because fuck.
When Shane shows up Ilya is mostly back to his usual self, his jokes feeling less performative, his smiles a little more from the heart. Still, he hugs his son in the new way he has learned and he can feel the twitch in Shane’s muscles before he manages to recalibrate and hug him the way Shane has always hugged Yuna and for a moment David is sad he’s spent 25 years missing out on this.
Yuna is next and she smiles soft and whispers something before making room for Ilya who bellows a jovial Shanyenko! As if Yuna and David haven't been keeping him up to date daily.
They don't linger much longer, both dressed back in the clothes they’d initially worn over 4 days ago, and everyone pretends they don’t see the t-shirt stuffed into Yuna’s coat pocket she’s stealing for pjs. David just wonders if it’s Shane’s or Ilya’s?
The next morning David wakes to
“Wordle in 4. Connections 2 hints but got it!”
15min later
“Thank you”
And what else can David send but
“I love you son”
“ETUDE?! REALLY?”