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“Come on, Rozy. You’re up, there’s no getting out of this one, man.” Cliff laughs as he pats him on the back.
He couldn’t help but laugh. It was no earlier than one o’clock in the morning and he, Cliff, and some of the rookies somehow found themselves on the boardwalk in Coney Island on a three day trip to New York for a game and a NHL event. He’d been drinking since noon and following them around until one of the young geniuses decided he wanted to ride a roller coaster for the first time, and made them all trudge all the way out to fulfill his dream.
He was glad to have a reason to be drunk all day though, it made it easier, more digestible to be upright and not holed up in his hotel room hiding all day. He hated today. He hated how he loved that it was summer and that he had to be away from home for the off-season match, hated that he was forced out of isolating himself on his mother’s birthday just like he did every year.
So, the alcohol helped.
Now though, on a bet, or a dare, or a whim, Ilya isn’t totally sure, he’s being pushed into a little shop that’s lit up by neon signs shaped like eyes and crystal balls with a “Palm Reader” sign above the door. Cliff had made a flippant pass at getting their palms read to see if there was a cup win in their future, and now Ilya was standing in a small dark room, the muffled sounds of amusement park shrieks and drunken laughter muffled through the doors as his eyes adjusted to the change in lighting.
“Come in, dear.” A voice to his left makes him jump when a small old woman in a velvet caftan seems to appear out of thin air. She laughs and pats his arm, motioning him to follow her as she sits down behind a small ornate table in the center of the space. She barely comes up to Ilya’s bicep and he doesn’t know how she’s standing upright with the amount of jewelry that’s adorning her small hands and neck.
Ilya eyes her cautiously but she motions him over so he follows, not wanting to be disrespectful to a little old lady, even if he does think she’s scamming him and his drunk friends out of $20.
“Sit, please. Get comfortable. You boys sound like you’ve had a hell of a day.”
“I apologize if they were - “
“No, no. Not a worry, darling.” She waves a hand flippantly between them, cutting off his apology. “Your friends have all been very kind. The tall one told me you’d be a tough egg to crack though.” She smiles and Ilya can’t help but roll his eyes at whatever Cliff had told the woman about him.
“I’m sorry, I do not. . . this is not really something that I do.”
“What, look into the future?”
“No, just. . .” he trails off and waves a hand around the space, adorned with crystals and gold and velvet dressings that look like they’ve come straight from a movie scene.
The old woman studies him for a long moment, her eyebrows creasing in concentration as she does. Ilya feels stripped bare under her gaze, like somehow she’s looking deep into the recesses of his soul after just a short moment of him being in her space.
“May I give you a suggestion?” She asks gently.
Ilya shrugs a shoulder. “Sure.”
“I’ve been doing this for a long time, and I think about half the people that come in here think I’m just trying to scam them out of $20, or that their date paid me ahead of time to tell them to believe in true love before they head down under the boardwalk.”
Ilya can’t help but snort out a laugh at that. She smiles.
“But there’s no harm in just looking. Just to see what might be ahead. Why not?” She shrugs and holds out one of her hands.
Ilya is still tipsy, and he doesn’t know how to tell the woman that he doesn’t know if he believes in it all or not, but that maybe, just maybe, he’s too scared to look forward to the future at all. That he didn’t like being faced with the fact that maybe he didn’t think that he’d ever make it far enough in life to think about anything other than what was happening in the moment. That when he was alone he couldn’t think of anything past hockey, and when he was too old for that he didn’t really know what the point of living was anyway.
He swallowed hard and looked between the woman’s face and her outstretched hand like it was all some kind of trick to confirm what he’d been scared of for so long; that there wasn’t a future for Ilya at all. Just blank nothingness.
Ilya studies her hand for a second and then looks at her and with a sigh he nods and places his hand palm up in hers. She smiles and nods before pulling it closer so she’s hunched over it, running a thumb over his calloused palms.
“Hmm, you have a brother. Younger or older?” She asks, not taking her eyes off his hand.
Ilya shakes his head. “Older.” He replies after a moment, shocked that she knew. But he was well enough known, anyone could Google that.
She hums again and starts looking at his fingers. “You are a sun.” She nods.
“Of course.” He shrugs. What else would he be?
“No, no. A sun. Not just a boy child.” She continues to map his flesh. “You were, are, someone’s sun, their light, their happiness.” She nodded and continued to look at his hand.
He’s glad she doesn’t look up because his eyes go somewhat glassy at that. Because that’s what his mother used to say. She’d call him moy luchik solntsa, my sunshine, and ruffle his curls. He didn’t know how much it meant then, thought it was just a term of endearment, not fully grasping that in her inescapable darkness he was her light.
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment after that.
“Where there is sun there is always also the moon.” She muses.
“So I need to find darkness then?” He scoffs. It was mean but he couldn’t help it. He had enough darkness in him to not need more from anyone else. He didn’t know how he could live with anymore dark.
She looks up at him, unimpressed. “Of course not. But the moon has her purpose. She regulates, she dims the light so that it does not burn for too long, she cycles and moves in a pattern. It’s purposeful, they need each other.”
Ilya swallows hard, trying desperately not to think about what that means.
She looks back down at his hand then, and tilts her head. “But, hmm.” She pauses and looks up at him again. “Something tells me you may have already found that. Your moon.”
His mouth opens but no words come out. He feels like there’s suddenly been a shift and the room has shifted to an interrogation room with a single bulb hanging overhead. Like he’d been caught. Caught caring, caught thinking about it for too long, for yearning.
“I don’t. . .” he starts, shaking his head. “I don’t know.”
Her eyes go soft as she studies his face, still holding his hand gently in her own. She nods slowly like she’s studying him for an answer to a question he hadn’t heard. She looks back down to his palm and traces a line that stretches along below the fleshy pad under where his fingers meet the rest of his hand.
“You have known your moon for some time now.” She says, still tracing the line where it stretches across his hand. “And you will have them for a long, long time. Very rare.”
He doesn’t know what to say to that, but he has to squash down the hope that rises in his chest as soon as it starts to bloom.
“Don’t do that.” She says suddenly, looking up at him sharply like she could hear him tamping it down. He stills completely. “You have to let yourself feel it.”
“But. . .” he starts. This is crazy talk, this isn’t real. It can’t be.
But also. . . fuck it. “But I can’t do that.” He says quietly, shaking his head. “I can’t, we don’t -” he sighs, hating that he acknowledged it. We.
“You can.” She nods gently, like she’s trying not to scare him off.
Ilya shakes his head. “No, no. It’s. . .” he doesn't know what it is.
“You can.” She cuts in. “Look for moonlight. Let the night come, let it help you rest.” She adds, nearly in a whisper. “Part of me tells you that you don’t have a choice, because this is. . . something.” She shakes her head, looking down at his hand.
“Something bad?”
“Something rare.” She says fondly.
“Is that a bad thing?” He asks, now genuinely curious.
“Nothing is ever really just good, or just bad. Life is messy, love is messy. We’re messy creatures, we can't help it.” She shrugs and studies his fingers.
Ilya doesn’t know what to say to that.
“Hmm, you’re a funny one aren’t you.” She sighs, more to herself than to Ilya. “The moon has its hands full with you.” She laughs warmly.
“Too much?” He asks. Too much what he’s not sure; too loud, too annoying, too sad?
“No, no.” She shakes her head and laughs again. “The moon cycles and has patterns, the structure, the consistency of the moon is hard to challenge. The cycle will always come, but the moon needs the sun too; to know when to rest, to not be constantly in a cycle.”
“The moon likes patterns.” He blurts out, nodding his head before he can stop himself.
She laughs and nods her head in agreement. “Your moon loves them, but it’s good to break the mold. To challenge each other, to compete in spirit not in rivalry but to push each other, to do better. You will grow a lot with your moon. Don’t get in your own way.” She adds and looks up at him seriously.
“Does. . .” he starts before he can stop himself. “Does the moon need it too? The sun? Does he - does it want that?” He asks, wincing at the slip, but the old woman seems to not care in the slightest.
She covers his hand with her own, seemingly having seen enough, as she stares at him again. Her eyes dart around his face before she starts nodding.
“The moon and the sun are two cosmic, generational, impossibly connected beings.” She answers and shrugs her shoulders. “The moon can’t help but miss the sun when it’s away.” She adds with a single and definitive nod of her head.
Ilya is stunned by that. He sits with it for a moment, letting it digest, and following her order to not let himself tamp down what was blooming in his chest.
“And also do I win a Stanley cup?” He asks playfully, looking at her with a wink as she starts to stand.
She releases his hand with a laugh and starts to walk him to the door. “Go ask your friends, they all asked the same thing. Your time is up.”
He laughs and nods, thanking her and pulling a few bills out of his wallet and into her tip jar. It’s as he reaches for the door handle that she hums and says one last thing.
“Oh, and Ilyushka?” She says and he turns, head whipping around. He doesn’t ever remember giving her his name, let alone the endearment he hadn’t heard since it was last spoken from his mother’s lips. “The moon needs you too.” She adds, and a warm smile stretches across her face before she goes back to organizing the crystals on her table.
He’s frozen in place for a long moment, watching her, trying to catch his breath before he shoulders the door open and is suddenly hit with a wall of sound and light and noise.
“He lives!” He hears Cliff say and approaches him with a smile. “So tell me, are there a hundred evil Russian children in your future?” He asks and claps a hand on his shoulder.
Ilya is still stunned but he shakes his head and laughs and wills himself to be normal. “No, no. Only ten, and they’re going to be better than you at hockey before they can talk.” he jokes and Cliff throws his head back with a laugh and tosses his arm around his shoulder and pulls him towards where the rest of the guys had somehow acquired more alcohol.
He takes a beer gratefully and downs half of it before they start walking back towards the train, trying to wash away whatever feeling was lingering in his chest.
He pretends to laugh, to listen to the boys muse over which supermodels they were hoping was the wife the fortune teller promised was in their future, trying to look like he wasn’t shaken to his core. He was saved though, when his phone vibrated in his back pocket.
1 New Message from: Jane
Feel like getting murdered in a dark alley in Montreal again next week?
He can’t help but stop for a moment and stare at the message. He’s frozen in someplace between wanting to hit the call button just to hear his voice for a moment, and throwing his phone in the ocean so he has a reason to never let himself pretend that he’s nothing less than in love with him ever again.
“Rozy, you good man?” Cliff asks when he realizes that Ilya was stopped on the street.
Ilya looks up and shakes his head, laughing and catching up to the boys. “I cannot read my phone when I am drunk.”
“Well tell Jane that you have beers to drink and trains to catch. We’re in Montreal next week she can steal you from us then.” he laughs.
“Very funny.” Ilya rolls his eyes and continues to walk alongside the boys, still staring at his phone. He waits until they get to the subway platform to stop and respond.
I can’t think of anything better.
10 Years Later
The sun is hot where it beats down on the grass where Ilya is stretched out with one hand behind his head and the other resting on the towel he’d brought out with him. He’s sweating but he doesn’t mind the sticky feeling knowing that he can just jump into the water where he can hear the lake lap up on the rocks in front of him. It’s hot in the harsh way he likes during the summer; unrelenting and dizzying and he lets himself drift in and out of a light nap, cradled by the soft grass.
He wanted his brain to turn off today. From the moment he woke up, he wanted the day to be over.
He knew it was coming, but it didn’t make it any less shitty. It was his mama’s birthday.
Cruelly placed during his favorite time of the year so even out baking in the sun he still felt sad in a way that made his bones ache even though he’d had a therapy appointment that morning, and had swallowed his pills at breakfast like he was supposed to. He felt guilty for enjoying the sun today, like it was mean to tilt his head up and bask in it knowing that she could not do the same.
He felt like he couldn’t do more than just let himself cook outside until he was too burnt or too dehydrated and could focus on that discomfort instead of the deep discomfort and sadness he felt in his heart.
He was halfway between awake and asleep when suddenly the sun was gone, and the brightness behind his eyelids was draped in cool shade. He squinted one eye open, and couldn’t help but sigh when he looked up.
His own personal eclipse was very beautiful after all.
“I’m here to remind you that just because it’s Canadian sun it doesn’t mean the UV index will hurt you any less, sir.” Shane says gently where he blocks out the sunlight enough for Ilya to be able to open both eyes and look up at him.
He had an errand to run, inviting Ilya to come along, but understanding when he wanted to stay back at the cottage and rest. He left him with lingering kisses at the door and a promise to be back soon, knowing him and giving him space today for whatever he needed to make the day tolerable. Ilya loved him so much it ached.
“Maybe is all part of my evil plan, yes? I get sunburnt and then my beautiful Canadian husband will just have to rub me down with aloe. Maybe I just want a good reason for you to get your hands on me.” He winks and watches as Shane shakes his head with a laugh.
Shane kneels then, moving to hover over where Ilya still laid so that his glorious face was completely blocking the sun now, so that all Ilya could see was him. It was a perfect view.
“You don’t have to hurt yourself to make me want to get my hands on you. You don’t really have to do anything actually, I thought that was just spousal privilege.”
Ilya’s hands drift up to hold his shoulders and let one of his hands cup his cheek where Shane turns and presses a kiss to his palm gently.
“Yes, but I don’t think we waited until marriage to keep our hands to ourselves.” Ilya smirks and kisses him gently.
“Definately not.” Shane laughs and kisses him again. “Hello.”
“Hello. I miss you.”
“I missed you too.” He sighs and kisses him again, like it’d been weeks since he’d seen him and not hours. “How’s your head?”
“Haven’t had any complaints.”
“Ha ha.” Shane says dryly and drops his weight so he’s laying on Ilya, his shirt pressed against his bare chest and his hand reaching up to brush his curls off his forehead. Ilya takes his hand and kisses the inside of his wrist.
“Is okay. It’s just. . .” he pauses, counting Shane’s freckles while he thinks of the right word. “Noticible. More so than normal today. Like a light is too bright and you can’t turn it down so you squint and it gives you headache.” he decides on and Shane nods, cataloging the information.
“That makes sense.” He nods. “Is there anything I can do to make it more dim?” He asks, and Ilya falls in love with him all over again.
“You already do.” He says quietly, knowing that his eyes have gone mushy by the way smiles softly.
“Can I show you something?” He asks, face suddenly a touch more serious. Ilya hums in response but groans when Shane rolls off of him to stand up and hold out his hand to pull him up. He groans like it’s an inconvenience but he lets himself be hauled up by his husband and keeps their fingers interlaced as he tugs him back towards the cottage.
Anya is splayed out on the cool tile of the patio and perks up when her dads approach, stretching with a loud yawn and following them inside.
The dimness of the kitchen catches him off guard, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand, not realizing how long he’d been cooking himself in the heat outside until the lower light of the cottage confronted him.
Shane pulls him in towards the kitchen and pulls out a barstool. “Sit.” he commands, and Ilya plops himself down at the same time that Anya sits on the stone floor next to him. They both watch as Shane moves to the fridge, fidgeting with his hands before reaching in and pulling out a white box.
“Listen, this might be silly, and I hope this is okay. If it’s too much, we can pretend it’s not here but I just. . .” he trails off, putting the box down in front of Ilya and shrugging. “I just wanted her to be included in birthday traditions.” He says, quieter now, looking at Ilya through his lashes and biting on his lower lip like he does when he’s nervous.
Ilya reaches up and pulls it from his teeth with his thumb, not wanting him to hurt himself. “What is it, moy luchik solntsa?” he asks, bringing his hand down to wrap around Shane’s waist and pull him closer so that they’re pressed together at the bar.
“Open it.” He nods towards the box and Ilya eyes him suspiciously. He reaches for the tab on the box and gently lifts it up, and is all at once hit in the chest with too many complicated feelings to even know where to begin.
The smell hits him first. The distinct honey sweet biscuit smell that he remembered from his childhood hits his nostrils and he can’t help but sigh. The medovik cake is frosted white and has a carefully arranged star pattern of strawberries on top. On top of it is a piece of decorative chocolate, and on it in delicate cursive is a banner that reads Happy Birthday Irina.
His jaw drops open and his eyes burn in seconds. He can’t process all of it, the familiar smell, the kindness of his husband, the raw grief that this small gesture is the only tangible thing he has of his mother today.
His mother who undoubtedly would have adored Shane. Would have pinched his cheeks and spoiled him rotten just like Ilya did.
He thought sometimes, off all the little things that Yuna did for him. Buying his favorite ice cream to always have at their house, taking him out for lunch just because, going on walks with him to just talk and be together. Regularly, he’d look over and see Shane watching them fondly, would catch the way he’d eye the photos of them that his parents hung up in their house with a smile, would pretend to complain that he was no longer the ‘favorite son’.
His heart breaks in grief that he could not have the same. That Shane could not feel the same joy he felt having a mother-in-law that treated him like flesh and blood. That he couldn’t bring him home and hold him under a spotlight and say Look at him. This beautiful, glorious, kind man is mine and he really, truly, loves me somehow despite it all.
“Shanya.” He pouts and looks up at Shane, not able to help it when a tear falls over his lower lashline and onto his cheek.
“Baby.” Shane sighs and cups his cheeks, thumbing away the tears and kissing his mouth gently. He kisses his forehead next, then each of his cheeks, before pulling back just enough to gaze down at him with the softest and most beautiful eyes Ilya has ever seen.
“I - “ he starts, but his lower lip trembles too much and he can only huff a laugh and close his eyes for a moment, overcome with emotion.
“Is it, did, is it too much?” Shane asks quietly.
Ilya looks up in an instant, already shaking his head before he can finish his question. Shane did that sometimes; overthought his gestures and things he did and said like he was constantly trying to find his footing. But he’d never taken the wrong step with Ilya, not once.
“No. No, it’s so beautiful. You are so beautiful.” He nods and cranes his neck up to kiss him again because he has to.
Shane smiles softly against his mouth and doesn’t move his hands from where they cup Ilya’s cheeks.
“It is so perfect, is her favorite too. You are too smart.” He smiles when he pulls away.
“Really?” Shane asks, delighted.
“Really.” He nods and looks back down to the cake. “She would have loved it.” he whispers and looks back up to Shane. “She would have loved you so much.” his chin trembles and he’s crying again but he doesn’t care; Shane needs to hear it. “So much.”
“Me too.” Shane nods. “I mean, I would have loved her. I know it.” He adds quietly with a nod. “I do love her. I love her so much because she gave me you.” He adds and his own eyes go glassy, and for a moment Ilya revels in the shared grief of what could have been.
“I know it’s hard, without her. Hard doesn’t even begin to cover it. But I know she would have been so proud of you. Is so proud of you. For being such an amazing person. Such a good friend, a strong captain, a gentle husband.” He adds quietly and kisses his nose gently.
Ilya is crying but he doesn’t care anymore. He leans up and kisses Shane once, twice, three times because he doesn’t know what to do with all the love inside him.
“Thank you.” He nods when they part and rest their foreheads against each other. “Thank you.”
“Ya tebya lyublyu.” Shane whispers, perfectly, quietly against his lips.
Ilya smiles and nods. “Ya tebya lyublyu.” He says for what was most likely the hundred thousandth time within the walls of the cottage.
Shane smiles and kisses his forehead again, before pulling back just enough to look at him. They just stare at each other for a moment, and Ilya takes the time to catalog Shane’s face in his brain with warm reverence for all the little changes that have taken place over the years.
“You know,” he starts after a moment, “I have a feeling you would have ended up being the favorite.”
Shane laughs and shakes his head. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m serious.” He laughs, suddenly unable to shake the thought that, yea; without a doubt Ilya would become the second best with Shane around. “You’re too pretty and too smart. You two would have ganged up on me.”
Shane laughs and shakes his head. “Good, it would give you a taste of your own medicine with the way you became the favorite child so easily.” He says fondly, not a hint of upset to be found in his voice.
“I am very lovable, what can I say?” He sighs and shrugs dramatically, fluttering his eyelashes for effect.
“You are.” Shane agrees, a touch serious. “You are extremely lovable. I love you so much I don’t know what to do with it sometimes.” He says and scrunches up his nose before squishing Ilya’s cheeks between his palms.
He realizes as his skin moves that he’s a touch sunburnt and winces when it creases. Shane notices immediately and lets his face relax as he winces and then studies Ilya’s face, brushing his curls off his forehead to look closer.
“Did you put on sunscreen?”
“Yes!”
“When?”
Ilya pauses and smiles at Shane, hoping it would get him out of trouble. “This morning.”
Shane sighs and his shoulders drop. “Ilya.”
“Every two hours, I know. I know. I am sorry.” He sighs. He’s not upset though, not really. Something in him glows knowing that Shane is so focused and meticulous about making sure that he doesn’t get hurt, that he remains comfortable and healthy despite his best efforts to turn into a human fireball.
Shane sighs again and steps away, back to the fridge to open the little section where he kept some of his skincare, and comes back to Ilya to stand between his legs as he opens a small bottle of chilled aloe.
Ilya’s hands find his hips easily and he moans when the first cold sweep of Shane’s fingers cross over his cheek. He lets his eyes flutter closed under the gentle hands of his husband and stays still so Shane can fuss over him and delicately rub the chilled gel into his hot skin.
“I swear it’s like you’re trying to turn into the sun sometimes.” He mutters under his breath and Ilya can only smile.
“Well remember? Evil plan is working, I have beautiful husband taking care of me.” He smiles.
“You don’t need to burn yourself to get me to touch you.” He says quietly and Ilya hums for a moment, going lax under his adoring touch.
A memory comes to mind then, of a drunken night and an old woman and a metaphor he thought of for too long after because he couldn’t get it out of his head.
His eyes flutter open and he looks at Shane, still focused and concentrated as he works on his forehead.
“Well,” he starts and Shane looks down at him with a tender gaze. “,if I am the sun, does that make you the moon?” he asks quietly, like he’s asking something deeper in it. Like he’s asking him that if this is what he is, this sunburnt and weepy emotional creature, does that make Shane his cosmically assigned other half.
Shane smiles when he asks it before nodding his head slowly. “I guess it does.” He replies softly and puts the aloe on the counter next to the birthday cake when he’s done taking care of Ilya’s face. “Gonna make sure nothing gets too bright for you.” he adds with a serious nod, and oh.
The little old lady was right.
This is something rare.
Ilya smiles and kisses him, looping his arms around his waist and pulling Shane in so that there’s no space between them and the world outside of the cool kitchen fades away and it’s just them there, together.
Later in the day he’ll still be sad. His chest will still hurt and his mama still won’t be there to see him be loved and cared for so well. When he digs his fork into a slice of the delicious cake and feeds it to Shane, kissing the sugar on his lips, he’ll still know that despite all the sadness that someway, somehow, everything ended up the way it always needed to be.