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Ilya doesn't notice it at first. Or well, he does, but he doesn't realize it for what it is. It starts so quickly. So insidiously.
Yuna and Shane are outside, leaving he and David inside, with good vodka but idle hands and that's not a good thing. Thankfully David has a plan. “Well. I think it's pretty obvious you guys are going to be staying for dinner. .. . Help me whip something up?”
That's how he finds himself in the kitchen with David, a bulb of garlic in his hand, slicing off the roots.
“Whoa there! Hold on!”
Ilya freezes, knife halfway through the bottom of the bulb of garlic. It hasn't even been two minutes and he's fucked this up.
Except David doesn't sound angry. “Cut toward your buddy, not toward your body.” He actually reaches out and removes the knife from his hand, shifts the way he's holding the garlic, giving him back the knife in a different grip. “Cutting board is obviously the ideal, but, you can't completely retrain old dogs like us.”
Ilya thinks he likes being an “old dog” with David.
It happens again the next night. He and David are on dinner duty again
“Shane, we invited them. We need to have something made.”
“No, trust me. They'll be happier this way. They're coming to make dinner, not to just eat. My parents are weird.” Ilya thinks Shane's parents have become weird because Shane is weird and they don't want to eat his nutritionist approved meals as much as or more than Shane doesn't actually want to eat his nutritionist approved meals.
Which reminds him he does need to email his own nutritionist this week. . . And maybe lie a little (alot) about the amount of pasta he ate yesterday
It feels . . . Right. Shane and Yuna are plotting and planning while he and David ensure they're well fed. He likes David he's discovering. He loves Yuna, of course he does. The way she hugged him when she showed up, all the ways Shane mirrors her, he loves her. David . . . He likes him. He doesn't want to hold himself back, thinks he could love him, but . . . Well. Fathers.
He can't help the way he freezes again when David makes an abrupt noise as he picks up a knife to start cutting the zucchini the Hollanders had brought with them.
“Whoa, hold on.” David interrupts, again taking the knife from Ilya, which he had been holding away from himself. He rubs his thumb along the edge (which to Ilya feels like a toward your body action, but what does he know?) “I've told him a hundred times. . . You know when you're most likely to cut yourself in the kitchen?” Ilya does not, so he stays silent as David looks around the counter top, seeing Shane's knife block and rolling his eyes. “it's when a knife is dull. Those cuts also hurt more and are harder to close because the edges aren't clean. Of course he'd buy the one knife block without a sharpener.”
To Ilya's surprise David then goes to the cupboard Ilya knows by now holds only coffee mugs, picking up a few and looking at the bottoms before finding what he's apparently searching for, setting a mug bottom up on the counter. “Okay, watch this,” and David runs the knife along the top of his arm. Nothing changes, he's unharmed, and then he picks up the mug. “A proper stone is better but this works in a pinch,” he instructs as he begins running the blade across the unsealed ceramic ring at the bottom of the coffee mug. “All cups used to be like this, just a little of exposed ceramic or porcelain or whatever. All these new companies completely seal them. I'd say it's a conspiracy but, pretty much every knife block comes with a sharpener. .. . “ David seems to be muttering mostly to himself as he slides the knife edge along the ceramic, flipping it to treat the other side.
After a few minutes he stops, setting aside the mug and bringing the knife to his arm once again. A quick skim and he holds his arm up for Ilya to see. Where before the knife had done nothing, now Ilya can see where this time the knife is sharp enough that it shaved off the hair on David's arm where it had passed. “They call that knife fighters mange.” He offers before rinsing the newly sharpened knife off in the sink and handing it back to Ilya, picking up a knife for himself and proceeding to sharpen it against the bottom of the mug before they both set themselves to slicing up what they need for shishkabobs.
After they leave Ilya goes through the rest of the cottage’s knives, ignoring Shane's light teasing as he sharpens them all to something at least a little safer.
He's honestly a little proud when he goes back to Boston and explains to the boys about knife fighters mange.
Yuna is where he notices it more clearly. It's western Christmas and Ilya hears a portion of the argument. He knew Yuna would be the most difficult to win over, even without the Boston of it all, but he didn't expect . . .
Mom, stop. You can't. You're being. . . .
Shane you told me about it yourself. What am I supposed to do? If the two of you don't work out, then what?
He moved to the kitchen then, busying himself making tea, the proper Russian way because .. . Yuna is Japanese and maybe it will be something to bond over because he knows tea ceremonies are a thing though he doesn't know the details and maybe . . . Maybe.
“Ilya.”
He flinches and isn't sure how it is Yuna snuck so silently into the kitchen, sitting at the table with her hands laid flat, looking composed, expectant.
The tea isn't adequate. He knows the zavarka isn't strong enough, working with the Hollanders kitchen stock and not something properly bought but he's done his best with the loose black tea they had. They also don't have a samovar and next time he'll do better, make sure. If there is a next time.
Quietly he doses out a little of the zavarka into the Hollanders’ proper, dainty teacups, setting a jug of cool water and the kettle of hot on the little silicone trivets he'd found and the jar of jam that had been in the fridge. They didn't have cubed sugar, which. . . Obviously meant they didn't prefer it that way but still made Ilya's skin itch. He should have had sugar cubes. He was fucking this up.
“Is uh. . .strong. add to make strong or weak as want,” why was his English so fucking bad? To keep his hands busy he prepared his own in a demonstration. “Jam for sweet. Sometimes, sugar cube. You hold it between teeth and then drink but. .. “
“We don't have sugar cubes. Is that how you like it?” Yuna has followed his lead, taking a sniff of the dark zavarka before mixing it to the strength and temperature she preferred. After a moment, considering him she put her own teaspoon worth of jam into her cup.
“Uh, no. I mean, yes, if I must,” he fumbles and his ears feel hot. It's from the tea. Russians do not blush. He also does not want the Hollanders to start buying sugar cubes for his sake because with a realization that feels like a punch to his solar plexus they would. At least. . . If he was ever allowed back here again. “I prefer jam. Makes every cup different. Marley makes fun but. . I know almost every states” he waves a hand, the word escaping him as he rambles, trying not to panic in the face of this woman who doesn't think he and her son will work out. “Produce? Like Michigan. Went to Traverse City cherry festival. Georgia, peach obviously . . .”
“Have you had choke cherries yet?” There's a twinkle in her eyes that is very much like Shane's and he's trying to parse out the joke or the test.
“No?”
Yuna's smile is hidden behind her teacup, giving a quiet hum in approval, and Ilya thinks he has another convert to the Russian way thank you very much Marley. “I grew up eating them. The rest of my family liked the sugar plum berries better, but I liked the choke cherries. They taste . .. bitter, but sweet. Like a good dark red wine.”
Ilya could see the appeal. And had to remind himself of what he had heard not 15minutes before because he knows his mother would have loved choke cherries but this woman didn't love him. Didn't love him with her son.
“But you've distracted me. Ilya,” the we need to talk is implied and Ilya is pleased his hands don't shake as he sips his tea to avoid any sort of answer. “Shane tells me you have no investments. I am assuming you have a 401k through the league but that's not a guarantee. I also know your endorsements outside of ccm, which has lapsed, aren't. .. . Many.”
“My agent is. . . “ incompetent, an asshole, an old friend of my father's who's dead now and no longer matters, taking advantage of me, “Russian.”
As if he's put voice to his thoughts Yuna gives a curt nod. “I want to change that. You are incredibly marketable Ilya. You're Ilya fucking Rozanov. That you've done a few shitty Russian commercials I'm sure you get almost no revenue from and the ccm deal, you need someone better. I don't want to word it this way but, your club outfits alone when you were . . .” A whore “not committed to Shane, should have made you a shoe in for high fashion houses and no one has bothered to jump on that for you.”
“I make much from hockey, money is no . . . “ fuck why is his English so bad in the face of this woman? He hasn't struggled so much since he was 18.
“Money is a problem. Ilya. Shane doesn't want me to say anything. But I know you fought over first or business class, and I don't know how much but I know a lot of what you earn doesn't stay in this country with you. Shane won't tell me, but I know you have. … expenses back home.”
He thinks he might throw up. He can't deny what she's saying. He also can't quite understand the. . . Warmth that is slowly building in his gut. “I. .. no. Not anymore. Now that my father is. . . I do not have his medical expenses. And my brother. .. . I have a trust for my niece and that is all. No more.”
Yuna seems to. . . Deflate, like she was prepping an argument and he'd taken the wind out of her sails. Her smile is wider, more genuine as she sips her tea. “Okay. Good. That's point one taken care of then. Which still leaves me with point two. I hate to say it, I hate when I tell Shane. But hockey isn't forever. We all saw that with Shane's concussion last year. It wasn't bad, thank God, but it could have been. Then what? I have Shane set up that he will be fine. I want to set you up so that, heaven's forbid, you'll be fine too.”
She pauses, watching him, and Ilya thinks, hopes, he has his usual Slavic stare in place because he isn't quite sure what's happening, he apparently doesn't. Or Yuna sees through it.
“Ilya. I want you to, think about at least, but I want you to fire your agent. I want you to sign with one who will take care of you and not Russia. I would love to set you up with Farah who works with Shane but if you don't want that I have 5 other agents I've vetted who will do right by you. I also want you to have a proper brand manager. I've done some looking, I know Yves St Laurent would love to provide your game day suits and they're willing to pay for that exposure. I'm willing . .. .oh. oh honey.”
Ilya isn't sure when he started crying, but when Yuna gets up and wraps her arms around him he knows he starts sobbing in earnest.
“Sweetie, I'm sorry. Shane didn't want me to overstep but, I can't help it. I just want you to be taken care of. I want you to be okay, not just now but 50 years from now.”
Ilya didn't know he could cry harder than he already was, desperately willing himself to stop, to pull away, but every time he tries Yuna pulls him back and he knows the front of her shirt is disgusting but she doesn't seem to care and somehow that just makes him cry harder, collapsing in her arms.
After awhile he comes back to himself, feeling rung out but not hollow the way he so often feels, recognizing the hand combing through his hair finally, unsure of how long it's been.
“You know . . . I promised Shane I wouldn't upset you over the holidays.” The words are light, a soft hidden laugh within them.
Upset is the wrong word, but Ilya doesn't know the English that would give him the right one. “Not upset.”
“Good. I'm holding you to it that you'll tell Shane that if he asks.”
The nod is almost violent. Anything to keep this woman holding him, welcoming him. . . . Loving him? He can feel a ghost stroking through his hair as Yuna does, see a different smile where he looks up from the soaked collar of her shirt. “My mother would have liked you. All you Hollanders. She would have loved you.”
“I would have loved to know her. To know the woman who raised a boy who can love my son the way you do,” her hug tightens just fractionally, the kiss dropped to his forehead barely there. “I just hope she can see just how loved you are. I hope she knows and can be happy to know that you're ours now, and I hope she knows we love you the same way we love Shane.” Yuna isn't sure what it is that possesses her, the thought it's a dangerous statement flitting through her head but immediately quashed. “Your mother can rest easy, we've got you now and we won't let you go.”
There's no hiding the sobs that wrack Ilya as he clings to her, face cushioned in her bust, drenching her shirt in tears and snot and spit and Yuna only holds tighter, lifting her head to see Shane peeking into the kitchen, eyes glistening before ducking back out to find his father.
It's then Yuna lets her own tears fall, clutching Ilya closer with one arm as she sweeps the other hand through his disheveled curls, whispering “oh Ilya, we've got you. My poor baby, we've got you. We've always got you. You won't ever be alone again.”
It's a promise and Ilya knows, even as he clutches at her like she could disappear at any moment, there was no force on this earth that Yuna would allow to take him away from her.
Ilya tells Yuna and David first. He doesn't think he means to. He thinks they already know. He is so so happy with Shane. It makes it easy to be. . . Easy. Normal. Happy. When Shane is around he can breathe and be. When he's gone. . . Ilya loves his team. He loves hockey. He has fun while he's playing. He can't play all the time. He sees Yuna and David more often than he sees Shane. He can lie to Shane (and he hates himself that he can, but he spent years lying to Shane and himself about how much he loved him, what's one more lie?) He has never lied to Yuna.
He's not sure anyone can.
He doesn't mean to. It's a “Grey” day, which isn't good but is better than a black day and Galina encourages getting out on Grey days, try to change them before they become “black” days. They're in-between games. He goes to optional skate, he laughs, he jokes, and he leaves feeling more exhausted than when he went but not in the good physical way.
He doesn't mean to. He's at the rink and then suddenly he's knocking on the door and he knows he doesn't school his bewildered face in time to avoid David clocking it when he opens the door.
“I . . .” Shouldn't be here. Didn't mean to come. I'm sorry I know Shane isn't here. Isn't playing a game. I know we didn't have dinner plans. I know you weren't expecting me to be here. I know you don't want me to be he–
“Ilya! I was just thinking about calling you,” David claps him on the shoulder, moving aside to let Ilya into the house. “Morning skate all done? Yuna's been in Toronto the last two days and I'm bored out of my tree.” David had half retired six months ago. He still worked casually, they hadn't managed to fully replace him in the office but going from full time to working maybe two days a week was an adjustment. Ilya knew this. He could accept this as he walked into the house, something in his chest loosening. “though she should be back. . .” David looks to his wrist at the Rolex housed there. Everyone in the family has one. Always all the time. Even Ilya has one though he rarely wears it. They're a Rolex family. Family. “Actually she should be on her way, but we can have a boys afternoon until she gets here. I have new vodka!”
That didn't mean good vodka, though it usually did. Somewhere between the cottage and moving to Ottawa Sveta had come to visit and know the Hollanders and somehow she was now better friends (and a better vodka supplier) to David than himself. He would have whined about it but seeing those little pieces soothed the raw nerve that family usually was.
“This one is Ukrainian but she said it was better in a way that I wasn't going to argue. . .” Which made sense. While the Hollanders were careful never to discuss Russian politics (aside from Yuna once giving him a folder of paperwork that was already filled out except for the parts only he could provide, all the work done to give him citizenship, to keep him safe) he knew where they stood. He couldn't help but agree.
The Ukrainian vodka was good as he settled in beside David to start a new puzzle. The vodka and the puzzle was soothing in a way clubs never were. There's a low hum from an animal documentary on TV and Ilya isn't not considering finding a way to procure a quokka when abruptly “I am like my mother, I think“ comes out of his mouth unbidden.
Quokka mothers will throw their infants at threats.
Ilya apparently throws his mother at the threat of happiness.
David gives a quiet hum, slotting a piece of sky into the puzzle with an unerring hand and Ilya wants to. . . Laugh? Scream? Cry? Thank him as David finally says, “I appreciate you telling me. I won't lie. We've been worried”, in that steady way that is simply David Hollander.
It's only then that David looks up, spine straightening with an uncomfortable pop he hopes he doesn't inherit later on, that steady gaze levelled at him, feeling it even with his head bowed. “You are always welcome here. No matter what. No matter why. I need you to know that.” The words are serious, the pause heavy and Ilya can't help cringing. . . Waiting.
“Ilya. Look at me.”
His head snaps up and he doesn't miss the way David's jaw tightens just a little at the response, as if it wasn't what he actually wanted but Ilya isn't entirely sure how he fucked it up.
David's hand is heavy when it comes to his shoulder, grip tight but not painful. Secure. “Ilya. Tell me you know you can come here. Just like today. You can call us. We can come to you. Anywhere. Whenever. Anytime. I need you to hear me, and I need you to know this.”
Ilya gives a sharp nod, can't help the sniff when he does, or the way his ears are ringing, still hearing the words resounding somewhere in his ribcage and it aches in a way bruises don't. “Okey. Heard. I have heard. I will . . . Okey.”
He huffs out a breath that was supposed to be words, swallowing thickly before reaching for his glass of vodka, downing the rest in his glass. “Therapist. Galina. She is. . . She helps. Only a month so far but, I go and she helps.” The words shudder out of him and something in him unknots and settled. There. There it is. All of him, or at least most of him. David could do what he wanted with it.
“Okay.” David's hand shifts from his shoulder to the back of his neck and Ilya isn't sure why it feels so good. “That was my next question. I am so proud of you, son. I am so fucking proud of you.”
David doesn't curse. That's Yuna or Shane, and the slip causes just a small, tentative smile to twitch at the corner of his lips. David smiles back before huffing out a sigh of his own, letting go of Ilya's neck to grab the vodka bottle and pouring them both another draught.
“Last question. Do you want to tell Yuna or do you want me to? And have you told Shane?”
The answer is surprisingly easy, even if his hand shakes a little as he lifts his newly refilled glass. “Maybe . . . You could. . . Yuna. .. maybe.” Just picturing the disappointment on Yuna's face Ilya isn't sure he could stand it. David just nods. Understanding. God he doesn't deserve them and he isn't sure what he's going to do when he loses them. “Shane, I will tell. Just . . . Not yet. I want more. . .” Time to enjoy this because I am selfish. To pretend I haven't poisoned this and if we all lie to him I can keep it a little while longer.
“More time to get it sorted.” David supplies instead, nodding to himself as he turns back to the puzzle before them, normalcy restored and Ilya surprised to find that flayed nerve feeling soothed. “I can't say I know a lot about it, but if you ever need us to go, I know family therapy is something so if your therapist ever wants to talk to us with you, just let us know.”
Ilya is. . . a little drunk when Yuna gets home finally, standing up quickly at the sound of the door opening, realizing as the room shifts that he and David had not been kind to that bottle, though most of their puzzle was done. Yuna wastes no time as he comes into the front hallway, setting down her overnight bag and a brown take out one, immediately pulling him into her arms.
“Oh sweetie, I am so glad you're here.” From the tone Ilya knows she knows. He isn't sure when David snuck away to tell her, if he even had, but Ilya can tell she knows. Her hug is a little more crushing, the way she tucks herself in beneath his chin just . . . More than their usual hugs. They have usual hugs. How nice is that?
She holds him a moment too long and then she's shoving at him, bending down to pick up the takeout bag and pushing him away. “Go sit down. I want to know your honest opinion.”
Ilya obeys the order and yet still can't quite fathom how 15min later he's swaddled in a blanket with a plate of pelmeni, golubsty, and piroshki on his lap and a bowl of shchi waiting on the table beside the puzzle.
(He only cries a little. He didn't get the full story until years later, at a funeral in fact. For years they went to the same Russian deli and Ilya met the grandson and grandmother who ran it, gave them season tickets at Yuna's insistence and that was fine because Nadezhda was sweet and loved him in a way he hoped his own grandmother would have loved him, and Pavel was kind in a bewildered sort of way which made sense when Yuna Hollander swept into your life and decided you were hers.
That is essentially what happened.
At a small orthodox church seven years later Yuna retold how she had stormed into the first Russian “restaurant” google had told her was near Ottawa and informed Pavel that her son in law was Russian and sad and she needed food to fix it. The fact that the deli only sold pelmeni and pierogies in terms of ready to eat food wasn't good enough and so the Hollanders ended up friends with an 86 year old Nadezhda who from that day forward had season tickets for Centaurs games for her and her grandson who had looked at Yuna on that day and immediately called her to essentially steal her dinner. She had given it gladly, and in return at least 1 goal at every home game was dedicated to her because if he closed his eyes and just forgot, the shchi was his mother's. After her funeral, Ilya scored her a hatrick)
Ilya's game is done. His head is ringing and his eyes unfocused in a way that he knows he has a concussion. Still he has to insist, just a little, that he can still play.
“Rozanov I swear . . .” The words are all affection as Terry rolls his eyes and Ilya can tell the sweep of the light pen across his eyes is performative, too quick to really be diagnostic, because people in the nosebleeds could tell he'd have a concussion from the way Ilya hit the boards after the dentist had hit him. Which reminded him.
“I still pretty, yes?” The smile isn't really a smile, a wide open mouthed. . . Something. Without his bridge in his gapped tooth grin was a dentist's wet dream. At least three of the missing teeth were from the same behemoth that San Jose called a defenseman and the rest of the league called the dentist.
“You're always pretty Rozanov,” Terry's offer was sarcastic but Ilya still preened. “Here, swish and spit then open up again.” Dutifully Ilya did as told, tolerating the team's doctor poking around at his remaining teeth and gums. “Obviously go to a dentist to double check, but it looks like you're only bleeding where your teeth got your cheek. Your flippers may be a bit uncomfortable for a few days but, honestly you should be just lying quietly in the dark for the next week anyways.”
Quiet was suddenly not what was happening outside the medical suite.
Ignoring Terry's admonition to just lie down Ilya instead sat up from the reclined exam chair, head cocking to oneside like a curious puppy.
Ma'am we cannot allow
Oh you absolutely will allow. I can show you my ID
I am aware of who you are, this is still a restricted area, only players and
I am his emergency contact!
Yuna is legitimately yelling now, he's never heard that before and it would be terrifying if it wasn't for the fact that she was yelling for him.
“Terry, let them in,” Ilya will later deny it was a whine and they'll quibble over what was said, but Ilya knows in his heart of hearts he heard Yuna yell at security We are his family! I am his mother!! before the door is opened and Yuna's hand is on the side of his face, checking his eyes, and he can't help the tight lipped, slightly dopey smile he offers her, careful because no one in the Hollanders except Shane have seen him without his teeth.
“I Okey.” It's wrong but he can't quite remember why and the sound Yuna makes at that is something devastating that claws at his chest. He's upset her, he knows, but she's best with a problem and he can hear her trail off somewhere to interrogate Terry. He's nice and she should be nicer but he hears more than once look I am his emergency contact. And the remembrance of I am his mother sits warm in his chest. His mama would have loved Yuna Hollander.
For a moment in the strange time shift of the concussion Ilya thinks the hand stroking his face and his curls might actually be his mother's, but the joints are too knobby, the skin too thin and spotted. Still the words make him smile.
“О, Илья, тебя так любят. Эта сумасшедшая женщина сожгла бы весь мир ради тебя.” It's true, she would. “Твоя мама была бы так рада видеть ту любовь, которая тебя окружает. Хотя она бы расстроилась, если бы ты так недобр к себе.”
That. . . That hurt. And he squeezes the hand he has in his, David he realizes distantly. The dentist got him good. “Говорить по-русски невежливо. Дэвид знает слова «пожалуйста» и «до свидания».”
“Тогда Дэвиду нужно учиться быстрее”
Ilya laughs, then groans at the ache in his head the laughter evoked. Ilya can feel the way Yuna's head snaps back to him at the groan, feel her eyes assessing, debating if the team's medical staff are enough or if she needs to be organizing an airlift. Ilya only barely manages to suppress a giggle at the knowledge that Yuna would do it.
“Они тебя любят. Ты в надежных руках. Надеюсь, твой возлюбленный знает, что ты их любимый сын.”
Even without his teeth in Ilya can't help smiling at that, full and gummy and Nadezhda's delighted laugh is enough.
“Я буду тебя учить, пока ты выздоравливаешь, и ты наконец познакомишь меня с этим мальчиком, который любит моего Илюшу.”
“Yes” Ilya huffs out, shoulders relaxing and eyes closing for a moment as he allows David to hold his hand and Nadezhda to fawn over him in the way only babushkas can.
The Hollanders are allowed to take him home, walking out to the arena Nadezhda follows with Pavel at her elbow for support. She is small and ancient and Ilya is terrified of her in the best way. “Кстати, ваша команда победила. Завтра я приду с борщом и пельменями, я знаю, вы их любите.”
“Я люблю тебя, бабушка”
“Я люблю тебя. А теперь иди. Будь хорошим ребенком. Пусть твои родители позаботятся о тебе.”
родители
“я буду”
The nod Nadezha gave was decisive, curt and clear as she headed toward Pavel's vehicle and Ilya folded himself into the Hollanders backseat, to go to their house. To have them take care of him.
For the first time since he was twelve years old Ilya let him think the word parents and actually smile.