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Ilya isn’t surely exactly why he chooses the bridge he does.
He’s in the middle of Ottawa, in a borough he’s never needed to go to before, but he’d been walking around aimlessly for hours and when he’d come across the bridge, he’d made his way to the middle almost without thought, eyes tracking the water below with a half-formed idea taking root.
Standing against the railing, Ilya looks around.
It’s quiet at this time of the night. Or rather, morning. No one around as far as the eye can see.
He lets his mind go empty as he braces his hands against the railing and pulls himself up, swinging his legs over in a smooth motion and then twisting around so the railing digs into his back.
His arms shake for a moment before he forcibly steadies them.
There’s no need for fear. Not here.
It’ll be so easy. So quick. All it will take is a single leap and it’ll be over.
He’ll finally be able to see his mother again.
The last few months have been hard on Ilya. It’s felt like there’s been a disconnect between himself and the world around him.
He’s made sure to play the part, to ensure his friends don’t realise just how empty he’s felt, how devoid of life. Ilya’s made time to visit friends, has kept a smile on his face even as his stomach churned uneasily. He’s gone to bars and clubs, laughed and joked with his friends and there’s still been a steady stream of men and women he’s taken home.
But it’s felt like he’s acting, like he’s taken on the persona expected of him despite the fact that inside he’s hollow. A black hole of misery that no amount of laughter and drinking and meaningless sex could ever truly fill.
And the worst part, Ilya thinks, is that he doesn’t even know why.
His mother died when he was only a child, his father was an abusive piece of shit, but his life has never been better than it has the last few years. He’s got a new family now, a group of friends that loves him and that he loves in equal measure, he has a job he doesn’t hate and a house that keeps him warm and safe. There’s no reason to be as miserable as he is, to struggle to open his eyes and force himself out of bed each morning.
He’s exhausted.
He just-
Well. He just wants it to stop. Just wants to close his eyes and have it be over, and although he remembers how angry he’d been, once the shock of his mothers death had passed, that she’d chosen to leave Ilya alone with a man that hated him, he realises now that she probably couldn’t help it, the same way he can’t help it.
His friends will mourn him, might think him selfish for choosing what they might think is the easy way out, but it feels like he’s spent the past eight months - the past twenty seven years - fighting a battle he had no hope of winning.
It’s not selfish to admit defeat. It’s not cowardice either. It’s just- it just is.
Ilya hears the rhythmic patter of sneakers against the pavement, steps drawing closer, and for a split second has the urge to jump.
The moment passes, if only so his death won’t scar whoever it is deciding that 4:30am is a good time to jog through the streets of Ottawa.
He wants his death to be as painless as possible, and heaping the trauma of his suicide onto the shoulders of a stranger isn’t something that he wants on his conscience as he takes his last breath. Ilya knows what it’s like to be witness to death, even if his mother had long since turned cold by the time he’d come upon her body. He’d watched her die over months and years, even if he hadn’t realised it at the time.
Ilya is almost certain he’s hidden it from his friends, from Svetlana. They’ll probably question how they hadn’t realised, when the news of his passing reaches them, but he’s covered his tracks well, kept up the performance of a lifetime. And though it stings to know that they’ll still blame themselves in ways that Ilya can’t stop, at least he can die knowing that the last few months of his life had been totally ordinary.
“Hey.” A voice behind him has Ilya jumping slightly. Teetering in the ledge as he is, Ilya sways backwards, hand grasping at the cold metal of the barrier behind him as he swings his face around.
Ilya doesn’t actually believe in angels, even if he sometimes thinks he might believe in god, but there’s not really any other word in his vocabulary - in either English or Russian - to describe the man stood behind him.
Ilya blinks, and the manifestation of every want he’s ever had blinks back at him, a hand rising to pull out one of his earbuds as he takes a couple more cautious steps towards Ilya.
The first thing Ilya truly notices are freckles. They dust across the man’s cheeks and nose like a spattering of paint on canvas, a brush tapped against a finger to shower his skin in a constellation not even a god could place in the night sky. There are a few scattered towards his temples, one or two dotted up towards his brow, and Ilya’s eyes scan the strangers face as if he could possibly try to memorise them all before he takes his final leap.
“Are you okay?”
No. No, Ilya isn’t okay. He hasn’t been okay since he found his mother’s cold body lying abandoned on her bed. He hasn’t been okay since the last time he heard her voice out loud, a gentle chime he can barely even remember now. He hasn’t been okay since he looked into her eyes and felt like he was looking at a stranger, her gaze almost vacant in a way it hadn’t ever been before.
Ilya isn’t okay, and he isn’t sure he ever will be. Won’t give himself the time to find out.
“Yes.” He says, instead. The lie passing through his lips as easy as it has done for the last eight months. The last 27 years.
“Are you…are you here to watch the sunrise?” The angel before him asks.
Ilya almost wants to laugh. Would, if any of this were truly funny.
Yes, he’s here to watch the sunrise. And chuck himself into the frigid waters below swiftly thereafter.
Ilya doesn’t reply, and the stranger fidgets slightly, eyes darting around and never really landing on Ilya fully, until they do.
His eyes are brown, and in the darkness of the morning they seem endless, pupils barely distinguishable from his irises. Ilya wonders if they shine differently in the sun, if there’s gold and caramel that comes out only in the light. Ilya can’t help but think it’s a shame he’s never going to find out.
“I like to watch it, sometimes.” The stranger continues.
Ilya takes pity on him, if only to stop from taking pity on himself.
“Yes. It is nice here, yes?”
The stranger brightens, cheeks flushing from more than just his jog, and Ilya’s heart clenches at the sweet smile that blossoms.
“You’ve picked a great spot.” The stranger says as he moves closer, still only a single step but enough that Ilya’s body braces. “For the sunrise, I mean. It should rise right at the end of the canal.”
The stranger nods towards the horizon, and Ilya’s head turns to follow the motion, looking towards the east as if the answers to the universe might be hiding there.
They aren’t.
The sky is still dark, but Ilya can see the slightest hint of milky blue trying valiantly to fight against the black. It won’t be long now.
Ilya takes a breath, lets the fresh air fill his lungs with a bite.
“Would you mind if I stayed?” The stranger asks into the quiet, voice soft as if anything louder than a whisper will break whatever it is they’re doing. “To watch the sunrise?”
Ilya looks at him, this beautiful man who stopped when he saw Ilya. Who hasn’t said a word about Ilya’s position on the bridge, on the white knuckled grip on the rail that has long since softened.
When Svetlana had left Russia to go to university in Boston, Ilya had followed, and when she’d moved to Ottawa for a job opportunity, Ilya had tagged along too. He’d never really had any idea about what he wanted to do, never made plans for where he was going, only happy that it was away.
Away from Russia. Away from his father. Away from the memories that seemed to haunt every step he took on the streets he’d grown up in.
But with that lack of a path forward, Ilya has found himself floundering, lost on a road he doesn’t know how to navigate, and unwilling to reach out and ask for directions.
But this stranger isn’t waiting for Ilya to ask. He’s taking Ilya by the hand and showing him the way, as if he knows exactly where Ilya wants to go and is willing to take those steps beside him, guiding him without taking lead.
Ilya swallows, turning his head to look at the swiftly lightening sky.
He has plans, for once. Or at least, a plan. The plan.
But maybe it’ll be okay, to deviate just a little. To let this man stand with him as they watch his final sunrise together. He’ll leave soon after, this stranger, and then Ilya can do what he came here to do.
Waiting a little while longer won’t hurt.
“Of course.” He says, as he looks back to the stranger.
The man steps forward, coming to rest against the railing, bare forearms against the cool metal causing goosebumps to pimple his skin. “Thanks.” He says with a small smile. “It’s been a long time since I’ve stopped to watch it.”
Strange that fate has brought them here to watch this one together, but Ilya isn’t going to complain.
The sky continues to get brighter, dark blue shifting to purples and then pinks, and the impatient, frantic beat of Ilya’s heart settles a little in his chest.
Minutes pass in companionable silence, broken only by the soft lapping of the water below them, but for once, Ilya doesn’t feel the need to break it. The stranger seems to feel the same, standing quietly beside him as he gazes straight ahead.
Ilya watches the strangers face out of the corner of his eye as the sun slowly starts to crest above the horizon, sees the wonder in the soft curve of his lips as if the act of the sun rising isn’t something that happens every single day.
It’s breathtaking, that smile. And Ilya wants to covet it. Wants to keep it within himself, tucked close to his heart where it can stay safe, away from undeserving eyes.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” the stranger says as he cuts a look to Ilya, and Ilya swings his eyes forward, watching as the light teases across the surface of the water, the sparks not unlike the smattering of freckles across the strangers cheeks.
“Yes, I suppose it is.” Ilya murmurs in reply, eyes going unfocused as he watches the sunlight dance atop the rippling surface. He ignores the wetness gathering at his waterline, the tears damp on his lashes.
The sun has almost fully breached the horizon now, bright enough to make Ilya’s eyes burn, but it is beautiful. It’s the most beautiful sunrise Ilya has ever seen.
It’s so simple, so expected, something that happens every single day without fail.
Like a switch being flipped, Ilya realises something.
He realises he wants to see it again tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that.
He doesn’t want this sunrise to be his last.
His breath gets caught in his throat, his nose tingling in a way he knows means he’s moments from letting the moisture gathering at his lashes fall, so he closes his eyes against the light of the sun, lets the tears track down his face in parallel lines as he gasps on a sob.
Ilya flinches at the light brush of skin against his hand, and his head whips round to look down. The strangers hand is a short distance away from his own, but his pinky is stretched across the gap, the lightest touch but a point of contact that Ilya’s entire being focuses on.
A shudder runs through his hand and up his arm, a flood of warmth following to burrow itself in his chest, and his breath hitches as he looks up to catch the strangers eye.
The stranger is already looking at him, his eyes soft in a way Ilya could almost read as pity, but chooses instead to read as understanding. As comfort.
Ilya swallows and the strangers gaze dips down to follow the bob of his Adam’s apple.
Ilya lifts his hand, breaking the contact for only a moment before he places it atop the strangers, not bothering to wipe away the tears staining his cheeks.
The strangers hand is cold, his grip turning firm against the railing for a split second, and then he moves it, twisting it around so that their palms meet in a gentle embrace, fingers slotting between each other as if they always have been.
They both look down, and Ilya’s lips form a tight flat line as he watches the stranger sweep his tanned thumb against the pale skin on the back of Ilya’s hand.
“It’s nice, right? To take the time to enjoy the little things?” The stranger says, voice still barely above a whisper.
Ilya simply nods, and they both turn their gazes back to the sky, watching as the length of the horizon blazes in brilliant pinks and oranges.
He doesn’t even know how long they stand there like that, hands held tightly together and tears still making a steady stream down Ilya’s cheeks, but it’s long enough for Ilya to realise how foolish he’s been, to think that this would be simple, easy.
There’s nothing simple about dying, not really. Not for the one that dies or the people they leave behind.
This stranger might leave, might walk away from Ilya without another word, but if Ilya has learned anything in the short time they’ve known each other, it’s that this stranger will remember him, will think of him, will wonder what happened.
Ilya doesn’t want to cause this man pain, not when he saw Ilya standing here alone and decided to stand with him.
He extracts his hand from the strangers grip, and if he weren’t currently having the revelation of a life time he might laugh at the look of terror that flashes across the man’s face, but he doesn’t let it linger long as he carefully manoeuvres himself around and climbs back over the railing.
The soles of his shoes have barely touched ground before there are arms wrapping around him, pulling him against a warm, firm chest and into the type of all-consuming embrace he hasn’t received in longer than he can remember.
“Oh, thank god.” The stranger breathes against his neck, his breath warm and moist and the most wonderful thing that Ilya has ever felt, even as his voice wobbles.
And it’s that little quiver, the shaky exhale that tickles against the fine hairs behind his ear, that finally breaks Ilya.
His own arms wrap around the stranger in turn, and he buries his face up against hair that smells faintly of teatree, his chest heaving as he cries.
The man sweeps his hand up and down Ilya’s back, the motion soothing in its repetition, as he gently sways them from side to side, doing nothing to stop Ilya’s outburst.
Time loses all meaning as they stand there, the sky brightening even further above them, but the stranger doesn’t move to pull away, just simply holding Ilya until his tears finally run dry and he’s left a shivering, snotty mess.
There’s embarrassment nestled beside the relief in Ilya’s chest, in the heat of his cheeks, but he doesn’t let it show on his face as he finally removes his arms from around the stranger and steps back.
“Sorry,” Ilya croaks as he hurriedly wipes at his cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
The stranger makes an unhappy noise, his brow furrowing in a way that shouldn’t be as cute as it is, and shakes his head adamantly. “No. No, it’s okay. I don’t mind.”
He fiddles with his shorts a little, hand disappearing into his pocket and pulling out a little packet of tissues and quickly handing it over to Ilya with such determination on his face, and Ilya can’t do anything but take it with a laugh, somehow feeling lighter than he has in years as he removes a tissue and noisily blows his nose.
The noise makes the stranger cringe and then laugh a little, and Ilya finds himself laughing too, the absurdity of the entire morning crashing over them both.
There’s several moments of laughter, the sound bright, before they both just look at each other.
“I’m Shane, by the way.” The stranger, Shane, says. Ilya wants to take the name on his lips, wants to roll it around his mouth with his tongue.
“Ilya.” Ilya replies.
“Hi, Ilya.” Shane says with a slowly blooming smile.
Ilya finds himself smiling back, a giddiness taking hold. “Hello, Shane.”
“Listen, I was just wondering-“ Shane stops, looks away, and then his eyes meet Ilya’s again. The light hits his eyes and they melt like molten caramel, a bright ring around the solid black of his pupils, more beautiful than Ilya had imagined. “Do you- do you want to get a coffee? With me, I mean? There’s a coffee shop not far from here and they do a really nice dark roast. We could talk, if you want? Or not! Either way is fine!”
Ilya’s chest hurts. His cheeks ache. There’s a pain above his eye that he knows is going to turn into a headache later on today.
And it will, because there will be a later.
Ilya smiles.
“Yes. I would like that. Very much.”
Two hours later, they leave the coffee shop together, both their cheeks dusted pink as they say their goodbyes after exchanging numbers.
Ilya watches as Shane walks away, throwing a wave over his shoulder with a smile sweeter than the sugary monstrosity Ilya has just drank, and it takes everything in him not to call Shane back.
He resists, just barely, but pulls his phone back out of his pocket as soon as Shane’s figure turns the corner and out of Ilya’s line of sight.
There’s a text from Svetlana, bemoaning the fact that her neighbours kept her up all night arguing. A text from his friend’s group chat sorting out plans to meet up later that day. A calendar reminder to schedule another doctor’s appointment.
But there, at the very top, is a text from Shane. Simply reading Hi.
Ilya smiles down at his phone, heart leaping to his throat as he swallows heavily.
Nothing’s fixed, not truly. And the road ahead will probably be a mix of brilliant highs and miserable lows.
But there’s still a road, stretching unfathomably far ahead of him, just waiting for him to move.
He replies to Shane’s text, ignoring the others for now, and then puts his phone in his pocket as he walks the short distance to the nearest pedestrian crossing, standing for a moment as cars pass.
It’s not long before the little man on the light flashes, indicating that it’s safe to cross, and with a grin stretching wide across his lips, Ilya braces himself at the very edge of the curb-
And leaps.