Chapter Text
When Ilya was seven he remembered his mother, leaning against the doorframe, sweat dripping down the side of her forehead as she clutched a pile of folded clothes against her chest. Her golden hair, while tightly wrapped in a bun, sparkled under the sheen of sweat that had formed. Her usually fair skin was flushed, a deep shade of red, and had a particular blanchness to it that made Ilya tremble with worry. He was sitting at the dinner table, slowly eating a bunch of butter biscuits his mother had prepared earlier in the day. She had been sick for a week, a flu that he probably brought back from school that had become particularly attached to Irina.
She should be resting, a cold compress on her head, sleeping away from the sickness. Instead she was trudging around their house doing her usual household tasks, pausing every now and then to take a break. Like the one she was taking now. Ilya bit his lips nervously as he dropped a biscuit and wiggled off the tall stool.
“Mама, are you okay?” his voice came out more meek than intended.
His mother smiled and nodded.
“Да, Ilyushenka.”
Before he could ask her again, his father had stomped into a room, still in his business suit and a briefcase in hand. He glanced at Irina with a scowl forming on his face as he furiously stomped to her, briefcase falling to the wooden floors with an unfortunate crack. Ilya remembered thinking his fathers footsteps were more similar to that of a bear, His father’s eyes were much like the bears as well. Focused on their prey, looking for their weak spots and attacking them.
Ilya watched, tearfully, as his father grabbed his mother by the root of her hair, tugging it down as he snapped his teeth at her face.
“Witch,” he hissed, “Is this your first day living! I told you we have important people coming for dinner.”
An onslaught of Russian curses, so filthy, Ilya covered his ears as they spewed from Grigori’s mouth. His mother began pleading, soft whimpers escaping her lips, her eyes unfocused with fever. Ilya watched him throw his mother against the frame, the pile of clothes falling into a mess on the floor. Grigori spat on the floor, right next to Irina. He shoved Ilya away with a sharp snap, then stormed upstairs, still muttering curses under his breath. Ilya waited, watching his father disappear up the stairs, before he rushed to his mother, whose weak arms trembled as she pushed herself off the floor to her knees.
“Mама,” he whispered, tears gathering, as he watched his mother. She cooed softly, leaning against him, as Ilya leaned towards her giving her a hug. She was burning, her skin clammy against Ilya’s own. She trembled slightly, from falling down and the sickness that ached in her bones. Yet, at no point did the soft smile fall on her face. She continued stroking Ilya’s hair, whispering soft words, as Ilya softly cried.
His father never cared when his mother was sick. He barely cared when Ilya himself was sick. He was used to it. The abandonment that came from sickness. He had spent more time than not, especially after his mother died, tending to his sickness by himself. It had become a norm in his life, something that he knew would not change.
So when he got sick, the first time in Ottawa, he wasn’t all that worried. He had been sick the first week he had moved to Boston, young and all alone miles away from his mother’s spirit and grave. The first Ottawa winter, with its mind-numbing cold, did nothing to help. He hadn’t been adequately prepared for the winter here. Boston, despite its substantial snowfall, barely experienced the sheer accumulation that Ottawa did, and Ilya didn’t even own a snow shovel. He made a mental note to buy one. If his fever ever decreased and he could climb out of his bed.
He really, really, really wanted to call Shane. The urge was so overwhelming that he clung to the sheets, aching with the helplessness of being unable to reach out to the one person who could soothe it. But, Shane unlike him, had made it to playoffs and was currently undergoing a two week roadie that would have him just out of reach for the better part of the day. His father’s words whispered in his head, the only thing that he could hear over his raging pulse.
You weak runt, look at you, whimpering from a small cold. Just like your mother, a weak-fuck, not worth the air you breathe.
He groaned, as he turned in his bed, biting back the sob that threatened to rip. He was a strong Russian. He could do this. He wasn’t a weakling, no his father was wrong. He was strong. He could do this. He was—
A loud crash from somewhere else in the house had him jerking out of the bed, pain instantly crippling him back into the bed. His head pounded, from the fever and now from fear, as he heard footsteps and the loud sound of the door slamming. He heard voices—multiple. Fuck. He gritted his teeth through the pain as he tried to reach to his side table. His phone, he needed to call Shane—No, Blyat, he needed to call the police. He needed to—
“Ilya?”
The feminine voice rang through the hallway, the footsteps getting closer. He felt his arm limply fall as his head throbbed more. Was this it? Was this how Shane would find him? Sweaty, feverish, weak. Falling victim to a home intruder? God, how right his father was.
“Sweetheart—David!”
He blurrily watched the door softly open, the hinges creaking only slightly, as a woman walked in, brown eyes so familiar, scanning him with worry apparent in them. Yuna immediately raced to him, crouching down to run a hand through his sweaty curls. He flinched back, whimpering at the contact. Yuna paused, before continuing to stroke his hair.
Yuna was in his house, his room, stroking his hair.
Yuna was here.
Ilya blinked.
Why the fuck was Yuna Hollander here?
“Oh sweetheart, Shane said you’d probably be in bad shape, but I didn’t expect this. Have you taken any medicine, sweetie? Advil? Tylenol?”
Ilya opened his mouth. He snapped his neck away from Yuna, as a sick cough escaped his throat. It burned as it spiraled into a coughing mess, tears freely falling from his eyes. Yuna, however, seemed unfazed, as she slowly got back up, moving away from him.
“No…” Ilya’s hand moved before he was even aware of it, grasping Yuna’s arm in a firm, sweety grip, “No. Mама. Please, No. Don’t leave. Stay, Mама. Please, I’ve been a good boy. I will not disappoint again. Please.”
Fuck. Where were these words even coming from. He coughed again.
“Okay, okay,” she crouched back down, resuming stroking his hair.
“Here, honey.” David walked in, a green plastic bag in one hand and a bowl in another, a cloth peaking out from it.
Yuna hummed as she grabbed the bowl, immediately straining the towel and placing it on Ilya’s forehead. The cold was a welcome relief against the burning sensation of his skin. Embarrassingly, he whimpered again, his mouth gaping open as the cold soaked into his skin. Yuna was murmuring something to David, before she turned back to Ilya, stroking his head, and removing the covers he had tightly wrapped himself with. Ilya incomprehensibly muttered something, trying to push Yuna’s hand away.
“Shhh, I know, I know. But, honey you have a fever and we need to cool your body down. You can’t help the Centaurs win a cup if you melt.”
“Maybe you just want to make it easy for Hollander to win,” he croaked, closing his eyes as Yuna pressed the compress firmly against his forehead.
Yuna chuckled, lifting the compress to rewet it.
By the fourth time she’d dunked it in the water, David had returned, a glass of water in one hand and a small cap filled with pink liquid in the other.
“Hey, buddy.” David smiled at Ilya, warm and gentle—a stark contrast to the expression his own father had worn whenever he was sick. “Got some medicine for you to take. You gotta get up a little for it, son.”
He glanced over looking at David’s hand. Not a pill in sight.
“Shane mentioned you would only want liquid medicine. He also said you’d only have the berry flavour.”
Ilya blinked. He’d never mentioned anything about medicine to Shane, let alone his favourite flavour. He grunted in confirmation, straining to push himself up onto his elbows. The sheets clung to his skin, his shirt damp with sweat.
Yuna took the pink liquid from David and slowly raised it to Ilya’s lips, tilting the cup only slightly so he could take his time swallowing the medicine before following it with water.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hollander—”
“Yuna, sweetie.” she lightly said, pushing Ilya down back onto his back and rearranged the compress that had slightly moved on his head. Her phone rang, as she stroked his head one last time, before leaving the room to take a call.
David lingered in the room, staying closer to the door as he watched Ilya with a soft smile. The questions must have been apparent in Ilya’s gaze.
“Shane called us this morning. He said you acted weird yesterday. Something about not making a joke that you would usually make.”
IIya blinked again. He hadn’t even called Shane last night, feeling only well enough to exchange a few texts before he fell asleep earlier than usual.
“We would have come earlier,” he glanced back to Yuna, who was pacing the hallway as she spoke, “but Shane was adamant of only coming when the groceries had been dropped off, so you wouldn’t have to come to the door to get them. It was actually kind of funny, Yuna—”
Ilya wasn’t sure why David had randomly stopped talking. Not until he felt the tears streaming down his face. He croaked another apology, wiping his face as he buried his face in a pillow.
“Son, it’s okay. It’s hard being sick all alone.” David stepped closer, gently patting his head. “Luckily, you’re not.”
Luckily you’re not. A warmth bloomed through his chest, different from the fever that clung to his skin. It was the type of warmth Ilya never thought he would ever feel.
The closest he had ever come to feeling anything like it were those scarce nights in dingy hotel rooms, hidden away with Shane. But even then, it had always felt fleeting, something he had to hold onto before it disappeared.
This was different. The warmth didn’t disappear immediately, it lingered.
“That was Shane,” Yuna muttered, tapping away on her phone, “He was about to get on a plane because no one was updating him. This boy…”
“Shane’s in New York,” Ilya rasped, his brow furrowing in confusion.
“He has an evening game tonight. I think it’ll go well. Admirals have been off this season since their primary goalie got injured. Their backup is absolutely shit. Metros will be fine if they—”
“Yuna, honey, let’s let Ilya rest.” David kindly interjected, giving Ilya a wink, as he ushered her out of the room.
“In that case, I’ll reheat the soup.” Yuna turned back toward him. “Don’t worry, Ilya, there’s no mushrooms. We’ll get some food in that stomach, check your temperature, and then we’ll be out of your hair.”
No mushrooms.
Just how much did Shane know about him?
He couldn’t dwell on it for long. His eyelids grew heavy, fluttering shut as the cold compress rested against his forehead. The warm body was already beginning to fade, replaced by a dull, lingering warmth that made him feel good. From the kitchen he was mildly aware of the clatter of dishes, and the gentle murmur of David and Yuna’s voices.
He couldn’t remember a time he had felt himself drift off, especially when sick. Perhaps there had been a time, before he was twelve, when his mother had still been there to take care of him.
For the first time in years, he fell asleep knowing he wasn’t alone.
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Мой Jane ♡: Hi Lily, Mom said you were asleep when they left and they didn’t want to wake you. I ordered you a shit ton of things I know you don’t have, along with extra stuff. And yes, that means fruits and vegetables. Why do you only have drinks in your fridge? When I visit we can go through everything and make sure you have everything in stock.
Мой Jane ♡: Also no McDonalds, Rozanov. Just in case you think about it. I’ll be really mad if I find out you’ve been eating that shit while recovering.
Мой Jane ♡: Oh also, I asked my Dad to check to see if you had a snow shovel, because I didn’t remember if I bought you one yet and the snow is so bad in Ottawa this year. Apparently you don’t. I’ve ordered you one, should arrive sometime tomorrow. Let me know if you don’t like it, I have a spreadsheet on other brands that you can look through.
Мой Jane ♡: Get better. Я тебя люблю. ♡
Мой Jane ♡: I miss you.