Work Text:
Moscow, Russia
February 23rd, 1999
His breath formed billowing clouds in the air as he rushed down the street. His legs were tired and a little weak from hockey practice, but he moved with intention all the same. She had been sad this morning and she hadn’t made it to pick him up from the rink. He’d help mama with dinner so maybe papa wouldn’t know. Maybe he wouldn’t be angry.
Ilya’s heart beat just a touch too fast as he ran up the stairs to their apartment, gear bag banging against the wall with every step. He held his breath as he fit the key, opened the door and…oh.
Warmth spilled into the hallway from the golden light of ignited lamps and the homey smell of stroganoff washed over him. Dolly Parton was playing from the kitchen. It was one of the good nights. Ilya dropped his bag, kicked off his shoes, and ran to the kitchen.
“Ilyusha!” She swept him into her arms, golden curls escaping from her bun and brushing against his temple. “Dance with me sweet sunshine!”
Two doors down they’re laughing and drinking and having a party.
Two doors down they’re not aware that I’m around.
Ilya smiled and laughed and danced because of course he did. They sang together as mama spun him around the kitchen.
Buttfuck nowhere, western Massachusetts
October 7th, 2013
The engine purred under him as he pushed his Porsche faster down the sunny road. Farms, cows, and fields whipped by as the radio crackled for a signal.
He wasn’t sure when, how, or why he had started driving but as the miles wasted behind him it became harder and harder to turn around and the Berkshires were rising in the distance.
The radio finally cackled to garbled speech and then a clear broadcast.
“...where we play all the oldies, goodies, and country classics. Up next a classic number by the one and only patron saint of Country, Miss. Dolly Parton!”
Back through the years
I go wonderin' once again
Back to the seasons of my youth
I recall a box of rags that someone gave us
And how my momma put the rags to use.
Ilya couldn’t breath, he flipped off the radio, but he wasn’t quick enough. The song continued in his head, but in a russian rounded, slightly pitchy alto.
There were rags of many colors
But every piece was small
And I didn't have a coat
And it was way down in the fall
Momma sewed the rags together
Sewin' every piece with love
She made my coat of many colors
That I was so proud of
He was seven years old again and leaned against his mama’s shoulder. She was singing along to Dolly as she stitched his first C onto his jersey.
“How did you learn to sew, Mama?” She smiled and kissed his head.
So with patches on my britches
And holes in both my shoes
In my coat of many colors
I hurried off to school
“Ilyusha, when I was a little girl we didn’t have all these nice things. Just like Dolly, I had to patch the clothes my mama made me.”
The blare of a horn startled Ilya back into his body. He was flying at full speed down the center of the road and a truck was barreling towards him. He jerked the wheel, barely maintaining the control to occupy his own lane once he had returned to it. Shit. Fuck.
He let his foot off the gas and drifted until he was at near dead speed, eventually drifting to a stop alongside an apple stand. He reached up to rub his face. His hands came away damp and he was suddenly aware of gasping breaths wracking his body. He breathed into his hands for a while until the final lines of Coat of Many Colors stopped circulating in his head.
But they didn't understand it
And I tried to make them see
That one is only poor
Only if they choose to be
Now I know we had no money
But I was rich as I could be
In my coat of many colors
My momma made for me
Made just for me.
He wiped his eyes. Thirsty, he pulled a cap low over his brow, shielded his red eyes with sunglasses, and bought a gallon of cloudy apple cider from the stand. He chugged nearly half of it leaned against the dusty sports car, ignoring it as one of the few other patrons of the orchard recognised him and tried to wave.
Back in the car, he wanted to turn north, towards the border, but he didn’t of course. For one thing, he couldn’t quite say why he wanted to do so and for another thing, his passport was in Boston.
He was in his apartment and bundled in bed not long after dark. He didn’t make morning skate on the 8th.
The Cottage
July 19th, 2017
The fire was cracking, tonight the loon calls were not so perturbing, and the warmth of Hollander family dinner sat easy in his soul. Ilya snuggled further into Shane’s lap, wordlessly encouraging his love to keep playing with his curls.
“Ilya, what’s your favourite color?” Ilya raised his eyebrows.
“Brown. Why?” Shane blushed but answered all the same.
“Because I just wanted to know. Why brown?”
“Because your freckles are brown.” Shane smiled and kissed him. “Yours?”
“Blue. It’s always been.”
“Because of Metros?”
“Originally.” Ilya grinned like the Cheshire Cat and pulled Shane down for another kiss. He knew how Shane felt about his eyes from the way he looked into them as if he could drink them in.
“Hmmm, yes, originally.” Shane’s blush deepened. “Favourite food? You cannot say stupid macrobiotic shit, only your real favourite.”
“My dad’s chicken parm. Yours?”
“David is good cook.” Shane nodded. “Mine is mama’s pelmini.” He flashed back to warm, savory moments scooping the meat filling at her elbow.
“Can you make it?” Ilya pictured himself, rolling the dough, feeding piping hot bites from his childhood to his Shane. He nuzzled against his love’s abdomen with his nose.
“Da, not as good as she did, but still good. Maybe over Christmas?” Shane pet him in loving agreement.
“I’d like that. Favourite musician?” Ilya’s heart panged, remembering his mama spinning him, singing to him…She’s a sparrow when she’s broken, but she’s an eagle when she flies.
“Dolly Parton.” Shane stilled, his face going through a series of emotions from amusement to confusion.
“Really?”
“Yes really. She is greatest singer-songwriter of all time and also dedicated philanthropist. I will fight you over Dolly Parton, Hollander, make no mistake.” Laughing, Shane just shook his head and kissed Ilya deep and long. When they broke apart for air Shane peppered kissed all over his face and neck.
“I love her too, Ilya.”
The Cottage
August 27th, 2026
Soft breeze moved the water in lazy rivulets as a mated pair of loons paddles lazily by. The season would end soon as would their monogamy. There was a season to everything, the pair was made, chicks hatched, were raised…but Ilya was getting maudlin. It had been a sad couple days.
“Baby? Are you out here?” Shane called from the open living room door out to the deck. Ilya stuck his hand up over the back of the all-weather couch for Shane to see. Quick footsteps tapped across the planks and then he had an armful of his husband.
“Hello sweetheart.”
“Hello. How are you feeling?” Ilya shrugged.
“Sad. Maybe too sad over someone I never met, but she was pretty special.”
“And reminded you of your mama?” Ilya nodded.
“And reminded me of my mama.” Shane shifted and pulled out his phone, showing him an email. It said something about ‘thank you’ and ‘literacy’.
“I don’t know if this will help, but I just gave a gift in Irina’s name to the Dolly Parton Imagination Library. It should be enough to cover a hundred kids in the program.” Emotion clogged Ilya’s throat and so he stroked his husband's pretty face for long moments. It was starting to crease with confusion, but then Ilya replied.
“Thank you Shane, she would have loved that.” Shane smiled. The furrow between his brows smoothed away in an instant and he was radiant.
“Which she?”
“Maybe both.” Ilya touched his cross, thinking about his mama and Dolly. “Shane, do you believe in heaven? The Christian one?” Shane was silent for a long while, tracing patterns on Ilya’s chest.
“I don’t really know. I don’t think it’s all over, but I struggle to picture what comes next other than nothing. Do you?” Ilya shrugged.
“I don’t know, maybe no, but…somehow, for my mama and for Dolly I think that heaven is real. Maybe only for them…Can we listen to Coat of Many Colors?” Ilya knew that Shane knew how big it was for Ilya to ask this. Ever since he’d lost his mama he could not hear the song without weeping.
Fortunately, Shane was not the type to make a big deal out of a big deal. He just piped the music from his phone over their sound system and hunkered down into Ilya’s chest. They listened to Dolly croon and watched the loons swim together.
And momma blessed it with a kiss
Shane kissed away his tears.