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*
"Anything else for today?"
"No, no, this is all for me," Ilya says, and then mumbles in Russian, "Spasibo, moy anhel..." and winks gleeishly to the old Ukrainian woman.
From behind the RCSS's pharmacy-window, she makes a show of waving him off.
"Oy, oy! Nye stoit blagodarnosti—It is not worth thanks!"
He snickers, moving back into the aisle. It feels good to speak openly in his first language, especially in Ottawa. And to be understood fully. Ilya didn't think there was many Russians or Ukrainians here in the Canada provinces. As much as he loves teaching Shane... it isn't the same.
While tucking away his bag of prescription antidepressants, Ilya notices his smartphone vibrating with incoming alerts.
Then, everything... stops?
Ilya considers this without reaching into his pockets.
He shrugs.
Eh.
Whatever it is, Ilya figures if it matters—it probably will happen again.
*
"Fucking... fuck!"
He groans, rubbing for the hundredth time over both of his eyelids. So itchy. On the left side.
(A bad, bad omen according to what Ilya remembers, before Mama died, younger and living in Moscow. An also much younger Svetlana hissed from under Sergei Vetrov's gilded table: It means you will be sad soon, Ilyusha!. He doesn't remember what happened after, if it was bad or sad.)
Ilya rubs aggressively again, using the entire back of his hand.
Well... it's not the only thing. His lips also itch.
(And that can only mean: You'll be kissing someone soon!.)
Ilya crinkles his face with an easygoing grin.
Not needing Russian superstition to tell him that much—as a very, very, very, very happily married man—Ilya bounds in the direction of the checkout with his full shopping cart. He likes Real Canadian Superstore, on Richmond Road. It has a nicer smell than all of Boston's Walmarts.
On his way, Ilya decides to make a quick pit-stop at the alcohol shelves.
"Hmm."
Unsure, the bottle gets tilted this-way and that-way in Ilya's hand.
"Vau, vodka zdes' deshevaya—Wow, vodka is cheap here."
Inside of his maroon plaid-lined parka, Ilya's smartphone starts going off.
He places the vodka-bottle down.
As soon as Ilya recognizes Shane's number, his mood brightens. Even though Shane hired nutritionists and professional chefs, and invested in years worth of pre-paid meal plans, Ilya cooked most days and most nights for his husband while they're on off-season. He promised Shane to handle the shopping for tonight's dinner, knowing Shane preferred it. Shane volunteered to take Anya out on a long 'walkie' in the meantime.
Ilya answers, crooning out in Russian, "Shanya, moye vse—my everything? Eto ty?—Is that you?"
Answering him back... is a loud and un-Shane-like beeping.
He looks at the screen turning dark, now frustrated.
"Chort—Damn it."
Ah, well. Ilya can call him back on the ride in.
*
Salted ground beef and pork, caramelized onions slices, fresh parsley, rice, carrot chunks and a homemade sour cream tomato sauce for "baked cabbage roll golubtsi" (the savory sweet cabbage being something 'healthy' as a main dish, for Shane)... beet sauerkraut salad mixed with tart apple, dill pickles, potatoes, frozen green peas, and extra virgin olive oil... and two strawberry "galettes" in a flaky pastry crust...
Loading up grocery bags bulging, Ilya moves their summer camp's child-sized, extra hockey gear out from the back of Shane's SUV.
He reaches for his phone again, as it vibrates.
"Shane?" Ilya asks, getting nothing on the other connection end. "I think it is... aaugh, what is word, 'service'?... yes, phone service is bad here. I cannot hear." A tsking tongue-click. "Listen, Shane, I am making you... Shane?" Ilya repeats, now getting sniffs. "Are you there?"
After a heavier and wet sniff, there's a "Ilya..." in Ilya's own ear. Shane's voice, tight and overwhelmed.
"Yes, yes, Shane. I am here now." Ilya doesn't feel reassured to finally hear him, getting more sniffs. "Why are you not saying something?"
"I lost her."
"Lost?" Ilya frowns, confused. "Who?"
"Anya. She—Ilya, she's gone! I don't know what the hell happened! I've been trying to look for her and she's, just, gone!"
Ilya doesn't realize he's gripping the almost-emptied shopping cart, in his right hand, to the point of pain... until Ilya forces himself to let go. Anya. The realization hits him like a puck, like one of Shane's heavy shots. Right into Ilya's gut and making him lose all air. Anya.
Anya cannot have gone missing...
"Wait a moment," Ilya says strained, having difficulty with translating English in his own head. "I need you to—okey, da, explain everything."
Through the phone-call, Shane explains taking her out on the leash. Ilya rarely did. Anya has what Shane referred to as 'a good recall' which means she didn't need a leash, to Ilya. Because Anya always listened. Like the good girl she is. Shane decided to remove her leash, which was not like Shane, and unclip. Anya went into the bushes and Anya never came out. Shane searched them. Shane searched all of that park.
When Ilya doesn't say anything, Shane sounds out of breath and near hysterics. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm gonna find her—"
"Stop, right now," Ilya says firmly. "Take breathes." It doesn't sound like Shane does, but Ilya has to go on: "Tell me where you are, Shane."
"I, I went past Primrose Avenue and Spruce Street. Outside the park. I'm, um, searching on Booth next."
"Did you use her doggy whistle?"
Ilya hears Shane's low, outraged noise. "Oh my god, of course I fucking did! I never have to use it because she fucking listens to me, Ilya!"
No, they don't need to get into a fight like this. Ilya can practically see Shane's scowling expression. The way Shane's brows bunch together when he's deeply upset. And how Shane's fingertips dig into the corners of those beautiful, dark brown eyes in hopes of keeping the tears in.
"Da. Of course," Ilya relents. "I will meet you there."
*
Even while breaking several traffic laws, and not being pulled over, Ilya misses him on Booth Street.
Instead, he locates Shane near an intersection.
From the distance, Ilya thinks his husband—a well built hockey player—looks so very small while like this. While afraid of losing a family member. He's in Ilya's oversized coat, hugging himself with an arm. And with the other arm, Shane holds his phone up and talks to a stranger.
Ilya doesn't waste time, not caring about illegally parking, throwing Shane's SUV car-door open and running.
Closer and closer, Shane's face looks exhausted.
A sting of red across freckled cheeks and Shane's anxiously bitten lips.
Those eyes, eyes that Ilya could stare into and love for hours, glassy with unshed tears.
Please— Any information would help— Here, yeah, in this picture— Our dog, Anya has this stuffed seal toy— She would have had it in her mouth—
The second stranger, looking bored, turns to Shane. "No way!" They gasp, "Aren't you THE Shane Hollander? Can we get a selfie?"
Ilya's blood boils. He doesn't waste a breath either, snatching Shane's wrist and pulling him away. Before Ilya can say something that Harris, the Ottawa Centaurs SDOC, will regrettably hear later from fan pages online. About THE Ilya Rozanov's treatment of local hockey fans.
*
"Give," Ilya orders, feeling Shane's shaking hands rest onto his palms.
They hug. They crowd into the hockey gear-covered backseat of SUV. They try to unsuccessfully calm down.
"I sh-shouldn't have taken off her le-leash—" Shane hiccups words while rush-talking. "Oh god—I never do that—why th-the fuck did I do that—"
"Shane, no—"
"It's getting l-late out, and she doesn't have boots—why d-didn't Anya come when I called—she has perfect recall, Ilya—I trained her m-myself—"
"Shane, malysh, you need to breathe please—"
When the tears fall, a defeated Shane shakes his head. "Ily-yah, I think I'm freaking out r-really bad—"
"You are scared. Your body is reacting to being scared. It has done this before. But you are strong, so strong, even when you are scared. I know this." Ilya encourages his husband to breathe with him, counting up to ten. On eight, Shane's breathing improves, less hiccupy and hurried.
Exhaling, Shane insists weakly, "I don't know how to make this right. It's my fault Anya's gone."
"We find our sweet girl. That is how. And you did not make her gone. You may be Shane fucking Hollander, but you are not a magician."
To Ilya's absolute delight, Shane suddenly snorts out. It's almost a laugh—God Almighty, thank you for him. Ilya goes for a kiss, sweet and short, but closemouthed. They breathe, in, out. Shane's fingers hook Ilya's curls, fisting achingly. Thank you for my love. My Shane.
"I'm so tired of this. Being like this." His forehead pressing on Ilya's, Shane considers, eyes lowering, "You must be tired of it too, right?"
Tears prickle Ilya's own eyes.
"Never..."
He watches Shane's face crumble, in the best way, as Ilya leaves little kisses on him.
"I will never get enough of you, moya lyubov... never."
*
For hours, they look for Anya. Ilya claps and calls for her in English and in Russian, using every one of Anya's favorite words.
But, eventually, it is getting too dark out...
"We can't keep searching like this," Shane whispers, and Ilya's pounding heart clenches hard. They can't give up. Not on Anya, not his little princess. Determined, Shane leans inside the SUV to excavate a glove compartment. Inside that, a mess of junk like old receipts from Ilya and his shopping trips, and unstained food wrappers, and extra dog toys/mini bags of training treats. "Good! They're still here for emergencies."
Shane yanks out two battery-powered flashlights, and Ilya could kiss him right there.
He clumsily does.
Ilya doesn't know, at all, how he got so lucky with this perfect... and perfectly prepared... husband of Ilya's.
*
By morning, it's not looking better. Ilya feels as exhausted and worried as an earlier Shane by now.
"Oh, that stinks," Shane complains, hiding his nose with Ilya's jacket-sleeve. Fuck, the fucking groceries. "Great. Spoiled food for dinner."
Instead of complaining back, Ilya roars out laughter.
He holds onto Shane's scrunching face also beginning to reluctantly, but with genuine feeling, laugh along with Ilya. They're covered in mud and crusty bits of leaves, and who knows what else at this point, and Shane is... Shane. Prioritizing something silly in the moment, not stressful.
"I love you, Hollander. So very much."
"Love you—and you're using my name wrong. Again."
"Da, of course. My husband who I love so very much, Shane David Hollander-Rozanov. "
"That's more like it."
*
In all of their panicking, they forgot to call Yuna.
(Yuna, thank God, has the mind to remind them about Anya's chip and phones the shelters herself.)
*
They find Anya tied to someone else's backyard, happily chasing a boy with Anya's stuffed seal.
Another older boy, sporting an Ottawa "81" Ilya Rozanov jersey, gawks. He nervously claims Anya followed him, believing she was a stray needing help. And couldn't believe his luck that Anya looked the exact same as Instagram's "Anya Hollander-Rozanov", his idol Ilya Rozanov's dog.
As soon as Ilya protectively cuddles Anya up into his arms, giving her smooches while Anya gives Ilya's face a bunch of licky kisses...
Shane understands he can forgive the kids on Shane's and Ilya's behalf.
But... the next time you guys find a wandering pet... be sure to tell the shelter nearby. You never know who might be looking for them.
*
Anya yaps excitedly to them all day, Anya's brown-and-white tail flying like a helicopter.
Eventually, her and Shane fall asleep together on a couch, Ilya's head nuzzling Shane's chest, Anya nuzzling between Shane's hip and the couch-cushions. Ilya scatters kisses across Shane, like Shane's freckles. Until his husband embraces Ilya, mumbling Ilya's name on Ilya's mouth kissing.
Never... there is never 'getting tired', for Ilya, of his tired family.
*