Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Svetlana Vetrova, Hayden Pike, Jackie Pike, Ruby Pike, Jade Pike

Additional Tags:

Grigori Rozanov Haunts the Narrative, Irina Rozanova Haunts the Narrative, Irina Rozanova's Suicide, Dysfunctional Family, Childhood Trauma, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Confrontations, Goodbyes, Babysitting, Dialogue Heavy, Grief/Mourning, Falling In Love, Ilya Rozanov Visits Irina Rozanova's Grave, Time Skips, Domestic, Long One Shot, Ilya Rozanov Character Study

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-08-19 Words: 23,340 Chapters: 1/1

thin skin

Summary

"Grief is… is kind of like sadness," he says tentatively. "But it is different."

They look up at him, and he suddenly hates himself for no particular reason, and he hates his father, and he hates his brother, and he hates his mother, and he hates his mother's God.

// ilya and grief.

Notes

This work discusses death and grief in detail. This includes mentions of a miscarriage caused by physical trauma/assault, Irina's suicide, description of the aftermath of Irina's suicide including graphic details of the state of her body when Ilya found her, an attempted suicide, and a heavy conversation with young children. There are almost mentions/heavy implications of child abuse in the Rozanov household.

working title: a special kind of sad

October, 2016

Shane likes Rozanov's living room.

Really he likes the whole house— it's sleek, minimalistic, everything that Shane likes in home architecture and interior design. There's no clutter, but it's lived in— there are shoes by the door, dishes in the sink, melted candles on the shelves and coffee table. (They're all sea breeze and ocean air and coconut beach scented, which Shane hadn't expected, but he thinks the lingering scents, fresh and clean, suit the space.) There are blankets on the sofa like Ilya sleeps here, but the bed wasn't made when he'd carried Shane into his room. It makes Shane curious, but he can't be bothered to really question it, not when his head is resting on Rozanov's shoulder, and Rozanov's fingers are dragging through his hair and the volume of the television is lowered and lowered and lowered.

It's awkward. Shane shifts, letting himself relax against Rozanov's body, turning his head so his cheek can press to Rozanov's bare shoulder. It feels obscene, the simple contact of their skin as they just sit here, watching hockey silently, even though an hour or so ago, Shane was riding Rozanov into his bed like he would have died without it.

Shane exhales slowly, letting his eyes close as Rozanov smooths his hair down again. It doesn't really feel like he's trying to accomplish anything, like he's trying to brush Shane's hair away from his face because it's tickling him or something. He does it again, and then again, like he's just petting him, and Shane hates that he fucking loves it. He settles against Rozanov, slumping into his side and turning so his face presses to Rozanov's chest. He's so soft, and he smells so good, like the nice body wash he has. Shane didn't really get a proper look at it during their shower. He was a little distracted by Rozanov's hands.

He thinks he could fall asleep here. He also thinks Rozanov would let him.

He seemed so keen on Shane staying after they fucked, nudging him out of bed after they caught their breath, pulling him to the bathroom and washing him so gently, scratching at his scalp and smiling at the way Shane melted into the touch. He'd kneeled on the tile floor to wash Shane's legs, like Shane didn't shower incredibly thoroughly before making his way over. He'd beckoned Shane over to the bed, drew him back in fucking effortlessly the way he always does, and he'd kissed Shane's shoulder and murmured a soft Stay so pitifully it made Shane's chest ache.

So of course he stayed. And now he's here, nuzzling into Rozanov's bare chest and breathing him in, his stomach full. Nothing hurts. Not even his head hurts. He thinks he feels good in an unfamiliar way. He feels fine, perfectly content here, and he could fall asleep, but—

"You didn't answer my question," he says softly, against his better judgment. Rozanov doesn't seem like he wants to answer it— he stiffens a little, his hand stopping on Shane's head before it continues— but Shane has always been curious by nature.

"What question?" Rozanov asks in a low voice.

"Is your father okay?"

Rozanov goes quiet. He breathes steadily, shifting a little against Shane like he's settling into place, and Shane can't help but move closer, drawing a leg up onto the sofa next to him like he's trying to shrink to fit better into Rozanov's side. He thinks he would like that, to be small enough for Rozanov to keep tucked against his ribs.

"No."

Shane blinks, staring at the television. He doesn't think either of them are really paying attention to the game, and he suppresses the urge to look up at Rozanov, to see his face. He doesn't really know how to respond to that, but he doesn't really know how to respond to anything. Rozanov doesn't seem to mind like other people do.

"He is sick," Rozanov says after another long moment, like he's been debating it. Shane would have left it alone if he hadn't said anything else.

"Oh," Shane says stupidly. "Sick like… like cancer?"

"No," Rozanov says again before he exhales slowly. "Uhm."

"You don't have to tell me," Shane says. "If you don't want to."

"Is okay," Rozanov says tightly. "He has, uhm. Dementia."

"Oh."

Shane blinks at the television. Rozanov's heart is beating faster. He can feel it against his cheek. After another silent moment Rozanov's knee starts to bounce up and down, but he doesn't seem to notice it.

"What's your family like?" Shane asks, and he immediately regrets it, wincing and shifting closer. He draws a hand up to Rozanov's chest, pressing against him. He tenses to sit up, to push himself away and apologize because that's not what this is, is it? That's none of his fucking business.

But Rozanov's hand lifts and lands on Shane's, holding it in place. Shane lifts his chin to look, watching intently, wide-eyed as Rozanov's hand rubs the back of his firmly before it runs up and down his forearm. His hands are so warm. They always are. Shane sometimes wonders if Rozanov's normal body temperature is higher than the average person's, if there's something different about the way he was made. He thinks Rozanov might glow in the dark.

"My father is sick," Rozanov says too lightly. "And mean. He is getting worse."

"Like he's forgetting more?"

Rozanov hums affirmatively, sighing. He buries his fingers in Shane's hair and drags his other hand up and down his arm. It makes Shane shiver, and he's glad Rozanov gave him a short-sleeve shirt to wear.

"I asked where my brother was and he did not know who I was talking about."

"Jesus."

"Mm."

Rozanov's knee keeps bouncing. His heartbeat slows, but he feels like he's buzzing, like he's stressed out of his mind and he's pretending to not be. Shane's thumb brushes over the side of his neck, and he exhales again. Shane watches his head tilt a little.

"My brother is like my father," Rozanov continues, his voice quiet and flat. He speaks slowly, like he's thinking every word through, like he's struggling to find the words in English, and Shane wishes suddenly that he could speak Russian. "He is police. Very, uhm. Traditional. He is not responsible. I pay him to look after my father and he goes out and spends money on drugs and strippers instead of on medicine or his wife or his daughter."

He stops short, his knee stilling abruptly as he slumps into the sofa, his hand closing around Shane's wrist and holding him. He exhales sharply.

"I am angry with him," he says, his voice shaking a little. "Sorry."

"'S okay," Shane says softly. "Are you always angry with him?"

"Yes," Rozanov scoffs, letting go of Shane's wrist and rubbing his arm again like it's soothing him. "I am always angry with him. And with my father, but he is more hard to be angry with."

Shane hums a little, shifting his hand closer to Rozanov's neck until he's holding the side of it, brushing his thumb over the angle of his jaw. Rozanov lets him.

Shane's eyes close when the weight of Rozanov's head rests on his.

"He has always been so horrible," Rozanov says quietly. He sounds so small. "And now he is just confused, you know? Just a scared old man. And Alexei just leaves him home alone where he does not know the people in the photos or the— the things on the shelves and counters. He does not recognise his own wife, or his own home. Is just—"

"It's scary," Shane murmurs.

They lapse into silence. Rozanov lays against Shane's head and breathes steadily— too steadily. It feels intentional, every breath measured and even and rehearsed like he's holding back a panic attack. Shane doesn't know what to do.

He sits here, helpless. It feels wrong, listening to Rozanov talk about his father, about his brother. It's too much. This isn't what they do, like cuddling on the sofa. Like eating tuna melts and watching hockey. They're not friends, are they? Shane doesn't know what they are.

He watches the television as Rozanov's breathing returns to normal. On the screen, a Buffalo fan appears wearing a Sabres hoodie, hat, and far too much face paint, grimacing in a way that almost makes Shane feel bad for him. He snorts, and Rozanov's chest jumps as he scoffs. Shane smiles, brushing his thumb over Rozanov's pulse.

"I don't have any siblings," he says inexplicably, even though he's fairly certain that it's common knowledge that he's an only child. "I wanted a little sibling when I was a kid, but…"

He shrugs.

"I have the brother," Rozanov says after a moment. "He is four years older than me, but he does not act like it."

Shane huffs out a laugh.

"Uhm." Rozanov is quiet for another moment, hesitating before he continues with a soft, barely there voice. "I almost had a little sister, but my mother had… What is the word? When the baby dies before it is born?"

"A miscarriage," Shane whispers.

Rozanov shifts against the top of his head.

"Miscarriage," he repeats softly.

"That's sad," Shane says stupidly. But Rozanov just hums in agreement.

He's quiet again, and Shane watches the television, watches more Sabres fans wincing and grimacing as the game inches closer to an end, as their score remains zerozerozero.

"I wanted another sibling," Rozanov says finally. "I was very excited to have a sister. But when I got older, I thought… Mm. Maybe is better to only have the two of us."

"Why?"

"…Better if nobody else had to deal with our father."

"You said he was mean," Shane says quietly, shifting his hand to brush his thumb over Rozanov's earlobe. "Was he, like, abusive?"

Rozanov hums, running his hand over Shane's forearm.

"He is traditional," he says. "I think in this… culture, maybe. Some people would think he is abusive. But is normal for us."

"That's fucked," Shane says quietly. "You don't deserve that."

"No," Rozanov says with huff like a laugh. "I did not deserve it. And Alexei did not deserve it. And my mother did not deserve it."

His voice tightens, strains, shakes, and then he exhales sharply with a light noise that's like a groan, his head moving off of Shane's. Shane moves to sit up, turning to look at him. He's staring up at the ceiling, laughing humourlessly and shaking his head.

"Fuck, Hollander."

His voice breaks.

"Jesus, sorry," Shane says, moving so he's kneeling on the sofa, facing Rozanov. It makes his hand fall from Shane's head. "We don't— We don't have to talk about— about them, I'm so sorry—"

"No, is okay, I am just…"

He nods, squeezing his eyes shut, and he lifts a hand to rub his chest just over his heart like it's sore, like something aches. Shane watches, hesitating.

"Are you… Are you having a panic attack?"

"I think maybe," Rozanov says, letting out another laugh and letting his head fall to the back of the sofa. "Fuck, I am sorry."

"No, it's okay," Shane says, torn between giving him space and wrapping his arms around him. "It's fine, Roz, what do— what do I do?"

"I don't know," Rozanov says heavily, opening his eyes and staring blankly at the ceiling. His eyes are glistening. Shane's jaw clenches. "I am always like this after I talk to him, I am sorry."

"Stop apologising," Shane says firmly. He doesn't know if him refers to Rozanov's father or brother. "It's okay."

"They ruin everything, I should not have answered—"

"No, nothing's ruined, Rozanov, it's— Hey, look at me."

He does. He looks pitiful, his lips pressed together like he's trying to keep them from quivering, his eyes shining.

"It's fine," Shane says firmly. "You're not doing anything wrong."

Rozanov looks away again, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. A tear escapes and falls down his cheek, but Shane doesn't even have time to admire it before Rozanov is wiping it away so roughly it leaves his cheek reddened. He exhales sharply, and then inhales, and he shifts again, slumping into the sofa before his back arches like he's uncomfortable, like he's trying to escape it.

"Can I… Can I try something?" Shane asks. Rozanov looks at him out of the corners of his eyes, his head pressing into the back of the sofa. "It— It helps me when I have panic attacks."

Rozanov nods. Shane hesitates for another moment, looking back and forth between his eyes before he nods back, lifting his eyebrows. Rozanov nods again, more firmly.

"Okay, just… Come here, face me."

Rozanov does, quiet, drawing a leg up onto the sofa between them and shifting closer, and Shane doesn't understand why he feels so fucking nervous as he shifts closer to him. Rozanov's cock was inside him just a few hours ago. A few hours ago they were sharing spit and sweat.

"If it makes it worse, just tell me," Shane says. Rozanov nods again. "Okay."

He reaches hesitantly, setting his hands on Rozanov's chest just under his collarbones, watching Rozanov's face intently as he closes his eyes, his chin quivering. Rozanov doesn't react as Shane starts to tap, alternating hands, gentle on his skin, left then right then left then right then left then right then left then right.

Rozanov's head falls forward, his chin falling to between Shane's hands. He takes a sharp breath, his chest jumping as he gasps again, and Shane wants to cry.

"Just breathe," he says softly. "You're okay."

Rozanov nods, humming softly.

"Is— Is it helping?"

"Yes, keep—"

"Okay," Shane says, nodding even though Rozanov isn't looking. "Okay."

When Rozanov lifts his head again, his eyes are still closed, but his eyebrows are furrowed like he's focusing intently on the feeling of Shane's hand on him, and he can't see Shane, so Shane is free to look at him. So he does.

He's so beautiful. Shane had known that, of course he had— everybody knows it. He's conventionally attractive, isn't he? Symmetrical and structured, angular and elegant. But he's beautiful, Shane thinks. The fan of his eyelashes, the faint, barely-there freckles, the curve of his lips. Shane gazes at him, tapping his hands and committing Rozanov's face to memory. His hair is messy now, much messier than it was when Shane arrived, and Shane knows that it's partially his fault— he loves to grab at Rozanov's curls, loves to tug them and comb through them and make them all frizzy. Fuck.

Rozanov's breathing steadies, and he relaxes a little bit, his shoulders lifting as he inhales and falling as he exhales. He looks tired. Shane wants to take him back to bed.

His eyes flutter open, still glassy, and they meet Shane's. They're so close. Too close. Shane's face flushes with heat as Rozanov's eyes flicker back and forth between his, like he's been caught doing something wrong, like admiring Rozanov's perfect face is obscene.

"Okay?" he whispers. Rozanov nods. He's staring at Shane, but Shane can't read the expression on his face, can't tell what he's feeling or what he's thinking. He wishes he could read his mind. "Better?"

Another nod, and then Rozanov speaks, his voice broken and breathy and weak.

"Can I touch you?"

"Yes," Shane whispers. "Yeah, of course."

Rozanov takes a shuddering breath, his hands lifting to Shane's and pressing them down into place. Shane stops the tapping, nodding as Rozanov looks at him and looks at him and looks at him, and he wonders if Rozanov is thinking the same things Shane was just thinking about him. He wonders.

Rozanov's hands are shaking as they slide over the backs of Shane's hands and forearms, as they push up under the fabric of the shirt Shane is wearing, as they reach for his neck. His breath trembles.

"'S okay," Shane whispers. "I got you."

Rozanov nods, humming a little, sliding his hands up to the sides of Shane's neck.

"Jesus, I'm sorry."

"You gotta stop apologising, man," Shane says softly, sliding his hands over Rozanov's chest and collarbones to hold his neck, mirroring him. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"It was— Fuck, I was trying so hard," Rozanov says with a laugh that feels hollow. Shane blinks, his eyebrows drawing together. "Everything was going okay, and they— Fuck, they ruin everything—"

"Hey, nothing is ruined," Shane interrupts, pulling a little at his neck and leaning closer. "Rozanov."

Rozanov looks at the ceiling, his hands falling to the space between them, and it's like he can't hear Shane at all.

"The sex was great," Rozanov mutters. "And the shower was nice, and the food was fine, and the ginger ale was cold, and they fucking—"

He lapses into Russian, and Shane stares at him.

It was all planned, which, in hindsight, seems obvious. The lube and condoms were already out and within reach on the bedside table. There were two towels hanging by the shower, and the clothes that Ilya had flung at him when they woke up from their nap were already out and smelled fresh and clean. The shirt doesn't have a tag. The sandwich ingredients were all packaged and sorted. The ginger ale was chilled, and it was Canada Dry.

Every last thing was perfectly designed, and Shane's stomach feels warm as he listens to Ilya's muttered Russian, and he finds himself suppressing a smile. His cheeks flush with warmth, and his chest feels tight.

He likes me.

Shane bites his lip, watching Rozanov's face, and he doesn't know what to do with himself. He wants to touch him more than he already is, wants to cling to him. He kind of wants to be inside him in a way that's fully infeasible and impossible. He wants to be in his skin, to let their ribcages intertwine like a zipper, to let their veins tangle until their pulses are the same. He's desperate for him, he thinks, needy and completely fucking hopeless.

I like him too.

Rozanov is still talking, muttering in rushed Russian, and Shane can't understand anything except the occasional Blyat. He slides his hands up to the sides of Rozanov's neck, presses into his skin until he finds his pulse, and he pulls a little, saying his name. Rozanov keeps talking. Shane tilts his head, leaning closer, attempting to meet his eyes, but Rozanov barely seems to notice.

"Ilya."

Rozanov stops short, blinking like he's startled, and he finally, finally, meets Shane's eyes. His are red-rimmed, the blue of his irises almost glowing, his eyelashes wet, and he's the most beautiful thing Shane's ever seen in his fucking life. His stomach hurts.

"It's fine," Shane whispers, tilting his head closer. Ilya's eyes flicker across his face, lingering at his mouth. "It's perfect."

Ilya looks at him, his eyebrows furrowing the slightest bit, his eyes searching Shane's face. Shane nods, smiling a little, hesitant.

He slides his hands up to Ilya's face, brushing his thumbs over his cheeks, cradling him, drawing him in. Ilya's breath shudders out of him, but he lets himself be pulled close, his eyes fluttering. Their noses brush.

"'S okay," Shane whispers.

"Shane," Ilya breathes.

Shane squeezes his eyes shut as his chest tightens. He shivers, leaning closer, letting their noses nudge and slide until he's tucking himself into Ilya's neck, wrapping his arms around him. He closes his eyes, surrendering to the dark of the nook of Ilya's neck, hiding in it.

"It's okay," he whispers, his voice muffled. "It's okay, it's okay."

"Shane," Ilya chokes. "Fuck."

"I know, it's okay."

Ilya's arms wraps around Shane's waist, and he squeezes him tightly, pulling him closer like he wants the same thing Shane does, like he wants their bodies to merge together, like he wants him closer than humanly possible. Shane climbs him, shifting so he's straddling Ilya's hips, so their limbs are tangled together. He slides a hand over Ilya's back, drawing his fingers back up over his skin roughly, pressing deep into his flesh, scratching. Ilya moans softly, burying his face in Shane's neck.

"Fuck, Ilya," Shane breathes. Ilya exhales roughly, running a hand up the back of Shane's neck, holding him tightly like he wants him to stay here, tucked away in his neck. Shane hums, letting his lips part, and he kisses, and licks, and mouths, and he wants and wants and wants to bite.

They're breathing heavily suddenly, and Shane is warm from it, but he shivers anyway as one of Ilya's hands slides up the back of his shirt. He shoves the fabric out of the way roughly, clumsy and desperate, and Shane's breath catches. He pushes himself up, resisting against Ilya's grip.

"Let me— Fuck, take it off."

Ilya nods, and he lets him, pushing the fabric up and out of the way enough to run his hands over Shane's exposed skin as Shane tugs the shirt over his head and tosses it aside. Ilya looks up at him, his hands resting on the curve of Shane's waist. His eyes are wide, glassy like he's still holding back tears, and he looks almost fucking reverent, gazing up at Shane like this, like he's something holy.

Shane nods, slumping so their faces are close, and he touches his face, caressing his cheeks.

"Shane," Ilya breathes.

"Yes," Shane whispers, nodding, brushing their lips. Ilya exhales shakily, and Shane breathes it in, pushing a hand into Ilya's hair and curling his fingers into a fist. "'S okay."

"Fuck, I can't…"

"You can."

"I can't have this."

"You can," Shane says, nodding again, lifting his head to press his lips to Ilya's forehead, and his temples, and his cheeks, and the bridge of his nose. "You do."

"Shane."

"I know," Shane says, nodding again, tilting his head to kiss the side of Ilya's neck. "I know, Ilya."

Everything in him aches. He feels stripped bare, more bare than he's ever felt in his life, more bare than the first time Ilya pushed inside his body, more bare than the first time Ilya looked inside him. He feels skinned, torn open.

Their eyes meet, and Shane scratches through his hair. Ilya blinks up at him, searching his face, his lips parted like he's awe or he's trying to speak. He can't seem to get it out, this question. Shane just nods again, kissing him softly.

And Ilya lets out a laugh. It's breathless, just a huff of air with a shaky smile, and Shane beams, leaning so their foreheads press.

"God, Ilya," Shane breathes.

Ilya lets out another laugh, a broken, almost delirious laugh, and he nods, drawing Shane in by the small of his back. Shane's breath catches like some kind of Pavlovian response to his touch so low on his body, and he falls forward.

They stay, breathing one another's air, caressing and cradling and crying. Shane brushes Ilya's tears away, nudging his nose against Ilya's. It takes a while for Shane to realise that they're rocking back and forth, swaying in each other's arms.

He moves after a while, shifting to rest his face on Ilya's shoulder with a soft sigh. Ilya tilts his head to let him closer.

"This was not supposed to happen," Ilya says quietly. His voice is breathy, almost broken. Shane scoffs.

"What was supposed to happen?"

Ilya lets out a soft laugh, something breathless. Barely there.

"I was trying to woo you."

A laugh bursts out of Shane, and he lifts his head, looking at Ilya's pretty face. He's smiling, his eyes squinty and shining, and Shane thinks he might be glowing.

"It worked."

Ilya stares at him for a moment before he scoffs.

"I don't fucking know how."

Shane presses their foreheads together again, breathing him in before he kisses him softly. Ilya's hands spread over his back, callused and warm.

"We should talk about it, right?" he whispers.

"Probably."

Shane runs his nose along the bridge of Ilya's before he lifts his head again, meeting his eyes. Ilya looks up at him, eyes flickering over his face like he's looking for something, like he's trying to commit the pattern of his freckles to memory, before he speaks, whispering.

"I have not wanted anybody else," he says. "For a long time. Just you."

Shane suppresses a smile, tracing a line down Ilya's throat.

"High praise."

"Not just sex," Ilya says firmly, looking into Shane's eyes intently. "I— I like sitting with you. I like sleeping with— really sleeping with you. I like eating sandwiches with you and— and watching hockey with you, and I like just… talking. With you."

Shane looks at him, analysing his face, his gaze, and he can't help but lean in close, kissing him so softly he barely feels it at all. Ilya's hand finds Shane's face, touching his cheek like he's tentative. Like he isn't sure he's allowed.

"I like it too," Shane whispers.

Ilya exhales roughly, pressing a hand into the small of Shane's back and pulling as he leans forward so Shane falls backwards. He laughs, wrapping his arms around Ilya's neck. Ilya groans, kissing Shane clumsily, pressing him into the sofa, letting his body weight rest. Shane's breath catches in his throat, and he hums, pushing a hand into Ilya's hair and holding him down, keeping him in place as their tongues slide, and they've done this before, probably countless times, but it feels different now. It's slower, heavier, everything sharp and sensitive like Shane has a fever.

Ilya moans into Shane's mouth, shifting his weight and reaching for Shane's hand slowly, sliding his hand over Shane's forearm until he pulls at his wrist, manoeuvring it to push his hand into the sofa. Shane whines, furrowing his eyebrows, resisting against Ilya's grip weakly before Ilya's fingers slide between his. Shane squeezes, gasping as Ilya's legs entwine with his.

Ilya pants Shane's name, his first name, into his mouth, and Shane doesn't think his name has ever tasted so sweet.

"So now what?" Shane asks, pressing his face into Ilya's chest.

Ilya is combing through his hair slowly, his other hand trailing over his spine, drawing shivers from Shane's body. Shane hums, sliding a hand over Ilya's chest and squeezing at his pec.

"I don't know," Ilya says quietly. "I do not know what we do from here."

Shane hums, turning his face into Ilya's skin and breathing in the smell of sweat and sex and sea breeze, savouring the slide of their skin as he rocks his foot back and forth against Ilya's leg. Ilya doesn't even seem annoyed by it, allowing Shane to fidget absently.

Shane lifts his head after another quiet while, holding himself up against Ilya's chest and looking at him. He looks exhausted, his cheeks still flushed red from exertion, his hair frizzy and floppy and fallen around his head like a halo. He's so beautiful it makes Shane ache.

"Can I be selfish?" he asks.

Ilya nods, smiling.

"I don't want you to have sex with anyone else."

"Okay," Ilya says lightly.

Shane blinks.

"Really?"

Ilya stares up at him, hesitating.

"Shane," he says like it's easy. "I don't want to have sex with anyone else."

"…Really?"

Ilya's expression shifts a little, his eyebrows furrowing like he's perplexed, and then he just looks sad, his lips turning into a little frown.

"I have never felt like this before," he whispers. "For anybody."

Shane's chest tightens. He watches Ilya's mouth, watches his lips shape the words.

"I really like you," Ilya says, glancing away from Shane's face. His cheeks turn pink, and a part of Shane is bizarrely pleased with it, with flustering Ilya fucking Rozanov like this. "You make me feel… I don't know. Safe. I can talk to you."

Shane nods, caressing the side of Ilya's neck. His throat tightens, and he can't get anything out except a weak, choked-off Same.

Ilya turns his face into Shane's hand.

"Does it scare you too?"

A laugh bursts out of Shane's chest, and he's crying suddenly, nodding through the laugh.

"Yeah," he chokes. "It fucking scares me."

Ilya pulls him down again.

He spends the night, in spite of what he told Hayden, who is not his mother, and he thinks it's heavenly. Laying in bed with Ilya Rozanov is one thing— one marvellous, incredible thing— but laying with him in the dark, in the pure dark, is another. Shane's always preferred the pitch dark when he sleeps— his childhood bedroom and his rooms in his Montreal apartment and the cottage all have blackout curtains— and he's ecstatic to find that Ilya seems to prefer the same. His home is remote enough for it to be dark outside, away from city lights and noises, and he keeps the curtains drawn at night. It seems to be part of his nightly routine, his rituals, drawing them closed as he's brushing his teeth.

It's domestic, and it makes Shane feel fucking insane.

Ilya kisses him in the dark. It's clumsy and surprisingly coordinated considering neither of them can see, and Shane wants this every fucking night. He longs for it even as Ilya is pressing him in the mattress and murmuring his name, even as he's wrapping himself around Ilya and whispering his name back just because he can. He can barely fall asleep even in the darkness, even in the silence, and it's only partially because he doesn't want to.

He wants to savour this, Ilya's arms around him, Ilya's fingers tangled in his, Ilya's breathing. He barely lets his eyes close, dragging his fingers through Ilya's curls. He thinks about it all, about the ache in his chest when he watched Ilya cry, about the stuttered breaths Ilya choked out as Shane watched helplessly.

He buries himself in Ilya's chest, where he can hear his heartbeat, and Ilya, asleep, tugs him even closer.

In the morning, he wakes before the sun comes up. He stares at the ceiling, waiting patiently, more than patiently. He dreads it, already mourning the moment he has to tear himself away from Ilya's warm body. It takes a while, but he doesn't know how long. It could be between a few minutes and several hours.

The sun is just starting to rise when Shane's phone finally chimes brightly, vibrating. He reaches to shut it off as Ilya squirms against his body, his voice rumbling out a quiet groan.

"I have to go," Shane whispers.

"Mm, no."

"Ilya."

"Mm-mm."

Shane snorts, submitting to it for thirty seconds exactly before he sits up, gently pushing Ilya's hand aside. Ilya lets him, groaning again, and Shane gets out of bed. He brushes his teeth with the toothbrush Ilya gave him last night, and he orders a ride, and he waits. He can feel Ilya looking at him as he leans against the dresser, worrying his lip between his teeth.

"Shane."

Shane looks up, blinking. Ilya is laying there, his head resting on a pillow, blankets pooled around his body, an arm extended across the mattress, and he looks so fucking good like this, lazy and sleepy and tempting.

"What?" he says softly, watching the way the dim sunlight shines on Ilya's face like it's trying to find its place there.

"How long?" Ilya asks, lifting his chin up toward Shane's phone. Shane glances.

"Thirteen minutes."

Ilya stares at him for another moment before his hand lifts a little. Shane stares back, and then he breaks, exhaling and moving toward Ilya like something between them has been cut, like he's being pulled by something he can't see. Ilya hums when Shane falls against him, wrapping his arms around him and rolling so they're on their sides. Shane groans, burying his face in Ilya's neck.

"I don't want you to go," Ilya says softly. His hand strokes over Shane's head gently.

"I don't want to go," Shane whispers. "I have to."

"I know."

They both sigh. Shane buries his face in Ilya's neck, hiding from the sunlight.

"Will you call me?" he asks. "Or text me, or— or whatever you need? If you need it?"

Ilya doesn't answer for a little while, and Shane pulls away to look at him again, letting his face squish against Ilya's shoulder.

"Don't wallow in it," he says softly. "Not by yourself."

"But I am so good at that."

Shane stares, suppressing a smile, and Ilya smiles shamelessly, running a hand over Shane's head like he's smoothing his hair down.

"Let me wallow with you," Shane whispers. Ilya's smile falters. He softens. "Okay?"

Ilya's thumb brushes over Shane's cheekbone.

"Okay," he murmurs. Shane nudges their noses together. "Okay."

Ilya has always carried his grief in his shoulders.

Shane says sometimes that he can feel it, the weight of it, when Ilya lets himself feel it. He says one day when Ilya has stopped crying, when he's gathered himself enough to breathe steadily, that it practically radiates off of him. Ilya keeps expecting him to leave, to hate it all— Ilya's pain, Ilya's grief, Ilya. But he stays, and he stays, and he stays, and he helps Ilya carry it all.

The day Ilya gets word that his father has died, he doesn't cry. He sits on the floor of his home, staring at the wall absently, eyes glassy and glazed over, and he loses contact with his own body. He feels so far from it, from all of it, that he can't really move, can't really register anything at all. He barely responds to Shane speaking to him except for a slight turn in his direction and a soft exhale. Shane holds his hand and lets him squeeze it as tightly as he needs, and he rubs the tension from Ilya's shoulders and neck and he combs through his hair and he caresses and cradles him. He answers each of Ilya's calls when he's in Moscow, and he stays on the call in silence as long as Ilya needs, and Ilya is falling

and falling

and falling in love.

He falls in love overseas. He longs for him, for any part of him, as he sits on the plane, staring absently at the seat in front of him, pulling at a thread in his hoodie. He wishes he could be anywhere but here the entire flight long, the entire journey back home.

What an odd concept.

Home.

He hates this house and its empty, cold hallways, and he hates his bedroom. It faces away from the sun, and the gap between the bed and the floor still looks big enough for him to hide. He kind of wants to, lingering in the doorway and staring at it with his hand still on his suitcase. He thinks he should be happy to be here, to have a place to rest after such a long journey, but really truly honestly, he wants to go back to the airport and he never wants to come back here again.

His bed is cold when he lays in it, even with Shane's hoodie on, even with the hood drawn up over his head.

He's a grown man. He's an adult, well-adjusted and mature, and he can handle this, can't he? He can manage a family reunion, and he can tolerate seeing his father's body, even if it's cold and stiff and slightly yellowed. He can look at him and not feel any of the kind of sadness a little boy would have. He can see him as a man, as a corpse, instead of Grigori Rozanov.

He smokes more than usual, and between cigarettes, he handles and manages and tolerates. He avoids his brother's eyes for a reason he can't quite identify, and he talks with his sister-in-law and he holds and admires his niece as gently as he can.

The dinner after the funeral service is a nightmare, not because anything really happens, but because Ilya hates it. It's quiet and awkward, soft voices punctuates by the clinking of cutlery on porcelain and glasses on the table, and Ilya's stomach hurts so badly he doesn't eat a bite until he imagines Shane's voice, all gentle and tender and sweet. Just a little bit, Ilya, please.

He eats half of the food on his plate, and at some point, somebody adds more, scooping food into the empty spaces, and he can't even bring himself to tell them off or to thank them. The wine in his glass has also been topped off when he looks at it, and he wonders if his family can see through him right now. If he's turned into something like a ghost.

Dinner wraps up at some point, and Ilya sits in his seat, staring at the plate of food that's full again, seemingly untouched even though the taste of meat and bread and home-cooked warmth lingers on his tongue. He vaguely hears Svetlana's voice, muffled like Ilya's head is underwater, murmuring soft nothings of gratitude and well-wishes until the room falls silent and the front door closes. It sounds like it echoes, like there's nothing in the house at all. A cave.

He goes outside eventually, and he finds himself leaning against the railing of the balcony with a cigarette hanging from between his lips. He's already pulling another out of the pack by the time the first one actually registers with him, and he scoffs out a dry laugh at himself, tossing the pack aside.

He stares out at the night, tugging at the collar of his shirt as he blows smoke at this damned city, and he doesn't really know what he's feeling, or what he's thinking, or what he wants.

He thinks he wants to go home, but he doesn't really know where that is. Right now, at this very moment, he wants to lay in bed, but he doesn't want to go inside, doesn't want to stop staring at the sky in search of stars, but he wants, he longs, to be with his Shane. He wants to be in bed with him, or to be by the lake with him, or on the sofa or in the kitchen or in the bath or the gym or on the fucking floor. Anywhere but here.

The door slides open behind him as his cigarette is burning down, and he expects Sveta, but it's Alexei, the top few buttons of his shirt undone, his hair messy. He looks like a fucking mess, and Ilya can't help but feel kind of pleased with it.

«Do you mind?» Alexei asks, his voice rough. Ilya gestures vaguely, reaching for the cigarette pack and flipping it open as he stubs out the other on the railing, careless about the scorching mark and the stain of the ashes. Fuck it. Fuck it all.

Alexei smokes next to him in silence, and Ilya's entire body hurts as he tolerates it and tolerates it and tolerates it, and he decides, finally, to go back inside, to find Sveta just to hold her hand or exist near her, to call Shane just to hear his voice, to go to his room just to be angry somewhere else, when Alexei speaks again.

«I used to hate you,» he says.

It startles a laugh of Ilya, something dry and humourless.

«Used to,» he repeats.

«You were always his favourite,» Alexei says quietly. «I think even before you were born you were his favourite.»

«Because I gave him what he wanted,» Ilya snaps. «I wasn't a fucking layabout.»

Alexei doesn't rise to the taunt, taking a slow drag from his cigarette and exhaling at the sky. Ilya stares at his own cigarette, at the glowing cherry of it, and he hates having so much in common with him. Their mother, their father, their cigarettes. It disgusts him.

«I wanted to blame you,» Alexei says softly. Ilya blinks, looking at him.

«For what?»

Alexei stares at the sky, his expression flat and as vacant as Ilya feels, like he's transparent too.

«Irina.»

Ilya blinks again, and then he hardens, his eyebrows furrowing as he points toward his own chest.

«Me?» he says accusingly. «You wanted to blame me?»

«They were your pills, Ilya.»

«What the fuck—»

«You got the help you needed,» Alexei interrupts tiredly, like he's repeating himself for the hundredth time. «And she did not. And I was angry, and I was bitter—»

«So you blamed me,» Ilya says, his voice wavering. «I was twelve years old.»

«I did not blame you,» Alexei says firmly. «I wanted to blame you.»

«Fuck you, Alexei,» Ilya snaps, stubbing out his cigarette aggressively, stabbing it into the railing. Alexei watches without turning his head, unbothered. «I was a kid.»

«I know.»

«Do you think—» Ilya cuts off sharply, his voice stuttering. «You think it wasn't impossible for me? You think I was fucking fine after it all?»

«I didn't say that,» Alexei says softly, but Ilya hardly hears it.

«I found her,» he says, almost yelling now. «I had to see her, to— to smell her. I see that shit every fucking day, Alexei, I wouldn't do that.»

«I know,» Alexei says quietly, closing his eyes, and Ilya hates how calm how is, and he hates him. He should be crying, Ilya thinks. He should be screaming and yelling and fighting. If he really wanted to blame Ilya, he should fucking do it.

«I've blamed myself,» Ilya says shakily. «I've always blamed myself, Alexei, you don't understand, I have hated myself for it, for— for leaving my medication out, for not locking it up like a fucking gun, for leaving her alone, for not checking on her sooner, for not talking to her, or listening to her, or taking her away from here.»

He's crying. He hasn't cried in a long while, but he's crying now, facing the side of his brother's face, watching nothing happen.

«I have always blamed myself, but you—» He interrupts himself, pointing at Alexei aggressively, stabbing at him with it. Alexei stumbles, leaning against the railing and taking it. «You don't get to blame me, Alexei, fuck you. I have blamed myself for being fucking born, and I have blamed myself for being young and stupid and I have blamed myself for the miscarriage, and—»

«The miscarriage,» Alexei repeats softly, his voice hushed. Ilya falls quiet, staring at him, at the side of his face, at the soft glaze of his eye. The city reflects back in it, and it looks almost empty, like there's nothing there at all. «That wasn't your fault.»

Ilya stares at him.

«What the fuck does that mean?» he says after a silent moment, watching Alexei lift the cigarette to his lips and take a slow drag, his eye reflecting the red glow. «What the fuck does that mean?»

«You were at school,» Alexei says, his voice thin now, higher than it usually is, looking down at his hands. «They didn't know I was home.»

«Alexei.»

«He was angry with her,» Alexei says quietly like he can't hear Ilya there at all, like he's forgotten Ilya is present. «Because it was a girl. He wanted another son. We were not enough for him.»

Ilya's hands are trembling, and he stands there, helpless, his throat tight, his stomach turning.

«It was not an accident,» Alexei says, his voice stabilising just slightly. «And it was not— natural. He…» His voice breaks. He chokes on it. «He killed our sister.»

The city goes quiet, sirens and cars and distant music and the sounds of life suddenly muffled, tucked behind some kind of veil, some kind of fogged-over window that Ilya can't break. His vision blurs, and he stares at Alexei's face, at his apparent apathy, until he stands up straight and turns to face him, stabbing his cigarette into the railing.

«You asked why I left him alone,» he says in a low voice, eyes meeting Ilya's. «Why I left him alone, and confused, and helpless— it was because he fucking deserved it.»

«You did not tell me,» Ilya says softly, his voice barely there.

«Why would I do that?» Alexei murmurs with a shrug, like it's stupid, like there was no point to it all. «You did not deserve to know that, to— to be scared of him like I was.»

«You did not tell anybody,» Ilya breathes.

Alexei stares back at him, his chin quivering, and he knows what Ilya is thinking, Ilya can see it.

«I was scared,» Alexei whispers. «I was a child. You— You do not know what he could do, Ilya, you—» His voice breaks, and he's crying too now, and Ilya wanted him to be crying just a moment ago, but it infuriates him now. «You spend every day seeing her like that, but I spend every day hearing it.»

Ilya has always found the phrase seeing red to be something stupid. He understands it, knows what it means, but he's never known where it comes from, or how it's meant to mean angry, but suddenly, he understands it. His vision clouds, and he's trembling like a cornered rabbit, or like a rabid dog, and he can't breathe. He might be dying, he thinks, but he doesn't think he would mind it as long as he can take Alexei with him. One last night before the whole family goes.

«He killed her,» he chokes out, but he doesn't know if he's talking about his mother or his sister. He doesn't think it matters. «You fucking— You let him—»

«You don't need to tell me,» Alexei says quietly, like he's tired. «I've already said it all to myself, Ilya. I've hated myself this whole time, I've hated myself more than you ever have—»

«You let my mom die—»

«She was my mom too,» Alexei snaps, his hand slamming on the railing, sending one of the cigarette butts over the edge of it. Neither of them notices. «She was my mom longer than she was yours—»

«You didn't love her like I did,» Ilya yells, his voice splitting, tears spilling over his face, and he feels, for a moment, like he's ten years old, and twelve years old, and a hundred years old all at once.

It works. Alexei reacts, his eyes widening, jerking back like he's startled by it, like he's been slapped across the face. And in a moment, in a split second, he looks devastated.

«I hate myself for it,» Alexei says, choking. «Ilya, I tried to kill myself.»

«Fuck you,» Ilya says sharply, like it doesn't make his chest ache, like he doesn't feel sick with the very thought of it, of his big brother wishing to die. «You wanted to blame me because you were too much of a fucking coward to blame yourself.»

Alexei's eyes flick back and forth between Ilya's, and Ilya realises with a sudden wave of nausea that he doesn't remember what his mother's eyes looked like. He tries to imagine them, but he can only see Alexei's, and then his father's.

He shoves at Alexei, his hands shaking, and Alexei stumbles back, taking it.

For some reason, it makes Ilya angrier, the way he falls pliant, his eyes downcast, and he shoves at him again, harder. He takes it, and then he takes it again, and then again, until Ilya is just hitting him, his fists loose and weak and smaller than they've ever been.

«Fuck you,» Ilya is saying, voice slurred and angry and mumbled, and he can't see through his tears or through the foggy window. «Fuck you, you killed my fucking mom, Alexei, fuck you—»

Alexei doesn't fight back. He lets Ilya shove at him and push at him and pull at the fabric of his nice shirt until he's against a wall with Ilya's fists beating against his chest. His hands hang by his sides, and his eyes are closed, and Ilya thinks briefly that he's trying again.

«Fight me back,» Ilya sobs, pushing him against the wall, wrestling with his shirt clumsily like he's trying to puppeteer him. «Hit me, you fucking bastard, come on—»

«I'm not going to hit you, Ilya,» Alexei says quietly, steadily. «I'm not going to do that.»

«Fuck you,» Ilya cries, his eyes squeezing shut as his face contorts with pain. «Fuck you, Alexei, fight me. I'm a fucking queer, Alexei.»

It comes out broken and ugly, and Alexei is unfazed.

«I know,» he says quietly, gentle. «I made sure he didn't find out.»

«I'm in love with a man,» Ilya says firmly, shoving him. «I'm bisexual and I'm going to marry him, Alexei, fucking do something—»

He should be beating him, Ilya thinks. He should be beating and hitting and kicking and punching, he should be arresting him and telling the country what a fucking loser their star athlete is. He should be ruining him, and he isn't.

Ilya sobs, his pleas for reciprocation fading into wordless cries as he falls, his legs giving out under him. His knees hit the ground, and it hurts, but he barely feels it past the pain everywhere else. He's heard of people dying of heartbreak— something about the anguish of it putting too much stress of the heart, straining it to failure.

He's not thinking about it right now. He's not thinking about anything at all right now. Everything in him aches, every muscle and tendon and bone. His fucking blood cells feel like they're being choked.

He's known grief for a long time, but he's never felt this. It's an odd sort of regret, wishing not that he had dome more, but wishing that he had done less. He wishes he'd done nothing at all.

He did everything for his father. He reached and reached and reached for the expectations that felt impossibly far away, and he sat quietly and stood aside and he was so fucking perfect with nothing to fucking show for it. Nothing was enough for him, Ilya knew it from a young age. The world would scream his name, and girls would die to go home with him, and his teammates would worship him and his opponents would curse him, and his father would look down at him. His hair was too long or unkempt, his voice too loud or too soft, his skating too slow, too clumsy, too uncoordinated, and he was lazy, and selfish, and stupid. He made money and blew some of it on cars and drinks and weed, and the rest on his father's medicine and his brother's family.

And none of it was enough.

It was never fucking enough.

It's regret that he's feeling, and longing, maybe. Longing for something better than what he had, than what he has, longing for a life he could never have lived. He wants to go away from it all, to forget about it all and put himself in Shane's arms. He wants, desperately and pathetically, to rip the cross from around his neck and throw it into the sea, to never have to look at it again, and he wants kill his brother, and he wants to resurrect his father just to kill him too. He didn't deserve a natural death, Ilya thinks, even if it was long and drawn-out, even if it was torture.

It wasn't enough.

He's crying, sobbing like a child, wailing and groaning and screaming, and his big brother is holding him, rocking him back and forth with a hand smoothing over Ilya's curls like he's soothing a baby, like it's just happened all over again. He's never felt so fucking pathetic.

He shoves Alexei away when he has the presence of mind to do so, clumsy and childish as he stumbles back, choking on his own tears. He feels disgusting, even more disgusting just for being near his brother, just for having had his arms around him.

«Fuck you,» he sobs, shoving him back until he stays away. They're on the ground now, like children, like they're young again, hiding from their father's anger together, and when Ilya blinks more tears from his eyes, he can see that Alexei is crying too.

He doesn't think he's ever seen Alexei cry.

He didn't cry like Ilya did when they were young. Ilya cried at everything until his father beat it out of him— a sad animated movie, a dead bird on the patio with a broken neck from the sliding glass door, a scraped knee. Alexei never seem touched by any of it. He teased Ilya, called him a crybaby and a little bitch, and he rolled his eyes and shook his head when Ilya's tears earned him a smack or a beating. He never seemed sad the way Ilya did. He never seemed to get frustrated to tears— instead he just got angry. Instead of crying like Ilya, he would yell or get physical like their father.

He didn't make fun of Ilya when their mother died. He didn't tease or call him stupid or annoying, and he didn't smack the back of his head or tell him to be a man.

He held him.

He caressed the back of his head and pet his hair and he rocked him back and forth and he listened to him scream and cry, holding him on the floor like they were trying to hide from it all. From the police and the medics, from the flashing lights and the hushed voices asking questions they couldn't answer, from their father and their grandfather and the portraits on the walls, watching them. Alexei hadn't said anything, and he hadn't cried, and Ilya hadn't thought anything of it— he wasn't able to in the midst of it all. It didn't occur to him that it was odd, that it was weird for a child to be so stoic after learning of his mother's suicide, to be so unmoved as he holds his shattered brother.

It didn't occur to him to worry.

Ilya pushes himself up off the ground, and he wipes his face roughly even though tears keep falling, and he exhales shakily, looking down at Alexei. He looks pathetic, sitting on the ground against a wall, his shirt wrinkled and coming undone, his hair dishevelled, his eyes shining, reflecting the city around them. He looks at Ilya pitifully, like he's begging, like he's pleading with him.

Ilya exhales sharply, tossing his hands out to his sides. They're still shaking.

«I have a fund,» he says after a moment, looking down at Alexei. «For Anfisa. She will be able to access it when she is eighteen.»

Alexei's lip quivers. Ilya's chest aches, and his heart hurts, and he's so angry he could hurt him.

«I don't want to see you again,» he says unsteadily, shaking his head. «I don't ever want to see you again.»

Alexei is quiet, tears falling over his cheeks into his beard as he stares at Ilya.

«I don't want to hear from you,» he continues, «unless it is about Anfisa, I do not want you to contact me about fucking anything else. I am so fucking done with— with you, and with him,» he says, gesturing inside like their father's corpse is still sitting at the head of the table, «and with this whole fucking family, fuck you.»

He watches as Alexei's head falls and his shoulders shake, and Ilya leaves his big brother crying on the balcony as he goes inside. Svetlana is in the kitchen, pouring bottles of alcohol into the sink almost mindlessly, her eyes vacant until she hears Ilya in the room. She blinks and looks up at him, but he barely sees her.

He doesn't hear her call his name, doesn't see her try to follow as he passes through the room, and he walks through the house.

It's too big a house for such a small family. For a shrinking family. A fading family.

It's always felt cold to Ilya, the hallways empty but full of meaningless decor— tapestry rugs and ornate vases and clocks, old paintings of his great-grandfathers with their wives by their sides like accessories. He never touched any of it, scared of staining any part of it with juice or mud or with lingering traces of his own existence. Everything is scattered, the dining room too many steps from the kitchen, the living room a full walk from any of the bedrooms, the laundry room a journey from any of the bathrooms. His footsteps are almost echoing through the hall, clicking and tapping, and he thinks that somebody could be murdering someone on the other side of the house and he wouldn't know a thing.

He finds himself on the floor again, sitting childishly outside what once was his mother's bedroom, and he wants to go inside, to open the door and look through the threshold like he's trying to find her, like he's expecting her to be laying there with a book or a cigarette, but he can't stand the thought of it.

The thought of seeing the shadow of his mother's stiff body laying like she was tossed from a car wreck, all sprawled limbs and tangled hair. The thought of seeing someone else's bed sheets and blankets, framed photos and perfume bottles, hairbrushes and lipsticks.

He stares at the floor. The hardwood is smooth, but it isn't as perfectly polished as it was when Ilya was young. They've all gotten careless with the house. There were other things to worry about, like an old man wandering out of the house into the streets in a daze, like him getting lost in the hallways and being unable to find his way home in his own house.

Ilya traces the grain of the wood with his eyes, and as he does, he tears the ends of his nails off, ripping and dropping and ripping and dropping until bits and pieces of him are scattered around him, decorating the floor where first responders stood and stared at him with their eyes glistening with worry and pity.

He doesn't realise he's bleeding until Svetlana's hand is drawing his fingers away, gentle and tender and trembling. She's sitting next to him, in her pretty dress and with bare feet, her shoes kicked off and laying haphazardly on the ground in front of them.

Her hands are warm, cradling Ilya's to her chest, and he lets her, closing his eyes. She kisses his fingers, breathing steadily.

«I will not come back,» he whispers. «Ever.»

«You don't have to decide now,» she murmurs, her voice soft and almost melodic. He leans closer to her, his shoulders falling a little from where they've been tensed. He's sore.

«I decided a long time ago.»

His head falls to her shoulder, and he breathes her in. She's wearing the same perfume she started wearing when they were teenagers, something warm and floral and smooth, and it blends with the smell of her hair products and cocoa butter and her childhood bedroom. It's familiar. Safer than the space under Ilya's bed.

Her head rests on his after a moment, and her curls fall over his face. He lets them, taking a breath, shifting closer. Her hair tangles with his eyelashes.

«Do you want me to take you to the airport?» she asks after a few moments as their fingers lace.

He sighs, pausing before he moves closer, tucking himself up against her, burying his face in her neck, in her hair.

«Take me to say goodbye to Mama first,» he says like it's a question. Sveta's breath shudders out of her, and she nods against his head.

«Of course,» she whispers. «In the morning, okay?»

«Okay.»

They make a day of it. They get coffee at a small local place, and Ilya agrees to take a photo with a fan even though he has to force his smile. They walk slowly, meandering through the city instead of booking a ride or taking the metro. Ilya's feet hurt by the time they reach the cemetery, and his coffee has gone cold enough that there's no comfort in holding it.

Sveta gives him space, taking his abandoned coffee to throw it away before she wanders around the cemetery, meandering slowly like she's trying to take as long as possible.

Ilya finds his mother's headstone like he's drawn to it, like his body knows the route to it better than he does.

It's a plain headstone. It's not ornate like his father's is, not embellished and gaudy in a way no headstone should ever be. It's in the middle of a plain cemetery, nowhere in sight of an Orthodox church, and as Ilya's eyes skim his surroundings, looking past Sveta's red hair glowing in the expanse of stone and dirt and grass and wilting flowers, he thinks that his mother has been abandoned over, and over, and over again.

Her parents left her when she started seeing the man that would kill her. Her husband left her every day of their marriage and every day after it would end. Her church, her beloved church, left her when she couldn't take it any more. There's moss and overgrown vines and grass attempting to tuck the stone away, and she's been left here alone. Forgotten.

Ilya's throat tightens, and he falls to his knees in front of his mother's name, searching for it. The engravings aren't deep enough anymore, not in Ilya's opinion, and he absently reaches forward and digs his fingernail into the first character of her name. It's the same as Ilya's.

He digs the moss and dirt away, picking it from under his torn nails, letting it scatter across his lap, and he thinks she wouldn't mind this. He used to brush her hair. It felt the same as this.

«I've been working,» he murmurs as an excuse, his voice thin, just barely getting through his tight throat. «In America. I have not been close.»

His eyes burn, but he ignores it, his eyebrows furrowing as he digs and digs at the headstone, picking away the months and years that it's been left here alone. There's a carving under her name, a tiny ballerina that's barely detailed enough to resemble Irina but elegant. Graceful like Ilya remembers.

He finishes off her first name. It looks stark now, engraved deeper into the stone like he's somehow made it more permanent, like it can't erode away now. Like the elements won't hurt her.

He stares at the dancer, at her barely-there skirt, her arms extended delicately, the angle of her face. She's beautiful, he thinks, and then he falls forward, pressing his forehead against the rough stone. It's cold against his skin, but he savours it. It feels like she's checking him for a fever.

She had light eyes. He remembers that, that they practically glowed in the sunlight, that it almost looked painful. She had curls like Ilya's, but longer, and nicer except when she was doing badly, when she struggled to get herself out of bed. Ilya would brush it for her, combing through it as gently as he could when it was starting to tangle and mat. She always let him.

She always let him comb through her hair, and she always let him sit in her space. They didn't always talk, sometimes they didn't even look at each other, but she let him close. They shared the space between them, shared the quiet. Sometimes they would cuddle or fall asleep together, sometimes they would read their own books side by side, and sometimes she would sleep while Ilya laid against her, awake but unmoving.

He does this now. He breathes steadily, taking in the crisp air, the smell of dirt and moss and damp granite, letting the chill of the stone against his face cool him to his very core.

He isn't angry anymore. His eyes burn, and he squeezes them shut, pressing closer to the headstone, soaking it in, letting it take it all away the way his mother used to pull all his misplaced rage from him. He kind of wishes Alexei was here with him so he could feel it too.

«I'm sorry, Mama,» Ilya chokes, letting his head turn so his cheek is pressed to the stone. «I'm not going to come back again.»

He runs his fingers over her name, over the remaining growth and lingering abandonment.

«I can't stand it anymore,» he whispers weakly. «I can't take it, Mama, I need to get away.»

She doesn't say anything. He wishes she would.

«I fell in love,» he says softly. «I fell in love with a man. I know I wasn't supposed to, but I… God, Mama, if you met him you would understand.»

He presses his forehead to the stone again, closing his eyes, and he imagines combing through her hair, talking to her even though she doesn't speak back, unresponsive, almost catatonic, lost in a daze that Ilya never understood. He still doesn't understand it. As he's gotten older, he's wondered about it, about the way she would disappear right in front of him, the way she would stare at nothing with a glaze over her eyes. He thinks sometimes that she might have been on something, that even though her husband wouldn't allow proper medicine or any real treatment, maybe he would let her numb herself with other drugs. Maybe he just wanted her to keep quiet.

«He's so lovely,» Ilya continues, leaning against the headstone, his hands drifting to the grass, where they tangle and tug at it, sliding it against the thin skin between his fingers before they begin to braid it absently. «He's kind, Mama. He's so good to me, even when I don't deserve it. He's so brave, and— and resilient, and he's so beautiful, and gentle, and…»

He chokes on his own voice, stopping just to sniffle, just to pause. The grass comes undone when he lets go of it, but he doesn't see it.

«I thought this would be my life,» he murmurs. «Wanting, and watching, and miserable. I thought I would die like you did, Mama, I really did. I thought I was going to die in that house, just like you and Papa, like some kind of fucked up legacy. I thought maybe it was genetic. Like depression. And dementia. I thought I would be like you.»

He sighs. A tear slips from his eye, but he doesn't bother wiping it away, letting it chill his face.

«I accepted it,» he chokes. «I was fine with it, I was so fine with it. And then I met Shane, and I didn't want that, Mama, I don't want to be like you—»

A sob escapes him, and he ducks his head against the stone, his shoulders shaking, and the anger is back.

«You did not deserve it,» he cries, his words barely even intelligible. Not that it matters. «You did not deserve any of it, Mama, you deserved to dance, I'm so fucking sorry—»

He cries, and he cries, and he cries, and he wants his mother's hands on him, wants her to caress him and cradle him like he's a baby again, and he wants her to whisper to him and make him laugh in the midst of his tears, and she doesn't. She's cold, and unmoving, and Ilya is alone.

When his tears stop, he opens his eyes, looking down at where the bottom of the headstone disappears into the overgrowth, at the unravelling grass. He smooths the grass back down, undoing it until it looks like normal, untouched. He sniffles, wiping his nose and cheek with the end of his sleeve before he exhales softly, reaching for the grass again, carefully separating the blades into four equal sections before he begins to weave them together the way his mother taught him.

«I think I deserve better too,» he says softly. «I think I want better. He makes me want more than that. He makes me want…» He scoffs, letting out a pathetic laugh. «Domesticity. He makes me want to do the dishes and do yoga and wake up early just to— to look at him. He makes me want to be happy, I think. I don't think I ever let myself want that.»

He watches his fingers weave the grass like it's easy, the slide of it smooth against his fingers.

«I want a life with him,» he murmurs. «I will marry him, if he will have me. I want… I want children with him. And maybe a dog. I think he would like a dog. I want to grow old with him.»

He comes to the end of the grass, twisting the blades together in a way that makes them crunch a little. When he releases it, it stays.

«I think I will try,» he whispers. «He makes me want to try.»

He sighs heavily, pressing his forehead to the stone.

«He loves me,» he breathes. «I did not answer the phone last night and he left me a voice message just to tell me he loves me. He texted Svetlana just to ask if I was doing okay. He told me that when I get home we can watch movies.»

He lets out a laugh, exhaling shakily as his chest tightens with longing. He wishes Shane could be here. He wishes he could sit here with him, showing him how to braid grass. Shane would want to clean off the rest of the headstone. He would bring tools to do it, Ilya thinks.

«God, I love him so much, Mama,» he says weakly. «I didn't know it was possible to love somebody this much, it feels so stupid. I think you would think it's funny too, don't you? How lucky I got? In spite of it all?»

Another laugh. Another sigh.

He traces her name, his eyes fluttering shut as a breeze chills his face.

«You were right,» he murmurs. «I am so fucking blessed, Mama.»

When he stands, he sways unsteadily before he leans down over the headstone. He feels taller than he's ever felt in his life as he stoops to press his lips to the top of it, closing his eyes and sighing, breathing in the fetid, biting smell of earth and decaying granite.

«I love you, Mama,» he murmurs, lips brushing the stone. «Always.»

Svetlana is lingering behind him. He hadn't noticed her appear, and he thinks, not for the first time, that there's a touch of magic in her. His chest clenches as their eyes meet, and he loves her, he loves her, he loves her.

Her arms wrap around him tightly when he falls into her, tucking his face into her neck. She's warm, bundled up in a nice coat and the softest scarf Ilya's ever felt in his life, and she smells so much better than dirt. She sways with him, humming softly, and he squeezes.

«I love you so much,» he says quietly.

«I love you so much too,» she whispers.

When they part, Sveta reaches to touch his face, cradling it gently in her palms, and he lets her, sighing shakily. She pulls him down to kiss his forehead softly, and then she pulls the scarf from around her neck to wrap around his, carefully situating it to cover his head, hiding his face.

He lets her, smiling weakly, and they leave hand in hand.

They get more coffee on the way to Sveta's car, and Ilya doesn't really give a shit when he sees someone taking a photo of them out of the corner of his eye even though he knows that if— or when— that photo is uploaded online, it'll cause a flurry of theories and juvenile headlines. Ilya Rozanov Spotted With Mystery Red-Head before she's identified. Old Habits Die Hard. Womanizing Rozanov Strikes Again. Is This Wild Hockey Star Finally Settling Down? And the like.

None of it matters, he thinks, not when Svetlana is telling Ilya that she'll visit Irina's grave when she's in town, that she'll talk to her for him, bring her flowers and carve her name out of the moss if needed. And not when Shane is texting Svetlana to kiss Ilya's forehead for him, or when Svetlana is spoiling Ilya with a bag of pastries and treats for his flight home.

Shane is waiting at home for him. It's dark by the time he arrives, tiredly kicking his shoes off and rolling his suitcase out of the way, and Shane is in pyjamas— a pair of sweats and a t-shirt that Ilya is pretty sure is his— and the apartment is quiet and dimly lit, and it's everything Ilya has been craving since he got on the plane toward Moscow. He breathes in the smell of the home, some kind of bergamot and cedar and sea breeze, turning to hang his jacket, and he expects a moment of silence, of solitude, but Shane is right there, right away, hovering behind Ilya until his jacket is out of the way.

And then Shane is in his arms, and Ilya's eyes squeeze shut as he absorbs him, squeezing him so tightly neither of them are breathing for a few moments.

"I fucking missed you," Shane whispers.

Ilya exhales roughly into Shane's neck, and he can't get anything out, can't speak or whisper. So he opens his mouth and kisses Shane's skin, breathing him in. Shane's head tilts, letting him in, and Ilya has cried more in the past two days than he thinks he's ever cried in his life but he can't help it.

Shane doesn't say anything even when he feels Ilya's tears on his skin, even when Ilya's fingers tremble as they slip under the fabric of Shane's shirt, even when he kisses him like he needs it to breathe. Shane lets him in easily, his mouth falling open, wrapping his arms around Ilya and pulling him in tightly in spite of his airplane and airport germs.

I need you, Ilya thinks, unable to speak through the lump in his throat, unable to speak with Shane's tongue sliding over his teeth. I fucking need you more than anything.

Shane pushes him against the back of the door, clinging to him. His hands, big and warm and rough with calluses, cradling his face like he's desperate. Ilya hums weakly, falling limp against the door, exhaustion flooding him.

He's pitiful, whining and shoving at Shane's shirt until he finally lets him tug the fabric up and over his head, clinging to him like he can't stand to have even an inch of space between them. He's breathless, panting as Shane nods, murmuring to him, gently tugging his shirt up and detaching it from where it gets tangled around his head.

"'S okay," Shane whispers, tossing Ilya's shirt aside carelessly. "I got you."

Ilya leans in close, tilting his head to get as close as possible before he opens his mouth against Shane's pulse, sucking his skin between his teeth and biting absently, groaning as Shane reaches down and palms him over his pants. Ilya shudders, groaning into Shane's neck.

"I'm so glad you're home," Shane murmurs. Ilya keens, nodding desperately.

Home. He's home.

Shane mouths at his neck, his tongue sliding over his skin even though he's just gotten off an airplane, even though he's gross and salty with sweat and tears. Shane doesn't seem to mind any of it at all. He licks and sucks and bites and he murmurs with his mouth right up against Ilya's pulse as he rubs him over his pants and then slides his hand under them, gentle and tender and loving even as he gropes and squeezes.

"Love you so fucking much," Shane breathes, mouth teasing Ilya's ear.

Ilya closes his eyes, falling into Shane's touch, and he surrenders to it. He lets Shane touch him, surrounding him, blocking him against the hard surface of the front door, and he lets Shane ravish him, leaning to slide his mouth over his chest, to suck bruises into his skin. He lets Shane hold him up against the door until his knees weaken, and then he lets him lower them both slowly to the ground, breathing hard into one another's mouths as Shane's hand works rapidly under Ilya's pants. He lets Shane make him feel good, lets him make his mind turn to nothing but static and ShaneShaneShane. He lets Shane mouth at his ears, tongue wet and sliding and lips brushing and caressing as he whispers so softly Ilya has to strain to hear him.

He whines, and he whimpers, and he clings to Shane in every way he can even though the position they're in is odd, a little awkward, their limbs tangled, Shane hovering over Ilya like he's mid-motion, stuck between relaxing onto the ground and pushing himself to stand. He clutches at Shane's wrist when Shane grabs his neck, his fingers strong as they press into his throat, and he lets Shane shake him around a little, condescending and mean and tender.

He lets Shane pull ugly, abandoned noises from his chest, and he lets Shane see him. He cries, sobbing weakly as Shane mutters things like Come on, baby, that's it and I got you, Ilya, my sweet fucking boy, and he lets Shane drag him closer to kiss him and then slide his tongue up over his cheek, lapping up his tears like they're something feral and unrestrained.

When he comes, he comes with Shane's fingers around his throat, with Shane's hair tangled around his fingers and Shane's voice murmured into his mouth, and with rambled, slurred, choked words on the tip of his tongue.

I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you

June, 2020

It's interesting to Ilya that he is coming to like the off-season almost as much— maybe even just as much— as he likes the on-season. He adores being closer to Shane for longer periods of time, to spend the night with him without worrying about catching a flight in the morning. He likes being friends with him, even in public. It's been an odd journey here, of course it is. Coming out to select people, hiding away from select others.

Sometimes he's tired of it all. Sometimes he thinks being tired is just at the core of who he is.

Shane's parents know about them. Ilya likes them. Yuna is learning how to let Shane be, and she has to be reminded sometimes that Shane, her baby, is, in fact, a grown man, but other than that, she's fucking perfect. She's kind, and she's patient, and she's so lovely it makes Ilya ache. He thinks often that she could have been friends with his mother, that they might have liked each other. David, Ilya thinks, is one of his best friends. It's an interesting roster. Shane Hollander, Svetlana Vetrova, Cliff Marleau, David Hollander. But he likes puzzles and black coffee, and he waits patiently for Ilya to catch the puns he makes.

Sveta knows about them, of course. She and Shane text, but they both refuse to let Ilya see what they talk about. Which probably means that they talk about him, right? Ilya doesn't think he minds as long as they like each other, as long as Shane smiles at his phone when Sveta's name lights up the screen.

Marly knows that Jane is a man, and he knows that Ilya is serious about him. It's nice to not have to censor himself too much when he talks about his love. He thinks one of these days he's going to slip up, or Marly is going to finally put two and two together, but he's been such a staunch ally Ilya isn't very worried about it.

And Hayden and Jackie Pike. And their kids.

What a life Ilya is living.

In the summertime, he and Shane visit Montreal, and they get coffee in public, and they sit across from each other at tables without touching, and they go to the Pike house with cookies and hugs. Ilya gets bombarded by two little girls with far too much energy, and he carries them through the air and watches as Shane holds a baby to his chest delicately, and he wants to marry him.

What a life he's living.

Shane drives with a hand on Ilya's leg. It's absent, the way he brushes his thumb back and forth over Ilya's skin, tucked just under the hem of his shorts, and Ilya focuses on it, letting his eyes close, letting himself relax. It's been a nice day, overcast but bright enough that Shane wore a pair of sunglasses that look criminally good on him. They're tucked into the sun visor now as the sky dims.

Ilya sighs, reaching for Shane's hand as the car comes to a stop at a red light. Their fingers lace, and Shane squeezes.

Ilya's gotten used to not having music playing in the car. The first time he turned the radio on in Shane's car, it had been set to some Christian rock station, and Ilya had stared at Shane until he burst into laughter.

I don't listen to music, I've never used the radio, he'd said through his laughter, which only increased at the sight of Ilya's horrified expression.

He's filled the gaps of his life with music for as long as he can remember. In the gym, in the car, during solo training and conditioning, while he showers and cleans and cooks, while he answers emails and fills out forms and documents. He listens to almost everything under the sun, which has finally stopped catching the guys off guard. The first time they did karaoke, Ilya had drunkenly performed a vaguely Russian rendition of Jolene. The guys won't let him forget about it.

But a few days ago, Ilya did the dishes in silence, and he didn't even notice until he was drying his hands and wiping down the countertops.

He's found that he doesn't mind the quiet now.

Which is why he startles when Shane's phone starts to ring, his hand tightening on Shane's. Shane scoffs, unbothered. He's impossible to startle. Ilya's tried.

Shane answers the phone, letting go of Ilya's leg briefly to tap the screen next to the steering wheel that reads Jackie's name. It's instantaneous, the noise of a baby crying, almost ear-grating over the car's speakers. Ilya grimaces, and Shane reaches to turn the volume down.

"Jackie?"

"Hey," Jackie says too lightly, her voice wobbling a little. "Uhm…"

"What's going on?" Shane asks, his hand reaching back for Ilya's leg, his expression tightening into something Ilya recognizes as concern now. "Are you okay?"

Jackie lets out a laugh that sounds humourless.

"No," she says. "Not really. Uhm. Are you guys busy today?"

"No," Ilya says before Shane can say anything, squeezing his hand. "What do you need? What's going on?"

Jackie exhales shakily, the sound staticky over the phone. Shane's hand turns to lace their fingers again, tight and anxious.

"Jackie," Shane says gently, nudging her to respond.

"Hayden's mom passed away," she says abruptly, rapid over the sound of the baby— Amber by the sound of it— crying. "The other day."

Ilya's hand squeezes Shane's tightly, and Shane nods absently at the road, brushing his thumb over the side of Ilya's hand. Ilya's stomach aches.

"Okay," Shane says softly.

"And he— he's having a hard time, of course he is, and I've told him to take his time, but we haven't talked to the kids about it, and the girls haven't gotten the— the grief talk, and I don't think I've really processed Mindy's death either, and I need—" She gasps, audibly crying, and Ilya's throat tightens. "I need help. Please."

"You're at home?" Shane asks.

"Yeah, we… Yeah."

"Okay, we're on our way right now," Shane says, nodding like she can see him. "Do you need us to pick anything up before we get there?"

"No, I just— I just need help with the kids, I don't know what to do."

"Okay," Shane says kindly, nodding again. "Okay, we'll be there soon, okay?"

"Okay," Jackie chokes. "Thank you."

When they hang up, Shane lifts Ilya's hand and moves it to his own lap so Ilya can hold onto him while he drives. Ilya breathes deeply, slowly, and his knee begins to bounce, and Shane— Shane— notices it all.

"You don't have to come," he says softly, gentle like always. "I can drop you off at home."

"I want to come," Ilya says, shaking his head. "I want to help."

"You don't have to."

"I know," Ilya says, nodding now. "I know. But they…"

He exhales shakily, his hand tightening on Shane's thigh, and Shane reaches down to touch him, squeezing his wrist tightly. Ilya melts back into his seat, forcing his limbs to relax, forcing his shoulders down from where they've tensed by his ears.

"They need somebody who understands," he says softly. "At least a little bit."

Shane just exhales and nods.

When they arrive, they don't bother knocking. They kick their shoes off, and they disappear into the pile among Hayden's and Jackie's and the girls', and they go to find Jackie. She's in a state, sitting in the kitchen with Amber in her arms, rocking back and forth as Amber fusses, squirming. She's wearing one of Hayden's hoodies, one that swallows her whole and makes her look so much smaller than she is, and Ilya aches as she looks up to see them. Her eyes are bloodshot, her nose and cheeks rosy, and her hair is messy, tied up in a bun that's falling from the scrunchie.

"Oh, Ягодка," Ilya mutters, reaching for her as she stands, and suddenly, she's crying, tucking into his chest as he cradles her, Amber trapped between them. "We are here, it's okay."

Shane nudges his way between them, taking Amber gently so Jackie can wrap her arms around Ilya tightly as he rocks her back and forth. Shane is shushing Amber quietly, bouncing her up and down until she falls quiet, settling into Shane's arms.

"Sorry," Jackie chokes when she loosens her arms around Ilya, but she's speaking again before he gets the chance to scold her. "Arthur is asleep, and— and the girls are colouring in their play room, and they should be in bed, but I can't— I can't go to them like this," she says, gesturing vaguely to herself. Ilya shakes his head, tucking her hair back, caressing her cheek gently. "I don't even know how to start to explain all of this, and if I try to tell them that their Nana died, I'm just going to start crying again, and it's going to make everything worse, and we really should have been anticipating it, but we just—"

"Jackie," Ilya interrupts, shaking his head as she meets his eyes with a sniffle. "Is okay, my love, we will help. Is what we are here for, yes?"

She sniffles again, nodding, taking a deep, shaky breath. She glances over at Shane with Amber against his chest, and her shoulders fall a little bit.

"Do you want me to talk to the girls?" Ilya asks, rubbing the back of Jackie's neck. She looks at him.

"You don't have to do that."

"That is not what I asked," he says, ducking his head to look into her eyes. "Do you want me to?"

She hesitates, her lip quivering, and then she nods pitifully.

"Okay."

Ilya takes Amber so Shane can hug Jackie for a long while, swaying back and forth with her, his head ducked down low so he can murmur in her ear. Ilya can't hear his voice, but Jackie is nodding, tucked into his shoulder. Ilya looks down at Amber, who's looking back up at him, her eyes wide and shining. They're a beautiful shade of deep blue, a colour that will change as she gets older, Ilya's learned. The girls' are both greenish brown like Jackie's, and Arthur's are blue like Hayden's. Ilya wonders sometimes if the kids will end up with perfectly split genes, two like Jackie and two like Hayden. And he wonders sometimes what his and Shane's kids would be like— he knows it's not possible for the two of them to have kids like Hayden and Jackie, but it's something to think about. A child with Irina's curls and Yuna's eyes. A child with both Ilya's moles and Shane's freckles.

Jackie accepts one more kiss to her forehead from Ilya before she goes, quietly padding down the hall to the bedroom, quietly opening the door and slipping inside.

Shane looks at Ilya, then at Amber, then at Ilya once more before he steps close and kisses him softly, setting a hand on Amber's belly. She kicks her feet absently, tossing her tiny fists, and Ilya exhales.

"Are you sure?" Shane asks softly.

"Yes," Ilya whispers. "I will be okay."

"Okay," Shane breathes, nodding. "Okay." He kisses him again, nudging their noses together, pressing their foreheads when they part before he pulls away, lifting his hands to take Amber. "Give."

Ilya scoffs, gently handing her over, and she goes happily, reaching for Shane's hair. He lets her tug at it, smiling fondly. Ilya wants to bite him.

He watches Shane go upstairs to the babies' room, and he takes a deep breath, lingering against the dining table for a moment. It's bizarre, he thinks, standing alone in the Pike house. It's odd that he's allowed here, that he's allowed here unsupervised.

It occurs to him often, how weird his life has become in some aspects. He babysits Hayden Pike's children. He's trusted with them.

Their play room is a mess. Ilya remembers when they started setting it up, when Jackie made a Pinterest board that was colourful and bright and everything Ilya never had. He was excited about it, so excited, in fact, that Jackie recruited him as her assistant in decorating. He knows his own home is kind of bland, minimalistic and clean and boring— it's calm, he thinks. But this was fun.

It's vaguely circus-themed. Striped curtains, a checkered rug, bunting flags and mobiles of birds and animals and hot air balloons. Garlands and paper stars and chains that Jackie and Ilya made by hand as they gossiped and joked. A wicker basket of toys shaped like a circus tent, a pink and white striped canopy hanging over blankies and stuffies and picture books. It's colourful and warm and whimsical, and it's fun. Ilya didn't have a space like this when he was little. He remembers his bedroom being dark and quiet and cold. He remembers hiding under his bed and watching footfalls under the crack of his bedroom door like he wouldn't get in even more trouble for just being out of bed. He remembers pretending to be asleep.

Jade and Ruby are sitting at their craft table in their little chairs. Their heads are ducked, close to the table as they colour intently. Ruby's got her legs bent under her, kneeling on the chair even though there's hardly any room for it. There are markers and crayons and coloured pencils scattered across the table alongside pages of cute animals and princesses and bugs, printed from Jackie's office printer.

They have very distinct colouring styles. Jade is free with it, uncaring of the lines, uncaring of the actual colour of things. A purple ladybug with orange spots, a princess with blue skin and pink hair. Ruby is the opposite— she cares about the rules, about the lines. She's meticulous, even though she still holds her markers in her tiny, dimpled fists.

Ilya knocks on the wall lightly. They look up at him, gasping, and the tightness in his chest loosens.

"Uncle Ilya!"

"Hello, my girls," he says lightly, stepping inside and closing the door. He kind of wants to hush them, to tell them not to bother their parents, but he doesn't. "What is happening in here?"

He says it like they're doing something illicit. Jackie is always amused by it, by the vague implication that these two sweet girls are doing something absolutely absurd.

"We're colouring," Ruby says, already looking back down.

"Ah, that is acceptable," Ilya says. "May I join you?"

"You have to colour too," Jade says, pushing some papers over to the extra chair. Ilya nods, moving to sit down. It's low to the floor, his knees almost at his chest, but he doesn't mind. He reaches for a marker and uncaps it, flipping over a paper to find it already coloured in— clearly by Jade— before he reaches for another. It depicts a sea turtle with a happy smile and some fish with the same expression, surrounded by bubbles and shells and seaweed, and it's so calm and joyful and fine that Ilya kind of hates it. He begins to colour it in anyway, dragging the drying purple marker through a part of the turtle's shell.

"You're not gonna make us go to bed?" Ruby asks, breaking the quiet noise of their markers scraping over paper.

"Ah, I will not say anything if you do not."

They both giggle. They love being mischievous with him. They don't need to know that they're not actually breaking any rules.

Usually, Ilya would mess with them. He likes doing that, acting like a big brother even though he's their dad's age. Pulling markers from their hands and saying things like Oh, you were using this? or making the table shake just to make Ruby look up and glare at him even as she fights off her smile. It's fun, even though it makes him sad sometimes. He could have had this when he was younger, when he was meant to be a big brother.

He can't bring himself to mess with them tonight. They colour in silence until Ilya works himself up to break it.

"воро́бушки," he says lightly. "Can I talk to you about something?"

They look up at him, eyebrows drawn together in identical expressions.

"It is a little serious," he adds.

They're both quiet, until Ruby speaks softly, looking back at her colouring as Jade continues to stare at Ilya.

"Is it about Daddy?"

He looks at her, hesitating. He can feel Jade looking at him like she's trying to read his mind.

"Kind of," he says finally. "A little."

Ruby just nods at her colouring page. She's working on a bouquet, colouring in a pink rose slowly.

"Are we in trouble?" Jade asks.

"No," Ilya says quickly, shaking his head, capping his marker and setting it down. "No, nobody is trouble. Nobody did anything wrong."

"Okay."

He pauses again, thinking, wishing he'd somehow had time to make cue cards or something, to make a script.

"Do you… Do you know what it is to die?" he asks choppily, suppressing a grimace.

"It's when you go away," Ruby says without looking up, voice light and easy and unburdened. "For a long time."

"Yes, that's right," Ilya says, nodding. "What else do you know?"

They're quiet. Jade looks back at the princess she's colouring orange, and Ilya watches her mouth twist thoughtfully. Ruby's marker scrapes quietly over her paper.

"You don't come back," Jade says finally, voice tilting like it's a question, looking up at Ilya curiously.

"Yes," Ilya says softly. Ruby's marker stops, and she looks up at Ilya with the same face as Jade, and they look so tiny and pitiful and scared that Ilya kind of hates himself. "Daddy is fine, don't worry—"

"Oh," Ruby says, exhaling.

"I am sorry, he's okay," Ilya says, shifting in his tiny seat. "I did not mean to scare you."

"Then what's wrong?" Jade asks.

"Your daddy's mom died," Ilya says clumsily. "And he has been very sad."

They're quiet. Ilya looks at them, waiting as they look at their colouring pages and then one another, and then as they look at him.

"Nana?" Jade says in a small voice.

Ilya's throat tightens. He nods.

They're quiet again, and Ilya hates the silence of it, of their thinking and processing. He waits for them, looking down at the happy turtle and all the happy fish. He doesn't know how long it is until Jade speaks again, her voice wavering like Jackie's had earlier. Ilya hopes Jackie is asleep now.

"We won't see Nana again?"

"No," Ilya says as gently as possible. "You will not see your Nana again, I am sorry, my birdies."

"Where did she go?" Jade asks.

Ilya hesitates, grimacing a little, because he realises suddenly that he doesn't know Hayden or Jackie's religious beliefs. He could go on a tangent about Heaven, about how Nana is in a better place now, somewhere she doesn't feel pain or fear or sadness, but it feels wrong to tell these young, impressionable girls that when he doesn't believe it himself, in spite of the cross around his neck.

"Do you… Do you remember when Amber was born?" he asks instead.

They nod.

"Do you remember when Arthur was born?"

They hesitate this time.

"Not really?" Ilya says with a smile. They nod. "That is okay, you were very little when he was born. But do you know that everybody is born? You were born, and your siblings were born, and I was born, and your Uncle Shane was born."

They're nodding, looking at Ilya intently, unblinking, and it's a little unsettling, but he presses on.

"And everybody has a body, yes? They are different, bodies, but everyone has one." He pauses, thinking, tapping the table lightly. "You know how bodies can be different?"

"I saw someone that— that only has one arm," Ruby says clumsily. Ilya nods, looking at her.

"Yes, like that, exactly," he says lightly. "Some people have different parts, and some people's parts work differently. Sometimes people need help to walk or to eat, and some people need new parts or they need their parts changed, and…" He trails off, shaking his head a little. "Every body is different. Every body looks different and every body works different."

They're nodding again. Ruby goes back to colouring, but she's working even slower now, like she's focusing mostly on Ilya.

"But every body breathes," Ilya says slowly. "And every body has a heart that beats— You know where your heart is?"

Ruby nods, and Jade points at her own chest almost proudly.

"Our doctor checks it," she says brightly. "With the— the st— ste— scope."

"I don't know how to say it either," Ilya whispers loudly, leaning toward her like it's a secret, and she giggles a little. "Your doctor checks how your heart is beating, yes? To make sure it is healthy and strong."

"Uh-huh."

"So you know everybody is born," Ilya says as lightly as he can. "And you know everybody lives, and that everybody dies. Eventually."

"Everybody?" Jade asks, looking up at him.

He nods, smiling a little.

"Everybody," he says. "It is how life goes, yes? Is the same for— for animals, and for bugs, and for trees, and— and even the stars. They all have something called a life cycle, you know what a life cycle is?"

They shake their heads.

"A cycle is a circle," he says, flipping over the paper with that goddamn turtle. Some of the ink from the purple marker is seeping through the paper, but he ignores it, picking up another marker— dark blue— and he writes as he speaks. "Everybody is born," he says, writing BORN in his blocky handwriting before he remembers that they can't read yet. He draws a sun peeking up over the letters.

"And everybody lives," he says , shifting down the page and scribbling on the page in a slight circle.

They watch as he draws small suns, full suns, next to every word.

"And then everybody dies," he says softly.

They all look at the paper, at the lack of a sun.

"When you die," Ilya says as lightly as he can, even though he feels kind of nauseous, "your heart stops beating, and you stop breathing, and your brain—" He interrupts himself to drop the marker and reach for their heads, tickling the tops of them. "—stops thinking."

They giggle and swat his hands away.

"Do you know some ways that people can die?" he asks, and it occurs to him that this is an incredibly morbid conversation to be having with children, especially children this young, but they don't seem to mind.

"They can— get sick?" Jade says. Ilya nods at her.

"Yes, sometimes people get very sick," he says lightly. "And we have doctors and medicine that help, but sometimes it does not work, yes? Sometimes there is nothing they can do."

"They get hurt?" Ruby says, looking up at him.

"Yes, that too, is the same. Sometimes doctors cannot help." He pauses, but they don't seem to have any other examples. "Your Nana was very lucky. She got to get very old, and that is how she died."

"But—" Ruby looks frustrated when he looks at her, her eyebrows furrowed. "Was she sick?"

Ilya hesitates, wishing he'd asked Jackie more questions.

"When somebody gets very old," he says slowly, carefully, "their body begins to… shut down. It will not work anymore. But it— it does not hurt."

They're quiet.

"So when somebody dies," he continues, "their body is still here. But… they. Their personality, and their… thinking, and their voice, and their… light. They go away."

He stares at the turtle's shell coming through the paper in a faded scratchy purple ink, and he swallows the lump in his throat, and he realises, suddenly, that nobody ever had this talk with him when he was little. He never got to learn what it meant to die, and he never got to learn what it meant to grieve.

He heard You do not have a sister, Ilya. Not anymore. and he was never told why, or where she went, or who she could have been. He doesn't think his mother ever even told him what she would have been called.

He saw his mother's body, still stiff from rigour mortis, her arm falling unnaturally over the side of her bed, and he saw her mouth, agape, and her eyes, open and glassy and absent, and he saw her vomit and her pills and her matted hair and bitten nails and he saw and he saw and he saw, and he didn't see her.

And he thinks with an odd sort of desperation, that he hopes these girls never see that shit, or anything like it.

"Your Nana, her body is still here," he says, gesturing vaguely, "but she is not there anymore."

They look at the table, at their own colouring pages that must not seem that interesting anymore.

"So your daddy," Ilya says after a few moments. "He is very sad. He misses his mommy a lot right now, but he is okay, and he will be okay, and he loves you very much, yes?"

They don't say anything for a little while longer, and then Jade is sitting back in her chair, eyes searching the table aimlessly, her tiny arms crossing over her chest, and she looks like she's pouting, and it's somehow simultaneously adorable and distressing.

"Talk to me," Ilya says lightly, reaching to tap the table in front of her. "What are you feeling, my love?"

"I don't know," she says. "My tummy hurts."

Ilya nods. His throat tightens, and his tummy hurts too.

"Mine too," he says softly.

They fall into silence again, and Ruby picks up a marker. She begins colouring a small blossom blue.

Ilya watches, biting his lip, letting his legs stretch out under the table, careful not to jostle it, and he thinks, rubbing his knees and fidgeting with his own fingers. He wishes somewhat stupidly, that he had Shane's hand to hold here.

"When you miss somebody very much," he says finally, slowly, "after they die, you feel something called grief. You have heard of grief?"

They shake their heads.

"Grief is… is kind of like sadness," he says tentatively. "But it is different."

They look up at him, and he suddenly hates himself for no particular reason, and he hates his father, and he hates his brother, and he hates his mother, and he hates his mother's God.

"It is…" He hesitates, eyes unfocusing as he searches for a word they will understand, attempting to translate himself in more ways than one. He gestures vaguely toward his own body like he's trying to imitate it, the way it encompasses, the way it overwhelms. "It is big. And— and it feels loud. It is like— like when you are in bath. Water is everywhere, yes?"

They nod.

"Is like that," he says. "But it has… phases. You know phases?" They shake their heads, predictably. "Phases is like… parts. Sections. Like, uhm, like the moon, yes?"

He pulls the paper back toward himself, turning it to draw on an unmarked part of it, and he draws a small circle.

"You have seen the moon, yes? Like this?"

"That's a full moon," Jade says as Ruby is leaning over the table to look closer, kneeling in her chair.

"Yes, exactly," Ilya says. "A full moon is big, and then, when the earth turns, it gets smaller, no?" He draws it, the moon with a sliver cut away by shadows. "And then smaller, and smaller, until it is like this, what is it called?"

"A crescent," Ruby says proudly.

"Yes, crescent," Ilya says with a nod. "And then sometimes, it is… You cannot see it at all. And then it comes back."

He draws rest of it, mirroring everything he's already drawn, and it's wonky and uneven and he kind of hates it, but Ruby points at it almost excitedly.

"It's a circle," she says, and Ilya looks at her tiny hand for a moment, at the dimples of her knuckles. "A— A cycle."

"Yes, exactly," he says, smiling. "Grief is like this too. Sometimes it feels like this, like the full moon, yes? It feels big and loud and you cannot get away from it, and sometimes it is like this, like the crescent. It feels smaller, yes? Something you can handle. Sometimes it does not feel like it is there at all, and you do not really notice it. But it is still there even if you cannot see it, like the moon."

They're quiet, watching him point at the phases.

"Daddy is here right now," he says, pointing at the full moon. "It is very big for him, and he is having a very hard time with it, and Mommy is helping him, but she needs help too. So Uncle Shane and me are here to help them, and to help you, because it is very big for you too, no?"

They don't say anything, staring at the moon until Ruby speaks.

"Have you felt grief?" she says clumsily, the word unfamiliar in her mouth.

Ilya hesitates, his throat tightening, and then he nods.

"Yes," he says. "I have."

They just look up at him curiously, and he smiles sadly, hesitating for another moment.

"My mama died when I was little," he says lightly.

"Do you miss her?" Jade asks like it doesn't fucking kill him.

"Yes," he says quietly, his voice breaking a little. "I miss her very much. I think about her every day."

There's a lot he doesn't say. He doesn't tell them that sometimes he hates her. Sometimes he's so angry at her he just cries and can't say anything when Shane asks what he's thinking about. Sometimes he curses her name. He doesn't tell them that when he was a teenager, an angsty, angry teenager, he did everything he could to piss her off even though he knew she was gone, even though he already didn't believe in things like Heaven and Hell, even though he knew how unlikely and impossible it was for her to be haunting him. He doesn't tell them that he almost ruined his own life trying to get revenge, or that he told his father to his face that he wished it was him instead.

"How did she died?" Ruby asks curiously, looking at him with wide eyes.

He hesitates again, and he can't handle that conversation with them tonight.

"She was very sick," he says. "And she did not get the help that she needed."

They look back at their colouring pages, and he lets them think. Ruby goes back to the blue blossom, and Ilya watches before he turns his own page over. The ink from the other side is coming through, the text backwards and patchy, the moons barely there at all. The turtle and all the fish are still smiling. Ilya picks up a yellow marker and starts to colour in a fish.

Jade watches in silence, unmoving, and Ilya wishes he could read her mind, wishes he could hear her thinking about whatever it is she's thinking. He glances up at her, a few times, but she's unmoving, hands in her lap, eyes on Ilya's turtle. Her lips are pursed into a little frown, and her eyebrows are drawn, and she's precious.

"Sometimes when I am missing my Mama more than usual," Ilya starts slowly, "I like to talk about her. To my Shane, or to my friends, sometimes to your Mommy and Daddy. It helps me. Do you want to tell me about your Nana?"

"She was nice," Ruby says to her colouring page. "She didn't know our names."

Ilya blinks, looking at her.

"She did not know your names?"

Ruby shakes her head, capping the blue marker and reaching for a pink one before she moves on to a different blossom.

"Mommy and Daddy said that she has de— dementia?"

"Yes," Ilya says, nodding even though she isn't looking. "That can happen when somebody gets very old. Their brain does not work the way it used to."

"But she still liked us," Jade says, her voice softer than Ilya had expected. "She reads books to us."

"You liked that?" Ilya asks. Jade nods with a bright smile before it fades.

"She read Winnie the Pooh."

Ilya hums softly, looking at her. She finally reaches for a marker and goes back to her colouring page, scribbling over the princess's hair, barely avoiding the tiara. Ilya watches.

"She liked to do our hair," Ruby says softly. "She made good braids."

Ilya hums again.

"Is not the same if somebody else does it, is it?"

Ruby shakes her head, frowning.

"My love," Ilya says, tilting his head a little. She looks up at him, her eyes glassy, her lip quivering. Ilya doesn't remember the last time he saw her cry. "Whatever you are feeling is okay."

"But I feel mad," Ruby says, her voice suddenly too high and too brittle. Ilya's eyes burn, and he nods.

"That is okay, Воробушек."

She sniffles, and then she's crying in earnest, tears slipping over her cheeks, her breathing hiccuped and stuttered, and Ilya's entire body hurts, and he wants to hold her, but he refrains.

"Why did she go?" Ruby chokes, tiny fist clutching her marker. She's shaking. "Why did she do that?"

"No," Ilya says, shaking his head, reaching for her. She lets him take her hand. "No, she did not leave you."

He looks at Jade. She's crying too, and his heart splits down the middle.

"She did not choose it," he says softly. "She did not leave you, it was not her choice, okay?"

"Can I have a hug?" Ruby chokes.

"Yes, of course," Ilya says, already sliding off his tiny chair to the ground. "Come here, my love."

She throws her marker at the table, and she throws herself out of her chair and into Ilya's arms, and Jade follows after her. Ilya lets himself be taken down to the floor, falling onto his back with the girls in his arms, crying into his shirt and burrowing into his chest and his shoulders, and he holds them, and he waits, and he waits, and he waits.

It takes a while, and he thinks this might be the latest they've ever been up, the longest they've stayed out past their bedtime. They're tired after crying— who isn't— but they don't want to go to bed. They write letters together, Ilya sitting on the floor at the little table with the girls hanging off of him, in his lap and on his shoulders, watching him write like they can read it. Ruby falls asleep first, tucked against Ilya's chest, and Jade shares a look with Ilya at the sound of her soft snores.

"Is time for bed, no?" he whispers softly.

"I don't wanna."

"Mm, I think maybe you do."

Jade just pouts.

"Come on," Ilya says, teasing a little. "The sooner you go to sleep, the sooner you can get hugs from your Uncle Shane in the morning."

She lets him carry her to bed, lets him tuck Ruby in first before he comes back to her, wrapping her up in her blanket in a way that makes her giggle and squirm, lets him pepper kisses across her face as she's laughing, scrunching her eyes and nose, wrestling away from Ilya until he lets up, shushing her through their giggles. He ducks his head down so she can kiss his cheek.

He kisses Ruby's forehead before he turns off the light, glancing back to see the soft bluish glow of the nightlight that's plugged in between their beds. It kind of makes the room look like it's underwater. And then he goes back to the play room, and he cleans it up, putting away toys and markers and crayons and coloured pencils, stacking the colouring pages and colouring books, folding up the blankets in the reading nook and putting them in the basket that's empty for some reason. He gets the letters they wrote on the backs of colouring pages and folds them up before he goes downstairs and puts them on the counter in the kitchen. He wants to clean up here too, wants to do the dishes and put them away, wants to wipe the counters and sweep the floors and take out the trash and clear out the cabinets and pantry and fridge of anything that's not perfect, anything slightly bad.

But it's late. The house is silent, and he's tired.

He finds Shane in the babies' room, sitting in the nursing chair quietly with his hands folded in his lap and his head tilted back so he's looking at the ceiling. He's rocking back and forth, his eyes open but glassy like he's fighting off sleep, but they clear up when he hears the floor creak under Ilya's weight. He looks up, eyes scanning Ilya as he turns to shut the door as quietly as possible.

This room has the same blue nightlight as the twins'. There's a white noise machine playing, and Ilya kind of likes the sound of it— low and kind of staticky, rumbly like thunder.

Their eyes meet.

Shane looks curious, and worried, and suddenly, Ilya is crying.

It's abrupt, but maybe it isn't. Maybe he's been crying this whole time, since he pressed one last kiss to Jade's face, since he turned off the light.

Shane lifts a hand for him, reaching out, and Ilya takes it, falling to his knees in front of him. Shane lets him, silent as he guides Ilya down to his lap, as he combs through his hair and leans down to hug his head. Ilya squeezes his eyes shut, a sob wracking his shoulders. He feels the weight of Shane over his head, sees the light fade from behind his eyelids as he's tucked into shadows, and he feels Shane's whispers even though they barely reach his ears.

It feels ridiculous, to sob over his own grief in the home of people experiencing their own.

His grief should have no place here.

But he finds himself hearing Ruby's tiny voice in his head, weak and little and childish, over and over and over and over and over.

Why did she do that?

At some point, they move to the guest room down the hall, but Ilya doesn't really notice. He doesn't remember it when he wakes to Shane moving away from him, rolling out of bed. He grunts, reaching for him, attempting to shift closer, but Shane just catches his hand and lifts it to his lips, kissing Ilya's knuckles softly.

"I'm going with Jackie to take the girls to school," Shane whispers, stooping down low and kissing Ilya's forehead. "We're bringing the babies. You can go back to sleep, лучик."

Ilya groans a little, tugging at Shane's hand, and Shane lets him pull him close enough for a slow, soft kiss. Shane lingers, nudging their noses together for a moment.

"I'll be back," Shane whispers.

Ilya drifts off as he nods, letting their lips brush, and then Shane is gone. Ilya isn't sure how long it's been when he wakes again— he's laying the same way he was when Shane's body was hovering over him, but he's holding a pillow to himself. It's a soft pillow, too plush.

He gets out of bed slowly. His head hurts. Everything else hurts too.

The house is silent, and it's a little unsettling, Ilya thinks as he wanders downstairs. There are clothes everywhere, folded haphazardly, lining the stairs and draping off of the railing, and there are toys and baby supplies all over the place. Ilya wants to put them away, but he has no clue where to even start, where he would put baby bottles or what appears to be a gigantic travel pillow.

He finds himself in the kitchen, lingering in the doorway as his eyes scan the room, taking in the dishes that are piled up in the sink and on the counter, the crumbs and bits of food and crumpled paper towels and an ice tray full of water. Small plates crusted with dry food, water bottles and cups and mugs full of utensils both silver and plastic, foggy baby bottles.

His stomach aches.

It all looks so familiar.

He rolls up his sleeves, and he moves forward, gathering the dishes that have spread to the dining table, setting them on the counter, and he puts away the dishes that are sitting in the drying rack, carefully looking through the cabinets and drawers until everything is in its place before he starts on the dirty dishes. It takes a long while, letting the water wash away the grime, letting some of the dishes soak long enough to scrub it all away. By the time he finishes, his forearms are wet, the ends of his sleeves damp, and the counter and floor have been doused in soapy splashes of water.

He finds the kitchen towels, and he dries every dish until it's shining, and he puts them all away to the best of his abilities, stacking dishes in the right order, placing glasses upside down like the ones that are already in the cabinet. He puts away the few groceries that must have been sitting on the counters for days, looking for the right spaces for chips and crackers and instant oatmeal and already-softening nectarines.

There are more cleaning supplies under the sink, and he uses them as best he can, wiping down the counters, spraying the sink and scrubbing it clean of food and residue. He even cleans the handles of cabinets and the fridge, and he sweeps, and then he lowers to his knees and does some spot cleaning on the floor.

He's always kind of liked cleaning— his parents never had to scold him into tidying or threaten consequences for a mess. He would clean up after his brother without being asked, which, in hindsight, likely didn't help the way Alexei turned out. He's helpless. A layabout, a drag.

Ilya shakes his head, dismissing the thought. He knows he blames himself for too much— Alexei is a grown man. He's had countless chances to act his age, to learn, and he hasn't, and he hasn't, and he hasn't. It's not Ilya's problem anymore.

So he cleans the kitchen. He wanders through the living room and finds some cups, and he cleans those too. He goes through the fridge and finds some wilting vegetables, some meat with a bygone expiration date, a bag of shredded, moulded cheese. They all go in the trash.

He opens his phone when he finishes, worn out but satisfied with it all, with himself, and he finds a few messages from Bood and from Troy, some Twitter notifications about mentions of his name, and some texts from Shane.

Going with Jackie to get some coffee before we head back.

You doing okay?

He leans against the counter as he responds.

Yes, okay

Did some cleaning.

Give Jackie a kiss for me <3 )))

Shane sends him a series of kissy-face emojis and hearts that makes Ilya think Jackie must have snagged his phone, and there's a creak in the doorway.

Ilya looks up to find Hayden hovering awkwardly, like this isn't his house, and he realises that he actually doesn't know what to do. On any other day Ilya would be annoying— he would call him Sleeping Beauty or princess or something else that would make him scowl and roll his eyes, but not today. Of course, not today.

He smiles a little instead, sliding his phone into his pocket.

"Hey," Hayden says quietly, hesitantly, scanning the room. "Wow."

Ilya shrugs lightly.

"Was fun."

"Whatever," Hayden says with a light scoff. It's a win. "Coffee?"

Ilya nods, watching him move forward across the room to the coffee machine, and he waits in silence as Hayden goes through the motions, leafing through paper filters, scooping coffee grounds, setting the pot in place, rummaging through the cabinet that Ilya's just organised as the machine begins to bubble and drip, and the smell of coffee begins to fill the kitchen. He sets two mugs on the counter and closes the cabinet carefully like he's trying to not wake the house up.

And then he's leaning against the counter opposite Ilya, his arms crossing over his chest, and he looks pitiful. Ilya takes him in while he looks at the ground. His hair is a mess, tangled and unkempt, and he looks tired, dark circles under his eyes, his lips chapped. He's wearing a hoodie, something that looks old and stained, frayed at the hems, missing its drawstring, and sweatpants that are hanging low on his hips. He's barefoot. It all makes him look so small.

"Jackie told me you talked to the girls," Hayden says after a few moments, still looking down at his feet. Ilya nods even though he isn't looking. "I appreciate it."

"I do not mind," Ilya says softly. "It takes a village, no?"

Hayden gives the floor a fleeting smile, nodding, and then he looks absent again, his eyes shining like they're glazing over. Ilya's chest aches. It's a familiar look.

"They wrote you a letter," Ilya says. "Well— I wrote it. They, uhm. Directed me? There is one for you and one for— for their Nana."

Hayden nods at the floor, and then he looks up at Ilya, searching his face like he can't tell how earnest he's being. His eyes are shining, and then his lip quivers, and Ilya aches.

"I don't think I can handle that right now," Hayden says shakily. "I— I really appreciate it, I just—"

"It's okay," Ilya says, shaking his head. "You don't need to read them now. You don't need to read them ever if you don't want, it was just… for them to express themselves."

Hayden looks back at the ground, his lips quirking into a slight smile like he's amused.

"You're really good with them," he says quietly.

The coffee drips and bubbles, and it smells really fucking good. It's a distinct smell, oddly sweet, and Ilya is curious about it, if it's a specific blend or roast or whatever that Hayden and Jackie like, if they're picky about their coffee, if they're snobs about it. He can see that, he thinks, the two of them discussing the flavour notes like it's wine and they're millionaire art collectors. He doesn't ask. Maybe later.

Hayden pours their coffee with his back turned to Ilya, and he opens a drawer and pulls a measuring cup out before he drops it and shuts the drawer with a practiced bump of his hip, and Ilya wonders what Jackie takes in her coffee that needs to be measured. He saw almond milk in the fridge, but there was also 2% milk, and heavy cream. He wonders, and he wonders, and he doesn't ask.

He nods when Hayden hands him the coffee, lifting it to his face and breathing in the steam.

"Smells good."

"It's, uhm, a whiskey barrel-aged blend."

Ilya looks at him, and their eyes meet, and then Hayden is rolling his eyes and looking away with a light laugh.

"Fuck you."

"I did not say anything—"

"You didn't have to."

Ilya shrugs. He sips the coffee slowly, letting the steam waft over his face, holding the mug between his hands. It's a nice mug, painted with abstract looking fish, and Ilya wonders some more.

"Do you want to talk about her?" he asks after they've been standing in silence for too long, sipping the coffee. "Your mother?"

Hayden is quiet, staring into his coffee, and Ilya waits for him.

"…I don't know," Hayden says softly. "I mean. You know how it is."

Ilya holds the mug to his chest, watching Hayden draw his own mug to his mouth.

"No, I don't," he says. Hayden blinks and looks up at him over the mug.

"You've lost your mom," he says quietly.

"That was different," Ilya says a little too sharply before he softens himself, his expression and his voice. "It was… I was twelve years old."

Hayden is looking at him intently, and Ilya knows they're about the same age, he knows they're peers, but he looks so young right now, childish. He sees the resemblance with the twins.

"I did not really know my mother," Ilya says softly. "I did not have that much time with her. I grieve her, yes, of course, and I miss her, but a lot of… of what I feel is…"

He pauses, hesitating, shaking his head.

"Guilt," he admits. "It is weird grief, you know, a— a suicide is different."

Hayden just nods, looking back at the ground like he's embarrassed, like it hadn't occurred to him.

"But you knew her," Ilya says, resisting the urge to step closer, to touch him. "Your mother. You had time with her."

Another nod, silent. Ilya watches his throat bob as he swallows. His hands are shaking a little, trembling just the slightest bit even as they tighten on his mug.

"She was…" Hayden starts. His voice breaks, and he clears his throat, taking a deep breath, before he starts again. "She was the fucking best."

Ilya smiles, watching Hayden's expression soften.

"She was so kind," Hayden says softly, almost whispering. "And funny. And hardworking— My— My dad left when she was pregnant with me, and she raised me herself. Worked two minimum-wage jobs before she found a good one. And she—"

He cuts himself off with a humourless laugh, rubbing his face, shaking his head, and Ilya watches, tilting his head.

"Maybe it's just that it's… so fresh," Hayden says. "But I swear she never did anything wrong. She worked so hard, and she still showed up to all the parent-teacher meetings and stuff, and she knew all of my teachers by name and helped me with my homework, and she knew all my friends and she remembered their birthdays, and she could talk to them when they hung out at our house about their interests, and she—"

He stops abruptly, exhaling shakily, dropping his head.

"She had cancer," he says after a few moments. "When I was in high school. And we— we had a good support system, she had really good friends, but it was… It was just the two of us, you know? And she went through chemo, and it was so fucking scary, and I know she must have been terrified, and exhausted, but she never let me see it. She was so calm, all the time, she was so fine. And I—"

He sobs weakly, squeezing his eyes shut, and he holds his mug to his chest. Ilya watches helplessly, grimacing a little when Hayden's shaking makes the mug shift against him, almost splashing the coffee over onto his hoodie.

"She was dying," Hayden says brokenly. "And I watched her disappear, and then I got to see her come back, and I— I know it's so fucking stupid, she was really fucking old, but I feel like I'm waiting for her to come back now."

"That's not stupid," Ilya says, shaking his head even though Hayden isn't looking at him. "That's your mom, Hayden, it's not stupid."

Hayden just nods, shifting to set his mug down before he covers his face with both of his hands, hiding behind them as his shoulders shake.

Ilya waits for him, watching, sipping his coffee, like this is normal. Like it's normal to spend an early morning watching Hayden Pike cry.

"She had dementia," Hayden says when he stops crying, sniffling, rubbing his tears away with the ends of his sleeves.

"The girls mentioned last night," Ilya says, nodding.

"She had no clue who they were," Hayden says with a light laugh, rubbing his nose. "She was so confused every time we showed up, but she never minded. She was always so excited to see them, because that was— that was who she was, you know? She was so nice. She always loved kids, and babies, and the twins loved her so much. She read to them."

"Winnie the Pooh," Ilya remembers aloud. Hayden lets out a wet laugh, nodding.

"God, she loved Piglet," he says fondly. "She always called him so sweet." He imitates her voice, softening it, almost singing the words, and Ilya suddenly wishes he had met the woman.

"I like Eeyore," Ilya says stupidly. It makes Hayden laugh again.

They lapse into silence. Ilya sips his coffee. Hayden scrubs tears out of his eyelashes. They stand quietly, and Ilya kind of doesn't mind it all, actually. The Pikes have a nice house. It's quiet, save for the gentle sounds of the house itself, the soft hush of air, the hum of appliances. It feels weird for it to be so quiet, lacking the sounds of the girls playing or of babies laughing or crying or of Jackie and Hayden imitating their wails. He wonders if Hayden feels it too.

"When does it get easier?" Hayden whispers after a while.

Ilya hesitates.

"…I don't know," he confesses. Hayden nods at the floor. "Sometimes it feels fine. Last night it was killing me. Today I feel… okay. I think there is no real, uhm, timeline, or… expectation, maybe. It is different for everybody, no?"

Hayden nods again.

"It… It is a comfort eventually," Ilya says softly.

"…How?"

Ilya pauses. He thinks, and he thinks, and he thinks about how the fuck to explain it, the way the missing and longing turns into something warmer, something that feels safe. It's a consistent ache, a bruise on his heart, something in his bones, and he can't find the words to explain it.

"You'll see," he says instead. Hayden scoffs, and then he nods, accepting it.

His eyes are still glistening. He crosses his arms over his chest again before he wraps them around himself, holding onto his shoulders and tucking his chin against where his forearms cross.

"It feels like it's never gonna go away," he whispers.

Ilya nods.

"It doesn't go away," he says softly. Hayden's eyes meet his. He looks desperate. "It will always be there. Because you will always love her, no?"

Hayden nods, his eyes fluttering. A tear escapes his eye, but he doesn't seem to notice it. Ilya watches it fall, his throat tightening.

"It is kind of the best," he says with a weak, absent shrug. "That you can keep loving her even when she is gone."

Hayden nods, squeezing his eyes shut, tucking his chin down and hiding his face as he sobs quietly. Ilya exhales slowly, watching even as his vision blurs, and he moves slowly, stepping past Hayden to set his coffee on the counter as quietly as he can, like Hayden is a cornered animal.

Hayden lifts his head with a stuttered breath, and he shifts slightly toward Ilya, who crumbles.

"Is okay," he whispers, reaching and gently setting a hand on Hayden's shoulder, squeezing. Hayden leans into it, his face contorting as he sobs. "Come here."

What a life he's living.

He holds Hayden as he cries, rocking him back and forth absently. Hayden clings to him after a moment like something's been broken, like he's allowed to all of a sudden. His arms wrap around Ilya tightly, clutching at the fabric of his shirt, and he's shaking, trembling, sobs wracking his shoulders. Ilya hushes him softly, as gently as possible, and his hands rub Hayden's back slowly the way they do Shane's when he's having a moment. Ilya can't really tell if it's helping or not, but Hayden doesn't try to stop him, doesn't squirm or push him away.

They sway, and Ilya lets Hayden bury his face in his neck even though his cheeks are wet with tears and his breath is hot. Ilya's eyes sting, and his throat is tight, and he holds Hayden Pike while he grieves. It's bizarre, the way Ilya cradles him, the soft kiss he presses absently to his head.

They only separate when the doorway creaks again, when the sound of Arthur laughing enters the space, when Jackie's voice says, "What the hell?"

Ilya laughs, and Hayden snorts, pushing Ilya away weakly, like he doesn't really mean it, and they turn to look at Jackie and Shane, standing in the doorway with wide eyes. Shane is holding Arthur upside down against his shoulder, his head tilted curiously as Arthur laughs excitedly, and Jackie is holding Amber to her chest like she's protecting her from whatever is going on in the kitchen.

"What the fuck is going on right now?" Shane says, eyeing Hayden and Ilya like they're live explosives. "Oh my god."

"Extenuating circumstances," Ilya says smoothly, reaching to ruffle Hayden's hair only to be smacked away by him. He's sniffling, rubbing his face roughly, but there's a smile there now.

"I have four kids and that was the cutest thing I've ever seen," Jackie says, grinning when Hayden and Ilya make simultaneous noises of disgust and step away from each other. Ilya's chest feels light, like he's smoothed menthol over it.

He looks at Shane, who's grinning, dangling Arthur over his shoulder by his leg, swinging him when he starts to squirm. Arthur cackles brightly, his voice squeaking, and Shane looks down at him, his grin widening as he swings him in the air.

Ilya's chest hurts, and maybe it's all the grief and the emotions and the topsy-turvy nonsense of it all, but his eyes are suddenly stinging, and his throat is suddenly tight. He steps aside so Jackie can go to Hayden, holding Amber out like an offering, and Hayden laughs lightly, taking her gently. She coos, voice squeaky and sweet, and Hayden smiles fondly, peppering her head with kisses.

Ilya watches, swallowing the lump in his throat. Jackie is watching too, smiling contently, taking Hayden's coffee mug and sipping from it.

"Hey," Shane says softly.

It startles Ilya a little, and he turns to look at him. He's closer now, leaning against the counter next to Ilya with Arthur against his hip. He's still squirming, writhing like he's trying to break free and fall to the ground, but Shane has a good grip on him until he lunges for Ilya. Ilya laughs, catching him against his chest as Arthur's little arms wrap around his neck in the weakest strangle hold Ilya's ever been subject to. Shane giggles, watching fondly.

"You okay?" he asks after Ilya's settled Arthur in his arms, turning into his neck to blow a raspberry. Arthur cackles. "What are you thinking?"

"Just…"

His throat tightens again, and he shakes his head, bouncing Arthur playfully even though his eyes are burning. Shane tilts his head, reaching to tuck a curl behind Ilya's ear, and Ilya turns into his hand, gazing at him.

"I can't wait to have a family with you."

Shane softens somehow, despite the pre-existing gentle shine of his pretty eyes, despite the lingering smile, and he looks like he's going to cry. He leans in and kisses Ilya tenderly, nudging their noses together, caressing his face, and Ilya's arms tighten around Arthur. He's babbling something, squirming in Ilya's grip, turning toward their faces. Ilya laughs against Shane's mouth when Arthur smushes himself against Ilya's cheek in a sort of kiss— he's been practicing, but so far it hasn't really gone anywhere. He doesn't know how to pucker his lips yet, and all Ilya feels is the sticky press of his mouth to his cheek.

Shane giggles, pulling away just enough to look at Arthur. Ilya gazes at him, and he's blurry, but Ilya can see the bright smile on his face, and he can see the fondness, the gentle love. Arthur kisses Ilya's cheek again, and Shane laughs harder when Ilya's face contorts into a grimace.

"You're gonna be such a good dad," Shane says lightly, kissing Ilya again chastely before he presses a kiss to Arthur's cheek, prompting another bright giggle, the words easy and smooth, like they don't take Ilya out at the knees.

It's a baffling thought— Ilya, a good dad.

Ilya stares at him, searching his lovely face as he coos at Arthur, imitating his noises, babbling. His chest aches.

"You can't just say that," he says, his voice wavering a little bit. It makes Shane laugh brightly, kissing Ilya chastely before he takes Arthur from him, tugging him away and tossing him in the air, catching him and holding him so he can blow a raspberry against his belly. Arthur screams, laughing, gleeful even though his father is still blinking tears from his eyes, even though Ilya feels like he could crumble to the floor, blissfully oblivious.

"God, I fucking love you," Ilya says before he can think anything of it, before he can censor himself. He startles out of his trance from a solid wack to the back of his head from Jackie's hand, and Hayden is laughing, and Shane's eyes are brilliant, glistening.

"Ilya, if my son's first word is a swear, I'm gonna kill you—"

"Fah!"

"No-o-o!"

Ilya snatches Arthur from Shane's arms as horror takes over Jackie's face, tossing him in the air.

"No," he says emphatically. "Say Mama. Mama."

He exaggerates it, making faces at Arthur, who laughs gleefully, grabbing at Ilya's face with his tiny, vaguely sticky hands. He can hear the others laughing, can hear Hayden's joy ringing clear throughout the room, and he keeps saying it, speaking in time as he nudges Arthur's chin like he's miming it, like he's trying to puppet him into saying it. Arthur just laughs, and he laughs, and he laughs, and as Ilya repeats it over and over, Mama Mama Mama Mama Mama, he finds that it doesn't hurt to say.