Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov & Irina Rozanova, David Hollander & Yuna Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, David Hollander, Yuna Hollander, Irina Rozanova

Additional Tags:

Canon Compliant, Post-Episode: s01e06 The Cottage (Heated Rivalry), this is set probably in 2020, Irina Rozanova Haunts the Narrative, Ilya Rozanov Misses Irina Rozanova, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, POV Ilya Rozanov, Religion, ilya spends a lot of time thinking about religion, and his Mother, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, but like lowkey, Dreams, Nightmares, Ilya Rozanov Character Study, writing this made me really sad just fyi, it's not an explicitly sad fic but it is to me, not beta read it is 6 fucking am

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-27 Words: 6,277 Chapters: 1/1

the day came (and you were gone)

Summary

Irina was always a perceptive woman.

Maybe this perceptive, brilliant woman noticed how Ilya looked at boys.

Maybe that was the final straw, maybe she couldn’t handle the grief of having a son who loved boys. Maybe that’s why Ilya stumbled on his mother’s body a few days after realising he looked at boys like he could love them too.

or, ilya, religion, queerness and trying to do guesswork about someone who is long gone.

Notes

i do not speak russian, but in this fic the russian being not translated is important. enjoy!

Irina Rozanova died before she knew Ilya was anything but normal.

Ilya never told his mother that one day he might fall in love with a man. He hadn’t known. He was twelve and he knew girls were beautiful but he hadn’t yet realised he also thought boys were beautiful in the same way.

A few days before Irina died Ilya had noticed a boy for the first time. He had an awkward smile that slanted to the side and freckles littered all across nose. Ilya had debated telling his mother, telling her anything to get her out of the shell that Ilya was starting to notice her retreating into.

Then Ilya had found her body, and it felt like a punishment.

Ilya doesn’t know if he still believes in a god anymore, because if he was, then that was divine punishment, wasn’t it? Did God decide to rip Irina away from Ilya to let him know that he was sinning? 

Will Shane be the next thing he loses? Is Ilya’s love so dirty that all the good things he love have to be taken from him as some sort of punishment for how his love sullies people who are good and kind and smile as brightly as the sun.

Ilya lays on his side, tears are streaming down his face for no real reason. That pit of sadness is back again, some mix between grief and something deeper. Something sits deeper in his bones, a sadness that he wants to shake out of himself. Today he can focus on the grief of it all though.

Ottawa is quiet, Ilya hates it. Everything is closed at six if he’s lucky, the city doesn’t exist in the early hours of the morning. Ilya’s usual itch can not be scratched— there is no going to bars to forget the things wrong with him, there is no casual hookup for him to distract himself from his mind.

There’s only the possibilities.

Ilya knows that Irina would have loved Shane. He knows it the way he knows the sun rises in the East and sets in the West, it’s something written so deep in his heart he will not challenge it. 

The thing Ilya isn’t sure about, the thing that rips at his soul and makes the cross around his neck burn is if she’d still love him for loving Shane. The cross is hers— the faith Ilya gives to a god he still doesn’t know if he believes in… that is Ilya’s inheritance from her.

And Ilya doesn’t know if his mother would care that Ilya fell in love with a man.

And it aches.

He remembers comments being made when he was young, about other people who were queer. He remembers his mother laughing, but he also doesn’t remember that smile reaching her eyes.

But was that something he made up to soothe himself?

Did he tell himself that his mother winced when people said words that would one day roll off Ilya like nothing? Did he convince himself that Irina wasn’t like the rest of Russia? Was his mother was something precious and special and untouched by the cruelty they both lived around.

Ilya doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know if he even wants to know.

Irina was always a perceptive woman. 

She knew her sons, she knew Ilya the best. Ilya was always his mother’s son, he smiled brightly and cried the hardest. He looked like him— matching dirty blond hair, a matching frown on their faces most of the time.

Maybe this perceptive, brilliant woman noticed how Ilya looked at boys. 

Maybe that was the final straw, maybe she couldn’t handle the grief of having a son who loved boys. Maybe that’s why Ilya stumbled on his mother’s body a few days after realising he looked at boys like he could love them too.

“Eto strashno,” his mother had whispered to him one day. Ilya was terrified of going onto the ice and getting hit by the other boys. “No ty smelyy.” She had wiped a tear away with her thumb and given Ilya one of her bright-sunshine smiles. “Idi i pokazhi im, chto ty luchshiy, Ilyushka.”

And Ilya had, because if Mama said she could do something then he could.

Ilya wakes up with tears streaming from his eyes. He turns to look for Shane— the bed is empty. The bed is always this time of the year, Shane is on the road, he’s playing games in some state Ilya never cared to learn about.

He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes.

It is scary. But you are brave.

Right now Ilya is seven again, curled up in bed against his mother asking if she is mad at him. Ilya wants to go back— he wants to ask questions about how far his mother’s love goes despite his sins.

“Bog vsegda budet lyubit' tebya. Tak zhe, kak i ya.” Was spoken to Ilya every afternoon after church. A simple promise of the love of two people— the most people Ilya ever thought could love him, his God and his Mama.

That list of people who love Ilya is longer now, it’s carved on the edge of his heart and sometimes hurts each time his heart beats. 

“Mama, on Menya lyubit?” Ilya asks into the darkness of his room. “Vy lgali?”

The night doesn’t answer him. It never does. 

Ilya looks at the empty spot on his bed he always leaves for Shane, then he shuffles over a little bit. He buries his face into the pillow Shane uses whenever he sleeps here.

The space is cold, but at least it smells like Shane.

Ilya visiting Yuna and David isn’t completely unheard of, it doesn’t happen often but it’s not like it never happens. Every time Ilya brings the wine that Yuna loves but never buys because it is “too expensive.” Ignore that her son and son’s boyfriend are both multi-millionaires.

Still, Ilya feels a little lost without Shane here. Shane is still away— in Dallas he thinks. He’s sent a photo of himself, David and Yuna and Shane had responded with a frowny face emoji.

Ilya had replied that he was the favourite son.

Shane had sent back no less than six grumpy face emojis.

Now Ilya sits in the kitchen. Yuna is making dinner for once because apparently David has had a difficult day at the bank. Ilya does not understand how someone has a difficult day working at a bank but Ilya isn’t going to question it. He’ll ask Shane later. 

His feet are swinging back and forth as he sits on the bar stool. “Are you sure I can not help, Yuna?”

Yuna looks up from where she is doing what Ilya can only call butchering a carrot. Her smile is bright on her face as she shakes her head. “I’m alright, thank you Ilya.”

“I can chop carrots.” He holds his hands up, wiggling his fingers. “My mother taught me well.”

Yuna’s face drops for a second, the way other people’s expressions always drop when Ilya talks about his mother. His mother is always spoken about like a tragedy is imminent, like all the good times are now coated in sadness.

Ilya supposes they are. 

“Alright… come chop the carrots for me— but that’s all you’re doing.”

He takes Yuna’s spot at the chopping board as Yuna busies herself with peeling potatoes in the sink. She does it with a knife— the way that Ilya’s own mother used to do it.

Ilya never watched her long enough to learn how to do it with a knife, he still has to use a potato peeler. 

So Ilya watches how Yuna holds the knife, how she uses her thumb to guide the knife through the skin of the potato. She spins and spins the potato around and around, the skin comes off in a mostly unbroken spiral that falls into the sink below.

Barely anything that isn’t the skin comes off, and Ilya focuses back on his already peeled carrots. Did Yuna peel these before Ilya was in here? Does she also peel carrots with knives?

Did his mother do that a long time ago?

The movement of the knife chopping through the carrots is familiar. He is going to be the best at cutting carrots, he’s going to be so good at cutting carrots that it becomes his dedicated job.

Quiet surrounds them as they both focus on their tasks, the noise of the knife running through the potatoes behind him is comforting. He can tell every time Yuna finishes peeling a potato and the skin plops down into the empty sink.

Ilya stares down at his carrots. “You cared that Shane was super gay, yes?”

The noise of the knife running through the potato stops for a few seconds. Yuna lets in a big breath. The knife moving through the potato continues. “I cared because he is my son, I care about all of him.”

Ilya doesn’t know the best words to use in English. He shrugs and looks back down at the puzzle in front of him. He puts the final of the edge pieces in, and is left with an outline with an empty piece inside.

“Did you want him to be… not gay?” Ilya rephrases.

Yuna hums, a potato skin plops against metal. “I think… I wish him being gay didn’t cause him the pain it caused him. I just always wanted him to be happy, I never cared who that was with— not really.”

“Even with Ilya Rozanov?” Ilya deadpans.

Yuna lets out a laugh. “It was a surprise, but I think it was a very nice one.”

Ilya looks down at his handy work. A pile of mostly uniformly chopped carrots. The sizing gets a little bit funky as the carrot got thinner at the end, but Ilya thinks he’s done alright.

“My mother would have loved Shane,” Ilya says. He doesn’t turn to see how Yuna reacts behind him.

Another potato skin hits the sink and the knife doesn’t immediately start again. “I wish I could have met the woman who made you who you are.”

Ilya laughs, turning his head away so he doesn’t reveal the fact his eyes are glassy and his throat is tight. “I think you and my mother would have been— powerful.”

You’re lying. His brain whispers at him. His mother had been strong, but she had never had power— not in the way Yuna has power. If Irina had power she might still be here. Ilya bites on his lip as he stares at the wall.

The wall gets blurry and Ilya blinks away his tears the best he can. The photos on the wall of Shane and various other family members fade away into blurs of colours caused by tears.

Ilya brings his arm up to his eyes, wipes his eyes.

It’s still a nice image, Irina and Yuna sitting on a deck somewhere. Maybe there’s a bottle of wine between them, maybe they would discuss wedding plans. Ilya’s eyes scan to the deck out the back of the house.

There are two chairs, a small table in the middle. Ilya and Shane have spent late nights out there, huddled over a case of ginger ale as Ilya explains a story far more dramatically than it actually happened as Shane tries not to laugh because it was two in the morning.

A hand grabs his shoulder, Ilya’s head jerks back towards Yuna.

“I’m glad she had you, and I know she’d be proud of you.”

Yuna doesn’t know that. The same way Ilya doesn’t know that. The same way the living loves to tell themselves and each other lies about the dead to help something rest in their own chests. 

The only person who could tell Ilya if his mother is proud is bones and slowly rotting flesh in the ground.

Ilya is nine again. He is sitting in a room that is too big for him in clothes that are too big for him because he will grow into them. That is at least what Mama says and Mama never lies to him.

The room around them expands and expands, someone is talking but Ilya doesn’t care to hear it. His father and Alexei are sitting on the other side of his mother, so if Ilya leans back in his seat he only sees Mama.

It’s nice to imagine that he and Mama are the only ones in this room. The ceiling expands up high above them and Ilya almost feels like he can touch the ceiling. He leans back in his seat, his eyes scanning the ceiling.

His mother grips his arm, she gives Ilya a sharp look and Ilya focuses on the front of the room again. He swings his legs back and forth. She puts her hand on Ilya’s leg. Ilya stops swinging his legs.

Ilya blinks.

Now he is standing at the front of the church, his body isn’t that of a seven year old anymore. He is seeing too much of the church, the ceiling is closer to his head, it no longer endlessly expands out above his head.

Standing next to him is Shane. Shane’s eyes are wide.

Their hands are interlinked. Ilya doesn’t think and his hand jerks away from Shane, he takes a step away and Shane’s face immediately flashes with hurt.

“Pizdet.” Ilya wisely says— and then winces at his own language in a church.

He looks out over the crowd. His mother is staring at him, horrified. Her mouth is curled in disgust, her eyes are narrowed. She clutches the cross around her own neck and mutters something that looks like a prayer.

Next to her… a younger Ilya still sits. He looks equally horrified, holding onto his mother’s cross and gasping.

“Pidor.” His mother spits.

Ilya wakes up again. His entire back is drenched and his bed is no longer comfortable to sleep in. This time he doesn’t need to look at the space next to him to know it’s empty.

He stares at the ceiling for exactly forty two minutes. He rolls over and goes back to sleep. 

Ilya doesn’t really know why he approaches David about it. There’s an old fact rattling about in his head that Shane’s grandmother was Jewish, something said offhandedly as they both tried to catch their breath curled up against each other in bed.

David is hunched over a puzzle on the coffee table, his eyes scan over it. It’s a puzzle of Saint Basil’s Cathedral and Ilya has to stop himself from laughing because of it. Ilya stands right next to the coffee table, peering down at it.

“Have you been?” David asks.

“Yes, a few times.” Ilya peers down. “It is a very nice cathedral, the tourists make it annoying, but it is still good.”

David nods and goes back to putting his puzzle pieces in place. He has put the outside of the photo together, and is beginning to work on filling in from the corners inwards. It is the exact same way Shane does puzzles.

“Do you believe in God?” Ilya says.

David looks up from his puzzle. His eyes dart down to the cross Ilya wears around his own neck. Ilya tucks his cross back into the shirt, not enjoying the look David levels him with.

The understanding seeps into Ilya’s skin and he hates it. He hates that David can level a look and understand what this is really about, a flicker of something flashes across David’s face and he looks down at his puzzle.

“I think so. I haven’t been to a synagogue in years.”

“That was not my question.”

David pats the seat next to him.

Ilya goes without really thinking about it, he sits down next to David and starts scouring over the puzzle without meaning to. His hand hovers over some of the pieces before he realises he doesn’t know what he’s doing and he puts his hands back in his lap.

“I believe in God,” David says. “I think my god looks different to my family’s. I believe there’s something out there… I don’t always know if we need to worship it the way we do. Do you?”

“I’m… not sure,” Ilya looks at the puzzle. “I used to be… then life happened.”

“Life… I am familiar.”

“My mother was very ah…” Ilya looks for the word. Irina went to church every Sunday, she wore a cross, she made sure both of her sons knew all of the words to any and every hymn. “She liked to follow the church.”

“Traditional?”

“Mhm.” Ilya picks up the side of a hot air balloon and scans for where it goes into the puzzle. “Traditional— sometimes I think she would be disappointed.”

Ilya knows why he tells David this. Shane and Yuna would react much the same, immediately bundle Ilya up in their arms and Ilya loves them for it. 

But what he needs is David’s logic right now. He needs to talk about this, he doesn’t want comfort, he’s not even sure if he deserves comfort.

David’s eyebrow raises a little bit and his mouth presses into a thin line.

It looks a little bit like the expression Shane gets when he’s thinking.

A twisting pain aches in his chest. Does Ilya still make expressions like his mother? Would someone who knew the both of them be able to look at Ilya and know that he shares his mother’s blood the same Ilya can do for David and Shane.

David keeps his eyes on his puzzle, and for that Ilya will be eternally grateful. “Why do you think she would’ve been disappointed?”

Ilya can’t help the biting laughter that rips out of his chest. David looks up at him startled, and Ilya can’t help the amused feeling that ripples through his entire body. “David.” He says.

David looks genuinely baffled, his mouth is slightly open, his eyes are narrowed.

“The alcohol, the drugs, the girls?” Ilya gestures around him. “The— Shane?”

“You did drugs?” David asks, which feels so beyond the point that Ilya wants to laugh. “You don’t anymore, right—”

“No, no,” Ilya waves his hand. “When I was a teenager. Before hockey got important.”

“I think she would’ve been worried about you, not disappointed.” David clears his throat. “People doing those things are often— struggling.”

“Struggling.” Ilya repeats, the bitterness takes over the word before he can stop it. The worst twists oddly in his throat.

Struggling. Was it struggling when Ilya got so drunk he passed out and Svetlana had to take him home? Was it struggling when Sasha and him got so high that they stayed awake for fifty-two hours and Ilya doesn’t even know the poor decisions they made that day.

Ilya remembers enjoying all of that, the taste of other people’s mouths on his, the taste of alcohol or how the drugs made him feel something.

David nods.

He doesn’t know if his life then was struggling or sin. 

He doesn’t know what his mother would have called it.

Now Shane Hollander exists, someone as bright and beautiful as his mother. Someone who knows Ilya, and knows whatever rot rests in his chest doesn’t mean he can’t also be loved. 

Because of that Ilya is so scared. Shane is too good, Ilya doesn’t keep good things, not for very long.

And Ilya wants to explain all of it— how he knows one day Shane will be punished for the sins Ilya has committed. How one day there will be retribution for Ilya killing his mother, and the next best, pure thing will be the one to receive that wrath.

He opens his mouth, because David Hollander might get it— they have the same god at the end of the day, even if it’s a little bit different. Neither of them go to their houses of worship anymore, both of them still believe in a god.

“I am afraid I killed my mother,” Ilya whispers.

David looks at him alarmed. A million questions flash across his face. “What happened to your mother?” He looks tentative, like he’s not sure if this is something he can talk about. Everyone knows Ilya’s mother is dead, only a handful of people know how.

“She…” Ilya takes a deep breath. “She killed herself.”

“Oh,” David says. He blinks a few times before shaking his head just a little bit. “That’s awful.”

“It was,” Ilya says. “Sometimes I think she killed herself rather than deal with the shame of me loving boys.”

David shakes his head. “No.”

The immediacy of the action takes Ilya aback. David is someone who is incredibly careful with his face and expressions. This is a gut instinct response, from someone who overthinks everything.

“Ilya— you would have been a light in your mother’s life.” David looks back at the puzzle, his eyes look shinier than usual. “The way you are in ours. I… I’ll never get to meet Irina but I know she would have been… sad, and I also know you would have made her happy. I also know she’d want to see you happy.”

Ilya doesn’t know what about him makes Yuna and David so sure of all of this. He’s never understood the way they just took him in, the way the reservedness switched to something close to familial love quickly.

They know him well, and still they think there’s something in him that’s not rotting away at the people around him. They still trust him with their son, their only son, their pride and joy and life.

David looks at Ilya for a long moment, his eyes flicker back down to his puzzle and land back on Ilya’s eyes. “I could never believe in a god that didn’t love my family the way I did. I know that’s not… a replacement for whatever your mother may have thought, but she loved you.”

“Did she?” Ilya asks, slowly. “Enough to defy her god?”

David is quiet, he picks up a puzzle piece, he rolls it over in his fingers. He sighs and drops it back on the counter. “Who says she hadn’t already? When you have a kid…” David’s eyes flicker up to some of the photos on the wall. 

Ilya’s eyes follow David’s to the photos of Shane. Shane is the centre of their world— he’s in the centre of all the photographs. He’s a baby then he’s a kid then he’s a teenager then there are photos with Stanley cups and huge grins on his face and…

It’s all Shane.

Ilya isn’t as good as Shane. He is not as kind or as gentle, his hands are rougher and Ilya’s tongue is sharper. Still— good people keep choosing him again and again. That means he can’t be bad right?

His mother used to have a photo of him. There were plenty of photos of them— but that was with Alexei and herself too. In amongst her jewellery box was just a photo of Ilya. He was in the centre of the photo, behind him light was shining through his blond hair. 

“I should ask.” Ilya says. “He might answer.”

“He might not.”

“He probably won’t,” Ilya confirms. “Maybe she will though.”

Ilya thinks about going back to Russia. He knows the second he and Shane are honest about themselves Ilya can no longer go back. Ilya will never see his mother’s grave again.

One day he will make a grave for his mama here. 

It will have the most beautiful flowers growing over it, he will grow a tree and it will rest in whatever house he and Shane eventually decide to move in forever. Ilya’s children, if he has any, will see that tree and Ilya will explain that it is for their babulya. He will also make sure fresh flowers are laid on his mama’s grave back home until the day Ilya dies.

Instead, for the first time in many years he takes his necklace off. He lays it on his kitchen counter in front of him. He then clasps both his hands together and closes his eyes.

Ilya runs his fingers over the tarnished metal because sometimes he thinks if he presses his fingers hard enough into the spots where his mother did it will be like he remembers how her hands felt being gentle with him.

“Otets Nebesnyy.” He starts. He looks around, there is no one else in the house now apart from Anya and still it feels— so silly. Ilya is talking to air. He looks back at his cross.

He remembers his mother, prayers before breakfast and prayers before their evening meal. Her hand would go to her necklace, she would find strength from her faith. Maybe in her last moments she found strength there too.

“Ya prikhozhu k Tebe vo imya Iisusa Khrista… ya veryu, chto Iisus. Syn Bozhiy, On umer za menya, vzyal na Sebya moi grekhi i na tretiy den' voskres.” His mouth finds the shapes of the words easier than he thought they would, he’s heard them a thousand of times by now.

He feels bare without his cross, the necklace normally around his neck isn’t heavy but the weight is done. He hates it. He clasps his hands in front of him so hard that his knuckles turn white. He bows his head downwards.

“Ya proshu: prosti moi grekhi. Iisus Khristos, voydi v moye serdtse, bud' Moim Gospodom i Spasitelem. Vo imya Iisusa. Amin'”

It’s empty. Ilya knows it as he unclasps his hands. He inherited his faith, this faith doesn’t seep into his bones the way it did his mother. The words are empty, something he’s uttered thousands of times.

They’re not his words. They’re not to the person he loves.

His mother always said that God loved him, just like she did. Ilya doesn’t know if that’s true, but he needs her to know that he’s sorry. He needs her to know all the things that he will never get to say to her.

Ilya’s strength leaves his legs, he manages to swipe his necklace off the counter as he lowers himself to the floor. He tucks his legs underneath him, holding the necklace in his palms.

“Prosti, mama.” Ilya clutches the necklace tighter. “Pozhaluysta, gordis' mnoy.”

She would be, he thinks.

He’s proud of himself— he’s found someone who loves him, he’s having fun playing hockey even if it partially drags everything he does. He’s finding happiness everyday.

He hears a noise by the door, he turns his head.

Shuffling into his house are familiar sounding footprints. The sound of a bag dropping in a very particular way, shoes go off by the door and on the shoe rack that Ilya didn’t own until recently.

Ilya stays on the floor, his knees digging into the tile as he cradles his necklace. He holds it against his chest and for a moment pretends he can be closer to his mother— like it’s her here, hugging him.

“You need to sweep your—” Shane stops in the doorway of the kitchen. “Ilya?” 

Shane rushes forward without hesitation, he lands on the ground next to Ilya. A hand comes up to Ilya’s shoulder, it squeezes tighter than it should.

“Are you hurt? What happened?”

English is hard right now, Ilya shakes his head. His necklace is still cradled in his palms, and that makes Shane’s entire body go shift. He looks at it, and then to Ilya’s neck.

“Is it broken? We can get it fixed if it’s broken, I can call someone right now.”

“Not broken,” Ilya whispers. “I am trying to… fix something.”

Shane clearly doesn’t get it, his eyes go confused but he stays sitting right next to Ilya. “Do you, uh, want to fix it together?”

Ilya smiles up at Shane. “I think we are fixing it right now.”

“Okay.” Shane says. “Okay. We can do that.”

Ilya looks back down at the necklace. “Mama. Eto moy Sheynen'ka.” Shane sits up a little bit taller, he narrows his eyes a little bit. Ilya can’t help the small laugh that leaves his throat. “My zabotimsya drug o druge.”

He looks at Shane for a long moment. Shane knows enough Russian to know a few words that he’s saying, not enough to know what it means to him. And that’s okay, for now Ilya would like to keep this between himself and his mother.

And so Ilya talks and talks. He tells Mama about how they met, he tells Mama about how things went from fun to serious and scary and now they’re back to fun and serious and scary all at the same time. He talks about the shoe rack by the door, and the fact he now keeps natto stocked in his fridge because Shane likes it.

He talks until his throat hurts and he’s sitting back against the counter. His head is resting on Shane’s shoulder, and Shane has his eyes closed. Ilya talks about hockey and how Shane is the only one who meets him. He talks about the hoodies hanging up in his wardrobe he’s intentionally stretched the collars on so Shane can ‘steal’ hoodies that he’ll be comfortable in.

When he’s done Shane wraps an arm around his shoulder and pulls him in.

“Can you…” Ilya sits up, looking at the necklace in his palm. “Could you put this back on for me?”

Shane nods, he readjusts. He holds his hand out for the necklace and Ilya puts it in Shane’s hand as gently as he can. Shane cups the chain in his hand like it’s something far more precious than he really is.

Ilya’s eyes flutter closed as Shane drapes the necklace back around Ilya’s neck. He fumbles with the clasp for a few seconds, before he manages to get it. The familiar weight of the necklace is back.

He tucks his head against Shane’s shoulder again, then tangles their legs together. Shane puts his arm around Ilya’s waist again, drawing Ilya to him. Ilya feels his entire body relax and tears spring to his eyes.

He’ll be okay.

There’s a light firelight flicker that causes a warm glow of light to surround his mother and Shane. Ilya doesn’t bother to interrupt them, he just keeps his glass in his hand as the two of them talk.

He can hear their low tones, both Russian, but Ilya can’t quite make out what they are.

He hears laughter, and Ilya can’t help but smile. He stares at the very reasonable six burgers cooking on the grill, Shane found a recipe for twelve. Ilya had talked him down from it.

Leftovers sound good right about now. Ilya clicks the tongs in his hands a few times before flipping a burger for the fun of it.

Irina Rozanova turns to look over her shoulder. Her hair is short, cropped just below her chin in a way that Ilya never saw. She has wrinkles around her eyes and around her mouth. She still has the wrinkles on her forehead that Ilya got used to seeing. 

She looks at Ilya, and gives him a sort of sly smile. “Khoroshiy vybor. On krasivyy.”

“Mama!” Ilya yells and Shane starts laughing. “On moy!”

Shane laughs even harder, and Irina joins him. It’s the most beautiful things that Ilya has ever heard. Ilya knows he’s not wearing the necklace, he knows that it goes around the neck of the rightful owner. 

Her golden necklace catches the light of the afternoon sun.

Ilya wakes up again.

This time it isn’t violent. His eyes flick open and all the breath leaves his chest as he looks at Shane sleeping next to him. There’s a soft glow covering everything.

He blinks a few times, just looking at Shane sleeping. His chest rises and falls, he stirs in his sleep a little bit. He hums in the way he does just before he’s going to wake up, and Ilya knows that Shane is going to wake up soon.

Shane is an early riser, Ilya is not. Mama knows that now.

Ilya shuffles his weight, he pulls himself closer to Shane.

Shane’s eyes flutter open, sleepy and confused. “Ilya?”

“Mhm?”

“Love you,” Shane says.

“Ya vlyubilsya v tebya s pervogo vzglyada.” Ilya whispers. The Russian flows easier than it usually does. It is so much easier to be honest when Shane doesn’t know what he’s saying. He presses a kiss to Shane’s chest.

“Tebya?”

“Tebya,” Ilya confirms.

“Tebya…” Shane nods to himself. “Ya lyublyu tebya?”

Ilya’s brain doesn’t translate it automatically because that’s how atrocious Shane’s accent is. But Ilya laughs, pressing a kiss to the side of Shane’s mouth. An attempt has been made, and Ilya’s heart warms because of it.

“Mne khorosho s toboy.” Ilya whispers into Shane’s ear, his voice dropping low. Shane’s eyes flutter closed. “Ty takoy takaya rodnoy.”

“Are you seriously horny right now?” Shane asks, his eyes still closed.

Ilya moves his head, pressing a kiss to Shane’s cheek. “Bog sozdal menya dlya tebya.”

Shane pauses, his breathing stops just for a second. “Bog tebya? God and… you?”

He nods.

Shane’s hand slowly comes up, his hands very carefully curl around the edge of the golden chain. He scoops it up in his fingers, running his thumb along the edge of it.

Ilya knows his mother used to run the cross up and down the necklace when she was nervous. He knows that her thumbs and fingers darted across the same place Shane is now touching.

Relief floods Ilya’s body. It’s simple contact. Contact divided by years and years— years ago. Seventeen years separate the last time Irina Rozanova touched this necklace and where Shane Hollander now holds it between his fingers.

They existed in the same world, bound together by Ilya, bound together by this necklace. 

Shane holds the cross between his thumb and forefinger, his eyes scan it so beautifully.

“Do you really think she’d like me?” Shane asks.

What a complicated question. Ilya blinks a few times before he buries his head against the side of Shane’s neck. “Yes.” He says, because parts of that question are complicated but that part is clear.

Shane’s arm comes around to cradle Ilya closer to him. Ilya loves the warmth.

“You make me happy…” Ilya whispers. “I think that is all she ever wanted for me.”

Ilya giggles as Mama picks him up in the air. For a second he is flying and then he is back safe in her arms. He lets out another shriek of laughter as he’s thrown sideways into the snow.

The snow catches his fall and Ilya laughs. Mama is laughing too, she jumps into the snow next to him. She is bigger and so the snow sinks around her. She laughs and her beanie falls off.

Her hair spreads out over the snow, blonde against the white. She turns to look at Ilya and laughs. She then throws her arms up above her head and sinks further into the snow.

Ilya breaks out into laughter again.

He’s still light in the way children are, his chest feels fluttery and free even as the cold, wet snow soaks into the clothes his mother chose so perfectly.

Slowly Ilya drags himself out of the snow, he reaches down to make a snowball and throw it at Mama as hard as he can. 

Ilya pauses. Someone is looking at them. Ilya’s eyes follow the blob of colour against the snow. Standing across the road, on the other side of the park is a young boy. He looks about Ilya’s age and is similarly rugged up as much as Ilya is.

The boy across the street is pretty— he has dark black hair and dark eyes and is staring back at Ilya across the street. Ilya stands there for a few moments… just staring.

He puts his hands on his hips and stares at the boy across the street, challenging to say something. He then realises he needs to pull his hat down further and he gets out of his intimidating pose to pull his hat back down.

“Bud'te vezhlivy.” His mother says. 

Ilya frowns, but he probably should be nice to the pretty boy across the street. He waves. “Zdrávstvuyte!”

“Zdrávstvuyte… Kak vas zovút.”

“Ilya Grigoryevich! 

“Viktor Sergeich,” is yelled back at him. The boy hesitates for a moment before waving back. There’s a shout from behind him and Viktor Sergeich turns on his heel to look at his mother who is peaking out the front of what must be their house.

Mama waves at her, before grabbing Ilya’s hand. “Nam pora domoy.”

And Ilya doesn’t want to go home, he doesn’t want to go back home to the darkness and yelling. It’s always warm at home, but it’s never fun. Mama and him don’t get to roll around in the snow like this, Ilya doesn’t get to meet pretty boys who stand across the road and look at them judgementally.

Still, he follows his mama, his hand clasped tightly in hers. 

Then Ilya is off the ground again, and he squeals as Mama drops him back into the snow again. 

He kicks his feet, kicking snow up at Mama who breaks out into laughter. He scrambles to make snowballs and throw them, he scrambles and kicks and screams and he laughs. Mama laughs and dances and yells, her whole body moves with her laughter, her head cranes back and her eyes are bright and alive.

And Ilya is so, so happy.