Rating:

Not Rated

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Irina Rozanova Haunts the Narrative, Ilya Rozanov Misses Irina Rozanova, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Ilya Rozanov Character Study, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Canon Compliant

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-24 Words: 5,989 Chapters: 1/1

the comfort of a cross

Summary

Glimpses of Ilya's life told through a golden cross stolen off a lifeless body.

Notes

This might hurt.

Tw: There is a description of suicide in the first part of the story. You could skip that if you want.

Not beta read so my apologies for any inconsistencies.

***

Ilya was twelve when his world changed forever. 

He came home from practice, excited to tell his mother about it. He knew his father wasn’t going to be home yet, which meant he had all the time in the world to curl himself up in his mother’s arms, talking while she stroked his hair. 

His father always told him this was the behavior of weak men and that he should grow up. Alexei usually pestered him for being a mama’s boy. Ilya was bothered by it sometimes, but his worry always went away when he got pulled into a warm embrace, sweet nothings whispered in his ear by the softest voice he ever heard. There were days when he returned the favor, climbing into his mother’s bed to hold her and run her hair through his fingers. 

He knew she was sad sometimes. He could see it in her eyes whenever his father yelled at her. He could see it on days when she tried so hard to hide that something was eating her up inside. He could see it in the bags under her eyes, caused by sleep that didn’t last long enough. He noticed the days when she didn’t get out of bed. 

On those days he missed her. He missed her reassuring smile when his father took his anger out on him. He missed the touch of her hand on the back of his neck, in passing so it wasn’t too obvious, but just enough to comfort him when his father ripped into him over something he did wrong. 

These past couple of days had been good, he thought. His mother had been smiling more than usual. And foolishly he hoped that this was a good sign. That this meant she would be better. 

So, when he walked upstairs, making his way to his mother’s room, he started talking. 

“Mama, coach let me play a lot today. He thinks I have potential to be really good. You were right, I am an excellent—”

His words cut short by the ominous feeling taking over his body. There was something very wrong. No soft hum responding to his enthusiasm. No excited voice yelling, “Ilyushka, you’re home!” No, instead it was eerily silent. 

Ilya’s hand was shaky as he laid it on top of the door handle. He slowly opened it, whispering “Mama?” as he stepped into the room. There was a lump in the bed, the sheets hugging the figure of his mother. Maybe she did have another bad day. Maybe she was sleeping. 

He dropped his bag, shaking his jacket off with it, being careful not to wake her up. Maybe he could make it better by climbing into bed with her. That normally worked. He untied his shoelaces, stepping out of his left shoe, when something caught his eye. A singular pill on the floor at the foot of the bed. 

He knew his mother had been sick for a while and needed to go to the hospital. He had an uneasy feeling about the white bottle she brought back home, but he hadn’t shared his thoughts with anyone. He kept an eye on her, when she dutifully took a pill with her breakfast every morning. Afterwards, the bottle was always carefully put back on a shelf, out of reach of the children. She was never sloppy or careless. Which made this so unusual. 

He slowly walked over to the other side of the bed, the one shoe still on making for a limp walk. With every step he took he was following a path laid out for him. Pill after pill cluttered on the floor, pointing him towards his destination. His gaze dragged over the pill bottle, fallen of the nightstand, scarily empty. 

“Mama?” Ilya swallowed.

His gaze drifted to the bed. His mother was lying on her side, her head turned to the floor. Ilya placed his hand on her shoulder, shaking her lightly. 

“Mama, it’s time to wake up, papa is almost home.”

There was no reaction. Ilya knew she was a deep sleeper, but never like this. This felt wrong. He shook a bit harder, hoping this would do it. 

“Mama, wake up,” he said, voice high pitched and scared. This was wrong. Something terrible had happened. He knew it and he felt it.

“Mama!” he yelled one last time, pushing her shoulder so she flipped onto her back. He flinched at the sight, stepping back until he was pushed against the wall, hands flat on the surface. The only thing he could do was stare at his mother’s eyes. They were wide open, drained of all life. There was nothing of the softness that was usually cast his way. No sparkle like when she teased him. Nothing. Emptiness. 

His chest heaved as his breath got stocky. His eyes dart over her lifeless body. Her right arm crooked in a way that someone who was conscious wouldn’t have allowed. Her left hand clutched her chest, something gold caught between her knuckles. Her chest was stiff and bereft of any movement. 

“Mama,” he whispered, a last hopeless attempt to make her hear him. 

But there was nothing. Ilya was twelve, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew what it looked like when someone was dead. He had seen it before, his grandfather in a casket, eyes closed and his skin cold. He had seen it in books at school, explaining how a heartbeat stops when someone had really died.

He blinked hard. Maybe…

He carefully stepped forward, demanding himself not to look in her eyes, but instead reaching out his fingers on her neck. Maybe…

But there was no use. The soft beat of a heart he was hoping for was not what touched his fingers. No, it was the feeling of already cold skin that breached his fingertips. 

Ilya wanted to cry and scream. Curse at the world for taking his mother away. Curse at her for doing it herself. Curse at himself for not noticing that there was something terribly wrong with her. He thought she had been better. He had been happy, knowing that the days of needing to take care of her were going to be over soon. 

And now they were. 

His fingers came up to her eyelids, unable to look at her wide eyes any longer. When he retracted his hand, it just looked like she was sleeping. Like any other normal day. Maybe he could pretend for a while. Pretend that she was still here. That she was just having a bad day. 

He carefully climbed over her, lying down next to her lifeless body. His hand came up, finding her hair and stroking it just like she likes it. Ilya closed his eyes, thinking back to days when he did that. The way her breath would even out, her body releasing tension and finally allowing herself to sleep. Ilya was proud of the way he was able to take care of his mom the way she took care of him. 

He could do it one last time.

He didn’t know how long he had been lying there, clinging himself to her body, to the only thing keeping him going in this dreadful house. It could have been minutes or hours when the door finally whipped open.

Anger stood on his father’s face, but when his eyes scanned the room, his mouth turned into a grim line. His eyes were hard as he took in the pills on the floor, and for a moment Ilya wished that he had cleaned them up. To give his mother one last shred of decency towards the man who had driven her to do this. 

Ilya barely noticed his father yelling at him to get out of the bed. He let it fall over him, like a waterfall of anger that he couldn’t care less about. He heard it all before, and he will hear it all again. He looked at his mother, and then at the gold still clutched between her knuckles. The shouting became backward noise as he pried her fingers open taking the cross from her hand and slipping it in the pocket of his pants. 

His father didn’t even notice.

It didn’t take long for Ilya to be dragged out of bed, a hand pulling at the back of his shirt, nearly throwing him on the ground. He wanted to get out of here. He wanted to leave this place and never come back. He wanted his mother to come with him. 

Instead, there were strong fingers under his chin, making him look up at dark, angry eyes, nothing left of the icy blue color that usually pierced right through Ilya’s skin. 

“You will tell no one of this,” his father spat at him. “This was an accident.”

Ilya knew that there was nothing he could do or say. He nodded dutifully, trying to keep his voice steady as he said, “Yes, sir.” This was enough to satisfy the man in front of him and he was thrown towards the door. “Get to your room and don’t come out of it.”

Ilya took a step. Had his body always been this heavy? He dragged his feet forward, getting to his room as fast as he could. As soon as he was through the door, he sank down against it, knees coming up to his chest. 

He realized right there that he had left his bag in his mother’s room, together with one of his shoes. He chuckled, realizing that his father would surely take that out on him tomorrow, blaming him for being sloppy, something real men wouldn’t do. Which was funny, since his mother was always the one cleaning up after him.

He could see the wink being cast his way, knowing that twelve-year-old Ilya was better at cleaning things up than his raging father. Those silent moments with his mother always made the fights worth it somehow. And if his father was angry at him, at least he wouldn’t be angry at her. 

He almost looked forward to that happening tomorrow. His mother would—

Ilya’s heart sank. His mother would do nothing. His mother was dead.

Dead. 

It all came rushing in. Brutal and unapologetic. Suddenly the emotions that he had tried so hard to keep inside, surged out of him. Water pooled up in his eyes and he pressed the palm of his hands against them so hard, as if he could stop it from happening. It was no use. Tears streamed down his face as Ilya sobbed. 

There, alone in his room, he cried for his mother. He cried for the woman bringing light into his life when everything else always seemed so dark. He cried for the woman that made even the most boring things fun, by making it a game. He cried for the woman always beaming out joy when she herself was so sad. 

He took the cross from his pocket and pressed it to his lips as he wept for his mama. 

Come back to me, mama. 

***

Ilya was twelve and at a funeral that shouldn’t have been allowed to happen. 

There were not many people at the church. Ilya didn’t know why. If anyone had known his mother the way he did, the church would have been filled to the brim.

But there was only quiet chatter, sometimes interspersed by soft laughter. 

Ilya sat in the front row, unable to tear his eyes away from the casket. Earlier in the day he had heard people whisper about what a terrible accident it had been. He wanted to scream at them that they were wrong. But he wasn’t brave enough to. There was only one person in the world who believed that he was brave and she was lying cold in a casket in front of him. 

Ilya would never be the same again.

He felt the weight of the cross hanging around his neck. Heavy in a way that wasn’t the chain or the cross itself, but mostly the soul attached to it. Later that day, when the casket was lowered into the ground, he would take comfort in the press of the cross against his heart. His mother’s body was covered with sand, but she would stay in his heart forever.

And Ilya knew, through dark nights filled with sobbing for his mama, through fights with his father, through long days at school that made him want to leave and never come back, that he would do everything in his power to make his mother proud of him. 

Sometimes he prayed. To whatever entity may hear him. To a God that he didn’t believe in, except that the only place his mama could be was heaven. He prayed that the message would somehow be relayed to her. 

I will make you proud, mama. 

***

Ilya was thirteen when he had his first kiss. 

He hadn’t even wanted it, it just happened. His brother had taken friends home from school, a few boys smoking outside and a group of girls giggling on the couch. He had walked through the door and stood there awkwardly as the girls started doting over him.

“Isn’t he the cutest thing you’ve ever seen?”

“Alexei, you didn’t tell me you had such a handsome brother.”

There was nothing he could do as he was pulled onto the couch, a girl pressed into either side of him. The attention should have felt good. He should have been smug about their eyes darting over him instead of Alexei, who was now standing to the side with an angry frown. 

But Ilya was uncomfortable. His hand came up to clutch his necklace but flinched away when a manicured hand fell onto his lap. 

“I think he could use a kiss.”

The words had barely processed when he felt the press of soft lips against his own. He froze, his body betraying him so that he was unable to back up and walk away. It couldn’t have been more than three seconds, but it felt like a lifetime. His heart started racing. Finally, their lips broke contact, and the girls giggled again. A few of them ruffled through his hair, but that was that and he was left alone. 

He quickly stood up, ignoring Alexei’s angry eyes tracking him as he ran upstairs, slipping into his bedroom. He dropped down on his bed, not caring that his shoes were still on. He pressed his head into his pillow, muffling the silent sobs coming from his throat. 

His hand clutched the golden cross, and the familiar pattern digging into his palm calming him down, his heart rate coming back to normal. There was no one he could talk to about what happened and he found himself once again mourning the only person he could have talked to.

I wish you were here, mama.

***

Ilya was fourteen when he found someone he could talk to. 

The girl came swooping into his life with wild curly hair and a wide grin. She came into his class, catching the attention of everyone in the room, but for some reason made a beeline to him, plopping down on the empty chair next to him. 

“Svetlana Vetrova.” 

A hand stuck out for him to take, and he hesitated for a second. But her eyebrows raised, daring him to leave her hanging, so he relented and shook it.

“I believe this is the part where you say your name,” she said with a smirk. 

This girl was infuriating, but Ilya found he rather liked that as his mouth turned up into a small smile. “Ilya Rozanov.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he had smiled at something, and he immediately forced his lips into a grim line again. 

But Svetlana wasn’t fooled. She settled back in her chair, arms crossing over her chest as she quietly said, “You are not as tough as you would like everyone to believe.”

Ilya huffed. The audacity of this girl was astounding.

But from that day forward he had a friend. They were attached at the hip and wherever Ilya was, Sveta was too. That’s how he found himself in bed sometimes. Sveta curled around him, her chest pressed into his back. Most boys wouldn’t allow themselves into the small position he found himself in, but Ilya didn’t care much about that. 

Sveta’s curls prickled on his neck and her soft snoring made it so Ilya couldn’t sleep, but he felt calm in a way that he hadn’t for a long time. He would have thought she was a gift from God if he didn’t know any better. But he did know better. He pressed his lips to the gold cross on his necklace, flicking his eyes to the ceiling, imagining looking out at the clouds above.

Thank you, mama.

***

Ilya was fifteen when he realized he had a real shot at making it out of Russia. 

His coaches pushed him hard, and his father pushed him even harder. The pressure was too much, leaving no room for error, but it made Ilya skate even faster, his checks cleaner and his shooting harder. The puck never left his stick, seemingly attached to it as Ilya circled the ice repeatedly.

His coaches kept calling him weak and slow, but Ilya knew there was barely any truth to that as he beat his teammates again and again. Svetlana would call it cockiness, but Ilya usually smirked, calling it raw talent. 

But he knew the truth. He felt it hanging on his chest, close to his heart. There was no talent or luck to this. There was only determination. He would endure the endless training, the furious words slung to his head, the hitting of a father who realized he could no longer control his son.

He would endure it all. 

Every time he broke the record for his speed, every time he scored a goal so ridiculous that it shouldn’t even be possible, he looked up at the sky. 

And what he once had said pleadingly, hopeful in a way, scared of not being able to fulfill his promise, now became something more certain. Determined.

I will make you proud, mama. 

***

Ilya was seventeen when he found himself out of Russia. World Juniors. A dream come true. 

It was cold in Saskatchewan, but not in the way that Russia was cold. The people were nicer, softer even. And where Ilya had looked at his opponents with a glare that would certainly kill them if it was possible, they shook his hand, merely muttering, “Good game.”

There was nothing of those Russian icy rinks to be seen here. Canada had crowds. Canada had cheering. Canada had Shane Hollander. 

The challenge on the ice was like nothing he had ever experienced before. Now that he knew what it was like to play on an international level, he never wanted to lose it again.

He found himself praying in his room.

Please, mama.

***

Ilya was almost eighteen when his prayers were answered. 

The presence of his father almost dimmed his happiness, but in the end, there was nothing that could staple the feeling of hearing his name called out first. 

“Ilya Rozanov, to the Boston Raiders.”

His breath stocked, almost giving way to all his feelings. But he straightened and let it weave over him, replacing it with a wide smile. 

When public appearances had been exchanged for a quiet hotel room, he found himself clutching onto the golden cross like a lifeline. 

I made it, mama. 

***

Ilya was eighteen when he was made an international loser. 

He should have taken it with his head held high. Instead, he found himself crumpling under the rage of his father like he was a little boy. 

Did one boy only deserve to have the disappointment of the entirety of Russia resting on his shoulders? 

Evidently there were people that thought so. Especially his family. He caught himself scanning the room, as if he were looking for someone. A bit of relief perhaps, while being drowned in overwhelming fury. 

His eyes caught a glimpse of a spark in the mirror. It was easy to pretend that the necklace wasn’t hanging around his own neck. Instead, there was a woman, her hair light as the sun and a smile so bright, that Ilya forgot he was even sad at all. 

The image disappeared before he could truly enjoy it and he found himself staring at his own neck. There was nothing left of the flash of light that brought his mother to him right there and then, for just a second. 

But it was enough and Ilya settled back on his bed, letting his father’s anger wash over him, while the only thing he could feel was the comforting weight on his chest. Protected by his mama, even in her death. 

I miss you, mama.  

***

Ilya was almost nineteen when he convinced a nervous boy with a pretty pink blush to give him his room number. 

It shouldn’t have been a big deal. He had done things like this a thousand times before. Except it never felt quite like this. 

For all his cockiness and bravado in that room, everything left his body just as quickly as he got back to his own room. It was unsettling how such an unimportant experience now imprinted itself on his body. There was nothing he could do except pray that this would be a fluke. That his mind wouldn’t be plagued by thoughts of a boring Canadian boy, who couldn’t be more different from Ilya himself. 

Ilya mindlessly played with the chain across his neck. 

Help me forget him, mama.

The silent plea was a lost cause. 

***

Ilya was nineteen when he found out America wasn’t all that it was ought to be. 

The escape from Russia had been fun in theory but having it all laid out in front of him it was more difficult than he had thought.

It had been months of playing for a team in the NHL, and while he was thoroughly enjoying himself, he missed being easily understood. He missed people looking at him, assuming that he was smart, instead of talking slowly and thinking he was too dumb to understand. 

That got confirmed once again, while he was sitting at a press conference table. There were too many words and no Russian translator to help him make sense of it. The question pointed at him was long, and while he caught the first part, he struggled to finish it in his head. 

Stress shot through his body, and his hand came up to his chest, hoping to find some comfort in whoever was looking after him. 

But before he could reach it, he felt the solid press of a shoe to his own foot. He looked sideways to the man leaning forward to take the lead, answering the asked question smoothly. 

There was nothing he could do but press back, hoping the man next to him was the only person in the room picking up on how grateful Ilya was. 

***

Ilya was twenty when someone asked him about his necklace for the first time. 

It should have been easy enough to answer, but instead he was choking up and stammering. Luckily his teammate swept in to save the day, giving Ilya a chance to run off to his hotel room.

He felt humiliated and stupid. It wasn’t supposed to affect him this much eight years after her death. But he still felt a hole in his heart where she had been. 

The internet said grief wasn’t linear, which to Ilya sounded like there was nothing he could do. 

Ilya was twenty when he found himself in bed in his hotel room, clutching the cross in a similar fashion to what he had done years ago and he cried. Not that he would ever admit that to anyone. It was weak. 

Come back to me, mama. 

***

Ilya was twenty-two when he broke his own heart. 

He excused himself by blaming it on Russia, his home country always making him colder than he thought himself to be. But no matter how he tried to justify it, the image of hurt flashing over Hollander’s face didn’t leave his brain. 

The golden cross burned into his heart, cursing him for destroying anything good he had left in his life. He supposed he deserved it.

He failed his country and now he failed the one person who made his life a little better just by existing in it. 

He could hear his mother cursing him, telling him that he was a fool. It was nothing that he didn’t think about himself. 

I’m sorry, mama. 

***

Ilya was twenty-two when he lifted the cup above his head, screaming at the sky.

“For you, mama!”

The promise he had made at fifteen years old had become fruitful. He looked at his teammates, at the tears in their eyes, and for the first time in years he let people see him cry. 

After their victory lap across the rink, they posed for the team photo. He took his necklace from under his jersey, now proudly displaying it on top, making sure there was no doubt about who had made this happen.

For you, mama.

***

Ilya was almost twenty-three when beautiful freckles and glassy brown eyes put his heart back together. 

He knew he didn’t deserve to be forgiven that easily, didn’t deserve this man at all, but he was selfish. And when he pressed his lips on that beautiful mouth in the middle of a dirty bathroom, he knew he never wanted to let him go again. 

When the golden cross burned into his heart, begging him not to mess it up again, he made another promise. 

I will try my best, mama. 

***

Ilya was twenty-four and for the first time wondering if there was a God connected to the cross around his neck. 

There had to be. 

When the man laid under him grabbed the dangling necklace from between them and slipped the cross between his lips, Ilya thought this had to be the closest thing to a religious experience he would ever get. 

Whenever his hookups tried to get their hands on the chain, Ilya would swat them away, not allowing them to touch something so close to his heart. 

But not Shane.

No, he would let Shane do just about anything he wanted.

***

Ilya was twenty-five and wondering why good things always came to an end. 

He didn’t know how long he had been sitting on that couch, the evidence of everything that happened still around him. 

He wanted to hit the wall.

He wanted to rip the clothes apart, that had been left behind.

He wanted to curse whoever thought it had been a good idea to ask Shane to stay.

But he knew there was only one person to blame for that. 

When he finally got up to go to the bathroom, the first thing he saw was the damned cross hanging from his neck. He chuckled. Maybe he had really been cursed. When had he started to associate the necklace with Shane? 

His hand shot up, and for a second, he considered praying or maybe thanking his mother for something. 

He dropped his hand. There was nothing to be grateful for. 

***

Ilya was twenty-five and at another funeral he didn’t even want to attend. 

This time he tore his eyes away from the casket as soon as he could, not wanting to spend another minute on the bastard that killed his mother. The church was filled to the brim, so immensely unfair that Ilya wanted to scream.

He listened to people talk about his father for hours. What a great man he had been. It took everything in him to not puke his guts out right there and then. 

Afterwards it wasn’t much better. He fought with Alexei and finally told him what he had wanted to say all these years. And it was then that Ilya knew he would never come back. There was nothing left for him here.

The only person he wanted to talk to wasn’t here and could never be here. 

He stepped outside and called him. Telling him everything that was on his mind, his sweet Shane offering that he could do it in Russian. Ilya was a coward and told him he loved him in a language that he wouldn’t understand. The weight lifted off his chest, a temporary relief.

Then reality kicked in, and he got all his affairs in order before he could leave and never look back again. 

One last time he visited the grave site of the only person in Russia that truly mattered. He didn’t know how long he sat there. But he closed his eyes and talked. About his life, his friends and most importantly his beloved Shane. 

When the sun started to set, Ilya finally stood up. He pressed a kiss to the cross around his neck and looked up at the sky. 

I will carry you with me, always. 

***

Ilya was twenty-five but it felt as if he was twelve and his world had just been turned upside down. 

This lifeless body at his feet, however, didn’t belong to his mother. It belonged to Shane. His Shane. As he was yelling at the medics to hurry up and tell him what was going on, he felt his body shaking. 

He couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t get down on the ice and run his fingers through the jet-black locks. He couldn’t cling his body to Shane. He couldn’t close his own eyes and imagine Shane breathing, because everything was too loud and the lights in the arena too bright. 

He could only stand there and watch, his eyes wide open. It was like he was twelve and pushed back against a wall, staring and praying that somehow the person in front of him would still wake up. 

He shook his glove off, aware that it would look like he was planning to join the scrum of players fighting around him. He pressed his degloved hand hard on his chest, hoping to feel the familiar shape through his gear. 

And he prayed. 

Please, mama. This can’t be the end. Please. 

“Ilya.”

It was soft and breathy and completely out of place, but to Ilya it was glorious. He could breathe again. A tear slipped down his cheek and Shane was being carted off the ice, his hand hanging over the side like he was waiting for someone to take it. 

Ilya made sure he did exactly that when he visited Shane at the hospital the next day. And when he left, the only thing that mattered was that Shane was alive.

His prayers had been answered.

Thank you, mama.

***

Ilya was twenty-six the first time he told someone about his mother.

His head was in Shane’s lap, and his eyes were focused on the crackling fire in front of him. He had made fun of him at first, joking that they would just sit and stare. 

But the longer he did stare, he could feel the magic of the fire making its way through his body. The uncertainty of confessing something left. And this time when Shane asked him to talk about his family, he didn’t shut him down, like he had done many times before.

He told him how his mother died. He told him that he had been twelve, walking into her room, finding her lifeless body. 

He told him that his mother wasn’t weak for doing it. That his father was so hard on her and she had been so sad. He told him that she had been beautiful and funny and sweet. 

It came rushing out of him, like he hadn’t been scared for years to open his mouth and talk about it. 

It was easy. 

Shane made it easy.

And when the chain fell from his shirt, cross dangling in front of the fire, Ilya could swear that it wasn’t only the fire that made it light up. 

***

Ilya was twenty-six when he was unable to keep it in any longer.

“I love you.”

He had backed up, surprised by his own words. But there was no way he could have kept it in. Not with Shane planning a future for them, as if it was the obvious thing to do. Telling Ilya he thought about this, their relationship, and wanted to make it work. What else was there to say?

“I love you too,” Shane echoed back. 

That is when he collapsed on top of him. Vulnerable in a way he had never been able to be with another person. 

The cross laid in between their hearts, connecting them like some sort of religious symbol of love. Keeping them steady.  

Right there, in a warm embrace, fingers stroking through his curls and a soft voice whispering sweet nothings into his ear, Ilya felt safe for the first time since he was twelve and in his mother’s arms. 

There was nothing he could pray that would ever convey how he felt being here with Shane. 

***

Ilya was twenty-six and overwhelmed before he even had the chance to fully wake up. 

In the time he had been asleep, their plans had apparently been expanded to something way bigger. He could barely follow everything Shane was saying, but he didn’t need to. There was no one he would trust more. 

It was not until Shane told him what they could name the charity, that Ilya started to believe that this was not just something fleeting. This was real. 

It didn’t feel like he was allowed to have this. 

His gaze flicked down to his chest, where Shane was clutching the cross between his knuckles. A soft smile appeared on Ilya’s lips, and he didn’t try to hide his tears as he looked up at Shane again. 

“She would have loved you. Like I love you.”

You would have loved him, mama.

***

Ilya was twenty-six when he found out not all families were the same. 

A father was not supposed to be rough. His voice was not supposed to be always raised. His hand was not supposed to be in the air, waiting to land a hit.

This father was kind. This father offered Russian vodka, so that the man in front of him could have some of his home country at the dinner table. This father reassured his son, when he was scared to be vulnerable. 

And where his mother had been soft, this mother was fierce. Protective of her son in a way Ilya hadn’t seen before. This mother asked for forgiveness when she feared she was the reason her son didn’t tell them sooner. 

This father and mother were not just father and mother. They were a team. Ilya saw it in the way their fingers locked when one of them was talking, even though it was inconvenient when eating dinner. He saw it in the light touches on the shoulder, whenever one of them stood up to get something. He saw a hand rest on a thigh, as some sort of reassurance. Or maybe an excuse to get to touch the other person.

This was a family.

And when Shane rested his hand on his thigh, Ilya hoped that he had finally found a home. 

***

Ilya was twenty-six when he felt that hole in his heart slowly shrinking. 

He had never thought it was possible to heal from everything that happened. And he still wouldn’t. But he didn’t have to do it alone anymore. The sky was golden from where the sun disappeared underneath the horizon. Ilya clutched the golden cross between his knuckles. And he cried. In the arms of the man he loved. 

I will never forget you.
I miss you.
Ya tebya lyublyu.
Thank you, mama.