Rating:

Not Rated

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Ilya Rozanov, Alexei Rozanov's Daughter & Ilya Rozanov, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov & Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Alexei Rozanov's Daughter

Additional Tags:

doomed siblings, Grief/Mourning, Dysfunctional Family, Irina Rozanova Haunts the Narrative, Non-Linear Narrative, obligatory ilya adopts his niece fic, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, POV Ilya Rozanov, One Shot, Complex Family Dynamics, Wakes & Funerals, Religious Inaccuracies, (as in I have never attended a russian orthodox funeral and likely never will and anything written in this is based on research), (and i don't want to offend anyone reading this so please yell at me if i have gotten something wrong), Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova Friendship, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Minor Character Death, Legal Inaccuracies, all the inaccuracies honestly, Canon - Game Changers Series & Heated Rivalry (TV) Combination, no beta we die like men

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of my moon my man

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-14 Words: 5,105 Chapters: 1/1

it's just pain (memories ring like tinnitus)

Summary

Most days it felt like Alexei didn’t want a younger brother at all—like he would have been happier if Ilya had never been born, or if he’d gotten a brother that was less clingy, less soft.

But Alexei could’ve pushed him down the stairs and broken every bone in his body, and Ilya would’ve probably begged him to do it again, if it meant he’d spend more time with him.

or: Ilya's father doesn't die during the 2016/2017 season. His brother does.

Notes

title from rein me in by sam fender and olivia dean
this is honestly just me rambling for *squints* 5k words. yikes.

obligatory english isn't my first language disclaimer :)

• Inspired by Homeward bound by Katzynia

Despite the fact that Ilya spent a lot of time in the air, he had never quite gotten used to flying.

He wasn’t nervous about it, not really, but a part of him was always waiting for the plane to—drop out of the sky, maybe. For turbulence. For that split-second of weightlessness—the flip of his stomach, the press of his seatbelt into his hips. It felt like a never ending rollercoaster-ride—like climbing up, higher and higher and higher—and no matter how many times Ilya slept through take-offs and landings—his body kept waiting for the tipping point.

The flight out of Montreal was decidedly turbulence free.

It was also the first commercial flight he’d been on in—months. Economy rather than first- or business-class, because there’d only been that one free seat on the one flight out of Montreal that night and Ilya hadn’t wanted to wait longer than he needed to.

So he’d squeezed himself into the middle seat in the row right in front of the plane bathroom—an older woman on his left that hogged the arm rest, and a man his age obnoxiously chewing gum on his right—and he put his hood up and big headphones on, and hoped it would keep anyone from talking to him even though he wasn’t listening to any music.

It was uncomfortable and crowded—little to no legroom because the person in front of him had reclined their seat—and somewhere in the front of the plane a child was crying inconsolably.

To Ilya it all felt distant and far away. Unimportant.

Sveta had been the one to call him to let him know and offered to get him from the airport once he landed. She’d been visiting family—had seen the police pull up to his fathers apartment.

Polina had called too, before Sveta had actually, but Ilya had started ignoring her calls weeks ago, when his fathers decline had become more and more obvious and she’d pressured him for more and more money.

Still, he felt guilty about it now. Which was ridiculous because even if he hadn’t been ignoring her, he wouldn’t have been able to answer because he’d been on the ice playing Shane fucking Hollander—something that now felt weeks away but had only been a couple hours ago.

He was tired. Sweaty. Still in his fucking suit, though he’d pulled on a hoodie he’d found on the backseat of his Maserati and had stuffed his jacket into his hastily packed carry on. His phone battery was at 32% and he hadn’t thought to pack a fucking charger because—

Because.

He’d prepared himself for a funeral months ago, but he’d always assumed it would be his fathers. Pre-emptive grief had followed his every footstep, though there wasn’t much to grieve about an awful old man that had done his very best to hurt anyone and everyone he’d ever met—beyond what could’ve been, maybe, if he had been different.

He was staring at the back of seat in front of him blankly. Kept his eyes on the ugly blue-grey leather and just stared ahead like a maniac.

At some point two flight attendants walked down the isle, smiling in that unnerving customer-service way flight attendants always smiled—and Ilya felt the way they looked at him, felt their stares on the side of their head.

They’d recognized him during boarding—fucking hockey obsessed Montreal people, all of them even the flight attendants—but whatever they’d seen on his face had been enough to keep them from making a big deal out of his presence, which he had appreciated.

32 hours and he’d be home. Layover in London—sixteen hours, where he’d hopefully get to buy a charger for his phone and maybe something to eat and—sleep, probably, though the idea felt unfathomable now—and then another in Warsaw. By then the team would already be playing Nashville and his absence would’ve been noted and Marley would have to field questions from journalists and fans alike.

He’d stay stoic. Keep his mouth shut or maybe joke about it, play it off. LeClaire had promised they’d keep it out of the media—that most of their media contacts had agreed to stay quiet for now, to respect Boston’s request for discretion—until after the funeral. At least until after he’d made it back to Russia, so nobody would point a camera in his face and exploit what had to look like a family tragedy to anyone besides Ilya.

Not while ya’ grievin’ kid LeClaire had said, when Ilya had told him. You take as much time as ya’ need.

Plan was, he’d be back by the end of the week. He’d miss Nashville, miss Tampa but he’d be back for Montreal. He hadn’t booked his flight back yet—that had felt too overzealous even for him—but he’d promised himself he’d be back on a plane come Friday.

One of the flight attendants politely asked him if he wanted a water, but Ilya barely even heard him, only shook his head and smiled—in a way he hoped came across as cocky and arrogant and not as weak as it felt. Hopefully there’d be posts about how much of an asshole he was by tonight—and none about how eerily numb he seemed. Felt.

When Ilya was six or seven—right after a particularly bad fight with Alexei that had ended up with him alone on the doorstep of their apartment, crumpled into a little sobbing heap of limbs and unruly curls—his mother had sat him down on the kitchen counter, right next to her gas stove.

She had brushed away the tears that had been streaking down his still chubby cheeks, and put a bandage on his skinned knees and hands and pressed a kiss on his forehead. And she had told him don’t fight with Alyosha, kotik. You two are brothers. And then she had brushed through his hair and picked out some of the leaves that must have gotten stuck when Alexei had pushed him into the bushes behind the playground Sveta had dragged him to. One day you will only have each other. You need to get along.

And Ilya had thought how unfair that was. He wanted to get along with Alexei, that was the whole problem! Alexei was so much taller and smarter—and he had older friends, and didn’t want to play with Ilya at the playground but he also didn’t want Ilya to come along wherever it was Alexei went and he got mean whenever Ilya tried to anyways.

Most days it felt like Alexei didn’t want a younger brother at all—like he would have been happier if Ilya had never been born, or if he’d gotten a brother that was less clingy, less soft.

But Alexei could’ve pushed him down the stairs and broken every bone in his body, and Ilya would’ve probably begged him to do it again, if it meant he’d spend more time with him.

His mother had let him stay in the kitchen with him that day and help her with the cooking and she hadn’t told his father about the fight or the tears which had been nice.

And Alexei had—reluctantly—told him he was sorry after supper, which had been nice too.

They reached London by nine-something.

The sun had risen sometime during the flight, but Ilya hadn’t noticed. He hadn’t slept, either—just kept staring at the seat in front of him, unseeing.

By the time he was off the plane and walking through the airport, it was ten am and Ilya decided to check into one of the nearby hotels if only to shower again. He’d washed the game off at the arena, but felt grimy in his slacks and the hoodie.

Immigration was a hassle like it always was—he’d gotten used to passport checks taking way longer for him then anyone else—and in Europe he did not have the privilege of being a professional athlete mostly traveling to hockey cities because in Europe he was nothing more than an oddly dressed Russian.    

He bought a charger at a duty-free shop—walked past a wall of souvenirs and picked out a small plush-bear dressed up like one of those guards outside of the royal palace because he’d never gone home without a gift for his niece before and forgotten to pick up something in Montreal and he wasn’t about to start now. Not now when—

He showered in his little hotel room.

Turned the water as cold as it would go, and stood under the spray until his skin started tingling and he felt a little more human. Washed his hair roughly with the hotel shampoo but skipped on the conditioner and then collapsed on the bed, still mostly wet.

Shane would scold him for that. The housekeeping staff, he’d lament. Make sure you leave a good tip!

Twelve-or-so hours ago he had celebrated a well-deserved win with his team and had tried to put together a text infuriating enough to get back into Hollanders bed. Thirteen-or-so hours ago he’d leaned down for a face-off against Hollander and felt good. Light. Like he was right where he belonged—right where he was supposed to be.  

And now he was back on his way to Russia. Russia.

He curled up tighter on the bed and tried not to think about how heavy he felt.

The last funeral Ilya had attended had been his mothers.

He’d been twelve and had just hit his first major growth spurt so he felt wrong and clumsy in his stuffy suit—a hand-me-down from Alexei that didn’t fit right.

He’d kept it together, mostly. He’d gotten ready on his own, and felt oddly okay the entire time—then guilty, for feeling okay in the first place. He’d tried with the tie his father had insisted he wear but couldn’t get the knot right and Sveta—who, at this point, lived just three doors down—had gotten her dad to help because his own father hadn’t been home and Alexei had locked himself in his room and also hadn’t spoken to Ilya since—since.

Her dad had been nice about it. Gruff, in the way he always was, but patient too as he showed Ilya how to loop the fabric around his neck. He also didn’t treat Ilya like he was made of glass which was nice because everyone else—mainly Sveta’s mother and the women at the bakery at the end of the street and any of the neighbours Ilya was unfortunate enough not to avoid—looked at him like he was about to break into a million tiny pieces.

He’d been fine, actually, that entire morning. It had only sunken in when they’d reached the cemetery—where, the second Ilya reached to open the door he had to fight back a sob so violently he almost choked.

The funeral itself had been a mess. A mixture of orthodox rites—neither his father nor brother were religious, but his mother had been and Ilya wore the proof of that tucked under his dress shirt—and atheistic indifference. He had to fight for his mother not to be cremated, as his father had wanted to, and had called a priest for the first panakhida himself.

Alexei and him had been chosen as pall bearers, alongside a distant cousin of his mother—her only living male relative—and Sveta’s father because his own had refused. There was no chanting of psalms, no singing of the Trisagion—barely even a sermon.

Ilya had been the only one to kiss her goodbye and he had kept it together all throughout the funeral until he’d stolen away to use the bathroom and caught a glance at himself in the mirror—twelve and lanky—pale faced and red-eyed, curly hair gelled backwards in a way that made his face look sharper, dressed in a suit that didn’t fit right and a tie bound so tightly he wondered how he was even still breathing.

He had barely recognized himself—barely looked like the child his mother sent off to training that day. It was like he’d aged a decade since he’d seen her last.

That had been what broke him.

The realization that he’d keep growing, keep aging, keep living—but without her. She wouldn’t be there for his graduation—his wedding—the birth of his children, if he’d ever have any. If he managed to make hockey his profession the way she’d always wanted him to, she wouldn’t be there to see him win medals—wouldn’t be there to cheer him on from the sideline.

He’d grow up and keep growing up and she wouldn’t be there to see him.

Alexei, of all people, found him like that; bent over and gripping the edge of the sink, sobbing so hard he’d started dry-heaving. He’d never cried harder then he’d done then.

And Alexei had been—harsh, even on his best days. His father’s son through and through. But in that bathroom, he’d looked softer—dressed in one of their fathers suits and drowning in the fabric. He had looked like the child Ilya wasn’t anymore.

And instead of yelling at Ilya for being soft, the way he’d done every time he’d caught him crying before then, he’d awkwardly pulled him into a hug.

“It’s okay.” He had said, and clumsily patted his back. “It will all be okay.”

But it’s not and it won’t be ever again, Ilya had thought, and gripped his brother so tightly, his nails had dug into his suit jacket and left dents.

Ilya had remembered then, how his mother had told him to get along with him because, at the end of the day, the two of them would only ever have each other.

The flight to Warsaw was better. Quieter.

Marlow texted him right before takeoff.

bout to get on the ice

how r u holdin up?

still on the way

fine

teams thinkin bout you and sending condolences

we told most of em tonight so they keep their mouth shut to the press

connors wants me to tell u hes gonna score a hattrick for u

gonna destroy nashville

not coming back if you don’t win this

srsly how r u

numb

im not fucking sad he was horrible to me

im glad

I miss

fine

or not fine but

decent

take as much time as u need roz

we got this

Marley had been so—there. The call had come right after he’d finished showering—right as he was about to leave, already half-dressed. Marlow had tried to convince him to celebrate with them, even as Ilya had blown him off because he’d wanted to see Shane again.

And then Sveta had called and Ilya had answered without thinking about it because he’d always answer for Sveta.

And Sveta had sounded like she’d been crying and Ilya had felt his blood run cold because in all of the years he’d known her he’d only heard her cry—twice. Maybe.

And then she’d told him, voice breaking around the syllables—there was an accident, Ilyusha. Alexei and Katya they’re—they’re—

And then Ilya had understood. Because Sveta was strong where Ilya was soft—firm, where Ilya wavered—and despite her inherent kindness, Sveta would not cry over Alexei—who’d started calling her all kinds of names after he’d caught Ilya—fifteen then—making out with Alexei’s girlfriend at the time.

By then Ilya’d been taller and bulkier and stronger and could’ve probably knocked his brother out with one punch—but Alexei’d almost been police then, already, and couldn’t start fights with Ilya who was—even then—someone of public interest if he wanted to keep his pay, anyways.

Besides—Alexei had known he’d never get under Ilya’s skin with insults against him anyway—not the way he did whenever he insulted Sveta—and defending himself against someone attacking him was different than attacking someone else.

So Alexei insulted Sveta and Ilya couldn’t do shit about it without losing hockey.

Sveta wasn’t crying for Alexei, and she wasn’t crying for Katya either—

She was crying for Ilya.

Breaking, so Ilya could be strong.

“I’m coming home.” He had told her and felt the way Marlow was staring at him. He’d covered the microphone, and whispered “Get LeClaire for me, please. I need to go:”

And Marlow had gotten LeClaire and waited outside the locker room while they’d coordinated and been the second person to offer him condolences and the first—and only one—to offer him a ride to the airport.

One, Ilya didn’t take.

“Go celebrate with the team.” He had told him. Instinctively, Marlow seemed to have known not to insist and Ilya had never appreciated him more than he had right then.

But he’d still texted him—more than he did usually—with small updates about the team and reassurance that they’d still do well even without him. And he asked about Ilya like he was genuinely worried about him, which was strange but also…nice.

Later, Ilya learned all about the incident. Memorized the police report, like he thought someone would quiz him on it.

It had been an accident.

Alexei had been driving. Katya had been in the passenger seat. They’d both been sober, on their way back from dinner, and they’d both worn their seatbelt. It had been their anniversary. He hadn’t been speeding.

It had been an aneurysm in his brain and he’d been dead long before the car spun out of control. Katya had made it to the hospital but hadn’t made it through the night.

There was nobody to blame, because nobody had done anything wrong. No drunk driver, no malfunctioning traffic light, no foul-play—just a case of bad luck—of wrong place, wrong time. Passersby had called for help, rendered first aid. The ambulance had been there in six minutes.

It hadn’t been enough.

The food in Warsaw was better. The wait was worse.

He’d dozed off in London eventually—crashed, really, because not even Ilya Rozanov could stay up indefinitely—but whatever sleep he’d gotten there felt distant and far away and hadn’t been enough. He felt—insane, really. Out of his mind. Too wired to sleep, too tired to stay awake.

He chugged coffee and then, later, some sort of local energy drink to try and make it onto the plane. He bought a new suit because there were a couple of luxury boutiques in the duty-free section of the airport there and he didn’t feel like buying one in Moscow—didn’t want to be outside and photographed—which he would be, he knew he would—

He’d drop dead before borrowing one from his father. Or Alexei. And he couldn’t show up in the suit he’d worn in Montreal.

Sveta had taken over some of the funeral planning. Polina had no real say over what happened there—Alexei had hated her from the moment their father had introduced them to her and had never accepted her as his stepmother or as his fathers new wife, probably because she wasn’t that much older than Alexei had been at that point—and Ilya was still not even in the country. And his father—

Ilya would’ve been surprised if his father even knew he had a son called Alexei at this point.

By the time Ilya made it home, his brother would’ve been dead for two days. As far as Ilya knew, Alexei had never found his way back to their mothers faith, and Katya hadn’t been particularly religious either, though they’d gotten married in a church and Katya had Sonia baptized as a baby.

They’d gone to mass for easter but that had been about it.

And while Ilya wasn’t particularly religious either, he still believed in something—believed his mother was with him, always—believed in an afterlife, though he couldn’t quite picture it—nothing tangible anyway.

So Sveta had called a priest. The funeral was planned for the third day as was custom—and Ilya would offer prayers on the 9^th and 40^th day though he’d already be back home in Boston then.

He had no idea if that was what the two of them had wanted but it wasn’t like he could ask them either.

Sonia was six now. Almost seven.

Someone—and Ilya really struggled to imagine who because it surely couldn’t have been Polina who hated children—had put her blonde hair in two crooked braids.

She was pale and dressed in a gaudy, black velvet dress—and while her eyes were red-rimmed, she already had that familiar stoic Rozanov stoicism—lips pressed into a thin line, eyes dry.

She broke though, pretty much immediately, when she saw him. Her face scrunched up, the same way it had when she’d been a baby and she was out of her seat and in Ilya’s arms before he’d fully walked into the living room she’d been sitting in.

“Dyadya.“ She managed to say through her sobs. “Dyadya it’s horrible.”

 He pressed a kiss into her hair, and held her as she cried. “It’s okay,” he said clumsily. “It’s going to be okay.”

Her nails were digging into his back painfully but he just—held on. Polina stepped into the room behind him and made a low noise, something like a scoff—but Ilya paid her no attention and simply rocked his niece carefully from side to side.

Eventually he moved to stand—still holding her, because even though her sobs were slowing down she was still holding onto him with what had to be her entire strength—and carried her back to the couch.

“I’m sorry, Sonia.” He told her, quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

“I want my mama,” Sonia said, voice hoarse. “I just want my mama and papa but they won’t let me see them. Let me see them, dyadya, please? I want to go home.”

And Ilya wondered if anyone had even told her. Really told her—had sat her down and explained to her what happened in a way that made sense to a six year old. Sveta might have tried—but she hadn’t ever been good at talking to children.

“Zayka,” he said. “Can you look at me?”

Reluctantly she let go of him and he took the time to wipe her tears away.

“I wish I could take you to your mama and papa,” he said to her. “I know you miss them, yes? But zayka, they died. They…they aren’t coming back, okay? I can take you to see them, but I need you to understand that they aren’t alive anymore.”

Her face crumpled again and she moved to pull away. Ilya let her.   

“I don’t want that,” she said, miserably. “I want to go home. I want my mama.”

Ilya had almost missed their wedding.

Fitting then, that he had almost missed their funeral too.

The entire thing ended up being a mess, despite Sveta’s best efforts and Ilya’s money. For one, their father couldn’t attend—too sick to get out of bed, by then, which would be a point of discussion going forward. There weren’t a lot of attendees in general—neither Alexei nor Katya had a lot of real friends it seemed and Katya had been an only child so besides her ailing parents and some cousins there was no family either there either.

Alexei’s colleagues attended and they were the ones carrying his casket too, because Katja had nobody to carry her besides Ilya and her father and the four cemetery workers Ilya had hired to help. Sonia had spent the entire day crying—had been crying, really, since Ilya told her that her parents weren’t going to come back ever, and crawled into Ilya’s arms as soon as they were free.

He carried her throughout most of the funeral, besides the march to the graves where Sveta had taken over—kept her face carefully tucked into his chest when she started sobbing during the sermon—wailing almost. Polina tried to scold her—something about the neighbours and decorum or some shit—and Ilya had levelled her with a glare so severe, she’d turned around and attempted to leave, mid service.

Ilya felt too numb to be embarrassed by it. Let everyone see the mess that is my family, he thought, and then felt guilty again because Sonia was his family too and she deserved a normal funeral—something to look back on when she missed her parents.

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest, the priest said as the grave was closed and Sveta had grabbed Ilya’s hand, a steady presence by his side. She was crying, a tasteful amount. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.

Her—Sveta’s—parents had offered to attend too. Her father had personally reached out to Ilya, and her mother had come to pick him up from the airport with Sveta. But Ilya thought his presence alone would probably be enough to attract a media circus and he thought—someone like Sveta’s father, a minister and his pretty American wife—would attract even more attention.

And that wouldn’t be fair to Sonia.

When Ilya had been seventeen, Alexei had been twenty-one and they’d had one of their last conversations before Alexei had started to only treat Ilya like his personal cash-cow.

It had been a good conversation as far as conversations between the two of them went, because Alexei had told him Katya was pregnant and the two of them were going to get married.

“You will be my druzhka, yes?” Alexei had asked, which had surprised Ilya because—

Well. Alexei had always had a ton of friends and Ilya had never been one of them. Ilya hadn’t even expected to get an invitation to Alexei’s wedding, much less for Alexei to want him as his witness.

He’d agreed anyways, because it seemed like the right thing to do and maybe—just maybe—Alexei had finally decided to try—had realized that they were the only family the two of them had left and that they needed to stick together.

The wedding itself had been—fine. Alexei had barely spoken to him and Katya had looked vaguely sick throughout the entire affair—which Ilya hoped was because of morning sickness and not because the thought of marrying his brother made her physically sick with regret—but Ilya had done his duties and held the crown over Alexei’s head during the ceremony and gone along with the bride ransom and signed off on the marriage certificate.

And then he’d gotten drunk enough to forget about the whole thing and felt as sick as Katya looked.

The media had gotten wind of it, because a couple days after the funeral someone posted pictures of the funeral procession standing around the grave—Ilya, front and center, carrying Sonia with a stony expression.

LeClaire texted him about it—something about their lawyers being on it, and the PR team already drafting a response asking for his privacy during these trying times—but Ilya barely understood the message and didn’t end up replying.

In a move that surprised—everyone, probably, Ilya included—he ended up being his brothers main beneficiary.

There was no estate to manage—his brother had been dirt poor, though miraculously not as deep in debt as Ilya had imagined him to be. He’d also been named Sonia’s legal guardian—another surprise—which was how he ended up finding himself in the office of a sleezy looking lawyer and looking over adoption papers.

Sveta had warned him not to do it.

I know you love her, she had said. And I know you want what’s best for her. But do you really think you can take care of a child? Alone, while traveling for most of the year? What are you going to do with your visa? Can you even take her with you? You can’t move back to Russia, Ilyusha, it will kill you. I won’t let you!

But she was his only living relative—besides his father, who kept deteriorating by the second—and the thought of letting her rot in some orphanage or—god forbid—leaving her at the mercy of someone like Polina—felt…unfathomable.

So he looked over the papers—the entire process felt too smooth to be legal despite what the lawyer was telling him—and he’d looked into the whole visa thing too, though he’d likely need an actual immigration lawyer to work out the details. His visa offered a visa for dependents he’d learned—for unmarried, minor children mostly but if he went through with the adoption then—legally—Sonia would be his child even if he’d only ever refer to her as his niece…

She looked like Alexei. She really was his daughter—visually, at least, because personality wise she reminded Ilya of a younger version of himself—quiet and sad and sensitive—though she’d likely inherited that from her own mother rather than the uncle she only ever saw during the summer. When he’d asked her about moving with him, she’d only shrugged like she didn’t care.

But Sonia looked like Alexei had during their childhood, before he’d grown up to look like their father, and she was the only thing he had left of him—which Ilya still wasn’t sure how he felt about.

He hadn’t even cried—not until Shane fucking Hollander had called him out of the blue to ask him how he felt and Ilya had realized he was head over heels in love with him and completely and utterly fucked—and even then he hadn’t really cried about his brother and his sister-in-law but rather…about life. About being Russian and about being a man in love with another man and about having to take care of a family that had never given a shit about him.

He had wondered what his mother would think of him then—about what had happened to her two boys—wondered if Alexei was with her or if he’d gone somewhere else. If he was with Sonia, the way Ilya thought their mother was with him or somewhere completely different.

He wasn't sure if he ever wanted to find out.