I wrote this in a fugue state in two days. For those wondering--yes I am in therapy.

No beta and my knowledge of y2k Russia is limited by my vague google searches, so please keep that in mind if there are any historical or grammatical inaccuracies. We're just aiming for vibes (and emotional devastation) at this point. The depictions of mental health here are fictional, and purposely not meant to mirror any one person's experience, specifically. And to be clear, this fic ends *before* Ilya is 12 years old.

June, 1991.

He came earlier than expected. She had expected the pains to begin in the cloying heat of July, when the air had already grown heavy and stale, and the smoke from the factories stained the clothes of the laborers and children alike in new colors. Years later, as she watched him race across the rink, she'd see this timing as premonition, but in the moment her labor began, Irina only felt the stab of apprehension; she clutched her rounded belly as she rode in the old Samara—it was too soon, she was not yet ready for him, not yet whole.

The hospital room was quiet; so few births after the fall of the USSR, so only her pants echoed in the wing as she faced another contraction. The nurse wiped a bead of sweat off her forehead. Push. Breathe. Push.

At least this was not like the first. Alexei's labor had been so long, so confusing. She had so little knowledge; her mother's advice was trapped beneath the soil of her grave, and there were no female cousins to lend an ear. Only Grigori's distant mother, Oksana, whose sole remark on the subject upon hearing the news was to remind Irina to pray for a boy.

This time, he came quickly, slipping from her grasp so easily she'd had to ask the midwife twice to confirm. It was only when the portly woman placed the squirming bundle into her arms could she believe it so. He was so small, so pink. Much smaller than Alexei had been. She watched, her heart filling, as he blinked up at her. Atop his head, already, a thick roll of curls was sprouting. Distantly, she heard the doctor leave—likely to alert her husband—but she could not lift her eyes. Even the second time couldn't dull her wonder.

"Have you thought of a name?" It was the midwife again.

Irina smiled.

September, 1991.

Irina waited until Grigori had left for work before leaving the room to check on Ilya. Her husband hadn't liked the name; he thought "-a" names too feminine. If Irina were a different woman, she would have laughed at that. Was all it took to weaken the male identity merely one letter? But she had insisted, quietly but consistently. And Grigori, perhaps surprised at his meek wife's stubbornness, or, more likely, unable to come up with any better counterargument, had relented.

Ilya, of course, was wide awake, but quiet. Such a calm baby, unlike his brother. She picked him up, pressing a soft kiss to his temple, as she busied getting breakfast ready for Alexei. Her eldest wrinkled his nose as she placed the porridge in front of him. She held her breath, but thankfully, he picked up the spoon. She settled into the other chair, unhooking her bra to nurse.

Unfortunately, the peace did not last long. Three bites in, and Alexei slapped the bowl away. She watched, sighing, as bits of kasha dripped onto the linoleum.

"No!" His screams echoed, causing her to wince. She leaned down to grab the spoon that had clattered to the ground, but the action dislodged Ilya, who promptly burst into tears.

"It's ok, it's ok," she murmured, rocking him back and forth. She got up to refill the bowl, setting it in front of Alexei.

"Alexei, you need to eat your breakfast."

"No more! I don't want!"

His yell startled Ilya again, who bit hard onto her nipple, causing her to wince. She pressed her hand against his curls, shushing him. But Alexei's protests cut through, and Ilya's eyes began to well up.

Irina reached her limit. "Ok! Ok, Alexei. Enough. Go to your room. You do not need to eat anymore. Just…go to your room. Please."

Mollified, the boy hopped off his seat, running out of the kitchen.

Irina closed her eyes, adjusted Ilya again, focusing on her breaths to calm herself. She could see, out of the corner of her eye, the shadow of the small poplar peeking out of the kitchen window. The last buds swayed gently, in some unknown wind.

November, 1991.

"Why are you still in bed?"

She opened her eyes. Grigori stood above her, unbuttoning his uniform. His shadow was long, even in a dark room.

When she didn't respond, he exhaled sharply.

"The child has been wailing nonstop; he must be hungry."

Behind him, their wedding photo hung. The plaster on the ceiling above was peeling, and a small piece had dropped onto the frame, partially obscuring her face.

"Are you listening to me?" Grigori's hand was around her shoulder now, pulling her upright. His nose wrinkled as he took in her appearance.

"I'm tired," was all Irina could muster.

"When was the last time you bathed?" He shook his head. "Never mind. You've been sulking for weeks, and Iyla has been crying for hours; it's giving me a headache. You need to deal with it—now."

The name stirred something in her chest. She felt her feet move first, and Grigori's hand let go as she stood up to follow.

December, 1991.

Physically, Oksana could not look more different from her hulking son. A petite woman with a tightly oiled bun, she did not even reach Irina's shoulders in height. But her gaze was the same as Grigori's—icy, and tinged with disappointment when turned upon her daughter-in-law's visage. Even in the weak morning light of her bedroom, Irina could tell.

The old woman regarded her for a moment before reaching into her purse. She dug out old lozenges and an expired ration card.

"After I had Grigori, I was ill. Lots of headaches, body pains." Oksana kept her gaze on her large purse.

"But in those days, I did not have the luxury to lie in bed all day. The fields needed to be worked, after all."

She seemed to find what she was looking for and finally turned to look at Irina.

"How lucky you are, not to worry about these things." Her tone was sour, much like the lozenge wrappers now scattered across the mattress.

Oksana pulled out a small orange pill bottle and placed it on the nightstand nearby. "You have rested enough, now. It is time to do your duties." Her voice was firm.

But the shadows creeping through Irina's mind told a different story.

Hours (days?) later, Irina awoke to a nudge. Alexei's face was peeking above the covers.

"Mama? Can we go to the park today?"

"Mama's tired, Alexei."

The boy's face fell, but he just nodded solemnly and turned to leave. He moved too quickly, jostling the nightstand and causing the stack of books on it to topple. He looked up at her, nervous, but she just sighed. With great effort, she managed to push herself up. Her arms felt stiff from underuse. As she leaned down to the floor, she saw the small orange bottle. Slowly, she reached towards it.

July, 1993.

With its rusted-over slide and partially broken swing, it was generous to call the small park in their kommunakalka a playground, but that did not seem to deter the children's excitement. Irina sat on a bench, alternating between her knitting and watching. Alexei stood with a group of boys from school, all enraptured in a game of cossacks-robbers. On the other end of the grounds, she spied her younger son. Ilya was sitting alone on a swing, trying not to be overly obvious in the longing glances he sent towards Alexei and his friends. Irina suppressed a sigh.

"Alexei!" She yelled. With a grumble, he broke away from the friends and ambled over.

"Can you please include Ilya in your games with your friends?"

Alexei wrinkled his nose. "Why? He's a baby."

"Alexei, please. You're his older brother." When his expression didn't change, Irina changed tack. "I will let you have another piece of the cake your grandmother brought after dinner." Alexei's face immediately brightened, and he agreed, calling over to his brother. At his name, Ilya brightened, hopping off the swing.

For a while, things seemed alright. Irina chatted briefly with the other mothers, though the conversations were predictably stilted—many of the women were married to Grigori's coworkers and much older, often seeming to view Irina with a level of shrewdness that made her squirm internally.

But soon enough, a familiar cry interrupted her. She turned to see Ilya lying on the ground, sobbing, one of his knees rubbed raw. Alexei stood above, rolling his eyes.

"Don't be such a weakling!" He said.

Irina quickly excused herself, blushing, as she ran towards the boys. Gathering Ilya in her arms, she frowned down at Alexei. The boy at least had the decency to look a bit chagrined.

"No cake tonight." She said.

"But—!"

Irina gave her most stern glare before turning away.

"Shh," she said softly to Ilya, tucking an errant curl behind his ear. His face had grown splotchy, his sobs diminishing to loud sniffles. She hummed, rocking him back and forth as she walked. Snot ran down onto his chin, which she rubbed away with the edge of her frock.

"I'm not a weakling." He said, his lower lip jutting out.

Irina considered him for a moment before making a decision. She chanced a glance back at Alexei to make sure he was ok, before moving Ilya to her other hip and walking across the playground, down the paved path that led to the trash bins at the back of the building. Like most neighborhoods in this part of Moscow, their apartment was part of a large cluster of identical, concrete blocks, designed with function in mind. However, there was one corner at the edge that deviated from the design; a small section near the back where a poplar tree stood. Maybe the builder had forgotten to raze it along with the rest of the grove, or perhaps he left it on purpose. Regardless, it stood tall, its curves and dips a stark contrast to the straight lines of the building in front of it. And today, it had just the visitor on it she'd hoped for.

"Do you see that bird?" She asked, pointing to the small creature perched on the third branch from the top. It was small, hardly bigger than her hand, with olive coloring across its body, and wings dipped in yellow. Ilya nodded, wide-eyed. He'd put his thumb in his mouth, sucking on it noisily. She grinned at his fascination.

"It's a European greenfinch. So small, no? But that little thing has had to outmaneuver countless bigger predators, scrounge for scraps of food, and survive our cold winters."

As if on queue, the bird leaned back, opening its beak to let out a high, sweet song. They stood together, listening until it finished, then watched as it flew off. She poked her son's cheek to get his attention again.

"Those who look small on the outside can have boundless inner strength," Irina said softly. She pressed a finger to Ilya's nose, causing him to giggle.

"Just like you."

October, 1993.

Irina sat at the edge of the stands with the other moms. She finally spotted Ilya entering the rink on the other end. He had to hop on the bench a little to sit on it, and Irina internally winced. He was so small compared to the other children. She'd wanted to wait until Ilya was 4, but Grigori was having none of that. Alexei had started hockey at age 3, and so must Ilya.

She dug her fingernails into her palms, watching the assistant coach lean down to tie her son's skates.

"Is this your first class?" A voice said. Irina turned to see another woman smiling at her, amused. Irina shook her head.

"No, my eldest has been skating for a while. But it is the first class for my younger one."

"Ah," the other woman said, understanding. She sat down next to her. "Always trickier with the baby of the family to let go."

Irina forced a smile, her chest twinging at the truth of those words.

"I'm Maria, by the way," the other woman said.

"Irina."

Maria seemed undeterred by Irina's short tone. "It is my boy's first time." She pointed to a child sitting on the same bench as Ilya, chatting excitedly to his neighbor. "Ivan." She paused.

"Which one is yours?"

"Right there. Ilya." She said, pointing him out.

"Ivan's been begging us for lessons for months. All day, every day, it's hockey. Was yours like that, too?"

Irina smiled, remembering the look on Ilya's face when she'd given him his skates (Alexei's old ones, of course) a week ago. "What Russian boy isn't?"

Maria let out a snort. "True."

The pair fell into a more companionable silence as they watched the boys finally be led out onto the ice. Ilya looked hyper-focused as the coach demonstrated how to stand and kick off on the skates. Finally, they started the drill. It was unbearably sweet to watch as each boy was coaxed off the railing to skate the few feet into the coach's arms. Most kids wriggled like a piece of gelatin, tripping nearly as soon as they let go of the edge. One by one, each child went. Until they got to Ilya. But even before the coach could call his name, he was pushing off, letting the momentum propel him across the ice.

"Good!" The coach's voice boomed as Ilya collided into his legs. He turned to the stands, scanning until he caught Irina's eyes, and broke into a huge smile.

"Wow," Maria remarked. "Looks like your boy's a natural."

January, 1994.

When she and the boys got back to the apartment, Grigori was already there, sitting on the couch with a glass of vodka. Half empty, she noticed.

"Where were you?" He asked.

She swallowed. "New Year's service. I told you last night—"

"You're late."

Irina swallowed, dipping her head. "I'm sorry." Next to her, she saw Ilya squirm, eyes darting nervously between them. Alexei, thankfully, had gone to his friend's house.

After a heavy moment, she tried again. "Would you like some lunch?"

Grigori grunted, which she took to mean yes. She quickly pulled off Ilya's jacket, dropping a kiss onto his cheek, and headed to the kitchen.

June, 1997.

There was a soft rustle of the bedsheets. Irina cracked open an eye to see a silky head of curls burying into her chest.

"Ilya. How was the game?" Her voice sounded hoarse, from disuse. The shadows pressed against her eyelids, and she struggled to push them away to hear his answer, muffled by the comforter.

"Good. We won, mama."

A slight thrum of happiness pierced her chest. She wrapped her arms around him, pressing a kiss to his temple.

"Congratulations, moy zayka. I'm so proud of you."

"Are you still feeling tired, Mama?"

Guilt replaced the lightness. If only she could be a good mother, instead of this fractured thing that she was.

By now, her son knew what her silences meant, though. "I'll sleep with you tonight." Ilya offered.

She shook her head. "No, your father will get upset. Go out and celebrate with Ivan and the team." She could feel him tense up, about to protest. "I'm serious, Ilya. Mama is ok. Go."

He frowned, clearly trying to protest, but after a moment, he relented.

"I'll bring you some stew. Ivan's mom sent it over."

There was a rustle and a dip in the mattress as he got up. It was only after he left that Irina realized he'd left his medal next to her on the pillow.

November, 1999.

Though she'd never admit it out loud, Irina was not sure she believed in God. It felt a little blasphemous to think that, as she stood in the Sunday service with the hum of prayer surrounding her.

It did not mean she did not love church. She did. She loved the haunting chants of the Lent liturgy, the way the sun would spill through the stained glass during afternoon service, the solemnity of the air that pressed upon congregants. But mostly, she liked how the church transported her, just for a few hours, away from her own life to a dream of something bigger.

But God? She was unsure. Would such a loving god take her mother from her so early in life? Would it have had her father work at a factory, until an accident injured his back and took that away? When Grigori asked for her hand, her father told her this was God's gift to her. To have such a face, to catch a decorated officer's eye and whisk her away from the little village she was born in. To get the chance to live in the big city.

In truth, church had mostly started as an escape. An easy, acceptable excuse for Grigori. But she had to admit that after all these years of refuge, its beauty did feel otherworldly.

Still, no matter how much she prayed, it had not fixed the cracks in her skin, nor kept the shadows at bay for long.

A movement out of the corner of her eye pulled her from her thoughts—Alexei, flicking his brother's shoulder. Ilya frowned but kept his eyes closed, trying to shrug away. Irina pressed a warning hand on his shoulder.

To be fair to Alexei, though, the sermons were quite long.

April, 2000.

It happened in a second, almost too quick for Irina to catch. One minute, Ilya was dancing across the ice—her little rabbit was always so fast— and the next, a loud noise, as a boy twice his size slammed him against the glass.

"Sit down, Irina!" Grigori hissed. Without meaning to, she'd jumped up from her seat in the stands.

"But Grigori, Ilya—"

"The boy will be fine. This is hockey; such injuries are normal. Don't make a fuss."

Irina pressed her lips together, but sat back down. She'd been to all of Ilya's games, from his first junior tournaments to ones at the hockey academy. She'd seen her son checked many times—and him check many more—but she could tell this hit was different. And indeed, the coach came over, and they chatted briefly before Ilya hobbled over to the bench, his face twisted in frustration.

"He should have seen that player coming," Grigori said.

"Petrov came out of nowhere," Irina bit out. Grigori blinked, surprised at her outburst.

"Can we go now? Ilya's out for the rest of the game." Alexei asked, picking at his thumbnail. Ever since he'd quit hockey last month, he hated coming to games. It was only because this was the Tretiak semi-finals that Irina had finally been able to drag him to the game. And although she wanted to say otherwise, by the way her youngest was limping, Alexei was probably right.

"Let's at least wait to take him home," Irina reasoned, casting a glance at her husband. He nodded. Alexei just groaned, sinking further back into the seat.

Later, in the silent car ride, Irina started to regret not sending Alexei and Grigori back earlier.

"You played disappointingly today, son," Grigori said, finally.

From the rearview window, Irina could see her son tense.

"We won the game, Papa."

"Da. With no help from you."

"Papa, I was the lead scorer the entire tournament; it was just this last game that—"

"Don't make excuses to me!" Grigori bellowed, slamming his fist into the steering wheel. The car shook from the sound. "Rozanov men are not meant to be second-best." This time, it was Alexei who flinched.

Irina tried to summon her strength. "Grigori, Ilya was just—"

He snapped his head towards her, pinning her with his eyes. They were so grey, almost black. Bottomless. She felt her body tense, like it did every time he looked at her like this. She swallowed the rest of her words.

They drove in silence for a few minutes. Distantly, thunder could be heard.

Finally, Grigori said in a low voice, "Next time, you will not show such weaknesses on the rink again, do you understand?"

"Yes, Papa," Ilya murmured.

Irina closed her eyes, her fingers unconsciously seeking her cross as the rain droplets began sliding along the windshield.

December, 2001.

She was in the middle of refastening her necklace when there was a knock. The door cracked open, and Ilya popped his head in.

"We're ready."

"Thank you, moy zaychik. I'm almost done."

She turned back to the vanity. But instead of leaving, Ilya surprised her by entering fully. He watched through the mirror as she began to paint the rouge across her lips. As she finished the last pats of powder on her cheeks, he spoke, shyly.

"You look pretty tonight, Mama."

A swell of affection burst through her chest. She beckoned him closer before grabbing him around the chest and smacking a loud kiss on his cheek.

"Eww, Mama! That's gross!" He said, trying and failing to maintain a look of disgust.

She widened her eyes in mock surprise. "But I cannot help myself. When I see such handsome men, I have to give them a kiss."

He giggled, which made her smile. Ilya had an early growth spurt, already losing the roundness in his cheeks—just two days ago, Irina had to rush to get him a new suit for tonight when the previous one she'd bought turned out to be too tight. But this laugh of his was still the same. She watched him fiddle with his jacket and wondered, briefly, how he would look in a suit as an adult. Would he finally learn to do his bowtie properly—not too tight, not too loose? Or would there be someone else to do it for him?

"We're going to be late," a voice cut in. Grigori stood at the door. The edge of his medallion clinked against the frame. He was in full regalia, all his legacy on display.

"It's your retirement party, Grigori. I'm sure they will wait for you."

His eyes tightened, and she winced at her misstep. Is it really retirement if you're being forced into it?

"You cannot wear that outfit," he said. She looked down at herself. She'd chosen a more modern slip dress the shade of a bright rose. It was certainly a departure from the muted blacks and greys of her usual wardrobe, but when Maria had steered her to the new shop on Tverskaya, it had caught her eye. And the satin felt like butter against her skin.

Now, under Grigori's black gaze, though, the fabric felt suddenly unbearably scratchy.

"Is there something wrong—"

"I cannot go to a party with my wife dressed like a common whore," Grigori sneered.

She felt Ilya stiffen, and she reached towards him, but it was too late.

"Don't talk to her like that!" Ilya yelled. Grigori peered down his nose at him. Despite the wrinkles and growing paunch, he still took up the entire room.

"I will speak to my wife however I please."

Ilya took a step forward, and Irina's heart, which had been frozen in fear, now restarted, pounding in double time. She stood up, stepping between her son and husband.

"Ok, Grigori. I understand, I will change."

For a tense moment, he just looked at them. Then, with a quick nod, he turned and left. As his footsteps receded, Irina let out a shaky breath. She turned back to her closet, trembling as she began to sort through her clothes.

"Mama…" She looked at Ilya. His face was twisted, a devastating mix of pain and confusion.

"It's ok," she said. It had to be.

February, 2002.

A hand passed over her forehead, lifting her from the dream. Irina cracked open her eyes to see Ilya, still sweaty in his hockey gear, looking down at her. The lamp had been turned on, and the glare hid his expression.

"Hi, Mama."

She smiled, though the movement took effort. "How was the game?"

"I won."

There was a rustle, and the sound of sheets moving as he burrowed into the mattress. Perhaps Irina should have objected to him coming onto the bed, sweaty uniform and all, but given she could not remember the last time she showered, who was she to judge? She felt him wiggle until his face lay directly across from hers. She reached a hand up to pass through his curls, and he closed his eyes at her touch.

"I'm so proud of you, Ilya. You know that?" It was suddenly important that he did.

He bit his lip and nodded.

"I love you so much," she said.

At this, he opened his eyes. They were the exact same shade as hers. "I love you too, Mama."

They pressed their foreheads together, resting for a bit. Ten minutes later, he finally coaxed her up, holding her arm as he guided her to the bath he'd already drawn. He left the room briefly to get her a new towel, and she forced herself to undress, each button a burden. Slowly, she lowered into the tub, sighing as the water warmed her skin. Ilya had come back with the towel and began to clumsily comb shampoo through her knotted hair.

"Thank you, moy zaychik. What would I do without you?"

Her son just smiled softly and continued to lather.

September, 2002.

"You should at least try to eat something, Irina," Maria's voice filtered in, from somewhere. Ah, yes, they were sitting at her kitchen. She looked down at the stew Maria had brought. Solyanka, her favorite. Yet her stomach twisted at the thought.

"Maybe later, Maria."

A pause.

"Irina…please talk to me." Maria's voice was soft, pained.

Irina looked outside. It was past midday, and the poplar's shadow had grown long, darkening the windowsill. She turned to her friend, trying for a shrug. How could she, when there were no words to say? The shadows weighed her body down, turning her mind into lead. It was so much effort to reach its surface. And Irina was so tired of swimming.

Irina was dreaming. She must be, because she didn't recognize this place. The water lapped against her toes, playful and soft. The sun was bright, its reflections casting diamonds against the waves.

"Mama."

His voice was different, roughened by age, and his face had filled out with unrecognizable layers. But she'd recognize those curls anywhere.

"Come to the house," Ilya said. He was smiling, more widely than she'd seen in years. "There's someone I'd like you to meet."

The wind had picked up, as if urging her forward. Distantly, she could hear the notes of the greenfinch. And with the sun on her back, she stepped forward.

When she woke up, Ilya's face was inches from her own. He must've snuck in again. She pressed close to him, letting the tears in her eyes slide down her cheeks as she breathed him in. He stirred at her touch.

"Mama…?"

"It's nothing, moy zaychik. Go back to sleep."