Chapter Text
June 23rd 2010
“Hey. Goodmorning,” Shane said softly when Ilya opened his eyes. Shane was already sitting up in bed and reading.
Ilya rolled over and flopped himself across Shane's lap. He sighed, heavy.
Today was terrible. It was always terrible. Ilya only hoped that this year would be… he hoped that it would be better. He wasn't alone this year.
Shane set his book down and he rested his hand on Ilya's head in his lap. “Do you want to talk about it?” He asked.
Ilya didn't need to tell Shane what was wrong. They both knew. The heaviness was almost tangible in the air. “I don't know,” Ilya said.
He still hadn't told Shane everything. He hadn't told him about the day it happened. He wanted to, he knew it would be good to get it off of his chest. But at the same time, reliving it only made it feel more real.
“You don't have to,” Shane said simply. “We can keep it easy today.”
Ilya felt his heart squeeze in his chest. Shane was so sweet. So kind. Ilya loved him so much that sometimes he felt sick with it. He let a moment of silence pass. Then, “I think I want to.”
“Okay,” Shane whispered. He didn't press. Just waited. Patiently. Ilya took a deep breath.
-
June 23rd 2003
There wasn't really a reason to be on the computer. It ran slow, the connection was usually down, and Ilya knew that he wasn't going to have any new emails.
Well, besides his birthday email. But he hadn't looked at it yet. Shane was still gone, and wouldn't be back for a few days, so Ilya didn't see the point in rushing to respond. He would get to it eventually.
There were more important things that had been occupying his time. Like his birthday, which he had spent with his Mama as always. They had their usual picnic, and Ilya tried his best to help her with her flowers.
Only, something was different about it that year. Something had been wrong, Ilya just wasn't sure what it was.
Maybe it was because Mama had been quiet. Usually she liked to fill the silence when they were together. She liked to teach Ilya things. But she has barely spoken a word that day. And the week after.
It was a busy week though. Ilya didn't think too much about it. It was summer. He was busy with the extra hockey practice Mama signed him up for. His father thought it was a waste of time, a waste of money. But Ilya liked it. He liked getting out of the house, too.
It was a long day. His feet were sore and his knees hurt. His curls were damp with sweat and he wanted to shower. But, before that, he wanted to see Mama.
The walk home was nice. The sky was cloudy, but there wasn't enough wind to make it chilly. Ilya preferred the summers. He liked when it was warm enough that the stray cats and dogs came out. He liked to look at the bugs crawling on the ground. He liked listening to the birds.
It had rained the day before, so he was stepping over and around puddles. He wanted to jump into them, just to see the splash. But tracking dirty water into the house would probably get him in trouble. So he settled for stepping around the caverns on the sidewalk, as tempting as they were.
When he got home the house was quiet. Which wasn't unusual, but it was an eerie sort of silence. Ilya could hear the floorboards creaking as he stepped through the front door, and he could hear the shuddering in the house's foundation as he clicked the door shut. The groaning of the wood and the crumble of drywall didn't help to settle the feeling.
After taking off his shoes in the doorway, Ilya went to the kitchen. He set his bag down on the chair at the kitchen table. He would have to remember to grab it later so he wouldn't get in trouble. He got himself a glass of water, taking the last clean glass from the cupboard.
He chugged it. Refilled it and drank another. The cool liquid helped soothe the burning in his throat from breathing so hard. It helped the ache in his lungs. After a third glass, he rinsed it and put it back in the cupboard upside down to dry.
He brought his bag to his room. When he passed his parents room, he peeked inside and took note that his father wasn't home. Just Mama. Sleeping. He would wake her up.
Ilya passed his brother's room, too. The door was shut. Probably locked. He didn't bother to knock or to check on him. He had been in bad moods recently, Ilya didn't need to set them off. That's what Mama told him. Just to ignore Alexei. Leave him alone.
It was the same way with Father. Keep your head down and behave. Do not talk back. Do not argue.
Ilya knew that Mama learned it the hard way. He had heard it. He had seen it. He had lived through it. He was living through it. Most days, he wanted to punch his father. He wanted to slash his tires and burn his uniform. Sometimes he got the feeling that Mama felt the same way. But she was too kind.
She was too kind for him. For anyone. Ilya didn't think that anyone deserved her.
Ilya dropped his bag onto the end of his bed. He would unpack it later. He would ask Mama to help with his laundry. The last time he tried to do it by himself all of his socks turned pink.
He left his room and took quiet steps down the hall again. Briefly, he wondered where his father was. Then, immediately after, realized he didn't care. Maybe that was why the house was quiet. Maybe it was really a peaceful silence. That would be a nice change.
Ilya pushed the door to his parents room open more so he could step in. “Mama?”
Mama was lying on the bed. Her hand draped over the side of the mattress. The curtains weren't drawn, so the cool daylight was spilling in. The room felt cold. Chilling. Ilya wondered why she hadn't pulled the blanket over herself before her nap.
“Mama?” Ilya said again, taking a step into the room. The silence felt heavy. Not peaceful. It was broken by a crow outside of the window. Ilya jumped.
Mama was a deep sleeper. And she had seemed so tired recently. Maybe she hadn't slept the night before. She was tired when she sent Ilya out the door that morning. When she patted his head and handed him his lunch, kissed both of his cheeks and told him she loved him.
Ilya walked to the edge of the bed. He rested his hands on the mattress. “Mama?” He raised his hand and poked her arm.
Again. Again. Again.
“Mama. Wake up.”
Ilya gripped her shoulder and shook her slightly.
Then harder.
Again. Again. Again.
“Mama?”
Ilya's brows furrowed. The crow outside the window cawed again. Louder. Closer.
“Mama.”
Again. Again. Again.
Ilya was getting frustrated. Overwhelmed. Something was tugging deep in his chest. A sense of panic was rising. He felt a sense of panic settle over him. A dread he couldn't quite place.
“Mama,” his voice broke slightly.
Ilya shook her shoulder again. Then pulled her until she was rolled onto her back. Her eyes were closed. She looked peaceful.
Ilya put a hand on her cheek. “Mama. Wake up.” He pinched. He poked. He tugged. Only then did it occur to Ilya that something might be truly wrong.
He crawled onto the bed next to her. He laid his head on her chest.
Still.
Silent.
“No,” he sat up again. He put his hands on her face, her cheeks, shaking her head slightly. “Mama please. Mama. I can't- please-”
Everything was becoming blurry. It was getting hard to breathe. Everything felt hot and overwhelming, and everything felt so cold and bleak.
Ilya collapsed forward with his head on her chest. He wasn't sure if it was a sob or a scream that ripped through him first.
-
June 23rd 2010
Ilya was sitting up now. He was rubbing harshly at his eyes to try to stop the tears.
Shane had been quiet through it all. As Ilya walked him through parts of the day. At some point he had started crying, and then he just couldn't stop the tears.
“Ilya…”
Ilya shook his head and sniffled harshly. His throat felt sore and his nose was stuffy. His eyes were throbbing and he was getting a headache.
“Ilya,” Shane said again.
Ilya finally dropped his hands to look at Shane. He was looking at him with his own glossy eyes, his arms open. Ilya fell into his arms and finally let himself sob.
Shane didn't say anything. He wrapped his arms around Ilya and held him close and tight. Ilya laid his head on Shane's chest and listened to his heartbeat. He felt his breathing. He tried his best to copy it.
He wasn't sure how long they stayed like that. He didn't really care. Because Shane’s grip on him wasn't loosening, and Ilya wasn't pulling away. They breathed with each other, and stayed together even after Ilya calmed down.
Ilya knew then that Irina would have loved Shane. That she would have taken Shane in the same way Yuna had taken him, if she got the chance. He knew that he was going to be okay.
-
May 10th 2003
“Ilyushka, what are you doing?”
Ilya jumped at the sound of his mother's voice in the doorway. Instinctively he closed the email window on the computer. “Nothing.”
Irina stepped into the room slowly, smiling at him softly. Knowingly. “Nothing?”
Ilya felt his chest twist with panic. “Nothing!”
“Baby,” she put a hand on his head and ruffled his curls. He tried to dodge away from the touch, swatting at her. “Did you get a new game?”
“No,” he said.
“You have been on the computer a lot,” she pointed out.
Ilya felt his face heat up. Embarrassment. “No I haven't.”
Irina put her hands on her hips and looked down at him, one eyebrow slightly raised. “Ilya.”
Ilya looked down. It was impossible to lie to her. “I.. I made a friend.”
“You made a friend?” Irina tilted her head to the side. “What do you mean?”
“That school project we had last year,” Ilya said.
“The pen pals one?”
“Yes. We still talk. Sometimes,” Ilya sighed.
“Oh, baby. That's great. Is he nice?” Irina reached forward to fix his curls.
Ilya allowed it this time. “Yes. He does hockey. He is going to a summer camp. I was telling him happy birthday.”
“Where is he from? Is he close by?”
“No.” Ilya frowned. “He is in Canada.”
“Ah. Very far away then.”
Ilya nodded. He looked down to his lap, fidgeting with his fingers. “He is very nice. I like talking to him. He is easy to talk to.”
“What is his name?”
“Shane.”
“And he plays hockey?”
Ilya nodded.
Irina smiled and pinched his cheek. “I'm glad you made a friend, Ilyushka. Keep talking to him, yes? Maybe we can visit Canada some day. A vacation.”
Ilya's eyes lit up. “Really?”
Irina ruffled his hair again as she moved to walk out of the room. “I'll talk to your father about it. Finish your birthday email and then wash up for dinner, okay?”
“Okay Mama.”