Work Text:
The alarm goes off in their bedroom in Ottawa.
Shane raises a lazy arm and hits it, immediately stopping the noise. He rubs his eyes and yawns, looking at the gorgeous man sprawled beside him like a starfish. That’s what king size beds are for. Anya raises her head from her side of the bed, and then falls asleep back again.
Quietly, he puts on his robe, thinking about what fruits he’ll include in his morning bowl of health and darts to the kitchen. Normally, he would simply blend a protein shake, but Ilya is sleeping and he doesn’t want the noise to wake him up. So, he mixes the powder with yogurt, peels a banana and adds blueberries and nuts to the mix.
He sits on the sofa and turns on the TV. On ESPN, some documentary about retired hockey players, Ryan Price included, but he’s not paying attention. His mind is on other, more urgent issues. He’s taking another spoonful of his ‘disgusting goo’ — as Ilya would describe it — when his cellphone lights up with the message he’s been waiting four days to receive.
His heart races and he nearly drops the bowl trying to reach it, the spoon still inside his mouth.
It’s settled.
A sigh of relief spreads across his face and he types his answer back.
Thank you.
I’ll meet you there.
The season hasn’t officially started yet and the camps for the Irina Foundation won't start until September. Still, they had returned from the cottage earlier than usual. Shane has some sponsoring deals to close in the United States. A contract that could not be delayed, due to the absurd amount of money Shane would receive for it.
At least, that’s what he told Ilya.
Shane retrieves his bowl and listens to a clunky noise and barking coming from upstairs. Ilya and Anya have woken up. And knowing Ilya like Shane does, he understands the mild changes that will happen in their well established routine.
Ilya will probably take more time to come down. He’ll probably eat more sugary treats than usual. He won’t want to go out for a walk.
He’ll definitely smoke a cigarette. Or two.
Shane has witnessed it before. Once a year, during a period of five days or so, Ilya turns himself into a blizzard. Cold, quiet, hard to reach and even harder to warm.
But like the snow after the storm, eventually the ice melts and the world keeps moving forward. Even when some structures remain permanently damaged.
Because no one ever truly recovers from a storm like the one Ilya survived.
The thumping on the stairs means that Ilya is coming down, followed closely by Anya. The second he enters the TV room, he drops onto the sofa, resting his head on Shane’s lap. Shane runs his fingers through his golden locks and kisses his temple. Anya licks Ilya’s hand. The silence settles in and all they hear is the sound of their own breathing.
And soft sobbing.
“I’m going to bring your favorite, okay? You don’t have to eat it,” Shane says to his ear.
Ilya grabs Shane’s legs and doesn’t let him stand up.
“Hold me.”
Shane wraps his arms around him and he feels his shoulders and neck getting wet. Running his hands slowly up and down his back, he tries to soothe Ilya as best as he can.
Several minutes pass. Shane lets Ilya break the hug whenever he feels ready to do so. Whether it takes seconds or hours, Shane doesn’t mind. He’d hold Ilya for as long as he needed.
Eventually, Ilya pulls away just enough to wipe his face with the sleeve of Shane’s robe. There are dark circles under his eyes and tear drops are still attached to his eyelashes.
“What time is your flight?,” Ilya asks quietly.
Shane’s heart cracks.
He feels terrible for leaving Ilya here, in these conditions. But Yuna and David will drop by, pick him up, and take good care of him for as long as Shane is out. He helped Ilya prepare his suitcase yesterday at night, because he’ll stay at the Hollanders while Shane is traveling.
“At midday,” Shane answers. “My parents will come pick you up in an hour.”
Ilya stares at him, with watery eyes.
“Is it really a big deal?,” Ilya’s chin trembles slightly.
Shane holds it, brushing his fingers over Ilya’s jaw.
“The biggest of all,” he nods.
“I’ll die a little every day without you,” Ilya looks down, fighting back the tears.
“No, you won’t,” he says, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I’ll be with you before you know it.”
Shane kisses him, because it’s the only thing he can actually do right now. The kiss tastes bitter, the echo of the lie haunting every corner of his brain. If he stays here another minute, not only will he miss the flight, but also the reason why he had to lie in the first place.
It’s for the best.
Shane’s phone buzzes. Anya is comfortably sleeping on her bed by the fireplace. The driver he hired will be here in five minutes. The suitcase is already by the door. Shane opens his arms to hold Ilya one last time. As Ilya nestles in the crook of his neck, Shane feels his husband’s cold skin warming beneath his touch, and realizes there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for him.
He would do anything within his reach to make these days a little less unbearable.
***
It’s been fifteen minutes since Shane left.
The house is empty, apart from Anya, who snores and shakes her little legs in a dream. But his heart is emptier. Rationally, Ilya knows Shane has a life of his own, one that doesn’t stop just because his husband is going to spend the rest of the week sulking and drowning in his own misery.
In fact, if it weren’t for Shane, it would probably be worse.
Still, he can’t stop himself from feeling resentful that he left when Ilya needed him the most.
He drags himself to the kitchen and takes his pills, opens up the fridge and finds his favorite breakfast, what Shane prepared for him. Fluffy pancakes with red berry jam. And a jar of Nutella on the counter “because, Jesus Christ, Shane, you must never put Nutella inside the fridge.”
A faint smile tugs at the corner of Ilya’s mouth.
He tries to hold on to it because it’s probably the only smile he’ll have until this terrible week is over. But, it disappears within a second, incapable of surviving in such hostile conditions.
The pancakes stare back at him, but he closes the fridge. He must get dressed. Shane’s parents will be here soon to pick him up.
Yuna, Shane’s mom—
Mom.
The single thought of the word cuts right through his chest, too heavy for him to carry. After all these years — twenty years tomorrow — he still can’t seem to gather the pieces of himself back together whenever the anniversary of her death comes around.
Since he was twelve, he grieved this date in silence, hiding his feelings from the world. His father never allowed him to feel what he needed to feel, to process the pain, to acknowledge or even understand what had happened to Irina that August morning.
No.
He had been forced to dry swallow the fragile excuse built around the fact that his mother had killed herself because life had stopped meaning anything to her. She couldn’t find the joy, anger, fear, or even sadness to keep going.
For years, Ilya had mistaken his grief for inadequacy, for codependency. He suffocated his emotions because it was the way he had been taught. And he assumed everyone else mourning their loved ones did the same.
It was only in therapy, years later, that he discovered he needed to uncover the unhealed wounds, accept them, and give them the necessary time to heal. He faced his own demons, and instead of burying them, he now learned how to invite them for an occasional cup of coffee.
Dr. Galina deserves all the laurels for his emotional development.
But his mother’s death is different.
Instead of learning how to let it go, he simply “unlearns” everything and suddenly, he’s that twelve year old kid, who doesn’t understand why his mother left him with all these horrible people.
Was it because he didn’t love her enough?
Or was it because she didn’t love him enough?
He hates to think about it, but he knows he has to. And he knows that he always will.
The main difference, and this is where Shane takes all the credit, is that now he can act the way he wants and needs to endure a situation that will always be a part of who he is.
—
“It’s because now you have a different environment, Ilya,” Dr. Galina told him during a session years ago. “How do you feel around Shane and his parents?”
Ilya didn’t have to think twice to answer.
“I feel like they are my real family.”
“If you had to name five different feelings or states of mind to describe how you feel when you are interacting with them, what would they be?,” she asked.
He faltered. He opened and closed his mouth many times and couldn’t come up with a proper answer.
“I don’t know how to answer that right now,” he said in all honesty.
“It seems like you have some homework to do until our next session.”
And he gave it some serious thought.
Since the very beginning, when he met the Hollanders during that summer in 2017, he felt… relaxed. Not that they loved him from day one. But he could definitely sense it was a different environment. No one was screaming, they were supportive of Shane and, most of all, Shane was seen. They both were listened to and Ilya’s words were taken into consideration by David and Yuna.
Then, when they started their secret relationship, every dinner, special celebrations, mini trips, or sleepovers when he moved to Ottawa and Shane was traveling, he was included. They wanted him around and made sure Ilya understood that. It didn’t take much time to be comfortable in their presence.
And soon, he was not performing or holding himself back anymore. He could joke, give advice, and express his opinions without fearing being repressed.
So, without really noticing when it happened, he felt… safe.
In his next session, he told her his findings.
“You say you feel like you are not performing, because you can joke and give advice.”
“Yes, I can be myself around them. I feel safe.”
“Safety also means experiencing and expressing uncomfortable emotions. And letting Shane and his parents experience those with you.”
He wasn’t sure why she was saying that. Ilya had been a lot more open about himself than he ever had before. He and Shane had improved their communication and could get into hard conversations without fearing they were hurting each other.
But was he actually showing his ugly parts? They were talking, that was right. But Ilya hardly cried in front of Shane or the Hollanders.
Or even mentioned the single most sensitive topic for him: his mother.
The very foundation of their relationship, the dream that made it all become a reality is The Irina Foundation. His mother. She had been with them from the start, and yet, Ilya barely talked about her. To anyone.
It seemed like a huge gap in his psychological improvement that he still couldn’t share this part of his life with the people that he loved the most.
So, throughout the years, Ilya started permitting himself.
On the first anniversary after the mental rearrangement, he allowed himself to cry on the yard, while smoking a cigarette.
Shane, of course, was worried.
“Hey, hey… What’s happening here?,” Shane approached him and softly tapped over Ilya’s heart.
Ilya let out a blow of smoke. Instead of saying ‘It’s nothing’, he tried something new, as an experiment, to report the outcome to Dr. Galina.
“It’s my mother’s death anniversary in one week.”
Shane looked quite surprised at him. For the first moment, Ilya thought Shane was going to repress him because of the cigarette. Then, he remembered that Shane might’ve been confused because this was information he had never shared before.
But Shane never judged him or nagged him. He was, well, the perfect husband.
“Ilya… I’m so sorry. But I’m glad you told me.”
“You are?,” he said, putting the cigarette butt away and holding Shane closer.
“Of course, Ilya,” Shane said, sitting by his side on the bench. “You’re not twelve anymore. You don’t have to do this by yourself.”
“You can’t help me.”
“I told you years ago, and I’ll tell you as many times as you need,” he ran his fingers over Ilya’s hair. “I’ll be standing by your side until I can. And that’s what I’ll do now.”
Shane put his hands inside his pocket and took the pack of cigarettes out and a lighter. Ilya couldn’t care less about the cigarettes. The fact that Shane was here, outside with him, willing to ignore the fact he hates cigarettes for one week until Ilya was back to his normal self, was everything Ilya needed.
He wrapped his arms around the man he loved so much, knowing he could finally accept the help he had been desperately aching for.
Still, he wasn’t sure of how to ask for it, but with Shane, he wouldn’t have to.
—
The doorbell sounds and Anya immediately wakes up and darts to the door, happily barking.
“Easy, girl,” Ilya says, while opening the door.
Yuna Hollander kneels to greet a very excited Anya, scratching behind her ears and her belly. As soon as Anya is satisfied with the amount of love she received, she goes back to her toys, chewing on the one in the shape of a hockey stick.
Meanwhile, Yuna widely opens her arms, without saying a word, mirroring her own son’s previous behavior.
Like mother, like son. Ilya would know.
And, without overthinking, he hugged her back, so tight he could feel some of her bones creak. But she didn’t complain. Actually, it only made her hold him closer. Her hug was as comforting as Shane’s, although in a different way. And he knew he could be here for as long as wanted.
Ilya breaks the hug and he sees that Yuna is smiling at him.
“Are your bags ready? Anya is going too, right? You should take her toys and bed.” she asked, now assuming her practical side.
“Yes, yes, bags ready, I… I’ll get them upstairs.”
When he comes down again, Anya bounces impatiently, her leash tugging behind her.
“I got everything she needs, let’s go.”
As they approach the car, Ilya notices David is not with her.
“Where’s David?”
“He’s out to buy another thousand-piece puzzle for you two,” she says while tying Anya to the backseat. “And I thought you and I could do something together.”
Anya barks and Yuna pets her. “And you too, sweetie.”
Ilya takes his place on the passenger seat. He looks out the car window, in silence, enjoying the view.
“Milkshakes or donuts?,” Yuna asks him out of nowhere.
Ilya takes some time to process what she said.
“I’m not hungry.”
“That was not an option. Milkshakes or donuts?”
There’s no way he’s winning this. Either because he doesn’t have the strength to fight or because Yuna is a tough competitor. He might as well just give in.
“Milkshakes.”
“Yes!,” she screams as she hits the steering wheel with both hands. “David owes me ten bucks.”
“Why?”
“He’d bet you’d choose donuts. But I know better!,” she winks at him.
“If I knew about this, I’d bet you’d win,” he lets out a tired smile.
They arrive at a cafe. It’s a small place, kind of worn out. Maybe a place that’s been open for too long and never cared for a renovation because the customers enjoy it like this. Luckily not too busy, given the time of day.
“This one is nice, because we can order and they have tables by the river,” she points to some tables behind the cafe, “we could sit there.”
“That sounds perfect,” because it, indeed, sounded perfect.
Ilya orders a Nutella milkshake, with whipped cream and chocolate syrup and Yuna, a strawberry cheesecake one. They get their drinks and find a seat right on the spot Yuna recommended. There’s no one around, so they can enjoy themselves with some privacy.
Ilya drinks his milkshake and it’s surprisingly good.
“This is very good milkshake,” he nods.
“I knew you’d like it,” she says, slurping on her drink as well. “I used to come here with Shane when he was a kid. The wallpaper is still the same.”
Ilya doesn’t answer.
He remembered when he and his mom would go to the cafe near Ilya’s school and order a dozen kartoshka and stack them on top of each other like a tower, until it collapsed all over the table. Then, they would try to talk with their mouths full until his mother nearly choked laughing.
“When I was ten, me and mama would buy kartoshka, like a cake pop, but big, like this,” he makes a big circle with his finger, “made of chocolate and nuts.”
“Really?,” Yuna asks with immense curiosity. “If I were ever to prepare it, what would I need?”
“Humm… Chocolate powder, nuts, but also… tea biscuits, condensed milk, butter. Very easy.”
“I see,” and she goes back to her milkshake.
For some time, they only hear the sound of the straws hitting the bottom of the cups, searching for the last drops of sweetery. Yuna, who’s sitting right in front of him, grabs a pencil and a little notebook. Ilya frowns his eyebrows.
“Do you have the recipe?,” she asks.
“For what?”
“For the… cart… car…”
“Kartoshka,” Ilya completes the word for her. “It means potato, because you roll it like a potato.”
She laughs. It’s so honest and contagious that suddenly, Ilya feels like laughing a little. And so he does.
Yuna reaches out for his hand and looks at him. Ilya expects her stare to remind him of Shane, but it doesn’t. It reminds him of his mother and how she would reach out for his hand in the very same way, across from the table, after they had eaten all the sweets.
And now he feels like crying. And so he does.
Yuna still holds his hand, tenderly.
“Ilya, my dear, I know I’m no replacement for her nor I want to be, but…” she presses her lips. “What would you want to do with her today, if you had the chance? Something simple you could do together, maybe.”
He keeps his hand tied with Yuna’s, as if it is his grounding rock. With the other hand, he wipes his tears.
Ilya had asked himself this question practically a million times now and for each time, there was a different answer. From simple things like giving her a hug to the most megalomaniac like taking her somewhere warm where the sun is always shining to convince her that life was still worth living.
So it doesn’t really matter what answer he chooses, as long as he can feel her presence again, even if for a second. For today, with Yuna here, he’d go with…
“I want to make kartoshka,” he says, with a slurred voice. “But you have to follow my instructions.”
He huffs out a laugh amongst the tears, making Yuna smile and squeeze his hands in approval.
“So, the recipe,” with a pencil in hand and her notebook, she looks at Ilya waiting for answers.
“This is babushka's recipe, family secret.”
She looks from one side to the other and back at him again.
“Ilya, in case no one told you, I am family, sweetie. I have every right to know about this family secret.”
“Don’t tell Shane you’re forcing me into preparing homemade sweets,” he winks.
“Never.”
—
The last place Ilya thought he’d be on this day is a market aisle buying ingredients to prepare kartoshka with Yuna. He knew he’d spend the day with Shane’s parents, but he was picturing something a lot less… energetic.
“Okay,” Ilya looks at the list once more. “We have almost all we need.”
“What is missing? We got everything from the list.”
“Babushka’s recipe is with brandy or rum. Mama wouldn’t put it for us, of course,” he grins, “but me and Alexei found the hidden bottle and we completed the recipe.”
“Oh dear god, Ilya,” Yuna’s mouth is wide open.
“Alexei slept for twelve hours. Mama didn’t make kartoshka for a whole year.”
The memory is bittersweet. Less bitter, more sweet. Perhaps this is a good balance for grief, he’d have to go through that with Dr. Galina. Grief may not be overcoming the pain, or trying to be bigger than it, but giving it its own space to accommodate.
And recognizing it as a part of who he is.
—
Two Hollanders and one Hollander-Rozanov are in the kitchen having chicken parmesan for lunch with the ingredients for kartoshka waiting to be used. Anya is diving her face on her own bowl of food.
“I’m full, but not so full I can’t eat dessert,” Ilya rubs his stomach.
“I agree, and I’m ready to make whatever you have to teach us,” David says, as he collects their empty dishes.
“Ilya, sweetie, the kitchen island is yours,” Yuna is clearing the area, removing everything from the island.
Ilya gets the aprons and the ingredients from the bags. Apart from cooking something so dear to his heart, he also likes the part of being in charge. Giving instructions, organizing the steps, assigning tasks. This is his second nature, captaining, whether it’s in the hockey rink or the Hollander’s kitchen.
Only here, no one complains with him nearly as much.
“Okay,” he stands across from David and Yuna around the island. “David, you break the biscuits until they are more or less like sand. You can use blender.”
David doesn’t question and simply follows the order. The sound of biscuits being crushed transports Ilya back to his house in Moscow. The sweet scent of biscuits is slowly rising through the kitchen. He can almost hear his mother singing and dancing to Alla Pugacheva and Tatiana Bulanova.
“Yuna, you can melt the butter then help break the biscuits,” he instructs and points to the TV. “Can I play some music?”
“Of course, sweetie.”
He chooses a random playlist that contains all these Russian pop singers from the 90’s Irina loved to listen to while she was cooking. As the song fills the room, the three of them start dancing, and the Hollanders are laughing at the fact they can’t understand a single word.
Ilya grabs the wooden spoon, turns it into his microphone, and puts on a show in the middle of the living room, badly singing in falsetto.
Yuna and David finish their own tasks and ask Ilya for more instructions.
“I see this kitchen can’t function without me,” he puts himself in between Yuna and David now.
“The next step is mixing the butter and condensed milk with the biscuit sand,” he feigns, rolling up invisible sleeves. “Let’s get dirty.”
Using their hands, they mix the three ingredients until the dough is firm enough to shape it into…
“...like a potato!,” Yuna shouts right after Ilya asked them how they should roll the kartoskha.
“That is not fair, you had a private class without me,” David complains.
“In your defense, David, she failed the pronunciation test,” Ilya bumps his shoulder against her.
“Car… tchoos… ka,” Yuna tries again, laughing. “I give up! I can’t!”
“Kar-tosh-ka,” David says in his first time.
“Aaaand, we have a winner!,” Ilya raises David’s right arm, who jumps in celebration. “One on one, now. The overtime is: who can roll the most beautiful potato.”
Each of them start rolling their own kartoshka, and as he does so, he looks around him and…
Yuna is happy. She’s smiling and laughing at David’s hard time with rolling his own potatoes. His hands are sticky with the dough clinging to his fingers and he laughs while trying to get rid of the mixture. The empty bags of biscuits, the smell of his childhood lingering in the air, the Russian singers still performing on the TV. It all seems too much.
I should not be this happy.
“Ilya, what is it?,” David notices the shift in his behavior.
Suddenly, he’s not dancing or proudly congratulating them for doing an amazing job with the dessert. He’s back to feeling miserable, but not exactly how he started his day, or even his week.
Silently, he moves to the couch and collapses there. Both Hollanders immediately stop what they’re doing and sit in the living room with him. They wait a rather long wait until Ilya is relaxed enough to share whatever is in his heart.
“Something is wrong. I should not be this happy,” Ilya rests his head against the back of the couch and stares at the ceiling.
Yuna and David only watch.
“I haven’t thought about her practically all day,” he looks at Yuna. “All day. I was laughing and dancing and I simply… forgot to hurt.”
“Sweetie, do you want to finish the kartoshka or do you want to clean up and rest?,” Yuna kindly asks, giving him a choice.
Out of these two, cleaning up and resting seems the easy way. Or at least, it’s the way he’s been acting for his whole life. Suppress it, bury it, ignore it. Feeling sad because he can’t be with her; feeling the anger because his family dealt with it the worst possible way; feeling guilty for thinking he could’ve done more to save her.
This is what he could build around his mother’s memory. In fact, he can actually honor her memory by being a great hockey player, a good friend to his teammates, and a loving husband to Shane.
But he never had associated happiness with his mother.
For as long as he can remember, his mother was a sad woman, doomed to a fate that was chosen for her, years before Ilya was born.
Except today, he unlocked a different image of her; one that had been trapped inside his mind. The woman who laughed over the fallen kartoshka; who danced in the kitchen when she thought no one was looking; who occasionally smoked, hidden away from everyone — but not from Ilya.
The woman who, at some point, had a passion for life. And who could have been happy about it.
Perhaps this version of his mother can also be present and share his life with him. He only needs to let her. And he wants it, he wants it so much.
Because Irina doesn’t only mean grief.
Irina also means love.
Ilya looks toward the kitchen. The music is still playing in the background. Yuna and David stare at him in the way reserved only for Shane. Like his mother had looked at him all his life. These are the memories he wants to hold onto.
A genuine smile spreads across Ilya’s face, lighting up the room around him.
“I want to finish the kartoshka,” Ilya says, “And David, please, do something about your hands. Babushka is angry at you.”
Yuna stands up and hugs him, unable to control the tears falling from her face. David follows her closely and wraps his big arms around them both.
The blizzard ice is melting sooner this year.
—
Later that evening, after many kartoshka, Ilya and David are putting together the pieces of a puzzle with the image of Lake Baikal. Anya is sleeping in the middle of Ilya’s feet. Yuna is watching some movie and also checking her phone, texting someone very quickly.
“We never went to the Baikal. It is too far from Moscow,” Ilya comments, as he separates the green pieces.
“Where did you use to go?,” David asks. He’s in charge of the blue pieces.
“Mama liked the reservoirs around Moscow. We used to go there during the summer, to swim, have picnic, and sometimes camp.”
“Shane was never the camping kind of kid. At least not in a tent. He loves cottages, as you may have noticed.” David jokes.
“It’s hard to keep the clothes folded all the time when you are in a tent,” Ilya laughs. “Speaking of Shane… Yuna, has he texted you?”
Yuna hesitates for half a second when Ilya asks.
“Ah— yes… he was just… I was talking to him earlier about the contract deals, you know, instructing him.”
Ilya nods, focused again on fitting a green piece into the right place. A moment later, his phone vibrates on the table.
Shane.
Just arrived at the hotel. I’m exhausted, going to sleep now.
I love you.
Ilya reads the text twice, taking his time on the I love you.
Sleep well. We’re building Lake Baikal. I’ll show you tomorrow.
Ya tebya lyublyu.
Even with everything he had realized about Irina, tomorrow would still arrive the same way it always had. And with it, the date he has dreaded and hated for all his life. As he places the green pieces together, Ilya thinks about the weight of choices.
He chose to tell Shane about his mom that night in the yard. He also chose to finish the dessert today. And both of them made him feel good.
So tomorrow, he’ll choose both the grief and the love.
And let them dance together in the kitchen.
***
Shane arrives at the airport around one in the afternoon. It was a long trip. His body hurts in so many different ways, he wishes the physical therapist from the Centaurs was here to help him recover.
Going through customs was easier than he thought. He was shaking when he handed his passport to the immigration officer. Maybe he could recognize his last name, make a big deal out of it, and Shane would be sent back home without seeing the color of the sky.
The Russian sky.
But his worries were swept away when the man didn’t even blink at the sight of the Hollander-Rozanov inscription. He said ‘Have a great day’ in the same way Ilya would’ve said years ago, when his accent was still very raw and thick.
Baggage claim done, nothing lost or damaged.
He texts Svetlana using the airport wifi and she promptly answers with her location. After some minutes of walking through long corridors full of people speaking in different Russian accents, he finds her waving at him.
“Privetik, moy drook!,” she greets him. “How was the trip?”
“Hey Sveta,” he says. “No wonder Ilya dreaded coming back here. It felt like I was going to live on that plane for the rest of my life.”
She laughs as she helps him with his backpack.
“It is a tough trip, but I’m glad you did it. Ilya will be so happy.”
She pats his back, with a friendly smile on her face.
“Thank you for arranging this,” he wraps his right arm around her and they walk out the airport into the Moscow afternoon.
—
The hotel restaurant is empty.
It is a somewhat modern restaurant, not like the ones Shane was expecting to find in Russia. The walls are off-white with modern abstract paintings. The saloon has tables covered with white towels, surrounded by comfortable chairs.
Shane and Sveta sit by the large windows, from where they can see the river.
“It’s beautiful here,” Shane says.
“Yes, it can be very beautiful,” she looks out the window. “Especially during the summer.”
Their orders arrive. Shane is famished, but a little suspicious of the typical food. He ordered befstroganov, a beef stew served with cream and potatoes. It sounds weird, but as soon as he tasted it, his opinion changed immediately.
“This is really good.”
“Are you growing fond of Russia?,” she asks, with narrow eyes and a soft smile.
“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “I have so many mixed emotions about this place.”
This is only his second time in the country. Since the 2014 Olympic Games, he had never needed to come back. After Ilya’s father died, there was no one here he needed to see.
But also because coming here together could cause trouble for Ilya. And neither of them was willing to risk everything for a country he had been keeping at a distance over the years.
In their relationship, Russia was that cold, unreachable part of Ilya. Shane had always sensed Ilya was protecting something there. He waited for Ilya to open up that door on his own — but it never happened.
When her anniversary loomed on the calendar, he watched Ilya shift from playful confidence into a quieter, sadder version of himself.
Since that night at the hotel in Tampa, in 2017, Shane understood what their relationship could cost him — and now, years later, how much of Ilya’s life had been left behind in order for him to stay in Canada.
Ilya and him are sharing a life that comes with absences neither of them could ignore.
And Shane carried the weight of those absences with him, even if Ilya never complained about it.
“Do you feel weird that you’re here and he’s not?,” Sveta asks with genuine concern.
“I may be stepping out of the line a bit,” Shane answers. “And I know he won’t be angry or anything like that, but…”
“But you need this part of Ilya to understand him fully,” she completes.
“Am I being selfish? For doing this and not telling him?”
She grabs a bite of her own befstroganov and waves the fork, searching for the answer.
“You are aware he had a very difficult upbringing.”
Shane nods.
“He’s gone through a lot and still managed to become the person he is… He had to grow a thick skin. An ice armor, if you prefer.”
“Tell me about it,” he huffs.
“You learned how to defrost it, Shane,” Sveta stares at him very seriously. “If this is what you need to do… I think it will reach him as well.”
“I love him, Sveta, but I don’t want to push him,” Shane confesses.
“You’re not pushing on anything he hasn’t been trying to push himself toward for a long time.”
“Thank you for doing this,” he reaches out for her hand over the table.
“He’s one of my favorite people in the world,” she holds his hand. “And so are you.”
—
At around five o’clock, Shane and Svetlana walk through the path surrounded by gravestones and marble tombs. The day was hot, but the sun is now preparing to set. There’s a chill breeze hitting the trees. Butterflies and bees fly over the many flowers that lay on top of each grave, bringing life to a place like this.
The cemetery is small, they don’t take much time to find her.
“Shane, it’s here,” Svetlana calls him, waving her hand.
She is standing beside a grave made of white marble. The tomb isn’t very tall, but it is elegant and tasteful. On the headstone, there are the dates of birth and death. There’s also an inscription which reads:
Irina Rozanova,
loving wife and mother
Shane also recognizes the cross that has been resting on Ilya’s neck since the day they met. And above the inscription, there is a photograph.
Irina, with curly hair and attentive eyes just like Ilya’s, wears a serene smile, the kind that makes Shane understand immediately why Ilya loves her so much.
Shane and Svetlana kneel around the tomb and remain in silence for a few minutes, out of respect.
“Ready to call him?,” Svetlana murmurs.
“Yes,” Shane nods confidently.
He finds Ilya’s phone number and presses the button.
***
The table is filled with white and grey pieces.
Ilya and David are sitting across from each other. The edges of their jigsaw puzzle are nearly complete. Yuna had prepared fluffy pancakes, eggs and bacon for breakfast. There’s kartoshka leftovers. Anya is chewing on her toy, on the sofa. Ilya holds a mug full of freshly brewed coffee, handed by Yuna.
The morning of Irina’s anniversary could not be more different for Ilya.
Ilya’s phone is on the table right next to him. He’s been stealing glances at it all morning. He is waiting for Shane to call. Yesterday’s short texts were not enough. But Ilya knows Shane must be busy with his sponsors, he doesn’t want to be in the way.
And, like their minds are connected, the screen lights up.
He takes it, expecting a long update about his schedule, contracts, or complaints about the hotel pillows. And, of course, he’d ask about Ilya.
So when he sees the videocall request, he finds it odd because Shane rarely calls this time of day when he has meetings.
He picks up.
“Hey,” Ilya smiles effortlessly.
Shane takes more time to answer than usual. There’s noise in the background, maybe the wind. Also, birds chirping.
“Hi.”
His voice sounds odd, as if he’s tired after a long day of training.
“Are you okay?,” Ilya asks.
“Yes,” his voice barely a whisper. “I just miss you a lot.”
Ilya’s heart beats a little faster. But he can’t help but notice one thing.
“You look tired.”
“I am, actually. But enough of me. How are you?”
Ilya looks around and everything seems to fit, like the pieces of the puzzle he’s been putting on with David.
“Better than I thought I’d be,” Ilya says, still surprised with his own answer. “Yesterday, we made kartoshka, your mom took me for a milkshake, and now David is ruining the puzzle because he can’t find the last grey piece.”
“Maybe Anya chewed on it,” David says from the other side of the table.
Shane laughs, but it sounds like a fake one. And soon, he gets serious again.
“How is your schedule for today?,” Ilya asks. “I thought you’d call later…”
On the other side of the screen, his husband is breathing heavily. Something feels off.
“I’m visiting someone, Ilya.”
He knows Shane too well. He knows Shane wouldn’t mess up with his business schedule for anyone. Plus, his breathing is out of rhythm, his eyes are watery, the sky behind him is…
“What’s happening, Shane?,” his chest tightens.
“I’m not in the United States.”
“What?,” Ilya practically jumps out of his chair.
Yuna and David watch the whole scene in utter silence.
“Where are you?”
“I’m in Moscow.”
Suddenly, it’s hard to breathe. Ilya’s heart is pressing so hard against his chest he thinks he might faint. His legs shake uncontrollably. He sits on the sofa.
A long silence follows.
On the screen, Shane is devastatingly serious, nothing about this resembling a joke. He simply watches Ilya patiently, giving him all the time he needs to answer.
“What— are you doing there?,” his voice falters.
“I’m with someone who’s really special to me,” Shane says, his chin trembling too. “And I believe for you too.”
When Shane turns the camera, Ilya identifies the place immediately. The white marble, the inscription, her picture, it’s all the same as it was. Only everything around is completely different.
In his memories of his mother’s grave, the day is cloudy, the birds aren’t chirping, it’s all painted in grey and white — like the pieces of the puzzle, forgotten on the table.
Now, the sky is blue, the leaves are moving in the wind, birds are singing. Shane is there, the colorful piece that helps paint a picture that had once been dark.
The tears run free down his face. Yuna and David sit by his side and Ilya reaches out for her hand, squeezing it tight. David holds the cellphone for him now.
“Shane…” his voice is weak.
“I brought her flowers, Sveta helped me pick,” he lifts a red carnations bouquet and Svetlana waves in the back.
Ilya stares at the screen, hardly believing that Shane and his mom are, finally, reunited. He knows how much Shane cares for Irina. He named their charity after her, and now, he traveled to the other side of the world to stand right beside her on her anniversary.
Shane shifts and kneels down beside the grave again and carefully places the flowers beneath the photograph.
“Do you want to say something to her?”
He imagined this moment differently. If he ever came back to her grave, he’d be alone, miserable, angry, even drunk. Never in his dreams Ilya had imagined he’d be surrounded with people who would be there to support him when his legs failed, when the burden became too heavy to carry.
Suddenly, he realizes he doesn’t know what to say.
“No,” he whispers honestly. “I don’t think so.”
“That’s okay,” Shane nods. “I’ll put the phone here, so you can spend some more time with her, but I’ll be here by your side.”
He looks at her picture and thinks about all the moments they lived and he now wants to recreate with his new family. Because Shane deserves to know the woman she was. And Irina deserves to be remembered in warmth, laughter, music, and love — not only in grief.
The five people sit in silence, waiting until Ilya is comfortable to speak again.
“I… I think I’m ready to say goodbye now,” he says.
Shane gets the cellphone back.
“Thank you,” Ilya whispers, still holding Yuna’s hand.
“I believe she’s more than our charity’s name now,” Shane smiles softly.
Ilya wipes the tears from his eyes. “She’s always been more than that, more than anything.”
“I wish I could’ve known her.”
Ilya looks at David and Yuna, proudly sitting by his side, both their faces as wet as his. They smile at him, David places his hand over Ilya’s knee.
“You will, moya lyubov. Just come back home.”
“I love you,” Shane can’t wait to go back and hold him.
“I love you too.”
***
Two days after the call from Moscow, Ilya is nervously walking around their house, preparing everything to welcome Shane. He’s checked the trash bins twice, the fridge is full of ginger ale and his favorite protein yogurt, the sheets had been changed, and the ashtrays had been cleaned.
“You’re gonna give yourself a heartattack, Ilya,” Yuna says, from the sofa. “Come and sit with me.”
“I don’t know why we couldn’t wait for him at the airport,” Ilya asks while rearranging the flower vase for the third time.
“Because it’s better to be here when you have so much to talk about.”
Yuna is right. And perhaps that’s why Ilya is so nervous. He can’t wait to share even more of his life with Shane.
Anya is comfortably sleeping on her bed when she suddenly raises her head and looks toward the door.
“He’s here,” Ilya darts to the door immediately.
Shane barely crosses the threshold and Ilya jumps in his arms, kissing him all over. Anya follows closely, happily bouncing and licking Shane’s legs.
Shane drops his bags to the floor, wraps his arms around his husband, lifts, and spins him around the living room. Their mouths meet, in a sloppy, wet kiss, because they’re both crying.
Ilya is finally put back on the floor again and they have a chance to look into each other’s eyes.
“You were there, and now you’re here,” Ilya cradles his face, their foreheads meeting halfway.
“I was.”
Yuna watches the scene from her spot on the couch. She stands up quickly grabbing her purse and giving Shane a noisy peck on the cheek.
“I’m leaving,” she says. “Dinner tomorrow, when you recover from jetlag.”
“Thanks for taking care of him, mom,” he says, looking directly at Ilya.
“I would do it all over again,” she hugs them both, scratches Anya’s ears, and waves them goodbye.
After Yuna leaves, Anya circles around Shane one last time before returning to her chewing toys. Shane takes off his shoes while Ilya keeps staring at him almost as if he’s shocked his husband is standing right in front of him.
Shane takes his hand and they sit comfortably on the couch. He looks around the room, noticing the thorough cleaning Ilya did while he was out.
“You cleaned a lot,” Shane smiles.
“You went to Russia,” Ilya can’t still fully believe.
“I did.”
“How long have you been planning this?”
“A few months,” Shane admits. “I started thinking about it after last year.”
Ilya frowns slightly. “Last year?”
“You were out in the garden, chain smoking for three days straight,” Shane squeezes his hand gently. “I asked you what was happening and you always said ‘nothing’.”
“I remember.”
“I understood what you were going through, I know you too well and for far too long,” Shane pauses.
“But the cigarettes knew more about your mom than I did.”
Ilya swallows hard. He thought he had hidden it well enough. Apparently not from Shane.
“I contacted Sveta,” Shane continues. “She immediately said yes. She organized everything. Flowers, hotel, flights. She also threatened to kill me if I hurt you.”
Ilya grins through the tears. “That’s very Sveta-coded.”
Shane breathes deeply.
“I was terrified to call you,” he confesses. “I thought maybe you’d think I was crossing a line.”
“When you showed me her grave… I stopped breathing. I panicked for a moment.”
Shane only watches him, allowing Ilya to express what he’s been trying to hide behind the cigarette smoke for so many years.
“In my head, that place always looked cold,” he searches for the right words. “Like grief had frozen everything.”
“A blizzard,” Shane helps.
“Da,” Ilya nods. “But then I saw you and… it was the missing piece of my grief puzzle. You were like the… coloring pencils.”
“Coloring pencils?,” he asks.
“In my memories, her grave used to be grey. Ever since the phone call, I remember the colors. The blue sky, the red flowers, you… it’s all colorful now. And I know she would have liked this version better.”
“She would.”
“I thought,” Ilya says, slowly, “that if I remembered her too clearly, it would hurt more. I spent so many years trying to survive through her loss…”
Ilya pauses and inhales deeply, looking down, playing with the hem of his sweatshirt.
“...that I forgot she actually lived.”
“She did, my love, and you have so much of her in you,” Shane slowly reaches Ilya for a hug, letting him rest his head on his shoulders.
“I don’t want you to remember her only through the worst thing that happened to her.”
The room goes silent. Anya is sleeping quietly by the fireplace. The living room smells of flowers. It’s warm and cozy. They pull apart and face each other.
“Thank you for being there,” Ilya says, kissing Shane. “And thank you for bringing me with you.”
Shane looks at the man he loves, proud of the relationship they’ve built and excited about the stories still waiting to be written. And now, they have a new character to add to their shared life.
Irina Rozanova is no longer a ghost. She is family.
“There’s nowhere in your life you have to stand alone anymore, Ilya.”
“And there’s no other part of my life I won’t share with you, Shane.”