Chapter Text
Ilya is like his mother.
He is like his mother in the way he cooks his eggs and the way his hair curls and the way he writes his name (soft boiled with salt and hastily peeled; golden ringlets that turn to dandelion fluff in the summer humidity; illegible and heavy handed, leaving deep indentations in at least the next three pages of his notebook).
He is also like his mother in the way that he plays with fireworks and skates on not quite frozen rivers.
In his memories, he sees his mother at her brightest : He is 4 years old, and he is laughing wildly while his mother chases him around their apartment on roller skates. He is 7 years old, and his mother spirits him away after hockey practice to get a secret sweet treat, throws him a wink as she hands him an overpriced pastry, and says don’t tell your father. He is 11 years old, and she throws herself into learning how to knit, staying awake all night in order to present him with a pair of brightly colored (if a little lumpy) wooly socks first thing in the morning. When he thinks of his mother, he is struck most by just how brightly his mother glows.
Memories of his mother’s depression lurk underneath these visions of his mother on fire - he is 5 years old, and she will only eat eggs and sour pickles. He is 9 years old, and she has stopped reading, stopped singing, stopped smiling. He is 12 years old, and she lies alone and unmoving while an empty pill bottle lies overturned beside her.
Ilya at his brightest is like a roaring campfire that occasionally flares to terrifying heights. Ilya at his brightest is a precise and imposing opponent on the ice. Ilya at his brightest also touches himself in the showers in front of Shane Hollander without considering the consequences. Ilya at his brightest laughs long and loud with Svetlana, stays out dancing until last call and is still wide awake for practice after only 3 hours of sleep. Ilya at his brightest also grabs Shane by the throat and kisses him stupid in a bathroom, with the entire league and a couple hundred fans just down the hallway. Ilya at his brightest deep cleans his entire house and puts homemade tuna salad and carefully sliced cheddar cheese into 4 separate tupperware containers. Ilya at his brightest also wields his father’s temper, shouts cruel nonsense at the man he can only love behind closed doors.
Ilya sometimes feels like he has very suddenly fallen through the ice into a frozen river. Humans can only swim, shiver, and scream for so long. Their minds go foggy. Their speech slurs. Their heart rates slow. They fall unconscious. They drown.
Ilya drowns.
He’s drowned before, of course. He drowned for the first time at 12 - the loss of his mother was a change in the atmosphere, in gravity, a change in the tide itself - how could he even hope to fight the current trying to pull him under? In Ilya's mind, his father yanked him out of the frigid sea by the scruff of his neck before tossing him sputtering on the docks, his eyes a warning. Not “I don’t want you to drown”, but “Next time, drown quieter”.
He drowned again during his rookie season. His brother threatened him. His father got sick. He drowned. He drowned in two inches of water, and no one around him paid much mind. He was strong, he was competent, he kept his cards close to his chest. He should be able to get up, right? He imagined his teammates chirping in his mind “It’s two inches of water, Roz, surely you can manage”.
Since he was a teenager, Ilya has wondered who could be outside of burning and drowning. People definitely like him better when he's burning. When he’s burning, he wins cups. He fucks, frequently. He buys anyone - the team, his niece, strangers at a bar - anything they want. He laughs.
He thinks people might have feelings about him drowning if they knew about it (Ilya tries very hard to make sure no one else can tell he is drowning). The fear of someone trying to help him - offering a hand or a life preserver or an oxygen mask - and then getting cast out to sea in his riptide haunts him. It’s better this way, he rationalizes, so no one else will get hurt when I drown.
He can’t imagine himself on solid ground, only spontaneously combusting or developing hypothermia in brackish water. If he could stay intact, he’d do so many simple things. He’d become a regular at the cafe down the block. He’d borrow books from the library and remember to return them on time. He’d take a yoga class. He’d get a dog. He’d fall in love, and the guilt wouldn’t make his chest hurt.
The first thing Ilya notices about him is that Shane Hollander glows. He doesn’t burn like Ilya. He glows like a lighthouse piercing through the hazy night. Follow me, he beckons, I will guide you to shore.
Shane’s glow is so different from Ilya’s burning. They kiss, and warmth settles in Ilya’s ribcage. Shane pulls Ilya’s hair and the sun kisses his cheeks. Shane whimpers and keens, and Ilya feels a little feverish.
There are lots of things Ilya can’t control. Shane likes being something he can. The routine - on your knees, use your words, cum for me - is soothing for both of them.
Shane on the ice is a force of nature. Shane with his teammates is reserved and quiet. Shane being interviewed is diplomatic (and French). But with Ilya, Shane glows.
The strings tying him to Russia are cut one by one, and as they fall away he feels 20 pounds lighter. The icy water is still oppressive, still suffocating, but for the first time he isn’t anchored to the riverbank. He can track the light guiding him away from the undertow, maybe even try to surface again.
Shane holds him while he cries. He puts on his glasses just because Ilya likes them. He tells him “I won’t understand, but you deserve to say how you feel”.
Inhale.
“I’m so in love with you I don’t know what to do about it”.
Exhale.
“Ok, I’m done”
He has never told anyone about his mom before. His teammates knew that she died when he was very young and the gold cross he wears belongs to her. None of them have seen a photo or heard her favorite song. He’s pretty sure none of them know her name.
“You must miss your family, even if they suck”
Ilya inhales sharply and the campfire smoke burns going down.
“My mother didn’t suck. She was great.”
Shane pauses.
“How did she die?”
Ilya feels like he’s choking on his tongue.
“By accident,” breathe, Ilya, he tells himself, “She accidentally swallowed a whole bottle of pills”
The air shifts.
“How old were you?”
“I was 12,” breathe “I found her,” breathe again “I don’t want you to think she was weak”
Shane’s hand ghosts over Ilya’s ribs.
“I don’t”
“She wasn’t. She was so funny, and beautiful. She was so sad, and my dad was so hard on her - motherfucker!” he jumps, startled by the noise. Stupid Canadian wolf bird. Shane cards his fingers through Ilya’s hair, and he chuckles softly.
“Do you want to go inside?”
Ilya exhales.
“No,”
His eyes watch the campfire in front of him flicker and crackle. It’s oxymoronic. Fire flares, consumes, ignites, burns and somehow it also warms, comforts, and glows.